It was someone who, for some reason, had tried to make things confusing.
No, he thought; not some reason.
Had Richard not been injured, he might well have gone to the bus station himself, just to be sure the rogue hadn't struck again. And if he had ... a trap, John had warned him; this whole affair may well be a trap.
Feeling more alert, he wandered back to the lobby, noting what his preoccupation had prevented him from seeing the first time around—more than a dozen easels scattered around the room, each holding a large color photograph. From the legends at the bottom, not all of which he understood, the pictures appeared to be of stellar attractions of previous costume events at this annual convention, and he had to admit that many of them were quite amazing, detailed and elaborate, and, in some cases, astoundingly beautiful.
And some were rather silly.
He couldn’t help a quick laugh when he stopped in front of a picture of someone who had chosen to be Lon Chaney, jr.’s Wolf Man. A remarkably faithful rendition of the motion-picture monster, with the added attraction of a busty, scantily clad Gypsy cowering at his furry feet.
Oh brother, he thought, holding back a laugh; boy, if they only knew.
“Interesting," a voice said blandly beside him.
He looked as he said, "Excuse me?", then shrugged an apology when he realized the man who had spoken had made the comment to his female companion. "Sorry."
"Not at all," the man answered with a polite smile. "We were admiring the picture gallery." He waved a hand at the other easels.
"So was I."
The woman, whose wiry hair had been pulled back into a fluffy ponytail, looked him over and looked away; her boredom couldn't have been more evident if she had worn a sign.
"It's amazing what these people can do," the man remarked, then cleared his throat. “I’m awfully sorry, I'm being rude.” He held out his hand. "Blanchard. Miles Blanchard. This is my wife, Wanda.”
Richard shook the hand without giving his own name, nodded to the woman, who hadn't looked back, and gestured toward the Wolf Man. "I gather these people are pretty heavily into movies and TV."
"Looks that way, yes. It must take them hours to put some of these costumes together, don’t you think?” Richard supposed that it would, spotted the badge on the man’s chest, and asked if he too was going to be in costume that night.
"But of course," Blanchard answered with an expansive laugh. He slipped his arm around his wife and hugged her close; she didn’t react. "We wouldn’t think of not doing it. It’s a tradition, you might say.” Richard heard someone call his name.
"Right... honey?"
“What will you be?" he asked as he looked around, and saw Joanne in the middle of the lobby, beckoning urgently. “Hey, I'm sorry,” he said quickly, stepping away, "I have to go. Nice meeting you. Good luck.” Blanchard said something in response, but Richard didn't listen. Anxious and hopeful, he hurried over to
Joanne, who immediately grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the staircase leading to the gallery floor.
"Come on, there's something 1 have to show you."
He tugged on her arm, wanting to see what he could read in her eyes. "Are you.. . ?"
"Shut up," she said without much heat. "No, I'm not, but shut up."
They pushed through the crowd, Joanne taking him through the ballroom's wide anteroom to the gallery's other side, then up three steps into a long corridor where more photographs were on display. Some guests were already in costume, but Richard saw that these weren’t anywhere near on par with those in the pictures. Mostly capes and fangs, or what resembled Star Trek uniforms, and one whitefaced guy in a fuzzy black wig, net stockings, high heels, and a fancy black corset.
Richard couldn't help but stare as the man and his similarly dressed retinue passed, and Joanne had to yank his hand twice before she got his attention.
“Look,” she ordered, and pointed.
“Jo,” he said, “I’ve already seen a picture of the Wolf Man downstairs.”
"Look, damn it."
He did, and the hall fell silent, nothing but a rush of dry wind in his ears.
It wasn't the Wolf Man.
It was a Garou.
According to the legend, the picture had been taken just two years ago.
He couldn't breathe.
Joanne pulled him away toward a narrow staircase in the opposite wall.
Garou. Here. And it’s been here for at least two years.
"Come on," she said tightly.
He stopped halfway down, nearly pulling her off her feet.
"What?"
"Not a rogue," he said. "I’ll be damned. It's not a rogue.”
The restaurant/bar was packed, and too many people stood in line. Impatiently she pulled him back into the hall, frowned in thought for a moment, then said, "Button your coat, we're going out."
They went across the boulevard to a McDonald's on the other side. The light inside was too bright for the weather, the colors too vivid, the smells too strong. Every sound too sharp, every move too stilted.
Like being in the corner of a glaringly lit stage surrounded by the night.
He didn't want anything, but she nearly filled a tray, and they took a booth along a fake-brick wall. She fussed a bit with her food, setting it out as if she were having a real meal, then pointed at the fries.
"Am I going to be able to keep this stuff down?”
His smile was automatic and genuine. "I hope so."
"Good, ’cause I'm starving. And while I eat, you’re going to tell me everything, okay? Everything I need to know."
"Why?"
“I'm your partner, right? If you're going to hunt this thing, I—"
He slammed a fist on the table, making her jump, eyes wide and fearful.
"Son of a bitch!"
"What? What's wrong? Did I say something wrong?"
He shook his head, put his hands to his head and
shook it angrily. "There was a man and woman in the lobby. I was talking to them when you—"
"1 saw them. So what?"
"They belong to the convention. I asked if they were going to be in costume, and he said they were." He lowered his hands, palms down, to the table. "1 didn't catch what he said right away, when 1 asked him what he'd be. 1 was too worried about what. . He stopped himself and looked around the restaurant, shook his head at his own stupidity, and forced the tension out of his system. "He said, 'Hunter,’ Jo. He said, 'We’ll be hunters, Mr. Turpin.”’
There was a delay in her comprehension, but when it came it knocked her back in her seat. "What?” "He knew my name, Jo. He knows who I am."
"Don't bother," she said when he started to get up. "He did it deliberately, to get your attention. And he’s not going to be there, waiting for you to come back.” She picked up a hamburger, grimaced at it, and took a bite.
"You’re eating.”
"I told you, i’m starving." She took another bite. "Now talk to me, Richard. How does he know who you are?”
He explained briefly about the Warders, stumbling when he mentioned Fay, and those the Garou knew were trying to gather information about their world. It had been previously thought that these other groups, however many there were, were too disparate to cause many problems because, like humans generally, they hoarded knowledge for the sake of power, and for the sake of future glory. Bad for the humans, good for the Garou, because it made it easier for them to keep tabs on what these people knew, and what they thought they knew.
When they learned too much, group members tended to disappear.
Joanne stabbed a french fry into a thick puddle of catsup. "By disappear, you mean . . ."
"Yes."
There was no guilt, no remorse, he told her; it was a simple matter of survival, for the Garou and for Gaia. Humans didn’t realize it, but it was for their survival too. But now someone had slipped through the Garou net.
"This guy Blanchard,”
"No. He's working for some
one else. People like this, they don't dirty their own hands."
She met his gaze without blinking. "Like the Warders."
He didn't deny it.
Nor could he deny any longer that one of the Warders may have ordered Fay's death, undoubtedly because he knew she had warned him, knew where her primary allegiance lay. And perhaps she knew more, something she hadn't been able to tell him.
“She was your lover."
He nodded.
"Children?" She gave him a lopsided grin. "Or whatever?"
He returned the grin, and shook his head. Garou who mated, no matter how much in love, rarely produced normal offspring. These metis, as they were called, were deformed if they lived, already mad, already half dead. He glanced away, suddenly uncomfortable. He damn near started blushing. "Garou like me come from ... 1 guess—”
“A mixed marriage?” she suggested.
"Close enough." He still wouldn’t look at her. "Wolves or humans, actually."
She nodded thoughtfully, and ate another fry.
"You know, some people would think that's pretty gross."
"And you?" he asked without thinking.
"Don’t push it, Richard, I’m still working on it, okay?" When he held up his hands, she added, "But now we have to figure out a way to get you out of the city in one piece."
"No," he said. "First, I have to figure out how to take care of the false rogue. Then I take care of Blanchard and whoever’s with him, probably that woman. Then I get out of town."
She gaped, started to argue, then slumped in defeat and said, "Well, maybe I can help you out."
"How?”
"I think I know who that rogue thing is."
4
They reached the exit just as a band of conventioneers scrambled in out of the sleet and rain. Their voices were too loud, their faces too animated, their apologies as they bumped into Joanne and Richard too filled with uncaring laughter.
Joanne hooked her arm around Richard’s, and they went outside, unable to move quickly because the footing was too slippery. The wind had picked up, the sleet falling at an angle that stung his ear and cheeks. At the curb they were forced to wait for a bus that skidded and hissed steam as it stopped for a red light. Once on the island, they had to wait again, this time for a funeral, headlamps aglare, the mourners unseen in gleaming black limousines. Slush had already begun to form in the gutters; there was nothing left of the morning's snowfall but a few patches in recesses the sleet couldn't reach.
Once under the hotel’s canopy, however, he pulled her to one side, put his arms around her back and clasped his hands behind her. She resisted for only a second, shivering, cheeks beginning to blotch with pale red.
"When I go in there, it begins," he said, nodding toward the double glass doors.
"We,” she reminded him. "I still have to tell you."
"Me," he contradicted gently. "Lt. Millson will kill me if you don't show up for that meeting.”
"Can he?" She cocked her head, smiling.
"No. Not really. But it's the thought that counts, |o. You still have a job. It means too much to you, and I don't want you to lose it."
He could tell she knew he was right. He could also tell that she didn’t want to let go. Not now. Not for a long time.
"What are you going to do?”
"Right now?" He frowned over her head, his breath drifting into her hair like pale smoke. "Not much. And certainly not in there. There are too many people, too many eyes, if you know what I mean." He shuddered when a run of ice water slipped from his hair down his neck and to his spine. "First thing I must do is make some calls. 1 have to know what's happened to my ... to the Warders."
"Stay away from your room," she warned.
"Why?"
"They got you once, remember? If you stay alone, they'll try to get you again."
He wanted to tell her that he could take care of himself, but an image of the silver spike in his bathroom flared and vanished. He didn't think that this Miles Blanchard would be carrying a club. He’d have a gun. Silver bullets. He had a partner. More silver.
"Damn," he whispered.
The sleet had turned to mostly rain, and it fell heavily, springing fountains in the street, drumming hard on the canvas canopy, sounding like the thunder of a stampede.
"Okay." She poked his chest with a stiff finger.
"Use the public phones, stay out of crowded rooms—and empty ones—and keep yourself visible. All the time, Richard, all the time."
He slipped his arms away and gripped her shoulders. “I can't.”
“Why?" she demanded.
‘i have to go someplace first.”
"What? Listen, Richard, you can’t—”
He silenced her with a finger. "This is something 1 must do, and it’s a place where you can't go. It won't take long by your time, but I have to do it if I'm going to have a chance."
Her protest sputtered on, but it was only words without meaning. She lay her palm against his chest. "This is some kind of... Garou thing?”
He nodded.
"Is it dangerous?"
"Not yet. I won't lie to you, Jo. It could be, but not yet.”
"And when you get back?"
"I will do exactly what you told me. I swear it." He shook his head. "No. I give you my word.”
She snapped a thumb toward the parking lot. "My car's over there. I'll be back as fast as I can." With a sly smile she patted her breast pocket. "I still have the key."
"Call the room first, look for me," he said sternly.
"Hey," she said, insulted. "I'm a cop, gimmie a break, okay?"
There was nothing left to say, and without bothering to think, he pulled her close again, and he kissed her, soft and quickly on the lips.
Flustered, she broke away and hurried to the curb, hurried back and said, "1 have to get one thing straight, all right?"
"Sure."
"When you say this Garou thing, these people of yours, we're talking about. .She swallowed and looked sheepish.
He couldn't help but grin, "Yes, Jo, I'm talking about werewolves."
She nodded sharply. "Good. Okay. lust wanted to be sure."
Seconds later the rain took her, smearing her to a formless figure that disappeared when she crossed the street. He waited a moment longer, then went inside and gasped at the too-warm air that hit him from a ceiling vent. He took off his jacket and shook it hard, away from his side, then grabbed it in the middle and headed for his room.
The desert was silent.
He made his way through the ruins to the garden, and sat in the chair where Fay’s spirit had been.
The stone vase was still there.
The rose was gone.
He looked at the table, sighing when he saw the thin layer dust from the drying of her black tear. He passed a hand over it, and the dust scattered and was gone, and he wished, too late, he had kept some of it for himself.
Emerald sky and gold-tinged light.
No one came, nothing moved.
He rose and began to walk, skirting the barren flower beds, searching the crumbling stone paths for something, anything, that would send him where he needed to go.
The rogue wasn't a rogue.
He came to a low wall and fingered the brittle straw that poked out of the mud.
The photograph in the hallway.
He followed the wall around the garden’s perimeter,
breaking off straw, crumbling bits of clay between his fingers.
Fay’s warning. '
He stopped at a tree, whose bark was sickly gray, whose branches were bent and twisted as if in frozen torment. There were no leaves. The knees of a root broke through the faded tiled floor.
It was inconceivable that a Garou could be so careless a hunter. The monthly pattern was deliberate, deliberately staged to attract the Warders’ attention. To attract him. And it had worked. But to hunt a Garou who has lost touch with Gaia and his mind was one thing; to hunt one in control, to hunt one as he had h
unted the rabbit, was something he wasn’t sure he could do, no matter what tribe the false rogue belonged to. It fell too close to blasphemy. Too close to treason.
Emerald sky and black-emerald clouds.
Gold-tinged light.
The soughing of a slow wind sifting sand from the wall, the grains falling through the dead tree like the scratch of ice against glass.
This man called Blanchard. He knew Richard, knew him by name and most likely, therefore, knew who and what he was. Did he work with the Garou whose picture was in the hall? Or was there a third party, unknown to both?
Why the hell wouldn't the Warders return his calls?
He punched the trunk in frustration, and a thin branch swayed under the impact, snapped, fell, shattered to pieces at his feet.
And something moved on the bark.
It startled him into taking a step backward, then puzzled him into drawer nearer again.
He smiled, but briefly.
A chameleon, ridged skin almost the exact hue of the bark, moved ponderously around the trunk toward the thick stump of a branch, its tail was blunt, its sawtooth back broad, its head marked by a pair of forward-aiming horns.
Gently Richard picked it up and carried it in his palm to the table, sat, and watched it lumber toward the vase.
Gray shifted to sandstone.
Almost, but not quite.
He leaned back and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles, studying the little beast, watching it try to vanish. One hand shook the table slightly, and the chameleon froze, sandstone lids slipping over its bulbous eyes.
Now. Now it was gone.
The soughing became a keening, and beneath it a deep calling that turned his head toward the tree, in the uppermost branches, the ones that formed jagged cracks in the emerald-streaked sky, he saw a bird, huge and brown.
"Ah," he said, and nodded to it. "I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.”
The owl’s wings spread, and the wind took it aloft.
He followed its effortless glide above the ruins, shifted back a little when the owl began its glide, wings high, talons out, soundless save for the wind, until it swept with a rush across the table and vanished over the far, falling wall.
He had to brush a hand across the table to make the chameleon was actually gone.
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