Medium Rare: (Intermix) (8 page)

Evan frowned.
His
Rose Ramos? Definitely time to get a grip.

He added “San Antonio” to “Rose Ramos” and tried again. This time he got an outdated page from the San Antonio Public Library listing Rose as part of the reference staff. It looked like she’d been there two years ago, at least. He wondered again what she’d done to earn money for a house in King William—freelance researcher didn’t strike him as a high-paying gig.

On an impulse, he typed in “freelance researcher San Antonio,” and got a surprising number of hits. He scrolled the list—media researchers, library researchers, marketing specialists. Midway down there was a listing for something called “Locators, Ltd.”

The phone number looked familiar. He checked Rose’s résumé and confirmed it was hers.

He clicked on the link. The Web site was so dignified it made him feel unworthy to look at it. Apparently, Locators, Ltd. specialized in finding the unfindable—missing papers and artifacts, unfiled family records, missing wills, information about ancestors. No staff was listed, and the contact information consisted of Rose’s phone number and an e-mail address. Nothing on the page besides the phone number indicated that Rose was involved at all. But she was.

He clicked through the Web site again, trying to decide why he was feeling an uncomfortable prickling along the back of his neck. She’d said she was a researcher, and Locators, Ltd. looked like it did research. So she was just what she said she was.

Except he didn’t believe it. If she was a simple researcher, why hadn’t she listed her biography on the Web site? Wouldn’t she want people to know her credentials? And she didn’t seem like the type to want to keep her name off the Web. What other reason could she have?

He drained the beer and chucked the bottle into the recycling bin. Now she’d given him a headache. Was there no end to the havoc she could wreak on his peace of mind?

He switched off the desk lamp and headed for bed, after taking a couple of aspirin. At least he was finally tired enough to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

The first dream came almost as soon as he closed his eyes. He was in the dungeon again. Gray stone walls dripped mold. The distant ceiling was invisible through the gloom.

He steeled himself. Sooner or later, he’d wake up, but he’d probably have to fight off a few monsters before he did.

Footsteps echoed in the passage outside the cell door. He tensed. Light streamed across the threshold, and he stared at the silhouette. Not the wolf. Not the bat swarm. Not the . . . he shuddered. No, not that, either.

In fact, the silhouette in the doorway looked a lot like a man. Evan squinted. He’d never encountered another human being in his dungeon dreams. In fact, he’d always assumed that he was the only one down there.

The man smoothed a hand across his lightly oiled hair, glancing around him without a great deal of interest. He looked vaguely familiar. Evan took a quick inventory—tuxedo, black tie, white shirt, wing-tip shoes. All in all, he looked like the best-dressed man of 1952.

“Mr. Delwin?” The fifties refugee raised an eyebrow. He had a pronounced English drawl that made him sound even more familiar, although Evan still couldn’t place him.

“Do I know you?” He kept his back against the wall. Any minute now, the man might turn into a Komodo dragon or something, given that this was his nightmare dungeon.

“Not exactly.” The man stepped through the door, pulling a ladder-back chair behind him. Impressive—particularly since the door remained closed as he did it.

The man sat down. “We’ve never met. But I’ve been aware of your work.”

Evan stared at him blankly. “My work?”

“Your books,” the man explained. “Your work with psychic fraud. I must say, I’m somewhat surprised that you turned to that particular profession when you come from such a distinguished line of magicians. Magic not good enough for you?”

Evan felt slightly dizzy. Even for one of his nightmares, this was moving into weird territory. “Magic was my father’s thing, not mine.”

“Yes, he was magnificent at it, too.” The man pulled a cigarette holder with a lit cigarette out of his breast pocket, taking a long drag. “Dell the Great. Why didn’t he use his real name?” He blew a stream of smoke into the darkness.

Evan grimaced. “The Great Delwin always sounded like somebody who did kiddie parties.”

“Which he most definitely was not.” The man fastened his cool gray gaze on Evan again. “His death was a tragic loss.”

That was true enough. Particularly a loss for Evan. He leaned back against the wall, trying to get a good look at the man’s face. “Who are you, anyway?”

“You may call me Addison.” Addison smiled at him, flipping a bit of ash on the floor.

“Terrific, Addison. Why exactly are you here? And when do you turn into something horrible?”

An explosion of fluttering wings brought Evan’s head up. He could hear the flock of bats descending from the darkness above him, gibbering, beating the air into turbulence with their leathery wings. Instinctively, he raised his hands over his head to fend them off.

“Reach to your left.” Addison sounded slightly bored.

Evan’s hand fumbled to his left and closed upon a wooden rod, which turned out to be a broomstick with broom attached. He swung it over his head in a series of wide circles, hearing the satisfying thunk of the broom connecting with writhing bat bodies. The bats disappeared in a flurry of outraged squeaks.

“In answer to your earlier questions, I shall remain myself throughout our conversation, and I’m here so that we can become better acquainted.” Addison’s chair had transformed itself into padded leather. He leaned back, gesturing to his side where another leather recliner had mysteriously appeared.

Evan approached the chairs somewhat warily, but Addison didn’t seem to be on the verge of transforming into anything else. He sank into the leather easy chair, hearing the slight hiss of escaping air beneath him.

“Either I’m getting a lot better at dreaming or something really strange is going on,” he murmured.

“The latter, of course. This is the only time and place in which I can converse with you—when you’re in a trance state. I’ve cleared a slight space in your dreamscape, but I don’t imagine I can keep it clear for long, given your active subconscious.”

Evan wasn’t sure whether that was a compliment, but he was betting on not. “All right, what do you want to know, exactly?”

“Two things.” Addison extended one finger. “First, some basic information about your family, and second,” he extended a second finger, “a progress report on your latest project.”

“Latest project?” Evan frowned. “You mean William Bradford? Or Alana DuBois?”

“We’ll get to that.” Addison blew a quick cloud of smoke. “Tell me about your people. Where do they come from?”

“What’s left of my ‘people’ live in Illinois. Right outside Galesburg.”

Addison grimaced, waving his cigarette holder dismissively. “Not your current relatives, such as they are. Your people. Your ancestors. From whom are you descended?”

“Welsh on my father’s side, German on my mother’s.”

“With whom did you live after your father’s death?” Addison raised an eyebrow. “I understand your mother died earlier.”

“With my mother’s parents. Not that it’s any of your business, whoever you are.”

Addison gave him a chilly smile. “My business encompasses a great many things, Delwin. Currently, you’re one of them. Now, about Alana DuBois.”

“What about her?” Evan settled his shoulders deeper into the leather padding. “Small-time con artist from Dallas. Came to San Antonio. Felt the need to move on and took off. Not much mystery there.”

“She felt the need to ‘move on’ after taking the trouble to contact you about Bradford. Without taking any of her possessions with her. Without picking up her last paycheck. Does that actually strike you as a realistic possibility for someone living on the margin of society, as she was?” Addison’s eyebrow arched almost to the top of his forehead.

Evan shrugged. “Maybe she got in over her head. Maybe somebody threatened her and she cleared out fast. A woman living on the margins wouldn’t necessarily value her possessions or her paycheck if she thought she might get caught.”

Addison exhaled a smoke ring, staring up at the distant ceiling. “Still, you should check out her possessions, don’t you think? You might learn something more about her.”

“Learn what? This isn’t an arch criminal we’re talking about.”

“In the interest of being thorough.”

Evan shook his head. “I need to get going on Bradford.”

“You may, in a roundabout way. Alana DuBois could take you in Bradford’s direction.”

From the depths of the passage outside the cell door, Evan suddenly heard the sound of clicking claws and panting. Something was galloping toward them. He leaped to his feet, moving away from the cell door. A great gray wolf leaped into the light, vaulting through the suddenly open door, mouth spread wide to show its jagged fangs. Its snarls filled the cell as it crept toward him, its golden eyes glowing with feral anticipation.

Addison pulled a .357 Magnum Colt Python from his jacket pocket and nailed the wolf between the eyes. It disappeared in a flash of light.

“I wish you could control your id, Delwin,” Addison mused, tucking the pistol seamlessly into his jacket. “These interruptions make conversation difficult.”

Evan swallowed. “I don’t think ids are supposed to be controllable. Part of being an id.”

“Yes, well, our conversation is largely over at any rate, except for one more thing.” Addison rose gracefully to his feet.

The dungeon walls began to dissolve around them, starting to transform instead into the halls of Horace Mann High School, Evan’s second least-favorite dream location. “What?”

Addison became transparent along with the walls, but he seemed to maintain his essential shape even as he did. “Look after Rose Ramos, Delwin, that’s your principal job.”

Evan frowned. “I thought my principal job was to find out what William Bradford was up to and what happened to Alana DuBois.”

Addison shrugged. “The two are not unrelated. But Alana DuBois is almost certainly dead. And if anything happens to Rose, you’ll have to answer to me.”

His eyes suddenly began to glow like blue embers. His body enlarged, elongated, darkened, filling the hall around them in a massive, choking ball of black. Evan tried to catch his breath, groping behind him for something to use as a weapon. The darkness seemed to bear down on him, sucking him dry . . .

He awoke with a start, clutching the pillow next to him, his heart hammering. For once he could remember almost every detail of the dream he’d just had without even bothering to write it down.

All in all, he thought he preferred facing the wolf to facing Addison.

Chapter 9

Rose awoke, smelling something unspeakable, with the sounds of a runaway locomotive filling the room. She opened her eyes to find Helen stretched on the bed beside her, snoring.

Terrific.
The first time she’d shared a bed with anyone in months and it had to be a hellhound with halitosis.

She pulled on some khaki shorts and a worn Reckless Kelly T-shirt, along with her flip-flops, and headed downstairs. She had a feeling Helen was going to need very regular feeding. Maybe there was a Web site to tell her how to take care of a hellhound. For all she knew, there might be a hellhound rescue group. She headed for the computer in the study.

She’d just typed in “hellhound” when she heard a buzzing that seemed to issue from the depths of the house. The feeble front doorbell. Something else she should probably fix.

“Just a minute,” she called, heading for the entrance hall. She paused for a moment at the front window, peeking out from behind the lace sheer.

Crap.
Evan Delwin. Again
.

He stood on the doorstep, his black hair shining with deep auburn highlights in the early afternoon sunshine. His blue chambray button-down was rolled back at the cuffs to reveal elegant wrists and long, blunt fingers. His jeans rode low on his hips.

Briefly, she considered grabbing Grandma Caroline’s ratty raincoat from the hall closet to cover her shorts and T-shirt, but she rejected the idea. Sooner or later she’d have to take it off—might as well let him see her at her worst.

Feeling unreasonably annoyed, she jerked open the dark wood front door. “Morning, Evan, what’s up?”

One corner of his mouth rose in a dry smile that delved a dimple in his cheek. “And a gracious good morning to you, too, Ms. Ramos.”

She shook her head. “Okay, sorry, I haven’t had my coffee yet. But what do you want?”

“To come inside? Or do you always conduct business on the front porch.”

She stepped back, feeling like an ill-tempered jerk.

He started to follow her inside, then froze, staring at the point where the porch curved around the house.

She followed his gaze. A spider’s web stretched almost all the way across the corner of the porch. “Must be a garden spider. I saw one there last week. One of those big, fat, yellow-and-black ones.”

She could swear she saw him shudder, but then he turned back again, his mouth pinched in a grim smile. “After you, Ms. Ramos.”

Rose headed for the door to the living room, as a series of thumps sounded from the direction of the stairs. Evan turned at the staircase and stared upward.

Helen loped down the steps, eyes burning, massive paws thudding on the carpet runners.

“Helen,” Rose called. “It’s okay! Slow down!”

The dog ignored her until she was two feet away from Evan. Then she suddenly screeched to a halt. A low, questioning growl vibrated from her chest.

“Nice doggy?” He extended a tentative hand in Helen’s direction.

Rose held her breath. She had an awful feeling the hound might bite it off.

Helen leaned forward, sniffing at his fingers suspiciously. She seemed to be making up her mind about how tasty he might be.

“Follow me, Helen. Let’s get you some breakfast.” Rose turned hastily toward the dining room.

Helen stayed rooted at Evan’s feet. After a moment she slumped to the floor and rolled ponderously to her back, all four feet extended in the air, tongue lolling.

He dropped to one knee beside her, reaching a cautious hand to scratch her belly. Helen closed her eyes in ecstasy.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Rose muttered. A hellhound who had apparently fallen passionately in love with Evan Delwin? Not what she wanted to deal with first thing in the morning.

After a moment, Evan followed her toward the kitchen. Rose glanced back to see Helen roll to her feet and trot along behind them.

“You want some coffee?”

“Yeah, sure, anything.” He sank into a chair at the table as Helen collapsed at his feet. “Is she always this friendly?”

“I’m not sure.” She began shoveling grounds into the coffeemaker. “I haven’t had her very long. I’m still getting used to her.”

Helen put her paws on Evan’s knees, leaning up to lick at his chin. He winced, trying to avoid her tongue. “Maybe you should get her teeth cleaned to take care of that breath problem.”

For a moment, she considered the reaction if she brought a hellhound to the vet.
Nah.
“Maybe. What did you need from me?”

Evan leaned back in his chair, tickling Helen’s ears. “Do you still have a key to Alana DuBois’s apartment?”

“Sure. The landlady gave it to me when I paid her rent for the month.” Rose rummaged through the cupboard for cups as the coffeepot began to plop. “Why?”

“I want to take a look at her place, see what she left behind.”

His voice sounded deceptively casual, as if visiting Alana DuBois’s apartment was only one of a dozen tasks he had to complete during the morning.

“I thought you’d decided Alana DuBois was a con artist who’d taken off when her latest con went sour. Wasn’t that what you told me last night?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. But it never hurts to check things out.”

“No it doesn’t.” She poured two cups of coffee, then set one down in front of Evan. He didn’t strike her as a cream-and-sugar kind of guy. “Why the change of heart, Evan? You were ready to move on yesterday.”

He arched one black eyebrow. “You don’t buy the idea that I’m being thorough?”

“Are you?” She took the chair opposite him.

He shrugged. “Hard to say. Came to me in a dream, I guess.”

“How about the stuff I found on Bradford yesterday? Would you like to see it now?”

Evan set his cup down. “Sure.”

Rose gathered up the printouts she’d made last night. “It’s not all that interesting, I’m afraid.”

Evan glanced through the pages, his forehead furrowing. “Looks like he’s been embraced by the local establishment. Which seems a little weird.”

“Why? He’s a celebrity.”

“Yeah, but there are celebrities and
celebrities
. Being a psychic doesn’t usually get you entry into the higher levels of society.”

“He’s not a psychic, he’s a medium,” Rose said absently. She glanced up to find Evan staring at her. “What?”

“How do you know the difference between a psychic and a medium?”

Uh oh!
She knew the difference because Skag had explained it to her, but that wasn’t something she felt like sharing. “I looked up some general information online.”

“Yeah, well, be careful.” He picked up his cup again, his eyes suddenly far too sharp. “Some of those online psychic sites are wacko.”

Helen pushed herself ponderously to her feet, nudging at Rose’s knee. “Oh hell. I need to feed her.”

“That’s a problem?” Evan glanced down as Helen lumbered to his side of the table again.

“Only because I don’t have any dog food yet.” She opened the pantry door. Cans of chicken broth, tomato soup, and garbanzos. A couple of packages of spaghetti. And a can of beef stew left over from her starving librarian days.

“Okay, Helen, this is the best I can do at the moment.” She attacked the beef stew with a can opener, then pushed the can to the back of the counter so that it would be out of Helen’s reach while she found a bowl.

When she turned back, bowl in hand, she found Helen with her paws on the counter, consuming the entire can, contents and all. The hound looked up hopefully.

“Nope, that’s it for now. And if you start chewing on anything necessary to keep the house intact, I’m calling the pound.”

Evan was on his feet, staring at Helen as she ate. “Jesus Christ! We need to get her to a vet. Where’s her dog crate? She probably needs to get her stomach pumped.”

Rose sighed, shaking her head. “She eats a lot of odd stuff. So far she hasn’t had any bad effects. I’ll keep an eye on her, but I don’t think the can will hurt her.” Given the containers Helen had already consumed, Rose was fairly certain her digestive tract was made out of cast iron.

Evan gave her a stunned look. “You don’t think she needs medical treatment?”

“Not from what I’ve seen so far.”

He narrowed his eyes as Helen turned back expectantly toward Rose. “You’re sure she’s not a goat?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore. But if you’re going to Alana DuBois’s house, I’m coming along.”

“Fine.” He took another long look at Helen. “Maybe we should get going before your dog decides to chew up anything else.”

***

She brought the dog.

It was his own fault, of course. After he’d said they should take the dog to the vet, Rose had decided she needed to keep an eye on the beast to make sure she didn’t suffer any ill effects from her last meal.

Evan couldn’t blame her. The dog seemed perfectly okay with her appalling diet. He was beginning to think she could eat anything in the house with aplomb, up to and including the oversize flat-screen TV he’d seen in the living room.

The presence of which made him think Rose Ramos’s research jobs must pay one hell of a lot of money. Either that, or she was moonlighting as a jewel thief.

In broad daylight she was still a stunner—honey-colored hair that hung to her shoulders in loose curls, heart-shaped face with emerald eyes. Her shorts revealed a generous length of those superlative legs he’d seen last night. Her T-shirt looked old and soft and suitably shrunken, hugging the contours of her body. Just gazing at her made him hungry, although not necessarily for food.

Helen wasn’t all that happy about coming along, as it turned out. Rose rigged up a collar from an old bicycle chain lock that barely fit around the dog’s neck. Even with the two of them working together, they had a tough time dragging the dog out the front door.

Helen took up the entire backseat of his SUV, but she still looked a little cramped. An animal that size would probably be cramped in the backseat of a semi.

“Where did you get Helen?” he asked as they turned onto the freeway. “Is she some kind of exotic breed or something?”

Rose shrugged. “She sort of adopted me. I’m not sure what kind of dog she is. Big, mainly.”

“She is that.” He squinted at the freeway exit signs. “What’s DuBois’s address again?”

“1523 Brentwood. Over by Fort Sam Houston.” Rose dug around in her purse. “I’ve got the key here somewhere.”

Brentwood was a few blocks off Broadway in an area that had probably been a nice new development at one point. Now the paint was peeling from the bland suburban facades. The yards were either overgrown with weeds or bare dirt, with the occasional plastic lawn chair leaning precariously under spreading pecans.

It looked like the kind of neighborhood where having a dog like Helen would be a good idea if you needed to go out at night.

“That’s it.” Rose pointed to a duplex with yellowing aluminum siding and a wooden front porch that was probably a splinter magnet.

He pulled into the empty driveway and turned off the engine. “Got the key?”

Opening her door, Rose nodded. “We shouldn’t have any trouble. The landlady lives next door, and she should remember me.”

He could believe it. Anybody who paid their rent in advance around here would be memorable.

Helen crawled out of the backseat warily, glancing around the street as if she expected somebody to jump them momentarily. Evan could see her point, but he figured they weren’t in much danger in broad daylight. If they ever had to come back at night, he’d let the dog take the lead.

“Come on, girl, it’s okay,” he murmured, tying a rope he’d found in the trunk to Helen’s collar. She gazed up at him with her strange orange eyes. She didn’t have to gaze all that far up, in fact. Her shoulder came to his hip.

A couple of teenagers drove by in a compact car with the sound system turned up so high he could feel the bass notes in his spine. They glanced at Evan and the dog without a lot of interest. Apparently, massive dogs weren’t all that unusual in this neighborhood.

Rose stood on the front porch, staring after the car, her forehead creased in a frown. But she pushed open the door when he brought Helen up the front porch steps.

The bright sunshine outside made the interior look dark. The air smelled of dust and closed-off spaces. Evan squinted in the half light—the blinds were shut, letting in only slivers of sunlight. The living room furniture looked sparse—a vinyl-covered couch, an overstuffed chair, a small desk pushed against the wall in the corner. He stepped across the room to open the blinds as Rose moved to the desk.

Sunlight made the living room even more dingy. Dust motes danced in the sunbeams. He scratched the dog’s ears absently, then let her follow him as he walked through the rooms.

The living room opened onto the kitchen, which opened onto the bedroom, which opened onto the bath. Standard shotgun layout. Evan pulled the bedroom curtains apart so he could see what he was doing and stepped to the closet.

A row of dresses and long skirts hung from the rod, while pairs of shoes in neon colors were ranged neatly on the closet floor. Alana DuBois’s bathrobe and nightgown hung from hooks on the door.

He moved to the dresser, opening the drawers. Underwear, sweaters, T-shirts. All carefully folded in precise squares. On top of the dresser was a jewelry box that contained gold chains and a multitude of rings, each one placed in its own indentation.

Alana DuBois was one orderly crook. But from what he could see, she’d left behind almost everything she owned, including some antique silver rings. He nudged open a gold locket with his index finger. Inside was a picture of a woman with a small child that looked like it dated from the eighties. Evan frowned. Would Alana leave her family photos behind? Maybe if she were running from somebody really scary. Or some thing.

He wandered back through the kitchen and caught Helen advancing on a set of canisters. “Forget it, dog,” he muttered, pulling her back, “you wouldn’t like flour.” The kitchen cabinets were as neat as the closet—china, glasses, coffee mugs, a drawer full of silverware, precisely arranged in a slotted organizer. The pantry was full of lined-up cans and boxes, along with a row of plastic bins for pasta and dried beans. The shelves looked like an ad for the Container Store.