Dirk And Steele: The Wild Road Part 6

A doorman approached. Lannes turned off the car engine, twisted in his seat and said, "You can come or stay, lady. But if you stay, I want your word that you won't run or hot-wire my car."

Frederick stared at the big man. "You're not both staying with me?"

It was of some interest to the woman that Lannes squirmed. "Charlie will probably call back soon. No time, Freddy. I'll make sure you're safe in the room before I go."

"That's not the point. I would like to go, too. And help."

"Freddy."

"Don't let these useless hands fool you."

Lannes rested his own hand on the old man's shoulder, and the compa.s.sion on his face, the sadness, was enough to take the woman's breath away. She forgot herself for a moment as he very quietly said, "Never would I be fooled by anything so shallow."

"Ah," breathed Frederick, sagging against the seat. "But I've become old, haven't I? What happened to those years, Lannes?"

"They're still here," he said firmly. "But I won't put you in danger."

Danger I caused, added the woman silently, feeling very insignificant and helpless. Frederick glanced at her almost as though he had heard her thoughts, but she saw no accusation on his face. Just concern.

Behind him, the doorman waited, one gloved hand resting on the car. Frederick took a deep breath, tore his gaze from the woman and fumbled for the door himself. It was immediately opened from the outside.

But Frederick paused, looking back again at the woman. "You, young lady," he said quietly, "I hope you find yourself. But if you do not, remember that there are worse things than...choosing the course of a new life."

Then he was gone, rising out of the Impala with as much dignity as a king. Lannes shot the woman a brief look, then followed Frederick, keeping close, one hand under the old man's elbow. He loomed over everyone else, and as she watched him, Frederick's words rang inside her head. She thought he might be right: there were worse things than starting a life afresh.

Here she was, too, sitting in the backseat of a car just ripe for stealing. No keys, but there was a something twitching at the back of her mind that might have been a skill for stripping wires. So very tempting.

She got out of the car, ignoring the incredulous look the doorman gave her as he stared at her floppy socks and ill-fitting clothes, and climbed into the pa.s.senger seat. She leaned back and studied the steering wheel.

I am a practical woman, she told herself, willing it to be true. And Lannes was a resource, an opportunity. She needed him. Or someone like him. And while she could bemoan the safety of that, or its ethics-or beat her chest in some mocking, woe-is-me roar-the facts were dead simple: she did not know who she was, she had no money or friends, and she had only a name, only one clue to what might have happened to her. Giving that up was no longer an option.

So she waited. And locked the doors. Watched the street and the lightening sky.

The woman sat for almost twenty minutes before Lannes returned-a remarkable length of time that eventually felt like playing chicken with a freight train, a train rumbling toward her filled with the ominous specters of police and blood and murder. But finally, finally, she saw the big man exit the hotel.

He did not look entirely surprised to see her waiting for him, which the woman found a bit insulting, but he did give her a small grateful smile that felt almost unbearably sweet to her raw ticking nerves. She unlocked his door. He slid in, carrying with him the scent of earth and something delicate, like orchids.

"Is he all right?" she found herself saying, genuinely concerned.

Lannes shrugged, frowning. "No one likes being left behind. But...thank you for asking."

"I like him," she said simply. "And I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused. It's not too late to ditch me, you know."

"Maybe later," he said. "I'm curious now."

The woman could not help herself. "No matter what happens? How do you know I'm not lying to you? Or that I didn't plant that note at your front door? I could be anyone in the world."

"I haven't forgotten that," he said, pinning her with a look that made her feel very small. "This isn't an easy thing for me. But I believe you. I see a person who needs help. And if I don't help you, I'm afraid no one will."

The woman stared at him in silence. Lannes sighed, put the Impala in gear and drove away from the curb. The sun was rising. A hint of golden light twinkled between the skysc.r.a.pers, reflected by gla.s.s and steel. It was going to be a pretty day.

"My brother called," Lannes said. "He found Price."

"Okay," the woman whispered, hardly hearing him. She was thinking instead that she should have thrown survival to the wind and done the right thing after all, embraced a little self-sacrifice and saved this man from his moral compa.s.s. She should have stolen his car while she had the chance.

Chapter Six.

Orwell Price lived in a gritty little neighborhood on the far west side of Chicago. Not much in the way of personality. All the houses were small and made of brick, with wide porches and sc.r.a.ppy yards.

The Impala purred. Lannes parked behind a white pickup. He and the woman got out of the car. The air was cool.

The neighborhood was quiet, but that was merely a lull-he heard doors banging and car engines roaring, saw tiny children crying and screaming, throwing down their book bags on the concrete sidewalks while their mothers ignored them and leaned on chain link fences, cigarettes dangling from their fingers.

Folks going to work, school. It was only Thursday.

Lannes stood for a moment, watching the woman posed frozen on the sidewalk, her gaze sharp, thoughtful. She was still wearing only socks. He needed to get her some good shoes if they were going to keep on like this. A first-aid kit for her feet, maybe.

They walked down the sidewalk to a small brick house surrounded by a chain-link fence decorated with plastic windmills shaped like birds. Yellow gra.s.s and bushy weeds filled the small lawn, which was covered in stone birdbaths and bird feeders that hung from iron poles jammed into the earth, leaning at an angle. The feeders were empty, and there was no water in the baths.

The fence gate stood ajar. Lannes and the woman hesitated, staring over the threshold at dirty windows covered in curtains yellowed with age.

"Think the boogeyman lives in there?" asked the woman. "Or Mister Rogers?"

Lannes grunted, extending his senses into the home. Listening with his mind. Someone was in there...but that was all he could determine.

"Stay behind me," he said, ignoring the amused surprise that flashed through her eyes-an amus.e.m.e.nt that faded just as soon as he started walking up the path to the front door, deliberately taking long strides so that he would reach the house before her. The woman hobbled behind him, her presence at the back of his mind sparking with irritation. It made him think of Charlie.

Wait, his brother had said. I'm sending help. Don't go alone.

Well. He was not alone. And he could not wait. Those instincts in his heart had been pushing and pulling from the moment he had found that note-earlier even, if he considered the woman-and it was now or never. He knew it. Even if he did not understand why.

Fate. Moments pa.s.sing in time. Moments that will never come again.

And knowing just when to catch them was another kind of magic all of its own.

Lannes knocked on the front door, stepping sideways as the woman neared. His bound wings ached. So did his nerves. He had spent too much time alone to be well equipped for playing hero. Up until now, his only purposes in life had been simple: Mind his own business. Cause no harm. Never be discovered.

He heard a shuffling sound. The door opened. An old man stood on the other side of the screen, wearing a ratty blue bathrobe that gaped at the front revealing a scarred pale torso and a pair of striped pajama bottoms that hung low over wide hips. His face sagged. His nose was red. He had no hair on his head, but plenty on his chest. White and bristly.

Find Orwell Price, the note had said.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" growled the man.

"Mr. Price?" Lannes inquired. "We were hoping to speak with you."

"I'm not buying, I'm not converting, and everyone under the age of thirty-five deserves to be shot," the man snapped. "Get off my porch."

"Hey," said the woman, stepping close to the screen door. "This is important."

"I've got jock itch more important than you, lady," he replied, then looked at her. Lannes was certain Orwell had already seen the woman, but perhaps his eyesight was bad. He blinked, reaching up to rub his left eye...and went very still.

The woman's breath caught. "Do you know me?"

"No," Orwell whispered, sagging backward. "No. Who did...who did you say you were again?"

"We didn't," Lannes said. "But we were told to find you."

Orwell was still looking at the woman, who shifted uncomfortably, leaning in toward Lannes. She said, "Please, we need to talk."

"Talk," echoed the old man, his eyes narrowing. At first Lannes thought he meant for them to continue standing on the porch, but then, haltingly, he unlocked the screen door. He did not open it. He backed away, deeper into the shadows of the house. Lannes and the woman shared a quick look, but it was done, they were here. No turning back.

Lannes entered first. Very reluctantly. It was dark inside. Piles of laundry, dirty or otherwise, were on the floor, along with stacks of magazines that had fallen over and some bags of rank-smelling garbage that needed to be taken out. A television buzzed in the background. Some news program. Talk of a major hotel fire in Chicago. Investigation ongoing.

It was a small house with a lot of walls. Lannes' chest tightened. It was hard to breathe. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on the woman, the old man and nothing else. No time for claustrophobia. No time.

"Ignore the mess," Orwell said gruffly. "I don't get company."

"Why did you let us in?" Lannes asked. "Do you know this woman?"

The old man ignored his questions. "You said you were told to find me? Who did that?"

"It was on a note," replied the woman carefully. "Some...odd things have been happening to me. We hoped you could explain them."

"Explain odd things?" Orwell laughed, but it was tinged with nervousness. "That's rich. Did Simon send you? Mr. Simon Says?"

Lannes frowned. "As she explained, your name was on a note left on my doorstep. Who's Simon?"

"A n.o.body. Just like me." The old man shot the woman a thoughtful look. "He wouldn't have sent a girl. He doesn't like girls."

"You recognized me," she pressed.

"You look like someone," Price admitted. "But she's dead."

The woman tensed, but Orwell turned and shuffled deeper into his living room. He kicked aside some clothes and stooped with a groan to pick up a can of beer on the floor by the sagging couch. Taking a long drink, he gave Lannes and the woman a hard look.

"So," he said. "Mind if I see the note?"

Lannes very carefully unfolded it from his pocket, but he did not move. This felt wrong. Not just the mess or the tight s.p.a.ce, but the air when breathed seemed to enter his heart instead of his lungs, and it was as though he could taste the miasma of darkness that had settled over this house like an illness, or death.

Bad vibes.

The woman also did not move. Her stillness felt the same as that of a fox sniffing out a trap-sharp, smart, hunted. Good instincts. Lannes held up the note like a sign, uncertain the old man's vision would let him see it but unwilling to go any deeper into the house.

The old man took another drink of beer and squinted at the note. Then he took a step closer, and another. Until he stopped, staring. Calm enough, on the surface. Perfectly calm. So calm he looked like a mannequin, plastic and frozen.

"Where did you get that?" he asked, and Lannes realized something in that moment that made him want to take a slow careful step out of Orwell Price's house: he could not sense the old man's mind. Not a hint nor trace of it. It was like standing in the presence of the dead, of something empty and hollow.

Impossible. Lannes was a poor mind reader, but at least he could feel minds. He could sense the weight of thoughts. Orwell Price had none. This confused Lannes at first. And then it frightened him. Normal people did not put walls in their minds. Normal people would never consider it necessary. Normal people would not have the mental strength to do such a thing.

Which meant that the old man was...something else.

I should have listened to Charlie.

Lannes took a risk on the woman. He touched her arm, wrapped his fingers lightly around it, grateful for her thick sweater, and tugged slightly. She glanced at him but did not protest as he made her move toward the door.

"Don't go yet," said Orwell, quietly. "I still haven't heard about that note. Interesting handwriting, don't you think?"

"It's just writing," said the woman, as Lannes stuffed the paper back into his pocket. "Unless you recognize it?"

"I recognize a lot of things," Price whispered, knuckles white as he crumpled the beer can in his fist. "I recognize the morning, and the s.h.i.t taste in my mouth when I open my eyes after a bad night's sleep. I recognize the pain in my gut when I've eaten something I know is bad for me, and I recognize, too, that I have no self-control. But sometimes a man needs to eat some s.h.i.t. No matter what it costs."

Lannes stepped in front of the woman, his wings straining against the belt. Power gathered in his chest and his skin tingled. Every instinct was pulsing. The walls were closing in. He put one hand behind him and pushed the woman back toward the door.

"The note," Orwell whispered. "G.o.dd.a.m.n that note."

He threw aside the beer can. It hit the television. In the same swing, he swooped down with surprising speed and jammed his hand past the cushions of the couch. He came back up with a gun. Behind Lannes, the woman made a sound.

Orwell shot him. No hesitation, not even a blink as he pulled the trigger. The bullet slammed into Lannes' chest just below his heart, shattering ribs. Lannes staggered, almost blind with pain, but his adrenaline kicked in and his vision cleared in moments. He was certain there must be a hole in his torso the size of his fist, but when he glanced down, he saw no wound. Just the illusion of clothing. He looked up and found Orwell staring in disbelief.

Lannes charged. Orwell managed to get off another shot that hit him in the shoulder, smashing bone and spraying blood-which spattered through the illusion and hit the wall. He staggered but had just enough momentum to slam seven feet of hard muscle into an old man who was soft and weak limbed. Both of them went down. Lannes heard ominous crunching sounds beneath him. Orwell howled.

Lannes wanted to scream, too, but he kept his mouth shut. This was not going to kill him. No gunshot had ever taken out a gargoyle; it took a grenade to do that. Blow him to bits and he'd never regenerate. Cut off his head, burn him to ash-these things would kill him for good. His wounds would be fine in hours.

The problem was the woman. Orwell Price. Witnesses. They had seen him shot point-blank. He hoped neither noticed the fine mist of blood on the wall.

The woman fell on her knees beside them. Her concern rolled through Lannes' mind like a warm bath, until it was all he could do to focus on disarming the man beneath him. He had never felt anything like her heart. Her compa.s.sion could have been a drug. He would have been happy enough to lie still and savor the heat of her mind, like a monstrous Rip van Winkle, lost for years in a dream. Her presence, for one brief moment, drowned the pain.

And then that pain hit him again, and he swallowed a groan. Orwell Price did no such thing. He squealed like a stuck pig, screaming obscenities. Lannes had his gun hand pinned. The old man loosed another round, which hit the wall, and then the woman leaned backward, scrabbling toward the television, and returned with a ten-pound dumbbell that she raised above her head. Orwell's eyes widened. He tried to move. The woman brought the weight down hard on his wrist.

Another crunch, another scream. The old man released the gun. The woman grabbed it.

And then something odd happened. Lannes felt her mind change.

Her emotions were so deeply embedded inside him that he sensed the shift immediately. As though something...suddenly joined her. A completely different vibration. She was not alone in her mind. It felt the same as two brains stuffed in a jar, but only one of them was in control.

Lannes grabbed her wrist, trying to see deeper. All he found was another wall. A wall like the one keeping him out of Orwell's thoughts. And a presence that was cold and old and alien. An intruder.

He had no time for horror. The psychic intruder twisted the woman's mouth into a hideous forced grimace, which might have been a smile but looked more like she was about to sink her teeth into the old man's throat. Her eyes darkened. Her skin drained of color and her lips turned white.

"Murderer," she whispered to Orwell, and the fear that rolled off the old man was so thick, so repulsive, Lannes wanted to gag.