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"Not to be in there, right now," he said. "Why don't you hang around here and,
when the boys and me are done palavering, we'll take a walk over to the
mosquito breeding ponds and see if we can figure out what the gray men are
really up to?"
There was a disquieting look in his eyes beyond the usual disquiet I generally
feel when looking into the eyes of an undead creature.
"I have someone I'm supposed to meet."
"Sonny boy," he laid a cold hand on my shoulder, "this here's a fancy dress
ball and that ain't nothing more than a dandified dance. One of the realities
of any dance is that you don't always go home with the one that brung ya."
"What are you afraid of?"
He looked up at the building. "The Hunger," he said unevenly.
"Me, too," I said quietly. "But I can't hide from it."
"Not what I'm talking about," Montrose said. "Not my hunger, not your hunger.
It's a Hunger beyond us. An Appetite . . ."
"Yeah? Well, ring my bell and call me Pavlov." I started back up the hill.
He caught my arm again after a dozen paces. "If you must go, go slowly. Go
carefully. Stay close to an exit. And get away as soon as you can." He turned
back to the shadows where his sesquicentennial comrades were waiting.
I stomped back up the hill muttering a string of curses. Divorce cases weren't
so bad. Come to think of it, spouse stalking was a little bit like being
cinematographer for
America's Funniest Home Videos
. I
was going to memo Olive as soon as I got back in, tonight: from now on After
Dark Investigations was going to handle nothing but divorce cases!
No more walking corpses!
No more End of the World conspiracies!
And absolutely nothing requiring attendance at social gatherings with dress
codes!
The rear exit was one of those self-locking affairs, forcing me to hike all
the way around to the front of the building to get back in.
Chapter Fifteen
The first thing I noticed was that there were fewer cars in the parking lot
than when we had arrived. It was too early for the evening's entertainment to
wind down and I knew of no other social events likely to siphon off the crowd
tonight.
Three more cars drove off while I stood and looked over the lot. At least
there had been one new arrival in the past hour: a green Chevy Nova was parked
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four spaces over from my car.
I affected a casual amble, moving across the lined asphalt in a roundabout
route to see if anyone was loitering in the vicinity.
Nope.
As I drew near, I noticed that my car sagged a bit: the right rear tire was
flat. So much for a quick getaway.
Upon closer examination the problem was clear: a slitted puncture in the
sidewall of the tire. Stiletto?
No . . . the slit was three times the width of a stiletto blade. More like the
signature of an Army combat knife. One end of the cut was even abraded as if
caught by the back saw-edge of such a blade.
I looked across at the Nova and then back at my poor, abused coupe. Talk about
adding major insult to injury . . .
Whatever happened to the good old days when vampires rarely traveled by coach
and spent most of their time lurking around castle corridors?
I opened my trunk, hauled out the jack and the spare. Took off my jacket and
proceeded to set a new world's record for a tire change outside of a raceway
pit crew. Put my jacket back on and grinned:
now the element of surprise had shifted.
I looked back over at the Nova. There was room to shift it some more.
I put my ruined tire and my jack back in my trunk and looked around. Wondered
a bit about security cameras. Remembered that my image worked about as well on
videotape as it did on mirrors.
I hefted my tire iron and walked to the far side of the Nova. Doing my best
Minnesota Fats impression, I poked a hole in its rear tire. Now we were even.
Except I was ahead of the game now.
But not enough ahead, I decided, curling my fingers under the lip of the
Nova's trunk. I pulled and lifted using a little of the preternatural strength
that my tainted blood had granted as a benevolent side effect. The catch
popped with a groan of stressed metal. If I couldn't bend it back to close
tight, they might still believe it was the sudden dive into the ditch that
left it sprung.
Or they might not once they found out that I had popped their spare, as well.
The spare was not readily accessible. Under the amber wash of the parking lot
lights I could make out tarpaulin bundles that lay across the flooring and
wheel well. I pulled one of the edges back. Looked.
Started opening the other bundles.
The handguns were on top: a couple of 9mm SIG Sauer P226 pistols, a .357
Magnum S&W
revolver, and an HK 23 SOCOM .45 caliber handgun with suppressor and laser
aiming module.
Four rifles were underneath: a Carbine automatic M-4 A1 5.56mm, a Chicom Type
56 (think
AK-47), and two 7.62mm M-14 automatic rifles. Next to them were a couple of
12-gauge Mossberg shotguns, pump action with folding stocks.
This was bad with a capital B.
What made it infinitely worse (with a capital W) were the bundles on each
side.
On the left I saw an N91 left-handed 7.62mm bolt-action sniper rifle. Next to
it, a Barrett M99 .50
BMG bolt-action, magazine-fed sniper rifle. The sewing machines lay on the
right-hand side of the trunk:
an MK43 7.62mm machine gun and two submachine guns, MP-5 series, 9mm.
I didn't open the ammo boxes: I was afraid I'd find grenades.
I rewrapped everything and closed the trunk lid, pushing the lip back in so it
would catch on the frame and hold shut for the time being.
I tossed the tire iron in the back seat of my car and pulled out my cell
phone. I only used it for emergencies as it gave me headaches. I had already
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learned to step back while operating a microwave oven. It was fortunate that I
had the number for the Monroe cop shop stored in memory: my hands were shaking
so badly I would have had trouble punching in 911.
"Monroe Police Department," answered a voice. "How may we help you?"
"Uh, I'd like to report a probable crime."
"What sort of a crime? And may I have your name, please?"
"Name? I thought I could report a crime anonymously."
"Well, yes, but Haim? Is that you?"
"What?"
"This is Detective Murray, Mr. Haim."
"Detective Murray?"
"Yes. I'm just covering the phones while the desk sergeant is using the can."
"I didn't know you worked the late shift."
"Well, truth be told we were just getting ready to come back out and see you."
His voice held the easygoing tone of a man suggesting a pleasant social visit.
Sometimes Murray's affable smile and pleasant tone suggested that he might be
more dangerous than Ruiz for all her vinegar-and-piss attitude.
"We?"
"Lieutenant Ruiz is here."
I felt my heart sink: could this night get any more complicated?
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