Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (20 page)

“No problem.”

The detective pushed away through the crowd. Griffen sought about for the zombie. No sign of their deteriorating prey. It had vanished.

“Why didn’t anyone else see that thing?” Fox Lisa whispered, as they made their way back to the rear of the stage. The voices of the other candidates echoed from speakers over their heads.

“I don’t know. Maybe no one who—who isn’t like us can see it.”

Fox Lisa’s russet eyebrows went up. “Oh. So, it was definitely meant for Penny and no one else? It’s that person that you heard was threatening her?”

Griffen nodded. This had to be Duvallier. He was playing with Penny’s mind, to get her to resign. From the look on her face, he was succeeding.

Fox Lisa’s resentment evaporated in sympathy. “I’m damned if I’ll let that happen,” she said firmly.

Mercifully, the debate was almost over. Penny steeled herself to answer the final question, but her reply was subdued, without the usual banter and veiled insults aimed at her opponents. The outdoorsman thanked them all. Penny waited until the lights went down for the last time, then strode immediately to Horsie’s waiting arms.

The campaign manager enfolded her and stroked her golden hair as though Penny were a little girl. Griffen and Fox Lisa crowded close around her, shielding her from the reporters who streamed up onto the stage.

“Did you see it?” Penny demanded.

“Yes, we did,” Griffen said.

Horsie was puzzled. “It’s just the usual fans, honey. I don’t know why you were so tense.”

“That man, with the eye!”

“Everyone was eyeing you, honey. You’re sexy as they come. They can’t resist you.” Horsie started to escort her toward the stairs.

“No!” Penny wailed. She reached for Griffen. “Stay with me, both of you.”

“All right,” Griffen said. Penny clutched his wrist with an iron grip. Horsie held on to her other arm. Fox Lisa trotted along behind, fluttering with sympathy.

“It’s going to be all right,” she assured Penny. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Horsie waited until they had reached the underground garage, where armed guards let them into the enclosed area reserved for the VIP vehicles. She let Fox Lisa help Penny into the limousine and dropped back to speak to Griffen.

“What did she see back there?” she asked in a low voice. “She’s never this rattled!”

“It was a warning,” Griffen said. “She must have seen him before. I need to know where.”

Horsie nodded. “When she’s calmed down a little, I’ll wheedle it out of her. Let’s not bother her now. I’ll make her some tea with whisky in it. She’ll feel better.”

“All right,” Griffen said. Malcolm was going to have to know. He helped Horsie into the front seat beside Winston, then went to slide in the back beside Fox Lisa.

He took a cautious sniff of the air. Besides the usual smell of curing concrete, trash, and rainwater, he scented cigar smoke.

No doubt about it, Duvallier had been there.

•   •   •

Duvallier
led the way back to the limo in the far reaches of the underground garage. The two frontrunners came out smelling like roses, but Congressman Benson also looked good. Once Penny Dunbar had lost her train of thought, the crowd snapped out of her spell. They didn’t know what had hit them, but they all felt it and resented it. Duvallier grinned to himself. There had not been time left for Penny to undo the damage and leave them with a breathless memory of pleasure. No, it had snapped back on them like a rubber band. And all it took was a look at Mr. Suskind.

He stopped at the long black car, parked in the manager’s personal bay, a special favor to an old, old, old friend, and glanced back at his employer’s representative, breathless and wide-eyed.

“Gettin’ your money’s worth now?” he asked Sandusky.

“Yes, sir!” Albert leaped to open the door for him. “Yes, sir, Mr. Duvallier!”

Duvallier put his cigar in his mouth and took a satisfied puff.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

The
ride back to the local campaign office felt like a funeral cortege, surrounded in darkness and silence, without any of the joyful noise that usually accompanied a New Orleans procession.

Once the Dunbar limousine pulled into the parking lot, and the office door was closed behind all but Penny’s employees and her most devoted campaign workers, she allowed herself to go to pieces. She rocked back and forth in her office chair, sobbing, as Fox Lisa sat on a metal folding chair beside her and patted her back. The hands holding the wad of tissues to her eyes trembled. Horsie hustled to the antique wooden sideboard and poured a stiff shot of whisky into a tumbler.

“Knock this back, Penny,” she ordered briskly. “You need it.”

Penny took it. She gulped half the golden liquid and made a face.

“Burns,” she said.

“Good. It’ll melt the shakies out of you.” Horsie poured one for herself and offered drinks around. Winston grunted his refusal. Fox Lisa accepted a glass but put it down on the desk beside her. Griffen shook his head. He wanted his wits clear. Penny’s extreme reaction made him feel very uncomfortable. He knew there had to be more to the event than seeing a decaying corpse. She’d posed with uglier ones on her law-and-order beat.

“Penny, have you seen that man before?” Griffen asked.

“Now, let’s just leave her alone for a while,” Horsie said. “Come on, give the girl some privacy.” She tugged on Griffen’s arm. He stood up.

“No!” Penny said, alarmed. She stretched out a pale arm. “Don’t let them leave!”

Griffen shrugged and sat down.

“Honey, what happened to you back there?” Horsie asked.

“She saw someone,” Fox Lisa said.

“Are you being stalked, Representative?” Winston asked. “You should have informed me.”

“It’s not like that,” Griffen said.

The big man’s high forehead furrowed into deep folds over his clear blue eyes.

“If it’s not like that, then what is it? If that kind of harassment is what she brought you in to prevent, you’re doing a crap job.”

“I didn’t have anything concrete to go on before.”

“You meant you didn’t believe her?”

“No, I meant I had not seen what we’re dealing with. Now I have.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

Griffen rose. “I have to talk to a few people. I’ll get back to you when I know something.”

Winston frowned. “I don’t like this mysterious stuff. Tell me what the hell you are planning to do to secure the representative’s safety! I want details, not vague hints. Tell me the truth.”

“Okay,” Griffen said, exasperated. “I’m actually a dragon in human form. I have to go talk to a zombie about whether or not he ordered a walking corpse to go harass Penny while she was doing a magic dance to hypnotize the audience.”

Fox Lisa giggled.

Winston’s face went dark red. He threw up his hands. “I don’t have to listen to this bullshit. If you’re not going to give me a straight answer, then go to hell. When you get some results, I want to hear about it.”

Griffen planted his palm on his chest with the greatest air of hurt innocence. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Get out of here!” Winston bellowed.

“No, I don’t want him to go,” Penny said, strength returning to her voice. “Fox Lisa, you stay here, too. You can come back and stay at my apartment with me. I have spare rooms.”

Griffen shook his head.

“Penny, I need to get out of here. I will investigate for you, but I have other things I need to take care of. I have a business to run. You know that.”

“Well, then, Fox Lisa will stay.”

Fox Lisa opened her mouth, but Griffen spoke over her.

“She’s got a job to go to in the morning.”

Fox Lisa gave Griffen a dirty look, then turned to Penny.

“I’ll stay, Penny. You don’t have to worry.”

“When’s the next engagement?” Horsie asked. Winston took a tiny notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it.

“Five days. School visit in St. John the Baptist Parish.”

“Can you come back then?” the plump campaign manager asked Griffen.

He looked at Penny’s face, pale under its golden freckles, and nodded.

“I hope I won’t have to. I’ll get back to you.”

“All right, honey. Thanks.”

Griffen checked his phone. The display showed no messages, and the battery was fully charged.

“Call me if you need me.”

“I will. Thanks, Griffen.”

•   •   •

Griffen
walked out into the night. A couple of newspaper reporters who had had the headquarters door shut in their faces were sitting on the hood of their car under the streetlamp, smoking. One of them spotted Griffen, ground out his cigarette, and rushed over, reaching into his pocket for his notebook. Griffen grumbled to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was give an interview.

“What caused Representative Dunbar’s meltdown?” the first reporter asked. “Come on, Mr. McCandles. We saw you go into the audience. Who were you looking for?”

“I’m not at liberty to say anything,” Griffen said. “Please, guys, don’t quote me. Talk to the campaign manager. She’s still in the office.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. The reporters weren’t going to give up on their bird in the hand.

“What’s a gambler doing working for the law-and-order candidate?” the second reporter pressed, obviously hoping for an exclusive.

“No comment.”

“How much money from your organization has gone to her campaign?”

“Not one cent,” Griffen said.

“So,
more
than one cent?” the man pressed.

Griffen felt steam starting to come out of his nostrils.

“I have made no contributions to the Dunbar campaign. Thanks, guys. Good-bye.”

He pushed between them and strode across the street just ahead of a passing taxi. The reporters followed, but he outdistanced them easily with his long legs. He lost them within half a block.

When he was certain he was alone, he flipped open his cell phone. Out of habit, he touched Val’s number.

“The subscriber you have dialed . . .” The mechanical female voice came immediately. Griffen clicked the red button to hang up. He had to believe Holly’s frequent reassurances that Val was all right. He tried the George’s number. No answer at all. Griffen snorted, shooting two columns of smoke outward.

“Maybe no news is good news,” Jerome said.

Griffen jumped.

“Jer! Where did you come from?”

“Right here in New Orleans,” the other man said, a brilliant grin lighting his dark face. “You coming to find me?”

“No,” Griffen said. “Just trying to get away from Penny Dunbar.”

“Yeah, good luck with that, Grifter.” Jerome pointed to a wall festooned with half-sheet posters of several political candidates. In the middle was one of Penny, looking seductive and efficient at the same time. Griffen wondered how she had managed that.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, the game got called early because one of the players went into labor.” Jerome grinned. “Never happened to me before. And she wasn’t even losing.”

Griffen felt a pang of concern.

“Is she all right?”

“Oh, yeah. Kind of lucky that two of the men there were dads. Both of them had been in the delivery room when their kids were born. They got her comfortable while I rang the front desk to call for an ambulance.”

Griffen did some mental calculations on the cost of the hotel room, the dealer, server, and food, and whistled in dismay. “I hate to lose the money for the night. Would it help if I sat in instead?”

“Uh, no,” Jerome said, quickly. “No trouble, Grifter. That was kind of a buzz kill, having Mama’s water break right there. But everyone went away happy. They didn’t get to play much poker, but having a baby on the way cheered them all up. We promise them a good experience. This isn’t exactly the one they had in mind, but they’ll never forget it.”

“Did we send flowers to the mom?”

“Better than that: a basket with diapers and little rattles and things. The ladies in the hospital gift store gave me the rundown over the phone. Forty bucks. I put it on your credit card.”

“Ouch,” Griffen said, adding it to the mounting total in his mind. “I suppose it’s good P.R.”

“That’s sometimes as important as profit.”

“Yeah.”

Jerome raised his eyebrows at Griffen’s absent tone.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Did you see the debate?”

“Nope. I was mopping up the floor and suggesting baby names along with the other guys.”

“Penny Dunbar went into mental free fall. She was doing great until a walking corpse came up right in front of her.”

“Whoa! Whose corpse?”

“I have no idea. If she does, she didn’t tell me. She’s pretty upset.”

“I’m sure I would have heard about a riot in the Superdome.”

“There wasn’t one,” Griffen said. “I think only dragons could see him. Fox Lisa and I did, but the manager standing next to me didn’t.”

“Duvallier?”

“That’s my guess. You’ve lived here a long time. Do you know how to find him?”

“No. I’ve never had a reason to approach the political
eminence grise
. He’s like the Shadow. You don’t see him unless he wants you to.”

Griffen poked the
POWER
button on his cell phone.

“Well, Uncle Malcolm knew how to find him. Are you up for a road trip?”

Jerome looked unenthusiastic, but he shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re the big dragon,” he said.

•   •   •

Malcolm
McCandles did indeed know where to find Reginaud Duvallier. He refused to release the information until he had exacted numerous promises from Griffen to handle the matter with tact and caution. Griffen grew impatient with his elder relative and held the phone away from his ear until he had finished speaking.

“I won’t say anything inflammatory, Uncle Malcolm, all right?”

“Report back to me after you have spoken to him. I wish you were not doing this without me, Griffen.”

“Jer is coming with me,” Griffen said, peevishly. “If I get out of hand, I’ll let him take me out of there. All right?”

Malcolm sighed.

“If that is the best assurance I can get, then I will have to take it.”

On the way along a darkened Canal Street to Odd Fellow’s Rest Cemetery, Griffen rehearsed the speech he would make to Duvallier. Jerome understood that he was concentrating and listened to a blues station on the radio at low volume as he drove. The main thing, Griffen mused, was not to seem as if he wanted Duvallier’s cooperation too much, but wouldn’t it be more sporting either to come right out with an attack or let the election settle itself? He jotted down ideas in his notebook by the light of the dashboard radio.

They parked a block from the entrance to avoid drawing attention to the car. Jerome took a flashlight from the backseat and put it in his jacket pocket. Griffen forced himself to walk in a casual manner. Few cars passed by at this hour. Anyone coming from the city was probably bound for US Route 10 or the country club on the other side of the highway.

A chain bound the black, wrought-iron gates at the entrance together. No streetlamps overlooked the graveyard. Griffen’s dragon eyesight allowed him to see much more by the faint moonlight than a human could. Nothing appeared to move in the shadows between the ranked mausoleums. He glanced around for a foothold on the stone wall. It couldn’t have been more than nine feet high.

“Sst! Grifter!”

He turned. Jerome beckoned. The gate stood open.

“C’mon!”

Griffen hurried to join him.

Except for the road noise coming over the wall from the expressway, their footsteps were the loudest sound around. The echo made Griffen want to tiptoe past the marble houses with their attendant statuary and urns. He knew intellectually that it was a warm spring night, yet he felt a chill in the air.

Murmuring like the wind in the trees rose around them. The crescent moon didn’t cast much light, but even in that gibbous light, Griffen could see there were no glades within sight.

The cemetery long predated motor vehicles, and no roads existed to accommodate them, but they could still run into a police foot or bicycle patrol. Vandalism was a major problem in the ancient graveyards. In the moonlight, he spotted gang graffiti. Here and there, monuments had been overturned, and the yawning blackness of a mausoleum door wrenched off sent a chill down his spine.

Griffen counted rows and tombs, and nudged Jerome toward a white marble crypt overgrown on one side by twining ivy. The path under his feet was more deeply worn than those of the surrounding monuments—not surprising when he considered that the occupant came and went much more frequently than his neighbors. He nodded at Jerome. His lieutenant turned on the flashlight and shined it at the high lintel.

The name Duvallier in Lombardic capitals glimmered at them.

Jerome shut it off.

Griffen wasn’t sure what to do. He tried the ornamental metal door. It was locked with a double dead bolt, an unusual accoutrement for a tomb. No light seemed to come from within. Griffen shook the door.

“Mr. Duvallier?”

He didn’t hear the familiar raspy voice. Instead, whispering arose, dozens of papery voices like leaves rustling. Griffen listened, but he couldn’t understand any of what they were saying. Having Rose as a friend, he wasn’t really afraid of ghosts.

“Guess he’s not home.”

“I hear dead people,” Jerome said. “You think they’ll rat us out to Duvallier?”

“We’ll have to assume they will,” Griffen said. “We don’t mean him any harm. All we want to do is talk to him.”

“Well, leave a message. Maybe he’ll get back to you.”

“That’s a good idea,” Griffen said.

By the light of his cell phone, he wrote a note on a page of his notebook.

I would appreciate a meeting with you. Date and time at your convenience.

Sincerely, Griffen McCandles

He showed it to Jerome.

“Short and sweet,” Jerome said. “Dragons go where angels fear to tread.”

Griffen looked around. “I’ve met ghosts. I haven’t met any angels yet.”