by P. N. Elrod
Coidfield chuckled, but it faded when he looked at me. “You all right, kid?”
Escott glanced at his watch and correctly interpreted my situation. “Yes, Jack, you must be dreadfully tired after all this. Why don’t you have a lie-down?”
“He really should keep moving until this place warms up some more,” Coidfield advised.
“I’ll be fine,” I told him, dragging my stiffening legs over to the nearest cot. Pulling a damp blanket over my shoulders, I stretched out on the old canvas, turning to face the wall. The cot swayed and creaked, but decided to hold my weight. In a few more seconds the whole thing could drop through to the basement with me and I wouldn’t notice any of it. The money belt with my earth dug soothingly into my side.
“He’s had a busy time… quite exhausted himself,” came Escott’s voice as I started to drift away from the daylight prison of my inert body. “Probably sleep for hours …”
That’s for damn sure, I thought, and then I was gone.
With my condition, bunking down in a strange place is always a risk. The next time my eyes opened, I was relieved to note that the same wall was still a mere foot away from me and that all was quiet.
Escott was on a cot closer to the heater; he looked up from his magazine and nodded to me. Since his breath wasn’t hanging in the air anymore, I could assume the room had finally warmed up. I usually know offhand whether any given place is hot or cold, but it takes a while for excesses to become uncomfortable.
“Easy day?” I asked, cautiously sitting up.
“Exceedingly so. I found it to be a welcome respite. Isham came by several hours ago with some sandwiches. I persuaded him to let you sleep. If he should ask if you enjoyed your late lunch, you’ll know to say yes.”
I spotted the sandwich wrappings, neatly folded, on a stack of old papers. “How did it taste?”
“A little heavy on the mustard, but otherwise quite nutritious.”
“Any news?”
“A Manhattan criminologist has proposed establishing a criminal identification system based on the pattern of blood vessels in the eye. In these days of plastic surgery, it sounds most—”
“I meant here in town.”
“Ah.” He put away his two-week-old magazine. “Nothing, really. I filled Shoe in on everything, including your remarkable escape from Angela Paco—not to worry, I did not reveal the actual details, only that her people were looking the other way and you seized the opportunity. I also gave Shoe a message to pass on to Gordy and Miss Smythe to the effect that we are well and safe and they are not to worry.”
“That’s good, but I’ll want to call her when I can. Jeez, I could use a bath and a change of clothes. What about you?” I stood and stretched out a few muscles, rubbing my chin. Escott also wore some uncharacteristic stubble, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He even looked rested. Our rough surroundings must have suited him.
“Both would be welcome were they obtainable. You’ll find a washroom across the hall, but the water is freezing.”
And we were fresh out of towels, I discovered after rinsing my face off, but no complaints—not aloud, anyway. We were still moving and kicking and for that I was grateful.
A door creaked open downstairs. Escott and I were in the hall at the same time, both looking and listening. His revolver was ready in his hand, his heart beating a little fast.
“It’s me,” our visitor called.
Escott sighed in relief, but didn’t put the gun away until Coldfield was actually in sight.
He stopped on the landing and raised one hand, palm out. “Hey, I’m on your side.”
“Indeed you are. Do come up.”
Coldfield carried a covered basket. “Want any supper? Straight from the club kitchen.”
The basket was stuffed with the basics of a portable feast, more than enough for all of us; even the coffee was still hot. The no-doubt savory smells only inspired the usual pang of queasiness for me, though, and I had to beg off.
“Still got that bad stomach, huh?” Coldfield asked as he set out food.
“Yeah. Must be slow digestion or something. There was a lot of mustard on those sandwiches.”
Escott kept a straight face, but it was a struggle.
Coldfield didn’t notice. “I keep tryin’ to tell Isham that not everyone likes that much heat, but it never seems to sink in. It’s where he was raised. He’s from Louisiana, y’know, and that kid’s eaten things I wouldn’t step on.”
Escott nearly choked on his coffee. “This from a man who has partaken of jellied eel?”
“Only because you told me it was really salmon.”
“The light was poor.”
“Uh-huh.”
I was tempted to ask for more details, but it would have to wait for a better time. “Anything going on outside?”
Coldfield shook his head. “Kyler got back to his hotel around two in the morning and stayed there, but his men are still looking for you, so I wouldn’t get hopeful. He’s got the top floor of the Travis blocked off and nobody, but nobody’s getting up there.”
“Not even the cleaning staff?” Escott put in.
“You figure.”
“And Miss Angela Paco?”
“No one’s heard a peep from her. The papers are going crazy playing up last night’s shootings and so are the cops. They’ve got no witnesses and the bodies sure as hell aren’t talking.”
“What about the prisoner she took?”
“Maybe she’s still holding him. If he’s the same Vic I know of, he’ll be lucky to come out of things with a whole skin. He used to work for her daddy and changed sides when Kyler took over. I can imagine how that’s made him real popular with the old crew.”
“I’d just like to know what they wanted us for,” I said.
“It’s bound to be for something lousy, kid. By now every hood in the Midwest knows your name. The best favor you can do yourself is to get out of the area. Mexico is just peachy this time of year. Both of you can probably use the sun.”
Escott and I exchanged openmouthed looks, then broke up. His own laughter was brief and subdued, mine bordered on the lunatic. Coldfield was disgusted. Escott made a placating gesture.
“My apologies, Shoe. It is an excellent idea, but not really practical for either of us.”
“And letting Kyler chop you into fish food is?”
I sobered up fast. “It won’t come to that. I’m going to settle things with him tonight.”
“How? Kyler’s locked in his own private fort with men all over it like ants on a sugar cube. You going to ring the front bell or come down through the chimney? That’s about as far as you’ll get before they cut you in two the long way.”
“I’ll be all right.” I think, I silently added.
Escott backed me up. “He knows what he’s doing, Shoe. Otherwise, why else would Kyler be taking such elaborate precautions?”
“Elaborate, hell. He’s like that all the time. It’s how we all survive, and you should know it more than most after what nearly happened to you this morning.”
“We both know it,” 1 said. “But I’m handling this one and I will be ea refill.”
“If you want to go that bad, I can’t stop you, but I’d like to know what the hell you have in mind.”
Not that he could be blamed for his skepticism; in his place I would have felt the same, but I could give him no real answer. Eventually I’d lind Kyler, but beyond that point my imagination stopped working. It was a form of self-protection. I simply did not want to think about what would have to be done until the time came to do it.
Coldfield measured me up with a dark expression that had nothing to do with his skin color. “Charles, are you going to tear out there as well to get yourself killed?”
“Not necessary this time, Shoe. Jack should be able to handle things.”
“How? What are you not telling me?”
I shrugged. “I can’t go into it now and don’t want to. I have to get moving, anyway.”
>
Coldfield’s frustrated curiosity could have burned a hole right through me, but he kept it under control. Maybe he was thinking of questioning Escott after I’d left. “You gonna need a ride?”
“Thanks, but I’ll find a cab. Safer for all of us. Does that phone work?”
“Yeah.”
I crossed over to it and memorized the number. “I’ll call when I have any news.”
Escott nodded slowly, correctly interpreting what I meant by “news.” I tried unsuccessfully to swallow a hard knot of something that had suddenly formed in my throat. A good thing I didn’t have to breathe regularly or I might have choked on it.
The time had come to leave. Coldfield led us downstairs and unlocked a different door than the one we’d come in by. I emerged in another alley, buttoning the pea jacket against the wind.
Escott wished me luck. Nobody shook hands; it wouldn’t have been appropriate. As I slipped away, he murmured, “Don’t underestimate him, Shoe. He’ll be all right.”
“Uh-huh. Where do you want to send the flowers?”
I wasn’t looking forward to any of it, but the process of actually getting started made it seem like the worst was over. Not exactly true, but I was better at lying to myself than to other people. I wondered how successful Coldfield would be at getting information from Escott.
The cab could wait; I needed a walk to limber up my muscles and clear my brain of clutter. I flushed city-tainted winter air in and out of my lungs like a normal man. It had a harsh taste but I liked it. The knot in my throat began to loosen.
After a mile or so, the character of the neighborhood improved from bedraggled buildings and empty lots decorated with broken glass to small shops and other businesses. Foot traffic was light and my earlier optimism about finding a cab waned. A line waiting at the next corner told me that a bus was on the way. I stood with them, commiserating with an old lady about the weather. The talk didn’t last long. I was the wrong color for the place and with my business hanging over my head, I didn’t feel much like conversation no matter how banal.
The bus came, we boarded; I didn’t know or care about its destination, it was enough to be moving. Pieces of the city glided by one block at a time. People crowded around me, their bits of talk and tired silences passing over my head as though I wasn’t there. I stared out the dark glass of a window that gave back everyone else’s reflection but my own.
It was already here, waiting, the sweet isolation that had once carried me into the darkness of my own mind. The muscles in my neck tightened for an instant as I began to resist it, and then relaxed just as abruptly. What was the point? I was going to kill a man; better to accept the fact now and get through the job quickly than fight it and have a dangerous internal distraction.
And damned if we didn’t drive right past the Travis Hotel just then. The carved stone letters of its name jumped out at me like a dare. I felt a smile twitch to life in the corners of my mouth.
A respectable four-story structure on a regular city street, it gave no outer indication of inner skulduggery. Maybe I was expecting to see sinister guys with black hats and machine guns lounging around the entrances smoking cheap cigars. They were probably all waiting in the lobby. I got off at the next stop and backtracked.
This required caution; I had to keep my eyes open for Kyler’s people, but not look conspicuous. Lost cause. My clothes and stubble were fine for a soup kitchen or a dockside riot, but here they only drew unwelcome attention. I crossed the street so I could view the place from a discreet doorway without offending innocent citizens.
The spot I’d picked out offered some shelter from the wind, but the awkward placement of a streetlight left me a little too visible for comfort. Since the store it led to was closed for the night, I took a chance and vanished, re-forming inside. The place sold ladies’ clothes and the front windows were a busy display of some of their best items. I bent low so that my head would more or less blend in with the phony ones showing off the latest in hats, and studied the hotel opposite. Undignified, but it was out of the cold and away from immediate sight, and didn’t seem to have any rabid guard dogs.
People passed back and forth across my field of view, cars did the same. The place was disappointingly normal. Except… the top-floor windows were all lighted. No exceptions. Kyler might have thought that leaving the lights on would scare away the boogeyman; that, or draw him into a trap. I didn’t like the idea, but nothing would be resolved until I made a move. I went out the back of the shop and took the long way around to one of the hotel’s service entrances.
Working with Escott had helped me develop something of an instinct for spotting the kind of human predators who would work for Kyler. I looked for them now, anticipating he’d have an army of hoods scattered around the area. Sometimes they’re pretty obvious, but often it’s not what you see as much as what you feel, like the way your skin creeps when a bad storm is coming. Right now, I was aware that I could not rely on that instinct. The last few nights had left me so jumpy that I was reading sinister motives off every face up to and including a couple of nuns rustling by to make their bus at the next corner.
The alley running behind the Travis had the usual loading areas and doors for the staff. It was deserted now, which surprised me; I would have expected Kyler to have someone watching his back. Again, they could be waiting inside for trouble to show up.
Invisibility has numerous advantages, but I was having second thoughts about using it now. I could—literally—slip through a door and feel my way around the place. However, there was always the chance of materializing in the wrong spot at the wrong time, giving some bystander heart failure and the hotel a reputation for harboring stray ghosts. No, thanks. On the other hand, I wasn’t too crazy about the alternative I’d just thought of, given my fear of heights, but it would be better than wasting time blindly creeping through the halls.
I’d done this sort of thing before, but never for such a height. That knot in my throat, which was a solid symptom of my own fear, returned as I looked for a likely place to start.
The fire escape was promising, but too obvious. If Kyler was expecting me—or anyone else, for that matter—he’d have men covering it. Instead, I chose to try the east side of the place. The lighting was brighter, but the next building over showed only a blank face, with no inconvenient windows.
Pressing close against the hotel’s outer wall, I vanished and moved slowly upward.
Distances can be very deceptive in this form, but I was prepared for that and not too surprised when it seemed to take only a moment to find the first irregularities in the wall marking the ground-floor window. I drifted over the smooth planes of glass and bumped into the next outcrop of brick above the opening. The wind got stronger the higher I went, whipped up by the narrow channels between the city’s artificial canyons.
Second-floor window. If my pores had been intact, I might be sweating badly by now, fingers slick and slipping. Did human flies have this problem as they worked their stunts? Concentrate. A gust of wind hit hard just then and was gone, free and careless. I’d read somewhere that the Windy City appellation had more to do with Chicago politics than the weather. From this insecure perch, the writer would have undergone severe revision of that opinion.
Third floor. I was like a snail, sliding on an invisible foot up endless tiers of bricks. Keep going. Hold tight against the persistent tug of wind but don’t go through the wall just yet. If I got dragged away I could tumble for miles, unless I panicked and went solid, which would mean a long drop lasting a very short moment. I’d survived some terrible things since my change, but that was one experience I did not want to test.
Fourth floor. The window was shut fast. Didn’t matter. I plowed through it and was inside with something solid beneath me once more. Oh God, but I hate heights.
I wanted to re-form for some badly needed orientation, but couldn’t chance it just yet. Waiting and listening, I swept slowly through the room, looking for company and finding
none. I poured back into reality again, grateful to have a body once more, even if it was shaken and shaking.
The window had led me to a luxurious hotel room. The Travis had not stinted on comfort when it came to the owner and his guests. The bedspread looked like real silk and the carpet was thick and new, its nap still at attention from the last cleaning. Mine were the only footprints on it, magically beginning in the middle of the floor.
Behind the curtains, I noticed that the window was indeed protected by steel shutters, open now as if in invitation. That wasn’t right. Kyler wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave himself so vulnerable… not unless he’d unquestioningly swallowed Stoker’s novel whole. He might just believe the stuff about vampires being unable to enter a dwelling without an invitation. Escott had—before I set him straight on that and other myths.
I checked the sill, but found no sign or smell of garlic, mustard seeds, or salt.
The place was unnaturally quiet. Some sounds of living seeped up from the other floors, but nothing else, nothing close.
Damnation, I thought as I cautiously poked my head outside the room to check the hall. A carpet with a hypnotic pattern of stylized fans stretched away in both directions. The doors on either side were spaced well apart, indicating sizable suites. I stepped out, taking it slowly, listening for any activity behind them. Nothing. No talk, no radios playing, not even a toilet flushing. I went through one after another, but the rooms that were supposed to be crowded with Kyler’s people were empty.
I should have figured he wouldn’t wait around for me to come after him. The odds were strong that he hadn’t left any forwarding address, though I’d search just to be certain.
Down the hall in an unexplored room, a phone began to ring. I closed on it, then hauled up short, paranoid for a trap. Better to go carefully than quickly. I vanished.
