The Vampire Files - Art In The Blood Part 17

Something in his tone got her attention and she banked the charm down for the time being and nodded seriously.

I got in, Escott got in, and we moved back out onto the street. He put a few extra turns in our route south, just to make sure no other cars had been waiting for us.

None were, so he made a beeline to the address.

The gas station we wanted was a solid-looking cinder-block structure sloppily coated with dirty white paint. It sported two battered pumps out front and a garage on the left of a tiny office. Parked in front of the garage door was a well-dented open-bed truck. The fenced back area contained a broken-down carriage, dozens of rusting fifty-gallon drums, and stacks ol balding tires. It wasn't the kind of place a mother would take her kid to for a rest stop.

Escott pulled in and we waited for someone to emerge and sell us some gas. I got out to do what I hoped was a pa.s.sable imitation of a man stretching his legs.

Barbara remained quietly where she was, her big eyes wide open and watchful.

A cadaverous old man with half a cigarette growing from the corner of his mouth squinted at us from his sanctum by the cash box, deciding if it were worth his while to leave it. He finally concluded we were staying and levered to his feet. As he drifted past, I could almost hear the pop and creak of his joints. He leaned into the driver's window and muttered something in a rusty-saw voice that might have been a question. Escott apparently had a gift for translating obscure dialects and asked for a few gallons of gas. The old man hawked and spat- without losing his dead cigarette-and did things with one of the pumps.

He kept a cold eye on me as I wandered around. A suspicious person might think I had designs on the cash box, so I avoided the front office, if not the suspicion. The garage part was closed off, but something about it had my attention on a gut level and I moved closer to listen.

The wide door had two filthy windows. They were dark, but only because of the black paint smeared on the interior side of the gla.s.s. Maybe the station owner had a legitimate reason for such aggressive privacy. Maybe.

I moved along the front of the garage with my ears flapping, but between the wind stirring things around and the gas pumping away I couldn't pick up anything on the inside. Escott was trying a little friendly conversation with the old man and kept him busy checking the oil and cleaning windows. While they investigated something or other under the hood, I went around the corner and pressed an ear against the building.

What I got for my trouble was a dirty ear. If there were any people inside, they were so quiet about it that I'd have to go in to find out.

Brick walls are no real trouble for me-I'd found that out the first time I discovered how to vanish-but filtering through one like coffee in a percolator was not my idea of fun. High up, just below the roof overhang, was a long row of fly- specked windows. It would be easier to slip through any existing gaps in their cas.e.m.e.nts; they'd be small, but better than the wall.

Once I'd gone transparent and floated up, I could see from all the rust that they hadn't been opened in years, and the corner of one of the panes was beautifully broken away. Grateful at this piece of luck, I disappeared completely and slipped through the three-inch opening like sand in an hourgla.s.s.

My hearing wasn't much better inside than out, though I thought I heard some kind of sc.r.a.ping sound. In my immediate area I was lodged between the wall and a series of thick surfaces curving away from me that I couldn't identify. The ceiling was only inches above, and down where my feet would be I couldn't feel anything but air. I hate heights.

Then I definitely heard voices and forgot about mental discomforts.

"Lay that off, you dummy."

"But it's gettin' thick."

"So put in more water."

The sc.r.a.ping stopped. "Why don't he get rid of 'em?"

"Shuddup."

It was like trying to listen through a load of blankets. One cautious degree at a time I sieved back into the real world, just enough to hear and see and hopefully not be seen. The curved things turned out to be a rack of old tires and I was hovering between them and the wall. The more solid I became, the heavier I got, and it took no small effort to maintain my half-transparent state. Being fifteen feet over a cement floor without any other support than air and willpower did not help my concentration.

The garage had two doors; the big one in the front for the curs and a regular one that served the office. The remaining three walls were lined with rows of tires, and below these were greasy workbenches and a confused scattering of tools and supplies. A man had the office door open a crack and was keeping an eye on the outside. His back was to me, but I was sure I didn't know him. He wore a dark purple suit with orange pinstripes, and n.o.body I knew outside of a circus would have been caught dead in such a getup.

Standing just behind him, trying unsuccessfully to look over his shoulder, was Francis Koller. Since the other man was bigger, Francis gave up and went back to stirring a shovel around a large, flat container shaped like a shallow horse trough. He was trying to be quiet about it, but the shovel would sometimes go its own way and sc.r.a.pe along the bottom. The viscous, cold-looking gray stuff in the trough was cement.

"I said to lay off," the other man hissed, not turning around.

Francis laid off.

"Where the h.e.l.l is the other bozo?" he griped.

Francis deduced it to be a rhetorical question and didn't bother to answer.

The other bozo had to be a reference to myself. Until I returned to Escott's car, whatever they were up to would have to wait, but Escott would be running out of stalls by this point. There were only so many he could try before they became too obvious.

I shifted a little, taking care not to b.u.mp the tires. My view of the garage widened.

The center of the floor was broken up by the grease pit, its wide rectangular opening covered by a metal grid. Standing against the opposite wall were a half dozen rusting fifty-gallon drums with various faded labels on them. One of them had been pulled out from the rest and its cover removed. It was positioned exactly under a heavy-duty block-and-tackle arrangement used to lift motors out of cars. A thick, taut chain ran from the supporting framework above down to a steel hook. Attached to the hook was a knotting of rope and hanging from the rope by his wrists was Alex Adrian.

His slack figure was motionless and his head drooped down on his chest. I couldn't see his face. The toes of his shoes dangled just over the open mouth of the metal drum. Enlightenment came with a fast and sickening twist of the gut. I suddenly knew what they were going to do with all the cement.

Chapter Nine.

THE AIR WAS foul from the stink of spilled gas by the car. When I materialized I had to steady myself against one of the pumps because the sickness had followed me from the garage.

At that distance I couldn't tell if he was alive or dead. If dead, then we could take our time; if alive, then we had none left to spare. And if they put him alive into that drum...

With the pumps and car between us I knew the man watching from the station couldn't see me, and no one had noticed my return. Escott and the old man were still poking at things under the hood and Barb was watching the spot where I'd gone around the far corner of the garage. I tapped on her window. She whirled and slid over to roll it open.

"What's the matter?" she whispered, too worried to question how I'd gotten there. "Did you find anything?"

I could only nod and realized it would not be wise to get too detailed. "They've got Alex. They're-"

"Is he all right?"

"I don't know, I couldn't see that much. There're two men inside, and they've got him trussed like a turkey." She made to move and I stopped it with a short, hard gesture. "Don't, they're watching us right now. They're only waiting for us to leave-"

"But we can't-"

"Yes, we will. You and Charles are going to drive off and find the nearest phone.

You call the cops and get them here as fast as you can."

"What about you?""I'm staying here to keep an eye on them."

She dived into her purse and brought out a beautiful nickel-and-mother-of-pearl derringer, pushing it into my hand. "Here, you'll have two shots. You have to remember to c.o.c.k it first before pulling the trigger... you do know how to shoot?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Just in case," she said, and I knew it would be easier to pocket the thing than argue with her.

"Okay, thanks. You get the cops here fast, got it?"

"Yes-"

"And an ambulance, too."

"Ambulance?" The word moved on her lips with no sound behind it.

"Just in case." Adrian might need it if he was still alive, and it not, then his killers most certainly would before I was finished. "Has Charles mentioned me at all while he's been keeping Chuckles busy?"

Her expression flickered as she shifted thoughts and tried to remember. "I don't think so, he's been talking about the car the whole time. Why?"

"You'll see." I hoped Escott would follow my lead.

The old man glared at the engine with contempt and shook his head at Escort's latest question. "I jus' pump the gas, I'm tellin' you I don't know nuthin' 'bout these things."

"But just listening does not require any mechanical skill, and I'm sure if you did so while I pressed the accelerator, you'd be able to hear it as well." Escott was using his most persuasive voice and sounded like an amiable idiot. He looked up as I approached. "Oh, h.e.l.lo, I was trying-"

"Just wanted to say thanks for the lift," I interrupted, holding out my hand. He'd picked up the cue without batting an eye and we shook briefly.

"You're not coming along?" he asked.

"No, this is where I get off. I already said goodbye to your missus. See you around."

He wished me well and continued to argue happily with the old man for another few minutes, long enough for me to take to the sidewalk and stroll away out of sight.

I blessed the actor in him, vanished again, and doubled back.

The sidewalk was my prime landmark. I followed its flat, hard surface, keeping low out of instinct rather than necessity. In this form, body posture is meaningless, but the illusion of it in the mind is a comfort.

My second landmark was the old truck parked in front of the garage door, where I turned left, moving forward until I felt the wall of the garage itself. Floating upward, I quickly found the window with the broken pane. The last faint outside noise I heard was Escott's Nash starting up. Pouring inside to the spot behind the tires, I faded enough of myself back into the world to see and hear things.

They hadn't moved. Francis held his shovel in the trough of cement, the man at the door kept watch, and Adrian hung motionless from the ropes. After stuffing him into the oil drum and filling the leftover s.p.a.ces up with cement, they'd probably load it onto the back of their truck. North of us was a perfectly good lake with miles of coastline; finding a deserted spot to dump their problem wouldn't be too hard.

"You took your time," the man complained, holding the door for the old geezer to come in.

"They din' wanna leave and so what? He's gone now."

"What about that other one? Where'd he go?"

"Off. Hitchin' a ride and got hisself unhitched."

"You sure?"

"I seen him walk."

Francis resumed sc.r.a.ping at the cement. "This s.h.i.t's starting to set, Dimmy, we gotta move."

"Who's stopping you?" he snarled back.

Dimmy Wallace: bookie, loan shark, and new terror of the south side, but then Francis was easily impressed. I saw a middle-size, stocky man who badly needed to cut the limp blond hair straggling from under his hat. He had a pudgy face and colorless eyes with the kind of blank expression you usually find on infants or lunatics.

Francis took the hint with a short, relishing laugh and put down his shovel.

"C'mere, Pops, gimme a hand." He went to a length of chain leading down from the pulley mechanism above, presumably so he could lower Adrian down into the oil barrel.

Pops thought it over sourly. "Nuh-uh. None o' this c.r.a.p, I pump gas."

"I said I need a hand," Francis insisted, but apparently he was too much a junior member of the team to swing any authority. Pops turned around and went back to the tiny office. Francis tossed a comment about the old man's ancestry to his indifferent back and unhooked the chain from the wall in disgust.

Bringing Adrian's body down a few more feet was a strain for him. Dimmy Wallace made no move to help, nor was he asked. When Adrian started to double over, Francis reversed the chain to take in the slack. He strutted up, hands on his hips, the owner of a brand-new toy.

"Do I kill him now or wait and watch him squeal?" he asked Wallace.

That was the best news I'd heard all evening. It gave me a whole new set of worries, but at least I knew Adrian was alive.

"Do what you want, but just do it. We ain't got all night." Wallace was bored with the business.

"We got till Toumey comes back."

"You got till the cement sets. Remember?"

Francis did, much to his disgust. He wasted no more time and poked at Adrian's downturned face. "Hey. Mr. Hot s.h.i.t. C'mon, you don't wanna miss any of this."

"Give 'im some air," Wallace suggested.

Francis moved faster than thought. A knife appeared like magic in his hand and the blade slashed at Adrian's throat and caught on something. When his hand came away he was holding the knife and Adrian's tie. I sagged inwardly with sick relief.

He showed it to Wallace. "That's a fancy one, ain't it? These hot-s.h.i.t rich guys like the good stuff, don't they?"

I shifted a little more to the right to get a better angle on Francis. It would be steep and fast and I'd have to judge it just right when to- "And lookit these fancy b.u.t.tons... But maybe they ain't good enough for such a nice shirt. Maybe they oughta be solid gold instead." He dropped the sc.r.a.p of tie and neatly sliced away a collar b.u.t.ton. "Come on, hot s.h.i.t, I'm talking to you-wake up and lissen."

The point of the knife jabbed Adrian lightly in the side and he jerked, swinging a little from the rope.

"Yeah, hot s.h.i.t, have a good look at things. You 'member trying to fight me? This is how I pay you back, you see? You see?" He laughed at whatever he saw on Adrian's face.

Adrian mumbled something I couldn't catch. Francis looked at Wallace.

"He wants to know if you killed some broad, Dimmy. You kill anyone today?"

"Not that I can remember," said Wallace, his voice flat.

"How come you don't ask me, hot s.h.i.t? Maybe I did it, maybe I walked in and did her good. Maybe she let me in and wasn't friendly enough. That's the sister, huh? Robley's sister? He keeps quiet about her, but we know all about her, and we know all about how to make a girl real friendly. Hey, Dimmy, he's telling me to shut up. What do you think of that?"

Dimmy was bored again and expressed no opinion.

Playing, Francis jabbed the knife at Adrian's face. "That's what I think of shutting up, Mr. Fancy Hot s.h.i.t."

I moved a little lower. It would have to be from below. The rack of tires ran all along the wall's length and there was no room to go above them.

"You know you're bleeding? Maybe I should just open it up a little more..."