I STOPPED at the Dugan house on my way over, still checking for tails and cutting unnecessary but reassuring extra turns before getting there.

The neglected pile looked forlorn, like an old lady left behind by careless grandchildren. I wondered if Dugan had some kind of sentimental attachment to the place or if it was pride that made him stick it out here. Of course, he might have had nowhere else to go, hanging on until his kidnapping gamble paid off or the bank foreclosed. I couldn't feel sorry for him, though. He was able-bodied and sharp-minded. Instead of taking a cream-puff job in the family firm, he chose to kidnap and terrorize a harmless girl and her mother for two long weeks, apparently enjoying himself the whole time.

Sieving-in, I looked around, found it mostly unchanged from my last invasion.

The cops or his attorney had come by, for the note Escott and I had propped on the phone was gone. No way to tell who'd gotten it, though.

I picked up a few things, shifting others over with a gloved hand to close the gaps so they wouldn't be missed. Twice I heard creakings and froze, listening.

After some repetitions, I decided the they were branches scraping against the wooden flanks of the house, a creepy sound when you're alone.

And damn, this place was cold. Even for me.

I got out quick, sought the familiar confines of my car, and didn't stop until reaching the Gladwells' back gate. Escott had left it open. Apparently the flood of reporters had eased since Dugan's disappearance. At this late hour-it was getting on to midnight-no one was likely to come knocking unless they had business, like yours truly. I drove through and parked next to Escott's Nash.

The lights were on in the back of the house, and Escott answered the door to my knock. He and Vivian were having coffee in the kitchen. I'd egg him about domestication later, when we'd all be in a mood for it. I took off my hat to Vivian, asked how she was, got a polite reply and a question of what I was planning to do. She didn't look worried, which I took as a good sign. Removing my overcoat-careful to conceal the bullet holes in the back-I explained a couple things, and she agreed and went off in search of help.

"What's up?" I asked Escott. "Servants' night off?"

"Most of them are asleep. Is that a problem?"

"Not for me. I was just by Dugan's place, and the emptiness gave me the heebies. A brass band and Billy Sunday revival meeting wouldn't cheer that dump up."

"You don't care much for darkness and silence, do you?"

"Who does?"

"Good point, it just seems an oddity, given your condition."

"Damn few nice things ever happen to people-supernatural or otherwise-

who wander around by themselves in dark buildings."

"Even better point. Any sign of Bristow and his friends?"

"Not that I saw, and thanks for reminding me..." I went to the kitchen phone and called Clarson's office. This time Shoe Coldfield answered.

"You sure put the corncob up Isham's ass," he said irritably. "What's going on?"

I told him, with more detail, what he should know and my worries about Strome not being home. Escott listened in, nodding approval. "It's a long shot," I said to them both. "Maybe one of his cronies turned up and they went out for a drink, but I don't want to take chances that Bristow got to him."

"That's two of us," said Coldfield.

"Are Bobbi and Adelle out of there?"

"Yeah. They didn't like it, but they're gone."

That was a big relief. "Where?"

"I sent 'em off to a hotel. Couple of the guys who work there also work for me. They can keep an eye open."

"Shoe, I owe you."

"You just get the next singer I date a spot in your club for a week, and we'll call it even."

"Deal. Consider that a handshake. How's Gordy?"

"The same. Doc Clarson brought in a nurse to look after him, what with the other ladies gone."

"Can he be moved?"

"Not unless you want him dead, but I just figured a way around that."

"Oh, yeah?"

He told me what he had in mind.

Grinning, I said, "For that I'll have spots open for the next dozen singers you date."

"I'll hold you to it, kid. What are you going to do about Bristow?"

"I got some stuff set up, hope it'll get settled tonight, tomorrow night for sure.

I'll let you know if it works."

"You let me know if it doesn't. Until then you and Charles keep your heads down. I don't want to scrape either of you off any sidewalks."

"No arguments from us on that."

"On what?" Escott asked when I hung up.

"Shoe hates a mess, so we can't let Bristow kill us."

"Or anyone else, one would hope. What news of Gordy?"

"He's the same. Safe so far, but Shoe came up with something genius."

"Indeed?"

"One of his car repair shops has an ambulance in. It's supposed to go back to work tomorrow, but they're gonna put some extra miles on it tonight."

"I thought Gordy couldn't be moved."

"Not him. They're gonna bundle a bunch of laundry together under a blanket, strap it to a stretcher with weights, and take it downstairs to that ambulance. It's going to arrive, siren going, lights flashing, bigger than Broadway. They'll get the stretcher into it, then drive off the same way. Everyone on the street will see.

Clarson will put some of Shoe's men into white hospital coats to make it look good, and all the while Gordy's still safe upstairs in bed."

"Heavens, that is brilliant. But what if Bristow isn't there to notice?"

"Won't matter, word will get around. My guess is Strome or Derner have already got people on the watch-from a re-spectful distance. They won't miss that. The ambulance proceeds to shake any tails and take itself far, far away.

Shoe's people will seem to withdraw, and they'll douse all the lights at Clarson's place."

"I wish I could be there to see, but it's probably best to let things run their course."

Vivian returned, carrying a squarish box with a suitcase handle and metal latches. "Will this do, Mr. Fleming?"

Escott hurried over and took it off her hands, putting it on the broad kitchen table and opening it up.

I checked. "It's perfect. Let's get started."

Hurley Gilbert Dugan sat up straight on his cot as though this was a fancy parlor, not a dank and chill underground cell. I'd just unlocked the heavy door and stood on the threshold, peering inside. He looked tired and disheveled, his shirt buttons undone and a growth of beard shadowing up his face and jaws, but his dignity-or sense of superiority-was intact. Not a bad front to keep up with no shoes and those manacles clanking on his wrists.

"I expected you to keep me waiting much longer than this," he said.

"Unlike you, I have places to be and things to do. I had a minute, thought I'd get some small-fry errands out of the way."

He smiled indulgently, the way you do with self-important kids. "And what is going on in the wide world? They're not telling me anything."

His caretakers weren't talking to him at all except to give orders like "Take your food," and "Push that onto the shovel." I heard the rule of silence was practiced on Alcatraz to good effect. "It's spinning on as usual. Without any help from you."

"What time is it? Someone took my watch."

"It's after sunset." I thought he might like to confirm what day it was, but he didn't ask. Not that I'd have answered.

"I want my watch back."

"You don't need it."

"I won't turn it into a weapon or a lockpick, if that's what worries you."

"It wasn't, but I'm happy to hear it."

"That watch is a family heirloom. Is it in a safe place?"

"Yeah."

"You won't tell me where? Is it supposed to add to my punishment? I've read that such tortures are inflicted on prisoners to destroy their minds and spirits."

"If not knowing where your watch is makes for torture, wait awhile, you'll learn better."

"What are you doing there?"

"You'll find out."

I'd been uncoiling an electric extension cord; now I brought in the portable phonograph Vivian had brought to the kitchen, setting it just inside the room. Her own machine was part of a large radio model as big around as a refrigerator, not the sort of thing you could easily lug downstairs. This smaller one had been volunteered by her cook to the cause. I put the machine gently on the floor and hooked it up to the cord's plug, then went out again, taking a flat box from Escott.

It contained the two records we'd made, and he had carried it away from Crymsyn for safekeeping.

He stood just out of sight, but not earshot, of the cell, Vivian right next to him.

We'd all agreed that Dugan might talk more freely to me without any additional audience.

"Are we to hear music?" He was very successful at keeping his tone neutral, with neither hope or dread attached. He must have been curious as hell, though.

Except for such faint sounds of the household that might filter down to him through the many walls, the utter silence here must have been having its effect. I know I'd go nuts in my sanctuary if stuck there indefinitely. Even with good light, the freedom to move around within, a radio to play, and books to read, in the end it was still a tiny, confining vault.

"Yeah, you're gonna hear some singing."

"I suppose the only people looking for me are the police," he ventured. "That's why you put me here. So they would think I fled."

"You're real smart."

"It won't work. I'll make sure it doesn't work."

"You think a lot of yourself."

"No matter how long you keep me here, I'll find a way to fight the repercussions."

"By sending out more letters? Sure, go ahead. I talked with my friends. They said they could take little heat for me."

"That's a lie."

"You should know. Truth is, once I'm done, you won't be able to get a priest in a confession box to listen to you with a straight face. Write all the letters you want to good old J. Edgar and see what happens. You'll have to write them from jail, though. That's gonna have an effect on their credibility."

"When my lawyer learns what you've done-"

"I'll have a little talk with him pretty soon. If he's still representing you. Lawyers like to get paid, and you're short of funds now and getting shorter. Must have pissed him off in a big way turning up in court with you missing, and after all those stories in the papers about your innocence. The judge read him the riot act."

Eyes narrow, Dugan listened, sucking in every word. He'd know at least one day had passed just from counting how many meals had been brought down and their type. I thought of asking the cook to switch them around, serve him eggs for supper and roast beef for breakfast. They could skip a meal or bring him several close together. Then he'd have only his beard growth to estimate the passage of time. That would confuse him eventually, but I didn't want this going on any longer than necessary.

The last thing I brought in was some paper and a pen, putting those aside.

They were his own, taken from his table-turned-desk when I slipped into his empty house. The fountain pen was loaded with his favorite green ink, the paper his stationery.

I also pulled out a few more paper animals and tossed them within reach of his chain tether. One of the boats lay on its side, a fragile shipwreck on the bare concrete.

"All right," he said after staring at them. "You invaded my house, read my private thoughts and within your limited standards judged them, judged me and found me wanting. So?"

"I figured it shouldn't be too hard to find a newspaper editor looking to improve his circulation. This stuff isn't exactly a signed confession but would make for pretty interesting reading in light of the kidnapping. Since they're in your handwriting, some of them with dates at the top..."

"Yes, I see what the threat is. Publish and be damned."

"Sure about that?"

He tried throwing a withering look of contempt, but just as he was warming into it, I turned my back on him, crouching to fiddle with the phonograph.

I couldn't tell how well Escott and Vivian could hear Dugan. I talked loud enough, but his voice might not carry well and was a little distorted because of echoes off the harsh walls.

"Fleming."

"I'm still here."

"I understand what you're doing. If I write my letters against you, you send these in to the papers. Move and countermove, we neutralize each other."

"Sounds about right. But I'm not interested in neutralizing, Gurley Hilbert. Only winning."

Flash of annoyance. He really didn't like that moniker. "Then what? What do you want?"

"You know. A written confession. I think Mrs. Gladwell may have mentioned it to you."

"Impossible." He laughed, and it sounded sincere. "Even were I to write such a thing, it would be useless to you because of the means you used to obtain it. Our system of law forbids confessions obtained under duress."

"I'm impressed. You're dredging up the law? After what you did?"

"The law is to keep the accused from the hands of the mob. I'll use it to the limit, use whatever means necessary to save myself."

"Ain't no saving for you here, bo. Consider this room to be an independent country that never heard of the Constitution."

"You're bluffing. That sense of honor you have won't allow you to carry this charade too far, else you'd have killed me instead."

" That could still happen. The others in this place will sooner or later get tired of bringing you food and carrying away your crap. Wouldn't take much to just forget to come down here. After a couple of days with no water, you won't have enough spit to shout for help. No one's around to hear you, anyway." I could see I was hammering home a few dark thoughts that had already occurred to him.

"Maybe the whole point of this is literally an eye-for-eye. We keep you on ice here for two weeks, same as you did for Sarah. Then at the end of it we drop you into a cesspit. There's a prospect to keep you warm. You better hope you are thoroughly dead before we do it."

He shook his head, smiling like he was back in charge again. "No, you won't go that far."

Good. He was starting to repeat himself. That meant he was short on thinking and long on fear.

"You want my confession because you still have respect for the justice system.

If you were as bloody-minded as you're pretending to be, it wouldn't matter.

You'd kill me."

"Don't think I won't. But if I don't have to, if the state can do it for me, then I'm glad to step aside and let them through."

"What do you mean? Kidnapping isn't a capital offense."

I paused work on the phonograph, straightened, and paced over to him. He sat up a bit more, unsuccessfully hiding his alarm. "Up."

He cautiously stood, bracing, maybe thinking I'd slug him one. That would have felt good to me, but I abstained this time. He flinched when I picked up his cot and carried it out of reach.

"What are-" He almost visibly bit his tongue trying to shut down his curiosity.

Next I removed his roll of toilet paper and the chamber pot, which was fastidiously covered with a towel. I carried them, carefully leaving them on the floor well outside the room. Except for his clothes, they were the last throwable things Dugan might have used to damage the phonograph and records. Escott and Vivian shot me interested looks, but I didn't break stride, just winked in passing.

When I returned, Dugan had his back to the wall, very vulnerable. He didn't know why I had removed his few comforts, but there must have been some bad thoughts going through his head about now. I could smell fear flowing off him like sweat. It was about damn time.

From my pocket I pulled out the news clipping about the bodies found at his former hideout. Giving it over, I waited until he'd read enough. "I can't remember... Does Indiana have a death penalty or not?"

He let the clipping drop, shaking his head, seeming to relax. "There's no proof who did this. Certainly none that could ever involve me. They might have been killed by the other men."

"I'm sure I can ask Vinzer and the rest what they remember about it. And you know I will get the truth out of them. My guess is they'll be more than happy to sell you out to save their own hides-and for that I won't have to talk to them at all. The cops can get it from them."

"Then what-?"

"Concentrate, Gurley, you're showing sloppy in the brain department. The confession. We want your confession just to keep things tidy. I don't like loose ends. You disappearing and leaving behind a statement of guilt is better than you just disappearing."

"Oh, that threat should make me eager to do as you want. The longer I resist, the longer I live."

"That's right. You get to live right here. Just as you are." I waited a moment.

"For as long as it takes."

He went still. It was hard to tell with the obscuring beard and low lighting, but he seemed to go very pale. I could hear his heart suddenly hammer loud from the shock, then subside. "That's a bluff. You wouldn't."

"How do your clothes smell today, Gurley? Ripe enough for you yet? What you're wearing is all you'll get until it rots off your body. No fresh underwear. No clean socks. No warm blanket. No toilet. A concrete floor, bread and water. Only way you'll ever shed that shirt is to tear it off, and you won't get another. Ever been to a zoo when they haven't hosed out the monkey house in a while? That's nothing to the kind of stink that's going to build up in here. Maybe you'll get used to it since it's your own, but I'll feel sorry for the guys bringing your food. Of course out of pure self-defense they might rig a garden hose down here to spray your crap down the drain. If you're lucky."

"Other prisoners have been through worse. I can survive."

"After a few days of this a regular prison will be paradise. There you can have a real shower and books to read. You like to write so much, you'll have that as well. You can even look at the sky..."

He laughed. "You're bribing me with prison?"

"Compare what you have here and now to what you could have if you cooperate. Take as long as you like to think it over. I have the time."

"It won't happen, Fleming. I won't give you the satisfaction."

"Suit yourself."

"My confession will be worthless. I know you think it will damn me in court, but I'll deny it. I'll make them believe me. The system is set up with the assumption that a man is innocent until he's proven guilty. I don't have to say anything to get free. You have to prove it. A forced confession will not hold."

I shrugged. "But you and I both know you're guilty. I was there, remember?

'Clean like your grandmama used to' you told your boys; then you sent the other guys outside to prepare a grave for Sarah."

"We didn't put her in it."

"A fine point that won't wash with me. You're guilty, and I want you to tell everyone all about it. You like to write so much, here's a chance to express yourself. Why don't you tell the world how unfair it is that a genius like you has to resort to kidnapping to make ends meet? Or would you rather talk about the best method for conning your girlfriend out of ten grand?"

"How did you-of course, you managed to follow me out. You listened and made assumptions about my relationship with Miss Kennard."

"Yeah, all that and more. Her, me, and your cousin Brockhurst had a sweet little powwow earlier tonight. It'll do your heart good to know you were the focus of our talk. Did your ears do any burning? That would have been us."

"What did you tell them? They'd never believe you."

"I didn't have to say much. It was you doing the convincing. And reading some of your boats. The cranes didn't interest them, but the boats had quite an impact. I can't wait to send this stuff in to the papers. Should make quite a story-

once they make up their minds what to print first. If you're hoping for their help in the future-"

"I can talk around that," he waved the origami pieces to unimportance. "I can explain all of it away. They're only notes for a novel I'm planning to write or a collection of essays and philosophical arguments. You only showed them the negative side, you see. I've not yet written the counterviewpoint yet."

"It'd be more believable to say you were just practicing your penmanship.

Forget it. No editor will help you. You're nothing to your friends now, either. You see, I was very thorough. Have a listen, Gurley."

I got the phonograph turntable spinning. Put on the first record. Put the needle in the record's groove. Turned up the volume knob. At first the indistinct sounds confused him, then as the talk clarified and progressed, nudging his memory, the dawning came.

And for him it was one ugly morning.

After about five minutes, I got tired of looking at his blanched face while he listened and let myself out, leaving the record to drone on and on and on.

Escott and Vivian had removed themselves from the immediate area. That may have been Escott's idea, to keep her from hearing anything about me not easily explained. He also might have wanted to spare her hearing Dugan's unvarnished opinions about Sarah.

We walked out of distant earshot. I checked my watch so I'd know when to go in and change records.

"Well done," whispered Escott, as pleased as I'd ever seen him. "Very well done. That mention of the monkey house at a zoo conjured an especially vivid picture."

Not to mention odor. "You should have seen his mug when he recognized the conversation on the record. Thought he was going to choke."

"I may go so far as to say that you actually shut him up."

"That'll be the day," I said. I was feeling good about what I'd accomplished but realistic about the kind of payoff we could expect.

Vivian noticed my lack of smile. "You are not optimistic, Mr. Fleming?"

"The guy's crazy. He's had the wind knocked out of him, and he's scared, but he'll recover and get back up again. He won't trade his freedom-such as it is down there-for a pair of fresh socks. He'll convince himself that he can still get away with it. Even if he writes a confession like we want, he'll deny it, say that it's a forgery, say whatever it takes to wriggle free."

"Will that happen?"

"No, ma'am. I was serious about sending samples of his observations on life in to the papers. It won't convict him, but it won't make him any friends, either. The editors will stop with the sob-sister era-er-stuff. He'll eventually go to jail.

Those three mugs in his gang will tell the truth about him and be believed. I'm just sorry we can't keep this out of court."

Between Dugan's refusal to cooperate and his immunity to my hypnotic influence, he would get a trial; there was no way of sparing Sarah from the ordeal.

Escott and I planned out how to make her testimony less important in the evidence, though, and this was the best we could come up with for the time being.

Turning the gang and public opinion against Dugan was part of it, along with his friends withdrawing their support of him. If I had to, I'd find a way to make a night visit to the judge, lawyers, and every man and woman on the jury. It's a hell of a thing to have to fix a trial to make sure a guilty man was indeed found guilty.

"How much longer do you think this will take? If he's so stubborn..."

"I can't say, but I think he'll come around soon. He thinks almost like a kid. If he talks with enough sincerity, then of course people have to believe him. He can't imagine they would do otherwise. Once he's convinced himself he can beat the charge, he'll cooperate with us. I figure for him to hold out a little while longer so it looks good, then have a change of mind. He'll want us believing he's been broken.

Maybe he will be; I don't care. With his confession, used or not, and the witnesses against him, he's got a snowball's chance in Miami of squirming away from this mess."

"But we can't keep him from telling others about his imprisonment here."

"No, but we will put enough sleeping pills in him to knock him out, clean him up, then Charles here can deliver him to the DA's office before Dugan's fully awake. He won't know what hit him."

Escott would be heavily disguised. I suggested he play a cop and claim that Dugan turned himself in. If a hubbub didn't happen, Escott was to make plenty of noise to create one, then slip away unnoticed.

"In the meantime, everyone in this house gets rid of all trace of Dugan's presence. Put back the old junk that used to be in his room in the first place, and everyone just go on with their work like normal. Even if he gets someone to come by for a look, they'll take him for a crank, be annoyed for wasting their time.

Providing your people can lie through their teeth."

She smiled and nodded confidently, seemed reassured.

"Dust," said Escott glancing at our dim surroundings. "There won't be much dust on the items or the room's floor. Someone could notice that detail."

Vivian agreed. "Suppose I have the whole basement cleaned up to look the same?"

He shook his head. "That would have a reverse effect. Why of all times would you do that now? Dugan would pounce on it. However, I'm not without some experience at dressing a stage scene. There's a device that puts dust onto things.

I'm sure I can find one and employ it to good effect."

"So all we need do is wait him out?"

"Pretty much," I said.

"I've an awful thought: we know he's unbalanced. My goodness, all the ravings he made about vampires and disappearing people and who knows what convinced me of that. Suppose he convinces others?"

It was a good point. Crazy people went to nuthouses, not prison. "Let's worry about that only if it happens."

Escott gave me a questioning look, and I nodded. Yeah, I could get to the examining doctors, too. The ripples were getting wider and wider on this case.

Maybe I should have just clobbered Dugan and the others a little too hard at that Indiana house and dumped them all in the cesspit. Life would be a lot simpler.

In the distance I heard something like music. "Is that your doorbell?"

She listened. "I didn't hear anything."

"I'll see to it," said Escott, trusting my ears.

"And I." They went upstairs.

I checked my watch. Still some while before I had to change records. Might as well see who was calling at this hour. An enterprising reporter who'd snuck over the front gate. Or noticed the back was still open.

Or-as it turned out-Anthony Brockhust and Marie Kennard.

Oh, brother.

I hung far back in shadows as Escott peered through a side window, then opened the big front door. The unlikely couple crowded close to each other on the entry, shivering in the wind. Anthony darling looked embarrassed; Marie looked angry.

It was my fault. I'd mentioned Vivian's name in front of them when telling Escott where he should go to ground. They knew he'd been working for her. No need to follow him, just drive over later. Marie must have gotten herself worked up and talked Anthony into a showdown. He didn't seem too enthused, though.

"You. Escott is it?" said Brockhurst.

My partner was surprised. A rare event in itself. "What on earth are you doing here?"

Vivian bustled forward into their view. "Mr. Brockhurst? Miss Kennard?"

Marie pushed across the threshold, glaring around. I ducked back behind a marble pillar. "He's here. You've got him here, haven't you?"

"Got who?"

"Gilbert Dugan. That Fleming beast has him locked away someplace, I just know it. You tell me where he is!"

Vivian held her ground rather well. "Young woman, I will ask you to leave my home this instant."

"Tell me where to find Fleming or where he's hiding Gilbert, and I will."

Brockhurst did a little wavering. "Please, Mrs. Gladwell. Just tell her what she wants, and we'll leave."

I will never understand how you can present absolute, unshakable proof that a man is no good, only to find the woman that loves him will completely ignore it.

"We just want to help our friend... Marie is convinced that-"

Vivian seemed to get taller. "How dare you come into this house and ask for help for that monster after what he did to my little girl?"

"Lies!" Marie blazed. "He's innocent, and you know it!"

Brockhurst made an unhappy placating gesture. "Please, Marie, you must remain calm or-"

"Mr. Brockhurst," said Escott tiredly. "Take Miss Kennard and remove yourselves immediately. I've had a long and painful night, and though it would grieve me to put bloodstains all over the superb rug you're standing on, I am not adverse to doing so in a good cause."

By God, he had his Webley out. His voice was conversational, but he was as pissed as I'd ever seen him. You could see it in his eyes.

"Charles... ?" Vivian was shocked. The others stood frozen.

"Brockhurst, I am an excellent shot, but a gun of this caliber makes a very large and messy hole even in a noncritical area of the anatomy. I cannot guarantee that I would entirely miss an artery, in which case you would bleed to death in a very short time. Now, get out and do not come back."

"M-Marie. Come on." He'd gone death pale.

"Damn it, Anthony, he's not going to shoot you!"

"I-I rather think he would." Brockhurst grabbed her arm and dragged her out.

She protested, voice rising like a siren. Vivian slammed the door shut before the peak came, bolting it, then stared at Escott.

He coolly put the gun back in his shoulder holster. "I apologize for that display, but there are certain occasions when civility is wasted. That was one of them."

"Would you have shot him?"

He considered. "Yes, I believe I would. Not to kill, but he'd have been limping for some months and be reminded of the encounter every time it rained."

"You'd have... oh, Charles." She seemed disappointed.

I started to step forward, intending to explain some of what the real world was like outside of her high-hat society, then realized I'd badly miscalculated her reaction. She abruptly threw her arms around him and landed one whopper of a kiss square on his lips. First my jaw sagged, then dropped straight to the floor, for Escott's arms went around her fierce and hard, and he kissed her right back. He kissed her back and kept on kissing her.

Ye gods.

I started for the longest time, not quite believing it. After a bit, I blinked, looked away, and looked back, but they were still at it and didn't seem to be slowing.

Ye gods. Again.

Jeeze, I never suspected he had that kind of osculation going for him. Good night and little fishes, but much more and there'd be a new event for the next Olympics.

Now wasn't the time to make my presence known or to even say I'd been in the same county. I slipped off as quietly as I could down to the basement and left them to it.

"Wow," I puffed at the foot of the wooden stairs. There was a lot to think over, only my brain wasn't doing much, still being in shock. When a thought did surface, it was to wonder what Bobbi was doing about now. I'd have to get the number of that hotel from Coldfield. Late as it was, she might be awake.

But... I still had business to finish here. And in other parts of Chicago.

Damnation. I had to give myself a shake to shift gears. It was hard going, but eventually I got focused on the task at hand.

The makeshift cell was silent. The record had run itself out by now, the needle clicking away on blank surface. I went in.

Dugan was on the floor, back against the wall, his long legs drawn up, manacled arms resting awkwardly on his knees. He had a sour expression, which was good. Anything to shatter his ingrained confidence in the stupidity of his fellow man and how to take advantage of it. He had been banking on that quality to get him out of trouble. Not anymore. He watched, wordless, while I changed records, stowing the first one away in the flat box.

"Why don't you just kill me?" he asked, just as I steadied the needle over the outer grove.

"You want me to?"

"It's preferable to dying like this. Shoot me. Snap my neck. Or maybe you would rather drink my blood."

"Thanks, but I'm not that desperate. Want to save yourself some suffering?

Pen and paper's right there." I pointed to where they lay on the floor just within reach of his chain leash. "Tomorrow night you can be in a nice warm cell, have a hot shower-"

"You seem fixed on bodily discomfort as a method of persuasion."

"Because it works. I heard it worked great in the Tower of London once upon a time."

"You heard? Or you saw firsthand?" He was giving me a good, hard stare.

How old did he think I was? Well, it wouldn't hurt to play along. "I'll leave it for you to decide. Lemme tell you about something. There used to be this thing in the castles back in the old countries, a hole, more of a pit, really. No way to tell how deep, and I'll tell you why in a minute. They used to throw prisoners in and leave 'em there. If they were lucky, the initial fall killed them straight off. If not, then they starved to death on a pile of their own shit. The king, or whoever dropped them in, shoved a big metal grate over the hole, and walked away and didn't come back until the next time he had someone he wanted out of the way.

The reason you couldn't say how deep that pit ran was because of the layers and layers of bones that piled up over the centuries. Maybe it'd started out a hundred feet to the bottom, but there were so many bodies that the latecomers only had a twenty- or thirty-foot drop."

He remained silent.

"I tell you that because you're damn close to experiencing that yourself. It wouldn't take too much for me to find a really deep cesspit..."

"I get the idea, Fleming. From what you've said already, I'm expected to sit here and suffer in this more modern version of such a place until I give in. I will not be intimidated."

I shrugged. "Fine by me."

"You are such a fool!" He was finally showing what was behind his usual cool face. Anger. Frustration. Oh, yeah, this was getting better and better.

"Really? I'm not the one chained to the wall for being a bad boy. From what I heard, you should have been here years ago."

"Look at yourself!"

I spread my arms. "What?"

"You're wasting what you are!"

What was this about? " I am?"

"The abilities, you have, the powers, if I had even a tenth of them-"

"Whoa, there, Raffles. Then I would have to kill you."

"You've got so much, and you squander it playing saloonkeeper, helping out that would-be knight errant on your tiny little crusades in defense of what?

Worthless creatures like that idiot female. She drools, Fleming. Most attractive!"

"Well, let's see how you look after a week down here and then I'll decide who I want to take out for ice cream."

"If you're afraid to use your talents yourself, then let me guide you. You're wasting them. You can go anywhere, do anything if you just-"

"Dugan, tell it to the Marines, I'm not interested." I dropped the needle, and Dugan's voice, sounding condescending and in charge, came out of the speaker.

"I'll be back when this plays out. I suggest you stop worrying about how I live my life and think how you want to spend the rest of yours."

"Fleming-!"

I backed toward the door. "Your choice. A confession now before things get really bad will save you a lot of future grief. You have to decide how much suffering you want to go through, how much your pride's worth to stick it out. I don't care one way or another. You won't impress me with how long it takes for you to change your mind."

I heard a step behind me. Escott, I thought. Talk about bad timing. I did not need him crashing my big exit. I'd finally gotten Dugan upset enough to shout about something, even if it wasn't concerned with what I had in mind. He must have been doing plenty of thinking, just not on the right subject. This wanting to make use of my abilities must have been what Dugan had in mind all along.

Another experiment. Well, to hell with that-

Escott punched me hard in the back. Too hard. As though he'd used a sledgehammer. Otherwise, I wouldn't have felt it this badly, wouldn't have grunted as my knees gave way; wouldn't have pitched forward onto the cold floor. What the-

A broad face leaned within my suddenly blurred view. Not Escott. Not...

Hog Bristow grinned down. "Hello, punk. It's buckwheats time."

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