Song in the Dark

He was surprised enough for three, rocking back on his heels with a sharp yelp. I almost did the same, but the door was directly behind and wouldn't allow the movement. Instinct took over. I struck out fast, popped him one, and he dropped.



I stared down at him, considering my situation.



Two dead guys in the room and an unconscious one out here in the hall.



Who had seen me appear out of thin air.



A simple problem to solve-if I could still hypnotize without risk of killing myself. No. Couldn't chance it.



Damnation.



Well, first I had to get Strome out of here, then I'd deal with what he'd seen. I hauled him up on one shoulder and took the freight elevator. The area below was clear, though there were three flat trolleys piled high with paper-wrapped goods parked along the hall. People were talking around a corner, coming our way. I hurried toward the exit and pushed awkwardly through, Strome's weight throwing my balance off. The cold air didn't wake him.



We were in an unused part of a blind alley. Not much sun could get in between the buildings, so the last snowfall, glazed over by a layer of sleet, was still in thick drifts. I braced Strome against a wall, scooped up some mostly clean snow, and rubbed it in his face.



"Strome? Hey, c'mon!"



His eyes flickered, then he came shooting awake, staggering and staring around, his hand automatically going for the gun in his shoulder rig.



"What the... ?" he focused on me.



I glared right back. "Did you do it?"



Confusion. Just what I wanted. "Do what? Where am I?"



"Outside the Ruzzo's hotel. Did you kill them?"



"What? I-" He felt his jaw and froze. "Ruzzo's dead?"



"Since earlier today. Someone bashed their heads in Capone-style with a baseball bat. That's why I popped you one.



Was it you?"



"No!" He was outraged and perhaps a little scared. I was scared myself.



I was used to his stone face as the norm, but this reaction rang true. Besides, it took his mind off other matters. A clout strong enough to send you unconscious was usually enough to scramble your memory. You could lose the last half hour or the last month, or even the whole works of a lifetime. All I wanted gone were the last ten minutes. So far he wasn't asking inconvenient questions. That was my job.



"Why were you at the hotel then?" I asked.



"Looking for Ruzzo. I got a line they were hiding there. Thought they might be hiding Hoyle, too."



"Sure you didn't kill them?"



"Never! I never went near 'em! No!"



I took him off my suspect list for the moment; even if he'd changed clothes and washed, I'd have picked up the bloodsmell on him. Plenty of other crimes to check out, though. "Did you put a bomb in Gordy's car?"



His reaction to that one was also convincing. "A bomb? What the hell you talking about?"



I told him, and he didn't believe it. I stood back so he could get a look at me. "Believe it," I said. "Kroun's dead. I think Hoyle teamed with Mitchell, and I need to know which side of the fence you're on."



"With you and Gordy!"



"What about Mitchell?"



"I hate that weasel-eyed son of a bitch. He ain't stand-up. Never was."



"Do you know where he is?"



"No."



"What about Hoyle? You know where Hoyle is now?"



"Yeah... I got a line. Maybe."



"Maybe?"



"If he wasn't with Ruzzo, I was gonna check on it. Word's out on that reward, but the guy I talked to don't have the stones to go after him. I promised him a hundred for the news, but only if it was solid."



Interesting. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"



Strome looked at me like I was being unfair. Which was true. He'd hardly had time to work up to it. "Listen, I was gonna call Derner, get some boys, and go in. Hoyle ain't the sort to come quiet."



"Where is he, then?"



"The garage where he keeps his car."



That made sense. Wish I'd thought of it.



"You wanna check out Hoyle's garage, Boss?" he asked.



"Lead the way."



Strome was plenty shaken to judge by the backward glances coming my way as I followed him from the alley. I must have been giving him the creeps. Not my problem. He took us to where he'd parked his car, and we got in. I thought about phoning Lady Crymsyn. Escott would be in by now, but there was no telling how long Hoyle might stay in this garage or if he was even still around. If he had brains, he'd be putting distance between himself and the murders.



If he really had brains, he'd have never crossed me from the start.



"Ruzzo's murder," I said. "If Hoyle didn't do it, who else would?"



"Anybody who met them."



"Seriously. What about Mitchell?"



"Yeah, he could do it. Donno why he would. You just covering the bases, Boss?"



Considering how the murders had been accomplished, his choice of phrase was unfortunate. "Yeah. Can you think of any reason why Mitchell would want to kill me?" So far as I knew, Strome was unaware of the run-in I'd had with Mitchell at Crymsyn.



"He'd only do it if Kroun told him to."



"That's what I thought. Kroun must have been the real target from the first, but they rigged things to take me, too.



The trigger was on the passenger door. It was meant to go off when he had company. Derner said Hoyle knows explosives."



"Yeah, learned 'em in a mining camp out West. So Mitchell got him to make one? But why should Mitchell kill his boss?"



"With Kroun gone, Mitchell moves into his spot with New York, while Chicago gets the blame for the death. He's keeping his own backyard clean doing it here. Sound reasonable to you?"



"Yeah."



"Ruzzo becomes inconvenient to Hoyle for some reason, and they die. What you bet maybe Hoyle becomes inconvenient to Mitchell?"



"Because he don't want Hoyle to talk about the bomb?"



"All he has to do to get away with bumping Hoyle is say it was payback for Kroun's death."



"Smart stuff, Boss."



"Would it fool New York?"



He shrugged. "Depends whether they want to believe him or not. Could be Kroun's got pals back there who don't like him much, and they have Mitchell here to bump him. We get the blame. You will, anyway. Far as New York goes, they don't know you and don't want you."



"The feeling's mutual, I'm sure. We gotta find out one way or another from Hoyle."



"Not easy. I might have a chance to talk with him, but otherwise he'll start shooting. He's got a grudge on for you, and I never heard of him holding back ever on one of those."



"He'll just have to take his chances. I'm not feeling too damned kindhearted toward him, either."



The area Strome drove to was one of those little pockets of the city where the deep-night creeps could make themselves very much at home. During the day it was a place of cheap shops and small factories with obscure names turning out God-knows-what for who-knows-why. The grimy building fronts indicated business wasn't good, but struggling along. At noon the workers could descend upon the corner bar at the end of the street for a quick beer, sop up the sports scores, and lay bets down for the next event with their friendly local bookie. It was very likely part of Gordy's operation, and if I troubled to walk down there and give my name, I'd have his same level of respect.



Or be shot at. Territorial concerns were ongoing and strong in this town.



Strome parked the car and pointed. At the other end of the block from the bar was a low, one-storied structure. It looked like it had started out to be one thing, then changed to another halfway through, then no one finished the job.



Brick and mortar with blackened windows, the roof was sheet tin that cracked and rattled as the wind passed over it.



Part of one wall had been cut wide enough for cars to roll inside. There was no real driveway into it, someone had simply smashed the curb down and hauled off the rubble, so the change from street level was fairly abrupt. A faded sign next to it offered rates and a number to call.



We crossed the street, looking both ways a lot.



No watchman seemed to be on duty; the place was purely to park a car under shelter and good luck to you if it was still there in the morning. Actually, they just might be very safe there. Organized thieves would know better than to go after anything belonging to the mobs, and wiseguy stink was all over this block.



Nothing much to see, about twenty cars parked nose to the wall, ten to a side, all berths full. No lights. There was a string of bulbs hanging from a wire running down the middle length of the building, but a thrifty landlord had switched off the juice.



The racket from the stage-thunder tin roof was first nerve-racking, then annoying. The pops and bangs were irregular, and if anything else made a noise, I might not hear it.



The far end wall had been likewise cut open for a wide entry, but one of the berths was empty. I thought that might have been Hoyle's space and he'd long cleared out, but there was his car right next to it. I remembered the color from when he'd run the shooting gallery in front of my club. Good news at last. I hoped he'd be close to his transportation.



Right against the wall next to the entry were cement stairs leading down. The steel door at the bottom had a serious-looking bolt-type lock. Strome said Hoyle might be hiding out down there. I don't know how Strome thought he'd be able to talk his way in. When I gently tried the knob, it turned, but the door remained fast shut.



Strome produced a skeleton key and got the lock open, then shot me a sideways look. "Better let me go in first."



"I'm boss. It's my job. You watch my back and come if I yell. Get up top and keep your eyes open, he might not be in, and I don't want him surprising me."



He didn't much like that, but went up the stairs. As soon as he was out of sight, so was I. The gap at the bottom of the door was more than wide enough, sparing me from having to sieve through the bricks. I hated that.



I very slowly re-formed on the other side.



The pessimist in me expected to find pitch-darkness, but light there was, electric, its source at the other end of a cellar that was as wide and long as the building above. It strongly reminded me of Lady Crymsyn's basement before we changed everything. This one didn't look like any amount of new paint and lights would ever chase away the shadows.



The rough ceiling was low and, from where I stood, only a bare inch above my head. A long passage flanked by walls and support columns led the way to what might be a partitioned-off room; there was a blanket hanging across the opening. I breathed to get a scent of the place; the thin vapor hung miserably in the air. Cozy. The smell was of damp cement, oil, gasoline, with a strong hint of urine and sewer stink.



No bloodsmell. Encouraging. Quite a huge relief, too. I'd been mentally sweating about what might be down there.



Breathe in, sort out the flavors...



And there... very faint... human sweat.



It acquires a truly distinctive tang after reaching a certain age. This sample wasn't quite to the level of workhouse bum, that would take another couple weeks; so someone else was using the place for shelter. A dump like this was for emergencies only. Hoyle's circumstances must have qualified.



I also picked up cigarette smoke and... perfume?



The crazy thought that Hoyle had gotten lonely and hired some company to help pass the time danced through my head. Then a far more insane idea cropped up: Evie Montana.



If he'd killed Alan Caine, too..., oh, hell. Had to get down to the end, see if she was still alive.



I'd been right about the noisy tin ceiling; it almost covered a humming sound coming from the direction of the light. Partially transparent, I moved cautiously forward for several yards, floating silent over the uneven floor. Coming to rest just short of the source of the light, I went solid, hugging the wall, and listened.



And son of a bitch, he was behind me.



Began to turn, began going transparent again.



"Hold it!" Hoyle's voice boomed in the confined space.



I halted the turn and the change. If he shot me, it wouldn't kill, but it'd hurt like hell. Hoyle thought he was in charge, but that could be a valuable advantage.



Half-turned, I glimpsed his revolver aimed square on me, and the muzzle was for at least a .32. Of course, from my angle it gave the illusion of being much larger. He was ten or twelve feet away. He could hit me if he wanted to, and he was right on the edge for it.



"Hands up! Stay right like that."



No problem. I raised my arms up and out, mostly out.



"How the hell did you get in?" he asked.



I thought his first question would be how the hell had I made myself float around half-invisible. The light was pretty bad in the alcove, though. He'd seen me come in, but perhaps only as a shape in the darkness, and could have missed the real fun. He might not even know it was me. One way to find out.



"I bought tickets. There's a bunch more of us on the way to take in the show."



"Fleming?"



"Yeah." I went semi again, expecting him to shoot. Counted to five. Nothing. Wanted to see his face. Solidified, I turned a little more.



"I said hold still!"



I cooperated.



"Out there. March."



I assumed he meant go to the end of the line where the light was and ducked under the hanging blanket. Since he didn't fire when I did that, I must have called it right.



He had more space than my walled-up sanctuary, but that was all the nice you could say about it. A mechanic's light hung from a nail, casting harsh shadows. There were bits of debris on the floor, empty tin cans, a lot of beer bottles. In one far area were some relatively clean boxes with warning and danger signs painted all over them. Next to those, spools of wire and less identifiable things, and tools. I knew just enough about bomb-making to be uneasy.



More prosaically, a pile of blankets lay on an aged army cot, and close to it stood an electric heater, the source of the humming sound. Home sweet hideout. Evie Montana, still wearing Alan Caine's tan coat, was tied up on the cot, a rag stuffed in her mouth, a blindfold on. Her body was tensed head to toe, listening.



I paused in the middle, feeling the ceiling pressing hard, and started to face him.



"No, you stay just like that." Hoyle was close behind, but not too close. I could still spin and take the gun away much faster than he could react, but he'd talk more if he thought he was the boss.



"Okay, you got me. Gonna bash my brains in like you did for Ruzzo?" That was one danger that was real for me, I was exceptionally vulnerable to any weapon made from wood. So long as he had only a gun, I was fairly safe.



"What do you know about it?" he snarled.



"I found what you left of them not long back. Then I talked with some guys, and they said where you kept your heap. Just call me Sherlock Junior. Why'd you do it?"



"Maybe they had it coming."



"That's all?"



"An' they knew some things they shouldn't."



"Like about the bomb Mitchell had you put on Gordy's car?"



"Who told you that?"



"I figured it out. You're going to have to buy Gordy a new car, you know."



"Stupid punk. Think you're so damned funny, think the sun rises and sets on your ass?"



"Not quite." No point sharing the irony of that with him.



"Well, there's some of us who know how things really work around here, and punks like you don't know squat."



"Why don't you tell me, then?"



He fired the gun. The bang was deafening.



I flinched, but was unharmed. The bullet bit a hole in the wall in front of me, above and to the right. I'd fired three into the ground next to his head, this was just returning the favor. We were lucky the mortar was soft and the bricks crumbly. A ricochet would have made this room a hell of a lot smaller, fast.



"How do you like it?" he asked.



"I'm gonna faint in a few days if there's much more excitement."



Another shot. I'd expected it, so I didn't flinch as much. My ears rang. I swallowed, trying to clear them.



"And that?"



"Hoyle, this wall's getting pretty boring. Even looking at your mug would make a change." I started to turn, but he told me to stay put again, his voice going up. Bad sign. He was the boss of the room, but he was nervous. "What's the matter? You think I can still follow through on what I said about killing you the other night? You've got the gun."



"I know how you work. I heard the boys talk. They say you can just look at someone and get them to do what you want."



"That's right. That's how I grew up to be president of these United States. I talked everyone into voting for me."



"Shuddup!"



Quiet now. Creepy to hear his breathing so near. Surprising it was that I could hear anything after the gunfire boom. I waited until he seemed more settled. "You got me. Now what?"



"I kill you."



"Not a good idea. Gordy's on the mend-"



"Gordy's on the outs! You can't hide behind him no more."



"I never did. I was only saying that you bumping Ruzzo is one thing, but bumping me... very bad idea. Too many people will go after you for that one."



"Yeah, and if I don't take you out, you'll still be after me."



"Not necessarily. Depends on what information you can give about Mitchell's plans."



"I don't know nothing."



"He told you plenty. That's how he was able to talk you into the bomb. He wanted Kroun removed and thought you'd be the best bet. Am I right? Then he sees to it you're protected from payback..." A new thought popped into my head. "Of course this place ain't his idea-it's yours. You're hiding from him."



No response.



"An' the only reason you'd wanna hide from him is if he'd killed Ruzzo. It's a double cross. Am I right?"



"Maybe."



"Come on, help me out here and help yourself. What happened with Ruzzo?"



"I went there and found 'em like that. It wasn't me."



"But you emptied their wallets, didn't you?"



"What if I did? They weren't needin' it."



"You were hiding with them?"



"At first. Then Mitch came over, an' we got to talkin'. He knew me from when he worked for Morelli. I tol' him how you was screwing things up, so we went off private for a drink and made some plans."



The plans being to send Kroun and me in pieces to kingdom come. "You make your bomb here?"



"In his hotel room; I was hiding with him for a day. I'd moved outta Ruzzo's place, but left some things, an' when I went back..."



"Must have been a shock." From which he quickly recovered and was able to coolly pick their pockets for spare cash. Nice guy. "Where's Mitchell?"



Silence.



"Why have you got the girl here?"



"Why do you think?"



He was just egging me. There were still bullets left. I make a move and boom. He'd want that. "You got the girl because Mitchell wanted her. Now why in the middle of all this malarkey does he want a date?"



"You tell me."



I couldn't see Hoyle's hands, couldn't see if they were scratched up or not, but the fact that he'd not killed Evie sparked a new line of thought about Caine's and Jewel's murders. "Because she knows something she shouldn't.



Because he's afraid of her."



"Mitchell afraid of a twist." Contempt in his tone.



"Because he thinks she saw him kill Alan Caine."



More silence.



"But you worked that out already, didn't you? So why did Mitchell kill Alan Caine?"



"Damn you..."



"Come on, Hoyle. Bump me, and Gordy feeds you to the fish. You can definitely count on Mitchell disappearing you-you know too much. But ease off, and you get out alive."



"Mitch won't kill me."



"The hell he won't. He has to give New York a corpse for killing Kroun, and you're it. But I've got people waiting to grab him. If we walk into Gordy's office and say the same thing, he's toast. You can say he asked you to make a bomb, only he didn't say for what. I can get you clear."



"Why should you?"



"Because I'm just really tired of people getting killed. Kroun took me down a notch tonight because of that. Almost the last thing he said was I didn't have it in me to order people killed, and he was right. I'll look after myself and my own, but I don't mark through names on a page."



"No guts."



"That's right. But I can get you clear. Evie can back us up, too."



"You kiddin'? She's an idiot. That's how I got her so easy. She was dumb enough to go back home to pick up an extra pair of socks, then take a ride from a stranger. But what a mouth for saying a whole lot of nothing."



I could imagine that's why he'd gagged her, so he wouldn't have to listen to her talk. He'd likely questioned her, though, and figured out why Mitchell wanted her. "You wanna get out of this breathing? What d'ya say?"



He didn't say anything while I stared at the wall.



"C'mon, Hoyle." I must have cut close to the bone, given him too much to think about. Counted a slow ten, then said, "If we don't do what Mitchell expects, don't kill each other... then we can both go after him. We win, he loses."



A very long silence. Cautiously, I tried turning again. He let me get all the way around.



He looked bad. Unsteady on his feet, having to brace with one hand on the ceiling, unshaved, and eyelids twitching. He was scared. Of me. I understood now. My threat to kill him, with or without eye whammy, was something he'd taken to heart.



"Where's Mitchell?" I gently asked.



"I donno. If I did, he'd be dead."



"We need him alive to take the whole blame."



"None of that matters," he said.



I recognized the finality of his tone. Scared or not, he'd made up his mind. "I get ya. It's how it's supposed to be.



You can come clean with me, I won't be walking out with anything you say. Why did he kill Caine?"



Hoyle made a slow smile. On his broken, rawboned face it was a very unpleasant sight. "You'll never guess." He centered the aim of the gun. "And you'll never know..."



Even as I rushed forward and grabbed-



-another gun went off and Hoyle's right eye exploded in a puff of red that splattered hot on my face. Bone and brain hit a fraction behind that, and Hoyle dropped heavily on me.



I reeled under his sudden weight, dizzy from the abrupt change, struck the wall, and felt my legs go. Couldn't do anything but fall over with his body on me, my wet face against the freezing concrete floor, arms loose, hands spasming. Too much like that other place where Bristow had...



No... please, God, no not again ...



The stuff within unsympathetically took over, set me to groaning and shivering as though from malaria. I was cold inside and out and empty and lost in the dark forever; it would never let go its grip. I might as well declare a surrender and vanish.



But I couldn't. A dim part of me was aware I had a witness who'd already seen too much.



"Boss? Hey, Boss? Fleming? What is it?" Strome's voice cut into my fog. There was a concern in his tone that told all I needed to know about what he saw at the freak show.



The weight lifted as he dragged Hoyle's body off me.



"You're okay," Strome insisted. "I got him. It's over! Hey! It's over!"



Oh, God...



I pulled my arms in tight, tried to suppress the shaking. Locked my jaw, refused to let any more sound escape.



Nothing to do but wait for it to fade. I hated him seeing me like this. God, I felt sick.



The humiliation finally played itself out.



Strome knelt on one knee next to me, gun in hand, his stone face showing worry. "Jeez, I dint know you were so bad off. Thought for a second he shot you. You okay, now? You need a doctor or somethin'?"



"I told you to say put," I rasped. A change of topic. Anything so long as it wasn't about me.



"Seemed like I waited there long enough. Thought I should check on you. Good thing you left that key in the lock on the outside. Heard you guys, saw he had the drop on you. Jeez, you ain't mad 'cause I killed him, are ya?"



Shook my head. I felt a lot of things, but mad wasn't one of them. I was too tired and ashamed of my weakness to feel anything else.



"I'll back up whatever you wanna say about this," Strome added.



"I don't wanna say squat. Ever. If we work this right, Mitchell gets the heat for it."



"Sounds good. You need help?"



I was making ready to stand, and let him take some of my weight as I struggled up.



"You find out where Mitchell is?" he asked.



"No." I paced a little to make sure my legs weren't just fooling, making a point not to look at Hoyle's long form huddled on the floor. My face was still wet with his blood. I went to the hanging blanket and tried to wipe away the evidence. It'd take an all-day dip in that damned lake to clean this kind of stuff from my soul.



"Who's the twist?" He noticed Evie Montana. She lay so still I thought she'd been shot, too, but it was an animal's defense. Stillness meant you could be overlooked.



I went to Evie and told her who I was and to relax, she was going home. I said this before removing her gag and blindfold. Her eyes were crazy; I thought she might be in shock. She wasn't talking any. I found my folding knife and cut off the bonds, massaging her wrists, told her everything was going to be all right.



She must have been chilled through, but her flesh felt very warm to me, very soft and warm. I liked the feel of it too much. She looked up into my eyes, blanched, and launched clumsily off the cot toward Strome. She fit right under one of his arms. He looked surprised that anyone would come to him for protection.



"Take her up to the car, drive her where she wants," I said.



"What about you?"



Ignored him. "Tell Derner everything. Mitchell killed Alan Caine and Jewel Caine, God knows why. He's running loose, I want him landed. I'll look through this mess in case there's a lead to him. Now get out."



He got out, taking the strangely silent Evie with him.



I waited until they were quite gone, until the only sounds were caused by the heater and the wind playing on the tin roof. I waited, and if my heart had been working, it would have been going faster than any drum.



My brain was frozen, but the rest of me moved just fine.



My hands shook as I turned Hoyle so he was face-up. I pulled on his coat and shirt, opening them, freeing his neck.



Hovered over him, wavering, feeling the press of appetite. A part of me that stood outside myself looked down on at the dangerous, crazy man crouched on the floor next to a body so freshly dead it was still twitching. Hoyle was gone-



there was nothing left in his eyes-but that shot in the brain hadn't stopped everything yet. I heard that after death the brain could still send out messages, and the flesh, not knowing the futility of it, would try to respond.



My corner teeth were out.



And here was my food.



I dug into his exposed neck with the same force I used on the Stockyards cattle, ripping the skin to open the big vein. When I was with Bobbi I never went so deep. The smaller veins close to the surface were sufficient. If I went in like this, tearing into her carotid, she would die, bleeding to death in seconds.



Didn't have to worry about that with Hoyle.



I fastened my mouth on the flesh and drew on the blood. Even without a heart to pump there was plenty for me.



Death was in that first taste, not life. Dark, heavy, fascinating, and final.



For everyone else.



The realization flared through me like a storm.



It was my nature to feed from this kind of destruction. I was immune, so my craving for death was a safe, fundamental thing, inherent to what I'd become. Really. It had been like that with Bristow as he hung upended like a slaughtered animal, his blood flooding me, bringing me back from the edge. I'd thought the shadow taint was from his booze, but now I knew it had been his dying.



Another long draft, then I made myself lift away, sat up, and let it work in me. The cattle blood was pure and filling sustenance, but human blood satisfied another kind of hunger.



Or rather appetite.



They're different.



The awful and eager thing within urged me to go back for more, to empty him, take everything he had to try to fill my own void.



He won't need it, and didn't the taste feel so good?



This was why I so freely drained it from the cattle, trying to capture the too-swift thrill of red life that can only come from humans. Living, dying, or already dead, it didn't matter.



Yes, it was good. Much too good. I liked this far too much.



That was ugly to know.



But I continued to drink from this broken vessel, not caring, not caring as my soul slipped away.



The next time I noticed anything besides blood, I was on the street, walking hunched over, hands in my pockets.



My face was very cold at first, especially around my mouth. That was where Hoyle's blood had smeared.



I found a drift of snow and scooped some to clean up a little. Left behind a lot of fresh red on the pavement. Kept walking. I wasn't sure where I was and didn't have the energy to worry about it. My mind was fogged in. I wanted to sleep, but that wasn't going to happen. It was almost like being drunk, except with the opposite effect on my senses. I heard and saw everything, only none of it was worth my attention.



So I walked and walked and hated what was in my head, hated what I had become. Now I was one of those deep-night predators. Always had been. It had just taken me longer to figure it out.



With a kind of internal "Huh, how about that?" I realized I'd walked all the way to Lady Crymsyn. The look of the street seemed changed, but that was my doing. I was changed, and my perceptions made the world different.



I had company. Coldfield's car was in Crymsyn's lot next to Escott's. I tried the front door. It was locked, but, no problem, just vanish.



Listened when I went solid again.



Radio music upstairs, low conversation from the main room. Light on behind the bar as usual.



I whispered. "Hi, Myrna, I'm back. How was your evening?"



Nothing blinked in response. Maybe she was enjoying the radio in my office.



Wandered into the main room. Escott, Coldfield, and Isham had taken over a large round table closest to the curving passage. Before them was a litter of glasses, full ashtrays, and cartons gutted of their Chinese food. The boys were playing cards and hailed me as I came in. I stood in the shadows of the curved entry.



"Something wrong?" asked Coldfield.



I shook my head.



"Jack!" said Escott. "Derner called to say that Evie Montana is alive and well and that the other problems have been solved, but he refused to go into detail on the phone."



I stepped clear of the shadows.



"My God, is that blood on you?"



I looked at their alarmed and questioning faces and realized this long night was about to drag on even longer.



God, I wanted a drink. The old-fashioned, alcoholic kind. It was safer than the other stuff.



Talking about it made it real all over again. That's why I'd sent Strome to deal with Derner. I didn't like the remembering or the taste of the words. The bloodsmell clung to me; I seemed to notice it more here. I skipped the ugly business with Hoyle. Even I didn't want to know that part, but was stuck with it. When I finished, the atmosphere had turned irredeemably gloomy, and no one seemed to want to speak first.



"Everything was quiet here?" I asked after a moment.



Escott stirred slowly, as though reluctant to move.



He shot a look at Coldfield, who asked, "What about this Mitchell bird? Your guys covering places like the train station and the buses?"



I almost winced at his calling them "your guys." They weren't mine, just borrowed. "Mitchell probably won't leave until he's killed Hoyle. He doesn't know he's dead yet." The leftover smears of Hoyle's blood seemed to pull at my skin.



I wanted to wash them off. "Mitchell's our proof. If we can bring him in alive and send him back to New York in one piece, that'll clear up the whole mess and keep Gordy from getting blamed for Kroun."



"But Kroun's death happened while you were on watch. Won't they be blaming you?"



"It'll still come back on Gordy because he put me in charge. My reputation's not hot with the big boys, but I can live with that."



"You sure?"



"I'm sure. No problem."



Coldfield, Isham, and Escott went off their separate ways. I told them I was tired and wanted to clean up. Escott gave me an odd look, but didn't say anything. I felt sorry for him. Once I'd locked up I went to the basement, turning on all the lights. We had a small workshop there with tools and other equipment. I found what I needed and made what I wanted. It took about an hour to make and get the fit perfect. I'd only need one.



Then I went upstairs and showered. Emptied the hot-water tank again. No matter. It still didn't warm me. I was past shivering, though, cold and numb inside and out.



Up to my office. Bathed, shaved, fresh clothes. They used to improve my frame of mind. Not tonight. Fortunately, there wasn't much night left.



I found box of stationery and used a few pages. In the end none of the pathetic scribbles seemed right, so I tossed them in the trash.



Dawn was a minute away when I stretched on the couch. I would fight off the temporary death to the last second so it would seize me faster, preventing the awful paralysis from taking over a slow inch at a time.



Only a few seconds to go, my body beginning to stiffen up, I lay flat and shut my eyes. I sensed the sun's approach and fought it, fought its weight on my bones, its freezing of my joints.



When I was utterly anchored in place, so solid that it would be impossible to vanish and heal, I knew it was time-



and that I could do it.



Absolutely my last conscious act was to put my revolver's muzzle to my right temple and pull the trigger.