by Graham, Jo
Moreover, it was exhausted. It must rest. It must recover its strength.
But the hounds were relentless. They did not rest. They followed it still, and if it paused they would be upon it.
The only solution was distance. It must put miles between them so it could rest. It must lose them long enough to gain respite, no matter the danger that entailed.
And then it must kill them. There is, in the end, only one way to get a hound off the scent.
Chapter Fourteen
Lewis skidded to a stop at the curb, earning a warning shout and a raised fist from the driver of a delivery van. Davenport scrambled on, dodging traffic in a chorus of horns, and in the far lane a carthorse backed and plunged in its traces, garbage scattering from the overfilled wagon. Someone yelled something, and half a block away the cop directing traffic turned to see what was going on. Lewis swore, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for a break in the traffic. He wasn’t sure how far he’d come, only that they were going west, towards the Stockyards, more or less, at least from what he remembered of a week spent in the city seven years ago. He hoped Davenport didn’t know it any better, but he had a sinking feeling he might. He craned his neck to see Davenport, moving briskly away, and Mitch slid to a stop beside him, breathing hard.
“Davenport —?”
“There.” Lewis saw a break in the traffic, darted forward, heard Mitch curse as he followed. They were just in time to see Davenport turn a corner, and Lewis broke into a trot, Mitch at his heels. He reached the corner, slowed as he realized they were indeed on the edge of the Stockyards, and then saw Davenport taking the steps to the L station two at a time.
“He’s taking the train,” he said, and Mitch caught his arm.
“Slowly,” he said. “We don’t want to spook him any worse.”
Lewis paused. That made some sense, although he wasn’t sure how much worse it could get. Well, no, there was a lot worse. There was scared enough to attack, scared enough to try for a new body, a new host. He had seen it, in the Institute, and was only grateful that it had gone for one of them rather than a stranger, and was even more grateful that the amulets had worked. He was very aware of his own, clattering against the change in his pocket; he could still see the instant of fear as Alma braced herself, the relief as the thing rebounded and returned to Davenport’s body. “Are there other entrances, do you think?”
“Just there,” Mitch said, pointing up the street. “He can’t get out that way without us seeing him.”
“He’s going to take the train,” Lewis said, and Mitch glanced at him.
“Do you see that, or what?”
“It just makes sense,” Lewis said. “He’ll stand out like a sore thumb in the Stockyards in that suit.” And so will we, if we have to chase him there. “I bet he’s trying to get back to the Loop. We can’t chase him there without it looking pretty funny.”
“It looked pretty funny back at the Institute,” Mitch said. He nodded. “Ok, let’s see if we can follow without him noticing.”
They paid their nickels and edged onto the platform, trying to keep out of sight. At least there were maybe a dozen people there ahead of them, and they hung back in the shade of the overhang. Lewis caught a glimpse of Davenport’s hat, the gray hair untidy beneath it, and ducked back out of sight. “What do we do once we catch him?” he asked.
Mitch touched the back of his head, wincing, and resettled his hat so it wasn’t pressing on the bruise where he’d hit the wall. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that. That’s more Jerry’s department.”
Lewis gave him a look. “Seems to me we might be better off with a plan.”
“Yeah, you might be right.” Mitch glanced down the platform again. “I don’t want to lose him, that’s the main thing. We don’t have to take him now — in fact, I think we’d better not, not when we don’t know what to do with him, and when there’s too much risk that he might — jump — somewhere else.” He paused. “If we could get him off somewhere by himself, I suppose we could hit him over the head and tie him up until the others got here….”
His voice trailed off doubtfully, and Lewis shook his head. “I’m not thrilled with that idea.”
“Me, neither,” Mitch said. “I just — we’ll follow him, see where he goes to earth. Then we get Jerry and Al to help.”
The sound of an approaching train drowned any protest Lewis might have made. He really didn’t like the idea of mugging anybody, even Davenport, even knowing what Davenport was, and he especially didn’t like it in a strange city where the police were notoriously capricious in their corruption. He had a feeling Mitch was applying the first principle officers learned in the War: making a decision mattered more than what the decision actually was and whether it was right or wrong.
The train slowed and drew up to the platform with a squeal of brakes. Lewis saw Davenport get into the middle car, and he and Mitch climbed into the car behind him, shouldering their way up closer to the front of the car so they could see when he left. The train lurched into motion, moving north along the elevated tracks.
It was a long ride back toward the center of the city, and too noisy in the car to say anything, especially the things Lewis really wanted to ask. Except for one thing, he thought, and leaned closer to Mitch.
“Alma. She’s all right?”
Mitch nodded. “The, um, things you made, they work. She’ll have been scared — hell, I was scared — but she’ll be fine otherwise.”
Lewis nodded back. He’d been terrified himself, seeing that unnatural shimmer in the air, movement and purpose where his eyes told him there was nothing at all. And to see it leap for Alma — He shuddered in spite of the muggy air. The amulets worked, that was the main thing. They were safe as long as they carried them. He just wished that felt a little less like stalemate.
Davenport stayed on the train all the way north to the intersection with the Loop, and climbed off among a flurry of businessmen and clerks and stenographers. At least it made it easy to stay back in the crowd, Lewis thought, and concentrated on keeping Davenport in sight.
For a few minutes he thought the man was heading back to the hotel, but then Davenport turned south again, blending with the crowds heading for the La Salle Street station a few block away. Mitch muttered a curse, lengthening his stride to keep up, but even so, Davenport disappeared through the doors while they were still across the street. They had to wait for the traffic to clear again, stopped in the concourse to look around frantically. There was no sign of Davenport. Lewis took a breath, trying to steady himself. If Davenport wasn’t visible, maybe he could be Seen the other way. He let his eyes cross, trying to find the calm, the space he’d somehow found at the airport in Los Angeles, but nothing came. There was just the noise of the train station, footsteps and voices and the shriek of metal on metal from the platforms. Mitch looked up at the schedule board.
“It’s only locals now, the big east-bound trains don’t leave for an hour —”
“He’d need luggage,” Lewis said, with more confidence than he felt. Maybe he didn’t, probably a demon wouldn’t need it, and if it was running, all it needed was to find someone else to jump to —
“There,” Mitch said, with sudden relief. “There he is.”
Lewis lifted his head, saw the gray suit and hat moving toward the door. “He must think he shook us.”
“Yeah.” Mitch moved easily through the crowd, staying far enough back to keep Davenport in sight without risking being seen. It was after five o’clock, and the offices were closing; it was easier to lose themselves in the crowds. Davenport didn’t seem to be as worried now. He kept walking north, not racing the traffic or hurrying to make a light, just keeping a steady pace. Maybe we’ve got him, Lewis thought. They might be heading back to the hotel, or at least that was vaguely in the direction they were going. He checked a street sign as they passed. No, they were north of the Great Northern now, and turning west again. A white marble building loomed ahead: another train station,
Union Station, and Davenport was striding briskly through its doors.
“What the hell?” Lewis said. Mitch gave a shrug, his eyes fixed on Davenport as he approached the ticket window.
They were too far away to hear, but Mitch was studying the signs above the ticket windows. “That’s for the locals,” he said. “That doesn’t make sense —”
Unless it wasn’t Davenport, Lewis thought. All of a sudden, the hat, the suit looked different, darker; the set of his shoulders was different, the cadence of his stride. He reached into his pocket, found the mechanical pencil he always carried, and caught up with the gray-suited man.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, and the man turned, prepared to be annoyed. Not Davenport, not even much like him, only roughly of a height and heavier, older. Not Davenport at all. “I think you dropped this?”
The stranger looked at the pencil, shook his head. “Not mine, son.”
“Sorry,” Lewis said, and the stranger headed on toward the gate.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mitch demanded.
“It’s not him,” Lewis said. “It’s not Davenport.”
“What?”
“It’s not him,” Lewis said again. He shook his head. “I don’t know where we lost him, but we did.”
“Goddammit,” Mitch said. He didn’t bother to lower his voice very much, and a pair of secretaries gave him a wary look. He slipped his hat off, ran his fingers through his hair, wincing again as he touched the back of his skull. “How — Lewis, can you See him?”
“I tried before,” Lewis said. “And I didn’t get anywhere. But I’ll try again.”
Mitch looked at him. “When?”
“At the other station. La Salle.”
“And you didn’t see him?”
“I couldn’t focus on him,” Lewis said. “Couldn’t find him. I’ll try —”
“No.” Mitch looked suddenly very tired. “You won’t find him because he isn’t here. And hasn’t been for a while. We’ve been chasing an illusion.”
“What?”
“It, Davenport, whatever — it made us see what we were looking for,” Mitch said. “See him, follow someone that looked like him — probably the first person who looked at all like him, any guy in a gray suit. And our own desire to see him did the rest. Stupid, stupid.”
“The minute we questioned whether it was him, it wasn’t,” Lewis said, slowly. “That’s what… broke the spell?”
“It’s me who’s the idiot,” Mitch said. “I should have guessed he’d try something.”
There was a grumble of thunder from outside, and Lewis glanced up to see the skylights darkening. The clouds that had been lurking all day chose that moment to open up, and he shook his head. “That’s all we need. Ok, what do we do now?”
Mitch took a deep breath, shook himself hard. “Wait for this to ease off, for a start. There’s no point getting ourselves drowned.”
“I’m for that,” Lewis said.
“Then….” Mitch touched his head again. “Back to the hotel, join up with Jerry and Al — maybe Jerry got something useful, since we sure as hell didn’t. Davenport probably won’t come back for his bags, but we’ve got the tablet. We can still track him with that.”
Lewis nodded. He was suddenly aware that he hadn’t eaten since noon, and he jerked his head toward the lunch counter. “Ok. In the meantime, what say I buy us dinner?”
Mitch paused, and managed a reluctant smile. “You know, that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”
Alma waited by the elevator while Jerry inquired for messages at the front desk of the Great Northern Hotel. She knew from his expression that there were none before he returned to her. "Nothing?" she asked anyway.
Jerry shook his head. "Unless Mitch and Lewis came back ahead of us and are already upstairs. They haven't left a note at the desk and they haven't called."
Alma let him usher her into the elevator. "I wish we knew where they were."
"So do I," Jerry said worriedly. "They could be anywhere. I don't think there's any use in hunting all over town for them." He waited until they were out of the elevator and in the room before he finished his thought. "We've got the tablet. We could dowse for them on a Chicago street map if they're still after Davenport, but chances are it's a moving target. They'd be long gone before we could get a cab and get there."
"Let's save that option," Alma said. She too was worried, but she wasn't sure that running off half cocked and charging all over town was a good plan. And of course they weren't in the room. Even the most cursory inspection revealed that no one had been in the rooms since they'd left, not even the maid. Who probably ought to have been by now, since it was mid-afternoon. Alma poured herself a cup of the now long cold coffee and went to stand by the window looking down at the street. Back to the west the light was obscured by massive thunderclouds building, a classic Midwestern storm still miles away, the clouds purple beneath, burnished with fire above.
"I'm sure they're fine," Jerry said.
"I’m not," Alma said.
"Mitch has a good head on his shoulders and Lewis isn't fragile." Jerry came and stood beside her, his hands in his pockets. When he stood up straight he topped her by four inches. "You don't have to carry us all, all of the time."
"I don't?" Alma gave him a sideways smile, sipping the cold coffee.
"No." Jerry pushed his gold framed glasses further up on his nose. "God knows we've all leaned on you too much. It's probably not been good for us. Good for me." Jerry frowned down at the street. "I couldn't stay here alone ten years ago. That's absolutely true. And when you and Gil needed me, I have no regrets about being there. None. But being back in Chicago has made me start thinking, Al."
"About getting back in the field?" She took another sip of the coffee. "You should, Jerry. You can teach. You can translate. Ok, maybe not a dig in Mesopotamia, but there are a lot of things you can do, a lot of things that the world needs you to do. That's building the Temple too."
"I know." Jerry shrugged. "But it's not that easy. I've been out of it for a long time. There aren't faculties lined up waiting to hire me."
"Still, you could put out some feelers."
"I could."
Alma leaned back on him, bumping him with her shoulder affectionately. "I’m not trying to get rid of you, Jerry."
"I know that too." He bumped her back. "But you have Lewis now."
"I do. Whatever this is." Alma grimaced. "I don't know, Jerry."
"He's not Gil."
"Of course not." Alma shook her head. "There was only one Gil."
"Thank God," Jerry said. "I'm not sure the world would have survived two."
Alma grinned, as he'd meant her to. "We should call the hangar," she said. "That's the other place Mitch and Lewis might have left a message."
Jerry waited while Alma put through the call, eventually getting Henry's shop manager on the phone, who said he'd seen nothing of Mitch and Lewis at all, though he thought the Terrier was swell. He didn't mention that his shop inexplicably reeked of Musgo Real, which Alma thought was a mercy.
"Oh, and there's a telegram for you here, Mrs. Gilchrist. Mr. Kershaw sent it from St. Louis last night." Which explained why Alma wasn’t getting the usual nonsense from the shop manager once he discovered that Al Gilchrist was a woman. She was a friend of Mr. Kershaw, the big boss on the west coast, who could have a pet aviatrix if he wanted one.
Alma debated for a moment the wisdom of going down to Municipal Field and getting it or not, but Mitch and Lewis were still missing with no idea when they'd turn up. Besides, Henry was unlikely to have put anything bizarre in a telegram that would be seen by dozens of people, especially when he knew he'd have to send it to the shop since he had no idea where they would be staying. "Would you mind opening it and reading it to me?" Alma asked, feeling Jerry perk up beside her.
"In St. Louis flying southern route stop," the shop manager read. "Will be in NY tomorrow pm late stop. My man found Davenport cab
le stop. Bought ticket on Ile de France leaving Friday stop. That's all there is, ma'am."
"Thank you," Alma said, jotting it down on a piece of hotel stationery beside the telephone. "I appreciate it. Would you mind giving me a ring at the Great Northern Hotel if there's another cable or message?"
"Sure thing," the shop manager said. "Hope Mr. Kershaw's test flight is going ok."
"It's going fine," Alma said. Jerry was craning over her shoulder trying to read the note. "Thanks for everything."
She hung up and passed the message to Jerry, whose eyebrows rose. "Henry's in St. Louis?"
"He had to get back to New York for his airship launch, remember?" Alma said. "He's flying the southern route, LA to St. Louis rather than through Chicago. It looks like he laid over in St. Louis last night." She shook her head at the note. "But that's not the important thing. The important thing is that now we know where Davenport is going. He got tickets on the Ile de France out of New York for tomorrow." Alma let go of the note and swore. "Goddamnit. They've probably missed him. The Commodore Vanderbilt left Chicago for New York forty minutes ago, at three o'clock. It will get into New York tomorrow morning in plenty of time for him to make an afternoon sailing."
"Unless Lewis and Mitch tailed him to the station," Jerry said. "In which case they're probably on the Commodore."
"If they could get a seat at the last minute," Alma said. "It's a premium express train."
Jerry blinked. "Al, how in the hell do you always know the train schedules everywhere in the country?"
"It's our competition," Alma said. "The main reason people fly is to get somewhere faster than the train. So I need to know when the trains leave and how fast they can get you there. Otherwise how do you think I would ever sell a ticket? We can leave when you like and get you there sooner. It's the only advantage we've got. The train is safer and a lot more comfortable."
