The man dropped abruptly onto the bench, hands clasped between his knees, head bowed, "It’s the lady, isn’t it. You don’t want to fly 'cause the lady got killed."
"No," loanne said gently. "In fact, that’s what we want to talk to Mr. Hendean about. We'd like to know just what happened before she died.”
“Wasn't the fall,” the man said quickly. "Like 1 told those police who kept asking me all those questions, same questions over and over, it wasn't me that fixed her gear. Hey, I do good work, y'know?" He looked up at them, his smile painful and brief. "Some kind of maniac out there, FBI," he said solemnly. "Hardly safe around here anymore. Even the regulars aren't making it all the time.”
"Then why are you here all by yourself?" Joanne asked.
Guestin grinned, reached under the table, and pulled out a shotgun. "If he comes in here, I'll take his maniac head off.” Another laugh, and again his face reddened. As he put the gun back under the table, he told them he didn't expect his boss back until morning. There was, he explained, lots to do, making sure the people came back after what he called "the accident.” Hendean was putting new ads in the papers and getting flyers and posters printed. "Maybe you can talk to him tomorrow, hey?"
"Sure," Richard said, and asked him to show them where the woman had crash-landed.
Guestin didn't seem too eager, but he led them outside to the launch lip and pointed to a spot three-quarters of the way down. "Clearing, see it? Right there. Mr. Hendean was standing right here, he told me. Saw her go down, radioed to Nora, got the ambulance moving right away.” He scratched at his chin, looked to Richard, and added, "If you kind of hunker down, Mister, it's easier. Hey, don’t want you to fall." The edge of the ridge was marked with boulders, trees, and high weeds. When Richard did as the man suggested, he realized he’d been right—it was easier for some reason, and he was able to look down the mountain's thickly wooded side without suffering the vertigo that had slipped over him before.
The vertical drop ended when the side flared out like a skirt, but he reckoned it was still a good fifteen hundred feet before that happened. Through the trees he could see the tiny clearing Guestin had pointed out, the road that followed the mountain’s base, and what looked like a doll's house just beyond, with a dark-red shed on a yard that looked to be three or four acres. Nora was Nora Costo, Hendean's ground manager. The gliders landed in either that yard, or the mowed field to its right, she gathered them up, put them in a van, and had them brought back to the summit if they were going to make another trip.
She was also a paramedic.
She was the one who had first seen the body.
Richard looked north and south along the slope as far at the forest would permit, and wondered if Trish McCormick would have lived if she had landed where she should have instead of where she did.
"What was he doing, just waiting around for someone to land?" Joanne wanted to know.
He doubted it. Like the guard in the park, the woman had most likely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The more he looked, the more he understood that the area was a perfect place for the rogue—enough people and animals around to hunt, enough wilderness to hide in.
He knows it well, Richard decided. No wonder he’s been able to stay free for so long.
He knows this place like the back of his hand.
The wind nudged him from behind then, spilling hair into his eyes. He swiped at it absently, backed away, and rose. He thanked Guestin for his help, and smiled to himself as the man nodded politely but gave most of his attention to Joanne, and most of that to her chest. He would have said something when she joined him in the car, but he had a feeling she would probably belt him a good one.
"Now what?" she asked, leaving Leon’s Air behind. "Do you want to see that clearing?''
He shook his head. "Won’t do any good.’’ At least, not in daylight, he thought. He rubbed his forehead, blew out a breath, and checked his watch.
It was going on four.
The sun was already on its way down, and the cloud cover had given the mountain an early twilight.
"You want to drop in on the Costo woman?" She tapped an impatient finger on the steering wheel. "Maybe you can find out something she saw that she doesn't know she saw." She chuckled. "If you see what I mean."
"Later," he answered, keeping his tone neutral, "First thing is, I have to check in with Washington Could we go back to the hotel?"
“I'll drop you off."
"Do you have to? After all this, I was kind of hoping I could treat you to a drink, or dinner."
She looked at him sourly, and he grimaced. "I do have a job, you know,” she reminded him. "The desk shit, remember?"
He nodded.
"Tell you what, though," she said as they reached town, "We'll stay away from that other road. We'll go down the back way."
"Okay. Whatever you say."
“Yeah, right."
There was more traffic now, and people on the sidewalks in hats and heavy coats. A black pickup waited at an intersection, and he stared at it, turned and looked through the rear window until it headed off in the opposite direction.
"This back way. Is it like the way up?”
"Worse," she said gleefully.
She was right.
The hotel was awash with people and noise when he stepped inside, so much so that Richard instantly forgot the harrowing downhill drive, and Joanne’s smug expression when she let him out at the curb.
The lobby was packed, both with registration lines and movement, the noise level almost unbearably high. As he stood waiting for an elevator, he noticed that many had exchanged suits and jeans for what seemed to be costumes. He recognized a few Star Trek outfits, but little else. Capes and cloaks mixed with black leather and chains; Hollywood medieval with street corner grunge.
For no reason at all, it made him feel inexplicably old, and he was grateful when he was able to make it to the third floor. The relative silence was welcome, and he realized that if tonight was the rule rather than the exception, he would have to find another, quicker, way to get up and down. Two elevators for a thousand people wasn't satisfactory at all.
He slipped his key into the door, turned the handle, and froze.
A thousand people. Probably more.
Costumes that he imagined would grow more elaborate with time.
The rogue, he thought; my God, if it knew . . .
He entered the room cautiously, testing the air for the scent of invasion, relaxing only when he was positive there hadn't been another search. Then he dropped on the couch and stared blindly at the opposite wall, ignoring the chill of a tiny draft from the window at his back.
After a moment he slipped the tiny cloth bag from his pocket and opened it, spreading it over his thigh. Inside were three miniatures carved from stone, none more than half an inch high—an owl, a hawk, and, in gleaming black, Anubis.
His fingers brushed over them lightly.
His eyes closed.
His breathing grew shallow.
Within minutes the hotel had been swallowed by a black fog, and a Slack wind howled, and a voice wept with pain.
When his eyes opened again—green fire—he saw the familiar desert.
This time, however, he wasn’t alone.
1
The far end of the restaurant, beyond the L-shaped bar and the grill, was two steps higher and slightly more narrow than the rest of the room, separated from it by a gleaming silver railing more symbolic than practical. It was large enough only for three round tables, two of which were empty.
Miles Blanchard sat at the third, in the window-side corner, watching the dinner patrons fill the booths, leave, fill them again, and patiently stand two deep at the bar. Some were obviously office workers, the rest those who had come to the convention. Eyeing each other while trying too hard not to look as if they were.
None approached him.
He was not in a good mood, and it must have shown no matter how hard he tried to keep his expression neutral.
Not an hour ago, he had seen Turpin enter the hotel, thoughtful and, perhaps, just a little shaken. Blanchard had walked right past him, could have touched him, could have killed him right then, had he wanted to; instead, he had come directly here,
ordered what turned out to be a passable meal, and tried to figure out exactly what was going on.
Crimmins had been furious that the Strider hadn't been taken care of already. After a minute's pompous posturing, threats were made. Explanations were demanded. His voice had risen nearly to a woman’s pitch. But each time Blanchard tried to speak, the old man cut him off.
There was something wrong here.
And when Blanchard, his own temper straining at the leash, reminded his employer that there was still a rogue on the loose as part of this ridiculous equation, Crimmins had exploded, ranting about forces Blanchard knew nothing of, forces not to be trifled with, not to be tempted, and certainly not to be questioned by "the likes of you, you ignorant little man."
The leash had slipped.
Blanchard hung up on him, and was out of the room before the telephone could ring again.
He was not really afraid of Crimmins, or that mysterious group the old fart represented; without being immodest, he knew he was too valuable for them to lose. It wasn’t that he knew too much; he was simply too good. He doubted very seriously that they could find him should they underestimate his value, and should he decide it would be prudent to disappear.
Yet he hated to admit it, but Crimmins' tantrum had unnerved him somewhat, and it wasn’t until he had finished the meal and his second drink that he was able to think straight. Or as straight as he could, considering how furious he still was.
A waitress glanced in his direction, and he lifted his empty tumbler. She smiled, nodded, and headed for the bar.
Not a good idea, he chided himself; three drinks.
and it's not even six. At this rate, he’d be fiat on his ass before the night really began.
He snorted, grinned to himself, and inhaled slowly, deeply, stretching his arms above his head and lacing his fingers. He pushed, and his knuckles cracked, loudly. Then his shoulders. A doctor had once told him that was a great way to invite arthritis; Blanchard had taken offense and had cut the man badly. Used a scalpel, and sliced him across his knuckles. All of them.
The drink was delivered, and he cupped his hands around the tumbler, looking out over the heads of the diners and the drinkers, not really seeing them, not really listening.
What he hoped for was a revelation based on what little he already knew; what he expected was a visit from Wanda Strand, to let him know when Turpin was safely ensconced in his room.
He scowled.
There was another catch—Wanda.
Evidently Crimmins hadn't trusted him. She had been waiting when he had checked in, not saying much, just enough beyond a friendly greeting to let him know that with this assignment neither of them were going to fly solo.
He knew her.
Twice—once in London, once in San Diego—they had worked together. Not really partners, and certainly not close. But he had been forced to admit that they somehow actually managed to complement each other. If he was the Man of a Thousand Faces, she was unnervingly close to being a true Seer. She knew things, and after their first meeting, he never asked her how.
He didn't need to be a Seer to see the blood on her hands.
At the end of their lobby meeting that afternoon, she had leaned oyer and said, "Miles, they want us dead, you know. When this is done."
He hadn't responded right away, because he hadn't believed it then, and he didn't really believe it now. They may want him dead, but it wasn’t going to happen. As he’d decided only a few minutes ago, he was too good, and they needed him too badly.
Wanda was apparently a different story.
It was also apparent she wasn’t all that concerned.
Which is why he also figured he would live longer than she.
Pride, as he remembered his Bible, goeth not before a fall, as was so often misquoted; it goeth before destruction.
His lips twitched.
He looked down at his drink and studied the color of it, the red of it.
Five minutes later he took the first sip, having already decided that it was time, tonight, for the bloodbath to begin.
He glanced to his right, to a narrow glass door that led directly into the lobby. It was so innocuous, hardly anyone used it. A good way to watch the passing crowds. A good way to keep track of who entered and left the elevators.
A better way to mark the first victim.
The sun held no heat, and there were no shadows on the sand.
Despite the strong wind that forced him to squint, not a grain shifted.
He wandered among the ruins until he located the source of the weeping, and stood on the crumbling threshold of a doorway wide enough to let an army pass. Ahead was an interior garden, all the flowers and bushes gone save for a single stone vase on a dark stone table. In the vase was a red rose, and its thorns were gleaming crimson.
The woman sat at the table, watching him, eyes puffed and reddened, hands clasped and trembling, wearing a single thin garment the wind rippled like white water.
"Fay?" He took a step toward her.
Fay Parnell shook her head violently.
Her tears were black, and streaked her cheeks blackly.
"Fay.”
There was movement behind him.
Wanda left the elevator on the gallery floor. She had exchanged her topcoat for a lightweight cardigan with pockets deep enough to hold her cigarettes and lighter; on her feet were what appeared to be black ballet slippers. After a moment's indecision, she moved ahead to the latticework railing and looked down into the lobby.
Miles wasn't there.
Facing the elevators again, she glanced left and right, ignoring the scores of people wandering past her, most not looking, one or two young men trying to catch her eye. It almost made her smile.
A silent sigh, then, and she made for the four low steps to the elevators' left, part of them covered by a portable wheelchair ramp. She stepped up and walked down the middle of the wide hall, slowly, not caring when people had to squeeze past her, muttering and glaring. To her left was a marble staircase that led down to the first floor and, she knew, the restaurant entrance.
It wasn’t what she wanted.
A few yards father on another, shorter wide corridor opened to the left, at the end of which was a huge room. By the tables and chairs she could see, and longer tables at the back piled with provisions, she gathered this was some sort of refreshment area.
It still wasn't what she wanted.
Another ten yards, however, and she stopped.
The corridor ended in a T, with hotel offices directly ahead, and on the left, in the corner, the fire door which, if its current use was any indication, was a favorite mode of travel for those too impatient to wait for the elevators.
She stepped through the door, onto a gray painted concrete landing, heard hollow voices in the stairwell above and below, and made her way up one flight, to the third floor and through the doorway there.
This hall was long, and muted voices came from open doors far down to the right. The hall ended on her left, and she ducked around the corner and leaned back against the wall, staring at the door directly opposite her.
He was there.
In there.
The question was, how pissed would Miles be if she ended it all here and now?
Very, she decided, and grunted a quiet laugh.
Her right hand slipped into the pocket of her slacks, fingers curling around a short wand of engraved ivory inlaid with silver stars.
A knock, mock confusion—"I’m so sorry, I’ve got the wrong room, please forgive me.’’—and it would be over before Turpin knew what had hit him.
lust as she straightened, however, the double doors of the suite immediately to the left swept open, and a dozen people swarmed o
ut, laughing, chattering, passing her with broad smiles and nods. One of them, a man about her height with thick white hair, paused, looked at her chest and said, "You'd better ge.t your ID badge, Miss, or these security folks will hassle you all night."
She didn't know what to say and so nodded a mute thank-you, and damned whoever he and his friends were because Turpin couldn't possibly have missed all that commotion. She had never met the Strider, but she knew his reputation; whether he felt threatened or not, all his senses would be alerted.
Damn it, she thought; goddamn it.
Marcus Spiro glanced at the attractive woman leaning against the wall, thought to speak to her again, but was grabbed by the elbows and propelled around the corner and down the main hall. When he protested with a laugh, he was reminded, that the convention leaders wanted to speak to him before the opening ceremonies. Which meant now. And since they had paid his way, he couldn't very well ignore them.
Still, that woman—
Well, at least his keeper wasn't around.
Not fair, he chided himself. Leon wasn’t a keeper. Every major guest was assigned someone whose job it was to keep the guest happy, and make sure he got to all the functions on time. The best ones, and Leon had turned out to be one of them, stayed the hell out of the way, like an unobtrusive waiter, just waiting fora look to bring him running.
Not a bad life for a weekend.
Thinking of his declining sales, Marcus sighed, wishing life could be that way all the time again.
As it was, coming down here every couple of years—
A young woman dropped out of the crowd ahead and grabbed his left arm. She wore a vivid red tank top, and jeans he figured must have taken her an hour to get into. When she tugged on his arm, he leaned down, listened for a moment, and straightened suddenly with a mock, "That's disgusting!’’, and an equally mock look of indignation.
"Sure is," she said, grinning. “So?"
He grinned and let her guide him toward the convention's operations center. Say what you will about traveling to towns like this in the middle of winter, having to put up with barely bathed cretins who slobbered all over you just so you’ll autograph one of your books . . . say what you will about barely edible convention food, obscenely late nights, equally obscene early mornings, and the strain it put on a body whose sole exercise consisted of depositing royalty checks twice a year . . . say what you will about all of it, these things were still a great place to get yourself laid.
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