"How can that be?" I asked. "I mean, how? He's Archy Grant. He's famous. Everyone knows who he is."

"Who he is, not who he was. His life history, prior to ten years back, is but a sketch, and, I'm sure, entirely fiction."

"What's your proof? I mean, you gotta have something solid to take to the cops before they'll do anything."

More of that whispery laughter. I wanted to hit him to make it stop.

Coldfield stepped in. "Come on, Charles. Tell us what you found out."

Escott gave up laughing and just stared ahead, but without seeing. "The irony of this is that I was not looking for Raymond Yorke at all. I was looking for the man who shot at me. Gil Dalhauser was the most likely suspect, but when I let him see me today he scowled, but wasn't particularly surprised. The man is doubtless an excellent poker player; he did not so much as flick an eyelid. So I dismissed him from my list and sought to test the lesser probability that Ike LaCelle represented."

"Did you tell Gordy any of this?" I asked. "Warn him someone wasn't listening to his orders?"

"I'd planned to call him, but only after I ascertained the identity of the guilty party. I made other calls and learned what I needed to know. Ike LaCelle usually spends his ample free time in the company of Archy Grant, perhaps because it affords the opportunity to meet new celebrities. Grant was having a rehearsal today for his show next week, something LaCelle usually attends, so I went to the studio."

"Bobbi was there, she didn't mention seeing you."

"That is what you may expect when I do not wish to be noticed. I sat in the back and did not draw attention to myself, wanting to have the full effect on LaCelle when I finally confronted him."

"So he could shoot you again?"

"I still wore my vest. It was a reasonable gamble."

"Reasonable?"

Coldfield waved a warning hand at me from where he stood just behind Escott and mouthed the words "Let him talk." I recalled what he'd said about our mutual friend's desire not to live, and suddenly all those times Escott had risked himself made sense. "Go on, Charles," he said. "What did you do?"

"Waited until the end of rehearsal. I watched them working through things, making changes, suggestions, laughing, arguing-it quite took me back to old times. Grant had piqued my curiosity last night. I couldn't help but think I'd met him before, yet his face was unfamiliar to me. But sitting so far in the back of the auditorium, where his face was only a small pink oval, I paid more attention to his body movements and his voice.

"I did not grasp it at first, and then I told myself I certainly must be mistaken. It's been thirteen years since I last saw Raymond, and he'd only been with the company for a month, but some details do stay in the brain, hidden deep and difficult to coax forth, but there all the same. The longer I watched Grant work, the more the past came back to me.

I remembered how he carried himself, that cocky I-own-the-world walk, the shape of his head, his laugh, patterns of speech, and accent. All of it.

"By the end of the afternoon, they finished the rehearsal and everyone left. I took myself around to the exit Grant was heading toward and waited for him on the other side. He was alone for the moment, but LaCelle was not far behind. Grant came through the door, saw me, and stopped. Stopped and simply stared at me. He didn't say a word.

Neither of us did. But I knew. I knew. And so did he.

"LaCelle came through just then, with a crowd of hangers-on, but I turned and walked away before he could notice me and react. I had what I wanted, the name of the gunman and the reason why he tried to kill me. Then I had to leave before... before..."

"You went nuts and killed him?" asked Coldfield.

"Yes. Exactly that. I began shaking all over and couldn't seem to stop. Thought I'd pass out in the elevator down to the street. It came right back to me again, the rage. I had to calm myself and try to think."

"So you went out and got drunk."

"I don't remember much of that part. I suppose I must have, for the both of you to make such a fuss, and I don't feel at all well."

"But you did it, Charles. You found that son of a bitch. You got what you most wanted."

"Except for proof, my friend. I've no admissible proof against him." He breathed out one short puff of air to express defeat. "No proof. There's no way to prove he did the shooting last night or that he was ever Raymond Yorke. All I have is inside my head, and you cannot set a personal conviction on an evidence table in a courtroom."

"Fingerprints," I said. "The cops must have taken fingerprints back then. It wouldn't be much to-"

"There are no prints of his on record from the scene. He wore gloves."

"Come on, he must have left some for them to find. Did he wear gloves the whole month he was with the company?"

"Certainly he did on the night of the murders. He also wiped down everything he'd touched in the cabin and the car. Even the cup of tea he gave me had been polished clean. As for other items he may have handled, any prints he might have left were obscured by those of the other company members."

"He was one careful bastard," said Coldfield.

"There's still your testimony," I said. "And a lot of circumstantial evidence to go with it. If you found other members of the troupe, they could probably identify him just as you did."

Escott shook his head and finished the rest of his coffee; from the grimace he made it had gone cold. "Believe me, I've thought this through, and even under the most favorable of legal proceedings, it is not enough to hang him. I did not actually see the crime take place, and was in the partial thrall of morphine at the time. Any attorney he hired would get the case thrown out. Grant's too well protected, by the passage of time and his own fame."

He didn't sound like himself at all. He was still carrying a load of liquor, though, maybe that was why he was so readily giving up before even starting.

"He's not protected from me," I said. "We get him to confess. I've done that before. Give me ten minutes with him, and he'll be marching straight to the nearest station house to give himself up. Hell, I could have him drive straight to the Elkfoot Flats station if you wanted."

Escott stopped staring at nothing and focused his eyes on me. They were the eyes of a man who's been to hell and back and still has the stench of damnation clinging to his soul. "Oh, my dear friend, this is not your fight."

"It is now, because I've practically invited Ike LaCelle to come over here. If I'd known about any of this, I'd have gone to see him first and stopped things."

"It's progressed too far for that."

Between this and what Dalhauser told me, I was ready to agree, but not give up. "Okay, maybe so, but at the moment you're in no shape to deal with him. When he gets here anything could happen, so you two get scarce. Go to the Shoe Box and I'll phone you there when I've got news."

"I think we're about to get a firsthand report right now," said Coldfield. "That was the front door, wasn't it?"

"Stay here and keep quiet." I hurried past him to the hall.

He'd called it right. LaCelle was just stepping inside. With him were Shep and the prizefighter, who were already in, their guns drawn. All three turned to face me.

LaCelle grinned. "Hey, Fleming! Good to see you, I got your message. What's the something I can learn to my advantage?" He'd put on his usual pose of a hearty good mood, but under it all was the sly confidence of a man who knows he has all the best cards in the deck. He wasn't afraid, and he should have been.

"Take me to see Raymond Yorke."

His grin faltered, and he cocked his head inquiringly. "Who?"

"Can the let's-pretend game, Ike. You may hang around the talent, but none of it's rubbed off. We both know what's going on and how it's going to end. Before it does I want to talk to Yorke or Grant or whatever he's calling himself now."

"What a lot you seem to know-or think you do."

"What I know or not doesn't matter, you're going to take me to him."

"Okay, okay. I'm glad you're making this easy on yourself. But that partner of yours who doesn't know how to die is coming, too."

"He's not here."

"Now who's playing pretend? His Nash is sitting right outside."

"That's my neighbor's car. Take me to Grant. After I talk with him he won't be interested in Escott."

LaCelle snorted. "That'll be the day."

Somewhere behind me I heard a thump followed by a grunt and a soft thud. What the hell... ?

"What was that?" LaCelle had heard it, too.

"Don't move!" Escott snapped. He stood in the parlor looking out at us, and in his hands was his granddaddy crossbow. He had a bolt loaded in it, and the string was pulled back, ready to shoot.

"Ike?" Shep, uncertain of the change in the situation, aimed his gun at Escott.

"Hold it, both of you," Ike said, also bringing his gun around. The fighter continued to cover me. "No shooting."

"Yes," Escott agreed. "Let us all behave as gentlemen and no one will get hurt."

"What the hell's that thing?" asked Shep. "Some kinda cockeyed bow and arrow?"

"It's as deadly as any gun," Escott informed him. "And has the added advantage of being nearly silent."

"It's three to one," said LaCelle cautiously. "And we've got more shots."

"True, but my one shot is aimed at you, and I'm an excellent marksman."

"He is," I added. "He practices all the time."

LaCelle thought hard, then eased back slightly. "Okay, what do you want?"

That was all I needed. "I want you to look at me, and I want you to listen to me."

"No, Jack," said Escott, breaking my concentration before I made any kind of progress. "Not that way."

"It'll be easier for us."

"I'm finishing this alone. This is my fight."

"Where's-" I bit it off. Maybe Coldfield was working his way around the outside of the house to take them from the front door. No need to reveal anything about having another player in the game.

Escott said, "Gentlemen, I shall get my coat and we will leave. You will take me to see Archy Grant."

"Charles, they're not going to do any such thing, they'll kill you first."

"I think not. Because of Gordy's protection, isn't that correct, Mr. LaCelle?"

Nonplussed at such cooperation, he gave an uncertain nod. "Yeah, that's right."

"Which is why during the shooting last night you drove the car, but did not actually pull the trigger. You left that for Grant to do, did you not?"

"Sweet, ain't it? Gordy can't hold your getting scragged against me."

I snorted. "I think you're smart enough to know Gordy won't fall for any hairsplitting like that."

"He'll have to. In the scheme of things Archy's a lot more valuable property than either of you. Archy's show's a gold mine to my bosses and damn near legit. They're gonna want to keep him around and working. My job is to keep him happy, and he won't be happy until the both of you are bye-bye."

"But not until he talks to me?" asked Escott.

"Oh, yeah, he wants that, too."

Escott looked like he wanted to talk some himself. He had a lot of years of it saved up. Coldfield might need more time, though, for whatever he had planned. "This little job gives you quite a hold over Archy, doesn't it?" I put in.

"Must be nice."

LaCelle seemed genuinely surprised. "What hold? We're friends from way back. He helps me, I help him. Tonight I help him clear up an old mess, so tell your friend to put down the fancy Robin Hood gag and you two come along quiet."

"Okay. You heard the man, Charles. Let's go for a ride."

Escott shook his head. "Not both of us. Only myself. I'm going to ask you to arrange things with this fellow so that you stay here." There was a strange note to his voice that put a chill in my spine. "And I truly mean stay here, Jack. No covert following."

So he didn't want me tagging invisibly along. Like hell I wouldn't. Not when he looked like that. "Grant wants to see both of us. Isn't that right, LaCelle?"

LaCelle had picked up on the unspoken interplay between Escott and me and was cautious. "That's what he wants, yeah."

"Get your coat, Charles."

"This is my fight."

There was something seriously wrong going on inside his head. I could see it and even feel it, and it was important enough for me to break my number-one rule concerning friends. "Charles... listen to me."

A change came over his face, and he looked sad. "I cannot. It has to be done my way."

Oh, hell, I'd forgotten about all the booze still sloshing around in his blood. Of course he'd be able to resist my influence. "You're not going without me."

"But I must." He was blinking a lot, and his voice was thick.

"Charles-"

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He suddenly shifted his aim and pulled the trigger on the crossbow.

No-

Too late.

The bolt slammed into my chest, knocking my last draw of breath right out. I fell against the stair banister and dropped, sprawling. Pure fire blossomed through me. My helpless body twitched and spasmed, heels cracking against the floor, arms thrashing from the agony. I heard a terrible strangling, hissing sound and realized I was the one making it.

LaCelle yelped some exclamation of surprise, and I was distantly aware of his hasty backing away.

Bloodsmell. Mine.

I clawed at the thing jutting from my ribs, but couldn't get my fingers to grasp it, pull it free. The blinding pain slowed me, finally paralyzed me. The convulsions abruptly ceased; my hands slipped down at my sides, and I lay staring at the ceiling, corpse still, but fully conscious.

Burning.

Please God, make it stop!

Burning inside.

"Ike?" Shep's voice. Scared. "What do we do, Ike?"

"Gimme a minute." LaCelle. Badly shaken.

"Did you see what he did to him? He's crazy!"

"I know, I know! Just shuddup an' lemme think!"

They shut up.

Screaming.

Charles, help me!

Screaming in my head.

No one to hear.

But he knows. He must know!

Escott said, "I'm putting this down now and going to get my coat." Very calm.

No one moved as he followed through. On the edge of my blurring vision I saw him shrug on his heavy topcoat.

He paused by the hall table for a minute.

"What're you doing?" LaCelle demanded.

"Just writing a little note for anyone who finds him."

"You lemme see it."

"Of course."

Paper rustled as LaCelle grabbed it from him. " 'Please remove bolt as quickly as possible-C.E.' What is this? Some kinda sick joke?"

"He's crazy, Ike. Get away from him." Shep. Nervous.

"My good man, I am not crazy, merely drunk. May I have my note back? Thank you." Escott knelt by me, his gray, hollow face coming into my line of view, and pushed the paper partway into my shirt between the buttons. "I don't expect you to ever forgive me, but after tonight that won't matter. Talk to Shoe. He'll help you understand why." He brushed his fingers over my eyelids to close them, then stood. "Might I ask where we'll be going?"

LaCelle gave a brief, sickly laugh. "Someplace cold, dark, and quiet."

"Sounds like a grave."

"Yeah, it does. Come on."

They all trooped out, leaving me where I had fallen. My body was inert, but my senses and mind were all too aware.

Unable to act or react, but aware and furious. The only thing hotter than my anger at Escott was the searing bolt lodged between my ribs.

He was going off to die, and he knew it.

He was going off to kill.

Himself and one other-if he had the chance.

For when he came into my view he'd been tucking his pen away. It was that damned fat-bodied pen with the hidden hypodermic needle, and God knows what he had in the thing.

No way to tell the time.

Pain distorts it, slows it down, turns a minute into an hour.

I couldn't tell how many seeming hours oozed by before I heard a faint groan from the dining room. Other less identifiable noises followed, then a couple of unsteady footsteps.

I knew when Coldfield reached the hall by his sharp intake of breath.

"Sweet Jesus, kid, what did you do?" he choked out.

You've got no business blaming me. This is Escott's fault.

He came closer, cursing softly, and I felt him lift the paper free of my shirt. "What the hell? Is he crazy?"

Yes, very. Now just do what he said to do.

"Aw, shit. God in heaven, this ain't fair."

Damn right. I didn't deserve this.

"Not... fair."

Hurry, Goddammit!

The fire around the bolt, which in a strange way I'd nearly gotten used to, flared white-hot-hotter-all over again.

I couldn't cry out, not until he pulled the thing free, and he wasn't doing a very good job of it. I thought his hands were shaking. He kept muttering unhappily to himself.

Then he snarled, and I felt something unholy tearing my chest apart, and suddenly the damned thing was out.

The aftershock flattened me like a lead brick. I could move but didn't want to; the one thing I could do-couldn't help but do-was vanish.

Surprised, Coldfield cursed loud and at length. He hated, really hated being surprised. This one couldn't be helped.

The damage was too much for me to hold out against; my body did what was best for it and took itself away to an instant release from the pain.

I floated in the comforting bliss of nonfeeling for a while, trying to ignore Coldfield's increasingly noisy demands that I come back. He sounded angry at first, then apprehensive, not knowing what exactly had become of me. Far too soon for my recovery of spirit, I made myself fade back to solidity again, but took my time.

Coldfield watched, wide of eye, as I gradually reappeared, sitting weary to the bone on the stairs. It felt like a few dozen elephants had been jumping on me, and I hunched forward, hugging myself.

"You doing that slow for dramatic effect?" he asked after a minute.

I laughed once, and was amazed that it didn't hurt. "Just being careful. I wanted to make sure everything was working."

"You all right?"

"I think so." I ventured to straighten and checked myself over. There was a lot of blood on my clothes, but it could have been much, much worse. The one time I'd been truly staked by someone determined to kill, I'd lost too much blood to simply vanish and heal. Tonight had been different, though, because Escott had missed hitting my heart. On purpose. He'd wanted to stop me, but not permanently.

I unbuttoned my shirt. Coldfield stared at the spot where he'd pulled the bolt out. My skin was stained, but the hole was all sealed up like new. He next stared at the bolt itself where he'd dropped it on the floor. Spatters of blood radiated out from it.

"What happened to you?" I asked. We both needed our minds to be elsewhere.

"Charles clocked me when he got that crossbow down from the wall." He shrugged himself away from wherever he'd gone and gingerly touched the back of his head behind one ear. "Not too bad. I've had tougher knocks sparring with the boys. But you-how did-"

"He's on a real bender." I peeled my ruined and bloody shirt off and told him what happened. I expected him to not want to believe Escott's shooting of me, but he accepted it quite readily. After all, Escott had cracked his skull without a second's thought. "He's off and running on the edge again, only this time he'd going to go right over."

Coldfield watched as I strode purposefully upstairs, stumbling only once. "You got a plan?"

"No, just a clue and not much of one," I called back while snagging a fresh shirt from my room. A black one. I pulled it on as I hurried down again. His coat and hat were hanging from the hall tree. I tossed them at him and continued buttoning. "It's something LaCelle said. I think I know where they're taking Charles."

"You think! And if you're wrong?"

"We both know the answer to that."

Coldfield was still pretty shaken, so I did the driving while he slumped in the passenger seat and tried not to look sick.

"How hard did he hit you?" I asked.

"Enough so he's going to regret it when I get in swinging distance of him again."

"Seriously, you got any double vision, ringing ears, stuff like that?"

"It just hurts. Doc Clarson can check me over later. You just step on it."

I stepped on it, going along the route Shep had driven me earlier. It seemed to take longer this time, or more likely impatience and fear were distorting my perception. I cut through lights and doubled my speed when I could, knowing I could take care of any traffic cop who stopped me. None did, though, and we were soon sailing next to the wire fence of the truck yard.

"This is Dalhauser's place. Why here?"

"Something he said to me that LaCelle pretty much repeated. It's isolated and Dalhauser's off in Cicero making an alibi for himself. Seemed like a good place for them to bring Charles so no one would interrupt."

"It doesn't take long to kill a man."

"I know." I hit the gas for one last spurt and rounded the corner to the road that ran past the little gatehouse. I pulled into the entry. The gate was shut. The watchman was there, and he was alert. He came out, on guard for trouble, but unprepared for a smile and a fixed gaze from me. Seconds later and he was opening the gate for us. He'd readily told me that two cars had gone in not long ago, but he hadn't checked inside them. Sometimes it's best not to notice certain faces. I told him his shift was over and that he should go home. He thanked me and left, whistling as he drove off in a battered Ford. He wouldn't remember anything of the last few minutes for a long time to come.

"Cripes, I need you to be working for me," said Coldfield. "I'd have a lot bigger territory and run it more smoothly if I could talk people into things the way you do."

"You don't want the headache." I shifted gears, fed it some gas to get speed, then let the big car coast quietly forward.

"Seems to me it'd be worth it."

The door to the cavernous garage was shut, and I recalled Shep leaving it open. Above and to the left of it were the wide windows Dalhauser had used to survey the yard, and I discerned the form of a man standing in almost the same place.

"We've been made," I said. "There's someone up top who must have seen the gate guard pass us in. Maybe we can make them think we've got business here, too. Keep them busy while I go in."

"I'll ask for Dalhauser."

"Great, but if they give you trouble, take off."

"Okay."

He gave in to that a little too readily, but I didn't have time to argue. I braked in front of the door, rolled down the car window, hit the horn a few times, then vanished. Unused to it, Coldfield said "shit" in reaction. I flowed out and over, and went right up the side of the building.

It was made of sheet metal, which is damned dense for getting through. I wasn't even sure I could get through it. In the past there'd always been a convenient crack or an open seam. Now I just kept going until I felt a subtle change in the surface that marked where the windows began. I didn't like going through glass, but could if I had to.

Just when it seemed like it was about to break, it didn't, and I was inside. I cast around, trying to locate the man I'd seen, but he wasn't on the upper landing anymore. That, or I'd miscalculated and drifted the wrong way. Very slowly I took on form, balancing it just right so I had enough of me solid to the point where I could see, but hopefully not be seen. It made me semitransparent, and the result was alarmingly like a Hollywood movie ghost.

I got alarmed myself when I realized I'd risen too high, and was some ten feet above the landing.

I really hate heights.

Easing down to the floor diffused my near panic, then I unexpectedly went solid. There was a fluttering behind my eyes, and a fog of weakness wrapped around me. It was the blood loss, and there'd been no time to stop at the Stockyards and replenish. It was bad, not fatal, but I didn't like the uncertainty. What if I had to go invisible and suddenly reappeared at an inconvenient moment? What if I couldn't reappear at all?

The man at the window was neither Shep nor the prizefighter. I'd hoped that LaCelle would hold down the numbers of his goons, but apparently he trusted them to keep their mouths shut. This mug's mouth was definitely shut when I got through with him. His eyes, too. I dragged him over to a patch of shadow by the outer wall and rolled him face in so he wouldn't be noticed right away, and relieved him of his gun.

The service lights were out, so there was a whole lot of darkness above and below, and though I could see fairly well, I didn't like it. It might mean that they'd already killed Escott and no longer needed illumination to work by.

I held still and listened. Outside, Coldfield was arguing with two men, trying to convince them that he had a meeting with Dalhauser. They didn't sound like they were buying his story, but he stubbornly held to it.

Moving farther inside, I tried to pick up any other voices. Nothing. Not up here, anyway. I tiptoed along the walkway to the other side of the building and used the second set of stairs there, reasoning that everyone's attention would be focused toward the front.

I had better luck on the ground level and saw two men standing by the entrance, watching the others with Coldfield. They looked like Shep and his boxer friend.

Parked near them were two cars, which gave me an idea of the odds. There could be from eight to ten men here, including LaCelle, Grant, and Escott. Four were occupied, one was unconscious, leaving maybe one or two others lurking about.

A line of what looked like offices ran along the right-hand wall beneath the walkway. Lights showed under the closed doors of one. A man paced up and down before it, out of boredom rather than any sense of making rounds, I thought.

If I took him out, it would be noticed by the two up front, but I was reluctant to spend the energy going invisible and staying that way, which I'd have to do once in the room. I thought of a compromise, though. Vanishing, I hurried forward and slipped under the door next to my target. When I came back to solidity the weakness hit me again, but much worse and I nearly made noise stumbling against a table. I was using myself up. Damn Escott for complicating things.

The dim room I stood in was an office with the usual stuff in it. I pressed an ear to the wall it shared with the lighted room.

The first voice I picked out was Ike LaCelle's. "Yeah, it's nothing. Some guy came here by mistake. They'll get rid of him."

"You sure about that?" Archy Grant.

"It's fine. Now you gonna finish this or stay here all night?"

"Oh, I'm finishing it, but he's gotta tell me a few things first. Isn't that right, Charlie-boy?"

"Then you're gonna be here all night," said LaCelle. "I know that kind of look, and you ain't getting squat from him without a fight."

"I don't have to fight, not while I've got bolt cutters handy. You see these, Charlie-boy? They're great for snipping off fingers, noses, and even itsy-bitsy toeses. Maybe I should start with that honker of yours. What do you think?"

"I'd rather you didn't," said Escott, sounding tired and more sober than before.

"Of course, and I'd rather I didn't, either. It'd make such a mess, and I just paid for this suit, you know."

"How much did that face cost you?"

"What?"

"The plastic surgery. When you lean close I can just see the scars. It is an excellent job, they're barely noticeable."

Grant chuckled. "Yeah, the doc did do a good job. Made me even more handsome."

"But you could not change or hide your walk, the set of your shoulders, the shape of your head. Your voice."

"It still threw you for a while, though. God, what a laugh you gave me sitting with the rest at that party, staring and staring and not being able to figure it out."

"Obviously it was not a very long laugh. I'll wager I also made you sweat, else you'd not have tried to kill me in such a hasty and ill-planned manner last night."

"It woulda worked. I thought it had worked, but, jeez, how many guys are crazy enough to wear a bulletproof vest to a goddamned party? You take the cake, Charlie. But never mind that, right now I want to go down memory lane with you. What's the old gang doing these days? I want to know what happened to them."

"I'm sure you do. You're becoming quite famous, aren't you? The last thing you need is to have another someone like me turning up and identifying you as Raymond Yorke."

"That's it in a nutshell. I want to know where the rest of them are, the bunch that was in the truck. You know, don't you? You'd make it your business to keep track of them. How about we start with Katherine Hamilton? Where's she keeping herself?"

"She went back to London and succumbed to influenza a year after you murdered her sister."

Grant was silent a moment. Thinking, maybe. "You know, I didn't really mean to kill Bianca, so it's not really murder. She just hit her head too hard. It was an accident."

"And the others? Were the other eleven also accidents?"

"It's funny, but I don't remember much of any of it. That was a lifetime ago. I'm a completely different man now."

"You remember all right. Not as I do, but you remember it all the same. Every second of it."

"I was just a kid." Grant's tone was light, dismissive.

"And you simply made a mistake?"

"The only mistake I made was making too much noise. If I'd been quieter I wouldn't have woke up Queen Bianca.

She's the one who started it all with her fussing. The one thing I did right was not getting caught. What's so funny?"

Escott made that dry whispery sound. "Your boundless honesty."

"I'm telling you, Archy, he's off his rocker," said Ike, who seemed to be on the far side of the room. "You weren't there to see, but he shot down his partner just like that." The sound of a finger snap. "Didn't even blink. Dead as a doornail. I've asked him why, and he says it was to keep his friend from trying to save him. He's crazy."

Archy made no reply. I could imagine him giving Escott a good long look.

Escott said, "And what is your interest in this butcher, Mr. LaCelle? You two met some ten years past, did you not?"

"More like twelve. I helped him get the new face."

"And he began doing comedy work in the vaudeville houses? Became successful at it? He turned out to be a good investment for your time and efforts on his behalf, and you benefited him with connections to people who could advance his career. Quite a fortunate symbiosis for you both. How many others have had to die along the way?"

"Hey, I don't have to talk to a crazy man if I don't want to, and I don't want to. Archy, if you're going to do something, do it."

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, Charlie, what about Klopner? You remember him? Where's he?"

"He died three years ago of a bad liver."

"And Eric Lynd?"

"He was in a motoring accident in Buffalo and died with three others."

"Coldfield, is he dead, too?"

"No, but you'll never be able to get to him. He's like you, too well protected. On the other hand, he doesn't know who you are and likely never will. He never listens to comedy shows."

Escott was smart to admit to Coldfield still being around because LaCelle probably knew enough to catch out a lie.

"So everyone in the company is either dead or unreachable, huh?" Archy sounded doubtful.

"Yes, that's it exactly."

A sharp cracking sound. A slap. "How many teeth you want to lose before you die?"

"That's the problem for you. You don't yet realize it."

"What?"

"I'm already dead, Raymond. I died a long time ago with them. I should have died with them. Part of me did."

"He's crazy, I'm tellin' you," said LaCelle.

Another slap. "Do the dead feel pain, Charlie? I can put you through an awful lot of it."

"You already have. There's really nothing more you can do to me."

A series of slaps, then the unmistakable sound of fist against body, and Escott's rasping breath. He didn't have to put himself through this. He must have thought out a way around it. Then I realized this was his way of punishing himself for surviving the murders.

"You're going to tell me where the others are, and no crapping around about their being dead," said Grant. "I don't have to kill you tonight. I can keep you alive for as long as it takes."

There it was, that dry laugh again. The laugh of the damned. "Yes, I suppose you will."

More fist work. I started to vanish, to go help him. It didn't happen. Dizziness swept over and through me. I fell against the table, making noise, but no one in the other room seemed to notice.

Grant's voice was thick with anger. "You want I should start with the bolt cutters next or how about some pliers for your teeth?"

"That won't be necessary," Escott murmured. I could barely hear him. "If... if you will allow me some paper, I'll write... write out what you need to know."

"Now suddenly you're cooperative?"

"Disappointed?"

"Write any lies and Ike will find out."

"Keeping me alive until you confirm my information? Wise of you. Very well, now some... some paper, if you please.

Thank you, but I've my own pen."

He's going to do it, I thought. The son of a bitch is going to do it.

Then the door to my dark office opened, and the lights flicked on. Someone else had heard me. The pacing man, his gun ready. For all that, he was still hellishly surprised. Even more so when he discovered how fast I could move.

Maybe I couldn't vanish, but I still had a store of speed and strength left. It made more noise, though, disturbing the others.

"Ike! Go tell those bozos to hold it down," Grant snapped.

Even as the thug hit the floor I hit the light switch. No time to shut the door. LaCelle was already out and looking around. I softly backstepped into the sheltering darkness and waited for him.

He went right instead of left, though, having spotted the knot of his men still gathered around Coldfield.

"What is this?" he wanted to know. "What's going on?"

Damn. Coldfield was outnumbered five to one. Escott had the best chance with just the one man to face, but was handicapped by his beating and the leftover booze. But Grant wanted him alive to give information. Coldfield won my mental coin toss.

No time or ability to be subtle about it. I took another gun off the thug I'd aced and slipped out the door, hiding my approach in the shadows of the huge trucks. LaCelle was just in the process of figuring out who the unexpected visitor was when I slammed the butt of the gun against the side of his head. He dropped fast and made noise as he did, drawing the prizefighter and Shep inside for a look. The fighter didn't know what hit him, but Shep came in ready for trouble and fired at me.

The shot cracked too close to my ear, and I dodged fast, hurling around to put the massive body of a truck between us. The last thing I wanted was another wound taking away what little blood I had left. I crouched and waited for him, deciding not to shoot back. It would have given him a muzzle flash to aim for in the dark. Besides, he was using up bullets.

Some kind of activity was happening outside with Coldfield, and I thought I heard Grant impatiently calling out again from the office. He wanted to know what was going on. Hell was breaking loose all over the place.

Shep fired in my general direction again while on the run. He took cover behind a ten foot tall stack of oversized tires, which would have worked for him except for my night vision. He probably couldn't see anything of me except my pale face, and I was keeping my head down. After a few moments he yelled a question to his friends outside, but they must have been too busy to answer. His next question was aimed at anyone else in the garage, demanding they reply and help him, but I'd already taken care that those soldiers wouldn't be awake for some while.

Just him and me and a stack of tires.

I quit my shelter behind the truck and cat footed toward him from an angle, pocketing the gun. It was just as well I'd put on the black shirt; the tires were damned dirty as I pushed hard against them.

Shep must have figured what was coming and tore from his cover like a flushed rabbit just a thin second before the avalanche would have buried him. He was fast, but I didn't let him make it to the door. He ended up on the greasy cement next to LaCelle and the fighter, but in no condition to complain about any of it.

Coldfield came in just as I was going out, and we almost didn't stop in time. He swung his gun away at the last instant and wilted with relief even as I pulled my fist in.

"Where's Charles?" he asked, a little out of breath. His coat was on crooked and his shirt torn open.

"In one of the offices with Grant. Stay low. I don't know if I got them all."

"There's two by the car you don't have to worry about," he said, following me.

I looked all over, but didn't see any other men wanting to risk open battle. We paused on each side of the closed office door, and I listened hard. The light was still on, but nothing stirred within. Maybe Grant was listening hard himself, wondering what was going on.

With Coldfield covering me, I kicked the door in. It flew back and banged off the wall, but by then I was inside.

The layout was the same as the room where I'd hidden, with the same kind of furnishings and not much space between them. No one was there. On a desk lay a blank sheet of paper and some bolt cutters. No trick pen. I didn't know if that was good or bad.

"Grant must have taken him," I said.

Coldfield cursed, then left, with me close on his heels.

He ran toward the front, heading for the cars. I turned and went deeper into the murk of the garage.

This far in and things were dim even for my eyes, so I listened again and almost immediately picked up the sound of footsteps above me. They were on the catwalk. The other stairway was closest. I tore across to it.

The upper landing on this side was clear; all the action was at the far end. Against the bank of windows I saw the silhouettes of two struggling men. I recognized Escott's lean figure, Archy Grant's sturdy form. Grant looked to be winning. As I hurried toward them, Grant wrestled Escott around and got a choke hold on him from behind, trying to lift him off his feet. Escott's swollen face was going red as he clawed frantically at Grant's unmoving arm.

"Grant!"

He paused, startled by the interruption, snapping his head toward me. I didn't know him. The ever-confident, wisecracking entertainer was gone. What was left behind still possessed a ready smile, though, and the exhilarated madness of it was enough to stop me cold.

"I'll break his neck," he said cheerfully, and to illustrate, he hauled back a step, dragging the weakened Escott along.

I put my hands out, palms skyward. "Don't."

"Hey, it's you. Well, how do you like that? And here Ike said you were dead. It's not like him to get things so wrong."

Easing closer, I prayed there was enough light coming in the windows for me to be able to work on his mind. I didn't think there was, and with him gone crazy to boot... "Let him go, Archy."

"Nah, I don't think so. How 'bout you get outta my way and I just leave? I'll let him go later."

Not alive, I thought.

Grant kept smiling. "You don't think I will? Hey-I'm Archy Grant. Anyone'll tell you. There was no trusting old Raymond, but my word's good."

If I could only vanish, get next to him. I tried. Nothing happened for me.

Escott made a wheezing noise, straining to breathe. His face was puffed and bloodied from his beating, and for a bad second I couldn't tell if he recognized me or not. Grant increased the pressure. "Take it easy, Charlie-boy. We'll have our little talk soon enough."

Escott's knees gave out; he stopped pulling at Grant's arm.

"That's better. Act nice and I give you some air."

"Grant-" I began.

"No, I'm not talking with you, I'm telling you- back off!"

I could rush him, but what kind of damage could he do to Escott in the second it would take for me to cross the few yards between us? Then I saw Escott's hand flapping feebly against one of his pockets. His bulging eyes were staring at me, pleading, but not for help. He wanted time. He wanted Grant distracted.

"You hear me, punk?" Grant hadn't noticed anything yet.

"I hear you," I said. I went back a pace to show him I was also listening to what I heard.

"Who's the other guy with you?"

"He's nobody. I'll get rid of him."

"No, you call him up here. I want both of you where I can see."

"Okay, just don't-"

His thick arm came up half an inch, tightening. "Don't what?"

"If you kill Charles you'll have nothing to stop me from coming for you. Think about it."

His smile faltered, then he nodded, all good natured. "Yeah, that makes a lot of sense, but you still do what I say or I give your buddy a lot more misery. Call the other guy. Make it fast, Charlie-boy should be getting pretty blue by now."

I yelled at Coldfield, but didn't use his name, just calling out to him where we were. He yelled back that he was coming up.

"He got a gun?" asked Grant. "I heard shooting. I bet he's got a gun. He leaves it down there."

Coldfield was almost to the stairs. "Jack? What the hell's-"

"No guns," I said quickly. "He's got Charles. He'll kill him if you..."

Coldfield got the idea and told me he was putting his gun down. I didn't know whether that was true, and Grant didn't look to be buying it, either.

Escott had reached his pocket. He got the pen out. Nearly fumbled it.

I tried not to stare and instructed Coldfield to come up slowly with his hands high. He grumbled and growled, but did just that. He reached the landing and stood next to me, glaring at Grant.

Grant's eyes went wide. "Well, trot out the band and let's have a parade, if it ain't old home week! I was just thinking about you, Coldfield. Good to see you again. Still got that shoeshine box?"

Coldfield went still. I couldn't tell if it was from the question or if he'd spotted what was happening.

Escott's long fingers had unscrewed the cap of the pen. It dropped away, making a small noise on the rough cement floor.

"Yeah, Raymond, I still got that old box," said Coldfield. "You need a shine?"

Grant laughed once. "I bet you'd love to hear me say yes. You did the work, but you didn't much like it, did you?"

"Not much. Got a different line, now."

Escott looked to be gaining ground. Maybe he was getting more air, but he didn't seem to be able to find the trick catch for the needle. He couldn't see what he was doing.

"Got my own place, a nice little club," Coldfield continued. "Remember me talking about that? You should come over sometime. We got some great music there."

"Do I look like a sucker? We all know how this has to end. I want the two of you to start backing up. You don't come near me or Charlie does his act with the angels from now on. Go on."

Hands out, we reluctantly retreated. Exactly one step.

It didn't sit well with Grant. "I know you both want to kill me, but it's not in the cards. You try and Charlie goes first. If I lose, he loses, too. You got that? You got any of tha-"

Escott jabbed downward with the pen. There wasn't much force behind it, but it was enough to stab the needle into Grant's leg. Grant snarled and jerked against the sudden pain. Before I could get to them, Escott twisted partially free and buried his elbow into Grant's side. He set himself, then violently pushed them both backward toward the windows.

One of the big lower panes shattered as Grant staggered against it. I was there in an instant, reaching for Escott.

Grasping his coat, I hauled him out of the way. He fought me.

"Let him!" Coldfield shouted.

I let go, dimly understanding. Escott wrested clear of me. He swayed, coughing, but was able to stand alone.

Grant managed to recover his balance and kept himself from going through the window. He braced a moment against the bent frame, staring wildly at us to see what we'd do. No one moved. He looked down and saw the body of the pen sticking incongruously out from his thigh at a right angle. He swatted the thing away, and cursed at the new pain it caused him.

Panting, Escott raised a shaking hand at Grant. "I think... I think things are more even, now."

"What'd you do to me, Charlie?" he demanded. "What was in that-"

"It won't take long. But it will be... extremely unpleasant while it lasts."

"Charles," I said evenly. "What was in the needle?"

He gave a thick laugh that turned into another cough. "Just a little strychnine."

"Oh, my God," Coldfield whispered.

Grant shook his head. "No, it's not. You can't get stuff like that. They control poisons, so it can't be-"

Escott wore an awful smile. "There are small amounts to be found in certain kinds of rat poisons. You can extract a good concentrated dose of it if you know how. And I do."

"No, you're lying-"

"We'll see. It should start very soon. The convulsions are the worst. You'll break your own bones from the thrashing about. You won't be able to talk, but you will be aware. Every terrible moment of it, you'll feel..."

That was too much for Grant. He lunged at Escott, who ducked his head and met him halfway, ramming his shoulder into the other man's body. There was a solid thump and both grunted from the effort and impact.

I started to step in, but Coldfield yanked me back. "It's his fight. Let him."

Escott got in one sharp jab, a good one. He may have been handicapped before, but now he was operating on pure rage. Years of it. He cut loose with another few deep punches before Grant tried to get away. As he turned, Escott caught him around the shoulders and, whether by accident or design, steered him toward the window. Grant bucked against this. Escott let him, but hung on, using Grant's force to carry them around. They swung in a full circle, ending up with Grant crashing into another sheet of glass, breaking it. Grant yelled something, fighting wildly to push himself back. Escott snaked his arms under Grant's elbows, locking hands behind his neck to hold him in place with a full-nelson. Grant tried to slide sideways out of it. He had the muscle, but Escott had the height and used it for leverage.

He smashed Grant's forehead hard onto the metal frame. The stocky man abruptly slowed, obviously stunned by the blow. Escott gave him no time to recover. He released his grip and got his hands behind Grant's shoulders, shoving him down. Hard. Against the shards of glass still sticking up from the frame.

Grant's unprotected throat caught it all. The more he fought, the more pressure Escott applied to hold him in place.

Bloodsmell blossomed in the cold air. Grant shrieked and gagged, damaging himself further with his struggles. Escott put all his weight into holding him down. It went on for one minute, two, as Grant's fight slowly drained out of him.

His kicks and flailings got weaker, less controlled, then subsided to reflex twitching, then to no movement at all. A few moments after that, Escott seemed to fold in on himself and sagged away, slipping heavily to his knees.

"Charles?"

He wouldn't turn to meet my eye, just wearily shook his head. Maybe he expected me still to be mad at him for the crossbow bolt. I just might be, but it would keep until later.

"Holy shit," said Coldfield, going over to kneel by him. "We gotta get you out of here, so come on. Can you stand?"

Escott made no reply, but allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He was a real mess. Grant had fought hard to keep his life, but Escott had had thirteen years of rage stored away, waiting for release. It was all used up. He tottered now, frail as an old man even with Coldfield's help.

From the floor I retrieved the fat-bodied pen. The hypodermic was wickedly visible. I found the protective cap and carefully returned the thing to a relatively harmless state again.

"You really got poison in this?" I asked Escott.

He blinked at me a few times, he might have been in shock. "What?"

"Is there strychnine in this like you said?"

He shook his head, his puffed mouth spasming once. "Just... just some saline solution."

"It's only a bluff?"

"Under the right. Circumstances... the power of suggestion..." He looked at Grant's body. "Too easy."

"Easy?"

"Too. Fast a death."

After a moment Coldfield said, "You got that right. I could wish you'd left some for me, though."

Escott's unexpected laughter was dust dry with hardly any breath behind it. I'd never heard anything like it before and never wanted to again. It was the laugh of a damned soul. But this one had managed to crawl out of the pit for another chance.

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