by P. N. Elrod
“Fleming, it is no goddamned wonder that people want to kill you.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Now you start,” he muttered. “Okay, fine. I understand. I’ve got a bad reputation, so I’ll let this pass. On the level—the lady is just peachy. But don’t take my word for it, find a phone, pull over. I’ll even give you a nickel to call the joint.”
He named one of the more expensive brothels under Gordy’s supervision, the name of the madam, and the girl in question. A phone call wouldn’t take long. My eating crow was preferable to letting him get away with something ugly. Of course, Kroun could have hypnotically primed everyone with a story.
His reaction was not that of a guilty man, but then Michael had mentioned Kroun’s lack of a conscience. Gordy’s accounts of cold executions backed it up. Sonny’s obscene ravings—none of it seemed to fit the man on the passenger side of my car. I measured that against Kroun’s saving Escott’s life, getting me off the death list, and his behavior in general.
But some people were very good at hiding the dark inside.
I glanced at him. He was angry, but there was no sign of that hell-pit emptiness in his eyes. For all I knew, the same thing showed in me when I went off my rocker. Maybe it was part of our shared condition.
“I’ll check on it later,” I finally said.
“Lemme know what you find out.”
“I have to do this. It’s not connected to Michael’s orders.”
He thought that one through. “Yeah. I see that. You’re a stand-up guy, you can’t help it.”
I didn’t expect that response.
“But you know,” he continued, “you could try, just try not to be such a pain in the ass while you’re at it.”
That was more like it. “Just part of my charm.”
A few miles of twisting and turning around the Loop convinced him we were in the clear. He gave me a direction.
“West,” I said. “Not Wisconsin.” And I’d been braced for a fresh new brawl for refusing to head north.
“Nope. I want what you wrote down on getting to the cabin, though.” He had a pencil and another Nightcrawler matchbook.
Rather than drive while reading from my shirt cuff, I passed him the copy I’d made.
He grunted a thanks, then checked the paper. “This is word for word.”
“Just a knack. Again—where are we going? And how long will it take?”
“Can’t say. I don’t know the area.” He folded the paper into the matchbook, shoving both in a pocket, brought out a map, and wrestled it open. A black circle around a thread-thin line of country road marked our general destination.
Closer than Wisconsin, but not all that close, and I’d planned to see Bobbi tonight. I pressed hard on the gas. “You need a chauffeur, not me,” I grumbled.
“I’m keeping you clear of Michael.”
“So he doesn’t know about your visit to Sonny.”
“He’ll find that out on his own. This is just to keep the peace.”
“How?”
“You’re both used to being in charge, and neither of you likes to be bossed. He pushes people, that’s how he operates. If he pushes you the wrong way, then Broder has to step in; someone could lose an eye.”
“You don’t trust me with your friends?”
Kroun didn’t laugh but was mightily amused. “You trust me with yours?”
“I didn’t have a choice. What’s going to happen to Charles?”
“He’s better?”
“Like he was never sick. And he’s asking questions. Is he gonna become like us?”
“Why should he?”
“Because our kind of blood is different. It changes things.”
He stopped smiling. “Sure as hell does.”
“You knew it would help him, but how’s it gonna be for him later?”
“Damned if I know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Yes, I said that. I really did. You wanna figure it out, read a book.”
“There aren’t any. I’ve read everything on what we are, and nothing mentions a word about what you did. All I’ve got is you.”
“Then you’re out of luck, because I don’t know. I’ll say it again if that hasn’t sunk in.”
That exasperated me, and I let him see it.
“I don’t,” he repeated. “Really.”
“And why is that?”
He shook his head.
What the hell? But more questions wouldn’t work; he’d pulled on his poker face. Escott might have better luck getting an answer.
Maybe—and I was disinclined to believe it—Kroun was giving me the straight dope after all.
I’d suffered a blackout about my death. I’d lost days of time, though most of the memories had eventually come back. Perhaps he had that, too, and didn’t want to admit the weakness. It would explain a lot. The bullet in his skull might make his case worse, blotting out who had made his change, how he knew certain things.
I opened my mouth to throw that at him, then caught a glimpse of his profile. His head was pressed against the window so he could gape up at the buildings as we rolled along State Street. His grimness was gone, and he suddenly looked like a farm kid marveling at the wonders. Everything would seem different because of the internal changes. Those towers would be new, shining and miraculous under a night sky that wasn’t dark anymore.
No need to interrupt that. I turned on the radio and found some music to distract me.
GO far enough away from Chicago, and eventually you run out of city. It trails off grudgingly. In the last ten years a million people had moved in—I was one of them—and while most clustered in close to the lake, there were plenty spread around the outer areas. Instead of tall buildings full of flats, you saw individual houses that gave way to fields and trees with no sidewalks running under them, no fences cutting between.
The roads turned rough, the solid-rubber tires made them bumpy as hell, and most corners lacked a signpost. If you didn’t know where you were, tough luck. There hadn’t been much traffic to break up the last snowfall, so I had to go slow in spots. The heavy car skidded uneasily when the solid tires weren’t trying to rattle our teeth loose. It got too noisy to hear the radio. I shut it off to focus on driving.
Kroun scowled at his map and didn’t answer questions. Annoying, but nothing new. I played chauffeur and paid attention to the route to remember it later.
“Pull in there,” said Kroun after half an hour.
Suspecting he’d lost his bearings, I did, braking near some gas pumps standing sentinel before a run-down white building. Dropped onto a wide patch in the road, it was shaped like a shoe box with square windows cut into the long sides. Faded signs informed drivers that they could buy gas, hamburgers, and hot coffee, the latter two emphasized by bold, inexpert artwork.
The place was open; a lone light, the only one in view, shone over the screen door. Even in the most isolated spots out in farming country you can nearly always spy a light in the far distance and know that people might be there or had once been there. This would be the joint shining that light. Nothing else but trees and wind and loneliness lay beyond in all directions. When I cut the motor, the silence crowded in like an unwelcome witness.
The muddy slush between the building and the gas pumps indicated customers had been by that day, but no sign of them now. Kroun got out and looked around, his manner telling me that this was his intended destination. Who the hell did he know here? Another crazy like Sonny?
He struck off, heading for the door. I followed, and we went inside.
Like any hunter I scented the air: the stink of old cooking grease, onions, and stale coffee dominated. I’d eaten in countless diners just like this during my newspaper days. For twenty-five cents you could get a filling meal that sometimes digested without incident and flirt with the waitress if she was in the mood for it. This country-cousin version inspired the kind of nostalgic pang that made me glad I was now drinking blood.
/> The woman behind the counter looked to have had a hard life, but a lot of that was going around. Her black-and-gray hair was pulled back and pinned tight, her face amiable enough despite the lines. She had to get all types in, but nothing recent that looked like us. We got the quick assessing stare reserved for newcomers, and she asked if we needed gas, food, or both.
Kroun took his hat off. “No, ma’am, thank you. I’m looking for Mrs. Cabot.”
“Who wants her?”
“I’m supposed to deliver something.”
“You’re no mailman. What is it?”
He hesitated, then pulled out a letter-sized envelope, holding it up. “Not sure. Looks like money. They don’t pay me to be curious.”
“Money for what?”
“I don’t know. Are you Mrs. Cabot, Nelly’s mother?”
She went dead still, her eyes going flat. “What about Nelly?”
“I’m here to make sure she’s all right. If I could talk to her a minute…”
The woman pointed toward the door. “Get out, the two of you. Now.”
“Mrs. Cabot—”
“OUT!” she bellowed.
He moved closer instead, but she was faster. Before he could even begin to give her the evil eye she pulled a Colt six-shot from under the counter, leveling the muzzle square on his chest.
“Our mistake,” I said, and backed toward the door. I caught Kroun’s arm and tugged. He retreated a few steps, reluctant.
“Please, ma’am, I only want to talk, there’s no need—”
“OUT!” Her eyes blazed wild.
“C’mon, Kroun.” I pulled harder. “Haul it.”
She gave a double take. “Y-you’re Kroun?”
He offered a hopeful smile. “Yes, ma’am. If you’d put that d—”
The barrel roared fire, short, ugly, and deafening in the confined space.
Kroun had hellishly good reflexes and ducked a bare instant ahead of the shot. I vanished entirely, came back, and grabbed him while the smoke still billowed.
The next second we were out the door in craven retreat for the car. Mrs. Cabot was right behind, taking aim, one-handed. Shaking and cursing as she was, she missed. Kroun slammed the passenger door shut in time to stop the third round. The thick glass chipped and went opaque right where his head was; he flinched back in the seat, and in a strange, strained voice told me to get us moving.
Good idea, but under certain circumstances it takes a damned long time to start a car and work the gas and clutch just right. I managed. In the meanwhile, she slammed two more shots into his window, each making progress toward shattering it completely.
We were suddenly bouncing onto the road, the motor howl drowning out any more gunfire though I was sure something pinged off the back. I didn’t slow until a sharp turn half a mile down made it a necessity.
“Pull over,” said Kroun.
“No, thanks.” Just because I was more bulletproof than when I’d been alive didn’t mean I enjoyed getting shot.
I put another mile between us and Mrs. Cabot, and he repeated himself. I’d gotten my own shaking under control by then and obliged. An unpaved lane leading into trees opened on the left. I went far enough in so we were hidden, cut the motor, got out, and went still.
Kroun got out on his side. “What is it?”
Held my hand up. “Listen.”
He did, then shrugged. “Nothing. Just wind.”
“Yeah, no siren. She should have called the cops by now. Even the ones in the sticks have radio cars.”
“Maybe Sheriff Hickory is on the other end of the county ticketing cows without a license.”
Good point. “What did you do to that woman?”
“Nothing. I wanted to talk to her daughter if she was there.”
“About what?”
But he wasn’t sharing. The wind threw itself through bare tree limbs and brush, which always made me nervous. It sounded like a ghost army was prowling around us. I was born on a farm but preferred the city. The sharp angles made it easier to pick out people when they came at you.
“Back in,” I said.
“What?”
“We gits while the gittin’s good, before the law comes.”
“We’re staying.”
“So they can find us? They know these back roads and can figure where we might hide. I’d rather be a moving target. We leave now, and we might slip clear.”
“Jack, calm down. I can handle any cop who comes by.”
“Like you handled her? No thanks, I’ve had enough.” I got in, and so did Kroun, but he yanked the keys out.
“We’re waiting,” he said.
Goddammit. A flash of anger went through me, and I understood that woman’s urge to shoot him. “Just tell me what you’re trying to do!”
To give him credit, he thought about it. I could see wheels spinning and gears grinding behind his dark eyes, and for one naked moment glimpsed painful indecision there. Then he shut it down. He shook his head, pressing his palm against that white streak as though it hurt. “Can’t.”
I thought about slamming his forehead into the dashboard a few times but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. By tomorrow Escott might have the whole story. “Okay. Why are we waiting?”
“For her to settle down.”
“That could take a few years.”
“You see her nose?”
“Not really.” All I could see was the Colt swinging my way.
“Veins.”
“Veins?”
“A nose like that means she has a bottle. She’ll lock up, reload, have a drink or three, and fall asleep. We go back on the quiet, get inside, then I talk to her.”
“Get inside? She’s going to hear you sneaking up, I don’t care how asleep she is.”
He nodded. “I got that. The sneaking up is your job.”
“The hell it is.”
“All you have to do is hold her until I can put her under. I’ll calm her down, make her forget everything.”
Since Escott took me on as a silent partner in his business, I’d slipped into more than one place on the sly, but always in a good cause. Trying the same gag on Mrs. Cabot…no. Not without an explanation. “You tell me why, first.”
Kroun gave a frustrated snarl, but cut it off. “I said I can’t. I’m only here to find out if her daughter is all right and where she is. That’s all. Don’t ask who her daughter is. I can’t tell you that, either.”
He made it sound as though he was working under duress for someone else, but I wasn’t buying. He’d ask the lady a lot more than just two questions. From those I’d learn more about what was going on with him. I’d pass what I knew to Escott, maybe Gordy, and they might be able to fill in the picture.
“We wait an hour,” I said. “That’s my limit.”
He scowled, then gave a nod, handing over the keys.
THAT was one damned slow hour. I couldn’t play the radio in case it ran the battery down, and neither of us was in a mood for conversation. For something to do I turned the car around so it faced toward the road. That filled up a whole minute.
The rest of the time it was dead quiet inside except for the wind outside and the tick of our respective watches. I’d gotten used to hearing breathing and a heartbeat with other people. Kroun had neither. Now and then I’d check to make sure he was still there, just my bad luck that he was.
It got cold, too. Even for me.
I wondered about Mrs. Cabot and her daughter Nelly and what either of them had to do with Kroun. My half-formed speculations were on the dark side.
Five minutes short, he had enough. “Let’s get this over with.”
Finally. I returned to the main road, keeping the speed sedate, slowing as we approached the diner. The CLOSED sign was up, every light was on, and a car was parked in front, partially obscured by the gas pumps.
“She called someone to come sit with her,” I said. “No deal. Try again tomorrow.”
“Just as easy to hold two down as one,” he
said.
“No, it isn’t. She could have her whole family in there waiting with shotguns. Tomorrow.” Before he could object I hit the gas.
We sailed by. Kroun grumbled to himself, looking back. “He’s following.”
I checked the mirror. The other car had pulled onto the road, headlights off. Anyone else would have missed him, but Kroun and I had the advantage at night. I picked up speed; the other guy matched me.
“Cops?” I asked. “Unmarked car?”
“I don’t see any radio antenna. Some friend, maybe.”
“We’ll lose him in the city. Not much I can do out here. What’d you do to piss them off?”
But he didn’t answer and continued to watch the other guy. “He’s catching up.”
I fed more gas, but didn’t gain speed. Derner’s garage pals might have tuned the motor, but they couldn’t make it produce more power to compensate for the weight of the armor. My once fleet and sweet Buick was now a turtle.
Our shadow’s windows reflected the surrounding snow, so neither of us could see inside. All I saw of the driver was a hunched form with his hat pulled low. The other car—it looked like a Caddy—came up fast.
He bumped hard into us, and I automatically hit the brake. He wouldn’t slow, and on the slick road he was able to push and keep pushing. I floored my gas pedal, but it wasn’t enough to get ahead until we started down a long slope. We gained a whole inch on him.
Crump, as he bumped again, much harder.
I fought to keep control. He hit the horn, which was supposed to unnerve me, and made a pretty good job of it.
Kroun rolled down his fractured window. He had his gun in hand.
“No shooting!” I yelped.
He looked pained. “Just going to discourage him. Drive.”
Dammit.
The Caddy slewed toward the left as Kroun’s first shot made a hole in the passenger-side windshield. Was his eye that good or had he gotten lucky? Before he could aim again, the other car hit the gas in earnest and plowed into my left back bumper. I nearly tore the wheel off keeping us straight and yelled at Kroun to get himself inside. He was half-out the window.
“What’d you say?” he asked, sliding back down.