by P. N. Elrod
“You can’t.”
Bowed my head. “No. I can’t.”
He made no comment, but I could still feel his anger. He wanted to hurt me and make it last.
I used the stair rail to pull to my feet. Damn, but he’d caught me good and hard, without brass knuckles, either. If he was like that with bare fists…
He laid in again with enough force so I’d remember not to forget. I dropped all the way, curled, and stayed there, gasping. Pain. More than I expected. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d ruptured something. I wouldn’t vanish to escape and heal, though. That’d be spitting in his face. I’d take what he dished out and like it.
He stooped into my view and his voice went low, and for a chilling instant I glimpsed what was inside him that made him the boss of one of the toughest mobs in the city. “You ever cut loose on Charles again, I will kill you.” He knew exactly how to do it, too.
I believed him.
“We clear on that? You understand me?”
“Yeah,” I said, talking sideways because my mouth was mashed against the floor. “Never again. Promise.”
Coldfield left, slamming the door hard enough to shake the house. A moment later he gunned his car, shifted gears, and roared away.
Good thing he was a friend or we might have both been in trouble. I don’t take this kind of crap from enemies.
Another moment or three passed, then the stairs creaked as Kroun came down. He squatted on his heels next to me, hands clasped loose in front of him, and tilted his head. “You okay?”
Now that was one goddamned stupid question. And he wasn’t a stupid man. I eyed him. He was concerned, just not one for mother-henning. “I’m great. Tomorrow I sell tickets to the real show.”
“Huh.” He got the message. It was none of his beeswax, but he almost smiled. “And he knows about you, too?”
“Yeah.”
“F’cryin’ out loud, put it on a billboard, why don’t ya?”
“Okay.”
A moderately long look from him, followed by a dismissive headshake. “I can’t find soap.”
Soap? While I got pulped he was looking for soap? What kind of a loon was he?
“Try the second-floor bath,” I mumbled.
His eyes went wide. “You got two johns in this joint?” My getting a beating was nothing to sweat about, but a house with two toilets knocked him right over.
Actually there were three. Escott had put in a bath all to himself just off his bedroom, which was overdoing things, but it was his house, after all. I didn’t say anything as Kroun was already impressed, and mention of more would be pretentious. As a kid back on the farm in Ohio, I’d been told not to brag about our three-seater outhouse lest the neighbors think the Flemings were getting high-hat above themselves with extravagance.
“What was his problem?” Kroun asked, rising as I slowly found my feet again.
I checked my middle. Carefully. Oh, yeah, that hurt. A lot. At least Coldfield hadn’t used wood. A baseball bat would have done some truly life-threatening damage on me, but then I’d have fought back. “Nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not, but why’d you let him do it?”
“He had to work off steam. And he had a point to make. That was my way of listening.”
Kroun thought that over, looking at me the whole time. “You,” he concluded, “are crazy.”
No reason to deny it. Tonight I happened to agree with him.
“Who was he? Looked familiar.”
“Shoe Coldfield. Heads the biggest gang in the Bronze Belt. He’s best friends with Escott. He was in that grocery store we walked through to visit Gordy the other night. You may have seen him there.”
“Gordy said Coldfield was looking out for him. What’s the angle?”
“It never hurts to have someone like Gordy owe you a favor.”
“So I’ve heard. Is that what this is about? You wanting me to owe you a favor?”
“Huh?”
He stared a second. “Ahh, never mind.” He went upstairs, dodging into the hall bath long enough to grab soap from the sink, then continuing up to the third floor. Soon water was running in the pipes, making its long journey up from the basement heater tank.
When I felt like moving again, I checked my ribs, but Coldfield had focused on the softer target of my midsection. He’d inflicted ample bruising and spared his knuckles. The man was a smart thinker when it came to his brand of mayhem. Everything still hurt, and I stubbornly held on to it as though that would somehow help Escott.
I hobbled into the kitchen to blink at the clock. If he rushed things, Kroun could get cleaned up and make it to bed before dawn. I could take my time.
I made sure the front door was bolted, checked the back again just because, then vanished, sinking down through the kitchen floor. Once solid again in my hidden alcove the bruising and pain were magically gone, but I was tired, very tired.
The small table light next to my cot was on, so I didn’t reappear in fumbling blackness. I’m a vampire who’s gotten really allergic to the dark. I didn’t used to be that way; but, after the crap I’d been through since my change, anyone would want to leave a lamp burning in the window.
No windows were in my artificial cave, but that was fine, what with my allergy to sunlight. Kroun had a right to be concerned about avoiding it, but he could manage. Things had to be a lot better for him in this place than wherever he’d hidden after the big boom. Did he have a supply of his home earth with him? I’d not thought to ask.
Damn, I didn’t want to think about him and what to do with him and all the attendant complications concerning his apparent death. But the problem would be hanging around like an unpaid bill when I woke again, no way out of it. The mess Kroun had come to town to clear up was worse than before.
Derner—following my orders—had the right story to give to the New York mob bosses about Kroun’s demise, but the details might not satisfy them. They were told that Kroun had been killed in the car explosion, then the man who rigged the bomb was in turn killed by me in a shoot-out. Very tidy. Too much so.
“They won’t swallow that goldfish,” I muttered, shrugging from my suit coat and prying off my shoes.
It would get out that there was no body in the destroyed car. The bomb had been big, but not so much as to wholly obliterate its intended target. Unless Kroun did something, New York would only send another man to find out why and then bump me. I’d gotten myself noticed by the wrong people one too many times. The idea of getting clear of town for a while was tempting, but that would leave Gordy holding the bag.
My other option was just to get it over with and let the mob do the hit. Let them think they’d executed me, then they could go home satisfied. Easy enough. I’d survived such attacks before. The problem with that was I’d not be able to go back to my business again. Just getting the legal papers to a new name forged would be a pain in the ass. I had friends, family, a club to run, things to do, and I needed to be able to do them as myself, Jack Fleming.
I stretched flat on the cot, loosening my belt, and felt gravity tug me toward the center of the planet. Illusion. The pull was really from the spread of earth under the protective oilcloth. This was my portion of the grave I’d never gone to, a tiny scrap of peace in the red chaos, protection from the insanity of my subconscious. My body seemed to weigh a ton; the feeling was surprisingly pleasant.
If I could hypnotize that next mobster into forgetting his job all would be well, but even thinking about using one of my evil-eye whammies made my head buzz like a too-crowded beehive. The last time I’d employed that talent had damn near exploded my brain. Deep-down instinct said another attempt would kill me. My nights of pretending to be Lamont Cranston and clouding men’s minds like the Shadow were over.
Kroun was not crippled in that area, though. I could probably talk him into fixing things, especially if it meant his own safety. If I were him, I’d be cooperative and willing to try.
Only he wasn’t me.
> Who the hell is he? I wondered—my last thought as the rising sun swept me into the dreamless abyss for the day.
KROUN
GOD, my chest hurts.
Not as bad as before, but it was like a hangover that wouldn’t quite give up and leave.
The through and through Gabriel had taken was healed; he could tell that much because the itching deep under his knitted skin had almost stopped. It still felt as though pieces of himself had torn loose and were wriggling their way back into place again. What wouldn’t fit kept trying to migrate up his throat. If he was careful not to breathe or move fast, it wasn’t too bad. But just when everything seemed settled, the internal prickling would rise, crest, and set him off hacking like a lunger on his last legs. Gabe was damned bored with it.
He climbed the stairs slowly, hoping there would be no more visitors to make things exciting. He went to what Fleming called the guest bath, twisted the sink’s left-hand tap, waiting, waiting, waiting until the water ran hot.
Gabe stared at the mirror over the sink. His faded, near-transparent reflection stared back. The ones like Fleming had no reflection at all. How did he get by without being able to see himself? Shaving must be an ordeal.
On the other hand, he could disappear and get well again anytime he pleased. Gabe would have given much to have that; it would have saved him a lot of pain the last couple nights.
Leaning close, he checked his tongue and eyes, didn’t find anything of interest, then scratched his chin and neck. Yeah, a shave would be good, but have to wait. No razor. Did he need a haircut? If he could grab his hair in the back then it was too long. Gabe ran a hand over his head. Yeah, half an inch there at least. Time for a trim, get rid of the singed areas.
The ridge was still there of course—the one in the bone on the left side of his skull. It marked where the bullet that originally killed him had gone in. And stayed. That small piece of metal allowed him to discern a remnant of his presence in mirrors.
His head hurt. Not like when it first happened, but bad enough, aggravated by the latest calamities. People had tried killing him yet again, and he didn’t like the violent reminder that not so long ago someone had actually succeeded.
He also didn’t like thinking about how many other people wanted him dead. One fewer to their numbers, but still—
I’d trusted him. Goddamned Mitchell. Goddamned bastard. I should have seen that coming.
It wasn’t as though Mitchell had intentionally shot Gabe tonight at the girl’s flat, but he had planned the bomb for the car. What a dirty way to kill a man.
Too bad only Fleming got to have all the fun of beating the hell out of—
Jack Fleming. Now there was one crazy noodle. One minute trying to be helpful, the next letting himself get pulped flat in his own house. What kind of a screwball was he? He seemed to know all the ropes about being a—Gabe stumbled over vampire.
Ugly word.
He’d read up on it, of course, and other details had just come to him from God knows where. Northside Gordy had filled in more blanks, but getting the firsthand knowledge from a guy who’d actually been through the same mill was much more useful. Getting it without raising too many questions was the problem. Fleming was curious and had only begun to start with the snooping.
Reporters. They’re incurable.
Gabe was inclined to shed him fast then get lost, but Fleming might come looking, full of good intentions. With the whole of Gordy’s organization on the hunt, Gabe wouldn’t stay lost for long. He’d have to handle this carefully, keep the man on his side until a real exit could be managed.
He had been lucky at surviving until now, until they sent him to Chicago to take out the piss-and-vinegar punk who’d iced Hog Bristow.
Having other errands to see to, Gabe had gone, hoping to figure a way to avoid killing anyone. Fortunately, the punk had been smart enough to save himself.
Finding out that he was in the same bloodsuckers’ club—well, that had been a real distraction.
But while the company was interesting, Jack Fleming was too reckless about who he let in on his secret; sooner or later, he’d tell others about the new guy in town. Though he seemed all right for the moment, he could turn on a thin dime.
The man was nuts.
That was plain from their first meeting. It’d been damned hair-raising when Fleming had gone into that fit. Gabe couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone acting like that before, the sudden uncontrolled shivering, the eyes rolling up, then the poor bastard vanished into nothing. He said he was better now, but if he forgot himself and tried to hypnotize anyone again…apparently that was what set him off.
Gabe felt sorry for what had been done to Fleming. Torturing a bystander had never been part of the plan to get rid of Bristow, and it was just as well Fleming didn’t hold a grudge. For now. The guy was trying hard to keep himself together, but he was still loopy as a bedbug, and that made him dangerous to be around. Soon as Gabe was on his feet and able to make a good job of disappearing, he’d get clear.
For that he would need a car and money.
Lots of money.
There were ways to get it, but later, when he wasn’t wheezing like a bad engine.
Moving with great caution to keep from coughing, Gabe stripped to the waist and ran a hot, soapy washcloth over his face and neck, going easy over the fresh scar on his chest. There wasn’t enough time for a shower-bath. He would only have to put on the same wrecked clothes again. It felt like he’d worn these for a week. If this was what being dead involved then he should have planned it better.
God, what have I let myself into? Is this going to work?
Gabriel Kroun wasn’t a nobody who could leave the party without a ripple. He’d been through that before, the first time he died and found himself trapped in his previous life. Things had to run differently this time, and he had to work it better to avoid the same problems. The boys back home either liked and feared him or hated and feared him, and there was at least one who couldn’t let his very public death slide without doing something.
Fleming didn’t seem to be too worried about that, and he should be; he was either an idiot or counting on Gabe to step in and help.
I might. But not if it ended with old enemies finding out he was still walking around. Gabe had gone through too much to waste the opportunity to get away from the mob life.
Some of them were okay guys, but then Mitchell had seemed to be an okay guy. With a hypnotic nudge for insurance, the man was made incurious about where and how Gabe spent his days, and that had been enough. Not once had Gabe thought to add, Oh, by the way, don’t try killing me.
On no account was he going to go back to that. Somebody up there had handed him a new start on a platter. He was certain he didn’t deserve it, and suspicious that it might be yanked away.
Money and a car. Have to figure out something…
The guest room was clean, but basic. There was a wardrobe, no closet. None of the rooms on the floor had closets. Except for spare blankets, the wardrobe was empty and too small to hide in. He pulled all the blankets out and spread them on the bed. Damn, that looked vulnerable.
The room had one tall, narrow window with curtains and a pull-down shade that would dim the full daylight when it came. Easing it aside he peered at the street below and each house within view. A few lights showed in windows. Early risers were getting ready for work, their wives making coffee, eggs, hotcakes, bacon. He could remember eating those things, but not their taste. It had been good. He was sure of that.
Bacon…greasy, hot, crisp when fried right, but was it sweet, sour, bitter, or salty? He just didn’t know.
He put the shade back and yanked the heavy curtains together. The predawn light was strong, leaving painful afterimages on his eyes. Damn, his head got worse because of it.
He shucked his shoes and trousers, folding himself into a clean, soft bed. Not bad. Damned good, in fact. The sheets seemed too short for his legs, so he messed them around until they were
loose enough to pull over his head along with the extra blankets. Black as a mine now, dark enough for—
Just a few seconds to go.
His head pounded in weary anticipation. The left side. Always.
Gabe slipped into absolute immobility swiftly, managing to shut his eyes at the last instant. He’d forgotten once and spent the day with them open. When night came, they’d felt like razor-edged rocks.
Images flashed over the inside of his lids. His own little movie show. He got to relive Mitchell’s shooting him all over again. Several times. Even once was too many. Then memory swept Gabe back to that damn car and the explosion. He stayed there in the searing heat for a long, long while, tasting the smoke, feeling the blind panic, the pain, tearing his hands as he slammed out the door and rolled clear before hell could suck him in for real and forever.
He was trapped in that bad spot much too long, going through it too many times. After a very long, long eternity, it finally lost strength, like a storm wearing itself out. The inner lightning and thunder ceased, leaving only the wind.
That was a good sound.
When the nightmares faded, he dreamed of wind whirring through pine needles. It was hollow and haunting, sad, cold music; he thought he should be afraid of it, but just never seemed to feel anything but comfort. He was safe there. At peace.
The sound gradually merged with shapes, pale light, and shadows. He lay on his back under a black sky shot with stars. Raw bare ground chilled his body, the scent of pines and the bruised smell of fresh-turned earth filled his head. A pine tree loomed tall over him. Its boughs waved in the wind, restless, singing to the night. Theirs was the sweetest, most calming song he’d ever heard. He had never before felt so relaxed and content.
It lasted until a heavy wedge of damp earth slapped over his face.
What are they doing? Why are they doing this to me?
His face was soon covered, his body frozen, his mind screaming and impotent. He couldn’t see, only hear: the grunt of a man, breathing hoarse as he labored, the scrape of metal in the dirt—a shovel?—somewhere in the distance a woman sobbed. Hers was the anguish of the heartbroken. It hurt to listen to that kind of pain. He felt sorry for her, grieving for him so hard. If he could just wake up he could tell her it was all right. There’d been a mistake. He wasn’t dead. He tried to remember her face…