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is."
He drank his drink, listening until I'd run down and was out of
nonsense. "Do you wish to drop this and go home?"
"I don't knowyes. I think so."
He pushed the glass aside, got out his pipe, and spent some time
lighting it. He puffed and played with the match stubs with an absent
finger. "I see."
But he didn't, and I started up another protest, which he cut off with a
raised hand.
"I see that you're tired, upset, and frightened."
I glared at him.
"You've had too much coming at you in too short a time. Just because
your physical nature has drastically altered is no reason to think your
emotional nature shares the same advantages."
Advantages. Is that how he saw it? Confined to the night, avoiding
mirrors, always having to plan out the next feeding, worrying that
someone might get too curious about the big trunk in the cornerThe
whole business stunk and I was stuck with it, maybe forever.
"I'm just letting you know that I'm aware of how it must be for you
right now. I'm also letting you know that if you do decide to go home, I
won't be coming along just yet."
"And try to take on Barrett yourself? Maybe get killed? Is this some
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kind of blackmail to keep me here?"
"Not at all. What you decide for yourself is all right with me, and no
hard feelings. My own decision is to stay. I can't leave anyway at this
point. It might be open to misinterpretation by the police."
A smile tugged at my mouth. "Like charging you with body snatching?"
"I certainly hope not, but it is a possibility. They'll have no real
evidence against me, of course, but I'll have to remain until they say
otherwise. They could make a lot of trouble for me, and I've no desire
to lose my license."
His investigator's license wasn't the only thing that kept him going,
though. He had the same kind of curiosity that often got me into
trouble. In the last week, a lot of it had been burned out of me and I
was having trouble handling it in another person. Answering questions
solved problems for him; for me it only seemed to make new ones. The
emotional cost was distressingly high.
"You know if you stay you could get yourself killed. Barrett can do it
without even trying."
He nodded a little, his gray eyes yellow in this light. Of all people,
he knew exactly what he was up against, and it still didn't seem to
bother him.
My breath exploded out in a sigh. "All right. I'll admit I'm scared. I
don't like what we're doing and what might come out of it, but we both
know that only a real bastard would run out now, and I'm no bastard."
He put down the pipe, maybe a little relieved after all.
"But," I added, "I've finally figured out that you are, when you want to
be."
His eyes flicked up in surprise and went totally blank for a long
second. I thought my joke had fallen flat until an abrupt bark of
laughter burst from him. Heads turned our way from the bar and he
stifled it quickly and returned to his pipe.
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"So what's next?" I asked.
"Next I think you should--" He froze again, this time looking past me at
the door.
I was careful not to turn around. "What is it?"
With a minimum of movement, he shoved the bag with the bottle, tubing,
and other junk across the table into my hands. "They can't see you yet,
so you can safely disappear for a bit. Nemesis is approaching and you
might be recognized."
I managed to vanish a second before someone large stopped at our booth.
"Good evening, officer," said Escott in an even, untroubled tone.
"Would you come with us?" It wasn't a question.
"Why? Is there something wrong?"
"Just come along, sir."
"I would like to know why."
A silence. The rest of the bar, as far as I could tell from my muffled
hearing, was quiet. "We got some questions to ask."
Escott made a knocking sound as he emptied his pipe. "Can you not ask
them here? I don't understand."
A second man drifted up next to the first, both looming over Escott.
They weren't taking any chances. "We'll fill you in at the station. Come
on."
There was some movement and more puzzled protest from Escott. I hoped he
wasn't overplaying his innocent-citizen act as they led him out.
I followed, clinging to one of the cops until we got into their car. He
sat in the back with Escott. Eventually he shivered and complained about
the cold, so I shifted over to the empty front passenger seat.
Escott made another attempt to get information from them and subsided
with obvious disgust. The rest of our short trip was made in silence.
After stopping, I lingered in the car long enough to materialize for a
quick look as they marched Escott inside. The station was tiny. The
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front windows disclosed a one-room office with a desk, phones, and
files. Through a wide heavy door in the back wall were the cells. The
ones I could see were empty.
We were in Glenbriar's municipal district. Conveniently across from the
jail was the courthouse and next to that an ancient structure claiming
to be the city hall. Down at the far end of the street, I abruptly
recognized the Glenbriar Funeral Parlor.
All its lights were on, blazing away like New Year's.
Oops.
Chapter 8
=========
I QUIT THE car, found a way around to the back of the jail, and slipped
inside, too nerved up for the moment to worry about my sore head.
The place was all linoleum and painted metal; nothing to get excited
about. The open door at the end of the cells led to the outer office,
and I crept up to it with my ears flapping, only nobody was talking. I
got in the angle created between the door and the wall and peered
through the crack made by the hinges.
Within the narrow strip, Escott's profile and part of a uniformed deputy
leaning his butt on a big desk were visible. The other man was out of
view, but a squeaking chair placed him a few feet in front of Escott.
They were all motionless except for breathing, and sometimes one of them
turned that automatic body pattern into an expression of impatience by
an occasional sigh. They made no offer to get coffee, which I
interpreted as a sign of Escott's ambiguous status with them. A guest
gets coffee and a prisoner you talk around like he's not there; Escott
was neither and that put my nerves up even more. I couldn't tell what
Escott was feeling.
A phone rang and the guy at the desk answered. He said, "Yeah," and hung
up. Five long, silent minutes later a car rolled up and another man [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]