My gaze had drifted past the hood and on ahead. The building that had housed the Brutus Storage Company and the late Victor Melman no longer stood. A burnt-out, collapsed skeleton of the place occupied the corner, parts of two walls standing. I headed toward it.
Walking about it, I studied what was left. The charred remains of the place were cold and settled. Gray streaks and sooty fairy circles indicated that water had been pumped into it, had since evaporated. The ashy smell was not particularly strong.
Had I started it, with that fire in the bathtub? I wandered. I didn’t think so. Mine had been a small enough blaze, and well confined, with no indication of its spreading while I was waiting.
A boy on a green bicycle pedaled past while I was studying tie ruin. Several minutes later he returned and halted about ten feet from me. He looked to be about ten years old.
“I saw it,” he announced. “I saw it burn.”
“When was that?” I asked him.
“Three days ago.”
“’They know how it started?”
“Something in the storage place, something flam—”
“Flammable?”
“Yeah,” he said through a gap-toothed smile. “Maybe on purpose. Something about insurance.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. My dad said maybe business was bad.”
“It’s been known to happen,” I said. “Was anybody hurt in the fire?”
“They thought maybe the artist who lived upstairs got burned up because nobody could find him. But they didn’t see any bones or anything like that. It was a good fire. Burned a long time.”
“Was it nighttime or daytime?”
“Nighttime. I watched from over there.” He pointed to a place across the street and back in the direction from which I had come. “’They put a lot of water on it.”
“Did you see anyone come out of the building?”
“No,” he said. “I got here after it was burning pretty good.”
I nodded and turned back toward my car.
“You’d think bullets would explode in all that fire, wouldn’t you?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered.
“But they didn’t.” I turned back.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He was already digging in a pocket.
“Me and some of my friends were playing around in there yesterday,” he explained, “and we found a mess of bullets.”
He opened his hand to display several metallic objects. As I moved toward him, he squatted and placed one of the cylinders on the sidewalk. He reached out suddenly, picked up a nearby rock and swung it toward it.
“Don’t!” I cried.
The rock struck the shell and nothing happened.
“You could get hurt that way—” I began, but he interrupted.
“Naw. No way these suckers will explode. You can’t even set that pink stuff on fire. Got a match?”
“Pink stuff?” I said as he moved the rock to reveal a mashed shell casing and a small trailing of pink powder.
“That,” he said, pointing. “Funny, huh? I thought gunpowder was gray.”
I knelt and touched the substance. I rubbed it between my fingers. I sniffed it. I even tasted it. I couldn’t tell what the hell it was.
“Beats me,” I told him. “Won’t even burn, you say?”
“Nope. We put some on a newspaper and set the paper on fire. It’ll melt and run, that’s all.”
“You got a couple of extras?”
“Well . . . yeah.”
“I’ll give you a buck for them,” I said.
He showed me his teeth and spaces again as his hand vanished into the side of his jeans. I ran Frakir over some odd Shadow cash and withdrew a dollar from the pile. He handed me two soot-streaked double 30’s as he accepted it.
“Thanks,” he said.
“My pleasure. Anything else interesting in there?”
“Nope. All the rest is ashes.”
I got into my car and drove. I ran it through the first car wash I came to, since the wipers had only smeared the crap on the windshield. As the rubbery tentacles slapped at me through a sea of foam, I checked to see whether I still had the matchbook Luke had given me. I did. Good. I’d seen a pay phone Outside.
“Hello. New Line Motel,” a young, male voice answered. “You had a Lucas Raynard registered there a couple of days ago,” I said. “I want to know whether he left a message for me. My name’s Merle Corey.”
“Just a minute.” Pause. Shuffle. Then: “Yes, he did.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s in a sealed envelope. I’d rather not”
“Okay I’ll come by “
I drove over. I located the man matching the voice at the desk in the lobby. I identified myself and claimed the envelope. The clerk—a slight, blond fellow with a bristly mustache—stared for a moment, then: “Are you going to see Mr. Raynard?”
“Yes.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a small brown, envelop, its sides distended. Luke’s name and room number were written on it.
“He didn’t leave a forwarding address,” he explained, opening the envelope, "and the maid found this ring on the bathroom counter after he’d checked out. Would you give it to him?”
“Sure,” I said, and he passed it to me.
I seated myself in a lounge area off to the left. The ring was of pink gold and sported a blue stone. I couldn’t recall ever having seen him wear it. I slipped it on the ring finger of my left hand and it fit perfectly. I decided to wear it until I could give it to him.
I opened the letter, written on motel stationery, and read:
Merle, Too bad about dinner. I did wait around. Hope everything’s okay. I’m leaving in the morning for Albuquerque. I’ll be there three days. Then up to Santa Fe for three more. Staying at the Hilton in both towns. I did have some more things I wanted to talk about. Please get in touch.
Luke
Hm. I phoned my travel agent and discovered that I could be on an afternoon flight to Albuquerque if I hustled. In that I wanted a face-to-face rather than a phone talk, I did that thing. I stopped by the office, picked up my ticket, paid cash for it, drove to the airport and said good-bye to my car as I parked it. I doubted I would ever see it again. I hefted my backpack and walked to the terminal.
The rest was smooth and easy. As I watched the ground drop away beneath me, I knew that a phase of my existence had indeed ended. Like so many things, it was not at all the way I had wanted it to be. I’d thought to wind up the matter of S pretty quickly or else decide to forget about it, and then visit people I’d been meaning to see for some time and stop at a few places I’d long been curious about. Then I would take off through Shadow for a final check on Ghostwheel, heading back to the brighter pole of my existence after that. Now, my priorities had been shuffled—all because S and Julia’s death were somehow connected, and because it involved a power from elsewhere in Shadow that I did not understand.
It was the latter consideration that troubled me most. Was I digging my grave as well as jeopardizing friends and relatives because of my pride? I wanted to handle this myself, but the more I thought about it the more impressed I became with the adversary powers I had encountered and the paucity of my knowledge concerning S. It wasn’t fair not to let the others know—not if they might be in danger, too. I’d love to wrap the whole thing up by myself and give it to them for a present. Maybe I would, too, but—
Damn it. I had to tell them. If S got me and turned on them, they needed to know. If it were a part of something larger, they needed to know. As much as I disliked the idea, I would have to tell them.
I leaned forward and my hand hovered above my backpack beneath the seat in front of me. It wouldn’t hurt, I decided, to wait until after I’d spoken with Luke. I was out of town and probably safe now. There was the possibility of picking up a clue or two from Luke. I’d rather have more to give them when I told my story. I’d wait a little longer.
I sighe
d. I got a drink from the stewardess and sipped it. Driving to Albuquerque in a normal fashion would have taken too long. Short-cutting through Shadow would not work, because I’d never been there before and didn’t know how to find the place. Too bad. I’d like to have my car there. Luke was probably in Santa Fe by now.
I sipped and I looked for shapes in the clouds. The things I found matched my mood, so I got out my paperback and read until we began our descent. When I looked again ranks of mountains filled my prospect for a time. A crackly voice assured me that the weather was pleasant. I wondered about my father.
I hiked in from my gate, passed a gift shop full of Indian jewelry, Mexican pots, and gaudy souvenirs, located a telephone, and called the local Hilton. Luke had already checked out, I learned. I phoned the Hilton in Santa Fe then. He had checked in there but was not in his room when they rang it for me. I made a reservation for myself and hung up. A woman at an information counter told me that I could catch a Shuttle back to Santa Fe in about half an hour and sent me in the proper direction to buy a ticket. Santa Fe is one of the few state capitals without a major airport, I’d read somewhere.
While we were heading north on I-25, somewhere among lengthening shadows in the vicinity of Sandia Peak, Frakir tightened slightly upon my wrist and released the pressure a moment later. Again. Then once again. I glanced quickly about the small bus, seeking the danger against which I had just been warned.
I was seated in the rear of the vehicle. Up near the front was a middle-aged couple, speaking with Texas accents, wearing an ostentatious quantity of turquoise and silver jewelry; near the middle were three older women, talking about things back in New York; across the aisle from them was a young couple, very absorbed in each other; two young men with tennis racquets sat diagonally to the rear of them, talking about college; behind them was a nun, reading. I looked out the window again and saw nothing particularly threatening on the highway or near it. I did not want to draw to myself the attention that any location practices would involve either.
So I spoke a single word in Thari as I rubbed my wrist, and the warnings ceased. Even though the rest of the ride was uneventful, it bothered me, though an occasional false warning was possible just because of the nature of nervous systems. As I watched red shale and red and yellow earth streak by, bridged arroyos, viewed distant mountains and nearer slopes dotted with pinion, I wondered. Is S back there somewhere, somehow, watching, waiting? And if so, why? Couldn’t we just sit down and talk about it over a couple of beers? Maybe it was based on some sort of misunderstanding.
I’d a feeling it was not a misunderstanding. But I’d settle for just knowing what was going on, even if nothing were resolved. I’d even pay for the beers.
The light of the setting sun touched flashes of brightness from streaks of snow in the Sangre de Cristos as we pulled into town; shadows slid across gray-green slopes; most of the buildings in sight were stuccoed. It felt about ten degrees cooler when I stepped down from the bus in front of the Hilton than it had when I’d boarded in Albuquerque. But then, I’ d gained about two thousand feet in altitude and it was an hour and a quarter further along in the direction of evening.
I registered and found my room. I tried phoning Luke, but there was no answer. I showered then and changed into my spare outfit. Rang his room once more then, but still no answer. I was getting hungry and I’d hoped to have dinner with him.
I decided to find the bar and nurse a beer for a while, then try again.
I hoped he didn’t have a heavy date.
A Mr. Brazda, whom I approached in the lobby and asked for directions, turned out to be the manager. He asked about my room, we exchanged a few pleasantries and he showed me the corridor leading off to the lounge. I started in that direction, but didn’t quite make it.
“Merle! What the hell are you doing here?” came a familiar voice.
I turned and regarded Luke, who had, just entered the lobby. Sweaty and smiling, he was wearing dusty fatigues and boots, a fatigue cap, and a few streaks of grime. We shook hands and I said, “I wanted to talk to you.” Then: "What’d you do, enlist in something?”
“No, I’ve been off hiking in the Pecos all day,” he answered. “I always do that when I’m out this way. It’s great.”
“I’ll have to try it sometime,” I said. “Now it seems it’s my turn to buy dinner.”
“You’re right,” he answered. “Let me catch a shower and change clothes. I’ll meet you in the bar in fifteen, twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Right. See you.”
I headed up the corridor and located the place. It was medium-sized, dim, cool and relatively crowded, divided into two widely connected rooms, with low, comfortable-looking chairs and small tables.
A young couple was just abandoning a corner table off to my left, drinks in hand, to follow a waitress into the adjacent dining room. I took the table. A little later a cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a beer.
Sitting there, several minutes later, sipping, and letting my mind drift over the perversely plotted events of the past several days, I realized that one of the place’s passing figures had failed to pass. It had come to a halt at my side—just far enough to the rear to register only as a dark peripheral presence.
It spoke softly: “Excuse me. May I ask you a question?”
I turned my head to behold a short, thin man of Spanish appearance, his hair and mustache flecked with gray. He was sufficiently well dressed and groomed to seem a local business type. I noted a chipped front tooth when he smiled so briefly—just a twitch—as to indicate nervousness.
“My name’s Dan Martinez,” he said, not offering to shake hands. He glanced at the chair across from me. “Could I sit down a minute?”
“What’s this about? If you’re selling something, I’m not interested. I’m waiting for somebody and—”
He shook his head.
“No, nothing like that. I know you’re waiting for someone—a Mr. Lucas Raynard. It involves him, actually “
I gestured at the chair.
“Okay. Sit down and ask your question.” He did so, clasping his hands and placing them on the table between us. He leaned forward.
“I overheard you talking in the lobby,” he began, “and I got the impression you knew him fairly well. Would you mind telling me for about how long you’ve known him?”
“If that’s all you want to know,” I answered, “for about eight years. We went to college together, and we worked for the same company for several years after that.”
“Grand Design,” he stated, “the San Francisco computer firm. Didn’t know him before college, huh?”
“It seems you already know quite a bit,” I said. “What did you want, anyway? Are you some kind of cop?”
“No,” he said, “nothing like that. I assure you I’m not trying to get your friend into trouble. I am simply trying to save myself some. Let me just ask you—’
I shook my head.
“No more freebies,” I told him. “I don’t care to talk to strangers about my friends without some pretty good reasons.”
He unclasped his hands and spread them wide.
“I’m not being underhanded,” he said, “when I know you’ll tell him about it. In fact, I want you to. He knows me. I want him to know I’m asking around about him, okay? It’ll actually be to his benefit. Hell, I’m even asking—a friend, aren’t I? Someone who might be willing to lie to help him out. And I just need a couple simple facts—”
“And I just need one simple reason: why do you want this information?”
He sighed. “Okay,” he said. “He offered me—tentatively, mind you—a very interesting investment opportunity. It would involve a large sum of money. There is an element of risk, as in most ventures involving new companies in a highly competitive area, but the possible returns do make it tempting.”
I nodded.
“And you want to know whether he’s honest.”
He chuckled. “I don’t really care whether h
e’s honest,” he said. “My only concern is whether he can deliver a product with no strings on it.”
Something about the way this man talked reminded me of someone. I tried, but couldn’t recall who it was:
“Ah,” I said, taking a sip of beer. “I’m slow today. Sorry. Of course this deal involves computers.”
“Of course.”
“You want to know whether his present employer can nail him if he goes into business out here with whatever he’s bringing with him.”
“In a word, yes.”
“I give up,” I said. “It would take a better man than me to answer that. Intellectual properties represent a tricky area of the law. I don’t know what he’s selling and I don’t know where it comes from—he gets around a lot. But even if I did know, I have no idea what your legal position would be.
“I didn’t expect anything beyond that,” he said, smiling. I smiled back.
“So you’ve sent your message,” I said. He nodded and began to rise.
“Oh, just one thing more,” he began.
“Yes?”
“Did he ever mention places,” he said, staring full into my eyes, “called Amber or the Courts of Chaos?”
He could not have failed to note my startled reaction, which had to have given him a completely false impression. I was sure that he was sure I was lying when I answered him truthfully.
“No, I never heard him refer to them. Why do you ask?”
He shook his head as he pushed his chair back and stepped away from the table. He was smiling again.
“It’s not important. Thank you, Mr. Corey. Nus a dhabzhun dhuilsha.”
He practically fled around the corner.
“Wait!” I called out, so loudly that there was a moment of silence and heads turned in my direction.
I got to my feet and started after him, when I heard my name called.
“Hey, Merle! Don’t run off! I’m here already!”
I turned. Luke had just come in through the entrance behind me, hair still shower-damp. He advanced, clapped me on the shoulder, and lowered himself into the seat Martinez had just vacated. He nodded at my half finished beer as I sat down again.
The Chronicles of Amber Page 93