The Nash shot forward, but too slowly for Escott. He came out with another curse and I joined him, hardly knowing why. Past his head I glimpsed the black blur of a car rushing up on us. Yellow-white flashes from its open windows raked my eyes. There was noise: stuttering explosions coming so fast that they merged into a single horrifying roar that deafened all thought, stifled all movement.
Escott kept saying damn over and over again-somehow I could still hear him-as he fought to dredge more speed from the Nash. He clawed at the wheel and cut a right so hard that I would have tumbled into him except for a timely grab at the dashboard. The explosions stopped only briefly, then resumed as the gunman came even with us once more. Huge pockmarks clattered across the windows.
My own throat went tight and my leg muscles strained against one another, trying to run where running was not possible. I had to trust Escott to get us out and he had to trust his car. Its big engine pulled us ahead a bare two yards and the shooting abruptly ceased for a few heavenly seconds, started, then stopped again.
Escott swerved to the left; I grabbed the top of the seat so hard that the covering ripped. We tapped something and bounced away in reaction, then hit it again more decisively. The Nash shuddered, but kept plowing forward at top speed until Escott hauled us to the right and we emerged from a narrow street to a larger one on two shrieking wheels. When the other two landed heavily on the pavement, I was nearly blasted into the backseat by the sudden acceleration.
Through the rear window I glimpsed the other car sideswipe a lamppost and not recover from the impact. It lurched and faltered, men swung out of sight as we took another quick turn, running like hell through a stop signal and ignoring the horn blasts of an outraged trucker. He missed broadsiding us by a cat's whisker.
Escott's teeth were showing and his eyes were wild as they darted from the rearview mirror to the front, to the sides, trying to cover everything at once as we tore along the early-morning streets. He wasn't interested in using the brakes just yet. For that, he had my wholehearted support.
After the second red light he began to slow down to something like a normal speed. I pried my hands loose and watched them shake-hell, I was shaking all over after that-and asked if he was okay. He came out with one of those brief, one-syllable laughs that had nothing to do with his sense of humor.
"Did you know them?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. "The driver was that rat-faced fellow who took my Webley last night."
Chaven. I groaned inside. "Kyler thinks I bumped off the men he sent after me."
"That would be a logical conclusion for him to draw. It appears that Miss Paco has not taken the opportunity to inform him of his error."
"Goddammit, Charles, it came that close to killing you!"
"Yes," he agreed, and that's when I noticed the tremor in his hands as they worked the wheel and gears. His knuckles were white, the tendons taut. I faced around front and pretended not to notice. He was handling his fear in his own way and didn't need me to point out the obvious.
"I should never have let myself get sidetracked," I muttered.
"As if they gave you much choice in the matter. If you wish to put the blame for this incident upon anyone, let it be Kyler."
"Incident?" But I canned the rest of it since he was right. Except for having all but the shit scared out of us, we were unharmed. If he wanted to reduce an attempted double murder down to the level of an "incident" that was his business.
Mine, I knew, was to eliminate all possibility of it happening again. Bobbi, Escott, and even Gordy were far more valuable to me than bug-house bait like Kyler.
Better him and his whole organization than my only real friends.
An unpleasant but necessary job.
A shudder crawled up my spine at that thought. The last time it had brushed through my brain, I'd been out of control. To kill the way I had killed, you had to go crazy for a while. My main fear was that once there, I might not be able to find my way back.
"The sun will be up soon," Escott reminded me. "We cannot risk returning to the club."
"And home and your office are out," I concluded. "We have to find a bolt hole somewhere in this town that Kyler won't look into."
"Or even suspect. I think that might be arranged."
"Can you arrange it before sunrise? If I have to I can hide out in the trunk of the car for the day, but..."
"Yes, I'll see what I can do," he promised, and we picked up speed again.
Then he stared into the mirror and said, "Oh, bloody hell."
"What?" I asked, looking out the back window with a fresh dose of alarm. If a simple "damn" was his reaction to a machine gun hit, "bloody hell" could only mean an earthquake was sneaking up on us.
Not quite, as it turned out. The car closing in had flashing roof lights and a siren.
"Can we lose him?" I asked, hoping he'd say yes.
Escott shook his head. "He's in a radio car. If we run, he'll only call in others to track us down. Perhaps we can reason with him."
Translated: I would be the one to "reason" with him. Wonderful. "You sure about that? I wasn't all that good at debate in school."
"My dear fellow, this night has been quite busy enough for both of us. I, for one, have no wish to top things off by collecting a traffic citation."
"Okay, okay." This was only his way of saying that I owed him one.
Escott came to a gradual stop by a streetlight and gave the motor a rest. The cop pulled up behind us and got out cautiously, hand on his gun. Escott tried to roll down his window, but something was wrong with the mechanism. He gave up and opened the door instead, which made a terrible creaking, cracking noise that echoed off the nearby buildings. It almost sounded like a gunshot and startled all of us for a moment. Escort remained seated, doing a fair imitation of polite innocence. The cop looked him over carefully, and told him to come out. Escort complied.
"Is there a problem, officer?" he asked, using his blandest tone and most formal accent.
"Your license and registration," he ordered. They attended to that ritual, then I was ordered out of the car to take my turn. "You two wanna tell me what happened here?" He gestured at the car.
Escort followed the gesture, all ready with a distracting story so I could move in for the dirty work, but he hauled up short. It was one of the few times in our association that I had ever seen him totally speechless. He couldn't have not known that the car would be a mess, but there's a wide difference between knowing in your mind and seeing with your eyes.
"Oh, bloody hell," he repeated, full of sincere anguish and anger.
The thick windows on his side were nearly opaque with chips and cracks where the bullets had struck; many of them were exactly level where his head had been. A fresh pattern of dimples, dents, and a long ugly scrape ran along the door panels. The paint job was a disaster, but the heavy steel glinting through it was still good for a few more miles and then some. About the only difference between his armored Nash and a tank were the headlights, wheels, and lack of mounted guns.
And if Charles Escott loved anything, he loved his car. This had left him stunned as few things would.
"Well?" The cop raised his voice to penetrate Escort's shock. No reaction.
The cop then looked to me for an answer. I had enough light to work with; I smiled and got his undivided attention.
Blithely unaware that he'd ever stopped, the cop drove away. We wasted no time taking another direction until Escott spotted an open gas station and parked a little past it. He said something about a phone call and walked back to place it. I got out as well to work some of the stiffness from my tense muscles. I'd only given the cop straight inarguable suggestions-better than getting caught in the trap of deep hypnosis-but it was still disturbing for me. Walking around the car a few times and letting the icy air clean out my lungs helped ease things until Escott's return.
He walked back quickly enough and I was glad to get going again. My imagination was working too well visualizing what could happen if we didn't find a hole to pull in after us.
"I called the club and let Gordy know we wouldn't be back tonight," he said.
"You told him about the hit?"
"Yes, though he was not especially surprised. That machine gun made a devil of a row; they had no trouble hearing it."
"What about Bobbi? Is she all right?"
"Miss Smythe is still sleeping soundly. No doubt her interior room muffled most of the noise."
Between that, her club performance, and our lovemaking, it'd take more than a greeting card from a Thompson to wake her up. It was okay by me; I'd rather have her sleeping through the storm than worrying about us.
"Gordy and his men will remain on guard today. With this shift in the situation from a quiet kidnapping to an outright attack, he deems it to be the safest course of action. This presumes that you still mean to go through with-"
"I will," I said shortly, interrupting before he could put it into words and bring it that much closer to being a reality. He caught the hint and dropped the subject without further comment.
"Now, as for our own shelter, I've set something up, but we must hurry.
You're running out of time."
He was right about that. The sky was starting to lighten. Invisible to Escort, perhaps, but very noticeable to me.
We headed south and kept going. I was tempted to ask him where, but he was concentrating on street signs and it was in my own interest not to disturb him. He took us into a stark section of the city that was full of the kind of shadows that could out-wrestle even the noonday sun. I began to get my own general idea of what he'd planned, and as we traveled more deeply into the area, I breathed a sigh of relief.
He slowed as we approached a block full of aggressively drab buildings that only a bulldozer could have improved. Some broken windows were boarded up, others had been left to gape helplessly at the deserted street. We coasted to a silent stop and Escott flashed the headlights once, frowning with tension.
"There." I pointed. "Is that it?"
Halfway down, the double doors to a decrepit and outwardly abandoned garage swung open, guided by two vague figures wearing overalls. One turned and waved us forward. Escott worked the gears and we quickly slipped into a cramped and greasy repair bay. Even as he cut the motor and lights, the tall doors closed, shutting us into a pitch black limbo.
"This is it," he confirmed in the sudden quiet.
A flashlight came out of nowhere and blinded me as the man holding it checked first my face, then Escott's. We must have passed because it swept down to the stained floor and we were told to get out. Escott did so without hesitation and I copied him. I didn't know the man's voice, but it sounded reasonably polite, and no one seemed to be pointing anything lethal in our direction.
We followed the flashlight beam through several tool-littered workrooms and a place that might have served as an office. It connected with a short bare hall that led directly to an outside door. Waiting in the narrow alley beyond was a newer version of the Nash we'd just left, minus the bullet scars. The back door opened for us and we piled in, leaving our escorts behind.
Two men were in the front seat; the tall one on the passenger side turned around and extended his hand.
"Charles, how the hell are you?" asked a rich voice, an actor's trained voice that confirmed my earlier guess about Escott's arrangements.
Escott's white hand was engulfed in Shoe Coldfield's black one for several seconds. "Better, now that you're here, my friend. Thank you for coming."
"Wouldn't have missed it. How're you doing, Fleming?"
I couldn't help but grin as we shook hands in turn. "Just fine."
"Not from what I hear. Isham, get this buggy moving," he told the driver. The big heavy car did not roll from the alley so much as sail, like a graceful ship on a smooth sea. We glided down the streets, hardly making a sound.
I figured Escott to be the likely source of Coldfield's news. "What have you heard?"
"That Vaughn Kyler's looking to turn both of you into fish food the first chance he gets. Talk about grabbing a tiger by the tail. How did you manage to catch on to this one?" he asked Escott.
"It wasn't all that easy..." he began, and gave Coldfield a summary of most of the fun and games.
Coldfield rubbed a thumbnail against the carefully trimmed beard edging his jaw. "Shit. In a way this is almost my doing. If I hadn't recommended you to Griff-"
"Someone else with fewer advantages working for them would undoubtedly be feeding the aforementioned fish."
"Let's hope they keep going hungry. And now Angela Paco mixed herself into things, huh? I knew old Frankie had a daughter, but I didn't know she was looking to take over the family business. Sounds like she's making a good job of it, too."
"If you were unaware of that, then it's unlikely for Kyler to suspect her involvement, hence his misdirected attack on us."
"That's what it looks like. You sure you're okay, both of you?"
Escott nodded. "We're only a trifle shaken, but my poor car is in fearful need of repair."
Coldfield laughed briefly. "As long as it did the job. That thing's the best investment you ever made and I'm glad I talked you into getting it."
"As am I," Escott agreed with humble sincerity. "Are we going to the Shoebox?" he asked, referring to Coldfield's nightclub in the heart of Chicago's
"Bronze Belt."
"Not private enough. Kyler's going to have everyone but mediums working for him to find out what happened to you two, but I've got a spot that should be all right."
"But will you be safe as well?"
"Safe as I ever am," he replied. I got the impression that Escott wasn't all that reassured. "How long you need it for?"
"For the day at least," I said. "I don't want to make any moves until nightfall."
"And then what are you planning?"
My voice was thick. "Then I'll take care of Kyler."
A lot of obvious questions crossed Coldfield's face, but never came out. He glanced at Escott, who simply nodded.
Even through the extra thick windows, I could sense the oncoming light. I hoped that our destination was close by or
Escott would have an apparent corpse on his hands to explain away when the sun came up.
We had all of five minutes to spare when the driver brought us to a gentle stop in another alley, next to another anonymous door. Coldfield got out first to deal with the lock, then hustled us inside. I reveled in the soothing darkness there, but still felt the approach of day creeping into my bones.
Coldfield led us upstairs. The place was old and could have been designed for anything: an office, a hotel, or apartments of some sort. Perhaps he used it for all three at one time or another, but not recently. The air was cold and stale and our shoes left revealing tracks in forgotten grit on the steps. And it was quiet. I listened hard when we paused on the landing and heard no one and nothing else moving within the building.
Our host noticed and approved of my caution. "I tell you two, the lines between black and white are pretty solid in this town, each on his own side and neither caring much about the other except during elections. I know plenty of people who wouldn't mind seeing you white guys kill each other off and be glad to help things along, so you keep your heads low-and I'm talking about down to the ground. This place is just between us and Isham downstairs and he won't talk, but you don't want to take any chances."
"Words to live by," I said. "What is this place, anyway?"
"A private way station for people in trouble."
He ushered us through the first door on the right and turned on a lamp. We stood in a small, windowless room, containing four ancient folding cots, an oil heater, a pile of dusty magazines, and a lonely old telephone. Though we were out of the wind, it seemed colder in here than in the street. Coldfield lighted the heater right away to start taking the edge off the worst of it.
Always fastidious about himself and his surroundings, Escott favored the stark place with one of his rare smiles. "This is quite an improvement over those rooms we shared at Ludbury."
"Good God, yes," agreed Coldfield.
"Ludbury?" I asked.
"A railroad town in Ontario," he explained. "The noisiest, smelliest, coldest pit we ever had the rotten luck to fall into. The pulp mills were bad enough, but add on the creosote and sulfuric acid plants and you could choke to death if the wind started blowing the wrong way. It was full of workers and miners, every one of them tougher than the next, uglier than most, and itching to prove it come Saturday night."
"What were you doing there?"
"King Lear."
"It went over surprisingly well, as I recall," Escott put in brightly.
"Oh, yeah, they just loved the scene where Cornwall is tearing out Gloucester's eyes. They wanted an encore to that one. Maybe this kind of work is one hell of a lot safer."
"You may be certain of it, old man." Escott warmed his hands in front of the heater, flexing his long fingers. They were no longer shaking. "Given those circumstances, I would think twice about taking up acting again. An audience like that one would have convinced the most rigid Fundamentalist that Darwin had, indeed, some insights about our origins."
Coldfield chuckled, but it faded when he looked at me. "You all right, kid?"
Escott glanced at his watch and correctly interpreted my situation. "Yes, Jack, you must be dreadfully tired after all this. Why don't you have a lie-down?"
"He really should keep moving until this place warms up some more,"
Coldfield advised.
"I'll be fine," I told him, dragging my stiffening legs over to the nearest cot.
Pulling a damp blanket over my shoulders, I stretched out on the old canvas, turning to face the wall. The cot swayed and creaked, but decided to hold my weight. In a few more seconds the whole thing could drop through to the basement with me and I wouldn't notice any of it. The money belt with my earth dug soothingly into my side.
"He's had a busy time... quite exhausted himself," came Escott's voice as I started to drift away from the daylight prison of my inert body. "Probably sleep for hours..."
That's for damn sure, I thought, and then I was gone.
With my condition, bunking down in a strange place is always a risk. The next time my eyes opened, I was relieved to note that the same wall was still a mere foot away from me and that all was quiet.
Escott was on a cot closer to the heater; he looked up from his magazine and nodded to me. Since his breath wasn't hanging in the air anymore, I could assume the room had finally warmed up. I usually know offhand whether any given place is hot or cold, but it takes a while for excesses to become uncomfortable.
"Easy day?" I asked, cautiously sitting up.
"Exceedingly so. I found it to be a welcome respite. Isham came by several hours ago with some sandwiches. I persuaded him to let you sleep. If he should ask if you enjoyed your late lunch, you'll know to say yes."
I spotted the sandwich wrappings, neatly folded, on a stack of old papers.
"How did it taste?"
"A little heavy on the mustard, but otherwise quite nutritious."
"Any news?"
"A Manhattan criminologist has proposed establishing a criminal identification system based on the pattern of blood vessels in the eye. In these days of plastic surgery, it sounds most-"
"I meant here in town."
"Ah." He put away his two-week-old magazine. "Nothing, really. I filled Shoe in on everything, including your remarkable escape from Angela Paco-not to worry, I did not reveal the actual details, only that her people were looking the other way and you seized the opportunity. I also gave Shoe a message to pass on to Gordy and Miss Smythe to the effect that we are well and safe and they are not to worry."
"That's good, but I'll want to call her when I can. Jeez, I could use a bath and a change of clothes. What about you?" I stood and stretched out a few muscles, rubbing my chin. Escott also wore some uncharacteristic stubble, but it didn't seem to bother him. He even looked rested. Our rough surroundings must have suited him.
"Both would be welcome were they obtainable. You'll find a washroom across the hall, but the water is freezing."
And we were fresh out of towels, I discovered after rinsing my face off, but no complaints-not aloud, anyway. We were still moving and kicking and for that I was grateful.
A door creaked open downstairs. Escott and I were in the hall at the same time, both looking and listening. His revolver was ready in his hand, his heart beating a little fast.
"It's me," our visitor called.
Escott sighed in relief, but didn't put the gun away until Coldfield was actually in sight.
He stopped on the landing and raised one hand, palm out. "Hey, I'm on your side."
"Indeed you are. Do come up."
Coldfield carried a covered basket. "Want any supper? Straight from the club kitchen."
The basket was stuffed with the basics of a portable feast, more than enough for all of us; even the coffee was still hot. The no -doubt savory smells only inspired the usual pang of queasiness for me, though, and I had to beg off.
"Still got that bad stomach, huh?" Coldfield asked as he set out food.
"Yeah. Must be slow digestion or something. There was a lot of mustard on those sandwiches."
Escott kept a straight face, but it was a struggle.
Coldfield didn't notice. "I keep tryin' to tell Isham that not everyone likes that much heat, but it never seems to sink in. It's where he was raised. He's from Louisiana, y'know, and that kid's eaten things I wouldn't step on."
Escott nearly choked on his coffee. "This from a man who has partaken of jellied eel?"
"Only because you told me it was really salmon."
"The light was poor."
"Uh-huh."
I was tempted to ask for more details, but it would have to wait for a better time. "Anything going on outside?"
Coldfield shook his head. "Kyler got back to his hotel around two in the morning and stayed there, but his men are still looking for you, so I wouldn't get hopeful. He's got the top floor of the Travis blocked off and nobody, but nobody's getting up there."
"Not even the cleaning staff?" Escott put in.
"You figure."
"And Miss Angela Paco?"
"No one's heard a peep from her. The papers are going crazy playing up last night's shootings and so are the cops. They've got no witnesses and the bodies sure as hell aren't talking."
"What about the prisoner she took?"
"Maybe she's still holding him. If he's the same Vic I know of, he'll be lucky to come out of things with a whole skin. He used to work for her daddy and changed sides when Kyler took over. I can imagine how that's made him real popular with the old crew."
"I'd just like to know what they wanted us for," I said.
"It's bound to be for something lousy, kid. By now every hood in the Midwest knows your name. The best favor you can do yourself is to get out of the area.
Mexico is just peachy this time of year. Both of you can probably use the sun."
Escott and I exchanged openmouthed looks, then broke up. His own laughter was brief and subdued, mine bordered on the lunatic. Coldfield was disgusted.
Escott made a placating gesture.
"My apologies, Shoe. It is an excellent idea, but not really practical for either of us."
"And letting Kyler chop you into fish food is?"
I sobered up fast. "It won't come to that. I'm going to settle things with him tonight."
"How? Kyler's locked in his own private fort with men all over it like ants on a sugar cube. You going to ring the front bell or come down through the chimney?
That's about as far as you'll get before they cut you in two the long way."
"I'll be all right." I think, I silently added.
Escott backed me up. "He knows what he's doing, Shoe. Otherwise, why else would Kyler be taking such elaborate precautions?"
"Elaborate, hell. He's like that all the time. It's how we all survive, and you should know it more than most after what nearly happened to you this morning."
"We both know it," I said. "But I'm handling this one and I will be careful."
"If you want to go that bad, I can't stop you, but I'd like to know what the hell you have in mind."
Not that he could be blamed for his skepticism; in his place I would have felt the same, but I could give him no real answer. Eventually I'd find Kyler, but beyond that point my imagination stopped working. It was a form of self -
protection. I simply did not want to think about what would have to be done until the time came to do it.
He measured me up with a dark expression that had nothing to do with his skin color. "Charles, are you going to tear out there as well to get yourself killed?"
"Not necessary this time, Shoe. Jack should be able to handle things."
"How? What are you not telling me?"
I shrugged. "I can't go into it now and don't want to. I have to get moving, anyway."
Coldfield's frustrated curiosity could have burned a hole right through me, but he kept it under control. Maybe he was thinking of questioning Escott after I'd left.
"You gonna need a ride?"
"Thanks, but I'll find a cab. Safer for all of us. Does that phone work?"
"Yeah."
I crossed over to it and memorized the number. "I'll call when I have any news."
Escott nodded slowly, correctly interpreting what I meant by "news." I tried unsuccessfully to swallow a hard knot of something that had suddenly formed in my throat. A good thing I didn't have to breathe regularly or I might have choked on it.
The time had come to leave. Coldfield led us downstairs and unlocked a different door than the one we'd come in by. I emerged in another alley, buttoning the pea jacket against the wind.
Escott wished me luck. Nobody shook hands; it wouldn't have been appropriate. As I slipped away, he murmured, "Don't underestimate him, Shoe.
He'll be all right."
"Uh-huh. Where do you want to send the flowers?"
I wasn't looking forward to any of it, but the process of actually getting started made it seem like the worst was over. Not exactly true, but I was better at lying to myself than to other people. I wondered how successful Coldfield would be at getting information from Escott.
The cab could wait; I needed a walk to limber up my muscles and clear my brain of clutter. I flushed city-tainted winter air in and out of my lungs like a normal man. It had a harsh taste but I liked it. The knot in my throat began to loosen.
After a mile or so, the character of the neighborhood improved from bedraggled buildings and empty lots decorated with broken glass to small shops and other businesses. Foot traffic was light and my earlier optimism about finding a cab waned. A line waiting at the next corner told me that a bus was on the way. I stood with them, commiserating with an old lady about the weather. The talk didn't last long. I was the wrong color for the place and with my business hanging over my head, I didn't feel much like conversation no matter how banal.
The bus came, we boarded; I didn't know or care about its destination, it was enough to be moving. Pieces of the city glided by one block at a time. People crowded around me, their bits of talk and tired silences passing over my head as though I wasn't there. I stared out the dark glass of a window that gave back everyone else's reflection but my own.
It was already here, waiting, the sweet isolation that had once carried me into the darkness of my own mind. The muscles in my neck tightened for an instant as I began to resist it, and then relaxed just as abruptly. What was the point? I was going to kill a man; better to accept the fact now and get through the job quickly than fight it and have a dangerous internal distraction.
And damned if we didn't drive right past the Travis Hotel just then. The carved stone letters of its name jumped out at me like a dare. I felt a smile twitch to life in the corners of my mouth.
A respectable four-story structure on a regular city street, it gave no outer indication of inner skulduggery. Maybe I was expecting to see sinister guys with black hats and machine guns lounging around the entrances smoking cheap cigars.
They were probably all waiting in the lobby. I got off at the next stop and backtracked.
This required caution; I had to keep my eyes open for Kyler's people, but not look conspicuous. Lost cause. My clothes and stubble were fine for a soup kitchen or a dockside riot, but here they only drew unwelcome attention. I crossed the street so I could view the place from a discreet doorway without offending innocent citizens.
The spot I'd picked out offered some shelter from the wind, but the awkward placement of a streetlight left me a little too visible for comfort. Since the store it led to was closed for the night, I took a chance and vanished, re-forming inside.
The place sold ladies' clothes and the front windows were a busy display of some of their best items. I bent low so that my head would more or less blend in with the phony ones showing off the latest in hats, and studied the hotel opposite.
Undignified, but it was out of the cold and away from immediate sight, and didn't seem to have any rabid guard dogs.
People passed back and forth across my field of view, cars did the same. The place was disappointingly normal. Except... the top-floor windows were all lighted. No exceptions. Kyler might have thought that leaving the lights on would scare away the boogeyman; that, or draw him into a trap. I didn't like the idea, but nothing would be resolved until I made a move. I went out the back of the shop and took the long way around to one of the hotel's service entrances.
Working with Escott had helped me develop something of an instinct for spotting the kind of human predators who would work for Kyler. I looked for them now, anticipating he'd have an army of hoods scattered around the area.
Sometimes they're pretty obvious, but often it's not what you see as much as what you feel, like the way your skin creeps when a bad storm is coming. Right now, I was aware that I could not rely on that instinct. The last few nights had left me so jumpy that I was reading sinister motives off every face up to and including a couple of nuns rustling by to make their bus at the next corner.
The alley running behind the Travis had the usual loading areas and doors for the staff. It was deserted now, which surprised me; I would have expected Kyler to have someone watching his back. Again, they could be waiting inside for trouble to show up.
Invisibility has numerous advantages, but I was having second thoughts about using it now. I could-literally-slip through a door and feel my way around the place. However, there was always the chance of materializing in the wrong spot at the wrong time, giving some bystander heart failure and the hotel a reputation for harboring stray ghosts. No, thanks. On the other hand, I wasn't too crazy about the alternative I'd just thought of, given my fear of heights, but it would be better than wasting time blindly creeping through the halls.
I'd done this sort of thing before, but never for such a height. That knot in my throat, which was a solid symptom of my own fear, returned as I looked for a likely place to start.
The fire escape was promising, but too obvious. If Kyler was expecting me-
or anyone else, for that matter-he'd have men covering it. Instead, I chose to try the east side of the place. The lighting was brighter, but the next building over showed only a blank face, with no inconvenient windows.
Pressing close against the hotel's outer wall, I vanished and moved slowly upward.
Distances can be very deceptive in this form, but I was prepared for that and not too surprised when it seemed to take only a moment to find the first irregularities in the wall marking the ground -floor window. I drifted over the smooth planes of glass and bumped into the next outcrop of brick above the opening. The wind got stronger the higher I went, whipped up by the narrow channels between the city's artificial canyons.
Second-floor window. If my pores had been intact, I might be sweating badly by now, fingers slick and slipping. Did human flies have this problem as they worked their stunts? Concentrate. A gust of wind hit hard just then and was gone, free and careless. I'd read somewhere that the Windy City appellation had more to do with Chicago politics than the weather. From this insecure perch, the writer would have undergone severe revision of that opinion.
Third floor. I was like a snail, sliding on an invisible foot up endless tiers of bricks. Keep going. Hold tight against the persistent tug of wind but don't go through the wall just yet. If I got dragged away I could tumble for miles, unless I panicked and went solid, which would mean a long drop lasting a very short moment. I'd survived some terrible things since my change, but that was one experience I did not want to test.
Fourth floor. The window was shut fast. Didn't matter. I plowed through it and was inside with something solid beneath me once more. Oh God, but I hate heights.
I wanted to re-form for some badly needed orientation, but couldn't chance it just yet. Waiting and listening, I swept slowly through the room, looking for company and finding none. I poured back into reality again, grateful to have a body once more, even if it was shaken and shaking.
The window had led me to a luxurious hotel room. The Travis had not stinted on comfort when it came to the owner and his guests. The bedspread looked like real silk and the carpet was thick and new, its nap still at attention from the last cleaning. Mine were the only footprints on it, magically beginning in the middle of the floor.
Behind the curtains, I noticed that the window was indeed protected by steel shutters, open now as if in invitation. That wasn't right. Kyler wouldn't be stupid enough to leave himself so vulnerable ... not unless he'd unquestioningly swallowed Stoker's novel whole. He might just believe the stuff about vampires being unable to enter a dwelling without an invitation. Escott had-before I set him straight on that and other myths.
I checked the sill, but found no sign or smell of garlic, mustard seeds, or salt.
The place was unnaturally quiet. Some sounds of living seeped up from the other floors, but nothing else, nothing close.
Damnation, I thought as I cautiously poked my head outside the room to check the hall. A carpet with a hypnotic pattern of stylized fans stretched away in both directions. The doors on either side were spaced well apart, indicating sizable suites. I stepped out, taking it slowly, listening for any activity behind them.
Nothing. No talk, no radios playing, not even a toilet flushing. I went through one after another, but the rooms that were supposed to be crowded with Kyler's people were empty.
I should have figured he wouldn't wait around for me to come after him. The odds were strong that he hadn't left any forwarding address, though I'd search just to be certain.
Down the hall in an unexplored room, a phone began to ring. I closed on it, then hauled up short, paranoid for a trap. Better to go carefully than quickly. I vanished.
The bell drew me on like a snagged fish until I was nearly on top of it. I was about to take a turn around the room to search for company when the ringing stopped, interrupted as someone finally answered the thing.