Nightwalker. Part 8

Jessy walked quickly through the bustling casino toward the garage elevators. The place was full of activity, even though things wouldn't really be in full swing until later. Still, bells were ringing, people were laughing and talking loudly to be heard over the machines, and hawkers were advertising certain games.

She stepped into the elevator along with a musician in Mexican attire carrying an acoustic guitar, a couple who clung to one another and giggled constantly and a man from a pizza-delivery company. The door started to shut, then opened again, as if a latecomer had triggered the sensor.

Except no one was there.

"Ghosts in the machine," the deliveryman offered with a laugh.

The giggling couple giggled louder, and even the musician smiled. The door slid closed again, and Jessy felt as if a cold draft was wafting around her.

She had to get a grip, she told herself. Every little shift in the air around her made her feel as if she was being watched, followed, and it was ridiculous. She had to stop being so paranoid or she wouldn't be any good to anyone.

She was glad when the musician got off on her level, and glad that he wasn't far away as she headed toward her car. She deactivated the alarm, slid into the driver's seat and immediately locked the doors. Then she turned around to investigate the backseat, a.s.suring herself that she was alone in the car, even while ridiculing herself for having seen too many movies where the killer waited in the back of a car to attack his unwary victim.

But she was alone.

She turned on the stereo-loudly. Music was a good way to drown out any sounds she might not want to hear. But it was Seventies Night on the local station, and the minute the DJ introduced Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper" she switched the frequency. She drove out the back way, avoiding the Strip, and headed for Henderson, all the while reminding herself that she was safe. She had locked the doors. She had checked the back.

And still she felt as if she wasn't alone. As if someone she couldn't see had followed her. Was right there with her.

But she reached home without incident, then forced herself to walk at a normal pace up the front walk. She quickly closed and locked the door behind her, then reset the newly installed alarm. But even inside, she couldn't escape the uncomfortable sensation of being watched, of not being alone.

She went first to the kitchen and picked up her heaviest frying pan. She wished that she golfed-a nice strong golf club would have made an excellent weapon, though she was sure that, if need be, she could wield a mean frying pan.

But a walk through her house convinced her that she was entirely alone. She was also desperately in need of sleep, and she thought about taking a nighttime pain-killer, but they left her feeling drowsy in the morning, so she poured herself a large Baileys instead. She was standing in the kitchen, gla.s.s in hand, when the phone rang and she jumped a foot off the floor. Laughing at her own foolishness, she picked up the receiver.

"Hey, how's it going?" came Sandra's cheerful voice in her ear.

"Fine," Jessy said, realizing she didn't sound entirely convincing.

"So everything's all right with Timothy?"

"It was great, actually. Hoskins was so sure I couldn't come up with the money that he promised Timothy's room to someone else. I'm sure they weren't very happy to find out they couldn't move in after all, but Hoskins is a jerk and deserves to get reamed out. But Timothy's just fine."

"I'm glad to hear that. And how about you?" Sandra asked.

"I'm fine, too."

"I guess you haven't seen the news, huh?"

"Why? What's happened?"

"Oh, nothing more actually happened happened. But you're famous."

"What?"

Sandra laughed. "They're calling you 'the mystery woman.' Hang on-Reggie wants to talk to you."

"It's so cool," Reggie said. "No one has used your name, but they all say he fell down and died on top of a mystery woman. A beautiful beautiful mystery woman. I'd like to be a mystery woman someday," Reggie finished with a dramatic sigh. mystery woman. I'd like to be a mystery woman someday," Reggie finished with a dramatic sigh.

"I'd like to forget it ever happened," Jessy told her.

Sandra came back on the line. "It's okay. It will all die down in time. I'm sure the cops will figure it out. It probably had something to do with drugs or revenge or some such thing. Or maybe it was mob related. I'm glad I'm not a cop. I don't know how they sort through it all. Anyway, I just wanted to check on you."

"I'm fine. I've got a show tomorrow, so I'm going to bed. I'll check in on Timothy in the morning, then head to work-and hope no one there has heard about the mystery woman," Jessy told her. "They'll never stop teasing me if they have."

They said good-night, with Sandra telling her to call if she needed anything. Jessy hung up, half her gla.s.s of Baileys gone, resolved that she was going to get some sleep. As she stood, she thought that she heard a jingling sound but decided it was just the phone giving a little hiccup.

She quickly drank the rest of the Baileys and headed to her room.

She got ready for bed quickly, then surprised herself by pausing before she lay down.

"I'm really tired, and I'm begging you to leave me alone," she said loudly to the empty room.

Naturally, there was no response.

A few minutes later-and contrary to her own expectations-she was asleep.

Dillon was tempted to call Jessy just to rea.s.sure himself that she had made it home safely, but he refrained. Anyway, it was ridiculous to think she was in any real danger. She'd happened to be there when a man had died, but she had no connection to him. Okay, the man's ghost was following her for some reason, but that didn't mean she was in any real danger.

Besides, Ringo had followed her, and he had over a hundred years' experience learning to deal with life after death and the rules of spectral existence. He was a real pro, as ghosts went. He could move things-like those dice-even knock them over, if necessary. He could probably even manage to call 911 if necessary.

To keep himself from thinking about Jessy, he decided to head over to the Sun and interview some of the workers there, especially the bellmen and valet-parking attendants, who might have seen something the night Green was stabbed.

It was Thursday night. The crime-scene tape had been taken down and the casino reopened sometime that morning, which had been an invitation for the place to go wild. It was hugely busy, but Dillon was good at getting people to talk-in this case, that consisted of handing out a lot of tips. The manager of the valet service had been inside his gla.s.s box and hadn't seen anything. Three of the bellmen had been inside at the time, and none of them had seen anything useful. The parking attendants were no help, either.

"The thing is," one of them told him, "we're so used to seeing people wander in drunk that if someone was staggering, we wouldn't have paid any attention. We've all been questioned by the police, and I wish we could help. It feels almost ridiculous that we can't, but you know how it is. Dozens of limos come through here every night."

"Still," Dillon persisted, "this limo managed to be just out of range of the cameras. As if someone knew where security cameras could reach and where they couldn't." limo managed to be just out of range of the cameras. As if someone knew where security cameras could reach and where they couldn't."

"Yeah, in the far lane, the cops said. Check with Rudy Yorba-I remember seeing him out there that night, waiting to park the next car in line."

Dillon tracked down the young man named Rudy Yorba and found a tall, thin thirty-five-year-old with a lot of nervous energy.

Rudy was pleased to accept a tip for his time and gave Dillon his full attention. "I'm not sure what I saw, to tell you the truth," he told Dillon. "That homicide guy was such a jerk, I was kind of afraid to talk to him. He said he wanted facts, not theories, that he didn't want to know what anyone thought thought they saw, only what they really they saw, only what they really did did see, and I couldn't give him any facts. Said he didn't want to be chasing his tail following up a bunch of false leads." see, and I couldn't give him any facts. Said he didn't want to be chasing his tail following up a bunch of false leads."

"He's a cop, I'm an investigator, and I don't mind chasing my tail," Dillon a.s.sured him. "Nothing else for me to do right now anyway, right?"

Rudy looked at him and nodded. "Okay, well, here's what I think. I think that guy came out of a white stretch Caddy. I'd looked up cuz I was waiting for a guy to get out and hand over his car, and I saw someone getting out of the Caddy, but I don't know who. But the next thing I know, there's this huge hulk of a guy blundering through the crowd. He looked rude, like he was pushing people around. Then I looked down to say something to my guy, and by the time I looked back up, the big guy was gone. So, like I said, I think think he came out of that Caddy, but I don't know it for a fact. I he came out of that Caddy, but I don't know it for a fact. I can can tell you for a fact that it came in fast, and it went out fast. I mean, it's hard for a Caddy that big to burn rubber, but if you ask me, that limo did just that." tell you for a fact that it came in fast, and it went out fast. I mean, it's hard for a Caddy that big to burn rubber, but if you ask me, that limo did just that."

"Thanks, Rudy, thanks very much," Dillon told him, and handed the younger man one of his cards. "If you think of anything else, let me know."

"Sure thing," Rudy said, and shook his head. "You'd'a thought someone would have noticed the knife." He shrugged. "But, hey, this is Vegas. What gets stabbed in Vegas, stays in Vegas, right?" He laughed weakly at his own grim joke.

"Sad but true," Dillon said.

Privately, Dillon was certain Rudy was right about the Caddy, which meant whoever had killed Green had plenty of money, enough to hire a pricey limo, and was savvy enough to know just where the security cameras' reach ended.

Dillon headed back home at that point and turned on his computer, putting the Internet to use to figure out which casinos were currently making use of which limo services. There were six that touted the availability of limos for a price, or gratis for their high rollers.

There were also three agencies that specialized in limo rentals.

He was mulling over the information he had garnered when his cell phone rang. "Wolf here."

"Mr. Wolf? It's Rudy Yorba."

"h.e.l.lo. Did you think of something else?"

"Yeah, I did. I know the year of that limo. I just remembered it, cuz you got me thinking."

"Oh?"

"It's this year's model. I know because of the design of the mirrors. After you left, some of us guys were talking about how things don't really change much, that sometimes you can't tell one year from the other, and then I thought about the mirrors. Maybe it's nothing, but I thought you should know."

"It's definitely something. Thanks, Rudy, thanks a lot."

He hung up and turned back to his computer. None of the rental agencies advertised the latest model, but two casinos did: the Sun, and the newest entry on the Strip-the Big Easy.

5.

Rudy Yorba left work at two in the morning. Most of the time, things at the casino began to wind down around then. The partiers were drunk enough that, whether they thought it was time to go to bed or not, their eyes were closing as their alcohol-infused bodies longed for a bed.

Rock stars and their retinues had a tendency to come in late, of course, but there hadn't been any rock stars that night. So though he often hung around until three or four in hopes of picking up a job, he was off that night by two.

He said goodbye to his friends and coworkers, and headed to the parking lot. Employees had to use the open-air top floor, but that was no big deal. He just took the service elevator and rode up to where his little Bug was waiting. He loved his car. In a world where gas prices kept skyrocketing, he could go forever on a single tank.

He paused and looked out at the night, the moon and stars hidden by thick cloud cover. Good G.o.d, it was black. He imagined that, out in the desert, beyond the neon lights, it would be darker than eternity. Dark as h.e.l.l. And cold, too. Freezing. That was the desert for you. Hotter than h.e.l.l by day, cold as a witch's t.i.t by night. And Vegas itself nothing but a pile of neon and money in the middle of that desert.

He hit the remote and heard the alarm chirp cheerfully. Friends made fun of him for his car, but he loved her. He called her Mary. Mary for both his mom and his daughter. His mother had been gone for years, and he pretty much never saw his daughter. She lived in New Hampshire with his ex. He got out there once a year if he was lucky, and Mary was allowed to spend two weeks with him in summer. He didn't hate his ex-wife for that, and he didn't resent her new husband, either.

When Mary had been born, he'd thought he was a hotshot. He'd been working on Wall Street, making big money, and he'd driven a Hummer.

Then he'd gotten hooked on cocaine and gone through everything he'd ever made-and nearly dropped Mary off the balcony of his high-priced condo when he was high out of his mind one night. Now he didn't touch drugs or so much as a drop of alcohol, and he was making his way back to humanity. He knew he had to prove himself to his daughter, and he wasn't sure that she loved him as much as she loved her stepfather or ever would, but he didn't blame her.

As he headed toward the car, he saw someone heading away from it, making their way through the lot. He didn't think anything of it. Employees came and went all night.

Then he heard footsteps behind him and swung around, inexplicably edgy.

"Hey, Rudy!" The woman who called out to him was Amber Olsen, a c.o.c.ktail waitress.

"Hey, Amber. Quiet night, huh?"

"Yeah, too quiet. Nothing like a man dying to drive away business," she told him.

"Hey, don't sweat it. Maybe they'll put us on the ghost tour."

"Hope so," Amber said, and waved as she headed down another aisle to her car.

Rudy reached his Bug and got inside, then thought to look in the backseat. He grinned ruefully to himself. It was empty. Of course.

It wasn't until he was out on the highway and felt the first little chug chug of his engine that he frowned and looked at his instrument panel. of his engine that he frowned and looked at his instrument panel.

What the...? He was out of gas-which was impossible. He had filled the tank just that morning.

A moment's uncertainty filled him. Had he had one of his little blackouts and only thought thought he'd filled his tank? No, he never blacked out in the car. Never. It only happened when he was standing around doing nothing while he was waiting for his turn to park a car or go retrieve one. He wouldn't drive if he had any fear of blacking out when he was actually concentrating. He was trying to rebuild his life, not kill someone. he'd filled his tank? No, he never blacked out in the car. Never. It only happened when he was standing around doing nothing while he was waiting for his turn to park a car or go retrieve one. He wouldn't drive if he had any fear of blacking out when he was actually concentrating. He was trying to rebuild his life, not kill someone.

But that didn't change the fact that he was out of gas. He knew he should have invested in an AAA membership, but it was one of those things he hadn't gotten around to yet.

Swearing, he pulled over to the side of the road before the engine sputtered out completely. Luckily, he was only a couple of miles from the next exit and a gas station.

Dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb. He swore at himself as he got out of the car, careful to lock the door behind himself. He loved his Mary, and he didn't want anyone stealing her.

He thought about hitchhiking, then decided he might as well just walk, seeing as there weren't many other cars on the highway anyway. A quiet night all around, he supposed.

He walked for half a mile, humming to himself to keep from cursing aloud at his own stupidity.

There were lights behind him, but h.e.l.l, this was was a highway. He paused and turned, thinking about trying to flag down the driver and b.u.m a ride after all. a highway. He paused and turned, thinking about trying to flag down the driver and b.u.m a ride after all.

He knew he was still on the shoulder, but it seemed as if the car was coming straight toward him. He raised his hands against the blinding glare, wondering what kind of idiot was driving.

The lights grew brighter as the car drew closer. It must have been doing at least eighty.

And it was coming right at him.

He never screamed.

And he never suffered.

He didn't even have time for a dying thought.

Morning.

Light seeping into her bedroom woke Jessy, and she opened her eyes slowly, afraid of what she might see.

The clock ticked away time on the bedside table. The dream catcher that Timothy had bought her when she was a child, beautifully crafted and dotted with beads and crystals, hung from the dressing-table mirror, just catching the first glints of day.