WE LEFT HER, neither of us saying much of anything. Escott was mulling things over in his head, and I was too drained and disappointed to want to talk right away, but not so tired that I didn't check the mirror now and then. There were plenty of headlights to fill it, but none of them belonged to a black Lincoln.

It was past Escott's suppertime, so I drove at his direction to a small German cafe a few blocks off the Loop. He gave his order in German, hardly glancing at the menu chalked on a blackboard above the cashier.

We found a booth and settled in to wait for the arrival of his food.

"Thanks for the poisoning story. I was about to say it was a car wreck."

Not at all," he said, absently aligning a saltshaker up with the checked pattern on the tablecloth. "An accident would have been acceptable, but she might decide to look up any records on it. There's the same problem with hospital records, but they can be more difficult to obtain."

"You don't think she'd check up on me, do you? She doesn't seem the type."

"Hardly, but if one must lie, it should be a simple one and difficult to disprove."

"What'd you think of her?"

"An interesting woman; she told a very pretty story. She seemed too good to be true."

"You didn't like her?"

"Emotions are the enemy of clear thought; my appraisals have nothing to do with personal affections."

"I'll put it this way, then: what bothered you about her?"

The pepper joined the salt on the checkered pattern. "She seemed terribly old."

"She is seventy -two."

"I speak of her state of mind. You can be seventy-two or ninety-two and still feel young inside."

"People are different."

"Mmm. Well, call it my natural caution at work. You were cautious as well. Why did you give her Miss Smythe's telephone number and not my own?"

I shrugged. "I didn't really think about it at the time. You're going to be gone for a while and I'm over at Bobbi's a lot."

"And perhaps you're worried that Braxton might trick or force my number from Gaylen and trace it down."

I frowned agreement. "There's that. I've got the house detective looking out for him, though, so Bobbi should be all right. The geezer's a little cracked, but I don't see him getting violent with an old lady."

"No doubt, but violence can emerge from the most unexpected sources. I can recall an exceptionally sordid case of two children knifing their grandmother to death to obtain her pet cat."

Escott's food arrived and delayed conversation for a while. Between the smell of the steaming dishes and his story, my stomach began to churn.

"I saw a drugstore on the corner and need to get some stuff," I said.

"Be back in a few minutes."

He nodded, his attention focused on carving up his meal.

My shopping expedition left me with some mouth gargle, shoe polish, new handkerchiefs, and a handful of change for the phone. I folded into the booth and got the operator.

This time my mom answered, and for the next few minutes bent my ear as she reported the latest domestic crisis. Webber and Braxton had shown up at the house early the next morning, but unfortunately for them my brother Thorn had dropped by for breakfast. The last three generations of Fleming males have been on the large side, and so he and Dad had no trouble throwing the troublemakers out. The yelling and language woke up any late-sleeping neighbors, but they were more than compensated by the show.

That same day the cops came, and at first Mom thought Braxton had called them, but they had different business altogether. Someone from the Grunner farm had reported vagrants on our old place, but the Grunners maintained total ignorance about the call. However, there had been a break-in as reported.

"Your father is fit to be tied over this, I can tell you," she concluded after giving me a full inventory of the damage.

"Is he fixing it, then?"

"Well, certainly, but it will take him awhile, and then there's no guarantee that the place will be left alone."

"Oh, yes, there is."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what would it cost Dad to install some real indoor plumbing?"

When we'd still been living there. Mom had known the figure down to the penny, but now she wasn't so sure. "What does it matter now, anyway?"

"Because if he puts some in he can rent the place out. That way it's occupied and you two have some extra income every month."

"You want a bunch of strangers running all over our old house?"

She'd never been so affectionate about the place when we'd been living there. "Better a bunch of strangers paying you rent than some tramps tearing it all up."

"Well"

"Try to find out how much and I'll put up the money--"

"But you can't afford to--"

"I can now. I have a very understanding boss who pays bonuses for good work."

"In these hard times? He must be one of the Carnegies."

"Just about. Will you do it?"

She would, and when I hung up it was with a little more confidence in their future.

My personal future included immediate plans to visit Bobbi. I dialed her next and asked if she were receiving callers.

"That's a funny way of putting it," she said.

"I'm feeling old-fashioned tonight."

"Oh yeah? Well, come on over. I'm rehearsing, but I think we can squeeze you in."

I was disappointed, but kept it out of my voice. "You've got company?"

"Uh-huh."

"Marza?"

"Yes, that's it." Her phrasing indicated she was being overheard.

"Maybe I should stay away."

"No"

"You mean if you can stand it so can I."

She laughed. "Sure, that sounds right."

"Okay, but if she threatens my life I reserve the right to withdraw to a safe distance."

She laughed again in agreement and we said good-bye.

Escott was in deep conversation with a stout bearded man wearing a white apron when I returned. They seemed to be talking about food from their gestures. They were using German and I only knew a couple of words. The man made some kind of point, Escott conceded, and the man looked pleased and left.

"What's all that about?"

"Against my better judgment, Herr Braungardt has tempted me into dessert, a torte of his own invention. This may take some time, I don't wish to tie you up."

"How long could it take to eat a dessert?"

"Long enough for him to try and persuade you to have a sample. I can find my own way home. Don't worry."

"If you need help, I'll be at Bobbi's." Grinning, I left him to his overstuffed fate.

I found a place that sold flowers and bought a handful of the least wilted-looking roses. They were cradled in my arm when I stepped off the elevator onto Bobbi's floor. The operator didn't have to tell me she had company this time, I could hear the piano and her voice clearly enough, despite the walls and solid door.

I thought to wait outside until the song was finished, but she cut off in mid-note. There was a murmured consultation, then the music began again. Marza's voice was hardly recognizable, and when she spoke to Bobbi her tones were soft and affectionate and heavily sprinkled with endearments.

"You've got to hold the note just a bit longer, baby. Count one, two, three, then we both start the next phrase"

I knocked and a second later Bobbi answered.

She just looked at the flowers, and her face lit up in a smile that sent me to the moon and back. She accepted them gracefully, her hands lingering on mine. "Any special reason?" she asked.

"I felt sentimental."

"Do I do that to you?"

"Among a lot of other things."

She took my hand and led me inside. Marza was at the piano, just lighting a thin black cigar. Her posture was straight and stiff and she was wearing another V-necked disaster, this time in yellow. It was quite a contrast to the pink satin lounging pajamas that Bobbi had clinging to her rounded figure. Marza glanced once in my direction without making eye contact, then pretended to study the sheet music before her.

On the sofa sprawled her Communist friend, Madison Pruitt. He looked up doubtfully, having seen my face once, hut unable to attach a name to it.

He was holding a tabloid, apparently interested in a murder investigation that the police weren't conducting to the satisfaction of the paper's editor.

"Madison, you remember Jack Fleming from last night?" prompted Bobbi.

"Certainly," he replied, still uncertain. At the party he'd been too involved spouting politics to Marza to notice our introductions. I regretted that the present circumstances were not similar, and didn't relish the prospect of conversing with a zealot.

"I think we should take a break," said Marza, not looking up from her music. "My concentration's all broken. Some coffee, Bobbi?"

Bobbi took the broad hint and I offered to help, so we had some semi-privacy in the kitchen. It was cramped, but organized; she worked on the coffee, and I ended up scrounging for something to put the roses in. I found a container that looked like a vase and loaded it with water.

"Here, put a little sugar in the bottom, they'll last longer. What's so funny?"

"Marza. I have to laugh at her or sock her one."

"I don't blame you, she can be a little trying at times."

"A little? That's like saying Lake Michigan's a little wet."

She stifled her own smile, and then we said hello to each other until the coffee was ready.

"Time to get the cups," she murmured.

"Couldn't we do this for a few more hours?"

"The coffee'll get cold."

"I don't want any."

"Yes, I suppose you want something else."

"Bobbi, you're psychic."

"Nope, I've got eyes. You're showing."

I snapped my mouth shut, trying the gauge the length of my canines with my tongue. Bobbi snickered and pulled out a tray, cups, and saucers. I carried it all in while she got the coffeepot.

Marza was next to Pruitt on the sofa and looked up. "What did you two do, go to Brazil for the beans?"

"No, just to Jamaica," Bobbi answered smoothly, filling the cups.

Marza approached her coffee delicately, tested one drop on her tongue, and decided to wait for it to cool. In contrast, Pruitt just grabbed his cup, leaving his saucer on the tray. I supposed he considered saucers to be an unnecessary bourgeois luxury.

"Your flowers, Bobbi, where are they?" Marza asked.

"Forgot 'em. I'll be right back." She slipped into the kitchen, but didn't come right back. Instead she was opening a cupboard, clattering a plate, and making other vague sounds.

"Flowers, such a thoughtful gift," Marza said sweetly. "You did know that Bobbi is allergic to some of them, or didn't you?"

"A lot of people are," I said evenly, and smiled with my mouth closed. I was speaking normally, but taking no chances on revealing the length of my teeth.

"Waste of money," said Pruitt, his nose still in the tabloid. "They die in a day or two and then you're left with rotting plants and no money.

People are fighting and dying, you know."

"So you've told us, Madison," she said. "I don't notice you joining them, though."

"My fight is right here, trying to bring the truth to--"

"Cookies?" said Bobbi, just a shade too loud. She put the roses on the piano and offered the plate of cookies to Pruitt. It was a skilled move on her part--he had to choose between the plate, his coffee, or the paper. A hard decision for him, but the food won out and he dropped the paper. He was further distracted from his train of thought as he tried to figure out how to help himself to a cookie with both hands occupied holding the plate and his cup.

"You're not joining us?" Marza asked me as she walleyed Pruitt's juggling act. If he dropped anything it would be on her.

"No, thank you."

"Watching your weight, I suppose."

"No, I have allergies."

Pruitt finally gave the plate to Marza, then grabbed some cookies from it. They didn't last long and disappeared all at once into his wide mouth.

"You'll have to excuse Madison, he was raised in such a large family that he had to compete with his siblings for food, and learned to eat quickly in order to gain any nourishment."

"You know I'm an only child, Marza," he mumbled around the mass of crumbs in his mouth.

"Oh, I must have forgotten."

Pruitt nodded, content to correct her.

"What do you do for a living, Mr. Fleming?" she asked.

I couldn't say I was an unemployed reporter doing part-time jobs for a private investigator and opted for the next best thing. "I'm a writer."

"Oh? What do you write?"

"This and that."

"Fascinating."

"Need a writer," said Pruitt. He cleared his mouth with a gulp of coffee. "We need people good with words, articles for magazines, slogans--can you do that?"

"I'm sure anyone who knows even a little about the alphabet can help your cause, Madison," she said.

"Great. You think you could help out, Fleming?"

I could see how he was able to get along with Marza, since he was totally oblivious to her sarcasm. I was beginning to like him for it. "

'Fraid I don't have the time."

"For some things in life you have to take the time. People have to wake up from their easy living and realize they must join with their brothers to battle for the very future of man on earth."

"H. G. Wells."

"Huh?"

"That sounds like his War of the Worlds."

"Who's that again?" He pulled out a little book and scribbled it all down. "What else has he written?"

"Lots of things. They'll be in the library." I wondered how many English courses he'd skipped in school to go to political rallies.

"Madison can't go there," said Marza. "They won't let him in."

Pruitt got a look on his face that would have done justice to a New Testament martyr.

"Why not?"

"Because there is no true freedom of speech in this country. The people here think there is because their capitalistic lords say so, but that isn't really true."

"Why not?" I tried again, this time with Marza.

"The library didn't happen to have a copy of some book he wanted. There was no English translation available and they weren't planning to order one. Madison protested by setting fire to some newspapers in the reading room, and they had him arrested."

"I had to bring to their attention that censorship to one is censorship to all."

"His father paid the fine, but the library still won't let him back in again."

"Censorship." He shook his tabloid. "This story is a prime example. A man speaks his mind in a so-called public place, and then the police arrest him because his political views disagree with the established order."

"They arrested him because he shot at a heckler," I said.

"That's what the paper wants you to think. That 'heckler' was really an assassin for Roosevelt's Secret Service. He'd been sent to silence a voice of freedom for the masses and only got what he deserved."

My mouth sagged a little. Pruitt got the satisfied look of one who had scored a real point. A half dozen counterarguments popped into my head, but the best course was to say nothing. There was absolutely no point having a battle of wits with someone who was unarmed.

Bobbi put her cup down and suggested more rehearsal. It was gratefully accepted and the ladies returned to the piano. Madison stretched his legs out, crossed his arms, and yawned loud and long. The volume was sufficient for yodeling and the size of his mouth--a quantity of crumbs were still trapped in his molars--was an inspiration to well drillers everywhere. He wound up his musical solo and shut his eyes. From the not-so-subtle movements of his jaw, he seemed to be rooting out the last remnants of cookie with his tongue. I settled back in my chair to listen and wondered what the hell Marza saw in him, not that she was any social bargain herself.

Her true worth, as Bobbi had said, was as an accompanist. Her hands went solidly over the keyboard with expert ease, though she had to hold them at a low angle to keep her long nails from clicking against the ivory.

They did a warm-up on scales, and then Marza began one of the songs Bobbi would sing for the broadcast. It was a rich slow number and made a good showpiece for her voice, which was excellent. I sighed and let the sound wash over me, soothing and exciting at the same time. Perhaps later in the soft darkness of her room I would ask her to sing again.

They finished and held a consultation over it and I cast around for something to read, my eye catching on a fresh copy of Live Alone and Like It on the end table. I flipped through, noticing it was a gift to Bobbi from Marza. It would be. I was just starting to read a chapter with the unbelievable title: 'The Pleasures of a Single Bed,' when the room got unnaturally quiet.

Pruitt was staring at some point behind me, mouth and eyes looking as if he'd borrowed them from a dead fish. Marza and Bobbi were also frozen and doing a reasonable imitation of gaffed sea life. My back was to the door, and with a sinking heart, I turned to see what inspired the tableau.

Advancing slowly from the wide-open door, with large silver crosses clutched in their hands were James Braxton and Matheus Webber. Both of them looked determined, but very nervous.

What made the bottom of my stomach drop out was the revolver Braxton held stiffly in his other clenched fist. His finger was right on the trigger, and I didn't know how much pressure it would take for the thing to go off. If the damned idiot forgot himself I stood up cautiously, my hands out and down and my eyes fixed on Braxton's. His were little pinpoints in a sea of white, gleaming with fearful triumph. Mine must have been just as wide, but without the triumph, only the fear. Unless that gun had wooden bullets, I had no concern for my own life, but anything else was another matter. If he shot at me, the bullet would pass right through, going on to Bobbi and Marza, who were right in the fool's line of fire.

From somewhere I heard myself speaking, pleading, "Please don't do anything, Braxton. These people are innocent, please don't shoot."

The seams on his brown face twitched a little, but I couldn't read him.

I didn't dare try any kind of hypnotic suggestion-- the least mistake on my part could kill Bobbi.

"I'll do what you want, just don't shoot," I told him. "These people they're they're not like me, I swear they're not. They know nothing about this."

"That remains to be seen, you leech," he said. He punctuated this by a wave of his cross and took a step forward. I flinched and fell back, but also stepped to one side. Bobbi and Marza were still out of sight behind me. Maybe they were marginally clear, but only if Braxton were a good shot.

Matheus was as keyed up as the rest of us, but he looked around and tapped Braxton's shoulder. "Mr. Braxton, look-- they had coffee."

His eyes snapped to the tray and cups. "Is that true? Did you have coffee?"

Only Bobbi understood the significance of his question. "Yes, we did, and cookies, too. Didn't we Madison?"

Pruitt's head bobbed several times.

I heard Marza shift next to Bobbi. "That's right, we all had coffee and cookies." She spoke slowly, as though to an idiot child. In this case she wasn't too far off the mark.

Braxton shook his cross at me. "But not him."

I repeated my flinching act and moved another step to the side.

"Braxton. they know nothing at all. You have no reason to involve them--

"Shut up."

He had the gun and I still couldn't see Bobbi. so I shut up.

"You two--sit on the couch. Now!"

Bobbi and Marza made haste to join Pruitt. Good.

"What are you going to do?" Bobbi asked.

Braxton smiled at me. "I'm going to wait. We're all going to wait for morning."

"But why? What do you want?" demanded Marza.

He ignored her and stared at me grimly. Bobbi knew very well what such a wait meant, but hid it. The three of them fell silent, their stares divided between me, Braxton, and the gun.

"What kind of bullets, Braxton?" I asked.

"The best kind. They were expensive, but I judged them worth the cost."

"Silver?" I mouthed the word, not wanting the others to hear.

He smirked.

Bobbi moaned and her head swayed. "Oh, God, I'm going to be sick." Marza put a protective arm around her.

"What do we do, Mr. Braxton?" Matheus was bug eyed at Bobbi's white face.

"What?"

"I'm going to be sick." She gulped air and jerked to her feet.

"Follow her," he told the kid. "The rest of you stay where you are."

Bobbi ran to the bedroom with Matheus close behind, but she shut him out when she reached the bath and slammed the door in his face. He was still very much the kid and hardly had the gumption to go inside after her.

Through the walls I heard her coughing, then the rush of water when she flushed the toilet. She took her time at it and Braxton started to fidget.

"Look," I tried again, "we don't need to be here."

"Quiet and keep your eyes down."

"What do you want?" asked Marza. A large chunk of her veneer had come off in the past few minutes. She looked much more real to me now.

Braxton pretended not to hear and called to Matheus. "If she's done, get her out."

The water was still running. Matheus knocked gingerly on the door.

"Uh miss uh you all right?"

Bobbi mumbled a no and turned on a sink faucet.

"You have to come out now." She didn't answer. He appeared at the bedroom door, shrugged helplessly at Braxton, and went back again.

"I'll go get her," said Marza.

"No." Braxton was not about to let the situation get any more out of hand.

"How did you find me?" I asked, distracting him.

"What? Oh, it was the old lady. I knew you would go see her eventually, so we waited at her hotel and followed you from there. This time we were more careful about it."

"Smart, real smart."

He made a little formal nod of acknowledgment like an actor in a play.

He must have cast himself as Edward Van Sloan to my Lugosi. The only things missing were the accents and evening clothes.

"Miss? You've got to come out." Matheus sounded a little more impatient now, and that gave him confidence. "I mean it, come out of there."

The water cut off and the knob rattled. "Don't rush me, big shot," she growled. She pushed unsteadily past Matheus and stood in the doorway.

The tableau hadn't changed. She took a step toward me.

I shook my head minutely. "You look done in. Miss Smythe, you'd better sit down."

She nodded, figuring out the reason behind my sudden formality. She had no wish to have Braxton breathing all over her neck looking for telltale holes. Things were safe for the moment; her lounging pajamas had a high Oriental collar. She glided back to the sofa, glaring at him.

"You mugs have no right barging into my home. My neighbors are bound to hear all this and call the cops."

He waved her down. "I have every good reason behind my actions, however strange they may appear to you. If you do not yet understand my mission, I promise you that you soon will, and when you do, you shall approve of what I am doing."

"It's the police state," said Pruitt, gaining a revelation from God knows where. "Who are you with, the Secret Service?"

"Secret Service?" said Matheus, looking blank. He was standing next to Braxton now, keeping me covered with his cross.

"Yes, the Secret Service, you fascist."

Marza spoke through her teeth, which were exactly on edge. "Madison, this is no time for politics, so shut up."

"I'm telling you--ouch!"

"I said shut up."

"Who's a fascist?"

"Matheus--"

"But he called me--

"Everyone quiet!" Braxton must have felt the situation physically slipping out of control. He was already sweating from the strain and certainly not used to it. He'd never last until morning the way things were heading.

"Braxton, please listen."

He liked the pleading tone in my voice and considered my request like a magnanimous ruler. "All right, what is it?"

"What Miss Smythe said was true, this is no place to settle things.

There's a hotel detective downstairs--"

"You think there is, leech."

So they had slipped by Phil somehow. It was time to change tack. "I can't help what I am, I've tried to tell you that."

He shook his head. "And I am sorry for you. I think I know what kind of hell you face each night I will end it for you."

Good God, he thinks he's doing me a favor. "No, not here, please, at least for the sake of the ladies."

"We will remain here. You seem to care for these people. I do not wish to use them as hostages for your behavior, but I see no other way."

He sounded very certain of his hold over me. He was either stupid or had an extra ace up his sleeve he hadn't yet shown. I was inclined to think he was stupid. He was badly underestimating my will to survive and believed crosses and silver to be a strong check. The only thing actually holding me back was trying to come up with a way of safely disarming him without revealing my true nature to Marza or Pruitt.

I glanced at Bobbi to see how she was doing. Perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her whole posture was tense, natural enough under the circumstances, but something in her manner struck me as odd. Her left arm lay across her knees, the right hand resting on the left. The long sleeves of the pajamas were pushed up to the elbows. Her eyes caught mine and her mouth twitched in an almost-smile and she winked, her eyes dropping to her hands. Her right index finger was tapping once a second against the crystal of her watch.

I got it, or thought I did.

"Matheus," I said, sounding reproachful. "I asked you to talk with him.

I was pretty reasonable about it all. Remember, I could have hurt you then, but I didn't. Does that fit in with the things he's been saying about me?"

"It was a trick," he said. He spoke with the haughty conviction of a convert. "Besides, you left us stranded and stole the car."

"I left it at a fire station, for cryin' out loud. You two were bothering my family, I had to do something."

"We were trying to warn them about you."

"How would you feel if I did the same to your folks? Do they know what you're doing? What do they think of this quest you and Braxton are on? Do they approve?"

That one hit a sensitive spot and the kid went all red, right up to the ears. "They wouldn't understand."

"So you haven't told them. Maybe you should. Write a letter: 'Dear Mom, tonight Braxton and I held four people at gunpoint--'

"Enough!" Braxton was actually stamping his feet. "Matheus, I warned you how he would twist things. He's one of the devil's own and will try and confuse you."

"Not me, Braxton, you've already done that. You don't want the kid to think for himself. You might lose your only hold on him."

"Shut up."

"I figure he's really smarter than you, but you don't want him to find that out."

"Shut up!'' I am not overly brave, and baiting a nutcase holding a gun is not something to do for fun, but it is a hell of an attention getter.

Everyone was gaping at me, each with expressions P. N.- Elrod varying from rage to puzzlement to worry, and one in particular of intense concentration. The last and most welcome face belonged to Phil, the hotel dick. He had just walked in the still-open door and was trying to sneak up on Braxton. In this hotel he never got much practice at being quiet, so it was costing him some effort. I opened my big mouth again to cover any creaking floorboards.

"Yeah, I guess the truth hurts. It must be nice to have someone around to agree with you all the time, or do you pay him money for it? There's not enough of that stuff in the world to make me want to put up with your kind of bull--"

Then Phil lunged, both hands grabbing Braxton's arm and Dragging it down. Marza and Pruitt screamed as the gun went off and thunder and smoke filled the room. A furrow appeared in the floor near my left foot, and I foolishly jumped back from it.

There was a good fifty-pound difference between them, and Braxton's light frame didn't stand a chance. He went down like a tackling dummy, his knobby joints knocking hard against the floor. Phil was on top and his extra weight had pushed all the fight out of the little guy. A second later Phil was in possession of the gun and getting to his feet.

He dusted his knees absently, and glared all around. 'Someone want to explain things to me, or do I really want to know?"

Matheus began to edge toward the door, but Bobbi spotted him. "Hold it right there, buster."

He held it right there and looked to Braxton for help, but his mentor was too busy getting his breath back and nursing his new bruises. Phil went to the door and checked the hall, keeping the gun out of sight.

"Nuthin" to worry about, folks, just a party trick. Sorry about the noise." He waved an apology at someone and shut the door.

"What is this all about?" demanded Marza, her voice shaking.

"They're just a couple of mugs from my shady past," I said. "The geezer here is a con man that I once did a story on. It blew his game to hell and he's looking to get back at me. The kid is just his latest trainee.

The last I heard, it was an insurance scam. Looks like he's switched to religion. What are you doing these days, Braxton. swindling old ladies for church funds?"

Braxton flushed, jerkily stood up, and shoved his cross at me. I ducked back so it missed my nose. "Away, you demon." Somehow, he'd sounded a lot more convincing on that lonely road in the country.

"He's crazy," concluded Pruitt.

"For once, I'll agree with you," said Marza.

The cross jerked again and I stepped away from it.

"Braxton?" Phil made certain he could see the gun. "Sit down and shut up."

"But you don't know who or what this man is--

"As long as he's not waving guns at the tenants, I don't give a damn, so clam up. What do you want I should do with 'em. Miss Smythe?"

Bobbi looked at me. I shrugged. "Call the cops?"

Pruitt suddenly found his feet. "I think I'll go home now, it's awfully late." He grabbed his hat and hurried out.

Marza stared after him. "Why, that no-good--how does he expect me to get home?"

"Oh, Marza," Bobbi groaned.

"What's with him?" asked Phil.

"He's crazy," said Matheus.

"So coming from you that means something?"

"He called me a fascist--

"Shut up, kid," Bobbi told him. He looked hurt. "Jack, I don't think the cops could do much for us."

"They could take his gun away and lock him up if we pressed charges, but that'd mean court appearances, the paper--you don't need any bad publicity before your broadcast."

"Yeah. But what do we do with them? I could call Gordy."

"Don't tempt me. Phil, have you got some place you can stash these two?"

"Depends for how long."

"An hour?"

He nodded. "If you give me a hand."

"Sure."

We wrestled Braxton into the hall and took the service stairs down to the basement instead of using the elevator because the operator liked to talk. It was an interesting parade: I had Braxton's arms twisted behind his back and Phil was keeping the kid in line with the borrowed gun.

In the basement, Phil directed us to a broom closet that was made to order. Brooms must have been at a premium in the building, because the place was like a bank vault. Two of the walls were part of the cement foundation and the third was solid brick. It was about ten feet long and only four feet wide. We pushed them in with the mops and buckets and Phil locked it up.

"They gonna be able to breathe in there?" I asked.

Phil studied the blank face of the door for a while, then nudged it with one toe. "There's a pretty good gap at the bottom. If they get desperate, they can stick their noses down there."

We heard a thump and dull clang from within. Someone had tripped over a bucket. Matheus hit the door a few times and yelled to be let out.

We climbed upstairs. "Sure it won't be too noisy?"

"I'll make certain no one bothers them."

"Thanks. I'll go see if Bobbi's all right and work out what to do with them."

"I'll be in the lobby."

Four floors later I was back in Bobbi's apartment. She was just giving Marza a drink, then ran over to me, her arms open. We held on to each other, not speaking for a long while. Marza finished her glass, put it on a table, and stood.

"No more rehearsal tonight. I'm calling a cab."

Bobbi whispered, "She was really shook, can you take her home? Would you mind?"

When she looked at me like that I wouldn't mind walking over hot coals, or even taking Marza home. "If you'll be okay."

"I'll be fine. Marza"

She got in my car and said nothing for the next ten minutes except to give directions. We stopped in front of her apartment building and I waited to see if she wanted me to walk her in or not.

"We're here," I said when she didn't move.

She stopped boring a hole in the windshield and tried it with me. I was getting another once-over, and the reappraisal was even more critical.

"Why were they after you?"

"I told you."

"The truth this time."

I shook my head.

"Are you with the gangs?"

"No. This is some old business that followed me from New York. The guy is crazy, you saw that."

"Yes, I saw that. So what was it about? Why come after you with a couple of crosses? Why call you those names?"

"I said the guy's nuts. Can you account for all the stuff Pruitt lets out?"

"Madison's preoccupied with politics and being paranoid, so what is your friend preoccupied with?"

"With trying to blow my head off."

"And what happens to Bobbi when he comes back?"

"They're after me, not her."

"They were holding all of us. Do you think he won't try again?"

"He won't get the chance. I'm going to have a little talk with him tonight and straighten things out. Bobbi will be okay. I promise."

"I hope you mean that. I don't want her hurt. Not by them or you, you know what I mean? She's a beautiful girl and that's attracted the wrong kind of men to her in the past. Did she tell you what the last one was like and what happened to him?"

"I know all about it," I said truthfully.

"Good, because that's what I want to see her free from. You have no right to bring it all back."

She had some guts. If I'd really been like Slick Morelli, she was courting some broken teeth. "I don't plan to. I'm on your side."

She was anything but convinced, but there was no way I could prove my sincerity except to go back and deal with the problem. She gave me a "we'll see" shrug and got out. I waited until she was inside and drove a beeline back to Bobbi.

She unlocked the door after hearing my voice. "I thought you'd never get back."

"Same here."

"Thanks for taking her, Jack."

She was hugging me again. It was becoming a habit, a very nice one. Then it was time for my reaction and I couldn't stop it. My arms moved on their own, wrapping around her and lifting her from the floor. I held her hard, as much for warmth as for comfort. I was cold from the inside out and shaking all over.

"Jack? What is it? What's wrong?"

It was a long time before I had the strength of will to release her. I was damned near to crying. "That idiot I was afraid he'd kill you."

Her light fingers stroked my brows and lids. "But he didn't.

Everything's okay. He wasn't even aiming at me."

"He didn't have to, the bullets would have gone right through me. His silver is no more use against me than any other metal."

"You mean the bullets--"

"They're metal. The silver makes no difference. He's gotten vampires mixed up with other folklore."

"His cross held you back, though," she said in a small voice.

"That was acting." I looked around. She'd been cleaning up. The coffee service was gone and there was a throw rug covering the bullet furrow in the floor. On the table was Braxton's cross. He'd dropped it in the tussle with Phil. I carefully closed my hand over it and held it up for her to see. "There, nothing happens and it's made of silver."

"But why not?"

"I guess it's because God doesn't work the way Braxton thinks he should." I opened my hand and let her regard what lay in it. "I'm not evil, Bobbi. I have no fear of this, but I was afraid of losing you and can only thank God you're safe."

She came into my arms again and this time we did not let I carried her to bed and tucked her in, which she thoroughly enjoyed.

She was always a little sleepy afterward, regardless of how little I took from her. I sat next to her on top of the spread and kissed a few spots that had been missed earlier and made her giggle.

"Damn, you're good."

"So are you."

"Do you have to go?"

"There's some unfinished business downstairs. Say, how did Phil know to come up here, anyway?"

"You forgot about that phone I keep in the bathroom."

"Then your getting sick--

"Hey, you think you're the only one who can act if you have to?"

Her door was locked and I left it that way, slipping quietly through into the hall and taking the stairs to the lobby. Phil was behind his pillar, talking odds with the night clerk again. He saw me and nodded, then led the way down to the basement.

I planned to have him baby-sit Matheus while I had a private talk with Braxton. It wasn't something to look forward to, but I'd decided to try hypnosis on him. The man was stubborn and would be on guard, though. I was certain I could break through, but afraid of hurting him, of hurting his mind. The last man I'd done it to well, the circumstances were different now, things were controlled, and I was emotionally calm. I had no wish to hurt Braxton, only to find out his connection with Maureen and then make him go home.

Plans are just fine when they work out, but this one would have to wait.

The closet door was hanging open and the two hunters were gone. Phil stooped to examine the lock, holding a match to the inside of the door.

He shook his head in mild exasperation.

"The old goat musta had skeleton keys. Who'da thought it?"

"I should have."

Braxton had underestimated me and I'd stupidly returned the favor. The man most certainly planned to kill me, and to do so he might have to break into almost any kind of building. He was sure to be outside to track me home when I left. The keys would jingle, the lock giving way to them, and then his shadow would fall across my trunk "Can you keep an eye on four tonight--make sure Miss Smythe stays okay without disturbing her?"

"I can do that. What about you?"

"I'm going to get lost."

"Sounds like a good idea. I'll show you the back door."

P/S: Copyright -->www_novelfreereadonline_Com

***