A Chill In The Blood

I didn't drift in a hazy mental fog as when I'd accidentally taken in a dose of morphine. That might have been pleasant. For this I was absolutely ironed flat to the ground, each of my bones weighing tons, the skin and muscle hanging from them dragging even heavier. Movement was impossible, as was thinking. The inertia enveloping me was complete and perfect.



If I could have thought about anything, I might have wished for total unconsciousness. Better not to have this sort of blind helplessness than be even a little aware of it and its attendant terror. But I did have that much left to me, more's the pity, the first feeling to come when we're bora and the last to linger when we die, if we're given enough time in the dying to recognize it.



And with the terror was the stunning cold. I was only sensible of it because of a contrasting band of warmth stubbornly clinging to my midsection. It wouldn't go away. If that was bad or good I couldn't work it out. Couldn't even shiver.



Wind against my face, ruffling my hair, plucking at my clothes. It felt warm, too, compared to the iciness within my stilled flesh.



Hard pavement. Strange that it didn't crumble and collapse under my body's infinite weight.



Sound. Wind curled around my ears, whispering. Hollow clank and rattle as it pushed a tin can along the street. Mournful song as it slipped between the phone wires high above, making them hum in turn.



All this went on and on. No way to tell the time. No real time to tell. No real time.



Nothing and everything at once and forever. The fear and the cold and the wind, no beginning, no ending.



And that one little spot of warmth.



A car came along and screeched to a stop. Voices. Questions. A hand on my brow.



A hand lightly slapping my face.



"Jack? Wake up. Jack?"



"Damn it, Charles, you can't leave this kid alone for five minutes. And who the hell is this mug?"



"Probably that Maxwell person Jack mentioned. How is he?"



"Out for the count. What about-"



"He's out, too. We can presume some misadventure overtook them both after Jack called in. Perhaps Doc got the drop on them, then escaped. I don't see the car anywhere."



"Presume fast then, we gotta get these guys off the sidewalk before someone else comes by."



"Or Doc returns with help. Come on, then."



"No you don't. You're not doing anything with your ribs the way they are. You just hold the door open, I can get 'em in."



So saying, someone hauled me roughly up. He must have been amazingly strong to be able to handle my leaden form. I was lifted and lugged and eased down and pushed into place. Sitting at first, then I heeled right over. Leather upholstery. Softer than the pavement.



Sound of another man being lifted and the car rocked on its springs a little once he was inside. More rocking as they got in, two breathing men on either side of me.



They pulled and pushed me upright, but my body kept wanting to slide sideways and down. Doors slammed shut.



"What's that?" the second man, the amazing weight lifter, asked.



"Found it on the walk. It slipped from Jack's hand. I think it's supposed to be a pen, but-careful!-that's a needle, and there's some kind of fluid in it."



"Does he take dope?"



"Certainly not, but this may be part of the misadventure that befell him. Get us home, Shoe. I've a very bad feeling about this."



Starter, gears, forward motion. Two breathing men on either side of me, a shard of dim consciousness trapped alone and silent in a dead body.



"It can't be safe coming back to this place," said the one called Shoe. "They been here twice now."



"I rather think it will be, since they failed twice," said his friend, Charles. "At least for the moment. Jack did get Miss Paco to call off the hit on me."



"As far as he knows. The shape he's in, anything could have happened since then and she could be behind it. He's an honest kid dealing with a bunch of pirates. You can't play fair with them and win."



"Even so, he needs to be home for me to be able to help him."



"What's here that we can't get at my sister's place?"



"Just some odds and ends that she won't have. Don't worry about it."



"I'll worry if I damn well please. Now go hold the doors."



More lifting, more carrying. Lots of carrying. Another soft place for my body to rest. A pink brightness against my eyelids as a light clicked on.



"Charles-Charles, hurry in here, he's bleeding."



"Where?" Footsteps, coming close, pausing. "Dear God."



"I don't see any cuts, but. look at it! It's all over him." Fear in the voice.



Fingers brushed across my forehead. "This is very interesting. It seems to be coming right out of his pores."



"What's the matter with him?"



"I'm not sure, but that bizarre hypodermic... perhaps he was poisoned."



"What the hell kinda poison does that to a man?"



"I'll work on it later. Can you carry him up to the bath?"



"Bath, nothing. He's going to a hospital."



"Shoe, we cannot take him there."



"Yeah, I heard that speech last night, but-"



"This has nothing to do with the Paco gang spotting us, it's something altogether different."



"What, then?"



"There's no easy way to explain it. Jack has a rather rare physical condition, it's similar to catalepsy, but quite a bit more complicated. I know how to help him where most doctors could not. You have to trust me on this."



Long pause. "Charles, it's the kid's life that's at stake, not my trust in you. Are you sure?"



"I may strain that trust in the next few minutes, but, yes, I am sure. This is going to get a bit strange, my friend."



"How so?"



"Just get him up to the bath for a start. You'll find out."



A grunt as I was again lifted. "Goddammit, I hate it when you go all Mr. Mystery on me."



Steps, lots of them, another light clicking on.



"Put him in the tub," said Charles.



Hard surface, slick.



"Hm. Right. Here, I want to check his eyes." Fingers prying open one of my eyelids. Blurs, bright blurs. Release back to the pink-tinged shadows. "His pupils are reacting to light, that's something." Fingers tugging at my upper lip, pushing it back.



"What the hell... ?" More alarm in Shoe's tone. "What's wrong with his teeth?"



"It's all right, in fact, I'm glad they're like that. I know for certain what to do now."



"Then do it, but what about his teeth!"



The fingers pressed my lips back into place. "It's his condition. I said it was complicated, and I promise I'll explain later."



"You're gonna explain all right."



"When I have more time. I have to hurry."



"Yeah, he's bleeding bad. Soaking right through his clothes."



"Then get them off him. This looks like it will be very messy." Footsteps retreating.



Hands, pulling at my clothing, tugging. Then an abrupt pause. "Charles." The voice, sad, tired.



"What?"



"There's no need to hurry. He's..."



"He's not dead." Statement, not question. A very firm statement.



"I know dead, Charles. And that's what he is."



Footsteps returning. Cloth across my face, wiping it clean. "Just watch for a moment. There, see what's happening? It's still coming out of him like sweat. A dead man does not bleed."



"Maybe the poison did that to him, thinned his blood in some crazy way."



"Or his body is getting rid of it. I told you this could get strange."



"This is way past strange, this is goddamned weird!"



"I agree, but I've no time to commiserate with you on it.



Whether you think he's dead or not, will you stay here in the house with him?"



"Yeah, sure, for what it's worth."



"And don't forget our friend Maxwell downstairs. See to it he's well trussed up, and some sort of blindfold wouldn't be out of place, either. I've an errand to run, so-



"



"You can't drive."



"I'm able to and will."



"Where do you think you're going?"



"To see a man about a cow."



More argument, voices fading downstairs. A door shutting. Someone coming back. Hands on me once more peeling away my sodden clothing. Coat, shirt, belt, pants. When the belt slipped away from my waist, the only warmth went with it. The grinding cold encompassed me, and with it came the final comfort of absolute oblivion.



I'd had this dream before, the one where I surprise myself by waking up, the one where I've got a tube in my nose that makes it possible for blood to drip down my throat and directly into my stomach. The dream doesn't last long, just a flash of it on those very rare times when the sun comes and I'm away from my earth. There are always other, much worse dreams to take its place. If it lasted longer than a few seconds I'd consider myself lucky, since compared with the rest it's not all that bad.



Then I really did awaken, fast, with a startled yelp, struggling to sit up, banging my elbows against the sides of something hard, and I thought for an instant I was in that damned box over the tobacco shop.



"There now, it's all right, you're safe," said Escott, trying to be soothing, I suppose.



I clawed at my face and found the tube and started to pull it out, but that hurt so I forced myself to stop and look around.



The upstairs bathroom. Escott sat on the closed toilet lid, informal in an unbuttoned vest and rolled-up shirtsleeves, his face all pinched with concern, bruised eyes red for lack of sleep. Shoe Coldfield filled up most of the doorway, eyes wide, jaw sagging, and looking like someone had just twisted his nose. I was in the bathtub, cold in my shorts and undershirt, and covered, completely covered with blood.



I gave another yelp and Escott, talking louder to get through my fear, told me to take it easy. I couldn't make myself speak; nothing coherent wanted to come out.



Held my arms away from my body, smearing more blood against the sides of the tub, adding to the stuff already there. It was on my face, my eyelids, my hair, dried flakes snowing down whenever I moved, and I sat in a thick icy puddle of it, could follow the threads of flow where it had slowly made its way toward the drain.



Escott kept talking, saying my name until after a moment I got hold of my panic and could do better than just sit and shiver and fight the urge to jump up and run off-something I really wanted to do.



"Get this... get this thing outta me," I said hoarsely, gesturing at the tube with trembling fingers. One end of it was in me, right up my nose, for God's sake, the other led to a bottle hanging from a metal stand. The bottle was nearly full of blood.



"Right, you should have had your fill after all this. Lean back and relax."



The next few seconds were really boring, but over and done with fast enough, and I felt better, more in control once it was out. He wound the tubing up so it wouldn't drip and put it and the bottle into the sink. Coldfield just watched and said nothing.



I didn't want to know what he was thinking, but it couldn't have been good, to tell from the frozen expression on his face.



"Sorry," I said to the general air. Crazy thing, apologizing when I hadn't done anything wrong.



Escott snorted, dismissing the whole business. "How do you feel?"



I lifted my arms again. "Disgusting." I was also still cold through and through, had to keep blinking trying to clear my cloudy sight, and couldn't quite shake the impression I weighed a ton and a half more than was normal.



"You up to bathing, then?"



Nodded my head. Ready or not, I had to wash clean again. "How'd I get like this?"



"I was rather hoping you'd tell me. What happened after your call to us last night?"



" Last night?"



"You've slept the day away."



"Oh, jeez, I don't remember."



"Yes, well, I did put this in with you just before dawn." He reached and pulled out one of my bags of earth where it had rested against my feet. The bag was all bloodstained, of course.



I glanced up at Coldfield.



Escott followed my look. "Not to worry. I took the liberty of explaining everything about your condition to Shoe. Considering the extraordinary circumstances, there was little choice in the matter."



Now we both looked at Coldfield, who looked back at us, mostly at me. He was shaking his head.



I started to say something to him, but it wouldn't come out. I just didn't know what to say.



He stopped shaking his head, kept staring. Finally pointed at me. "You... you're a vampire."



"Shoe, I..."



Continued to point. " You're a vampire?"



Then his frozen expression cracked wide open and he doubled over laughing.



There was a gas heater built into the bathroom wall. I asked Escott to light it since my case of gooseflesh didn't want to leave just yet.



"What's so damn funny about me being a vampire?" I groused as his match caught and blue flames filled the grating.



Coldfield had to go downstairs so he could roll on the floor, slap his sides, beat the furniture, and hoot all he wanted without my having to witness the spectacle.



"He's just venting some of the tension. We've all had a bit of a stretch on this one."



"Some venting." I could still hear laughter coming up through the floorboards. "If he doesn't slow down he'll need an oxygen tent."



One of Escott's eyebrows bounced and he cleared his throat. "Look, get yourself cleaned up, you'll feel much better for it."



"Yeah, yeah."



"Then Shoe and I would very much like to hear what went on last night. Perhaps you can explain about all that money we found in your overcoat pockets."



"Money? Oh, yeah, that stuff."



"It is not an inconsiderable sum. Sixty-eight thousand, three hundred dollars in various denominations and nonsequential serial numbers, and so far as I'm able to determine, it is not marked or counterfeit. I've put it in the basement safe for the time being."



"Thanks, but if you think that's a lot then wait till... wait... the car-the stuff in the Caddie..." The memory popped back of Doc driving away. Off he'd gone, probably straight to Angela, looking after himself once he figured my part in things was finished for good. Off he'd gone, along with the balance of that seven hundred grand, and not even knowing he had it.



"The car?"



"Oh, God," I groaned as it overwhelmed me. My loss was horrible and heartfelt, right down to my toes; it hurt so much I was within a hair of actually breaking down and crying.



"What?" Escott demanded, all anxious.



I pulled myself together and waved him off. "Gimme a few minutes. I can't talk about it now."



He took his leave only very reluctantly. From his view of things, it must have seemed crazy: He reminds me of a fortune in my coat and I go into a fit of instant misery. It couldn't be helped, I had some serious mourning to do. I sat in the tub, head bowed and moaning and feeling very sorry for myself. I'd found and lost an ungodly amount of money in a laughably short time, and whining excuses about none of it being my fault weren't cutting any ice with my sense of greed.



I mentally kicked myself until the chilliness of my physical condition finally got through to me and demanded some attention. By then I was ready for a distraction and cautiously stood to get a good look at the mess I'd literally been sitting in. There was no knowing how Escott had been able to stand it, since he'd mentioned his squeamishness to me more than once in the past. I wasn't too happy myself; the sight of all that blood practically painting me was pretty damn revolting. The smell wasn't so great to my sensitive nose either, being something like almonds mixed with old rust and raw meat starting to go bad. Ugh.



The poison must have sweated its way out of every pore in my body. I was glad now that Escott had had the wisdom to replace the lost blood, or God knows what kind of shape I'd be in. As it was, I felt fairly fit, but dry in the throat, from thirst or irritation from the tube, I didn't know. I reached over to the sink and got the bottle, removing the stopper and tube from the opening, and gave the contents a sniff.



Cow's blood. Gone cold, and not the same as taking it fresh, but still very drinkable. I gulped freely and let the stuff work through me. It took its own sweet time, but gradually the chill started to recede from my bones, and I didn't feel so weighted down as before. With the last swallow sweeping away the last of the cobwebs, I turned on the tub water, letting it run until it got hot.



I usually prefer a bath, but wasn't about to sit down again until the tub was clean, so I pulled the lever to get the showerhead going and yanked the splash curtain around. Running water was no friend of mine, but this kind I could handle without problems. Took off my shorts and undershirt after the water soaked the fabric from my skin, then soaped and scrubbed away until all the red was gone. Finishing off with a shave and dressed in fresh clothes, I felt like I could face the world again and maybe even Escott and Coldfield, so I went downstairs.



They were holed up in the kitchen, sitting at the table. Escott had a big cup of tea, Coldfield some coffee, and between them was a bottle of whiskey, which they must have used to give their respective drinks more of a kick. On the counter by the sink were several rinsed-out bottles similar to the one I'd emptied, plates, and the remains of some Chinese-food cartons. Escott hated to cook, even to make a sandwich. I'd seen him eat the bread and meat separately right out of their wrappers just to avoid the bother of putting the two together.



"Better?" Escott inquired when I came in.



"Yeah. Sorry I went a little nuts there."



"I'm sure you had an excellent reason."



"You don't know the half of it."



"Then please tell us." He shoved a third chair out with his foot as an invitation to sit.



Coldfield glanced at me once, looked away, and stifled another grin.



I glared at him. " What?"



He snickered and tried to turn it into a cough, then gave up and started laughing again.



"Why don't I come back in a few hours when he's got it out of his system?"



Escott looked pained. "Really, Shoe, it's not all that amusing."



"It sure as hell is. I mean, him being a vampire? He's the last person I'd pick."



"Thanks a lot," I said sourly, dropping into the chair.



"I don't mean it bad, but it's taking some getting used to."



"No kidding."



"I can see why you want to keep this kind of news to yourself, so I don't blame you for not saying anything to me. I thought Charles had lost his mind when he brought in that sack of dirt and all those bottles of blood and put the tube up your nose and-



"



"I think Jack would prefer to skip that part. I know I would."



"I don't usually drink it out of a tube," I added. "Where'd you get the stuff, anyway?"



Escott shrugged. "I struck a deal with a night watchman at a slaughterhouse."



"No questions from him on why you wanted the stuff?"



"I said it had to do with a practical joke against some antiunionists. He was all for it."



"I'll bet. What about the bottles and all the rest? Where'd you get those?"



"After your last escapade I thought it a good idea to acquire some for an emergency rather than borrow from Dr. Clarson again."



"What escapade?" asked Coldfield, all interest.



I didn't want to go into the business of how I'd been staked in the heart and promised to tell him later. A lot later, I hoped.



"Least now I know why you always had a bad stomach when it came to eating. So that's it for you? Drinking nothing but blood?"



"Yeah."



"Huh. That must get downright dull."



"Well, it saves me from a lot of dishwashing."



Coldfield chuckled, but managed not to succumb to another fit of hilarity. "You want to tell us just what happened to put you out like that? I thought vampires were supposed to be damn near indestructible."



I resisted enlightening him further on the subject and told them about last night in all its grim detail, from the raid at the dance studio to Doc leaving me for dead on the sidewalk.



"He's gonna be in for one hell of a shock when I turn up again," I concluded.



"No doubt," Escott agreed. "Then you plan to try recovering that money?"



"Damn right I do." They'd been properly impressed by the amount when I'd gotten to that part of the story.



"How?"



Shook my head. "I'll figure something out, but I gotta know what's happened today. You hear anything? You guys must have had your ears open."



"Nothing new from my bunch," said Coldfield.



"I called Merrill Adkins," said Escott.



I snorted, not much liking his government friend.



"He was unable to talk freely since I am not a fellow agent, but I gathered that all the law officers in town are up in arms about the shooting of the policeman at that hotel."



"Yeah, he was one of Calloway's men and working for Sullivan," I said. "What lies did the papers print?"



"Oh, he's a hero destined for sainthood. The later editions mention plans for a public memorial service. Oh, and there's to be a major crackdown on crime in the city."



"Well, that's nice and general. I'll bet the citizens are feeling safer already. Any suspects?"



He grunted. "Now you know why it's so general. But still, it would be wise if you avoided the area for a time, say a decade or two."



"No problem." It was one of Gordy's favorite phrases, and reminded me that I wanted to call him. Maybe he had some news. "Where's Maxwell?"



"Safe in the basement. Shoe put him near the furnace, so he should be warm enough."



"What? He's been tied up there all day?"



"With a few comfort breaks and some food. He's full of questions, but not too very forthcoming with answers. Seems rather mystified on how he got here and who we are in the play of the game. He's promised us a vast reward for his safe return to Sullivan's camp. Several times."



"Must be fresh out of poison for his pen."



"Yes, remarkable little toy, that. I've since rendered it harmless. No more ill effects from it?"



"I think it's all sweated out. Little weasel got me right in the wrist." I pulled back my sleeve, but any sign of the needle jab was long healed over. "Doc said it was cyanide."



"Indeed, a very nasty batch of it, too-I had a sample analyzed today by a chemist friend. Had you been a normal man, it would have dropped you within seconds of the injection."



"Jeez."



"Indestructible," Coldfield muttered, taking a swig of coffee.



"Only barely," I added. "It didn't feel so hot. Thanks for helping me, both of you."



They shrugged.



"I mean that. Look, when this is finished, how about I take you out to Hallman's?"



It was one of the swankiest restaurants in Chicago. "I know it's not much, but-"



"I'd say it was a fair trade, a meal for a meal-even if you weren't awake for it,"



said Coldfield. "That is, if they let me in again. Charles got away with it once..."



I grinned. "Gimme five minutes with the management and I can make sure you have a regular table at the joint anytime you want."



"Using that hypnosis gag? Sure, why not? Sign me up."



"It's a deal." Maybe he didn't completely believe I could do it. I'd prove it later. I was glad he didn't remember my giving him the same business the other night.



Getting caught's embarrassing.



The phone rang.



"I think I know who that might be," said Escott. "Shoe, let's give our friend a bit of privacy and adjourn to the front parlor to finish our drinks."



With that for a hint, I knew who it might be, too, and hurried to grab the receiver as they left. Bobbi's voice hit me like summer rain on a dry field.



"You all right?" she asked. "Charles said you'd got back late and would call when you could, but I just couldn't wait any longer."



I was glad he'd not told her about the poison. She had enough worries. "I'm sorry, I should have done that first thing, but there's been so damn much going on. I'm fine, really."



"Are you finished, then?"



"Not yet."



"Not even close?"



"Baby, if I could tell you that, you'd be the second to know after me."



"Rough night?"



"Yeah, that's what I'd call it, I'll give you the whole story some other time. Tell me how things are with you. Still at that lawyer's house?"



"Uh-huh, the Blooms have been wonderful. We haven't a thing in common, but they're good at not letting it show, and Cathy has been so sweet-that's his wife..."



I prompted her with more questions, just to keep her talking. It didn't matter what she said, I needed to hear her saying it, to know there were still normal people with normal lives around. Well, fairly normal. This lawyer's best client was a gangster, after all.



Then Bobbi must have figured out what I was doing and stopped the flow. "Axe you sure you're fine?"



"I'm a little rocky, but this is what helps it, hearing from you."



"It's even better to see me."



"I know, and I will as soon as I can. I promise you I want this finished. I miss you."



"Not half as much as I miss you," she whispered. "It's been so long since we've been together that my neck's all healed up."



"Uh..." I felt my ears going red at this news and the thoughts it inspired and checked to see that Escott and Coldfield were well out of earshot. It's not easy trying to hold an intimate conversation with a beautiful woman while standing at a wall phone, but I did my best.



An indecently long time later, after some hot flirting we finally said reluctant good-byes and I went into the parlor. Coldfield was alone listening to the radio and flipping through a paper. The headlines screamed outrage at the cop-killing.



"Must be quite a woman you got to put a look like that on your face," he commented.



"Yeah, she's really something. Where's Charles?"



"Went down to the basement to check on his guest. He said you'd have to give the guy a special talking-to."



"Yeah. Might as well get it over with."



"What, you don't enjoy 'clouding men's minds'?"



Great, Escott had told him how much I liked The Shadow. "Not especially. It can be dangerous."



"Okay if I watch?"



I gave him the nod and led the way. The lights were on down there, all of them, and Escott was over by the furnace talking to Maxwell. His whole head was covered by a thick black sack and he was securely tied to a very sturdy chair- which had fallen over, so he lay sideways on the cement floor. It couldn't have been comfortable for him.



Thinking about the jab he'd given me with that damned needle, I found myself grinning.



"I think you're acquainted with this gentleman," said Escott, turning toward us.



"Looks like he's been trying to escape again," Shoe said wearily. He effortlessly righted the chair, Maxwell and all. "Now we've already had a long talk about this, Maxie, I don't want to have to warn you again."



"It was an accident," Maxwell said.



"You surely do have a lot of them. 'Course, if you like crashing onto the floor all the time, I'm thinking we can-"



"Very well, but you must understand that this is quite trying for me. Perhaps I've not yet made it clear to you gentlemen how very grateful my employer would be to have me returned-unharmed-to his organization."



"How much is he up to this time?" Coldfield asked.



"Five thousand dollars," answered Escott.



"Same as last."



"For each of us."



"Well, now, that is just starting to impress me. I think it means he's getting a little more scared than he was. Maybe a lot more scared."



"Indeed. And he has every right to be fearful."



Maxwell was probably wanting to ask for some clarification on that point, but kept his trap shut. Couldn't tell if it was out of caution or if he really was afraid, he was good at keeping control of his voice.



I motioned for Escott and Coldfield to come away out of his immediate hearing range. The furnace was running and the sound would mask our talk. "Has he seen either of you?"



Escott gave a decisive shake of his head. "No, but he's certainly heard us. We have been careful not to use our names."



"That's good. This stuff works, but it don't last forever. The less he needs to forget, the better. I'll need to fix the lights before I start."



He made a gesture to invite me to fix away.



"Watch this," I told Coldfield, and walked to a blank and very solid brick wall, the false one that covered my hidden sanctuary. While he stared, I vanished, and went right through it. When I came back I had my desk lamp in hand, and he had a look of flat-faced shock all but tattooed on his mug. I could have been nice and tried to prepare him, but I wanted a little payback for all that laughing.



"You-" He pointed at me. He gaped at Escott, still pointing at me. "He-"



"I know," said Escott. "I did warn you."



"He-"



"Yes, it always unnerves me a bit when I'm not expecting it. Enough showing off, Jack, let's get on with things."



I started to walk past Coldfield, but he stopped me. "Do that again."



Shrugging, I partially vanished.



He put his hand right through me. "Jesus, hallelujah."



"Only one free show a night," I said, re-forming after his hand was out of my midsection. "After that I sell tickets."



"Shit." He flexed his hand, working to warm it up.



Maxwell's head came up in a listening pose as we closed on him. He must have sensed some kind of change in the air and that it might not be especially good news for him. "What is it? What are you planning to do?"



"Nothing fatal, Maxie," I answered. I found a couple of cans of paint left over from Escott's efforts at fixing up the house and stacked them, placing the lamp on top.



He went very still. "Who are you?" A tremor infected his usually smooth voice. If he'd recognized mine, then he had a right to be worried, since I should have been dead.



"Guess."



There was a wall outlet close by and the cord just reached it. I clicked the lamp on and angled its flexible neck so the light would strike Maxwell right in the eyes. A high sign to Escott and he and Coldfield shut off all the other lights; the only one left was the glowing cone focused on our seated and trussed-up friend. He wouldn't be able to see past it.



I took the black sack off his head and let him wince, blink, and get used to things.



He looked even more deceptively harmless without his glasses, which were tucked in his breast pocket. I removed them and put them on him.



His eyes went wide with recognition combined with fear.



Good. For talks like this, fear is a very good thing. It makes a person vulnerable.



Without distractions like being stabbed with fancy fountain pens or people like Doc watching over my shoulder, I got all the information I wanted and more from Maxwell, and this time I got the truth.



The plastic-surgery joint was real, but he'd lied about its location being behind the roadhouse. He and his bushwhacking friends had been paying a visit to quite another kind of house located a few miles farther up that lane when they'd returned, spotted the Caddie parked in the wrong place, and decided to check it out.



As for the surgery, at least as of last night, Opal had been there and was being looked after, but the place was actually in the city, and not all that far from a real hospital. I wrote down the address. With Escott sometimes making suggestions, I also made notes about all the places where Sullivan might be found, how many men were with him, and what his likely actions would be at the news of Maxwell's kidnapping and Doc's escape with my help.



It didn't look good for Angela. Maxwell's guess was that Sullivan would blame her and try for another hit. The hitch in the plan would be not knowing where she could be found. The solution: bribery. A thousand bucks to anyone who pointed out her hiding place, a grand in a town with hard times where most people would do it for the price of a hot meal.



"Not the best news in the world for Miss Paco," said Escott, shaking his head. It was safe for him to talk. I was finished with Maxwell, having told him to completely forget everything that had happened since the first time I knocked him out behind the roadhouse. He was thoroughly asleep now and would stay that way until someone said his name three times and clapped their hands. I'd seen my share of stage hypnotists.



I rubbed my temples. An easy session, but still headache-making from the effort.



"Yeah, but Angela's probably good at pulling holes in after her, since you haven't heard of anything all day."



"Doesn't mean much if Sullivan got to her and was quiet about it," said Coldfield.



"Believe me, if he did try for a hit on her it wouldn't be quiet. She'd make sure of that."



"What'll you do?"



"First I get Opal away from him. Maybe she might have an idea on where I can find Angela. If she's able to talk." If she's still alive.



"And if not?"



"Then I go take Sullivan out of the fight. Him I know where to find."



"Doing like you just did here with this guy?" Coldfield gave Maxwell a sideways look, perhaps worried he'd wake up. Fat chance of that.



"Pretty much. Then I'll try the dance studio for Angela, and if necessary that crappy hotel-don't worry, no one's gonna remember me being there. Someone at one of those places will know where she is."



"Along with all that money in the car?"



"I hope so." I was assuming the worst, that once Doc was back with friends, sooner or later somebody would get curious and take a peek in the laundry bags and declare it was Christmas all over again. Come hell or high water, I wanted the dough back. Sure, I'd walked away with a nice bundle, but that was nothing compared to the balance.



But first things first: I had to take care of Opal.



"The place looks too damn respectable," said Coldfield, scowling over the wheel of his Nash.



"Which is probably why its shadier activities pass unnoticed by the police," said Escott.



I didn't feel like adding anything and just looked out the passenger window as our big car slowly cruised by. The three of us were shoulder to shoulder in the front seat again, but with Escott in the middle for a change. I wanted them to stay out of this, but they ganged up on me and insisted on coming.



Besides, Escott wanted to make a surprise delivery to his charming friend Adkins a little later, which was why Maxwell was tied up nice and cozy in the trunk. Good thing he was oblivious or he'd have had plenty of justifiable complaints about the travel accommodations.



The address he'd given us was a surprise, being a neatly kept red-brick house in one of the better neighborhoods of the city. It was larger and much more expensive than Escott's area, but very similar in looks, quite genteel, and, as Coldfield had accurately observed, respectable. A tasteful sign featuring a caduceus on the wrought-iron gate told people that it was the Balsamo Clinic and gave the hours it was open. There was no clue as to exactly what sort of treatment it offered, only that it was supervised by Dr. Joseph Balsamo, his name followed by a string of letters to show how well educated he was and to hint at how much his services might cost his clients. According to Maxwell, he was the one Sullivan had called in at a moment's notice for Opal's emergency.



"We're too late for an office visit," I said.



"But lights are showing on all the floors," said Escott. "There may be a houseful of patients."



"That's what I'm afraid of, people getting caught in the cross fire."



"You expect to do some shooting?"



"All the time with this crowd, but I won't let things go that far. No one's going to get hurt if I can help it." Well, not unless they really deserved it.



I asked Coldfield to take us around the block again. The house was on a corner lot, with a short driveway on the side leading to a separate garage that was closed down. You couldn't tell if the doctor was in or not.



When Coldfield began his third circling of the block, I asked him to pull into an open spot by a fire hydrant. It commanded a view of the front gate. We gave the place a good long study, with special attention to doors and windows, and Escott recommended I try one of the latter to make my entry. It was in the back, up on the third floor, and dark.



I shook my head.



His left eyebrow shot up. "You can't just go in the front door."



"Why the hell not? I'm tired of sneaking around, of not being able to see where I'm going."



"She's sure to be guarded."



"They won't know what hit 'em." I opened the passenger door. "Don't know how long this will take, but be ready to roll."



"Keep your head down, kid," Coldfield advised.



I grunted, making a mental note to tell him what my real age was sometime, then shut the door gently. There wasn't much wind tonight and the sound would carry.



Through the gate, up the walk to the porch to ring the bell and wait. The foyer light was on, but I couldn't see any movement through the sheer white curtains covering the diamond-shaped window set in the door. All I heard were my shoes scraping on the welcome mat. Rang the bell again, then knocked. Nothing, and I was starting to get chilled in my short jacket. Maybe some of that damned poison still lingered in me-that or I was starting to get nervous. I'd have worn my long coat, but it needed to go to the cleaners.



Another ring and knock, along with a sigh of exasperation. They had their chance to answer a dozen times over by now. I just might have to do something.



What the hell, why not? I thought, and faded out, passing through the cracks around the door and going solid inside.



I didn't surprise anyone on watch. The foyer was small, with arched openings leading to the hall stairs and a waiting room. Everything was as nice in as it was out, tasteful, even elegant, with a fancy spindly-legged reception desk and velvet curtains on the waiting-room windows. Balsamo made a mint at his work and wasn't shy about showing it.



Except no one else seemed to be here to enjoy the decor. I went very still and listened hard and didn't hear so much as a mouse with asthma.



Another chill hit me that had nothing to do with the weather. This sort of silence wasn't right. It was well and truly a dead silence, too similar to the kind I endured the other night while in that coffinlike box over the shop.



My fear steadily growing, I searched the place, tearing into every room, every closet, from basement to attic. Nothing and no one. The lights were on for a reason, the best one being to keep someone like me busy watching here instead of looking elsewhere for Opal. Sullivan knew Maxwell might talk and had had all day to find a new parking place for his prize bookkeeper. I hoped to God that was what he'd done, then went all over the house again, this time looking for some clue as to where they could have gone.



To judge by the leftovers in the icebox and a calendar with a slash through the date, people had been in this day, and then they'd all done a bunk. I'd found living quarters, perhaps belonging to Balsamo, examination rooms with the usual medical supplies and equipment, an office, and several hospital-style rooms where patients probably rested after their operations. I'd found the operating room, too, and it was a pip; this joint didn't seem to lack for anything except for a staff and patients-one in particular.



I got a fresh thought and went in search of the trash cans. Those were just outside the kitchen door. The second tin lid I lifted revealed that Opal had, indeed, been here.



Right on top was a pile of bloodstained white cloths. Table linens from the roadhouse.



My heart and hopes plummeted with sickening speed.



The idea I'd been pushing to the back of my mind since I'd walked in shoved its way forward. It couldn't be ignored anymore. Maybe she'd not made it; maybe she'd died, and because of it they'd cleared out.



And if that had happened, then someone was going to pay.