Lifeblood

HE LET ME out in a wide alley where delivery trucks trundled through during the day with their loads of food and linens. Things were comfortably deserted now, but I still felt like a shooting gallery target, and vanished as soon as Phil locked up.



I didn't know this area particularly well and being in a non-corporeal form only added to the disorientation. My sense of solid objects, even the push of the wind was heightened and extended, but since I couldn't see, it was hard to gauge distance. When moving, I had to rely on memory.



The alley entrance to the street was fifty feet to the left, with a row of garbage cans just before it, but the wind was throwing my direction off and to the right. Compensating, I drifted past the cans like smoke that wasn't there, then found the corner of the building. Left, right, or straight? Right. Move away from the hotel and car, float softly down the sidewalk, gain some space, and look around.



An alcove opened in my path, which meant a doorway. I entered the building and solidified in a closed pawnshop. The street looked clear; they might have returned to their own hotel for fresh strategy, but I couldn't count on that. They might also have my car staked out, so it would have to stay put. It was getting late for me and playing car chase with them might take too much time--was there anything in the car that would lead them to Escott's? The papers inside were in my name, with my old hotel as an address. No one there knew Escott except by sight. The dealer could be traced, but that would lead them to the hotel again. I could relax. If they did break into the car all they'd find was a dead end, along with some mouth gargle, shoe polish, and handkerchiefs.



All the same, having to leave my car behind was a disgusting situation.



Braxton would have a lot to answer for the next time I saw him.



I took some bearings, disappeared again, and didn't reform until several city blocks were behind me. I checked the view, found it clear, and started walking.



Maybe I could have scoured the area until I found them, but there was no guarantee that Braxton didn't have a second gun on hand. If he used it the racket would bring all sorts of trouble. I shook the thought out of my head. One thing at a time, one day, or rather night, at a time. I was tired, the sunrise was coming, and I still had to make sure they weren't following me to Escott's.



I eventually seeped inside his back door and listened. The place had its own little creaks and pops, each loud in my straining ears. There were also small scratchings and a rhythmic gnawing sound; mice in the basement. Overall, it was a good normal silence, but it meant I was alone in the house. Where the hell was Escott?



My answer was propped against the saltshaker on the table.



JACK, ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, I DECIDED TO TAKE A NIGHT TRAIN TO N.Y. AND CLEAR UP THIS BUSINESS. MY OVERSEAS SHIPMENT SHOULD ARRIVE TOMORROW AT 7:45 P.M. PLEASE CALL ME WHEN IT COMES. I'LL BE STAYING AT THE ST. GEORGE HOTEL.



ESCOTT On my own again. Great.



There wasn't enough time to call a cab and find a hotel to hide in, I'd have to hope Braxton hadn't had Escott followed from the restaurant. And then there was Gaylen--had he bothered her? I speculated briefly and irrationally if she had put him onto me, but shook that thought off as well. She'd been far too concerned for my welfare; no one was that good an actress. My troubles were my own; no one else could be blamed for them and no one else could clear them up. But that was tomorrow's problem.



Escott had given me the run of the house. I went up to the top floor, floating carefully over a patch of undisturbed plaster dust so as not to leave footprints. A small door at the end of the topmost hall led to yet another stairway, a short one that served the attic. There was dust everywhere and a number of interesting artifacts left by previous generations of owners. It looked suitable, but I still did not feel really safe.



I ghosted over to the one window at the far end. It faced another window in the next building just across the narrow alley. I gulped, tried not to think of the drop, and vanished, feeling a dull tug all over as I passed out of Escott's house to the one next door.



The attic was similar to the one I'd left: full of dust and domestic junk, but I felt much more secure. The place was occupied below, but I was more willing to chance spending the day here. It would be better to be found by Escott's neighbors than by Braxton, though from the condition of things they hadn't been up here in years and it was likely to remain so.



I went back to Escott's, retrieved a single bag of earth from the basement, and borrowed a blanket and pillow. The invisible nets that went out around me when I vanished, the ones that allowed me to retain my clothes and such, were sufficient to take in my light burdens. I floated directly up through the many floors to the attic again and moved next door, leaving no trace of my passage for inquisitive eyes.



Somewhere outside, the sun was creeping to the horizon, hut the one window was deep in the shadow of the roof overhang and opaque with grime. The light would not be too bad. I had certain powers, but very strict limitations as well, and sunlight was one of them. It blinded the eyes and stiffened the limbs, and then the numbness beginning in my feet would travel slowly to the head until it mercifully brought unconsciousness. Being subjected to the unpleasant inertia of dying only happened if I fought to stay awake after dawn, or if I was without my earth. Since my change I'd tried staying up only once voluntarily as an experiment. It was not something I ever wanted to repeat.



Spreading the blanket, not for comfort, but to protect my clothes, I stretched out behind some old boxes, the pillow resting firmly over my face to block the light. The earth was in the crook of my arm and reminded me of the stuffed toy rabbit my oldest sister Liz had given me thirty years ago. They were her specialty. She'd made them for her own children and all the nieces and nephews of our big family. She was a sweet woman.



And then I surrendered all thought and became very still.



The pillow slid from my face as I sat up and listened. A car rumbled by down below, interrupting the neighborhood kids in their game of street tag. Another day had slipped past and they were playing all the harder at its end before their mothers called them in to supper, bath, and bed.



The air was dry with the smell of dust and coming up from the kitchen was the odor of boiled cabbage and fried fish. I wondered if the kids would survive to adulthood on such a diet. I had, but maybe I'd been tougher.



My own diet was of concern for me tonight. The relationship Bobbi and I shared was an emotional one, after all. The small amount of blood she provided was for the purpose of lovemaking, and not to satisfy my nutritional needs. More blood than she could spare was required for that. Later on I'd have to visit the Stockyards, but my trips there were less frequent than they were before we met--only once every three or four nights, rather than once every other night.



Gathering up the bedding, I sieved across the alley to Escott's attic and sank down through the floors to the kitchen. It was a neat trick; if Escott ever went back to the stage we could make a fortune with a magic act. The only drawback was that I'd never be available for the matinees.



I worked the phone and Bobbi's welcome voice said hello and I said hello back and we each made sure the other was healthy.



"Phil told me you were going to lay low for a while," she said.



"Just until I can locate those bozos. I didn't have the time last night."



"You won't have to look far. Phil called and said they're parked down the street in a black Ford."



"Is he sure about that?"



"Fairly sure, and so am I. I took a gander out the window a minute ago and there's a car there now that's new to the usual scenery. Phil thinks they're waiting for you to come back for your own."



"Good conclusion. I'm just surprised that Braxton thinks I need it."



"What do you mean?"



"Considering his expertise, he's more likely to suspect me of traveling around as a bat or a wolf."



She giggled. "They might miss a bat, but a wolf's kinda noticeable out on the sidewalk."



"Maybe I should reeducate him. What do you think?"



"I think I'm going to take a cab to the studio."



"I'm sorry, I know I promised--"



"Oh, don't be a sap, this is an emergency. Oops, I just remembered, some woman named Gaylen called a minute ago. You running around on me?"



"Never. What'd she want?"



"For you to come by and see her tonight. Who is she?"



"It's something I'm working on with Charles. He's out of town, so I gave her your number for daytime calls."



"Wish you'd told me."



"We were kind of busy Did she say anything else?"



"Nope. You going to tune in and listen to me?"



"I'll be at the studio. I wouldn't miss it for the world."



"But what if Braxton follows me there?"



"Don't worry, I'll have taken care of him by then."



"But what if you miss him?"



"I said don't worry. You aren't going there alone, are you?"



"No, Marza's coming with me."



"Then God help Braxton if I do miss him."



"Oh, Jack." She was exasperated. "The man is trying to kill you."



"He won't. I'm only trying to keep him from hurting others."



"And I don't give a damn about others"--she cut off a moment and collected herself--"I'm worried about you."



"And about that broadcast, too. All this mess came at a bad time for you. Try to calm down and think about how great you'll be tonight. You don't have to worry about me, you know I'll be fine." I put a lot of confidence in my tone and it worked. We said a few things and she gave me directions to the studio twice and I told her to break a leg. It was a phrase picked up from Escott and apparently applied to all performers because she was glad to hear it.



I hung up and dialed Gaylen. She was upset because Braxton had been calling her, and now she wanted to see me. The little bastard was becoming a real nuisance.



"I'm pretty tied up tonight" I was also reluctant to face another emotion-laden talk with her.



"Not even for a little while? Please?"



A supernatural softy, that's me. Besides, she might have some useful news. "It may take me awhile to get there, and I can't stay long."



"I understand, I'd really appreciate it."



The schedule would be tight. Bobbi's broadcast was at ten and I was stuck in the house until quarter to eight, or at least until Escott's delivery came. In between I had to have a heart-to-heart with Braxton, and then go hold Gaylen's hand. If things went right I could go home with Bobbi, enjoy the party she was throwing, and still have time to visit the Stockyards.



It looked like a busy night ahead, and I wanted to get on with it; the waiting chafed at me like starched underwear. I filled in some of the time by cleaning up and changing clothes, but with that out of the way, the minutes dragged. At five to eight I was annoyed, and at a quarter after I was ready to strangle the driver.



Twenty after the hour a truck finally rolled into the street, stopped two doors down, and backed up. The guy inside squinted at house numbers.



I went outside and he asked if I were Mr. Escott. To save him confusion I said yes, unintentionally puzzling any neighbors taking in air on their front steps. We gave them a good show and lugged several crates off the truck and into the narrow hall. He didn't say much, which suited me, and I signed Escott's name to the sheet on his clipboard. He gave me a receipt and drove off.



There was one last obligation and I was free. The operator put a call through to Escott's hotel, and then asked their operator to connect me to Escott.



"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Escott is not here."



"Then I'll leave a message for him."



"I'm sorry, but he has checked out."



"What?"



"Yes, sir, earlier today. He left Kingsburg as his forwarding address."



Now, why the hell was he running upstate to a little backwater like Kingsburg? Gaylen hadn't mentioned the name. He was probably returning something to one of the many blackmail victims on that list. "Did he leave any messages for a Jack Fleming?"



"No, sir. No messages at all."



I hung up and pessimistically wondered what was wrong.



My visit with Gaylen was going to be brief, so I told the cabby to wait.



He rolled an eye at the meter and agreeably turned me down, having been stiffed once too many in the past.



She was waiting at her door and I apologized for being so long.



"I'm just glad that you could come by." She eased painfully into her chair.



Nothing had significantly changed since yesterday, except for some watercolor paints scattered on a table with some brushes and a glass of gray water. A wrinkled sheet of paper taped to a board was drying next to it all. I expressed some interest, which warmed her.



"It's only a hobby, just to pass the time," she demurred, but held it up for inspection. The light gleamed off some damp patches. There was no model in the room of the pink, blue, and yellow flowers on the paper, so it had come out of her own head. As in most amateur efforts, it was noticeably flat, but the colors looked nice, so I complimented her and knew from her reaction that she would someday make a gift of it to me.



"Sorry I got held up, but I really don't have a lot of time," I explained.



She took it without visible disappointment, because some-thing else was on her mind. "That Braxton man tried to get in to talk with me. I had to have the manager throw him out."



"That's good. I'm very sorry you were bothered."



"Then he started calling. I kept hanging up until I finally decided to talk and tell him to go away."



"What'd he say?"



"All kinds of things. He was very excited and asked if you had hurt me, and practically begged for the chance to talk to me face-to-face. My legs were aching and made me a bit short with him. I said it was the phone or nothing. He asked if I knew what you were and what kind of danger I was in, and what did I know about Maureen, and if I would help, and a lot of other nonsense. I told him he was a very silly and stupid man and never to bother me again, or I'd get the police on him. After that he stopped calling."



"Good for you."



"But he still frightens me; not for myself, but for you."



"I'm safe enough. Anyway, the next time I see him, I'll talk him into going back to New York."



Her expression was sharp. "But how can you do that? What will you do?"



"Only talk to him, I won't hurt him. Please, Gaylen, don't worry about it."



Her eyes dropped and she looked away. "What will you do?"



Had I been breathing I would have sighed. "Remember telling me about Jonathan Barrett and how he talked to you just before Maureen came back? That's how I'll talk to Braxton."



"And you'll ask him about Maureen?"



"Yes."



She was quiet a moment, thinking.



"I'll let you know what he says. Charles says even negative information is better than none at all."



"What about him? Has he left yet?"



"He left sometime last night. I guess he was in a hurry to get on with things."



"But you haven't heard anything from him?"



"Not directly. I tried calling him, but he's gone to a little town called Kingsburg Does that ring any bells with you?"



She went still and thought, her heart racing. "I'm not sure. I think I once got a letter from Maureen from there, but memories fade--I don't know."



"It could be some other errand as well. He'll let us know."



"Yes. please, I want to know everything." But there was a hollow note to her voice, something else was bothering her. What is it?" I asked gently.



She made a brief gesture with her blue-veined hands. "This is hardly the time I wish"



I stayed quiet. She would either talk or not, with or without my encouragement.



Her eyes had changed color. The blue had faded and now they were light gray. Maureen had been the same way when she was upset over something.



"Oh, Jack, how can I put it in words? How can I ask you?"



"Ask what?"



"You can see how it is for me. I'm not well and it seems that with each passing day it grows worse; not just my legs, but other things. It's so awful to be like this, to feel so weak and helpless all the time."



I waited her out, for the moment unsure.



"And I haven't seen Maureen in so long. What if I never see her again? That could happen, I am so afraid it will."



What she wanted was right in front of me now, and I didn't want to look.



She saw the answer in my face long before she could word the question.



"Oh, please. Jack, you can't deny me in this!"



I wanted to get up and put some space between us, but her eyes held me, eyes full of anguish and asking for something I would not be able to give her.



"I'm sorry."



"But why not?"



I had no answer. That was the really hard part. I had no answer, no real excuse--and she must have known it. "Because I can't. You don't know what you're asking."



"But I do. I'm asking for a chance to live. I'm asking for a body that doesn't hurt all the time. Is it so much to want to be young and healthy again?"



"I'm sorry." I had to turn away and pace or blow up. Her eyes followed me up and down the small room until I stopped in front of the window to stare out at nothing. "You don't know what it's like. I'd give anything to go back, to walk in the sun again, to eat food, feel real heat and cold, to feel my heart beating. I have no stability. I can't go back to my family and will never have one of my own. Worst of all, Maureen's gone."



"And yet she changed you. If the life you have is so awful, why did she do that?"



"Because the kind of love we had would have made it all bearable. There was no guarantee that I even would change, but it was a hope we shared.



At the very least we would have been together for as long as I was alive. But something happened and she had to leave."



"And if she ever comes back, you'll still be here. I don't have that luxury. She was going to change me, she promised me that in our last talk. You are all of her left to me. All I ask is for you to fulfill a promise she could not keep."



"Why didn't she do it earlier?"



"I don't know." Her eyes held mine steadily, still pleading, then dropped to her lap. "I don't know."



She knew and Maureen knew. I didn't and would have to go by my own instincts. A lot of emotions were getting in my way, and I wasn't sure if I was right to say no, or reading things into her manner that weren't there. I could do as she asked, the chances were very great it wouldn't work, but everything in me recoiled away from taking that step.



"I'm truly sorry, but it's impossible. I can't."



"No, please don't leave yet." She stopped my move for the door.



"Please will you at least just think about it?"



If I said yes, she would know it for a lie. I crossed the room, hat in hand, head down.



"Jack?"



I paused, my back to her. "I'm sorry. If there's anything else you need, you can call me. But not this." Then I walked out, my guts gone cold and twisting like snakes.



The cab dropped me within sight of a two-year-old Ford parked across the street from Bobbi's hotel. Gaylen's voice still lingered in my head, pleading. None of my reasons to refuse seemed very good now, but even after discarding them all, I was not going to do it. Something was bothering me; I wanted advice, or at least to have someone tell me I was right. Escott might be back in a day or two; I'd talk it over with him.



Or maybe not.



Hands in pockets, I made myself small behind a telephone pole and tried to see the driver of the Ford. From this angle, he wasn't too visible.



He was slouched down in the seat, it could have been either Braxton or Webber. They worked as a team; why was only one on watch? On the remote chance that there was a third member on their hunt, I copied the license-plate number in my notebook for Escott to check. The plates were local. They might have rented it, wanting something less conspicuous than the big Lincoln.



The Ford was parked in with a line of other cars. If Bobbi hadn't tipped me, I'd never have noticed it or the man inside. The rest of the street looked clean. No one was loitering in any doorways, it seemed safe enough to approach. I strolled along the sidewalk, breasted the open passenger window, leaned over, and said hello.



The man inside turned a slow, unfriendly eyeball on me. He wasn't Braxton or Webber and looked bored to death. I landed on my feet and asked if he had a light, hauling out my face-saving cigarettes.



He considered the request with indifference, then pawed around the car for some matches. It took some hunting before he found them; the seat was littered with sandwich wrappings, unidentifiable paperwork, crumpled cigarette packs, and smoked-out butts. I offered him one from my pack and he took it.



"Been here long?"



"What's it to you?" He lit his cigarette on the same match that fired mine, his long fingers shielding the flame from the faint night breeze.



He was a good-looking specimen, with a straight nose, cleft chin, and curly blond hair. Up on a movie screen he might have stopped a few feminine hearts. I pegged him to be a college type, but he was too old and had seen enough to have a cynical cast to his expression.



"You're making the hotel dick nervous."



"I should if I'm doing his job for him. He send you or are you from Mrs.



Blatski?"



"What's the difference?"



"He sent you then." He blew smoke lazily out the window.



"What if I am from Mrs. Blatski?"



"No skin off my nose. She has a right to hire someone as long as they leave me alone--or are you the guy she's sleeping with?" He eyed me with a shade more interest.



"You a dick?"



"Got it in one, bright eyes."



I pushed away from the Ford in disgust. Not Braxton or any connection to him, just a keyhole peeper trying to get the goods on his client's wife.



Three steps later a crazy thought occurred and I was back at the window again.



"Charles, is that you?"



He gave me an odd look and I deserved it. A second and more detailed check on his face was enough confirmation that he wasn't Escott got up in disguise. The eyes were the wrong color, brown instead of gray, and his ears were the wrong shape, flat on top, not arched.



"What's your problem?" he asked, squinting.



"Thought you were someone else."



"Yeah? Who?"



"Eleanor Roosevelt. I was gonna ask for an autograph."



"Hey, wait up."



I waited up. He got out of the car slowly, stretching the kinks from his legs and back. He was average in height and build, but it wasn't padding that filled out the lines of his suit. He didn't look belligerent, so I wanted to see what he wanted. He came around to the front of the car without any wasted movement and rested his backside against the fender.



"Yeah?" I said.



"Nothing much, you just look familiar to me."



"I got a common face."



"Naw, really, you from around here?"



"Maybe. What's your game, anyway?"



"Minding other people's business."



"That can be dangerous."



"Nah. Like this job, nothing to it but following some old bitch around to see what kind of flies she attracts. She's filthy rich and all that dirt attracts plenty."



I nodded. "And you think I'm one of them?"



"It don't hurt to ask. Sometimes you can do a fella a good turn, keep him outta the courts, then maybe he feels like doing me a good turn."



A shakedown artist to boot. Well, it's a big nasty world and you can meet all kinds if you stand still long enough. "You got the wrong man this time, ace."



"Malcolm," he said, holding out a hand.



My manners weren't quite bad enough to refuse, so we shook briefly and unpleasantly. He had a business card palmed and passed it on to me.



"Just in case you need a troubleshooter." He smiled, tapped the brim of his hat, and went back around to the driver's side. "You never know." He slid behind the wheel, still smiling, his lips pressed together into a hard, dark line. He had dimples.



I barely smiled back in the same way, but without dimples, and took a walk. Creeps make me nervous and I felt sorry for Mrs. Blatski, whoever she was.



Oozing through the back door, I found my way to the lobby, kept out of view of the front windows, and got Phil's attention by waving at the night clerk. He crossed over casually.



"How'd you get in? The back's locked."



"Better check it, then. Any sign of Braxton?"



"He ain't in the car?"



"I had a look. It's some private dick on a divorce case."



"Then I ain't seen him."



"I guess that's all right, as long as they leave Miss Smythe alone."



"It doesn't mean they stopped lookin' for you, though."



"Yeah, but I'm being careful." We went to the back door, which I had unlocked once inside. Phil let me out and locked it again.



After five minutes of studying the street I tentatively decided that my Buick was unobserved. I was back to feeling paranoid again and went as far as checking it for trip wires and sticks of dynamite. Bombs were an unlikely tool for Braxton, but then why take chances?



The car was okay and even started up smoothly. There was little time left to get to the broadcast, but the god of traffic signals was with me and I breezed through the streets as quickly as the other cars would allow. Bobbi had left instructions with the staff about me, and as soon as I was identified, a brass-buttoned usher gave me an aisle seat with the rest of the studio audience.



The room was smaller than I'd expected, roughly divided between audience and performers, with only slightly more space given over to the latter.



There was a glassed-in control booth to one side filled with too many people who didn't seem to be doing much of anything at the moment. Bobbi was on the stage, looking outwardly calm. She was seated with a half dozen other people on folding chairs, all of them dressed to the nines, which didn't make a whole lot of sense for a radio show. Across from them a small band was tuning up, and in between, seated at a baby grand, was Marza Chevreaux flipping through some sheet music.



I caught Bobbi's eye and gave her a smile and a thumbs-up signal. She smiled back, her face breaking composure to light up with excitement.



She was in her element and loving it.



A little guy with slicked-back hair and an oversized bow tie stepped up to a microphone the size of a pineapple. Someone in the booth gave him the go-ahead, he signed to the band, and they started up the fanfare of the show. For a minute I thought the little guy was Eddie Cantor, but his voice was different as was his style of cracking jokes. A studio worker in an open vest and rolled-up shirtsleeves held up big cards printed with instructions telling us when to clap or laugh. The audience liked the comedian, though, and hardly needed the prompting.



A deep-voiced announcer stepped in to warn us against the dangers of inferior tires, then the band came up again, and Bobbi was given a flowery introduction. She was standing and ready at the mike. Marza got her signal from a guy in the booth, and they swung into a fast-paced novelty number. It was one of those oddball songs that gets popular for a few weeks and then you never hear of it again, about a guy who was like a train and the singer was determined to catch him. Off to one side, a sound-effects man came in on cue with the appropriate whistles and bells. Before I knew it I was applauding with the rest of the audience and Bobbi was taking her bows. She'd gone over in a big way and they wanted more.



When the noise died down the comedian joined her, and they read from a script a few jokes about trains the song had missed. The tire man came on after them with his stern voice of doom, and that was when someone poked me in the ribs from behind.



Braxton had turned up another gun and was hunched over me with it concealed in a folded newspaper.



"Stand up and walk into the hall," he told me quietly.



He was damned right that I'd do what he wanted. We were in a vulnerable crowd, and all I wanted was to get him alone outside for just two seconds. Showing resignation, I got up slowly and preceded him. The usher opened the door, his attention on the stage. He must have really liked tire ads.



The hall was empty except for Matheus, who was clutching his cross and looking ready to spook off. Braxton had done quite a job on him.



"I give," I said. "How'd you find me this time?"



Braxton was smug. "We didn't have to! We've been waiting. Last night you said Miss Smythe was going to be in a broadcast. I merely called around to find out which station and when. There was a risk you wouldn't show, but it all worked out."



If he expected me to pat him on the back for smarts, he'd have a long wait. "Okay, now what? You gonna bump me off ten feet away from a hundred witnesses? The wall between isn't that soundproof."



He hadn't picked up on the fact that I wasn't as afraid of him and his silver bullets as I'd been last night. The gun moved a degree or two left. "In there, and slowly." He indicated a washroom across the hall.



"That'll be some headline," I grumbled, " 'Journalist Found Dead in Men's Room; Police Suspect Lone Ranger.' Matheus, you better stay out here, this could be messy."



"Shut up."



"Have some heart, Braxton, you don't want the kid to see this. Save him some nightmares."



The elevator opened at the far end of the hall and a man in a long overcoat got out. He noticed our group, looked at his watch, and walked away, turning a corner. He was just part of the background to me, but he made Braxton nervous. He was suddenly aware of the openness of the hall and didn't like it.



"Move," he hissed. "Now. "



I looked past him to Matheus. Our eyes locked for an instant. It was long enough. "Stay out here, kid."



His expression did not change, nor did his posture, but I knew I'd reached him. He stood very still.



Braxton saw this exchange and his eyebrows went up, adding more lines to his dry, scored forehead. The gun wavered as he tried to decide whether to snap the kid out of my suggestion or shoot me outright. I saved him the trouble; when he came a half step closer and tried to urge me backward, I shifted my weight as though to comply and turned it into a lunge. It was faster, literally faster, than he could see and much faster than he could react.



The gun was now in my pocket, and he was staring at his empty hand as unhappy as any kid whose toy had been taken away. He looked up at me and thought he saw the grim reaper and made an abortive attempt to run, but I grabbed two fistfuls of his clothes and swung him around against the wall. His mouth opened and sound started to come out, but I smothered it with one hand.



Far down the hall I heard approaching footsteps. It was too public here, so I adopted his plan and dragged him to the men's room. The door swung shut and I rammed a foot against its lower edge to keep people out.



He was trying to struggle, his body bucking ineffectually against my hold. He was finally getting a clear idea of just how strong a vampire can be at night, with all his powers.



"Hold still or I'll break your neck," I said, and perhaps I meant it. He subsided, his eyes squeezed shut. From the pressure of his jaw, he was trying to hold his chin down. I was hungry, but not that hungry. It'd be a cold day in hell before I'd touch his blood.



His breath was labored, the moist air from his nose blowing out hard over my knuckles, and his heart raced fit to break. He needed to be calmer and so did I. Emotions, the kind of violent ones he stirred up in me, would only do him harm. I sucked in a deep lungful of air and let it out slowly, counting to ten. Outside someone walked past, the same steps that had chased us in here. They paused slightly, then went on, fading.



His eyes turned briefly on me, then squeezed shut again.



He had an idea of what I was trying to do and was on guard. It might be too difficult to break through to him without doing permanent harm. I shifted my grip and his eyes instinctively opened.



"Braxton, I won't hurt you, just listen to me."



He made a protesting sound deep in his throat. My hand relaxed enough over his mouth so he could speak.



"Unclean leach--"



"Listen to me."



"Damned, you're--"



"Braxton."



"--damned to--"



"Listen to me.'' His muscles went slack, his lungs changing rhythm slightly. Id gotten to him, but had to ease up.



"That's it, just calm down, I only want to talk."



He looked up in a kind of despair, like a drowning man whose strength has gone and knows you won't make it to him in time.



"Everything's all right"



I didn't understand how it worked any more than I understood the mechanics of vanishing at will, but I had the ability and now the need.



My conscience was kicking up, but beyond moving to another state or killing him, there seemed no other practical way of getting rid of him.



"Everything's fine, we're just going to talk"



Without any more fuss, he slipped under my control. I relaxed and opened my cramped hands. His eyes were glassy rather than vacant.



"Braxton?"



"Yes?" It was the quiet voice this time, the reasonable one he'd used at my parents' house.



"Where is Maureen Dumont?"



"I don't know." was disappointed, but not surprised. "When did you meet her?"



"Years ago, long time."



"When? What year?"



"I was twenty-five or -six." He struggled to remember. "I opened the store in 1908, she would come and buy books and talk. She was so beautiful" His voice was softer with the memory. "She would talk with me. I dreamed about her. She was so beautiful."



What had he been like back then? The brittle body might have once been wiry, the seamed face once smooth. There had been a firm chin and dark eyes and skin; yes, to a woman he might have been handsome back then.



"Were you her lover?" I had to keep from touching him or he'd shake off the trance. Jealousy was foaming up inside; I couldn't touch him or lose control of myself.



"I loved her. She was so--"



"Were you her lover?" Stay steady.



His eyes were wide, blind, searching inward for an answer. "I don't know."



"What do you mean? How can you not know?"



"I was, in my dreams. I loved her at night in my dreams. She would kiss me." One of his hands stole up to his neck. "She would kiss me. God, oh my God"



I turned away. I never meant to hear this. "Stop."



He became quiet, waiting and unaware while I mastered myself. There was no point in hating him, no point in condemning Maureen; not for something that had happened nearly thirty years ago. She'd loved Barrett and Braxton and then me. Were there others? Had she indeed loved me?



"Braxton did you take did you ever kiss her in the same way?"



"No."



It was something.



"She wouldn't let me."



Oh, Maureen. Yes, it was something. He hadn't been that important to her. She'd been lonely and needed someone to hold and touch, if only in his dreams. That was it and that was all.



"When did you last see her?"



"Which time?"



I made a guess. "The first?"



"A year after we met. She never said good-bye; the dreams just stopped, I forgot them. But she came back."



"When?"



"Twenty years later? Twenty-two? One night she walked into the shop. I knew her instantly and I remembered it all. She hadn't changed, not aged a single day, but I--she didn't know me, not until I said her name. I was frightened, I knew what she was, what she had done to me and what I would become unless--" He relived his fear quietly, the only outward sign of the inner turmoil was the sweat that broke out on his face. His heart was racing.



"Unless what?"



"I wouldn't be like her, feeding on the living, sucking men's souls from them. If I killed her first, then I would be free. I could die free of her curse. I began to hunt her."



"When? What year?"



"In 1931."



So this was the man. She'd run from him, leaving me standing in an empty room, a scribbled good-bye note in one hand and the life draining from my eyes. Five years of hurt, doubt, anger, and fear because this foolish man thought she wanted his soul instead of the warmth of his body when he was young.



"Did you find her?"



"No, but I found out about you. I knew what she'd done to you, but if I tried to help, you wouldn't have believed me. Your only hope was the same as mine--to kill her--but then you died first and now you're one of them. I'm sorry I couldn't have saved you."



It was pointless trying to explain it to him. Whether Maureen lived or died didn't matter; we'd exchanged blood, and hoped. She'd loved me, and had expressed it by giving me a chance for a life beyond life so we would always be together. But then something had gone wrong.



"Do you know what happened to her? Do you know where she is?"



"No."



"Are you the only one? Are there others hunting her?"



"Matheus, he believed me, he knows."



"Who else?"



"I don't the old woman, she must know."



"Gaylen? The old woman here?"



"Yes. She knows something, she knew back then--"



"What do you mean?"



Something bumped against the door.



"I asked, but she wouldn't--"



Bump. "Hey, open up." A vaguely familiar voice, but not Matheus.



--tell me. She wanted--



"Come on out, Fleming."



"--life to live--"



"The kid says you're in there."



"Cheated. She was sick--"



"Who was? Of what?" The other voice was distracting, and I was losing the thread of Braxton's talk.



"--strong frightening. I told her my story, but it was you she--"



"Fleming, it's now or I scrag the kid."



What the hell? I yanked the door. He was in a long coat, which changed him enough from the last time, so from a distance he was unrecognizable when he stepped off the elevator, looked at his watch, and walked away.



A long coat, which was all wrong because it was only mid-September and still mild. But he wore it because that made it easy to walk into a building with a sawed-off shotgun concealed under it. He shouldn't have been here, he was supposed to be in a parked Ford waiting for Mrs.



Blatski.



He grinned at my surprise, his dimples nice and deep, and without any more expression or warning he pulled first one trigger, then the other, emptying both barrels into the open doorway.