1

The far end of the restaurant, beyond the L-shaped bar and the grill, was two steps higher and slightly more narrow than the rest of the room, separated from it by a gleaming silver railing more symbolic than practical. It was large enough only for three round tables, two of which were empty.

Miles Blanchard sat at the third, in the window-side corner, watching the dinner patrons fill the booths, leave, fill them again, and patiently stand two deep at the bar. Some were obviously office workers, the rest those who had come to the convention. Eyeing each other while trying too hard not to look as if they were.

None approached him.

He was not in a good mood, and it must have shown no matter how hard he tried to keep his expression neutral.

Not an hour ago, he had seen Turpin enter the hotel, thoughtful and, perhaps, just a little shaken. Blanchard had walked right past him, could have touched him, could have killed him right then, had he wanted to; instead, he had come directly here,

ordered what turned out to be a passable meal, and tried to figure out exactly what was going on.

Crimmins had been furious that the Strider hadn't been taken care of already. After a minute's pompous posturing, threats were made. Explanations were demanded. His voice had risen nearly to a woman’s pitch. But each time Blanchard tried to speak, the old man cut him off.

There was something wrong here.

And when Blanchard, his own temper straining at the leash, reminded his employer that there was still a rogue on the loose as part of this ridiculous equation, Crimmins had exploded, ranting about forces Blanchard knew nothing of, forces not to be trifled with, not to be tempted, and certainly not to be questioned by "the likes of you, you ignorant little man."

The leash had slipped.

Blanchard hung up on him, and was out of the room before the telephone could ring again.

He was not really afraid of Crimmins, or that mysterious group the old fart represented; without being immodest, he knew he was too valuable for them to lose. It wasn’t that he knew too much; he was simply too good. He doubted very seriously that they could find him should they underestimate his value, and should he decide it would be prudent to disappear.

Yet he hated to admit it, but Crimmins' tantrum had unnerved him somewhat, and it wasn’t until he had finished the meal and his second drink that he was able to think straight. Or as straight as he could, considering how furious he still was.

A waitress glanced in his direction, and he lifted his empty tumbler. She smiled, nodded, and headed for the bar.

Not a good idea, he chided himself; three drinks.

and it's not even six. At this rate, he’d be fiat on his ass before the night really began.

He snorted, grinned to himself, and inhaled slowly, deeply, stretching his arms above his head and lacing his fingers. He pushed, and his knuckles cracked, loudly. Then his shoulders. A doctor had once told him that was a great way to invite arthritis; Blanchard had taken offense and had cut the man badly. Used a scalpel, and sliced him across his knuckles. All of them.

The drink was delivered, and he cupped his hands around the tumbler, looking out over the heads of the diners and the drinkers, not really seeing them, not really listening.

What he hoped for was a revelation based on what little he already knew; what he expected was a visit from Wanda Strand, to let him know when Turpin was safely ensconced in his room.

He scowled.

There was another catch—Wanda.

Evidently Crimmins hadn't trusted him. She had been waiting when he had checked in, not saying much, just enough beyond a friendly greeting to let him know that with this assignment neither of them were going to fly solo.

He knew her.

Twice—once in London, once in San Diego—they had worked together. Not really partners, and certainly not close. But he had been forced to admit that they somehow actually managed to complement each other. If he was the Man of a Thousand Faces, she was unnervingly close to being a true Seer. She knew things, and after their first meeting, he never asked her how.

He didn't need to be a Seer to see the blood on her hands.

At the end of their lobby meeting that afternoon, she had leaned oyer and said, "Miles, they want us dead, you know. When this is done."

He hadn't responded right away, because he hadn't believed it then, and he didn't really believe it now. They may want him dead, but it wasn’t going to happen. As he’d decided only a few minutes ago, he was too good, and they needed him too badly.

Wanda was apparently a different story.

It was also apparent she wasn’t all that concerned.

Which is why he also figured he would live longer than she.

Pride, as he remembered his Bible, goeth not before a fall, as was so often misquoted; it goeth before destruction.

His lips twitched.

He looked down at his drink and studied the color of it, the red of it.

Five minutes later he took the first sip, having already decided that it was time, tonight, for the bloodbath to begin.

He glanced to his right, to a narrow glass door that led directly into the lobby. It was so innocuous, hardly anyone used it. A good way to watch the passing crowds. A good way to keep track of who entered and left the elevators.

A better way to mark the first victim.

The sun held no heat, and there were no shadows on the sand.

Despite the strong wind that forced him to squint, not a grain shifted.

He wandered among the ruins until he located the source of the weeping, and stood on the crumbling threshold of a doorway wide enough to let an army pass. Ahead was an interior garden, all the flowers and bushes gone save for a single stone vase on a dark stone table. In the vase was a red rose, and its thorns were gleaming crimson.

The woman sat at the table, watching him, eyes puffed and reddened, hands clasped and trembling, wearing a single thin garment the wind rippled like white water.

"Fay?" He took a step toward her.

Fay Parnell shook her head violently.

Her tears were black, and streaked her cheeks blackly.

"Fay.”

There was movement behind him.

Wanda left the elevator on the gallery floor. She had exchanged her topcoat for a lightweight cardigan with pockets deep enough to hold her cigarettes and lighter; on her feet were what appeared to be black ballet slippers. After a moment's indecision, she moved ahead to the latticework railing and looked down into the lobby.

Miles wasn't there.

Facing the elevators again, she glanced left and right, ignoring the scores of people wandering past her, most not looking, one or two young men trying to catch her eye. It almost made her smile.

A silent sigh, then, and she made for the four low steps to the elevators' left, part of them covered by a portable wheelchair ramp. She stepped up and walked down the middle of the wide hall, slowly, not caring when people had to squeeze past her, muttering and glaring. To her left was a marble staircase that led down to the first floor and, she knew, the restaurant entrance.

It wasn’t what she wanted.

A few yards father on another, shorter wide corridor opened to the left, at the end of which was a huge room. By the tables and chairs she could see, and longer tables at the back piled with provisions, she gathered this was some sort of refreshment area.

It still wasn't what she wanted.

Another ten yards, however, and she stopped.

The corridor ended in a T, with hotel offices directly ahead, and on the left, in the corner, the fire door which, if its current use was any indication, was a favorite mode of travel for those too impatient to wait for the elevators.

She stepped through the door, onto a gray painted concrete landing, heard hollow voices in the stairwell above and below, and made her way up one flight, to the third floor and through the doorway there.

This hall was long, and muted voices came from open doors far down to the right. The hall ended on her left, and she ducked around the corner and leaned back against the wall, staring at the door directly opposite her.

He was there.

In there.

The question was, how pissed would Miles be if she ended it all here and now?

Very, she decided, and grunted a quiet laugh.

Her right hand slipped into the pocket of her slacks, fingers curling around a short wand of engraved ivory inlaid with silver stars.

A knock, mock confusion—"I’m so sorry, I’ve got the wrong room, please forgive me.’’—and it would be over before Turpin knew what had hit him.

lust as she straightened, however, the double doors of the suite immediately to the left swept open, and a dozen people swarmed out, laughing, chattering, passing her with broad smiles and nods. One of them, a man about her height with thick white hair, paused, looked at her chest and said, "You'd better ge.t your ID badge, Miss, or these security folks will hassle you all night."

She didn't know what to say and so nodded a mute thank-you, and damned whoever he and his friends were because Turpin couldn't possibly have missed all that commotion. She had never met the Strider, but she knew his reputation; whether he felt threatened or not, all his senses would be alerted.

Damn it, she thought; goddamn it.

Marcus Spiro glanced at the attractive woman leaning against the wall, thought to speak to her again, but was grabbed by the elbows and propelled around the corner and down the main hall. When he protested with a laugh, he was reminded, that the convention leaders wanted to speak to him before the opening ceremonies. Which meant now. And since they had paid his way, he couldn't very well ignore them.

Still, that woman—

Well, at least his keeper wasn't around.

Not fair, he chided himself. Leon wasn’t a keeper. Every major guest was assigned someone whose job it was to keep the guest happy, and make sure he got to all the functions on time. The best ones, and Leon had turned out to be one of them, stayed the hell out of the way, like an unobtrusive waiter, just waiting fora look to bring him running.

Not a bad life for a weekend.

Thinking of his declining sales, Marcus sighed, wishing life could be that way all the time again.

As it was, coming down here every couple of years—

A young woman dropped out of the crowd ahead and grabbed his left arm. She wore a vivid red tank top, and jeans he figured must have taken her an hour to get into. When she tugged on his arm, he leaned down, listened for a moment, and straightened suddenly with a mock, "That's disgusting!’’, and an equally mock look of indignation.

"Sure is," she said, grinning. “So?"

He grinned and let her guide him toward the convention's operations center. Say what you will about traveling to towns like this in the middle of winter, having to put up with barely bathed cretins who slobbered all over you just so you’ll autograph one of your books . . . say what you will about barely edible convention food, obscenely late nights, equally obscene early mornings, and the strain it put on a body whose sole exercise consisted of depositing royalty checks twice a year . . . say what you will about all of it, these things were still a great place to get yourself laid.

A glance over his shoulder was just in time to catch that other woman slipping through the fire door.

A glance down at the buxom woman beside him, giggling as she leaned into him, just to be sure he knew that what she had wasn’t padded.

Oh well, he thought; a bird in the hand is almost as good as a bird in the bed.

, He laughed aloud.

The others laughed with him.

The desert wind died.

He turned to see who it was who had followed him, but there was no one there. Nothing moved.

When he turned back, he nearly cried out—Fay was gone, the chair empty.

He hurried toward the table, calling her name, listening to the flat echo of his calls ricochet off the crumbling walls. There were no footprints in the sand, no sign she had even been here except, when he looked closely, for the splatter of a single black tear on the table.

He shivered, rubbed his arms for warmth, and called her name again.

No one answered.

Not even the wind.

But he wasn’t alone, and that wasn’t right.

This was his place, and his place only. When he needed the calm of meditation, when he needed answers for the hunt, when he needed reassurance that being a Silent Strider was neither a curse nor a condemnation, this is where he came.

And he always came alone.

Now, as he slumped dejectedly into the chair, he had one answer, and it tore at his heart as surely as a blade of silver:

Fay was dead.

How or why, he didn't know, but she was dead. His best friend was gone, a former lover, and there was no one to replace her.

He touched a finger to the tear, but it was dry. Dust. And when the wind returned, the tear scattered and was gone.

The rose remained, crimson thorns, scarlet petals.

He sat, and he stared at it until a shadow blocked the sun.

He looked up, unsmiling.

“You took her," he accused bitterly. "She had plenty of time yet, and you took.’’

"No," said Anubis. "She was brought to me.”

Blanchard half rose when he saw Wanda weave through the crowd at the restaurant's entrance, raised a glass until she spotted him, and sat again, spreading his arms in greeting when she took the chair opposite him.

"Something to eat?"

"It was your invitation," she said blandly.

“What do you want?”

"Whatever. As long as it comes with wine. Lots of it."

He didn't ask what bothered her; he assumed it was the constant flow of people, constantly talking and laughing, here and there tucked into corners for intense conversation; holding books and posters and cups of beer and soda; staring at him, reading his name tag and frowning as they tried to place the name with the face they had never seen before.

He pointed to her chest. "You haven't registered."

"You're the second person to tell me that tonight." She took a cigarette from her pocket, lit it, and blew a stream of smoke at the ceiling. “1 am not going to waste my money."

"Your funeral," he said, beckoning the waitress with a finger and a smile.

"Not quite," she answered.

He raised an eyebrow, but again didn't respond. He did, however, smell trouble, and he cursed Crimmins for sticking him with this woman. Nevertheless, he kept his expression as pleasant as he could, saying little while she ate, drinking two glasses of wine before her plate was clear.

Then she twisted around to look through the window at the deserted street, slumped back, and said, "God, it feels like midnight already." She squinted at a thin gold watch on her wrist. "Jesus H., it's barely seven."

"You’re too edgy," he scolded lightly. The implication went deeper; you’re supposed to be a pro, bitch,

get it together before you get one of us killed. Not, he added silently; that 1 give a damn about you.

She looked at him for a long time with one eye half closed. Nodded slowly. Lit another cigarette. Stared at the glowing tip. “He's in his room now.”

Blanchard waited.

“What don’t we just do it and get it over with?”

It was a question, but just barely.

He wondered if she honestly knew who they were up against; he decided immediately he didn't give a damn because, no matter how it ended, she wasn’t going to survive anyway. She got on his nerves. He hated people who got on his nerves

“What are you going to do, bust in the door?" he said, not bothering to mask the sarcasm.

"Key."

His eyes widened slightly. "You have a key?"

“Nope.”

"Then—"

Her smile was chilling. "Sugar, just follow me. There isn’t a man’s room in the world I can’t get into One way or the other"

1

Richard sat at the table, in the ruins, in the desert, and wept without tears.

. . . she was brought to me.

No translation needed: Fay Parnell had been murdered.

There was no one left on his side, now.

No one.

Not even the Warders.

It didn't take a genius, or the import of his dreams, to figure out that they knew full-well he wouldn't survive this assignment. Rogues, when all was said and done, could not be captured. Could not be taken prisoner. Could only be neutralized in one, lethal, way.

They had known it, and they had known how it would be long before he realized it himself.

He reached for the rose, but didn’t touch it.

So what did they expect him to do, give his life to protect the Veil? To preserve their secrets? Were they counting on his tribe’s dedication to the Garou to commit virtual suicide for them?

If he couldn't figure that out, he surely would die. And dying, now, was the last thing on his mind.

It’s a pisser, thought Curly Guestin; a real pisser, staying here to all hours, busting my butt and no overtime, no thanks, no bonus, no nothing.

He stomped around the large room, cleaning up, wiping his tools and putting them away, making sure the cabinets and chests were properly locked, making sure the silent alarms were ready to go as soon as he left.

Shivering when the wind came through the zillion cracks in the goddamn walls and ceiling.

It was like working in a barn.

Above him, the wings fluttered and rustled, sounding like bats disturbed in their caves.

The frames swayed and twisted slowly, their faint shadows on the whitewashed walls expanding and shrinking as if they were running up to him and sliding away. Teasing. Taunting. He had seen it a million times, but tonight, like last night, the night before, and every night for the past week, he couldn't help thinking that he didn't like them very much anymore. They were spooky. They had never been spooky before, but they were damn spooky now.

Ever since that blonde lady had been killed, those shadows had been spooky.

It wasn't too bad when Leon was around, or one of his buddies from down in the city. But too often, ever since summer, Leon had started taking off early, and Curly's buddies had been working double, triple overtime just to make ends meet. He hardly saw them at all anymore.

That left him alone when the sun went down.

Spooky; too damn spooky.

He slapped a rag over his table to knock the filings and bits of stiff thread onto the floor. He did it again, this time pretending he was knocking Leon silly, and the idea of him doing that to a man that size made him giggle so hard that he could barely stand up.

Not that he’d really want to hurt his boss. Leon was okay most of the time. When he wasn’t brooding about something or other, when he wasn’t complaining about his competition up the road, when he wasn't talking out loud about maybe closing the place down and moving down to Florida where he would lie on the beach all day and let women in little bathing suits bring him drinks until he died.

Curly didn’t like that kind of talk.

It made him nervous, real nervous, because it had taken him a hell of a long time to find this job, and he didn't want to have to go through all that again, reading the papers, talking to people who thought he was so much older than he was because of his stupid hair. He didn’t want to, and when he scolded his boss, Leon would look at him like he was from another planet.

"What the hell's the matter with you, man?” he would say. "Shit, if I do leave, you can have this goddamn place, okay? Knock yourself out, Curly, knock yourself out."

Curly slapped the table a third time, and stuffed the rag into his hip pocket. Then he stomped over to the door and grabbed his broom.

He didn’t have to do it; playing janitor wasn't part of what he had been hired for. He was supposed to keep the frames and air foils working, that was all keep the dopes who wanted to jump off the mountain from killing themselves on the way down.

He was a mechanic, an artist, and a genius with his tools. Being a janitor had never been his dream.

He did it anyway, though, because Leon sure as hell wouldn’t. Curly hated coming in every morning and seeing crap all over, it didn't feel right. He had told Leon that a hundred million times every day practically when it wasn't done—it didn't feel right. Didn't look right, either, when the customers came in, saw the place looking like a junkyard after a tornado.

Leon didn't care.

All he cared about was watching people fly.

That's all he did. Ail day. Stood on the edge, hands in his pockets, and watched the people fly. Saying nothing. Humming to himself. Once in a while raking a couple of fingers through that goofy beard of his. Watching. Humming.

And collecting the money.

Curly looked around the room just to be sure everything was in its place, then switched on the tinny plastic radio he kept on the bench near the door. It only got one station. Tonight it was Suzy Bogguss singing about how wives don't like old girlfriends, and girlfriends don't like old wives.

"True enough," he said to the shadows as he attacked the floor. "Fucking true enough."

Right about now, he needed a new girlfriend himself, because his wife sure wasn’t putting out these days. She was a sweet lady, and he supposed he probably kind of loved her a little, but long about last Thanksgiving she'd gone with her aunt up to Nashville, gotten herself religion again, and fornication had suddenly become out of the question.

"Jesus,” he’d once exploded in frustration, "you ain't a nun, you know, Annie. Jesus, gimmie a break.”

She hadn’t liked that at all. In fact, for his blasphemy, she had made him sleep on the back porch for half a damn week. Him and the damn dogs.

He sighed, swept, listened to the wind pound the walls and wolf-howl in the eaves.

Now' that police lady today, she was pretty okay for a police lady. Dark-red hair, a figure he couldn’t keep his eyes off. He wondered if she had handcuffs. He wondered if she used them.

He giggled.

He swept.

That FBI guy, though, he was something else. Weird eyes. Kind of quiet. Moved like he was on tiptoe or something. Not a really big man, but he had a voice that sounded like it started somewhere at the bottom of a well. Not deep so much as full.

Really weird eyes.

He paused for a moment, sneezed, wiped his face with the back of a hand, thought about the police lady, and rolled his eyes as he got back to work

Singing loudly and out of tune while Patsy sang about falling to pieces and not having the sense God gave her to do something about it.

Something slammed into the wall, and the lights began to flicker.

loanne stood on the steps of police headquarters and zipped up her denim jacket. With chin tucked, she squinted at the sky, hoping to see at least one star, but the city lights cast a glow that showed her nothing but clouds.

A righteous shoot; that’s what Lt, Millson had told her not half an hour ago. No charges, no penalties; Internal Affairs had closed the file, and she had been completely vindicated without prejudice, no blight on her record. Righteous shoot. She grunted. The man was from Chicago; they talked funny that way. Still, being exonerated ought to have been more .. , fulfilling, more satisfying somehow.

It only made her angry that the process had to have been gone through at all.

She stepped slowly down to the pavement, momentarily confused about where she had parked her car. Which reminded her of Richard Turpin, and that made her scowl. Her desk duty had been lifted, but she was still assigned to the mystery guy from D.C.; when she had demanded an explanation, ail she'd gotten was a look.

"He doesn't tell me anything," she had complained. "We did some looking today, talked to the girl and some guy at the hang-gliding place, and he doesn't tell me anything."

"He doesn't have to,” Millson said, not unsympathetically,

"Weil, how the hell am I supposed to help him, then?"

"Don't shoot him."

Her smile was screw-you-sour, her departure swift, and she still couldn't figure out exactly what the hell she was supposed to do. Be a damn chauffeur? Get him in bed, find out all he knows? Beat the shit out of him, find out all he knows? lesus. Ten years a cop and this is what she gets?

And why the hell hadn't she told the lieutenant about the truck?

In the beginning, she had been excited, even eager, when she had been assigned to the task force hunting for the Lookout Mountain killer. Most of the work was dull, to be sure—door to door, asking questions, correlating interviews, asking more questions—but then there were the results, the hints, the ghosts of answers maddeningly close and maddeningly out of reach, staring at charts and paper until her eyes burned as she and a dozen others willed a pattern to make itself known.

A pattern was knowledge.

With knowledge came possible prediction of the next killing.

She had been to all the sites, and wondered why Turpin hadn’t taken the time today to visit the one on the side of the mountain. Instead, he had spent most of his time talking to Polly Logan, and it wasn't until she had returned to headquarters that she realized he hadn't told her what he had learned.

And he had definitely learned something.

She had seen it in his eyes.

She had half a mind to return to the Read House, corner that spook or whatever the hell he really was, and choke him until he stopped playing games and told her.

It wasn't fair; she was a good cop, and getting better, and it damn well wasn't fair.

She started in one direction, realized she was wrong, made an about-face, and nearly bumped into two uniforms complaining about the mechanics in the motor pool, how they never get anything right, and the uniforms get all the grief when something falls off a car.

She walked on, muttering to herself, working herself into a mood that soon enough had her deciding that, half a mind or not, she would see Turpin tonight and demand some answers to some questions.

He rose and walked away, leaving the table and the rose behind. In the far corner of the garden was a crumbling stone staircase, debris scattered at its base, unmoved by the wind. He climbed to the top and looked over the wall, and all the ruined, blasted walls that surrounded him.

Now the wind did reach him, tugging his hair back and away, pressing his shirt and trousers to his skin. Howling. Forever howling.

And the sun in the green-streaked sky felt like a match held against his flesh.

But inside, where it counted, he was cold.

Curly gaped at the lights, stared at the wall where he thought he heard the noise. The wind was busting the outside something fierce, it could be a branch or something that got flung against the shed.

Or, he thought miserably, it could be one of the metal trash cans got loose. If it had, he'd have to fetch it before the wind rolled it off the mountain. They hardly cost anything, but Leon always complained whenever they got dented.

Grumbling, shaking his head, he propped the broom against the workbench and went to the door.

it was cold out there, freezing; he could feel it through the wood.

Another thump, not as loud as the first, and he realized his hands were shaking a little.

"Oh, Lord, Curly, you scared of a little noise?"

He forced a laugh and yanked the door open, stepped outside, and threw up a hand to protect his face when a flurry of dead leaves leapt out of the dark. He rolled his eyes, and moaned when he saw the trash can shuddering down the length of the building, nudged by the wind, it didn't take but a few seconds to catch it, and a few seconds more to drag it back inside. He'd fix it in its place tomorrow; tonight he wanted to get the hell out, get home, get showered, kiss his wife, and get the hell to the bar to meet his girl and get laid.

By the time he had grabbed up his broom again, the lights had steadied, and Emmylou on the radio was whining about Amarillo and something about a jukebox.

He didn't much care for the song, but he sang along anyway, making up the words he didn't know, making up the notes he couldn't quite reach.

Not that it mattered.

As iong as the duet kept him from listening to the quiet, measured thumping along the wall by the door.

Blanchard was impressed.

They had made their way easily through the lobby throng, smiling and nodding as if they were royalty, as if they belonged. Once they reached the front desk, far to the left away from a handful still checking in, Wanda had leaned her elbows on the polished wood counter, looked at a young man flipping through some cards, and her voice deepened, became smooth and thick as Georgia syrup.

"Excuse me," she said, craned her neck so she could read the clerk's gold nameplate on his blue-blazer chest. "Lane, sugar, could you help me a second?"

“lesus,” Blanchard muttered, then yelped when she kicked back with a heel and caught him on the shin. The pain was sharp and deep, and as he gasped for a breath, she turned with a smile, following his gaze down to the innocuous black ballet slippers. "Tempered steel around the rim," she told him, still smiling. “Specially made."

He swallowed, but couldn't quite manage a smile. "I'd love to have him make something for me."

"Too late. Poor man died suddenly at a very young age." Then she turned her attention back to the clerk. "My key,” she said, the syrup flowing smoothly. "My husband, he goes out on the town, says, 'Darlin', meet me here, be dressed to kill.”’ She straightened and spread her arms slightly, her expression now rueful. "Not exactly ready to kill, am 1."

"You look fine to me, ma'am," the clerk answered, just shy of flirtation.

"Weil, you know how it is, we women and all." She looked troubled. "Problem is, the man took the key, and how am I going to get into the shower, get myself ready before he comes back?"

“No problem, ma'am. 1 can make another one up for you in a second. And you’re Mrs. . . ?"

"Turpin," she answered without missing a beat. "Richie Turpin."

Blanchard turned away quickly before he choked, only half listening as she kept up the chatter to keep the clerk from checking the records too closely. Amazing, he thought. It was as if he had left the restaurant with one woman, and had ended up here with someone else, someone infinitely more seductive.

He was truly impressed.

More so when she thanked the clerk with a smile that damn near made him blush, whirled and walked by, holding the key up and grinning. "You ready?"

He touched his jacket at the breast. "Always.”

"Wonderful." She linked her arm with his. "In and out, and then we go." An overweight woman in a costume more skin than cloth bumped into her and apologized with a laugh. Without a glance in her direction, Wanda shoved her away. "Christ, I hate this fucking city.”

Curly swept the pile of dust and crap his broom had gathered over to the door. Ordinarily he would have used the little broom and the dust pan now to pick it up, and drop it in the metal trash barrel outside. Not tonight. Leon had left him alone all damn day, nobody to talk to but the birds, the wings in the rafters, and those cops. Fuck the dust, he wanted to go home.

If he had any brains, he'd quit come morning, let Leon do his own damn work.

If he had any brains, which Leon kept telling him he didn't. All the time.

He grabbed the broom in a strangle-hold, kicked open the door, and barely had time to catch his breath before the wind slammed into him, scattering the dust back across the floor.

His shoulders slumped. "Aw . .. shit." He let the broom fall. "Come on, Curly, you stupid or something? Use your head, huh? Jesus.”

He stared at the mess helplessly, wiped a hand over his face, and kicked at the floor.

The hell with it; he'd do it in the morning.

He grabbed the edge of the door to slam it closed, and barely registered the thing that whipped out of the black to slash across his chest.

"Jesus!" he yelled, and stumbled backward, looking dumbly at the coveralls hanging in shreds down to his belly. "Jesus God!”

He didn’t feel the pain until the dark came inside and ripped out his throat.

By then it was too late.

He was sprawled on his back, on the floor, praying as hard as he had ever prayed in his life.

Not to be spared.

Just to die.

The pain was awful, almost too much to feel, but it wasn’t as bad as the teeth that tore open his stomach, as the red eyes that watched him, and he could swear they were smiling.

Please, Lord, he thought; please, Lord, please.

But it didn’t happen.

17

Marcus Spiro was in the ballroom, at the top of the gallery. He was seated at a long, white cloth-covered table on a raised platform with the rest of the convention's guests, most of whom seemed to wish they were somewhere else.

He smiled.

He had arrived late, panting a little, and twice he had counted the number of people in the theater-style setup, and couldn’t get more than fifty, no matter how hard he tried. Fifty out of what? A thousand, at least? Fifteen hundred? Not that he was surprised. Every convention he had ever been to was like this—they had opening ceremonies, nobody came, the few who did applauded politely, then everyone headed for the nearest room party.

It was a joke.

He smiled at them all as if they were his closest, long-lost friends.

He looked toward the back and saw Leon standing behind the last row, still wearing an anorak, cheeks faintly red. Late, too, but that was all right, because that big oaf understood that a man had to be alone once in a while, and he asked no embarrassing questions whose answers would have to be lies. He hated lying. It caused too many complications.

A faint noise made him shift his gaze down to the first row, at the woman in her tank top, she called herself Pear, who saw his discomfort and leaned forward a little. A reminder.

He smiled at her, praying that the evening wouldn't be wasted.

Christ, he thought, I hate this fucking stuff.

Joanne had been at the Read House a number of times, officially and not, and she could see at a glance that using the elevator to get to the third floor would be a waste of time. She was too impatient for that. Instead, she took the fire stairs at a run, slammed through the fire door, and rounded the corner.

She stood in front of 303 and pressed a hand to her chest while she caught her breath.

Be there, she willed, and knocked as she raked a hand through her wind-rumpled hair.

He didn't answer.

The halls were quiet.

She knocked again, harder, and this time called his name.

He didn't answer.

Okay, maybe this was a mistake. Maybe she had no right to barge in on him like this. Maybe she ought to be a good little girl and play by the rules. He wasn't here to help in the investigation; he was here to run an investigation on his own. No problem. She was a cop, he wasn’t, and who the hell are you kidding, girl?

She slammed a fist against the door, glaring at the peephole, daring him to look out and ignore her.

He didn't answer.

Damn it, where the hell are you?

To her left and around the corner, she heard the metallic creak of the fire door opening, quiet voices sounding hollow in the stairwell beyond.

Then Turpin's door opened slowly, and she didn't wait for an invitation. She pushed her way in without bothering with an apology, frowned briefly at the darkened room, and strode to the couch, standing between it and the coffee table, facing the street, arms folded across her chest.

“We have to talk, Turpin," she said tightly, not turning around.

"Yes. Yes, we do."

Blanchard closed his eyes, searching for calm. His lips moved in a litany of obscenities, but he didn't make a sound.

Wanda didn’t bother to keep silent, and she didn't bother to temper her language. In her left hand was the ivory wand, which she tapped angrily against her leg.

"We should go in anyway,” she said at last.

He shook his head emphatically.

"Why not? Two of us, two of them, lesus Christ, Miles or whatever the hell you're calling yourself these days, what's the goddamn problem?”

His eyes snapped open.

She backed away, but not fast enough. He grabbed her upper arm and squeezed it, hard, as he yanked her away from the corner. Heat swept over his face. He pulled her so close she had to lean her head back to focus on his eyes.

"She," he said tightly, "is a cop, remember? A detective. We take care of him, there’s no real problem. We include the bitch, we'll have the whole fucking force crawling all over the damn place.”

Her gaze was steady, no emotion at all. "What's your point? We'll be long gone by the time they find them."

He tried to speak, couldn't, tried again and failed, and finally flung her away, so hard her head bounced off the wall and her knees almost buckled at the impact.

But she didn't blink. Not once.

"Messy," was all he could bring himself to say. "I don’t like messy. Messy makes for messy questions. Messy questions sometimes get real answers." Then, for good measure, he added, "Crimmins.”

The ivory slipped back into her pocket. She adjusted her cardigan, ran a smoothing palm down her blouse, and brushed by him, heading toward the elevator alcove.

"I’m going to the bar,” she said. "Call me when you find out where you left your balls.”

A tree had been planted at the curb outside the window, its branches merging with the early night. There were no cars that she could see, nothing but streetlights and reflections and the Chubb Building in the distance, glowing red, like sullen fire.

All her anger and impatience had instantly drained at the sound of his voice, but she couldn’t turn around.

The room was still dark; she didn't want to see his face in what dim light there was.

Footfalls behind her; he was pacing, not wearing shoes.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I . . . I’ve had some bad news.”

She nodded.

"My, uh, best friend . . . her name is Fay ..." A soft exhalation; he cleared his throat harshly. "Was Fay. She's dead."

"I’m sorry'. An accident?”

"Murder.”

She did look over her shoulder then. He had dropped into a chair at the table, legs spread, one arm on the table, the other in his lap. The outside light didn't reach far enough—it looked as if he had no head. There was a glint, however, to mark his eyes. They looked almost green.

"Murder," he repeated dully.

She recognized then what she had heard in his voice—he’d been crying, or fighting so hard not to that the result was the same—he was hoarse, barely sounded human.

Bracing one hand against the sofa's back, she lowered herself onto the cushion, pushing into the corner, one leg up, one foot on the floor. She winced when her beeper dug into her thigh, unclipped it from her belt and placed it on the end table without looking. "Not. . . not your wife?"

A sad laugh. "No. No, we weren't... we couldn’t."

Helplessness prevented her from asking more questions simply because she didn’t know the right questions to ask.

He leaned forward into the light, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor. "Look, )o, it's ...’’ Another laugh, this one bitter while he shook his head. "It’s been less than two days, and I’ve done nothing but treat you like you aren’t even here. You probably won’t believe it, but that’s really not my style.”

She tilted her head in a half shrug. "You've been a shit, more or less."

"More or less.”

“And you know a lot more than we do. About this killer, I mean."

"Oh, yes.’’ He looked up without raising his head. "Oh, yes.”

She settled deeper in the corner and pulled her other leg up, hooked fingers around the ankle to keep it in place. “Do you know who he is?"

"[ don't even know yet if he's a he."

She shook her head doubtfully. "No offense, but a woman generally doesn't commit crimes like this. Like they say, it's not really in the profile."

He looked at the floor again before scratching fiercely through his hair. "For the time being, you'll have to take my word for it—there is no profile for the kind of madman we're after."

Her mouth opened, closed quickly, and she gripped her ankle more tightly. The room felt unusually warm, but a chill slithered across her shoulders anyway, making her shift them until it dissipated. When he sat up slowly, his face retreating into shadow, she could almost hear the pain, almost felt it with him. That bothered her. She didn't know this man at all, had no idea who he was or where he was from, so there was no reason at all why he should affect her this way.

No reason at all.

But he did.

The silence expanded, but it wasn't uncomfortable. What questions she had—and there were dozens—would have to wait. In his own good time, she knew; in his own good time.

In the main hall outside, a voice called and another answered.

A truck backfired to a halt at the traffic light below the window, gears grinding, brakes hissing.

His chair creaked as he shifted.

The room no longer felt too warm, but a peculiar scent remained, dry heat and hot sand. She blinked slowly, almost sleepily.

"You’re very good," he said suddenly, quietly

She started, and bit back a yelp.

"At waiting, 1 mean.”

"1 have to be." And she did. Often, interrogation yielded more just by sitting there, not looking at but watching the person who had the answers she was after. By saying little, or nothing at all, she could elicit outrage, then denial, outrage again, and finally, if she was lucky, a slow crumbling of defenses that often told her more than words.

"So do 1." He left his chair, took his time moving to the opposite corner of the couch, angling his body so he could see her without having to turn his head. Because of the furniture’s size, there wasn't much more than a foot between them.

More calling in the hall, and an outburst of explosive laughter that lasted for several seconds.

"Listen, Jo—"

"How did you know?" she demanded sharply.

"What?”

“Jo. How did you know to call me Jo? Hardly anyone does anymore. You did it before, too."

A one-shoulder shrug. "I don’t know. It feels right.” A momentary frown. "Sorry if it offends you."

She waved him off—it doesn't—and squirmed a little to regroup.

This was crazy. She wanted to reach out, touch his leg, so much so that she clasped her hands in her lap and forced them to stay there.

"I have a problem, Joanne," he said.

"Jo."

He smiled. "Okay. I have a problem, Jo, and it goes beyond what your superiors might have told you.” He

gazed out the window, staring and seeing nothing, one arm resting along the back of the couch.

"If it'll make you feel any better, they've told me squat."

He chuckled. "That's because they don’t know squat. About me, that is. What I do.”

"So? What do you do?"

A finger lifted. "That is the problem." The finger pointed at the window. "Out there is a killer. He, maybe she, is insane and getting worse. He’s going to kill again, I don't know when, and i'm supposed to stop him."

She shuddered, and pulled her lower lip thoughtfully between her teeth. When he said "stop,” she had a bad feeling he didn't mean "catch."

"Son of a bitch," she whispered suddenly. Then, louder, "Son of a bitch.” She straightened. "You’re not official, are you?" It wasn’t a question, it was an accusation.

He turned toward her, sliding the left side of his face into the room's shadow.

As if he were wearing a mask, she thought, and didn't like it.

"You're not government at all. FBI, CIA, something like that, 1 mean." She sat even straighter. "Goddammit, Turpin, you're a civilian." The heat of her indignation began to creep into her face. “What the hell is going on around here? Who the hell has that kind of pull?”

She started to rise, but he leaned over and placed a hand on her leg. Not hard. Enough to stop her.

"My problem," he said evenly. "It’s no exaggeration, lo, to say that if I tell you what you want to know, even just a little, things aren't ever going to be the same for you again. Ever. I guarantee it."

She wouldn’t have believed him if it hadn't been for the clear reluctance in his voice, and the sadness she could see in those strange eyes. As it was, the matter-of-fact way he spoke unnerved her more than what he had actually said.

She rubbed her throat lightly. "1 gather we can't go on until you do tell me."

"I don’t think so. Not and be very effective/'

"And if you don't anyway?"

"You'll have to tell your lieutenant. You'll have to protest more than you probably already have."

She nodded; he was right.

"And he'll have to order you to stick with me, because he doesn’t know, either. He thinks this is all government work.” A fleeting sardonic smile. "Official government, that is, covert or not. If you still refuse, he'll have to reassign you, take you off the task force. More. You won’t like that, |o. It'll be scut work. Shit work. Rookie work not even the rookies get to do. You'll be driven from the force.

"Sooner or later, they'll drive you out.”

She knew the drill, knew what her record would say when it was over: uncooperative, making waves, and probably labeled unstable.

She very nearly laughed; she didn’t, but her voice was bitter. "I get it. You don't tell me what's up, and I get the royal shaft. You tell me, and I'm probably not going to like it, and maybe get the shaft anyway. Plus, I'll probably be in some danger. Right?"

"No." He shook his head solemnly. "Not some danger. A lot of danger.” His fingers slid along her leg and away. "There's a fair chance you won’t live through it."

Angrily, she dusted the leg where the hand had been. "If you’re trying to scare me off, Turpin, it isn’t going to work. I have no intention of ever giving up being what I am, what I worked for, and I sure don’t intend for some mystery man to—”

The beeper sounded behind her, and she jumped so violently, she nearly fell into his lap. When she looked up, their faces were only inches apart.

Eyes, she thought; those eyes . . . until he touched her shoulder, reminding her of the summons. She whirled, then, and grabbed the receiver from the telephone on the table. After getting an outside line, she dialed the station’s number, identified herself, listened, and hung up almost immediately.

“Let’s go," she said, getting quickly to her feet.

He looked at her quizzically.

"There's been another one. And the body’s still fresh."

. Mood

Joanne had already slapped a magnetized red bubble on the roof of her car by the time Richard threw himself into the front seat. He barely had time to pull his feet in and close the door before she bolted through the red-light intersection, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding a mike to her lips, letting the others know she was on the road and on the way.

She said nothing about him.

He winced as she veered sharply around a pair of slower cars, and held his breath when she leaned on the horn and nearly clipped the rear bumper of a pickup that had hesitated in the middle of the next intersection.

"Don't you have a siren?”

She shrugged with one shoulder. "Busted."

"Wonderful;"

The radio crackled static; half the traffic was garbled, but what he did hear told him roadblocks were being set up throughout the city and around the mountain. .

"It was that guy," she said, swinging into the left lane to pass a lumbering city bus.

“What guy?”

"That Curly guy. At the hang-gliding place.”

Shit, he thought, and grabbed for the dashboard when she played matador at another crossing, this time with a moving van that seemed in no hurry to get out of her way until she blasted the horn.

The office buildings were left behind; warehouses now, barely illuminated, their lights brittle and wan. The neon on the handful of restaurants and bars seemed even more seedy, despite their supposedly cheery glow.

What he thought was a snowflake hit the windshield and melted.

Dead ahead, at the Y-intersection near the supermarket, he saw patrol cars parked at angles in the middle of the road, their lights flashing. Joanne slowed only a little to give them time to part and let her pass, then accelerated again.

"We'll take the same way. It's not as steep."

He grunted, wanting to close his eyes so he wouldn't see the blur of dark trees, or the way the city fell away so quickly from the alarmingly low guard rail. If there were streetlamps, he didn't see them; there was only the gray pull of the headlamps on the tarmac.

Seconds later, they reached the boulder outcropping, and he tensed as she took the curve around it without hesitation.

The way ahead was clear.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, manhandling the car around the final bend.

"I doubt it."

“You’re thinking I'm a damn good driver, making it all this way without hitting a damn thing.”

"We're not there yet."

She laughed. "We will be. You gotta have faith.”

At the top, another roadblock. She passed it carefully, taking the road left, and speeding up again. It didn’t take long for the houses to be left behind.

"A couple of minutes," she told him.

He squeezed the tiny bundle in his pocket, and nodded, wishing the radio chatter was more clear, but he could only catch one or two words at a time; everyone seemed to be talking at once, and he wondered how the hell anyone could pass on information that way.

The road dipped and climbed.

The infrequent houses on the left were lit top and bottom, and he caught glimpses of people clustered in their yards, all facing the same way. Figures moved among the trees, slashing the air with flashlight beams. At least two pairs of police dogs straining at their leashes, testing the ground and air.

"Not wasting any time," she noted, sounding pleased and frustrated at the same time.

They flashed by the college, windows alight, silhouettes against the panes, staring out.

"They don’t have to be afraid now," Joanne said tightly. "He’s already made his kill for the night."

"Maybe."

She stared at him for too long, he had to point at the road to redirect her attention. "What the hell do you mean by that?”

He wiped his face with a palm. "I mean, the pattern's broken. Shattered." He watched a silver glow in the sky, beyond the road’s next rise. “He's gone over the edge. There's no way, now, to predict his next move."

"Swell."

The ridge flattened after the rise, and he saw the congestion at the staging area. At least half a dozen cruisers parked on both sides of the road, an ambulance backed up to the shed’s door, men walking purposefully from one place to another while others just stood around, stamping their feet against the cold, hands tucked under their armpits. Breath steamed in the light thrown by headlamps and electric torches. As she braked to a skidding halt just past the shed, he saw the flutter of yellow crime-scene ribbon.

They hurried toward the entrance.

"You got that FBI ID?" she asked.

"Yes.”

"Put it on your jacket. It’ll save a lot of questions."

He did, scolding himself for forgetting such a simple thing.

But he couldn’t help it.

His nostrils flared, and he inhaled deeply.

.. . Mood . . .

Four men were on their hands and knees on the gravel, peering at the stones, one man behind them with a handful of tiny yellow flags. A trail of them reached from the threshold to where he stood.

Richard followed her under the tape, kept one step behind as several voices greeted her. Someone stepped out of the office, a stump of a man in a heavy, dark-blue jacket, the collar up. He wore no hat, but there were bars on the collar's wings.

"Lieutenant Millson," she told him out of the corner of his mouth. "My boss. Task-force head.”

"He's the one who gave you to me?"

She looked up at him and grinned without mirth.

"Turpin, nobody gives me to nobody. 1 was assigned. There’s a hell of a difference.”

Past the door, near the cliff edge, he heard the sound of a man vomiting. Two white-coated attendants lounged against the ambulance, smoking.

Lt. Millson intercepted them before they could go inside. Joanne introduced Richard, who watched the man’s face—small eyes and small mouth, with a large blunt nose between. Pudgy cheeks. Black hair matted around his forehead and ears. A toupee, he realized; it's a goddamn toupee.

Richard shook the policeman’s gloved hand and hunched his shoulders against the cold wind. "Bad?” He nodded at the building.

"You’ve never seen it that bad, boy."

Oh, yes 1 have, he thought, but didn't say it aloud.

The call had come in less than half an hour ago. Nora Costo, Hendean's assistant below, had come up to see if she couldn't convince him to close down for a while. She was, the lieutenant said, tired of hanging around all day, without practically anyone to watch out for.

"She’s over there." He pointed to a sedan twenty yards away. A small woman sat sideways on the front seat, hands cupped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee. A patrolwoman crouched beside her, talking softly. "Walked in, saw the . . . scene, called it in right away from her car. Lookout Mountain cops were on the roadblocks almost instantly."

Not soon enough, Richard thought; damn it, not soon enough.

He looked at the doorway, took a breath, and started for it.

"Hey,” the lieutenant said, *f thought i said—”

Richard stared at him, stared at the hand reaching for his arm, and stepped inside. Behind him, loanne muttered something that may have been a curse or an apology, and followed.

"Aw, shit," she said. "Aw, Jesus."

Curly Guestin lay spread-eagled on his worktable.

What was left of him, that is.

Richard stepped carefully around the shimmering pools of blood and stood at the dead man's feet, hands in his pockets, breathing through his mouth. There wasn't much left of Guestin from the waist up; it looked as if someone had taken a hacksaw to him, slashing indiscriminately until his left arm had nearly been severed, his torso gutted from navel to throat, his face little more than a red mask.

. . . blood . . .

.. . fresh blood . . .

Richard turned slowly, ignoring the men who worked around the room, trying to find something in the wreckage besides blood. Mumbling to themselves. Once in a while, gagging.

"Find out what you can,” he said to Joanne, and before she could ask, he left, brushed past Millson, and moved stiffly toward the road.

He heard the lieutenant mutter, "Pussy," but didn’t stop.

No time; he had no time.

Suddenly the beat of rotor blades overwhelmed the noise of radios and whispers, and a helicopter rose above the ridge, two intense white beams stretched below it like legs. Cops grabbed for their hats as a minor dust storm swept over the scene, causing the yellow ribbons to snap like whips. Richard used the momentary confusion to run back toward Joanne's car, past it, and duck into the trees.

He heard shouts, and froze until he realized they weren't meant for him.

Then he began to run.

No time.

. . . merging . , .

No time.

Slipping from trunk to trunk, angling toward the edge, shaking the scent of fresh human blood from his nostrils, searching for the other scent and nearly howling when he found it.

The rogue had come here, and had gone over the edge.

He clung to a small pine and looked down, frowning, seeing nothing but knowing this was the way the other one had gone.

Not that long ago.

Headlights flashed along the road far below; he could barely make out the distant wail of a siren. Four patrol cars, one of them pausing, then speeding up again, heading north toward the river. Although he couldn't see the woodland down there, he spotted several winks of light. The search party had begun to build even in the valley. He didn't have much time.

From somewhere near the shed, Joanne called his name.

The helicopter was joined by a second, and they swung off, northward, one on either side of the ridge.

"Damn it, Turpin!"

He slipped between two large rocks and began to climb-slide downward, letting the trees be his brakes, letting them swing him on to the next one. Mountain climbing in reverse, with no safety net.

The scent was still fairly strong—sweat and blood and a touch of outright fear. He puzzled at that, but couldn't concentrate on much more than not falling; the angle of the mountainside was such that losing his balance would mean slamming his way all the way to the bottom, or near enough that it wouldn't make any difference when they found him.

"Hey!” A young man’s voice in the stand he’d just left. "Hey, down here!”

He snorted angrily.

“Here!” A wide slant of white bounced off the treetops, settled, and aimed down. "Here!”

Richard didn't stop.

Branches whipped at the thick fur that covered him head to claw; twice something dug at the corner of his eye, and whipping his head away made him dizzy for a second; his left foot lost its purchase, and he fell hard against a half-buried rock, the wind forced from his lungs.

"Down there, damn it! I swear to God!”

He knelt there and gasped, swallowing hard, large pointed ears twitching front to side to back, sifting through the sounds of the night for the one sound he needed.

What he didn't expect was the shot.

The bullet struck him high on the right shoulder, the force of it nearly toppling him off the rock. He snarled and whirled, glaring up at the ridge, snarled again and slapped at his shoulder where the fire had lodged, a furrow, not a hole, and he growled, tempted to return and teach the cop a lesson.

Another shot, this one thirty yards to his right.

Blind.

Damn, he thought; the stupid kid is firing blind, 1 don’t believe it.

He passed a hand gingerly over the wound,

grimacing at the matted fur, concentrating as he listened to the shouts, the orders, calming himself

Concentrating.'

Dampening the fire.

He could well imagine the conversation above:

I don't see anything.

Down there I saw it.

It?

A big thing you know? I swear it must've been covered in fur. Really hairy, you know what I mean?

Hairy. Big.

I swear!

Sure: sure you do. You just shot a big, hairy thing, right?

Jesus Christ.

Nope, I don't think so.

He came too close to laughing, and clambered swiftly over the rock and continued down, shifting his angle of descent until he was practically directly below the crime scene.

The fire was gone.

The furrow would be, in minutes.

There were no more sounds of possible pursuit. If he had had the time, he would have felt sorry for the poor guy who'd spotted him.

There was no time.

The scent still didn’t change, neither weaker nor stronger. The rogue hadn’t fled at anything like frightened speed. It was taking its time, confident its human pursuit would never guess what it was, would never believe it had escaped the way it had.

The cries and shouts grew more faint.

The flare of a flashlight couldn't reach this far down.

When he found himself on a narrow ledge, he took a few precious moments to allow his night vision to sharpen further. His arms and legs ached, and trembled slightly from the beating they been taking. His

great head swung slowly side to side, snuffling at the air, marking the scent he'd been following.

Below, a pair of cruisers drove slowly southward, spotlights on their roofs attempting to penetrate the slope’s trees.

He waited until they passed, looked over the ledge, and jumped before he could talk himself out of it.

Twenty feet, maybe more, before he hit the stony ground, fell to all fours, and launched himself into a sprint as the ground leveled for a while before dropping off again. He had reached the mountain's skirt, and the angle wasn't nearly as sharp as it had been. Movement was easier.

But then, it was for the rogue, too.

He didn’t worry about the searchers down here. There were too few of them so far, avoiding them would be easy. What he needed was a direction for the rogue—it seemed as if he had gone straight for the highway, no deviations. Did he have a car down here, waiting? A cave? From what Joanne had told him, the mountain was riddled with them, the largest transformed into tourist attractions.

Fifteen minutes brought him to ground nearly level with the road. He stood well back in the trees, testing the air, catching his breath. Diagonally across the highway, about three hundred yards to his right, were house lights and the vague outline of a split-rail fence. A glance up and over his shoulder, another look at the house, and he figured that must be Nora Costo’s place. Another cruiser sped past, followed by a dark-sided van. SWAT team? he wondered, and stepped away from the tree. At that moment what felt like a bomb exploded across the top of his shoulders. He cried out howled as he fell face first to the ground. He couldn’t think, couldn’t see, and had no chance to protect himself when another explosion killed all the light.

... Mood . . .

Voices:

"Over there."

"What the hell did you ... Jesus!"

"Weil, how was 1 supposed to know, Sergeant? I heard all the commotion, I go running over, I—” "Enough, officer, enough."

"What's he doing out here, anyway?"

"FBI."    "    ’

“Fucking Beanpod Idiot, you mean."

. . . Mood ...

He heard her before he saw her, smelled her before she knelt beside him.

"Oh my God, look at your head."

Tires shrieking on the road, voices in the woods, the deafening slap of a helicopter's rotors.

"Sergeant, you want me to get an ambulance?" "Good Lord, you didn’t call one yet?"

"Thought he was dead. Ain't no hurry if the guy's not breathing."

Richard pushed himself up on one elbow, trying not to scream. "No ambulance.”

She leaned closer. "What?"

"No ambulance.”    ..

"Sure. And tomorrow, you're gonna walk on water."

Fireflies sparked across his vision, rising from the conflagration rising from his back. With his free hand he braced himself against her knee and rose farther.

"No ambulance.”

"Richard, this isn't the movies, honey, you’re bashed up, bashed in, and there's no way I’m going to let you die out here.”

Christ, he thought, why won't she listen?

He squeezed, and she gasped. "Your car?"

"Right here."

Another push, and he was upright. Swaying. Bits of leaf and twig dangling from his hair, clots of dirt and mud clinging to his jacket.

"The hotel,” he said, trying to focus on her face.

"Now that’s just plain dumb."

He wanted to yell at her, but the longer he stayed here, the more danger he was in.

"Tell them," he said, gesturing toward the others hovering near the road, "it's not as bad as it looks."

"Richard—"

He glared at her. "Tell them, Jo, tell them it’s just a scalp wound and get me out of here."

He saw the rebellion, automatic and justified, but she must have seen something as well, because she stood, gripped his arm, and helped him to his feet.

"Sarge?"

"It's all right. Damn Yankee can’t fall down a mountain without scraping his knees, bunking his thick skull on a damn stump."

Someone he couldn't see snickered.

Someone else declared there was movement up the road, haul ass, they needed reinforcements.

"It's all right," Joanne insisted, when the last one hesitated. "You want to miss being in on the kill?"

The patrolman half saluted and took off.

Richard wiped an arm across his eyes, and would have toppled backward if she hadn’t kept her grip.

"You will explain.”

"Hotel. Hurry."

.. .he could feel the blood .. .

He lay on his side across the back seat, swaying with the car's movement as she raced toward the city. She had put a light blanket over him, covering him to his shoulders. It didn't help much; he couldn’t chase the cold.

"You get blood all over my car, Turpin, you clean it up, you understand?"

He grunted.

The fireflies wouldn't leave, the conflagration wouldn't subside. He bit down on his lower lip, one pain for another, but it didn’t do any good.

Joanne snapped into the radio, arguing with her lieutenant. She couldn’t be in two places at the same time, she told him. Stay at the scene, stay with the FBI, why doesn't he make up his goddamn mind?

For a change there was no static: "Language protocol, Detective.”

She apologized flatly, and told him what she had told the others, that Turpin had injured himself a good one, am ambulance would be too slow so she was taking him to the hospital herself.

"How bad is he you got to play nursemaid, Minster?" "Government, remember?" was all she said. "Your idea, not mine."

Silence and static,

"Drop him off, come right back, Detective.”

She acknowledged, dropped the mike on the seat beside her, and glared at the rearview mirror. "If I lose my shield because of this, Turpin, I’ll kill you.”

He grunted again, not daring to speak, not knowing if he could speak, and not caring about her goddamn shield. He was hurt, and hurt badly, and it wasn’t healing the way it should have.

Awkwardly, he reached behind his left ear, touched his hair, then checked his hand in the intermittent light that flowed through the car.

It was thick, barely flowing, but it was still his blood.

He couldn’t think.

He didn't understand.

"Hang on, Richard," she said gently. "We're coming up on the bridge. Bumpy ride."

Why the hell was he still bleeding?

The fireflies flared into a solid white wall when the car slammed into a pothole.

. .. he could smell the blood .. .

"Talk to me, Richard," she said quietly and urgently. 'Talk to me, don’t die on me, talk to me, come on, talk to me."

He began to appreciate the fireflies. At least they were proof he was still alive.

"Talk to me.”

"Yes."

He heard the sighed "Thank God.”

The car slowed, and he slid toward the door as she swung around a corner.

"How the heli did you get down there so fast?"

He swallowed, his throat feeling as if it were packed with sand. "Flew."

"Not funny,f

"Luck."

"Miracle, you mean." A glance over her shoulder. "How'd you get hurt? A tree, rock, what? Keep talking, Richard. Christ, I must be nuts. Momma always said !’d go nuts one of these days, dealing with all the scum of the earth. I'm nuts, that's all there is to it.”

The fireflies danced.

"Richard, talk to me, come on, talk to me.”

"He . . ." He tried to sit up, but the motion of the car kept him down. "He hit me.”

Her voice rose: "You saw him? Jesus, Richard, you saw him?"

He shook his head, and groaned at the explosion that threatened to swamp him. "No," he said. "No. Came from behind me.”

His eyes fluttered closed; he saw himself charging like a fool through the trees, following the scent, feeling the explosion, unable to . . .

His eyes snapped open.

Doubled back; the bastard doubled back on his own trail and just stood there, waiting for him.

He knew I was coming.

He groaned again, this time in frustration.

"Richard?”

"How soon?"

"Two minutes. You going to die on me?"

“Nope.”

"Then what's this all about?"

"You'll see. Be patient.”

Southern and deadly: "Honey, this damn well better be good."

... he could taste the blood .. .

He gripped the back of the seat and hauled himself up, bracing himself for the fiery detonation in his skull, the one that mercifully didn't come. His stomach roiled bile into his throat. The fireflies merged with the lights outside as she pulled into the parking entrance, flashed her badge at the attendant who wanted to stop her, and turned sharply left, bringing them down one level. Below ground. Where it was silent.

Once she had stopped, she jumped out and yanked open the back door, suddenly unsure of what to do next.

He half crawled, half slid out to his feet, looked at the ramp and said, "I’ll never make it."

She was pale and couldn’t keep from staring at his head. But she said nothing. She kept the blanket around his shoulders, hauling it up to cover his neck, and most of the blood; there wasn’t much she could do about the blood that matted his hair. An arm slipped around his waist, an order to lean on her, she was stronger than she looked, and they began the upward climb.

"You're drunk,” she whispered when they came out at street level.

He didn’t need to act. His legs weren’t working, the fireflies were blinding him, and the throbbing in his head trebled every noise and deafened him. He stared at the ground, then at the carpet, seeing feet pass him, hearing some disgust, some giggles, someone ask if the little lady could use some help with her friend.

The little lady declined. Politely.

Richard would have laughed had he had the strength.

At the elevators she showed her badge again, clearing everyone out. When a pair of pointy silver boots complained bitterly, she suggested he talk to the management. Not very politely this time, and the doors closed.

"You're not gonna die, right?"

He stared at the floor, and said nothing. Right now, there was nothing he could say to chase the fear in her voice. He had to concentrate on standing up, concentrate on walking when they reached the third floor, concentrate on not screaming when she leaned him too heavily against the wall and searched him for the key card to let them inside.

"The bed," she said when the door closed behind them.

"No." He pushed her gently toward the couch. "Sit down.”

"But—i“

"Sit down. This'll take a few minutes, but . .. just sit, Jo, just sit."

He made his way into the other room without falling, used the bed to help him keep his feet, and tried not to stumble when he entered the bathroom. Before he turned on the light, he looked out and saw her, on the couch but sitting forward, trying to see him through the dark.

"Don’t leave,* he said hoarsely, and closed the door, turned on the light, looked in the mirror over the small porcelain sink.

He knew then, and raised a weak fist.

Silver; the son of a bitch had hit him with something heavily laced with silver.

"So why aren't you dead?" he asked his reflection. "Why didn't he finish it?”

He grabbed the edge of the basin with both hands, lowered his head, and closed his eyes.

The shift was agony.

He confined it to his head and shoulders as best he could, and didn’t look up, didn't want to look up, just waited until all the fireflies died and the conflagration died and he could think again without wishing he were dead.

. . . Mood . . .

... on the jaws of Anubis. . .

Stiffly, moving an inch at a time, he stripped off his jacket and shirt, splashed cold water on his face, and grimaced at the blood and woodland filth that swirled down the drain. It took the face cloth and two hand towels before the water ran reasonably clear; then he washed again, and stripped to his shorts.

He was still dizzy, could still barely walk. He needed to rest, needed sleep. The rogue was out there—and close, so damn close—but the way he felt now, he wouldn't be able to fight his own shadow.

Maybe Poulard was right; maybe he was getting too old for this job. If that second blow had hit his head instead of his shoulders ..

He turned off the light and opened the door.

Joanne was on her feet in the middle of the sitting room, a single lamp burning behind her. "I thought... I was going to come in.! thought—"

He pulled back the quilt and blanket, and slipped under the sheet, with a slight groan not entirely just for her benefit.

She took a step closer. "I'll get a doctor now, okay?”

"No," he said weakly. "I'm all right. Like you said to that cop, it looked worse than it was. Cold water does wonders, believe it or not."

She came into the room then and stood by the footboard. "This is nuts. You need a doctor. You need stitches. Damn, Turpin, you practically fell down a goddamn mountain, then got yourself nailed by a killer."

"I'll be ali right," he insisted gamely, and added with a smile, "If it'll make you feel any better, I’m going to feel like hell in the morning." He laughed tightly. "Hell, 1 feel like hell now."

"This makes no sense."

He could feel himself slipping away, down where the healing was. He wanted to say something to her, to ease the concern so clear in her voice, to clear the fear for him he could see in her eyes.

All he could do was sigh.

"I can’t stay," she said suddenly, sidling toward the sitting room.

"I know."

"He'll kill me. And that—"

"You'll catch him."

Her laugh was bitter. "Yeah. Right. Like I’m Superwoman or something, huh?" Angrily she snatched up her coat, switched off the lamps, and grabbed for the doorknob. "Maybe I'll stop by later."

"Thanks, but you’ll be working all night."

A shrug.

“Io?" '

The door was open, light slipping into the room. She looked at him, frowning because she couldn’t see anything but a vague lump in the bed.

"You are, you know."

"What?”

"Super."

Did she blush? He couldn’t tell because she was gone too quickly, and his vision was as well. There were no fireflies, but there was a insistent dull throbbing, and a faint burning across his shoulders that forced him to lie on his stomach, hands buried under the pillow.

He would heal, but he’d been lucky.

Right now he was furious at himself, for running

off like that, for letting the damn rogue catch him in such an amateur trap, and for wishing Jo didn’t take her job so seriously.

He closed his eyes and waited, groaned and got up, chained and bolted the door, and returned to bed.

Still angry.

Still aching.

Until the healing dark took him, and all he could see was his own blood.

Blanchard sat in his room, alone, darkness relieved only by the light that seeped around the edges of the draperies.

In his right hand he held a half-empty tumbler of Southern Comfort, while his left dangled motionless over the arm of the chair. The only time he moved was when he heard a burst of activity outside his door. Whatever passed for an evening's entertainment at this place must have begun, and he had a feeling it would last most of the night.

There was no temptation to wander the hotel, to visit any of the dozen parties announced in garish flyers taped to the walls.

Once he had seen Turpin and the lady cop hurry out of the building, once his flare-up at Strand had subsided, he had retreated here. To calm down. To consider.

After an hour he turned on the television and flicked through the channels, shaking his head in disgust until the bulletins had started.

Another killing on the mountain, just as brutal as the others. Police from two states were out in force, an immediate curfew had been clamped onto the city, and more information would be delivered as it was received.

The television went off when it obvious the local news had nothing but pissant speculation and rehashed history to give its viewers.

He sipped.

He considered driving out there just to see what was really going on, and discarded the notion instantly. The rogue was gone-, and the odds of finding Turpin alone were too long to take the chance. The man would probably be out there until dawn.

The fingers of his left hand twitched.

He sipped, letting the single ice cube settle briefly against his teeth.

His problem now wasn't really a problem at all: normally, he would have found a way to confuse the issue, as he had usually done before, not bothering with the rogue because, in the long run, it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. Once the waters had been muddied, his job was over.

But that was normally.

Now he had to decide if the rogue really didn't matter. Crimmins the Prick would probably tell him that they both had to go, the rogue and Turpin. The rogue, because capture by others would surely rend the Veil, and Crimmins and his people didn't seem ready to let it go that far yet; Turpin, because simple capture was out of the question.

He sipped.

Normally, others came in after him and took care of the rogue, made it vanish or whatever, and whatever Crimmins did with it was his business, not Blanchard's. Unless there were too many killings, which generally caught the Warders' attention. Those he stayed away from; those brought Turpin, and normally, he didn’t want anything to do with the Strider.

But that was normally.

Crimmins had stepped over the line, both here and in San Francisco.

"Ignorant little man, my ass," he muttered into the tumbler.

Then he thought about Wanda Strand, and his left hand became a fist.

He woke up with a silent cry, and to sweat drenching his hair and pillow, blanket and sheet tangled and shoved to the foot of the bed.

A second passed before he remembered where he was, and another before he realized something wasn't right, that he hadn't been dreaming.

Until he felt the pain that shouldn't have been.

It wasn't all that bad, he'd felt worse, much worse, but the fact was, he shouldn’t have been feeling any pain at all.

He should have been healing, and he wasn’t.

Slowly, almost holding his breath, he swung his legs over the side and sat up, slumping, waiting for his mind to clear, passing a hand over his face and back through his hair.

"Damn," he whispered. "Damn."

He straightened and rolled his shoulders, and the pain slammed him back onto the mattress, legs jerking uncontrollably, fists tucked tightly under his chin, arms pressed to his ribs as if they could squeeze the pain out

He waited for it to pass.

it didn't.

"It's quite easy, you see,” Marcus Spiro explained as if imparting a great secret, "to let all this go to your head. I’ve seen it a hundred ... no, a thousand

times in a thousand cities. A few autographs, a few speeches, and the less disciplined begin to believe that they're special." He leaned over the table. "That they're actually somebody if you know what I mean."    •

Wanda nodded solemnly, letting her fingers caress the stem of her wine glass slowly.

"Not that 1 wasn't immune in the beginning myself," the writer admitted with a sad smile of selfdeprecation. "1 rather enjoyed the fuss, don't you see. in many ways, in those days, it validated all the sacrifices one makes when one has to work at such a truly lonely occupation."

She nodded again, staring at her fingers, once in a while shifting her gaze to his face, to prove that she was listening.

He sat back and sighed, unbuttoning his tweed jacket as if it were too tight across his middle. "I know better now, of course."

"Of course,” she said. "With age comes wisdom."

"Exactly." He chuckled, tilted his head. "And foolishness, too, i fear, my dear. Because every so often, when 1 am feted at one of these outlandish conventions, I allow myself to taken along for the ride. Caution to the wind and all that, you see."

"Why not? You work hard, so you ought to be able to kick up your heels once in a while.” She ducked her head and smiled. "You must clear out the brain cells while letting your ego have its day."

He smiled expansively. "Absolutely! Absolutely!"

The restaurant was nearly empty. Only a handful of people sat in the booths. A lull, she thought. It was just past nine; in a while there would probably be a rush to beat last call. She looked around Spiro, down the length of the room. All right, a dribble. It'll fill up, but it won’t get hectic.

"You know, my dear Ms. Strand," Spiro said, keeping his voice low, "I am surprised, quite frankly, to find someone not a part of this circus who actually seems to understand what it’s like. Being someone like me, I mean to say."

A waitress brought them another round without having to be asked, followed by a tall, bearded man, who came up to the railing and, after an apologetic glance at her, tapped Spiro on the shoulder.

"Ah, Leon!" A hand waved vaguely. “Leon, please make sure this young lady gets a medal, won't you? She has graciously allowed me to intrude on her solitude for the past hour, and bore her to silent tears."

Wanda nodded politely at the newcomer, who couldn't quite meet her eyes, and for no reason at all, she found that charming. Nevertheless, as she drank, a faint disturbing chill made her check the window, thinking that perhaps it might have started snowing.

"Mr. Spiro," Hendean said deferentially, "will you need me anymore tonight?"

Spiro shook his head. "Of course not, Leon. I'm going to get a little more drunk, check a party or two, and retire early. It’s been a long day."

"Okay. Thanks. Do you want a wake-up call or anything? Room service breakfast?”

"God, no!" Spiro shuddered dramatically. "I have a panel at eleven, I think. I’ll be there, don’t worry."

The two men conversed quietly, and Wanda looked away, toward the lobby door. Bored was absolutely the right word. Spiro had invited himself to her table, and she’d been too distracted to discourage him. By the time she realized what a monumental bore he was, news of the latest murder was on the large-screen TV down by the bar, and she didn't want to move, didn't want to miss a thing.

It was easy to split her attention between the news and the writer-, all Spiro required was a nod and smile now and then—his ego took care of the rest.

"My dear?’’

She blinked, smiling automatically as she rubbed one arm against the persistent chili. Leon was gone, and Spiro had changed. His dark eyes were bright, his posture more relaxed, and she groaned silently when he damn near winked as he suggested that they retire to his room with a few of his close friends. A private party. Intelligent conversation. Wit and repartee. Surely, he said, she would find that more stimulating than sitting alone in a bar.

He leaned closer, and she leaned away without thinking.

He’s on something, she thought then. His eyes, the way he tilted his head, the way his tongue touched his lips, not really moistening them.

Without reason, he made her nervous.

And when he repeated the invitation, all she could think of was, come into my parlor said the spider to the fly.

There was no telling how much time had passed before the pain subsided.

He breathed with open mouth, tasting the salt from tears and sweat, blinking in the dark, trying to see.

"Damn.”

It was as if someone had stabbed him with an ice pick between his shoulder blades. And kept it there, every so often pushing it in a little.

He tried to reach the spot with one hand, then both, but all he succeeded in doing was push his face deeper into the pillow, and threaten a cramp in his legs. When he tried to get up onto his forearms and knees, the pain shoved him back again.

"Jo," he whispered.

No one answered.

Blanchard set the empty tumbler on the night table and pushed himself out the chair.

He couldn't sit here any longer.

He switched on the television in case there was any late news he needed to know, and went into the bathroom. Once his vision adjusted to the overhead light, he opened the kit and checked himself in the mirror.

It had occurred to him that maybe Turpin didn't have to be on Lookout Mountain until dawn. That maybe muddying the waters was exactly what was needed. If for no other reason that to piss Crimmins off.

He grinned.

Time, he decided, to do his job.

So he steadied himself, reached up, and began to take off his face.

Spiro was visibly disappointed when she declined his invitation, but he was nevertheless gracious about it. A murmured apology for taking up so much of her time, a slightly drunken bow, and he was gone, immediately latched onto by a handful of younger people, who followed him chattering out of the room.

Wanda stared at her glass, only vaguely aware that he had left.

There was a quiver to her left hand.

Her right gripped the stem lightly with the pads of her fingers.

The chill had begun to fade, but there was no mistaking it. None.

She had never pretended to be anything else than what she was—a paid assassin whose credentials were inarguable, and whose loyalty could be counted on. She had few skills in diplomacy, fewer in politics, and paid no attention to whatever subtleties Crimmins tried to attach to her job.

She didn't much care.

She killed. Simple as that.

Like this job. A last-minute thing, a phone call in the middle of the night that had rousted her from bed so she could listen to Crimmins vent his rage and demand retribution for damn near an hour. When she had finally calmed him down, he told her what he wanted.

Nothing fancy, nothing cute.

Just make damn sure Miles Blanchard didn’t leave Chattanooga alive.

She was surprised, but she didn't ask questions. Blanchard was a walking ego trip, and from the first time they had met, she had had a feeling Crimmins and his people weren't going to carry him forever.

She hadn't counted on this, however; she hadn’t counted on being able to locate a rogue without half trying.

it almost made her laugh aloud; instead, she gripped the stem more tightly.

Blanchard, the son of a bitch, had once laughingly called her a Seer because of her hunches, most of which were right when it came to hunting the Garou. She didn't really believe it, mainly because she had never been able to summon the skill—if that’s what it was—at will. Didn’t believe, that is, until it happened. Even then she didn’t waste time trying to figure it out.

it happened.

It was right.

Almost always, someone died.

She felt the chill deepen briefly, bone-deep and dry, before it faded completely, and knew it wasn’t from the weather outside.

Once she realized that, she realized something else—that she actually might know who it was.

All right, he thought, accepting momentary defeat; all right, it's all right.

He lay on his stomach, arms at his sides, and stared blindly toward the sitting room. Movement brought the pain, so he didn't move. All he had to do was wait. Sooner or later, )o would be back. He suspected with a smile she wasn’t being terribly effective out there tonight, not after what she had seen happen to him, and she would take the first opportunity to get away.

When she did, when she returned, he would have her check his back, to find what had to be a sliver of silver still lodged there, and get it out somehow. It was the only explanation. Nothing else would cause him this much agony.

All he had to do was wait.

Which he did until he remembered that he'd latched and bolted the door. Even if she came back, she wouldn't be able to get in.

All right, then, he thought, you have no choice.

He moved, and cried out softly, and moved, and tasted the bile, and finally collapsed back onto the bed, sweating through the chills that stiffened his muscles.

All he had to do now was wait.

There was nothing else he could do.

He was dying.

Wanda emptied her glass in a single, long swallow, and declined the waitress’ offer of a refill. The restaurant/bar was empty save for a couple in a booth midway along. There was basketball on the television. A check proved the lobby was deserted.

She leaned back and pulled the ivory wand from her pocket, keeping it below the table's edge. Pressing a hidden button snapped out a blade made of silver, serrated and barbed. She lay it across one palm, then drew it back and forth as if sharpening it on her skin.

The big man or the writer?

One of them was Garou

Annoyed with herself now for not recognizing it sooner, she folded the blade back into the ivory, snapped it out, folded it in, over and over, while she sorted the possibilities and the options.

Ten minutes later the weapon was back in her pocket, and she was on her feet.

Realistically, there were no options, at least not for tonight. The argument with Blanchard had sent her to the bar, to the wine, and her reflexes weren't nearly as sharp as they ought to be. Her right hand touched the back of her head absently, and she hissed silently when she felt the small bump hitting the wall had caused. Even if Blanchard hadn’t been her primary objective, that shove would have made him so, no matter what Crimmins thought.

Now she had two targets.

The payment wouldn’t increase, but that was all right.

From all she had gathered, Blanchard, when he had to, killed coldly, without emotion.

Wanda, when it happened, made sure it was fun.

She made her way to the exit, touching booths and chairs as she walked to keep her balance grounded. The lights were bright, the noise outside loud, and she hoped she could make it back to the room without falling over. Once there, and once sleep had gotten rid of the effects of the wine, she would figure out when and where the best times would be.

It didn't take that long.

She spotted an easel set between the elevator doors, holding a placard announcing the next day's big event at the convention: an evening-long masquerade that would culminate in a huge party in the ballroom upstairs.

She grinned, and turned to a man waiting beside her, black hair, skin-tight jump suit, enough rhinestones and bangles to blind the blind. Pointy ears. "Who are you supposed to be?" she asked, wideeyed, Southern belle.

The man smiled shyly. "Vulcan Elvis.”

Oh my God, she thought, this is gonna be a snap.

In the last hour before dawn, a slow wind rising outside the window, Richard opened his eyes and smelled the blood. His blood.

1

She was gliding.

The wind held her above the mountain, cried in her ears, made her eyes water. It was terrifying, and it was great, and she couldn’t stop herself from yelling aloud.

She was gliding.

Below was mostly brown and tan, with smudges of green where the pines muscled in. Winks and flares of light from reflections off glass, off the roofs of cars, off the river that tucked the city into its bend.

She was flying.

Listening to the wind and to the flutter of the airfoil and to the creak of the frame and to the groan of her arms as they steered her slowly, then rapidly down the side of the mountain.

Up here she had no troubles; up here the only shooting she did was along a current that wanted to take her away. No place special.

lust.. . away.

The problem was down there.

In the trees she could see something pacing her, something large and black, and she knew it wasn't a bear and she knew it wasn't a panther and she knew that the lieutenant's face had no business being at her right shoulder.

“Hey!" he called. "Hey, Minster!"

Go away, she thought; damn it, I'm flying.

He grabbed her shoulder and shook it gently.

Jesus, she nearly yelled; are you trying to kill me?

"Hey." Gently now. "Hey, Joanne."

She blinked, blinked again, and she was in the passenger seat of her car, no longer flying, grounded in front of the Chestnut Street bus station. Rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, she swung her legs around when he opened the door.

She tried to focus on her watch, shivering so hard her teeth almost chattered. "Damn. What time is it?"

He squinted at the sky. "If it weren't for the clouds, it'd be a bit past dawn. Come on, wake up."

It came back to her in wisps: a call, another killing, this time a washed-out hooker named Nina Sue Losi, a regular around here, discovered by a half-stoned friend at the back of the narrow parking lot between the station and the hotel next door. Millson had grabbed Joanne and a few others, and they'd made a screaming convoy into the city. Too late, as usual, but not too late to see the slices the killer had taken out of the woman before he had dumped her.

No one had seen a thing.

"Hey."

"I'm awake, I’m awake. Jeez, Lieutenant, gimmie a break."

He grinned, wiped a gloved hand under his nose, and straightened. "No sense sticking around. I got the boys on it now.”

She nodded.

More wisps: it hadn't taken them long to see that this wasn’t the Task Force beast. Although the

wounds were similar, there hadn't been anything missing. Nina Sue was all there. What was left of her, that is, sprawled in all her blood.

Once Millson understood that, he called in the regular Homicide crew, asking her to wait in the car until they arrived.

She scratched vigorously through her hair, eased out of the car, and stretched. The wind had died down, but the clouds remained. She sniffed the sharp air and cursed—there'd be snow before long. Just what they needed. Hell, for this kind of weather she might as well be living in Chicago.

Crime ribbons rippled; lights flashed; a patrolman stood on the pavement, keeping a crowd of hotel guests away from the area. A TV van parked nose-in a few feet away, a weary reporter standing with a mike in a wash of vivid light.

Joanne yawned so hard her jaw popped, and Millson laughed.

"Go away," he told her with mock severity. "Sleep in a real bed for a couple of hours for a change, be back at the office by noon." He gestured toward the street. "The others are already gone.” He took a step away and turned. "Forget the office. Be sure that Fed hasn't died while we were playing first. Then come in."

"But—”

"Joanne," he said, exhaustion making his voice hoarse and his face haggard, "we didn’t find anything out there, and we sure ain’t gonna do it walking around like zombies."

He turned his back, and she decided not to argue A muttered "thanks," and she slipped back inside, closed the door, and squirmed across the seat behind the wheel. The car was frigid, the windshield already beginning to fog over, and it took three tries before the engine fired.

A real bed sounded real good about now, but she couldn’t help thinking about Richard. That blood. She rubbed her eyes again, slapped herself gently on her cheeks, and decided it wouldn't hurt to do what the lieutenant had asked. The Read House was only a few blocks away. A finger touched her jacket's breast pocket, making sure she still had the room key. A look in, that’s all. Get him something if he needed it.

That all? she asked sarcastically as she pulled away from the curb; you sure that's the only reason?

The streets were still, only a few cars moving, no one on the sidewalks at all. She pulled into the parking entrance, straight into an area marked off by orange traffic cones, directly in front of the entrance.

"Hey," the attendant called. "Hey, lady, that’s reserved. You can’t—"

"Oh, yes, I can," she answered brightly, holding up her badge. "Thanks,” and she was inside before he could say another word.

The building was eerily quiet.

A coatless bellman vacuumed the lobby carpet. There were no clerks behind the counter. A teenager in a fatigue jacket slumped in one of the couches, reading a paperback book.

Joanne held her jacket closed with one hand, feeling a slight chill that didn't leave her until the elevator let her off on the third floor.

Silence, still.

Despite the carpeting, it seemed as if her footfalls echoed.

When she stood in front of Turpin's door, key card in her hand, she hesitated. Yes, he was hurt; no, she wasn't his nursemaid. Yes, he was a grown man; no, she had a murderer to catch, and baby-sitting wasn't part of the investigation.

Yes; no.

The faint ring of the elevator bell made her jump and look guiltily around.

Damn it, she thought. She inserted the card and entered the room quickly, closing the door while she waited for her vision to adjust to the gloom.

He was still in bed, but the covers had somehow landed down around his ankles, and she could see a dark stain in the middle of his back.

He stirred, and groaned.

Oh my God, she thought, and hurried around the bed, looked down, and gasped aloud.

"|o?”

Blood on his back, some of it dried to a crust, some of it fresh.

"Jo?"

"Yes, it’s me." She knelt beside him, a hand hovering over the wound. "1 thought you were . . . you said . .

With great effort he turned his face on the pillow, and she swallowed heavily. His face was drawn, old, eyes retreating deep into their sockets, cheeks gouged with hollows.

He managed a smile. "You came."

"Lieutenant's orders."

His lips quivered. "1 need help.”

"1 can see that. I'll call the ambulance."

"No!" He tried to reach for her arm, but she could see the agony that stopped him. "My ... my back," he said weakly. "In my back."

She could see nothing when she looked, and hoped her fear wasn’t evident as she yanked open the drapes by the headboard, then turned on all the lights, discarding her coat as she did. The bathroom door was wide open; she switched on that light as well, soaked a face cloth in cold water, and knelt by the bed again.

"It’s going to hurt,” he said, lips pulled taut over his teeth. “Don’t stop.”

As quickly and tenderly as she could, she cleaned the blood from his back, circling around a small black smudge between his shoulder blades. He was rigid, and she was angry for not listening to herself, for not fetching a doctor, for not resisting the plea in his voice, however weak it may be.

"What... what do you see?”

She leaned close, damning the inadequate light, tilting her head until . . . "It . . . damn, Richard, it looks like some kind of splinter. A big one."

“Get it out."

Trembling and unsure, she tried to pinch the slippery protrusion between her fingers, but they couldn't do it, and his muffled cry rocked her back on her heels. She flapped her hands helplessly. "I cant."

"The knife."

“What?”

"You have that knife?”

None of it made sense. What the hell did he want with her knife? Dig that thing out? She fumbled in her pockets until she brought it out, stared at it stupidly until, with a silly grin, she remembered the tweezers.

“If you have to dig,” he said weakly, "do it."

"Richard, I am not going to—"

He did grab her arm then, and yanked her off-balance until their noses nearly touched. "I'm dying, )o. It’s not just a splinter. It's killing me. For Christ's sake, if you have to, dig the damn thing out."

His eyes closed before she could react, his hand releasing her, his arm flopping over the edge of the mattress.

He's crazy, she thought; hell, I'm crazy.

Blood rose in droplets around the splinter.

When she touched his shoulder, it was cold; when she touched his brow, it was clammy; and it took a few seconds before she could see him breathing.

Poison, she realized; that thing is poisoned.

She rinsed the face cloth, grabbed a hand towel, and took a number of deep breaths to steady herself.

Crazy.

The tweezers were tiny, holding them was awkward, and she had to squint to see the end of the splinter.

She whispered, "Okay, here we go," and settled the tweezers as far down the splinter’s shaft as she could without actually pinching it. But as soon she did it, he bucked, startling her and throwing her backward.

"lesus!"

Blood in droplets, flowing freely.

A vague darkening of the rest of his skin.

Aw, lesus, she thought, pushed her hair back, and tried again, this time pressing the heel of her left hand against his spine.

When the tweezers pinched, he bucked again, but she was ready and held him down while she pulled sharply, feeling the splinter give but not come free. She cursed, dried her palms on her jeans, and tried again. Again there was movement, yet still she couldn't work it loose.

Please, she thought; please, don’t make me dig for it, God, 1 don’t want to do that.

The third attempt failed when she couldn't stop her hand from trembling.

Richard sighed, a long bubbling sound that made her close her eyes until it stopped.

You shot a kid, you can’t pull out a goddamn splinter?

This is different.

"One more time," she said, "and then I'm getting a doctor, I don't care what you say."

He didn't answer, and she came close to panic, trying to find a pulse in his neck, nearly sagging in relief when she did, and nearly giving up, the hell with him, this was all just too damn weird.

Her hand steadied.

She pressed down on his spine, just below the splinter.

She held her breath, pinched the tweezers, and this time didn't try to yank it, just pull it, pausing when she felt the grip slipping, ignoring the flesh rippling beneath her, staring only at the blood and the splinter and seeing nothing but the tweezers as they gripped and pulled, so slowly she wanted to scream.

"Come on." She glared at it. "Come on, you stupid ... son of a ... bitch!"

So intent on the task was she, that when the splinter slid out of Richard's back, she didn’t realize she had it until she saw the empty hole, much wider than it should be, welling with fresh blood. Then she stared at the tweezers, blinking, grinning, the grin fading when she saw the splinter's length.

Not a splinter, she thought; damn, that's no splinter.

It was a good three inches long, and when she held it close to her face, she knew it wasn't wood.

"Richard?"

He didn’t move.

She swabbed his back with the cloth.

"Richard?"

His body shuddered violently.

“That's it.” She pushed shakily to her feet. "That's it.

I'm getting—’’ "No."

She almost didn't hear him

"No."    '

Her mouth opened, closed, and she stomped into the bathroom, threw the cloth into the basin, and took only a second to stare at the bloody towels lying in a heap in the corner, before she looked in the mirror. "You are an idiot," she told her reflection.

"lo."

She turned.

His eyes were open, mouth parted in a crooked smile.

Green eyes.

Green fire.

"Stay,” he asked, and the Green fire vanished.

She said nothing. Carefully she placed the splinter, blade, spike, whatever the hell it was, on a narrow shelf beneath the mirror, rinsed the cloth, and took it back into the bedroom.

There she washed his back again, felt his brow, and it was warm,

Then she looked at the place where the splinter had been.

"Oh."

The hole was gone.

lust before noon, the snow began to fall.

Small flakes mixed with large, not enough wind to make them all dance.

The city was convinced that it wouldn't last long. It seldom did. When it snowed.

Richard woke with a start, a loud grunt, and sat up. And tensed when he remembered the fire in his back. But it was gone, and he relaxed, tempted to slump back and sleep a little more.

"Richard, you okay?"

He looked to his right. Joanne stood nervously in the center of the other room, looking small in the gray light that came through the window. "Yes,” he said at last. "Thanks to you, yes.”

He could smell the fear, and the undirected anger.

“You owe me," she told him, trying to be firm. "You promised me an explanation." She shook her head. "You owe me big time. Now."

He didn’t bother to argue; she was right. He flung the covers aside and, ignoring his nakedness, strode to the armoire to fetch a clean pair of jeans from the top drawer. As he pulled them on, he debated how much to say, how much she could receive before she couldn't take anymore. He pulled up the zipper, fixed the brass button, and used his hands to comb back his hair.

"Talk to me," she said, just shy of imploring. "Please.” An impatient gesture toward the telephone. “I have to be at headquarters soon.”

He moved to the archway, watching as she put the coffee table between them. Doing his best not to smile, he pointed at the couch. "Sit down, Jo, please. There's a story I have to tell you."

He came out of the bathroom with his old face back on. The bloody clothes he had worn were already resting at the bottom of the river, and the hot shower had taken care of the rest. He didn't think the cops would be fooled for very long, but it would make Turpin wonder, maybe confuse him a little.

The telephone rang.

He glared at it, ignored it, and when it stopped, he rubbed his stomach and decided it was time to eat.

The telephone rang.

He knew who it was. What surprised him was how suddenly nervous he was. All that brave talk yesterday, all that anger in California—bluster, nothing but bluster.

If I don't answer, he'll get Strand to find out what's the matter. If not her, then someone else. Lots of them.

The Man of a Thousand Faces would have nowhere to hide.

He grabbed the scrambler from the closet, hooked it up, and waited.

When the telephone rang again, he cleared his throat and lifted the receiver.

“Mr. Blanchard."

Carefully neutral, a hint of his old arrogance: "Yes."

"Are we rested now, Mr. Blanchard? Are we more levelheaded today?"

He took a chance: “1 don't know, sir. Are we?”

The pause gave him time to sit on the bed, light a cigarette, stare at the snow slapping wetly against his window.

"There are pressures, Mr. Blanchard, most of which you'll never understand, if you're lucky."

It was as close to an apology as he would ever get. He didn’t push it, nor did he gloat. "And on this end, too, sir. Absolutely."

Another pause until: "There's been a slight alteration in the overall campaign."

"I just want to know—you didn't hypnotize me or something like that, right?”

"No.”

"I mean, I saw what happened to you, right? It wasn’t the lights or anything. Up there." She pointed at the window over her shoulder. "And here. This morning. I saw it. I saw the blood.”

"Yes.”

She shook her head. "Impossible. It's a trick.”

He pulled the coffee-table back, giving him enough room to sit on its edge without getting too close. He held out a hand. “Let me have the knife.”

"Sure.” She reached into her jeans and pulled it out.

He took it without comment, opened a blade, and stared at her while he draw a line down his forearm.

"iesus Christ!"

“Watch," he said. “Watch."

"Alteration?"

"Addition, rather."

"1 don't get it.” He was feeling much better. Crimmins sounded like his old pompous-ass self. "What are you talking about?"

"The Strider, Mr. Blanchard."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. 1 thought you wanted to wait until tomorrow, just before ! left."

"That's not the alteration. Not all of it."

Blanchard scowled. This whole thing was getting too bizarre. First, he's threatened if he doesn't take care of Turpin and the rogue, then he's screamed at, now he’s told the rules are being changed. Whatever the old fart was up to, Blanchard wished he’d stop playing games and for change be straight with him.

"Are you in position?"

Blanchard nodded. "Yes, sir. lust name the time.”

"Tonight.”

He shrugged. "No sweat. That it?”

"Not quite, Mr. Blanchard. Not quite.”

Richard wanted to take her hand and stroke it, stroke her cheek, stroke her brow. He wanted to take the contusion and the fear from her eyes and from the way her lips struggled not to tremble.

He couldn’t.

"It's not a trick, is it,” she said, unable to take her gaze from the unblemished arm, or from the blood that had dripped into the handkerchief he had held under the cut.

He shifted.

She shied away to the corner of the couch.

"No. Not a trick.”

A hand rose and fell helplessly in her lap, and she looked at the ceiling, out the window, at the ceiling

again. She seemed to have a hard time breathing, a hard time focusing. "You going to tell me you're one of those cyborg things? Androids? You know, people that are part machine?"

"No.” He smiled. “Nothing like that.”

"But—"

"The story," he reminded her. "Let me tell you a story."

She pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms around her shins. "1 don't think 1 want to hear it."

"It's too late, Jo. i’m really sorry, but it's too late. You have to know."

"Look,” Blanchard said, feeling his temper slip again, "you want me to take care of Turpin, I can do that. You want me to do it tonight, 1 can do that, too. What the hell else is there? Sir. The rogue?"

"No. Forget it."

"Then what? Strand?"

“Partly."

He had a hard time not yelling. "Partly what?"

"The Veil, Mr. Blanchard."

"Garou," Richard said. And once it was said, he felt both relieved and fearful. There was only one way to prove the story he would tell, and if it failed, he didn’t want to think about what he would have to do.

"Garou?" Jo pushed a nervous hand back through her hair. "I've heard of that. Loup-garou, right? Louisiana? Werewolves or something.” She laughed, stopped when he didn't join her. "Oh sure. Right. Lord, how many kinds of fool do you take me for, Turpin?"

"None at all, dahlin'," he said, gently mocking her accent. He stood and returned to the bedroom, searching for the clothes he had worn last night. He found them in the bathroom, in a pile with the bloody towels. He picked up the jeans and took out the cloth sack. Pressed it to his forehead. Inhaled slowly.

When he returned to the sitting room, he swung a chair away from the table, sat, and untied the emerald thread that held the sack closed. He spread it open on the coffee table, and took out the black figure. Held it up between two fingers.

“I know that thing," she said, leaning forward, squinting, interested in spite of herself.

"Anubis."

“Yeah. Right. Egyptian god."

He nodded.

Sarcastically: "That's you?"

He straightened slowly, rose slowly, and moved until the table was between them. "I don’t have much time. No time at all."

"Richard, are you all right? I mean, that was a hell of a fall you took."

She had begun her retreat; he couldn't wait any longer.

"Egypt," he told her. "My people, my tribe, came out of Egypt."

Blanchard rolled his eyes, looked heavenward for a large dose of patience. "Okay, the Veil. What about it?"

"It's the way you kill Turpin, Mr. Blanchard.”