A Song In The Dark (33 page)

For everyone else.

The realization flared through me like a storm.

It was my nature to feed from this kind of destruction. I was immune, so my craving for death was a safe, fundamental thing, inherent to what I'd become. Really. It had been like that with Bristow as he hung upended like a slaughtered animal, his blood flooding me, bringing me back from the edge. I'd thought the shadow taint was from his booze, but now I knew it had been his dying.

Another long draft, then I made myself lift away, sat up, and let it work in me. The cattle blood was pure and filling sustenance, but human blood satisfied another kind of hunger.

Or rather appetite.

They're different.

The awful and eager thing within urged me to go back for more, to empty him, take everything he had to try to fill my own void.

He won't need it, and didn't the taste feel so good?

This was why I so freely drained it from the cattle, trying to capture the too-swift thrill of red life that can only come from humans. Living, dying, or already dead, it didn't matter.

Yes, it was good. Much too good. I liked this far too much.

That was ugly to know.

But I continued to drink from this broken vessel, not caring, not caring as my soul slipped away.

The next time I noticed anything besides blood, I was on the street, walking hunched over, hands in my pockets. My face was very cold at first, especially around my mouth. That was where Hoyle's blood had smeared.

I found a drift of snow and scooped some to clean up a little. Left behind a lot of fresh red on the pavement. Kept walking. I wasn't sure where I was and didn't have the energy to worry about it. My mind was fogged in. I wanted to sleep, but that wasn't going to happen. It was almost like being drunk, except with the opposite effect on my senses. I heard and saw everything, only none of it was worth my attention.

So I walked and walked and hated what was in my head, hated what I had become. Now
I
was one of those deep-night predators. Always had been. It had just taken me longer to figure it out.

With a kind of internal “Huh, how about that?” I realized I'd walked all the way to Lady Crymsyn. The look of the street seemed changed, but that was my doing. I was changed, and my perceptions made the world different.

I had company. Coldfield's car was in Crymsyn's lot next
to Escott's. I tried the front door. It was locked, but, no problem, just vanish.

Listened when I went solid again.

Radio music upstairs, low conversation from the main room. Light on behind the bar as usual.

I whispered. “Hi, Myrna, I'm back. How was your evening?”

Nothing blinked in response. Maybe she was enjoying the radio in my office.

Wandered into the main room. Escott, Coldfield, and Isham had taken over a large round table closest to the curving passage. Before them was a litter of glasses, full ashtrays, and cartons gutted of their Chinese food. The boys were playing cards and hailed me as I came in. I stood in the shadows of the curved entry.

“Something wrong?” asked Coldfield.

I shook my head.

“Jack!” said Escott. “Derner called to say that Evie Montana is alive and well and that the other problems have been solved, but he refused to go into detail on the phone.”

I stepped clear of the shadows.

“My God, is that blood on you?”

I looked at their alarmed and questioning faces and realized this long night was about to drag on even longer.

God, I wanted a drink. The old-fashioned, alcoholic kind. It was safer than the other stuff.

Talking about it made it real all over again. That's why I'd sent Strome to deal with Derner. I didn't like the remembering or the taste of the words. The bloodsmell clung to me; I seemed to notice it more here. I skipped the ugly business with Hoyle. Even I didn't want to know that part, but
was stuck with it. When I finished, the atmosphere had turned irredeemably gloomy, and no one seemed to want to speak first.

“Everything was quiet here?” I asked after a moment.

Escott stirred slowly, as though reluctant to move.

He shot a look at Coldfield, who asked, “What about this Mitchell bird? Your guys covering places like the train station and the buses?”

I almost winced at his calling them “your guys.” They weren't mine, just borrowed. “Mitchell probably won't leave until he's killed Hoyle. He doesn't know he's dead yet.” The leftover smears of Hoyle's blood seemed to pull at my skin. I wanted to wash them off. “Mitchell's our proof. If we can bring him in alive and send him back to New York in one piece, that'll clear up the whole mess and keep Gordy from getting blamed for Kroun.”

“But Kroun's death happened while you were on watch. Won't they be blaming you?”

“It'll still come back on Gordy because he put me in charge. My reputation's not hot with the big boys, but I can live with that.”

“You sure?”

“I'm sure. No problem.”

Coldfield, Isham, and Escott went off their separate ways. I told them I was tired and wanted to clean up. Escott gave me an odd look, but didn't say anything. I felt sorry for him.

Once I'd locked up I went to the basement, turning on all the lights. We had a small workshop there with tools and other equipment. I found what I needed and made what I wanted. It took about an hour to make and get the fit perfect. I'd only need one.

Then I went upstairs and showered. Emptied the hot-water tank again. No matter. It still didn't warm me. I was past shivering, though, cold and numb inside and out.

Up to my office. Bathed, shaved, fresh clothes. They used to improve my frame of mind. Not tonight. Fortunately, there wasn't much night left.

I found box of stationery and used a few pages. In the end none of the pathetic scribbles seemed right, so I tossed them in the trash.

Dawn was a minute away when I stretched on the couch. I would fight off the temporary death to the last second so it would seize me faster, preventing the awful paralysis from taking over a slow inch at a time.

Only a few seconds to go, my body beginning to stiffen up, I lay flat and shut my eyes. I sensed the sun's approach and fought it, fought its weight on my bones, its freezing of my joints.

When I was utterly anchored in place, so solid that it would be impossible to vanish and heal, I knew it was time—and that I could do it.

Absolutely my last conscious act was to put my revolver's muzzle to my right temple and pull the trigger.

I
HURTLED
awake shrieking, then vanished almost in the same instant. The agony abruptly ceased, and, floating in the grayness, my dazed mind slowly grasped the appalling truth that I'd failed.

Solid again. Lying as before on the office couch. Bloodsmell on my left. A spray of long-dried rust brown blood on the lighter brown leather by my head. Hole in the leather from my carefully crafted wooden bullet. It'd passed right through my skull.

I still lived. Would continue to live.

God
damn
it.

Then I noticed Escott standing over me.

I'd never seen such a look on his face. Infinite rage. Infinite pain. It was raw as an open wound and still bled, the pain carving deep lines into his gray flesh.

“You bastard,” he whispered.

I made no response.

His eyes blazed, hot enough to scorch what was left of my soul. Why couldn't I have just stayed dead?

“You bastard. You idiotic, selfish
bastard
.” There was enough venom in his voice to kill an elephant.

I stopped meeting his gaze. Maybe he would get fed up and leave, then I'd find some other place to be at dawn and try again. Next time, a shotgun. Wood pellets in the cartridges. Ugly. I'd have to blow my whole head off. So be it . . .

Anger like a living force rolled from Escott to smash against my body. For a second I thought he had hit me. His fists shook at his sides. He trembled all over. “You bloody
coward!
Did you even
think
how it would be for her walking upstairs, opening the door, and
finding
you?”

Bobbi. He was talking about Bobbi.

“How could you
do
that to her?”

I'd done it
for
her. He just didn't understand. “She saw?”

“No, thank God. Instead
I
came in first and found you.”

I shrugged. Better him than Bobbi, I guess.

“I've waited all day to see if you'd bloody wake up.
All bloody day,
DAMN
you!
”

“And I woke up,” I murmured to myself.

His lips twisted. Teeth showed. “How could you
do
this to—”

“Because I
hurt,
dammit!”

“And how do you think
she'd
have felt?”

“She'd get over it. She's better off without me. Everyone is.”

I saw it coming and didn't duck. He hauled back and landed one square and hard, one of his best. It knocked me clean from the couch. He'd know I wouldn't feel much; this clobbering was about expressing anger, not to cause pain. I had plenty of that already.

“Get your head out of your backside and think of somebody else for a change—”

“
I was!
Don't you
see?
I'm no good to her or anyone like this. And I
hurt!
”

“We
all
hurt! But you
don't
inflict your pain on others by doing this!”

I dragged off the floor onto the couch again. “Yeah-yeah, well, too bad, I thought it over, and it's better for everyone if I'm gone.”

He called me a bloody coward again and knocked me over again. Much harder. The second time made bruises.

Dammit. Why couldn't he just leave me alone? I started to get up . . .

He got a good one square on my nose. I heard and felt it break. While he rubbed his battered knuckles and glowered, I sat ass flat on the floor with blood slobbering down my chin.

“What the hell's with you?” I snarled, snuffling messily at the flow. “You
know
what I went through!”

“That's no excuse!”

“It
is
. I'm never gonna get better from it—”

“Not by killing yourself you won't!”

“
I can't live like this!
Every night it gets worse—”

“So you have a few bad memories, poor, poor fellow. It gave you a reaction you don't like. Very scary, I'm sure. You're going to let
that
destroy you? Destroy Bobbi—”

“It's not your business, Charles. This is
my
choice, only I know what it's like in my head, not you!”

“I know what it's doing to the people who care about you. Don't you give a tinker's damn what you're doing to Bobbi?”

“Since when do you have to butt in about her? I never asked.”

“But
she
did! We're here to help, but you shut us out—especially Bobbi. You're ripping her apart.”

“That's what I'm trying
not
to do! This is to save her, dammit!”

“How?” he demanded.

The words stuck in my throat.

“How?”
he roared. He rose, loomed over me.

“Because . . .”

“What? Come on, tell me! Save her from what?”

I couldn't. It was too much. “Go to hell. Just goddamn get out and go to hell!”

“Tell me!”

I got up, grappled him, pulled him toward the door to throw him out before I lost myself. Bloodsmell clogged my nose, in another minute I'd fall into another damned fit. He could sell tickets to the freak show.

Then he got his arms up and twisted and somehow slipped my grip and threw another punch, this time driving deep into my gut. There was surprising force behind it, powered by adrenaline and sheer fury; I doubled over and dropped.

His face was so distorted I didn't know him. “Tell me! You don't
know,
do you?”

I spat blood. “Get out! It's none of your damn—”

Then he really started in. Brakes off. Down the mountain. Full tilt.

Escott was
always
in control of himself. That iron reserve had only ever slipped once. He'd been blind drunk, then. Now he'd gone lunatic. He got me up only to knock me over, and when I was down he slammed my head against the wood floor again and again, cursing me over and over under his ragged breath.

Wood damaged, could kill me—and he knew it.

I didn't fight, wanting him to cut loose. If he pounded me unconscious, that'd be one less night I'd have to suffer through. He pummeled until his sweat ran and his face went bloated and scarlet from the effort, until his breath sawed and he finally lost his balance and fell against the desk and ended on the floor, too, glaring at me. That look said I'd made the right choice about killing myself.

He hated me, they all did for what I was doing to them. I had to get myself away from it, spare them from the wreckage Bristow's torture had left. No one needed to see me like this.
I
didn't want to see me like this.

Neither of us moved for a time. I lay in the pain and stared at the ceiling and ignored Escott. My head thundered, and when I blinked the ceiling dipped and pulled a sick-making half spin. Shut my eyes, kept still. With no need to breathe it was as close to being dead as I could get at night. Not close enough, though.

I felt it come. The churning within, bursting outward from my battered guts, settling cold into my bones, hearing that pathetic whimper leaking between my clenched teeth as the shakes took me.

Escott suddenly within view, staring down. Yeah, look, get a good look at the crazy man.

“Jack . . . ?”

Tried to vanish. Nothing doing. No escape. Was stuck solid because of the wood.
Damn you, Charles . . .

“Jack, stop it!”

“I . . . c-can't!”

“Oh, yes, you bloody
can
.”

He hit me again, an open-handed crack across the mouth.

It didn't work, either. Another strike. Another.

I was kitten weak, limps thrashing, no control, and he kept
hitting me.

Damn you . . .

“Come
out
of it, damn your eyes!”

Crack.

“You're better than this!”

Tried to push him off. Swatted hard with one arm, caught him firm in the rib cage.

He grunted, but kept hitting, harder, more frenzied. His eyes . . . he was right-out-of-his-mind berserk.

Using me for a punching bag. Wouldn't let up. All that rage . . .

“Dammit, Charles!”

“. . . bastard . . .”
Hitting.
Hitting.

I hit back. Full force.

Wasn't sure when I woke out of it. Gradual return of awareness, of senses.

Of pain. A lot of that. Body pain for a change, not soul pain. That was there someplace, though. Had to be.

Pain followed by perception, then growing horror.

Escott's body lay across the office on the floor under the windows. He faced away from me and was very, very still.

Could not move myself. Only stare.

Oh, God . . . no.

“Ch-charles?”

No response. Stillness.

“Charles!”

Nothing.

I crawled over to him, afraid to touch him, but I had to see.

A heartbeat in the silence.

His.

Damn near fainted from the relief. There was life in him, but . . . turned him, very carefully. He was a bloody mess in the literal sense. I checked his eyes, rolled up in their sockets. He was definitely out for the count.

Crawled to the desk, dragged down the phone, and called for an ambulance. I could barely see to do it, barely speak to the operator.

He groaned as I hung up. Went back to him.

“Charles?”

He took his time answering, seemed to have trouble breathing. I went to the liquor cabinet and got the brandy. Wet his split lips.

“You bastard,” he finally said.

“I'm sorry, Charles. I'm so sorry.”

“Good.”

“Help's on the way, you just hang on.”

“Oh, I'm not dying yet. I won't give you the satisfaction, you sorry bastard.”

“Just don't move. Is your breathing okay? Your ribs? I could have broken some.”

“Shut up, Jack. Check me, see for yourself.”

I didn't understand him, but he clawed for one of my hands and pulled it onto his chest. Something hard beneath his coat.

“Think I'm a total idiot? That I'd pick a fight with you without preparation?”

He had on his bulletproof vest. There was steel plating under my hand.

“I will have some hellish bruises, but nothing permanent.”

“Oh, God. I thought I'd killed you. I thought you were dead.”

“And how did it feel?”

“How do you
think?
”

“I already know, you fool.” He sounded tired, tired to death. “I went through it for most of the day looking at your corpse, wondering if you'd wake at sundown. Not knowing, not daring to hope. Hours of it. The whole time wondering what I'd done, what I'd not done, how I'd failed you. Reading over and over the unfinished notes you wrote. Wondering how I could ever break the news to Bobbi.”

Stunned, I watched tears stream from his eyes. He seemed unaware of them.

“And I
hated
you, Jack. I hated you for giving up. For not talking to us, to anyone. You gave up. I can't forgive you for that.”

I lurched away, tottering blindly to the washroom, made it to the basin just in time.

It was all red. What was left of Hoyle's blood flooded out of me in a vast body-shaking spasm. I came close to screaming again. Or weeping. I hurt too much to know the difference.

When the bout passed, I crept back to the office and sat on the floor. I didn't trust myself not to fall out of a chair. Escott had propped himself up a little against the wall. His puffed and bruised eyes were hot with fresh anger.

“How long did Bristow torture you?” he asked.

What?

“How long did it go on? Tell me.”

“Too long.”

“How long? An hour, two?”

“An hour, I guess.” I wouldn't have had enough blood in me to last beyond that. “So what?”

“An hour. Think of it. One hour.”

I didn't want to think of it. “What are you getting at?'

“One. Hour. Out of the
whole
of your life.”

What the . . .

“How many hours have you lived, Jack?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“How many hours are ahead of you?”

“Charles—”

“An unlimited span if you're careful. Are you going to let all that's come before and all that can follow be utterly destroyed by
one
tiny increment stacked against the broader span of time? It's one hour of your life, Jack. Only one.”

“The worst I ever had.”

“There's worse to come if you don't do something about yourself. And I don't mean eating a bullet. You've been letting that single hour control you. Hog Bristow is still torturing you so long as
you
allow it.”

“
Allow?
You think I
want
this?”

“You're stuck in that damned meat locker until you make up your mind to leave.”

“You don't understand. I've done things.”

“Then
cease
doing them, you fool!”

“I can't help it.”

“Of course you
can
! You're the strongest man I know! It's sickening to hear you bleat on like that. While you're buried in your hole for the day, Bobbi and I have to wonder what it's going to be like when you wake up. We're walking on eggs the whole night catering to you, trying not to add to your pain. Do you think we can't
see
you
bleeding
inside?”

“She hates me.”

“You wallowing idiot! She loves you! You're so turned in on yourself you can't see that. You'd rather sit there and whine than accept such a precious gift.”

“I could hurt her, the way I hurt you. Worse.”

“Bollocks! Ultimately,
you
are in control, you are responsible. You can cower and let your fear run rampant like an
ill-mannered child, or
you
can be in charge. Don't tell me you can't. If I can do it, you can, too.”

“What do you mean?”