The Dark Sleep (Vampire Files #8) - Page 14
"How can that be?" I asked. "I mean, how? He's Archy Grant. He's famous. Everyone knows who he is."
"Who he is, not who he was. His life history, prior to ten years back, is but a sketch, and, I'm sure, entirely fiction."
"What's your proof? I mean, you gotta have something solid to take to the cops before they'll do anything."
More of that whispery laughter. I wanted to hit him to make it stop.
Coldfield stepped in. "Come on, Charles. Tell us what you found out."
Escott gave up laughing and just stared ahead, but without seeing. "The irony of this is that I was not looking for Raymond Yorke at all. I was looking for the man who shot at me. Gil Dalhauser was the most likely suspect, but when I let him see me today he scowled, but wasn't particularly surprised. The man is doubtless an excellent poker player; he did not so much as flick an eyelid. So I dismissed him from my list and sought to test the lesser probability that Ike LaCelle represented."
"Did you tell Gordy any of this?" I asked. "Warn him someone wasn't listening to his orders?"
"I'd planned to call him, but only after I ascertained the identity of the guilty party. I made other calls and learned what I needed to know. Ike LaCelle usually spends his ample free time in the company of Archy Grant, perhaps because it affords the opportunity to meet new celebrities. Grant was having a rehearsal today for his show next week, something LaCelle usually attends, so I went to the studio."
"Bobbi was there, she didn't mention seeing you."
"That is what you may expect when I do not wish to be noticed. I sat in the back and did not draw attention to myself, wanting to have the full effect on LaCelle when I finally confronted him."
"So he could shoot you again?"
"I still wore my vest. It was a reasonable gamble."
"Reasonable?"
Coldfield waved a warning hand at me from where he stood just behind Escott and mouthed the words "Let him talk." I recalled what he'd said about our mutual friend's desire not to live, and suddenly all those times Escott had risked himself made sense. "Go on, Charles," he said. "What did you do?"
"Waited until the end of rehearsal. I watched them working through things, making changes, suggestions, laughing, arguing-it quite took me back to old times. Grant had piqued my curiosity last night. I couldn't help but think I'd met him before, yet his face was unfamiliar to me. But sitting so far in the back of the auditorium, where his face was only a small pink oval, I paid more attention to his body movements and his voice.
"I did not grasp it at first, and then I told myself I certainly must be mistaken. It's been thirteen years since I last saw Raymond, and he'd only been with the company for a month, but some details do stay in the brain, hidden deep and difficult to coax forth, but there all the same. The longer I watched Grant work, the more the past came back to me.
I remembered how he carried himself, that cocky I-own-the-world walk, the shape of his head, his laugh, patterns of speech, and accent. All of it.
"By the end of the afternoon, they finished the rehearsal and everyone left. I took myself around to the exit Grant was heading toward and waited for him on the other side. He was alone for the moment, but LaCelle was not far behind. Grant came through the door, saw me, and stopped. Stopped and simply stared at me. He didn't say a word.
Neither of us did. But I knew. I knew. And so did he.
"LaCelle came through just then, with a crowd of hangers-on, but I turned and walked away before he could notice me and react. I had what I wanted, the name of the gunman and the reason why he tried to kill me. Then I had to leave before… before…"
"You went nuts and killed him?" asked Coldfield.
"Yes. Exactly that. I began shaking all over and couldn't seem to stop. Thought I'd pass out in the elevator down to the street. It came right back to me again, the rage. I had to calm myself and try to think."
"So you went out and got drunk."
"I don't remember much of that part. I suppose I must have, for the both of you to make such a fuss, and I don't feel at all well."
"But you did it, Charles. You found that son of a bitch. You got what you most wanted."
"Except for proof, my friend. I've no admissible proof against him." He breathed out one short puff of air to express defeat. "No proof. There's no way to prove he did the shooting last night or that he was ever Raymond Yorke. All I have is inside my head, and you cannot set a personal conviction on an evidence table in a courtroom."
"Fingerprints," I said. "The cops must have taken fingerprints back then. It wouldn't be much to-"
"There are no prints of his on record from the scene. He wore gloves."
"Come on, he must have left some for them to find. Did he wear gloves the whole month he was with the company?"
"Certainly he did on the night of the murders. He also wiped down everything he'd touched in the cabin and the car. Even the cup of tea he gave me had been polished clean. As for other items he may have handled, any prints he might have left were obscured by those of the other company members."
"He was one careful bastard," said Coldfield.
"There's still your testimony," I said. "And a lot of circumstantial evidence to go with it. If you found other members of the troupe, they could probably identify him just as you did."
Escott shook his head and finished the rest of his coffee; from the grimace he made it had gone cold. "Believe me, I've thought this through, and even under the most favorable of legal proceedings, it is not enough to hang him. I did not actually see the crime take place, and was in the partial thrall of morphine at the time. Any attorney he hired would get the case thrown out. Grant's too well protected, by the passage of time and his own fame."
He didn't sound like himself at all. He was still carrying a load of liquor, though, maybe that was why he was so readily giving up before even starting.
"He's not protected from me," I said. "We get him to confess. I've done that before. Give me ten minutes with him, and he'll be marching straight to the nearest station house to give himself up. Hell, I could have him drive straight to the Elkfoot Flats station if you wanted."
Escott stopped staring at nothing and focused his eyes on me. They were the eyes of a man who's been to hell and back and still has the stench of damnation clinging to his soul. "Oh, my dear friend, this is not your fight."
"It is now, because I've practically invited Ike LaCelle to come over here. If I'd known about any of this, I'd have gone to see him first and stopped things."
"It's progressed too far for that."
Between this and what Dalhauser told me, I was ready to agree, but not give up. "Okay, maybe so, but at the moment you're in no shape to deal with him. When he gets here anything could happen, so you two get scarce. Go to the Shoe Box and I'll phone you there when I've got news."
"I think we're about to get a firsthand report right now," said Coldfield. "That was the front door, wasn't it?"
"Stay here and keep quiet." I hurried past him to the hall.
He'd called it right. LaCelle was just stepping inside. With him were Shep and the prizefighter, who were already in, their guns drawn. All three turned to face me.
LaCelle grinned. "Hey, Fleming! Good to see you, I got your message. What's the something I can learn to my advantage?" He'd put on his usual pose of a hearty good mood, but under it all was the sly confidence of a man who knows he has all the best cards in the deck. He wasn't afraid, and he should have been.
"Take me to see Raymond Yorke."
His grin faltered, and he cocked his head inquiringly. "Who?"
"Can the let's-pretend game, Ike. You may hang around the talent, but none of it's rubbed off. We both know what's going on and how it's going to end. Before it does I want to talk to Yorke or Grant or whatever he's calling himself now."
"What a lot you seem to know-or think you do."
"What I know or not doesn't matter, you're going to take me to him."
"Okay, okay. I'm glad you're making this easy on yourself. But that partner of yours who doesn't know how to die is coming, too."
"He's not here."
"Now who's playing pretend? His Nash is sitting right outside."
"That's my neighbor's car. Take me to Grant. After I talk with him he won't be interested in Escott."
LaCelle snorted. "That'll be the day."
Somewhere behind me I heard a thump followed by a grunt and a soft thud. What the hell… ?
"What was that?" LaCelle had heard it, too.
"Don't move!" Escott snapped. He stood in the parlor looking out at us, and in his hands was his granddaddy crossbow. He had a bolt loaded in it, and the string was pulled back, ready to shoot.
"Ike?" Shep, uncertain of the change in the situation, aimed his gun at Escott.
"Hold it, both of you," Ike said, also bringing his gun around. The fighter continued to cover me. "No shooting."
"Yes," Escott agreed. "Let us all behave as gentlemen and no one will get hurt."
"What the hell's that thing?" asked Shep. "Some kinda cockeyed bow and arrow?"
"It's as deadly as any gun," Escott informed him. "And has the added advantage of being nearly silent."
"It's three to one," said LaCelle cautiously. "And we've got more shots."
"True, but my one shot is aimed at you, and I'm an excellent marksman."
"He is," I added. "He practices all the time."
LaCelle thought hard, then eased back slightly. "Okay, what do you want?"
That was all I needed. "I want you to look at me, and I want you to listen to me."
"No, Jack," said Escott, breaking my concentration before I made any kind of progress. "Not that way."
"It'll be easier for us."
"I'm finishing this alone. This is my fight."
"Where's-" I bit it off. Maybe Coldfield was working his way around the outside of the house to take them from the front door. No need to reveal anything about having another player in the game.
Escott said, "Gentlemen, I shall get my coat and we will leave. You will take me to see Archy Grant."
"Charles, they're not going to do any such thing, they'll kill you first."
"I think not. Because of Gordy's protection, isn't that correct, Mr. LaCelle?"
Nonplussed at such cooperation, he gave an uncertain nod. "Yeah, that's right."
"Which is why during the shooting last night you drove the car, but did not actually pull the trigger. You left that for Grant to do, did you not?"
"Sweet, ain't it? Gordy can't hold your getting scragged against me."
I snorted. "I think you're smart enough to know Gordy won't fall for any hairsplitting like that."
"He'll have to. In the scheme of things Archy's a lot more valuable property than either of you. Archy's show's a gold mine to my bosses and damn near legit. They're gonna want to keep him around and working. My job is to keep him happy, and he won't be happy until the both of you are bye-bye."
"But not until he talks to me?" asked Escott.
"Oh, yeah, he wants that, too."
Escott looked like he wanted to talk some himself. He had a lot of years of it saved up. Coldfield might need more time, though, for whatever he had planned. "This little job gives you quite a hold over Archy, doesn't it?" I put in.
"Must be nice."
LaCelle seemed genuinely surprised. "What hold? We're friends from way back. He helps me, I help him. Tonight I help him clear up an old mess, so tell your friend to put down the fancy Robin Hood gag and you two come along quiet."
"Okay. You heard the man, Charles. Let's go for a ride."
Escott shook his head. "Not both of us. Only myself. I'm going to ask you to arrange things with this fellow so that you stay here." There was a strange note to his voice that put a chill in my spine. "And I truly mean stay here, Jack. No covert following."
So he didn't want me tagging invisibly along. Like hell I wouldn't. Not when he looked like that. "Grant wants to see both of us. Isn't that right, LaCelle?"
LaCelle had picked up on the unspoken interplay between Escott and me and was cautious. "That's what he wants, yeah."
"Get your coat, Charles."
"This is my fight."
There was something seriously wrong going on inside his head. I could see it and even feel it, and it was important enough for me to break my number-one rule concerning friends. "Charles… listen to me."
A change came over his face, and he looked sad. "I cannot. It has to be done my way."
Oh, hell, I'd forgotten about all the booze still sloshing around in his blood. Of course he'd be able to resist my influence. "You're not going without me."
"But I must." He was blinking a lot, and his voice was thick.
"Charles-"
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He suddenly shifted his aim and pulled the trigger on the crossbow.
No-
Too late.
The bolt slammed into my chest, knocking my last draw of breath right out. I fell against the stair banister and dropped, sprawling. Pure fire blossomed through me. My helpless body twitched and spasmed, heels cracking against the floor, arms thrashing from the agony. I heard a terrible strangling, hissing sound and realized I was the one making it.
LaCelle yelped some exclamation of surprise, and I was distantly aware of his hasty backing away.
Bloodsmell. Mine.
I clawed at the thing jutting from my ribs, but couldn't get my fingers to grasp it, pull it free. The blinding pain slowed me, finally paralyzed me. The convulsions abruptly ceased; my hands slipped down at my sides, and I lay staring at the ceiling, corpse still, but fully conscious.
Burning.
Please God, make it stop!
Burning inside.
"Ike?" Shep's voice. Scared. "What do we do, Ike?"
"Gimme a minute." LaCelle. Badly shaken.
"Did you see what he did to him? He's crazy!"
"I know, I know! Just shuddup an' lemme think!"
They shut up.
Screaming.
Charles, help me!
Screaming in my head.
No one to hear.
But he knows. He must know!
Escott said, "I'm putting this down now and going to get my coat." Very calm.
No one moved as he followed through. On the edge of my blurring vision I saw him shrug on his heavy topcoat.
He paused by the hall table for a minute.
"What're you doing?" LaCelle demanded.
"Just writing a little note for anyone who finds him."
"You lemme see it."
"Of course."
Paper rustled as LaCelle grabbed it from him. " 'Please remove bolt as quickly as possible-C.E.' What is this? Some kinda sick joke?"
"He's crazy, Ike. Get away from him." Shep. Nervous.
"My good man, I am not crazy, merely drunk. May I have my note back? Thank you." Escott knelt by me, his gray, hollow face coming into my line of view, and pushed the paper partway into my shirt between the buttons. "I don't expect you to ever forgive me, but after tonight that won't matter. Talk to Shoe. He'll help you understand why." He brushed his fingers over my eyelids to close them, then stood. "Might I ask where we'll be going?"
LaCelle gave a brief, sickly laugh. "Someplace cold, dark, and quiet."
"Sounds like a grave."
"Yeah, it does. Come on."
They all trooped out, leaving me where I had fallen. My body was inert, but my senses and mind were all too aware.
Unable to act or react, but aware and furious. The only thing hotter than my anger at Escott was the searing bolt lodged between my ribs.
He was going off to die, and he knew it.
He was going off to kill.
Himself and one other-if he had the chance.
For when he came into my view he'd been tucking his pen away. It was that damned fat-bodied pen with the hidden hypodermic needle, and God knows what he had in the thing.
No way to tell the time.
Pain distorts it, slows it down, turns a minute into an hour.
I couldn't tell how many seeming hours oozed by before I heard a faint groan from the dining room. Other less identifiable noises followed, then a couple of unsteady footsteps.
I knew when Coldfield reached the hall by his sharp intake of breath.
"Sweet Jesus, kid, what did you do?" he choked out.
You've got no business blaming me. This is Escott's fault.
He came closer, cursing softly, and I felt him lift the paper free of my shirt. "What the hell? Is he crazy?"
Yes, very. Now just do what he said to do.
"Aw, shit. God in heaven, this ain't fair."
Damn right. I didn't deserve this.
"Not… fair."
Hurry, Goddammit!
The fire around the bolt, which in a strange way I'd nearly gotten used to, flared white-hot-hotter-all over again.
I couldn't cry out, not until he pulled the thing free, and he wasn't doing a very good job of it. I thought his hands were shaking. He kept muttering unhappily to himself.
Then he snarled, and I felt something unholy tearing my chest apart, and suddenly the damned thing was out.
The aftershock flattened me like a lead brick. I could move but didn't want to; the one thing I could do-couldn't help but do-was vanish.
Surprised, Coldfield cursed loud and at length. He hated, really hated being surprised. This one couldn't be helped.
The damage was too much for me to hold out against; my body did what was best for it and took itself away to an instant release from the pain.
I floated in the comforting bliss of nonfeeling for a while, trying to ignore Coldfield's increasingly noisy demands that I come back. He sounded angry at first, then apprehensive, not knowing what exactly had become of me. Far too soon for my recovery of spirit, I made myself fade back to solidity again, but took my time.
Coldfield watched, wide of eye, as I gradually reappeared, sitting weary to the bone on the stairs. It felt like a few dozen elephants had been jumping on me, and I hunched forward, hugging myself.
"You doing that slow for dramatic effect?" he asked after a minute.
I laughed once, and was amazed that it didn't hurt. "Just being careful. I wanted to make sure everything was working."
"You all right?"
"I think so." I ventured to straighten and checked myself over. There was a lot of blood on my clothes, but it could have been much, much worse. The one time I'd been truly staked by someone determined to kill, I'd lost too much blood to simply vanish and heal. Tonight had been different, though, because Escott had missed hitting my heart. On purpose. He'd wanted to stop me, but not permanently.
I unbuttoned my shirt. Coldfield stared at the spot where he'd pulled the bolt out. My skin was stained, but the hole was all sealed up like new. He next stared at the bolt itself where he'd dropped it on the floor. Spatters of blood radiated out from it.
"What happened to you?" I asked. We both needed our minds to be elsewhere.
"Charles clocked me when he got that crossbow down from the wall." He shrugged himself away from wherever he'd gone and gingerly touched the back of his head behind one ear. "Not too bad. I've had tougher knocks sparring with the boys. But you-how did-"
"He's on a real bender." I peeled my ruined and bloody shirt off and told him what happened. I expected him to not want to believe Escott's shooting of me, but he accepted it quite readily. After all, Escott had cracked his skull without a second's thought. "He's off and running on the edge again, only this time he'd going to go right over."
Coldfield watched as I strode purposefully upstairs, stumbling only once. "You got a plan?"
"No, just a clue and not much of one," I called back while snagging a fresh shirt from my room. A black one. I pulled it on as I hurried down again. His coat and hat were hanging from the hall tree. I tossed them at him and continued buttoning. "It's something LaCelle said. I think I know where they're taking Charles."
"You think! And if you're wrong?"
"We both know the answer to that."
Coldfield was still pretty shaken, so I did the driving while he slumped in the passenger seat and tried not to look sick.
"How hard did he hit you?" I asked.
"Enough so he's going to regret it when I get in swinging distance of him again."
"Seriously, you got any double vision, ringing ears, stuff like that?"
"It just hurts. Doc Clarson can check me over later. You just step on it."
I stepped on it, going along the route Shep had driven me earlier. It seemed to take longer this time, or more likely impatience and fear were distorting my perception. I cut through lights and doubled my speed when I could, knowing I could take care of any traffic cop who stopped me. None did, though, and we were soon sailing next to the wire fence of the truck yard.
"This is Dalhauser's place. Why here?"
"Something he said to me that LaCelle pretty much repeated. It's isolated and Dalhauser's off in Cicero making an alibi for himself. Seemed like a good place for them to bring Charles so no one would interrupt."
"It doesn't take long to kill a man."
"I know." I hit the gas for one last spurt and rounded the corner to the road that ran past the little gatehouse. I pulled into the entry. The gate was shut. The watchman was there, and he was alert. He came out, on guard for trouble, but unprepared for a smile and a fixed gaze from me. Seconds later and he was opening the gate for us. He'd readily told me that two cars had gone in not long ago, but he hadn't checked inside them. Sometimes it's best not to notice certain faces. I told him his shift was over and that he should go home. He thanked me and left, whistling as he drove off in a battered Ford. He wouldn't remember anything of the last few minutes for a long time to come.
"Cripes, I need you to be working for me," said Coldfield. "I'd have a lot bigger territory and run it more smoothly if I could talk people into things the way you do."
"You don't want the headache." I shifted gears, fed it some gas to get speed, then let the big car coast quietly forward.
"Seems to me it'd be worth it."
The door to the cavernous garage was shut, and I recalled Shep leaving it open. Above and to the left of it were the wide windows Dalhauser had used to survey the yard, and I discerned the form of a man standing in almost the same place.
"We've been made," I said. "There's someone up top who must have seen the gate guard pass us in. Maybe we can make them think we've got business here, too. Keep them busy while I go in."
"I'll ask for Dalhauser."
"Great, but if they give you trouble, take off."
"Okay."
He gave in to that a little too readily, but I didn't have time to argue. I braked in front of the door, rolled down the car window, hit the horn a few times, then vanished. Unused to it, Coldfield said "shit" in reaction. I flowed out and over, and went right up the side of the building.
It was made of sheet metal, which is damned dense for getting through. I wasn't even sure I could get through it. In the past there'd always been a convenient crack or an open seam. Now I just kept going until I felt a subtle change in the surface that marked where the windows began. I didn't like going through glass, but could if I had to.
Just when it seemed like it was about to break, it didn't, and I was inside. I cast around, trying to locate the man I'd seen, but he wasn't on the upper landing anymore. That, or I'd miscalculated and drifted the wrong way. Very slowly I took on form, balancing it just right so I had enough of me solid to the point where I could see, but hopefully not be seen. It made me semitransparent, and the result was alarmingly like a Hollywood movie ghost.
I got alarmed myself when I realized I'd risen too high, and was some ten feet above the landing.
I really hate heights.
Easing down to the floor diffused my near panic, then I unexpectedly went solid. There was a fluttering behind my eyes, and a fog of weakness wrapped around me. It was the blood loss, and there'd been no time to stop at the Stockyards and replenish. It was bad, not fatal, but I didn't like the uncertainty. What if I had to go invisible and suddenly reappeared at an inconvenient moment? What if I couldn't reappear at all?
The man at the window was neither Shep nor the prizefighter. I'd hoped that LaCelle would hold down the numbers of his goons, but apparently he trusted them to keep their mouths shut. This mug's mouth was definitely shut when I got through with him. His eyes, too. I dragged him over to a patch of shadow by the outer wall and rolled him face in so he wouldn't be noticed right away, and relieved him of his gun.
The service lights were out, so there was a whole lot of darkness above and below, and though I could see fairly well, I didn't like it. It might mean that they'd already killed Escott and no longer needed illumination to work by.
I held still and listened. Outside, Coldfield was arguing with two men, trying to convince them that he had a meeting with Dalhauser. They didn't sound like they were buying his story, but he stubbornly held to it.
Moving farther inside, I tried to pick up any other voices. Nothing. Not up here, anyway. I tiptoed along the walkway to the other side of the building and used the second set of stairs there, reasoning that everyone's attention would be focused toward the front.
I had better luck on the ground level and saw two men standing by the entrance, watching the others with Coldfield. They looked like Shep and his boxer friend.
Parked near them were two cars, which gave me an idea of the odds. There could be from eight to ten men here, including LaCelle, Grant, and Escott. Four were occupied, one was unconscious, leaving maybe one or two others lurking about.
A line of what looked like offices ran along the right-hand wall beneath the walkway. Lights showed under the closed doors of one. A man paced up and down before it, out of boredom rather than any sense of making rounds, I thought.
If I took him out, it would be noticed by the two up front, but I was reluctant to spend the energy going invisible and staying that way, which I'd have to do once in the room. I thought of a compromise, though. Vanishing, I hurried forward and slipped under the door next to my target. When I came back to solidity the weakness hit me again, but much worse and I nearly made noise stumbling against a table. I was using myself up. Damn Escott for complicating things.
The dim room I stood in was an office with the usual stuff in it. I pressed an ear to the wall it shared with the lighted room.
The first voice I picked out was Ike LaCelle's. "Yeah, it's nothing. Some guy came here by mistake. They'll get rid of him."
"You sure about that?" Archy Grant.
"It's fine. Now you gonna finish this or stay here all night?"
"Oh, I'm finishing it, but he's gotta tell me a few things first. Isn't that right, Charlie-boy?"
"Then you're gonna be here all night," said LaCelle. "I know that kind of look, and you ain't getting squat from him without a fight."
"I don't have to fight, not while I've got bolt cutters handy. You see these, Charlie-boy? They're great for snipping off fingers, noses, and even itsy-bitsy toeses. Maybe I should start with that honker of yours. What do you think?"
"I'd rather you didn't," said Escott, sounding tired and more sober than before.
"Of course, and I'd rather I didn't, either. It'd make such a mess, and I just paid for this suit, you know."
"How much did that face cost you?"
"What?"
"The plastic surgery. When you lean close I can just see the scars. It is an excellent job, they're barely noticeable."
Grant chuckled. "Yeah, the doc did do a good job. Made me even more handsome."
"But you could not change or hide your walk, the set of your shoulders, the shape of your head. Your voice."
"It still threw you for a while, though. God, what a laugh you gave me sitting with the rest at that party, staring and staring and not being able to figure it out."
"Obviously it was not a very long laugh. I'll wager I also made you sweat, else you'd not have tried to kill me in such a hasty and ill-planned manner last night."
"It woulda worked. I thought it had worked, but, jeez, how many guys are crazy enough to wear a bulletproof vest to a goddamned party? You take the cake, Charlie. But never mind that, right now I want to go down memory lane with you. What's the old gang doing these days? I want to know what happened to them."
"I'm sure you do. You're becoming quite famous, aren't you? The last thing you need is to have another someone like me turning up and identifying you as Raymond Yorke."
"That's it in a nutshell. I want to know where the rest of them are, the bunch that was in the truck. You know, don't you? You'd make it your business to keep track of them. How about we start with Katherine Hamilton? Where's she keeping herself?"
"She went back to London and succumbed to influenza a year after you murdered her sister."
Grant was silent a moment. Thinking, maybe. "You know, I didn't really mean to kill Bianca, so it's not really murder. She just hit her head too hard. It was an accident."
"And the others? Were the other eleven also accidents?"
"It's funny, but I don't rem