KROUN

GABE went to the desk, reached for the phone, changed his mind. Derner wouldn't know any more about Fleming's whereabouts than he had a few minutes ago.

The number for Michael... well, he was on his way in. Gabe would grill him then.

He checked Escott, who had not moved from the chair, though he'd straightened a little. He looked sick, but in a different way than the other night in the hospital. He continued to stare at the empty space on the floor.

"Hey," Gabe said. "Let's go."

It took a moment, but Escott found his feet. "Where?" His voice was flat, drained.

"Outside. I want air."

If Escott appreciated the irony of that, he gave no sign. Gabe pulled on his overcoat and hat and made sure Escott didn't fall down the stairs as they descended. They paused in the lobby; something had changed on the bar.

"Were those all propped on end when you came in?" Gabe asked. The dozens of matchbooks scattered about were flat now, the covers neatly tucked back into place.

"Yes. They were." Escott's eyes flickered.

"Who else is here?"

"That would be Myrna. She's a ghost," he said, deadpan as hell.

Gabe considered the circumstances and Escott's state of mind. He was crazy, but not that crazy. "Ghost. You got ghosts?"

"Just the one. She plays with the lights. I wish to God she could tell me what's happened."

The lobby phone rang. The bell went on for far longer than normal, then faded. Escott broke away and picked up the earpiece, listening, but apparently nothing came through. He returned it, disappointed. "She's never played with the phone before." He stayed put, apparently prepared to wait for it to ring again.

"Air," said Gabe. "Now." He wasn't afraid; it was just damned weird, and he didn't want to think about stuff like that tonight.

Freezing and windy, nothing new about the weather, though he hoped the shock might clear Escott's head. Gabe paced up and down the front a few times, the exercise working off adrenaline generated by having a gun pointed his way. He also checked the area for anything that shouldn't be there, like Broder or Michael. Nothing caught his attention; and no one shot at him, so far so good.

Huddled under the canopy of the club's entrance Escott tried to light a cigarette, but the wind kept blowing out his match. Gabe offered his lighter, noticing that Escott had gotten his shakes under control.

As good a time as any.

"So... what did Jack do? Jump off a building?"

Escott threw him a short glare, then looked away. He smoked the cigarette halfway down before replying. "He made a wooden slug, fitted it to a cartridge, then shot himself in the head."

Gabe winced, experiencing an uneasy sympathy mixed with disbelief. "Cripes. And he survived that?"

"At sunset he vanished and healed. I didn't know if he would, I-"

"What, you found him?"

He nodded. "On the couch in his office."

"What couch?"

"The one that's not there. I suppose he got rid of it. There was blood..."

No kidding.

"He'd survived, but I was so damned angry with him. That's why we got into a fight. It got out of hand, went too far... but he promised... he swore on Bobbi's life he'd never hurt himself again."

"Does he keep his promises?"

"I thought he did. He always has."

"Then lay off the worrying."

"What do you mean?"

"Ever think that something else happened to make him take off?"

"He'd phone-"

"Unless he's tied up somewhere against his will."

Escott snorted. "That's impossible. He'd just vanish and leave."

"Listen, the other night the cops tried to hustle us right over there in the parking lot. I made them forget, but they could have shaken it off and grabbed your pal. If they're throwing him a blackjack party in some station house, he wouldn't dare vanish, and he couldn't make a phone call. He can't hypnotize people anymore, right?"

"But they-"

"Please, tell me every cop in this town follows the rules, and I will personally apologize to each one and his dog."

With new hope on his face, Escott threw away his smoke, went into the club, and beelined for the lobby phone. He pushed nickels into the slot, making one call after another. Gabe stood by the bar and watched the scattered matchbooks. Not one of them moved.

Emerging from the booth, Escott shook his head. "I've contacted everyone who would hear if Jack had been picked up."

"Things like that can be kept quiet."

"Of that I am aware. It could even be the FBI taking an interest."

"Why would they do that?"

"Why not?"

Damned if I know. Gabe had mulled over the possibility that Michael or Broder might have stepped in. Fleming might be tied up somewhere in Cicero, getting questioned. He might put up with it, but not indefinitely. "You know how to get to the Nightcrawler Club from here?"

"Of course."

He handed over the keys to the Hudson. "C'mon. Maybe Derner can work faster if I'm looking over his shoulder."

The suicide attempt had surprised the hell out of him. Fleming had given no sign-but then Gabe didn't know him. That twitching fit at their first meeting... Fleming had been in bad shape then, but he'd pulled out of it. A couple of times he'd acted odd, though: down in that garage basement and in the hospital, but anyone would be upset. He'd steadied up.

But shooting himself?

Damn.

No wonder Escott had been nuts enough to pull a gun. Gabe wasn't sure he should overlook that. On the other hand, the man had apologized. That was nuts, too.

Aren't there any sane people in this town?

Long odds against that. Just have to make the best of things. Find Fleming, deal with Michael, then what? Go fishing? Maybe not.

Escott parked the Hudson on one side of the building rather than in the back alley of the Nightcrawler. It was too soon yet for Michael to show up, but Gabe didn't mind waiting now that he had something to do and other things to think about than his own problems.

The mugs on watch got scarce soon as they saw him getting out. Apparently his reputation was as bad here as in New York, and he was not above exploiting it. That was how he'd survived those early days without people noticing anything was wrong.

He used it now, leading the way up to the office, aiming a grim face at Derner, who was at the desk.

"Haven't found him yet, Mr. Kroun, sorry," he said, correctly interpreting the reason behind the personal appearance.

Gabe stood over him. "Don't give up on that, okay?"

"No, sir." Derner spared a quick, curious glance at Escott and grabbed the phone. "Heard you were sick, Mr. Escott."

"I was. Much better now, thank you."

"Cops," said Gabe. "See if he's been picked up by any of 'em."

Derner winced. "Uh... there could be..."

"What?"

"Oh, you know-guys listening in. Some of those G-men..."

"So? You're just looking for a missing friend who might have been taken in by mistake. Nothing wrong in that."

Derner didn't seem too convinced on the point but went back to dialing.

Gabe gave Escott a critical once-over. The man was ragged at the edges. He must have been running without stop all night.

"You look like hell," Gabe observed. "Eat anything lately?"

Escott shook his head and sank into one of the overstuffed chairs facing Derner.

Dropping his coat and hat on another chair, Gabe went to the door and gave orders to one of the mugs loafing in the hall, who hurried off. In a wonderfully brief time, two of the club's waitresses-very cute in their short, spangled skirts-came in with covered trays. Gabe pointed them at Escott.

"Really, now..." Escott began, startled as they swooped on him.

"You need your strength," said Gabe. "Girls-give 'im the works."

He retired to a couch opposite the main desk, partly to watch Derner and partly to remove himself from the heavy smell of the steak-and-potatoes meal. Gabe found entertainment in the show, though. A clearly nonplussed Escott enduring the torture of two cooing, smiling Kewpie dolls cutting his food and hand-feeding him one bite at a time... the club photographer should be up to take a picture.

Gabe's smirk lasted until he saw Derner's face. The man had gone dead white as he stared at the fun. Gabe went to the desk, leaning in close. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Mr. Kroun," he said, voice very low. "It's your business."

He'd stepped in something, he just wasn't sure what. "Look at me."

Derner reluctantly did so.

It was risking another headache, but he had to know and pressed in. "Have I done this before?"

"Yessir."

"What happens next?"

"You take 'em down to the basement. They don't come back."

Oh, hell. He had no memory for any of that, but the stories...

He'd not understood what had suddenly prompted him to look after a guest; it just seemed like the right thing to do. This macabre twisting of hospitality was yet another ugly remnant of the man he had been. The more he found out about himself, the less he liked.

His head hurt now, a hot drill was burrowing into the bone. He frowned as he leaned over Derner again. "This isn't a last meal. We clear?"

"Yessir."

"This guy is our friend. From now on he gets treated with the same respect as I do."

"Yessir."

"Back to work."

Derner obeyed, no questions, no comment, just the way Gabe liked it.

In the last two months he had made a few such unpleasant discoveries. He'd do or say something innocuous and find a nasty surprise attached. More than once he caught himself questioning an impulse that came out of nowhere.

But second-guessing everything was no way to live. Better to keep his eyes open and catch the reaction of others, as he'd done with Derner. It had worked well enough so far.

Gabe went into the bathroom, wet a folded washcloth through, and pressed it to the knot of hot pain under the white streak. He peered at his ghostly image in the mirror but found no clue to that earlier life.

"Damn... you must have been one hell of a crazy bastard," he muttered.

The arrowhead-tipped hands of a black-and-chrome wall clock made their slow circuit into the next hour, and there was still no news of Fleming. Gabe wasn't worried, but Escott took Derner's place at the desk and used the phone, rechecking with various people. Things got sticky when he called Fleming's girlfriend. She'd not seen or heard from him, and Escott had to do some quick talking so she wouldn't worry. With a fine disregard for the truth, he told her that Kroun was likely responsible for keeping their friend busy. She bent Escott's ear for a time, and whatever she said had his full attention.

"Oh... I didn't know that," he said. "Congratulations. Really. I'm delighted for you. Overdue and much deserved. Well, yes, I suppose he might not be too pleased, but he'll get over it, not to worry. Yes, of course I'll tell him to call you."

Escott hung up, looking flummoxed.

"What?" Gabe prompted from the couch. He'd stretched out to work on a more difficult crossword puzzle from a different newspaper.

"Miss Smythe informed me that she's soon to leave for Hollywood to take a screen test."

That explained the congratulations, though his delivery had been lukewarm. "Sounds good. A pippin like her should be out there. Better weather."

"Yes, well, Jack won't think so. They've had some considerable discussion on that topic. He wouldn't stop her, but neither is he willing to go with her. His job is here."

"He's choosing a nightclub over his girl?"

"Perhaps."

"He's nuts. You can open a club anywhere and make good, but a dame like her is once in a lifetime."

Escott shot him an appraising look. "Mr. Kroun, I think you should repeat that within Jack's hearing. It might sort him out. Miss Smythe imparted the news to him last night, and he did not take it with any great enthusiasm. It could explain his dropping out of sight."

"His girlfriend's leaving town so he goes off to sulk? Does that sound like something he'd do?"

"The more I think about it... yes, it does. He can get himself fairly deep into the dumps, though his club kept him happy until..." Escott didn't finish.

"Hog Bristow. Yeah. My fault. I know. None of that was supposed to happen."

"Yet it did."

Gabe felt himself get warm in the face. Shame was an unfamiliar feeling. He didn't like it much. "Where does he go to sulk?"

"No place special. His club, but I've been all through it, been to my office and-oh, hell." He grabbed the phone and dialed again, giving his name to someone on the other end. He scribbled on a pad, then stopped, his eyes going sharp as he listened. He gave a terse thank you, slammed the receiver down, got up and paced, looking exasperated.

"Yes?" Gabe asked after a suitable pause.

"Bloody idiot," Escott snapped.

"Him or me?"

"Neither. This is my doing-bloody hell!"

"What?"

"I never once thought to check my own answering service. He left a message earlier tonight."

Gabe put down the paper and sat up, the better to enjoy things. "A message?"

"To quote: 'I need to do some thinking, don't worry, be back soon.' Bloody hell, I'll flatten his skull for this."

"For what-leaving a message you didn't check?"

Escott responded with a few ripe and expressive words. For all that, he looked hugely relieved. He dropped into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. "Once again I apologize, Mr. Kroun."

"Remind me-is that still for nearly blowing a hole in me after I saved your life? Think nothing of it. Could happen to anyone."

"You're too kind." Escott met the sarcasm with a dry tone, but evidently got the point. His ears had turned red.

Oh, yeah, it'll be a while before he lives that one down.

"This is being unconscionably inconsiderate to Miss Smythe. He could have phoned her. He could have phoned me. Why leave a message?"

"Probably just didn't want to talk." Gabe started to pick up the crossword again, but the office door banged open, startling Derner. Escott twitched, going alert.

Michael was early.

He wore his best poker face. The glasses helped. They reflected the lights, concealing half his expression.

Gabe remained seated and smiled just enough to annoy Mike. Strangely, he didn't react, just stood there.

Waiting.

Mike glanced at Derner, then Escott, and apparently dismissed him as one of the club's many hangers-on. "We'll talk in the car. Private."

"And cold."

"You can take it. Come on."

This was a new side. Maybe he'd learned something about Broder that had gotten him thinking. Reaching for his coat and hat, Gabe shot a surreptitious look at Escott, who seemed incurious and inclined to stay put. Smart of him.

The club's last show was in full swing out front, but the kitchen staff was gone, and most of the lights were off. The alley was also dark and empty except for Mike's Studebaker. Gabe emerged cautiously. Broder could be just around the corner at either end or even on one of the surrounding roofs, biding his time to take a shot.

Keeping his back to the club's wall, Gabe went down the stairs and did not cross to the car. Mike seemed to expect that and turned to face him midway between, hands in his pockets.

"It's safe," he said.

The wind was still up, masking sound. Gabe didn't like it; but if there was a bushwhacking in his near future, his reactions were a lot faster than before.

He looked at the man standing solid before him and once more tried to see something in his face that would spark a memory.

Mike was a familiar stranger, hostile, wary, more so tonight than before. Had he always been that grim? Had they ever been friends? Gabe had not seen a hint of that so far, but it must have been there once.

Of course there was the eight-year age difference. Growing up, Gabe might have been too busy to bother with a little brother, especially a half brother. He knew that some could end up hating each other, but at some point in their childhood, he and Michael must have played together, looked out for each other.

Gabriel had no memory of any of it, and no one he'd spoken to from the old neighborhood could tell him what had gone on behind the closed doors of the Kroun family flat.

Michael knew though.

Gabe had been tempted many times to pull the facts out of him hypnotically but never acted upon it.

For one thing, you just don't do that to family.

For another, he was afraid of what he might learn. The little that he had already gleaned was ugly.

Even without the slug in his brain, Gabe would not have remembered his own mother; she'd died a few months after his birth. He'd looked it up in the court records. Sonny had come home drunk one night. He claimed that beating his wife to death had been an accident. Since he worked for a neighborhood boss, a big shot who had influence with a judge, Sonny got sent up for manslaughter instead of murder.

Gabe went to a state orphanage, but no one adopted him. Eight years later his supposedly reformed father came to claim him, a second wife and a baby named Michael in tow.

What had that been like? An orphan all his life and suddenly young Gabriel gets a family. Had a brutal father like Sonny been better than no father at all?

Whatever had happened during his upbringing had turned Gabe into a killer. Chances were good that lightning had struck twice, doing the same for Mike, twisting him a little differently.

Until now there hadn't been a good enough reason to make him talk. The evidence up at the cabin changed that.

"So... how's Cicero these days?"

"Shut up, Whitey." Mike looked ready to burst, there was so much inside him wanting to get out. Give him time...

But the minutes went by. Nothing. Michael's hands worked inside his coat pockets, making fists, forcing his hands open. It was a mannerism he only ever fell into when they were alone.

He thinks he's still dealing with the son of a bitch he's always known. Not me. Who do I need to be to get answers?

"Where's Broder?" Gabe asked, checking both ends of the alley again.

"Maybe he's pounding the bullet dents out of that car he took the other night."

That was unexpected. "He told you."

"Yeah. He told me."

"After he drove us off the road things got a little hazy. What'd he say?"

But Mike clammed up.

"Oh, come on. What kind of arrangement have you got that someone like Momma Cabot can call Broder whenever she wants?"

"You stay away from her."

"Why?"

Mike shook his head.

"Is that why you gave Fleming the green light to keep me in line and no reprisals?"

"He told you that?" He stopped making fists and took his hands from his pockets.

"Your voice carries. Why do you want to kill me, Mike?"

No reflections on the glasses now, Michael's blue eyes were wide open and for an instant showed a mix of anguish and guilt. He shut it down. "I don't want to."

"But you wouldn't much mind if someone else did the dirty work. What problem gets solved if I'm gone?"

Michael shook his head again.

"I know it has to do with that damned cabin. You were there."

"I was never there," he stated, voice like a razor.

Gabe had hit the nerve he'd wanted. "I went up. I saw the blood, and I found Ramsey's body." He searched for further reaction, but Mike had turned to stone. "I'd like to hear your side."

He was taking a different kind of risk now. The man Gabe had been before his death would never have said anything like that.

"My side?"

"What happened there." Gabe pulled out the.22, holding it flat on his palm so it wouldn't be mistaken for a threat. "Is this yours? Or Ramsey's?"

"What is it?"

He can't see in the dark. Gabe crossed now, opened the driver's door, and put the headlamps on. Mike followed him to the front of the car, staring down at the rusted weapon in the harsh glare. They made fine targets, the pair of them.

"Not mine," he said. "That's your kind of gun."

He was probably right. There was every chance that Gabe had been in the habit of carrying a small-caliber shooter with the numbers filed off. He could throw it away after a kill. Okay, that just meant someone had taken it from him.

"And this?" He drew the amber vial out next, holding it between thumb and index finger.

Mike looked and dismissed it. "What do you want from me?"

This wasn't going the way it should. What had been conclusive up in the woods seemed ridiculous here. Michael should be angry and defensive for being caught out, not like this. Unless...

"Then it was Broder. He'd planted stuff. What was his angle? Kill me and Ramsey, then move up the ladder? Is that where that bastard Mitchell got the idea? Or did you order it from the start?"

Mike showed his lower teeth, eyes blazing. He raised one hand, fingers skyward as though to grab something. His fist finally closed on air.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry, Whitey. I promised Ma I'd look after you, but it's too much now. I can't do it anymore."

In the last two months, Mike had never spoken of his mother. All Gabe knew about his stepmother was her name and the official records concerning her death. Sonny had made such a vicious job of his second wife's murder that they'd thrown him into an insane asylum instead of hanging him.

Mike had been fifteen at the time; Gabe had become his legal guardian. Why was it that-

"No more," Mike whispered. Hands in pockets again, briefly. He pulled a gun out, the one Gabe had reloaded himself the previous night.

"Hey, wait!" Gabe backed clear of the lamp glare. He didn't know his brother that well, but this was completely wrong for him.

Mike fired. His aim was off, and Gabe dodged. The bullet noisily took a chunk from the wall behind him.

Instinct said to run, but insanity took over. Gabe dove forward and tackled him before he could get in a second shot. They hit the pavement and rolled in wet filth. Mike fought to win, was quick as a snake, not pulling a single dirty punch.

But the fight was finished in seconds. He just didn't have the same speed and strength. Gabe made his one hit count, and that was all she wrote.

He pushed himself off the dazed Mike, cursing a blue streak for the situation. He'd had enough. It was time to haul the kid into the club, put a light in his face, and bust his brain open.

He heard someone grunt, and after a moment realized he was on the ground again, facedown. What the hell-?

Gabe tried to get up and the movement set off a fireball in his head. Hideous blinding agony struck him flat.

Dimly he heard heavy footsteps, Broder's deep voice asking a question, and Michael's faint and groggy reply. Scraping sounds, a groan, the slam of a car door.

More steps. This time Gabe heeded instinct and went perfectly still. Not difficult; the pain had paralyzed everything but the urge to scream. He choked it off.

Pressure on his throat. Broder was feeling for a pulse. Getting none, he pushed up the back of Gabe's overcoat and suit coat, grabbing his belt. One-handed, he lifted and pulled Gabe's limp body along like a heavy suitcase, the man was that strong.

A gun went off. It made quite a roar within the confines of the alley. Three shots at least, so close together that they could have been from a machine gun.

Broder dropped his burden. Gabe forced his eyes open. Filling his view was one wheel of the Studebaker, inches from his face.

Another shot.

Broder was in the car, gunning it to life. The wheel slipped, grabbed, and spun away. The Studie departed, its open trunk lid bouncing, then slamming into place as the car screeched out of the alley.

Gabe dragged himself upright. He hurt too much to be doing anything so stupid, but anger was running the show by then. He staggered, using a wall for support, working his way toward the street. If they knew he was alive, they'd come back. He wanted a shot at Broder.

Behind him a car horn honked an irritable warning.

Now what?

He pressed out of the way as the Hudson tore past in pursuit. Escott was at the wheel. Eyes impossibly bright, he glanced once at Gabe, showing the mirthless grin of a crazy man, and kept going.

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