She hadn’t learned a thing, and that must have raised a red flag or two.
Then she pointed at his plate, at the barely brown chopped sirloin, nothing else, not even greens. “You really ought to try cooked food now and then. What the hell are you going to get from that?”
“Nourishment,” he answered dryly.
She laughed. “Why don’t you just eat it raw?”
“Too hard to catch.”
She laughed again, silently this time, and he decided there was a very good chance he could grow to like this woman. She was clearly suspicious of him, or of what he appeared to represent, but that didn’t seem to get in the way of what had to be done. She was no doubt convinced she would figure it out before long. With or without his help.
Besides, if he was going to be honest, aside from her obvious intelligence, she wasn’t all that hard on the eyes, either.
He grinned to himself then, quickly bent his head so the grin wouldn’t show, thinking that a remark like that wouldn’t earn him any points with a woman like her.
As he ate, she explained that her orders were simple: she was to assist him in any way possible, smooth things over with bruised egos who might think he was trying to steal thunder and credit, and make sure he didn’t step on too many toes. “A snap,” she said wryly. “I can do it in my sleep.”
Not once did she ask for an explanation of his presence. By her tone, she obviously believed he would perform the courtesy without having to be prodded.
Then she waved a fork at the room and filled him in on the purpose of the convention: writers and readers of science fiction and fantasy from all over the South, she told him, with a sprinkling from other parts of the country. They filled the place to capacity once a year, listened to panels, watched movies, spent tons of money here and elsewhere in town, wore funny clothes at night, got drunk, got laid, and went home Sunday afternoon.
The police were usually around, but there was seldom any trouble. The convention had its own security, and handled its own problems pretty well.
This year, evidently, the emphasis was going to be on costumes, so he shouldn’t be surprised to see TV and movie characters walking around all day.
“You wouldn’t know it to look at them,” she said, “but most of them, the rest of the year, actually have a life.”
“More power to them,” he muttered, and signaled for the check.
“Hey,” she said, “did I say something wrong?”
He shook his head as he stood. But the afternoon had grown noticeably brighter while they’d had their lunch, and he didn’t want to waste any more time. As long as these people didn’t get in his way, he really didn’t care what they did or what they wore.
Frowning at his change of mood, she took him to the front entrance, where her car waited in a no parking zone. “Privilege,” she explained blithely, sliding in behind the wheel, and took off before he was settled.
They headed south, away from the hotel, not speaking until the city’s center had been replaced by low, whitewashed warehouses, bars, and a handful of restaurants with garish neon signs that at night probably looked inviting, but in daylight it only underscored their drab exteriors.
A mile or so later, she pulled sharply into the nearly deserted parking lot of a large supermarket, and stopped without cutting the engine. There were three other cars, a few forlorn shopping carts, and scraps and pages of newspaper fluttering wetly on the tarmac. Lookout Mountain rose starkly, sharply, directly ahead. Bare trees exposed a handful of small houses on the lower slope, and the color of pine only added to the bleak northern face.
The top was hidden in clouds.
Richard leaned forward and looked up to where the slope abruptly became vertical. “People live up there?”
“Nice town,” she answered defensively. “Only the tourists make noise.” She nodded at the mountain. “It isn’t fat, but it stretches back a ways. McCormick, last week, was found around there, to the right. You can’t see it from here. It’s a couple of miles along.”
Without warning, she pulled out of the lot. A block later the road forked beneath a hanging traffic light. “The back way,” she told him, pointing to the right. “We’re going up the easy way.”
Five minutes after the announcement, he doubted there even was an easy way up.
The road was narrow and steep, winding sharply around the contours of the slope, and she took it at speed. On the right a steep bank, wooded, with a glimpse of an occasional house or garage; on the left, a low guard rail that wouldn’t, he thought grimly, stop a scooter from breaking through and plummeting to the bottom. They were only halfway up, and already he didn’t like how small the buildings down there looked.
“Heights get to you?” she asked, taking a right-hand curve easily, and too fast.
He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t fly, that’s all.”
“Life’s too short,” was all she said as the curve veered left around an outcropping of bare rock.
There had been no other traffic since they had left the city behind. The few homes he could see were dark, more than a few were boarded up. A bulge of thin fog left the woods here and there, and a constant drizzle kept the road gleaming.
Another huge boulder swung them left again, and for a second all he could see was the valley between the boles of spindly trees.
Then Joanne said, “Oh, shit.”
The pickup was black, its windshield tinted too dark to show the driver.
It moved slowly, but it was in the wrong lane.
Richard braced one hand on the dashboard as Joanne hit the horn, then touched the brakes and yanked on the wheel to take them into the outside lane.
Without any hesitation, the pickup swerved over at the same time, glancing off the guard rail before centering on the lane.
“Jesus!” she yelled, braked and yanked the wheel again, but this time the tires finally lost their traction.
Richard watched helplessly as the world spun by in terrifying slow motion—trees, sky, trees again, the grinning grill of the pickup, and finally the pocked face of the boulder as Joanne, somehow, used the car’s skid to take them onto the narrow verge on the right where they jounced over a spindly bush before shuddering to a halt, not two feet shy of a thick-bored pine.
The truck didn’t stop.
For a long time nothing moved, and the only sound was the slow ticking of cooling metal.
Then Joanne slammed herself back in her seat and punched the steering wheel twice, and twice again. “Son of a bitch.” A snarl, and she kicked open the door, jumped out and screamed, “Son of a goddamn bitch!” at the empty road. She stamped a foot on the tarmac, kicked viciously at a pebble, and spun in a tight circle, punching the air with her left hand before, red-faced and panting, she leaned over and looked in the car. “You okay?”
He turned his head slowly. “I told you … I can’t fly.”
“Bastard,” she muttered, glaring down the mountain. “Goddamn blind bastard.”
Richard opened his own door and, after a moment’s pause to be sure he wouldn’t fall, made his way around the rear bumper and through what was left of the bush, his legs trembling slightly, his vision preternaturally clear. The drizzle felt good on his face, and he closed his eyes briefly and licked his suddenly dry lips. His stomach lurched once; a chill touched the back of his neck.
For him, for his kind, dying wasn’t easy, but once over that guard rail, it would have been.
He looked at Joanne and shook his head in admiration. “You are one hell of a driver, Detective.”
With a vague it-was-nothing gesture she sagged abruptly against the front fender. “Tell you the truth, I don’t feel like it right now.” A steady hand passed over her face and back through her hair. “But thanks.”
He squinted against a sudden, damp breeze and hunched his shoulders. There were highlights in the valley as sunlight broke through small gaps in the scudding clouds. Another hour, he thought, and there’d be no trace of the storm.
/> He cleared his throat; it felt packed with cotton. “Could you see him?”
“The driver?” She narrowed her eyes in concentration. “No. Probably some old fart, or some drunk.” She spat dryly. “Stupid bastard.”
He walked around the jut of the boulder, using the damp stone to keep his balance; the road was empty, and he could hear no engine either approaching or fading. When he returned, she was on the edge of the front seat, hands draped over her knees, staring at the road.
He stood in front of her, waiting until she looked up. “Bastard, yes,” he told her. “Stupid, no.” He jerked a thumb toward the spot where he had first seen the truck. “He was waiting there for us, Jo. When we came around the bend, he didn’t move until he was sure.”
She looked at him in confusion, grabbed the top of the door and hauled herself to her feet. “Are you sure?”
He walked over to the guard rail where the truck had ricocheted off, heard her follow as he crouched and pushed at the dirt and leaves beneath it.
“What?”
“Damn,” he whispered, and straightened, holding up a jagged square of glass. “I saw something as we came up, but it happened too fast.” He dropped it into her open palm. “It’s not a headlight, it’s part of a mirror. He could see us coming, but we couldn’t see him.”
“From up there?” She looked doubtful.
“It doesn’t take much. Just enough to know we were what he wanted.” He sniffed, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “When he hit the rail, it was no accident. He wanted that mirror gone.”
She bounced the shard thoughtfully in her hand, then tucked it into her jeans pocket. A nod got them back into the car, and after a deep breath, she turned on the engine, took another deep breath, and pulled out onto the road.
“What you’re saying is, he had to know we were coming,” she said quietly.
He nodded.
“He must have been … he was in the restaurant.”
“Or an accomplice, yes, someone to phone ahead and let this guy know where we would be.”
She drove in silence for the next few minutes, flinching when a line of cars rounded a curve ahead of them, glancing in the rearview mirror until they were well out of sight. Richard, meanwhile, stared out his window, seeing nothing but drab colors, no shapes at all.
It could be a trap, the Warders had told him; it was possible someone wanted to put him out of business.
“Possible” was no longer the operative word.
“You know,” she said at last, “you haven’t been in town all that long. And if nobody knows who you are or why you’re here, who the hell did you piss off?”
He couldn’t answer because he didn’t know.
A final turn, the land flattened, and they were there, in Lookout Mountain. Mostly white houses, most of them clapboard, a few brick and stone; hedges and picket fences, all of it looking a little old, a little weary under the clouds that hung not far above the trees. Here there was still no sunlight.
“The park,” he said suddenly. “Take me to this park, then get the girl and bring her.”
The car slowed.
“You going to tell me why?”
He heard the anger, and he ignored it. “No.”
Her voice was taut, without emotion: “Whatever you say, you’re the boss.”
If I live that long, he thought.
The lobby of the Read House was two-stories high. Thick, dark, wood pillars rose from an expansive Oriental-style carpet to a gallery above. Around the carpet’s perimeter were settings of high-backed chairs and love seats, cocktail tables and end tables. A small glass-door entrance was recessed in the south wall, facing across the lobby an elegant, now-closed restaurant. The west wall held the long registration counter, crowded now with lines of conventioneers checking in; a portion of the east wall was taken up by a pair of brass-door elevators.
One of them opened, and Miles Blanchard stepped out.
He glanced around as if trying to orientate himself, then headed directly for the nearest vacant chair. He sat with a sigh and a smile, lit a cigarette with a wood match, and dropped the match into an already-filled ash tray on the table beside him. He crossed his legs, leaned back, and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the vaulted ceiling.
Although he wore a dark, pinstripe suit with a muted red club tie, he didn’t feel at all out of place. These people were here to have fun, maybe do a little business, and that, he figured, was exactly his own purpose.
The only annoyance had been his room.
The hotel was divided into two sections—this, the original nineteenth-century building, and a newer addition beside it, on the other side of the mostly underground parking garage. To get there, he had to go to the fifth floor and use a skywalk to cross over the garage roof. The inconvenience was minor, however. Soon enough he’d figure out another way to enter and leave without being seen.
He already knew which room was Richard Turpin’s.
Besides, these people were fascinating. Had he not been on assignment, he might well have taken the weekend just to hang around and observe them.
As it was, on impulse, he had registered himself as a member, the easier to move among the growing crowds without having to answer questions.
The suit, however, would have to go eventually. Costumes were apparently going to be the order of the day once the convention began, and he had already been mistaken for one of the featured guests listed in a program he had been handed when he had signed up, and he didn’t want the attention, no matter how flattering it had been. He didn’t want to have to use his kit more than absolutely necessary.
In fact, he rather enjoyed the face he had chosen today—shading to make it lean, graying brown hair, sideburns, mustache, a blunted goatee that, he decided when he studied his reflection, gave him a subtle, rakish look. Pirate, perhaps, or the Sheriff of Nottingham.
Movement on his left turned his head slowly.
A thirty-ish woman took the wingback chair on the other side of the table. Slender, fair skin, high forehead, her cheeks lightly flushed and dusted lightly with freckles. She wore a fawn topcoat opened to expose a dark, silklike blouse and matching slacks. From a bulging pouch at her waist she took a leather cigarette case, took one out and put it to her lips.
Blanchard struck a match, leaned over, and lit the cigarette for her.
She inhaled, blew the smoke out in a rush, and touched a finger to her lips.
“Well?” he asked pleasantly.
She shrugged as she studied the tip of the cigarette. “If he’s not dead, which he probably isn’t, he’s going to be looking behind him all the time from now on.”
“Oh, I do hope he’s not dead,” he said with mock solemnity. “It would spoil the whole party.”
Her laugh was more a grunt.
He sighed his satisfaction—the game had well begun—and grinned. “Love your hair.”
Wanda Strand scowled her disgust. “Oh, please.” It was shoulder-length, fair and fine, and at the moment damp and frizzy. “If it rains anymore, it’ll look like I’m wearing a goddamn helmet.”
Blanchard crossed his legs. “Where is he now?”
“Talking to the girl, most likely. If he can get by that old dragon who watches her.”
He nodded. “He can. But he won’t learn anything.”
“Are you positive?”
“What does it matter even if he does?” He blew another smoke ring, and a passing young woman applauded sarcastically. He nodded pleasantly to her and, when she was gone, lowered his voice. “Even with that cop around, he won’t live long enough to tell anyone anyway.”
The woman didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
The pillars climbed past the gallery to a vaulted ceiling, and between them arches of polished paneled wood framed small areas where chairs and tables had been set against low railings with filigree below.
The rogue sat alone, right above hotel registration, and looked down at Blanchard and th
e woman, finding it almost impossible not to laugh aloud.
They seemed so earnest, so intent, so incredibly goddamn serious, it was nearly farcical. If they could only see themselves down there, children plotting away in the midst of chaos, smoking like steam engines … he looking pitifully out of place, and she looking as if she’d rather be anyplace else but here.
It sighed, then placed two fingers to its temples, pressing hard.
The headache was back, subtle and insistent.
Its return was unexpected, and the rogue couldn’t help a moment of anxiety as its fingers massaged in small circles, slowly, almost absently, less a cure than a means to pass the time until the throbbing passed.
If it got too bad, there would have to be a hunt whether he wanted it or not.
If there was a hunt, there was a fair chance Richard Turpin would succeed.
Or he would have done, in the past.
But the Strider had never come up against competition like this.
If the stories and rumors were right, the other rogues had been certifiably mad, unable to handle the twin poles of their existence. They had lost touch with Gaia, and with the center of their selves. Killing assuaged the hunger; nothing else mattered, not even the feeding.
Not this time.
The hunger was satisfied, but this time there was an additional goal. When it was achieved, the rogue would never have to worry again.
About anything.
And Richard Turpin would be dead.
Joanne stood beside her car and glared at the entrance to the mountain park. She was mad. No, she was furious. At Richard Turpin, for treating her like a rookie who didn’t even deserve to know the time of day, and at herself for reacting to him this way. It wasn’t as if they were partners. She had no special standing as far as he was concerned.
Yet it was galling nonetheless.
Get the girl. Bring her to me. Fetch, Jo, fetch.
Watcher: Based on the Apocalypse (World of Darkness : Werewolf) Page 8
