“Too tempting to thieves?”
“Sí. Your friend wanted to pay cash for the rifle and the bracelets he bought, and my husband put it in the bank pronto.”
Eddie swallows a sigh. So much for hoping to get an address or credit-card number from her. He hadn’t been sure he could, but he had been planning to try.
While Eddie is inside the pawnshop, Sven Trout sneaks over to Eddie’s sedan. Taking a small velvet bag from one pocket of his denim jacket, he sprinkles some powder into the defrost vents. Then he takes a quarter-sized piece of carved limestone from another pocket.
Glancing at the door to make certain that Eddie hasn’t come out yet, he unscrews the cap on the gas tank and drops in the piece of limestone.
“Probably overkill,” Sven reflects, momentarily regretting the loss of the expensive charm. Then he chortles, “But then, that’s what I want, isn’t it?”
When the mist first creeps up Eddie’s windshield, he takes it for smoke and glances around to see which old oil burner is the source. He and Arthur have often joked that New Mexico has more old cars on the road than anywhere but Cuba.
No source for the smoke is visible, so he touches the car’s wiper controls. The wiper fluid only seems to make things worse. Craning slightly, he can see over the smeared area well enough to make the exit onto I-40.
As soon as he gets onto the expressway, he realizes that his problems are only beginning. Neither brakes nor accelerator behave as they should. He narrowly escapes being sideswiped by a pickup truck whose driver gives him the finger.
Traffic is compacting as the junction of I-40 and I-25, flippantly called The Big I by locals, rapidly approaches. Designed by someone with a very unrealistic idea of how traffic patterns work, the junction includes exits that enter into the fast lane, merge lanes that vanish with minimal warning, and some of the tightest cloverleafs in the city.
Cars enter the junction half-blind even under the best conditions. Eddie, struggling with a car that seems to speed up when he wants it to slow, to slow when he demands acceleration, to swerve right when he insists on left, is not driving under the best conditions. Only long experience driving this stretch keeps him in a lane at all.
Coasting whenever possible, tapping brake and accelerator in reverse of what long training has taught him to do, Eddie strives to get to a shoulder from which he can call for help. He is just daring to congratulate himself for achieving his goal when a tractor trailer, its driver intent on making his last delivery and getting home for supper, decides that he can slip in front of the erratically moving sedan.
Eddie just barely sees the looming white form. Instinctively, he steps on the brake. The sedan charges forward. There is a squeal of brakes, a crashing sound. Then nothing.
8
Make yourself into a sheep, and you’ll meet a wolf nearby.
—Russian proverb
“Has anyone seen Eddie?” Arthur calls out into the courtyard where Lovern, Vera, and the Changer are chatting.
“No,” Vera answers. “He was gone when we got here. I haven’t heard his car come in.”
“Nor I,” adds the Changer.
“Damn,” Arthur says. “Anson A. Kridd just phoned. Frankly, I was hoping Eddie could deal with him.”
“Have Anson call back,” Vera suggests. “We heard on the radio that there was a major accident at the Big I. Eddie’s probably tied up there. Or I can talk with Anson for you.”
“No, I can handle the Spider.”
Arthur retreats into his office.
Lovern is staring into the tea leaves in his cup.
“Call Eddie,” he says to Vera.
“What?”
“Call Eddie,” Lovern repeats. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Vera cocks an eyebrow but picking up another line, dials the number of Eddie’s car phone.
“No answer,” she says, surprised. “Maybe he isn’t finished at the pawnshop.”
“Maybe.”
Looking quizzically at Lovern, the Changer starts removing his clothing, remembers Vera, and heads to his room.
“I’m flying over to the Big-I,” he calls. “Omens are not to be dismissed lightly.”
“There are accidents there all the time!” Vera protests.
There is no answer. A few moments later, a large black raven flies out of the Changer’s suite. It croaks once and is gone.
The Changer is not completely certain why he had felt so compelled to follow up on Lovern’s “bad feeling.” Certainly there is no great affection between himself and the wizard—indeed, he tends to distrust Lovern rather than otherwise. Despite such thoughts, he continues to fly toward the Big I.
It is easy enough to find, coming as it does at the intersection of two highways. Today, it would be difficult to miss, for traffic is snarled out from it in all directions.
He has to circle twice before he is absolutely certain that one of the cars below is Eddie’s. The front end is crumpled against the rear of a tractor trailer. Two other vehicles—a pickup truck and a minivan—are also mixed into the pileup. The pickup has smashed into the back of Eddie’s sedan and the minivan nose first into the concrete shoulder barrier.
Emergency workers are feverishly trying cut through the driver’s side door to get to where Eddie slumps against the wheel. The Changer takes this as a hopeful sign. Certainly they would not be working so hard if Eddie were already dead. There must at least be some doubt.
Elsewhere in the chaos, others are helping the driver of the pickup from his vehicle. Blood courses from his ruined nose, but he seems to be walking on his own. The woman from the minivan leans heavily on a police officer, her hand covering one eye.
The man who had been driving the tractor trailer apparently has suffered nothing worse than a head cut. Holding a compress to his forehead, he is giving a statement to a police officer. The Changer perches on the cab of the truck to eavesdrop.
“I told you, Officer,” the man says in a Texas accent. “He sped up into me!”
“One of the witnesses claims that you suddenly changed lanes without warning.”
The truck driver, confident that no one will be able to gainsay him, shakes his head, then winces.
“I signaled, Officer,” he says self-righteously, “Besides, how could anyone miss something the size of my rig?”
The police officer grunts. Obviously, he is far from won over by the driver’s protestations.
With the rolling stride that marks the raven from the crow, the Changer walks to the back of the tractor trailer. The emergency workers have cut Eddie free now. He looks pretty bad—blood gushing down his forehead from a wide gash, eyes swelling shut, lips bruised and purple.
Ironic that both Lovern and the Changer have escaped death traps and that Eddie has been felled merely by accident.
Or was it an accident?
The idea excites the Changer so much that he hops from foot to foot. Perhaps Eddie’s accident was not at all accidental. Only he will know the truth.
Impulsively, the Changer decides to follow Arthur’s knight to the hospital and be on hand to question him as soon as he comes around. In his evidently critical condition, Eddie will certainly be refused visitors. However, no administration that has ever been designed could keep the Changer out when he is determined to get in.
When the ambulance departs, the Changer follows. In the congested traffic, raven wings easily pace the vehicle. As Eddie is being unloaded, the Changer lands and shifts into a field mouse. Running as fast as his tiny legs can carry him, he slips onto the gurney and hides between the padding and the frame.
Heart beating more rapidly than he had recalled was possible, the Changer trembles: waiting, listening, terrified as only a mouse can be.
In his motel room, Sven Trout listens to the radio, waiting impatiently for the traffic report. When the block of music ends, an obnoxiously cheerful DJ segues into commercials. Sven listens to an ad for auto insurance, a concert appearance by a rock star whose popular
ity waned a decade before, a local restaurant, and a casino. At last the traffic report comes:
“Watch out for the Big I,” a woman says over the sound of thudding helicopter blades. “There’s been a collision between a tractor trailer and several other vehicles that’s slowing down everything for miles in all directions. Emergency workers are on the scene now, but the congestion won’t be eased until long after rush hour. Alternate routes strongly recommended…”
She goes on to talk about other tie-ups, but Sven is certain with that peculiar sixth sense that is his own that this first accident is the one he wants. Initially, he feels quite cheerful, then doubt sets in.
What if Eddie wasn’t killed? Sven doesn’t fancy talking to his allies and hearing their scorn if once again he has narrowly missed his goal. He waits for the earliest news broadcast. Fortunately, the wreck is a top news story.
“Rush-hour traffic was hopelessly snarled earlier this evening,” the neatly coiffed anchorman announces, “when a tractor trailer and a passenger vehicle collided on westbound I-40, at the Big I. Miraculously, no one in any of the four vehicles involved in the accident was killed.”
A video clip of rescue workers removing an unconscious Eddie from his sedan runs as the anchorman continues his narration.
“All involved were taken to an area hospital for observation. One man remains in the intensive care unit in critical condition.”
The announcer looks up and smiles. The clip behind him changes to one of girls jumping around a basketball court. “Elsewhere in the news, the Lady Lobos are doing well! Stay with us for…”
Sven slams his thumb down on the remote, cutting off the commentary. He cannot tolerate another failure. Eddie is almost certainly the patient in Intensive Care. Very well. He will pay him a visit. It doesn’t need to be long, nor even in private.
He wonders if Arthur will be there. No matter, he can fool that stodgy bureaucrat—he’s done so before. It will be harder if Lovern is also there, but Sven is willing to bet that the hospital will be restricting visitors. Perhaps there will be no one there at all. Perhaps Arthur will be nervously pacing in the waiting room while his undeclared rival neatly ends the life of his staunchest supporter.
Chuckling, his good mood restored, Sven contemplates his strategy. A shapeshift will be helpful, that, a tidy white dress, and a badge. He wishes that he had more time to design his costume, but as soon as Eddie is declared out of danger (which almost certainly will happen more rapidly than the doctors expect), Arthur will have him transferred home. In any case, Sven has faith in his acting abilities—deception is as natural to him as breathing.
He is humming as he tries on his new shape. After a few phone calls, he heads out the door. First a quick stop at a department store, then off to the hospital.
Sven looks around the hospital’s neatly tiled environs with satisfaction. He had experienced no difficulty getting into the place, even into the Intensive Care Unit. Of course, he has made certain that he looks as if he belongs.
For one, he is no longer a youthful, flame-haired male. He has altered his shape to that of a kind-faced, somewhat over-weight, Hispanic woman, her permed hair drawn back into a neat knot. The relaxed dress code in the hospital has helped him to blend in as well.
No longer do nurses wear the stiffly starched white uniforms that recalled a nun’s habit. Instead, neat white skirts or pants are topped with pastel blouses identical to what he had just purchased. His/her costume is completed by a clipboard and an intent, slightly vague expression.
No one questions her as she walks briskly down a corridor, glancing at the nameplates, apparently on an errand for some doctor. Crisis is replaced by fresh crisis in these white corridors; no one has time to worry about a helpful stranger.
Sven locates Eddie’s room after several attempts. Waiting until the understaffed nurses’ station is busy with calls, she slips through the open door. Hooked into monitors and an IV drip, Eddie rests unconscious on a hospital bed. He is alone.
Efficiently, Sven draws the privacy curtain, trusting that no one passing by outside will wonder. Then she considers what her next move should be. She must be careful. If the monitors are unhooked, an alarm will go off at the nurses’ station: the same applies to any slow attempt at suffocation.
In the hazardous waste trash disposal, Sven finds a hypodermic syringe, needle still intact. It is the work of moments to draw some air. A large air bubble into one of Eddie’s major arteries and death should be quite prompt.
Humming, she selects the right spot.
“What are you doing?” says a male voice immediately behind Sven. At the same moment, the hand holding the needle is hauled back. Sven is forced to drop the syringe.
Sven cannot turn, but she can feel the warmth of a large body behind her. The arm that had forced the syringe away is now pinning her right arm to her torso. The other has twisted her left arm behind her.
Immobilized, Sven considers the question that had been put to her. “No particular good, if the truth must be known. Who are you?”
A deep-chested laugh comes from her captor. “I believe that only I am in the position to make such demands. Who are you?”
Sven has managed to catch a distorted reflection of her captor in the metal tube holding up the IV. It is male, dark-haired. She suspects the Changer.
“You’re naked!” she squeals indignantly, not daring raise her voice too loud, but hoping to be overheard nonetheless.
“So I am. I am also stronger than you and have you in a rather awkward position. Tell me who you are!”
Sven rejoices that she had added perfume to her disguise. This, combined with the restrictions of a human nose, is clearly keeping the Changer from making an absolute identification. Still, the longer she is his captive, the more likely he will be to figure her out.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” Sven says, and shapes a hissing rattlesnake that surges out of the woman’s clothes.
The other shifts instantly (it must be the Changer, damn his eyes!), becoming a mongoose that seizes the rattler before it can coil to strike. Sven shifts into a komodo dragon and lunges for Eddie. Unfortunately, he has underestimated his size.
The komodo dragon is swift, but short, and his heavy tail lashes out, knocking one of the monitors to the ground. Alarms go off. Shouts come from the direction of the nurses’ station.
Sven knows the complications that being caught in a questionable shape can create. The Changer, clinging to the back of his blunt head, refuses to let go.
Panicked, Sven shifts into another reptilian form, this one a slim, swift garter snake that eludes the mongoose and slithers under the curtain and out the door. Staying close to the walls, the garter snake ducks under an equipment cart and waits, its cold heart beating uncomfortably fast. The chill of the tiles seduces the reptile to torpor.
Although nearly exhausted, Sven becomes a tan spider. He doesn’t like being an insect. Even the most venomous are too easily killed, but his repertoire of nonhuman shapes is limited and too many of them are large and menacing.
The Changer has not emerged from the hospital room or, if he has, he has done so in a form that Sven cannot see. The latter possibility terrifies him until he decides that the Changer would not leave Eddie until he is certain that the other man is safe.
Carefully, Sven spiderwalks down the wall, then leaps to catch a ride on a passing gurney. When he is clear of the ICU, he locates a locker room and steals a pair of pants, a set of sneakers, and a shirt. The outfit isn’t the fashion statement he would have preferred, but he is willing to settle—especially since he can tailor his human form to accommodate the clothes.
With the Changer on his trail, he cannot linger. Eddie can wait. They all can wait. The end result will be the same.
In Eddie’s hospital room, the Changer quivers in mouse form beneath the beside table. He had barely had time to stuff the faux nurse’s clothes into the laundry bin and shift before the staff arrived.
Now he liste
ns while nurses and their aides reconnect the equipment, fretting aloud: “I don’t know how he could have knocked anything over!” the floor supervisor says. “I’m certain he’s been unconscious the entire time.”
“Spasm?” an aide suggests timidly.
“I guess.” The supervisor frowns. “Let’s get the restraints on him, then. We don’t want a repeat.”
The Changer agrees, waiting until they depart. He longs to find Arthur, to turn the guarding over to another and see if he can find sign of the shapeshifter he has just fought.
But he does not dare leave Eddie alone. The assassin might return, might invoke a sending of some sort. He shifts from mouse to raven and flaps to perch on the open bathroom door. From there, he spots the telephone.
Cocking his head on one side and suppressing a thoughtful “pr-r-uk,” he considers his options. The Changer flutters down, shapes himself into a man, lifts the receiver. A dial tone greets him. Well enough. The Changer presses the combination for Arthur’s cellphone.
“Hello?” Arthur himself answers. Oddly, his voice is soft, as if he is whispering.
“This is the Changer. I want you to come to Eddie’s room. He’s been attacked.”
“What?”
“He’s been attacked. Can you come here?”
“They suggested I wait until visiting hours, said that Eddie would be groggy from surgery.”
“He’s more than groggy; he’s out. Come here anyway. If someone tries to stop you, tell them you heard someone say there had been a crisis and you won’t rest until you see him.”
“I’ll try.”
“How long until you’re here?”
“Just a few minutes. I’m down in the lounge now.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting.”
“Right. Changer, what are you doing here?”
Grinning, the Changer hangs up the phone and shifts into a raven once more.
Arthur arrives within the promised few minutes, escorted by the protesting floor supervisor. Hearing them approach, the Changer reluctantly returns to mouse form and hides beneath the bedside table.
Changer (Athanor) Page 13
