A Song In The Dark (35 page)

“Kroun's dead.”

“Not so much,” said Kroun. He eased around the front doorway, gun in hand, aimed at Mitchell. “So what's the story, Mitch? Anything to it?”

Mitchell didn't know how to handle failure and just stood there blank-faced a moment. Then he slowly went a deep, ugly red. I didn't read that as shame for what he'd done; this was sheer humiliation for having gotten caught. “How could you have . . . Hoyle said he'd—”

“Said what? Is that how it ran? You boys bump me to move up?”

“No! Hoyle was on his own. I didn't have nothing to do with—” Mitchell choked. It had to be impossible for him to think straight with a dead man asking such questions.

“C'mon, Mitch. You can tell me.” Kroun's eyes seemed darker than ever, bottomless and hell-black.

Mitchell shook his head, abruptly recovering his internal balance. He wouldn't have time to aim the gun at Kroun, so he held fast on me. “Stand still, or I kill him,” he said.

Kroun shrugged. “Go ahead. He's just another mug.”

“I thought he was your new best pal.”

“You would.”

Mitchell went dead white, then red again. “Shaddup.”

“With this in the picture some other stuff's making sense.”

“What stuff?” I asked, drawing attention back to me. If we could keep him distracted enough . . .

“Alan Caine's murder,” said Kroun. “Check Mitch's hands.”

I'd seen. Gouges and scratching from Caine's nails as he tried, in a very few seconds, to fight his killer off. “Heh. Guess you could call that ‘the mark of Caine.' ”

Kroun wheezed a short, unpleasant laugh. “Ya think?”

Mitchell told us to shut up, face getting redder.

I didn't listen. “So why did you do it? Did Caine overhear you and Hoyle? Did Jewel Caine see you running away?”

Sweat, lots of sweat pouring from him. The stink of cigarettes.

“I'll tell you why,” Bobbi called. She'd rolled off the other side of the bed and was on the floor in the far corner against the wall. There was a full bookcase between her and harm. Sensible girl. “He had to shut Jewel up, too. Jewel would have guessed.”

“Guessed what?” Kroun asked, his thick voice still fighting against the smoke damage.

“What Mitchell—”

“Shaddup!” Mitchell practically screamed it. “Shaddup or your boyfriend gets it!”

But Bobbi could count on me being mostly bulletproof. “Mitch and Alan Caine got drunk one night.
Real
drunk. I heard it from Jewel. Alan bragged about it to her to hurt her, the bastard.”

“Shaddup, you lying bitch!”

“Alan liked women
and
men! Mitch was so drunk that—”

Mitchell fired through the wall, too high. I was on him, a full body tackle. He kept shooting.

Grabbed his gun hand and yanked at a bad angle for him. He yelped and bucked, trying to twist around, but kept a solid grip. He was mad out of his mind and stronger than he looked. I used my other hand to slam his head sharp against the floor and still he fought.

I tried to take the gun. Another shot. The bullet went through my palm, but I was too pissed to feel it. Gut-punched him, blood flying. He didn't notice. Had gone crazy. We rolled and kicked and hit, and he fired again. How many goddamn bullets were in this thing?

His hand over my face, fingers digging in my eyes, I turned away . . .

And glimpsed Kroun, his arm out, his own gun ready, coldly and carefully choosing his moment. His face was blank, eyes gone black with that hell-pit look; he seemed a different man altogether. Fast as things were moving, I still felt a swift, icy jolt of panic. When a man's soul isn't there, you know, you just
know
it, and you don't want to be anywhere near what it's left behind.

Mitchell saw it, too, his own damnation staring down. He wrenched his gun around and up with that strange, desperate strength.

Two shots. Close. Deafening.

And it was over. Mitchell went inert, his body collapsing on top of me in a horrible reprise of Hoyle's death. Bloodsmell, blood pouring onto me, warm and still vital . . .

I threw him violently off, scrabbled over the floor to get clear of the thing he'd become, terrified that another seizure would rip away what sanity remained in me.

Then Bobbi was there. I caught her up, maybe too hard, but she kept telling me everything would be all right, it was okay
 . . . Jack, it's okay . . .

I waited, fighting it, waited, forcing down the shudder that tried to rise.

Fighting.

Her voice helped. A soft, melodious, songlike droning as she held me, reassured me.

I allowed myself a single, choking sob. There was more in me, eager for its turn to emerge from the darkness. I couldn't think about it, about what it might do if it got out, what it might be. Another siezure, or would the mindless craving take me over? If that happened and I hurt Bobbi . . .

I made myself focus on her sweet voice, the feel of her arms around me. I held on to that distraction from the internal demons. She was real, but they were so . . .

You are in control, you are responsible. You're stronger now than I ever was then.

Hard to believe. But Escott had never lied to me. He was right. I had a choice about being in charge or not. Of giving up and—

And however you think you could hurt Bobbi, it couldn't
possibly be worse than taking yourself away. Don't put her through that, Jack. You're her rock. Don't crumble under her.

No. I wouldn't do that to her. She deserved better. I had to
try,
to believe that I could beat this.

Don't tell me you can't. If I can do it, you can, too.

Hell of a tough act to follow.

Stay for her sake. Or I swear I
will
beat the hell out of you again.

Damn you, Escott . . .

Something brittle and sharp inside seemed to break up and fall away, suddenly allowing my soul to breathe again.

There were no words for what it was, I just understood that something had shifted and
it
was gone.

Over.

Past.

Done.

It had been heavy. So damned heavy. Only when the weight was no longer there did I understand how heavy it had been.

Then it was my turn to collapse. I sank to my knees, and Bobbi came with me, letting me lean on her. God, but I needed her.

And Escott said that I was
her
rock.

“Jack?”

After a moment, I dredged a smile for her. “Hey, baby. You okay?”

“How 'bout yourself?”

“Just peachy.” It felt so good, her holding me, but the hurt on my hand . . . it was knitting up, but damn, that burned. “ 'Scuse me a sec.”

I vanished, came back. Much better now. Much . . .

Kroun—he'd have seen—

Turned to look. He hadn't seen anything. He'd caught a bullet.

He sprawled flat, a hole in his chest that bubbled air every time he moved. The pain had him helpless and gasping, and blood ran from his mouth. I knew the signs, he didn't have a minute left.

I went to him. Knelt close.

“Fleming.” My name made more blood come out of him. He coughed and tried to suck air past the stuff clogging his throat. The smell filled the room, but now I was able to ignore it.

“I'm here, what can I do?” Hell, what
can
you do for a dying man? He looked like himself again, though. Whatever he had for a soul was back again, struggling hard to stay, but losing as his body failed.

“Mitch. Dead?”

Had to look. “He's dead.”

“ 'Fraid I'd missed. Your girl?”

“She's fine. You hold on, I'll get a doctor.”

“Past that.” Coughed. “Damn stuff. First I burn my lungs, now this. Life ain't fair.”

“No, it ain't.”

“Promise . . .”

“Anything.”

“No fish food.”

What?

“No lake. No chopping. No oil drums. You bury me proper. No cremat . . .”

“I promise. Kroun? I promise. You hear?”

Then the rattle. His last breath going out. The slack stillness that went on forever.

Oh, damn. Damn it all. He couldn't have known about my nature. If he'd just held off I could have . . .

Feeling very old, I stood. Went to Bobbi. Had to hold her again, hold her and get and give comfort, quick before dread practicalities rose up.

“Your neighbors . . . the shots . . .” I finally said.

“We'll bluff them out. I'll say I was rehearsing a radio skit, a-a-and the fake gun was louder than it should be. I'll make 'em believe it.”

“Just don't let anyone in. You're not staying here tonight, either.”

“Damn right I'm not.”

“I'll get you over with Gordy and Adelle. Shoe can look out for you all until this is cleared.”

“God, Jack, what will you do?” She looked at the bodies. Any other girl might have fainted. Instead, she held on to me.

“I gotta call Derner, get some boys over here to clean up.”

“But how will you explain?”

“I'm not. I won't have to with them, but no cops. We can't. I'm not putting you through that kind of hell. Mitchell can be disappeared.”

She went pale, knowing what that meant. “And the other man? Kroun?”

“I made him a promise. You make a promise, you gotta be stand-up about it. Derner and I will figure something out, do the right thing.”

Bobbi nodded, held me again, then suddenly went rigid and shrieked.

With a groan, Kroun rolled on his side. There was pain all over his face, but he used one arm to push and was slowly sitting up.

I gasped. Had an insane thought that he'd worn a vest like Escott's, but the blood was real, his absolute stillness, the wound . . .

Was closing.

He pressed his fist against it, wincing. “Ah,
son of a bitch.
That
hurts!
”

I gaped and couldn't seem to come out of it.

He grunted, groaned, and snarled. Then glared at me. “What? You think you're the
only
one?”

“Oh, my God, he's like
you,
” Bobbi whispered.

Kroun's mouth twisted with disgust. “Ain't that the pip? And now you two know
everything
. I tried to not move, but
damn
 . . .” He failed to suppress a cough.

I stared and recalled and wondered and realized. “You never told me,” I said, voice faint.

“Why the hell should I? I didn't know you. You run with an outfit like Gordy's and think that's a good character reference?”

“But I hypnotized you.”

“You
thought
you did. I was wondering, ‘What the hell?' and then played along to see what you'd do. Ahh!
Damn!
”

He pulled himself toward Bobbi's couch and eased down with his back against it, long legs sprawled on the floor, arms tight around his chest, pressing hard, visibly hurting. Why was he putting himself through that? Why not vanish?

Bobbi broke away from me and into the kitchen, ran water, and returned with wet dish towels. She knelt and Kroun let her try to clean him up. He gave her a bemused look as she swabbed blood from his face.

“You're all right, kid,” he concluded.

“Are
you?
” She made him move his arms and opened his shirt. “The hole's gone, but . . .”

“Just on the outside, cutie. Inside stuff . . . it takes longer. I need to rest a little. I'll get better.” He winked the way you do to reassure someone, then made null of it when
he began to cough. He grabbed one of the towels, hacking blood into it. The bullet must have gone through a lung.

She glanced at me, clearly thinking the same question.
Why wasn't he vanishing?

When the fit eased, Kroun said, “You surprised me, Fleming. During the hypnosis when you were trying to get me to change things . . . I expected a left, and you went right.”

“What did you do?” Bobbi asked. “Jack?”

I shook my head. “I just wanted him to keep Gordy in charge. That's all.”

“It was enough,” he said. “What you wanted told me a lot about you. You didn't order me around, you didn't do a lot of stuff that others might. Didn't ask for anything for yourself. All you did was look out for a friend.”

“But you weren't under.”

“I
played
along. You
get
that, yet? I faked being under to learn more. Then you went funny, had—whatever that was—some kind of fit, I don't know, you were bad off, then you just weren't there. And that clinched it for me on what you are, what I was dealing with. But just
try
to pretend to still be out of things when someone pulls that on you. I damn near lost it there.”

“Well, you fooled me.”

“You had other problems than just worrying about my taking you on a ride to the boneyard. I wanted to know about 'em. I figured it was to do with Bristow's work. What he did messed you up. With hypnotizing. That right?”

“I think so.” I flinched inside. “Yes.”

Bobbi looked at me. “What's he mean?”

She had to find out sometime. “I . . . I can't do that anymore. Whammying people. It's . . . like my head's
exploding. I don't dare try it again. Maybe not ever. Bristow messed me up, all right.”

Kroun snorted. “Face it, kid, what Bristow did left you crippled, the same as if he chopped off one of your legs. You'll just have to live without. The way you looked, it could kill you if nothing else can.” He winced again, coughing more blood into the towel. “Damn, this hurts.”

“Vanish, then. Heal up.”

He gave a short laugh. Coughing. “Believe me, I'd like to.”

“Why don't you?”

“You know why I was talking with Gordy so much? To hear about you. He's always a gold mine of news about all kinds of stuff, but this was the mother lode. He knew everything, including why you were hanging in the meat locker instead of kicking Bristow's ass. You had a piece of ice pick stuck in your back. The metal kept you solid.”