Not that he had a moral objection to the sacrifice of bulls. Jerry ate beef. No different from slaughtering a steer for consumption, but not something they could manage easily in one of Henry’s aircraft hangars. Now, on a farm….
Jerry looked up as the door to the reading room opened. He blinked. For a moment he thought he was imagining things. He’d been concentrating so hard on the subject of Davenport and the animus infernus that he imagined him there.
But no. There was Bill Davenport standing in the doorway next to the docent, staring at him with what could only be described as a look of horror.
Jerry looked back. Anything he’d meant to say died on his lips, suddenly very, very aware of the amulet in his pocket. He stared at Davenport – no, at whatever it was that wore Davenport – and it stared back.
And then, suddenly, it let out a horrible, bloodcurdling scream. Or maybe it was Davenport who screamed, the terrible plea of a man in anguish, and turned around and dashed for the door, nearly knocking the elderly docent down in the process.
Jerry got to his feet faster than he would have thought possible. He hurried around the table, his only thought that he couldn’t let it get away, couldn’t let it jump into some perfectly innocent graduate student who happened to be walking in, into the secretary at her typewriter in the front office or the plasterer just inside the museum doors on his ladder. He had to stop it somehow.
There were the stairs, and he had just reached the head of the stairs to the main lobby when he heard another scream below. Grabbing the rail, Jerry manhandled himself down the first few steps, enough to see. Just as Davenport had come down the stairs Mitch, Alma and Lewis had been walking in the front doors. Lewis was still holding the door open, Alma just ahead of him, Mitch a step in the rear.
The secretary looked up from her desk. The plasterer turned around. An old man in a three piece suit stood arrested by the secretary’s desk, a letter in his hand.
Jerry felt it gather, like a leopard tensing to spring. Trapped. Cornered. There was no way out. This was a trap prepared by the hunters, by Her hounds. For one moment Jerry saw it all in tableau, and then it leaped. There was no other way to put it. It was like the invisible shimmer of air, a sudden wave of heat, as it sprang at Alma.
Her eyes met its. For a moment Jerry thought they would darken, change, that he would see her become nothing. And then it recoiled like a cat that has sprung at a bird and unexpectedly met a window pane.
Davenport screamed again, his head flung back as it rebounded, and then he ran at the doors with all his strength, shoving them out of Lewis’ hand. The door caught Mitch full in the chest, knocking him back against the wall, his head cracking on the ornamental marble, and Davenport ran past him like a quarterback with a clear field sprinting for the touchdown.
With Lewis at his heels. Lewis didn’t hesitate, just turned in pursuit.
Mitch staggered up, shaking his head and lowered it like a bull. It took a lot of punishment to get to Mitch, Jerry thought, as Mitch took off after Lewis, his coat open and his tie flying.
Jerry hurried down the steps, altogether too aware of the docent behind him, recognizing the elderly man by the desk as one of his former professors, Dr. Keating, someone who surely knew both him and Davenport by sight.
“What in the world?” the docent exclaimed. “I have no idea!”
“That was William Davenport,” Dr. Keating said with astonishment. He looked at Jerry sharply, taking in his foot and his harried manner both. “And Ballard?”
If he was ever going to be able to set foot in here again, Jerry thought, he’d best make a good story of this. “Dr. Keating,” he said. “It’s good to see you, sir. That was Davenport, all right. But I have no idea what the difficulty was.” He gestured to the docent. “I’ve been working here all morning, until this gentleman showed in Davenport who took one look at me, screamed and left. I had no idea I was so alarming!” Jerry grinned. “Bill’s always been a bit odd, but the last few years….”
“Those two men….” Keating began.
Alma blinked winningly. “They held the door for me. I couldn’t say.”
Jerry came over and took her arm. “Dr. Keating, may I introduce a very particular friend of mine? This is Mrs. Gilchrist. She was doing some shopping while we are here in Chicago and came to meet me for lunch. Alma, darling, are you all right?”
“Of course,” Alma said brightly. “Just a little startled. I had no idea archaeology could be so exciting.”
“You’d be surprised,” Keating said dryly. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Gilchrist. And Ballard, it’s good to see you around again. We’ve missed you here.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jerry said.
Keating shook Alma’s hand. “He was one of our brightest lights. I hope we can lure him back one day.”
Jerry found himself inexplicably warmed by the sentiment. “I hope so,” he said. “I truly do, Dr. Keating.”
It was some minutes before he and Alma could extricate themselves from the conversation, and by then there was no point in abandoning his notes spread all over the table in the reading room upstairs. Alma’s quick glance outdoors on the pretext of seeing if that was indeed thunder she thought she heard showed no sign of Mitch, Lewis or Davenport.
“They could be blocks away by now,” Alma said quietly as Jerry zipped his papers inside their worn leather case.
Jerry shook his head. “I should have considered that Davenport might come here too. We were students here at the same time.”
“If I’d had any idea where we were going….” Alma began.
“How would you have called anyway? You would have lost him if you’d stopped to use a phone.” Jerry straightened up, looking around the reading room with something like regret. There was so much more he could research, so much he wanted to do, if only to satisfy his own curiosity.
“I just hope Mitch and Lewis are ok,” Alma said.
“I do too.” Jerry pushed in his chair and headed for the stairs, everything neat behind him, smelling of leather and oriental rugs. “At least we know the amulets work.”
Alma nodded. “That was scary. But yes, they do. At least we know that now.” She took his arm, squeezing his hand as she did. “Good work, Jerry.”
Her hounds coursed it. Their pursuit was relentless. It had no idea how they had picked up the scent. So much distance left between, so much ground crossed so quickly…. Superhumanly quickly, in this strange world. Continents and seas could be traversed in days rather than months. Surely it was only through Her that they had followed!
Her hand was on them. It could see that. They wore Her power like a shield. It should not have tried to jump into Her priestess. That had nearly been fatal. It had nearly been caught between, unable to take a new host and unable to return to the old. It had hurt.
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 cran
ed 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?”
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 18