The Vampire Files - Song in the Dark Part 36

No lights on, but the blinds were up on the window across the room; plenty of glow came in for me to use.

Nothing fancy about this place. A bathroom opened on my immediate left, an alcove served for a closet on the right, then the entry widened to a larger area with a sofa along the right-hand wall. Two beds were at the far end on either side of the window, and a couple chairs and a table, as normal as could be except for the bodies.

The Ruzzo brothers were collapsed, loose-boned in the chairs, having fallen forward across the table. Their heads were wrong, strangely misshapen. One had his face toward me, and his eyeb.a.l.l.s were half out of their sockets, his tongue protruding, like a cartoon mocking surprise. The realization finally came that their heads had been bashed to pulp, and exactly in the middle of the table between them was a bloodied baseball bat. The light changed, went suddenly gray, and I thought Myrna must have been acting up, only she wouldn't be here, she was at Lady Crymsyn.

I blinked, looking around. I was in the hall again, my back to the Ruzzo door, with my guts about to turn inside out.

Oh, h.e.l.l, not now...

Drew a steadying breath. Wrong thing to do with blood-smell filling every crevice of this place, and the scent of it and death hovering so close was too much, and it dropped fast and hard, and I doubled over, hitting the floor like I'd been shot.

My own blood seemed to hammer the top of my skull, and for a second it felt like I was once more swinging upside down in that meat locker, then I was creeping purposefully over the red-washed cement floor seeking life from another's death, and after all that I still thirsted for more human-red fire to pour down my throat...

The memory of pain and the nightmare of failure left me curled, stifling the urge to vomit, and clutching my sides where the cold, taut lines of the scars p.r.i.c.kled along new-healed flesh. My eyes rolled up, and I shivered and held back the rising wail and hung on, hating, hating, hating this weakness and not wanting to give in to it. If I vanished, it would mean surrender. This stuff had power over me, and it had to stop. I had to stop it, I just didn't know how.

But gradually... gradually, the seizure pa.s.sed.

Exhausted, I couldn't move for a while. No one came down the hall, and, even if someone had, I'd have not been able to do anything for myself. This was soul-weariness, and I couldn't control it.

When I thought I could start to trust my coordination, I pushed up, one stage at a time, eventually gaining my feet.

The tension left over in my muscles was bad, but beginning to ease. I stretched cautiously, and you could have heard the pops and cracks at fifty feet.

I regarded the Ruzzo's door with bleak and chill thoughts. They were long dead, I was sure. Going in for a second look wouldn't change that or help me. I couldn't go in there. They were dead, and that's all there was to it, leave them and get out.

I was five steps toward the elevator, then turned around and went back and went in, because that was what bosses had to do.

The second visit was less bad because I was careful to not breathe and not look at them, letting my gaze skip over the bits that threatened to add to my internal library of evil memories. With enough practice anyone can learn to create temporary blind spots in their sight.

The baseball bat placed so neatly in the center of the butcher's chaos could have been one from the party in the cornfield. I checked the alcove closet and found a cache of other bats standing in a corner, a bonanza for sandlot kids.

Someone had reached in and lifted one away, then turned to where Ruzzo sat having a drink at the table-there were two unbroken gla.s.ses on it. He'd perhaps playfully hefted it, making a couple practice swings, having a laugh. Then the next two swings were utterly serious, and he'd kept on swinging, just to be sure.

No one would have heard any of it even through these walls. What were a couple of dull cracks, followed by meaty thumps to this place? Just another sound effect on a radio show and who wants to bother Ruzzo, anyway? Surly pair, just stay outta their way and hope they shut up. This wasn't the kind of place where people wanted to notice things, so I'd leave questioning the tenants and staff to others. As easily as I got in, the killer could have gotten out. h.e.l.l, he might have taken the fire escape stairs easy as pie or hijacked the freight elevator as I'd done.

Blood splatters generously freckled the walls and ceiling, long dried out. Several hours at least had pa.s.sed since their creation. Ruzzo had been killed long before Kroun and I had driven away from the Nightcrawler.

Why, though?

If they were helping Mitch.e.l.l, wouldn't he want to have them around? They might have been dumb, but extra muscle could be useful. Unless he couldn't trust them to keep their mouths shut. If they knew Hoyle had readied a bomb for Kroun, it wouldn't do having them running loose.

I went through the rest of the room, not touching anything, fists stuffed in my jacket pockets. Just looking was enough. They didn't have much: some clothes, a radio, old racing forms, a scatter of magazines you had to ask for special so the druggist would pull them from under the counter. The two beds were unmade, and there was a tangle of blankets and a pillow discarded on the long sofa. I suspected that I'd at last found where Hoyle had been staying. Was he the killer here? With all three sharing a common hatred of me, they might have stuck together until Ruzzo became a liability.

If not himself the killer, Hoyle could well be a target, too. Only it didn't fit what I knew of the man.

A very quick sideways glance toward the table. It would take a h.e.l.l of a lot of strength to do that kind of damage, and to be able to do it cold, without working yourself up into a muscle-charged rage. Hoyle was big enough for the work. The punches he'd landed on me in that snowy field were meant to disable and might have succeeded on anyone else. I'd felt killing force behind them, seen it in his face.

Last on my way out was the bathroom. Someone had rinsed off using the tub tap and slopped around, leaving diluted red stains all over. Those were also long dried. In the sink were two wallets, empty of cash. Well, the killer had been practical. When you're on the run you need money, and whatever had been there would serve to give the cops a motive, however flimsy, for the crime.

Nothing left to discover here, but I had more questions. I'd have to return to the Nightcrawler and wait for the answers to straggle in. Unless he was already on his way back to New York where I couldn't get to him right away, Mitch.e.l.l would have to show himself sometime to put in his claim for the boss's chair. It would give him a chance to b.i.t.c.h at the locals for not having enough protection for Kroun. Of course, Mitch.e.l.l could be blameless and been off having a fine time at another club while Kroun was blown to bits. The whole business with the pa.s.senger-door trigger could easily be a misinterpretation. Not my first one.

But first a stop at Lady Crymsyn. Escott should know this latest.

I ghosted through the door, materialized, and found myself staring Strome square in the face.

Chapter 15

He was surprised enough for three, rocking back on his heels with a sharp yelp. I almost did the same, but the door was directly behind and wouldn't allow the movement. Instinct took over. I struck out fast, popped him one, and he dropped.

I stared down at him, considering my situation.

Two dead guys in the room and an unconscious one out here in the hall.

Who had seen me appear out of thin air.

A simple problem to solve-if I could still hypnotize without risk of killing myself. No. Couldn't chance it.

d.a.m.nation.

Well, first I had to get Strome out of here, then I'd deal with what he'd seen. I hauled him up on one shoulder and took the freight elevator. The area below was clear, though there were three flat trolleys piled high with paper-wrapped goods parked along the hall. People were talking around a corner, coming our way. I hurried toward the exit and pushed awkwardly through, Strome's weight throwing my balance off. The cold air didn't wake him.

We were in an unused part of a blind alley. Not much sun could get in between the buildings, so the last snowfall, glazed over by a layer of sleet, was still in thick drifts. I braced Strome against a wall, scooped up some mostly clean snow, and rubbed it in his face.

"Strome? Hey, c'mon!"

His eyes flickered, then he came shooting awake, staggering and staring around, his hand automatically going for the gun in his shoulder rig.

"What the... ?" he focused on me.

I glared right back. "Did you do it?"

Confusion. Just what I wanted. "Do what? Where am I?"

"Outside the Ruzzo's hotel. Did you kill them?"

"What? I-" He felt his jaw and froze. "Ruzzo's dead?"

"Since earlier today. Someone bashed their heads in Capone-style with a baseball bat. That's why I popped you one.

Was it you?"

"No!" He was outraged and perhaps a little scared. I was scared myself.

I was used to his stone face as the norm, but this reaction rang true. Besides, it took his mind off other matters. A clout strong enough to send you unconscious was usually enough to scramble your memory. You could lose the last half hour or the last month, or even the whole works of a lifetime. All I wanted gone were the last ten minutes. So far he wasn't asking inconvenient questions. That was my job.

"Why were you at the hotel then?" I asked.

"Looking for Ruzzo. I got a line they were hiding there. Thought they might be hiding Hoyle, too."

"Sure you didn't kill them?"

"Never! I never went near 'em! No!"

I took him off my suspect list for the moment; even if he'd changed clothes and washed, I'd have picked up the bloodsmell on him. Plenty of other crimes to check out, though. "Did you put a bomb in Gordy's car?"

His reaction to that one was also convincing. "A bomb? What the h.e.l.l you talking about?"

I told him, and he didn't believe it. I stood back so he could get a look at me. "Believe it," I said. "Kroun's dead. I think Hoyle teamed with Mitch.e.l.l, and I need to know which side of the fence you're on."

"With you and Gordy!" "What about Mitch.e.l.l?"

"I hate that weasel-eyed son of a b.i.t.c.h. He ain't stand-up. Never was."

"Do you know where he is?"

"No."

"What about Hoyle? You know where Hoyle is now?"

"Yeah... I got a line. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"If he wasn't with Ruzzo, I was gonna check on it. Word's out on that reward, but the guy I talked to don't have the stones to go after him. I promised him a hundred for the news, but only if it was solid."

Interesting. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

Strome looked at me like I was being unfair. Which was true. He'd hardly had time to work up to it. "Listen, I was gonna call Derner, get some boys, and go in. Hoyle ain't the sort to come quiet."

"Where is he, then?"

"The garage where he keeps his car."

That made sense. Wish I'd thought of it.

"You wanna check out Hoyle's garage, Boss?" he asked.

"Lead the way."

Strome was plenty shaken to judge by the backward glances coming my way as I followed him from the alley. I must have been giving him the creeps. Not my problem. He took us to where he'd parked his car, and we got in. I thought about phoning Lady Crymsyn. Escott would be in by now, but there was no telling how long Hoyle might stay in this garage or if he was even still around. If he had brains, he'd be putting distance between himself and the murders.

If he really had brains, he'd have never crossed me from the start.

"Ruzzo's murder," I said. "If Hoyle didn't do it, who else would?"

"Anybody who met them."

"Seriously. What about Mitch.e.l.l?"

"Yeah, he could do it. Donno why he would. You just covering the bases, Boss?"

Considering how the murders had been accomplished, his choice of phrase was unfortunate. "Yeah. Can you think of any reason why Mitch.e.l.l would want to kill me?" So far as I knew, Strome was unaware of the run-in I'd had with Mitch.e.l.l at Crymsyn.

"He'd only do it if Kroun told him to."

"That's what I thought. Kroun must have been the real target from the first, but they rigged things to take me, too.

The trigger was on the pa.s.senger door. It was meant to go off when he had company. Derner said Hoyle knows explosives."

"Yeah, learned 'em in a mining camp out West. So Mitch.e.l.l got him to make one? But why should Mitch.e.l.l kill his boss?"

"With Kroun gone, Mitch.e.l.l moves into his spot with New York, while Chicago gets the blame for the death. He's keeping his own backyard clean doing it here. Sound reasonable to you?"

"Yeah."

"Ruzzo becomes inconvenient to Hoyle for some reason, and they die. What you bet maybe Hoyle becomes inconvenient to Mitch.e.l.l?"

"Because he don't want Hoyle to talk about the bomb?"

"All he has to do to get away with b.u.mping Hoyle is say it was payback for Kroun's death."

"Smart stuff, Boss." "Would it fool New York?"

He shrugged. "Depends whether they want to believe him or not. Could be Kroun's got pals back there who don't like him much, and they have Mitch.e.l.l here to b.u.mp him. We get the blame. You will, anyway. Far as New York goes, they don't know you and don't want you."

"The feeling's mutual, I'm sure. We gotta find out one way or another from Hoyle."

"Not easy. I might have a chance to talk with him, but otherwise he'll start shooting. He's got a grudge on for you, and I never heard of him holding back ever on one of those."

"He'll just have to take his chances. I'm not feeling too d.a.m.ned kindhearted toward him, either."

The area Strome drove to was one of those little pockets of the city where the deep-night creeps could make themselves very much at home. During the day it was a place of cheap shops and small factories with obscure names turning out G.o.d-knows-what for who-knows-why. The grimy building fronts indicated business wasn't good, but struggling along. At noon the workers could descend upon the corner bar at the end of the street for a quick beer, sop up the sports scores, and lay bets down for the next event with their friendly local bookie. It was very likely part of Gordy's operation, and if I troubled to walk down there and give my name, I'd have his same level of respect.

Or be shot at. Territorial concerns were ongoing and strong in this town.

Strome parked the car and pointed. At the other end of the block from the bar was a low, one-storied structure. It looked like it had started out to be one thing, then changed to another halfway through, then no one finished the job.

Brick and mortar with blackened windows, the roof was sheet tin that cracked and rattled as the wind pa.s.sed over it.

Part of one wall had been cut wide enough for cars to roll inside. There was no real driveway into it, someone had simply smashed the curb down and hauled off the rubble, so the change from street level was fairly abrupt. A faded sign next to it offered rates and a number to call.