The Devil You Know (18 page)

Shot
.

The bullet zipped by my ear with that angry bee sound. Flinching, I stumbled, but caught myself in time.

“Keep running,” I yelled at her. “Don’t look back!”

She ran, but passed the hedge break, heading for a stand of trees a few yards on. Good girl. They were too close behind, and there was no cover near the driveway that I’d noticed. She had a better chance hiding and being missed in the rough, though it would slow her.

Soon as she was in the trees, I vanished and doubled back, skimming the ground, listening as best I could for pursuit.

Swann must have sent other men on ahead of the truck. There were more here than himself, Kaiser, and the two diggers. I rose high, fighting the tug of wind and working to keep oriented so I faced the ground. Partially re-forming, I made out the foreshortened shapes of a dozen men spreading out from the break in the fence. Two went through the hedge to cover the truck, the rest were clearly after Izzy.

She was on the move, threading between the trees. My black coat made her less visible, but would work against her in a stretch of snow. The trees were a thin divider only yards wide between one section of the golf course and another. She hurried along the length of it, but would soon be forced to cross open ground when it ran out.

I dove, gaining weight and solidity, landing hard on the back of the man in the lead, driving him forward and down. We made a racket, swiftly drawing others. By now I didn’t care who saw what, and faded in and out like a bad light bulb, throwing punches, ducking, weaving, not letting anyone get a lick in for himself. I counted on the general darkness and chaos of my one-man free-for-all to hide the cheating. It seemed to work. When I hit, they stayed down. I lost count of how many as more kept coming.

S
omeone got his timing right and tackled me, but I vanished before striking ground and slipped clear of the mess. Rising again, I went high and pushed against the wind, aiming for the hedge.

Solid on its other side, I took care of the two men watching the truck, climbed into the cab, and hammered the horn. It might draw them away from Izzy; maybe a nearby resident would call the cops about the noise, though a big bunch like this would have no scruples about removing the law.

One of them came through the hedge opening, yelling to his pals to follow. By then I’d quit the truck and was loping down the road for all to see.

Surprisingly, no one fired. Before, they’d been packed in too close to risk it, maybe now they didn’t want the commotion.

I waved my arms like a lunatic, yelling as though in a panic. I was hard to miss. More men poured through the break in the hedge. It was like the Keystone Cops, but with black overcoats.

Headlights came around a curve ahead, pinning me in their glare. Jeez, how many had Swann invited to this party?

I cut across the road, aiming for the winter-bare trees on the side opposite the hedge. Once under their thin cover, I invisibly doubled back again, rising and letting the wind do the work. It would take me in Izzy’s direction while the goons below wasted time beating the bushes.

Floating in that grayness felt good, but had a price. When I landed and went solid I had to grab a tree trunk to keep my feet. Black spots clouded my view, and my head hurt like blazes for a moment. So much activity was draining me dry.

I could hear the mugs in the distance, calling to each other, trying to regroup. I looked and listened for Izzy, but there was no sign of her, and she didn’t reply when I cautiously whispered her name.

Venturing to the end of the trees, I found her footprints in the snow. She’d struck off in a straight line to the next patch of rough which curved to the right, leading toward the fence again. I took off after her, running flat out. It used up less of me than vanishing, and there was no track team in the world who could keep up.

Of course, bullets are faster.

I kept anticipating one catching me in the back. That’s how it started on that first night a few hours after my murder. Not knowing it was already too late, I’d run for my life, until Fred Sanderson’s shot brought me down. The shock of pain, the fall, the smell of my own blood, that first brief, barely noticed vanishing that healed me, had left an impression. The memory came back sharply now as I tore over this open stretch, slogging through snow instead of sand.

No bullet stopped me this time; I made it to the trees and called to Izzy. She couldn’t be that far. Would she follow the line toward the fence or go across the course? Somewhere there had to be a club house, some building where she could find a phone. They might be closed, but if need be she’d just let herself in with a rock.

No footprints. . .the smooth grounds were too wide here for her to risk another sprint. She had to be getting tired.

To my right, down the length of the fairway, past whatever number hole it was for golfers, men scrambled about with flashlights along the hedge and the broken part of the fence. Someone seemed to be checking on Thorp. Lights flickered among the trees in the length of rough I’d just left. They’d find our prints in another minute and come running.

Damn. I had to draw them off.

I struck out across the widest part of the unmarked snow, leaving a clear and messy trail away from the fence line. They might overlook that her prints weren’t there or think them obscured by mine. No dawdling, I pushed quickly toward another divide in the landscape, reaching it.

It was not connected to the last one, running in the opposite direction and substantially larger. They could waste plenty of time looking for us here.

I hesitated vanishing again, but there was no other way I could get back without leaving signs.

Going solid brought on a worse bout of painful lightheadedness. The home earth packed into my money belt was no help. If I wanted to do more fancy work tonight, I’d need blood.

Too bad for me that I had serious scruples about using people for food.

Too bad for these mugs that they’d backed me into a corner.

If it meant getting Izzy clear, I’d shove the scruples in a box for a few minutes, no problem.

Where the hell was she, anyway?

I trotted through the trees, keeping the bulk of them between me and the clowns milling by the hedge, I called her name, not too loudly, so she’d know to hold her fire.

Her prints were not readily visible, but I spotted part of one in a small patch of snow. That was a huge relief. I’d been worried about guessing wrong and missing her altogether. When I reached the fence, there were clear signs that she’d climbed over. I did the same, checking the ground on the other side. Pine needles, leaves, fallen branches, and other woodsy debris obscured things. The remaining snow was untouched. Where was she headed? Did she know or was she lost, too? She said that the Endicott house backed onto the golf course. Maybe she hoped to reach it or a neighboring house for help. If there
were
neighbors—this was one isolated piece of real estate.

The bad guys were to the right and behind me. I hoped Izzy knew to veer to the left.

I called to her again, getting no reply. She had a head start, a gun, plenty of concealing cover, and could be trusted to make the most of them. Now would be a good time to find Barrett and see if he was still alive.

But I knew his reaction to that. Whatever his situation, he’d want me to look after the lady.

No problem. I picked my way carefully and quietly, checking for tracks along the way. My night sight gave me the best advantage, but there was no point announcing my presence to a well-hidden lookout. It seemed unlikely they’d have one, but Swann’s crew had brains if Remke was any example. For a moment I really thought I’d persuaded him. Damn, if I could still whammy minds, Izzy, Barrett, and I wouldn’t even be here.

About fifty yards along, I caught the hideous stink that told me the late Mr. Endicott was somewhere upwind.

Yes. I’d been sniffing for him.

I stopped breathing and eased in that direction, taking it slow, half hoping I’d find Swann unguarded. Instead, I nearly tripped over a discarded shovel. Freezing, I listened and looked for all I was worth, but no one was nearby, and the only noise came from the direction of the golf course where bad guys still lurked.

A few yards on, in a small patch of clearing, lay the tarp and its contents, unattended.

No sign of Barrett or Kaiser.

I’d not noticed the latter joining the hunt on the golf course, and he was hard to miss, with or without a body hanging over one shoulder.

New noises suddenly intruded, but they were downwind, and I couldn’t make them out. I wanted to vanish and float in, but held off for the moment.

The closer I got, the louder things got, until they resolved into the unmistakable sounds of a fight. At least one man was breathing hard and cursing in frustration.

The trees parted for another clearing, slightly larger, but still confined. Kaiser was there—the source of the cursing—and so was Barrett. He looked ghastly, his face even whiter than before from pain and effort.

He had a four-foot length of wood as thick as a broom handle, and used it like a fencing sword instead of a club. It was the damnedest thing I’d ever seen.

Kaiser tried to grab it, and he was fast, but Barrett moved like a son of a bitch. He feinted, darted this way and that, stabbing deep when he got an opening, which must have hurt to judge by the cursing.

The end of the stick was ragged, showing wicked splinters. It was one of the shovel handles, the metal end snapped off.

Kaiser stooped and grabbed a rock, throwing like Lefty Grove on his best day. Barrett dodged the missile, slamming the stick down on Kaiser’s wrist. If that had been a real sword he’d have lost his hand, as it is, I heard the snap of bone, and Kaiser roared.

He flailed out with his other arm. Barrett danced back, cut sideways, and connected again at the elbow. No breakage, but no cursing. Kaiser was too breathless. He swiped wide, missed, and staggered backwards between two trees. It limited Barrett’s angle of attack, and then it didn’t matter. Kaiser kept backing, turned, and lumbered away at surprising speed.

The immediate threat gone, Barrett dropped to his knees and put a hand to his head.

“You look like hell,” I said, coming forward.

He didn’t flinch, though I had to be a surprise. “Where the devil have you been?” he asked. His voice was thready.

“Does it matter?” I found a drift, scooped a handful of snow, and made a fat ball. “Here, try this on your goose egg.”

He pressed the improvised icepack to his head and snarled a few strings of English idiom that I recognized as profanity only by their tone and his mood. He was entitled, having been hit hard enough to kill a normal human. He lost momentum and asked about Izzy.

“I think she’s that way,” I pointed downwind.

“Is she all right?”

“She was the last time I saw her. When did you come to?”

“Far too soon.”

“Can you walk?”

“Not fast.”

“You need blood?”

“Probably. Where’s Isabelle?”

I pointed again, suddenly worried about his memory. He let me help him up, used his improvised sword like a cane, and we got out of there with him hanging onto my arm.

He wasn’t in shape for more questions, so I gave him the short version of what had happened since he’d been clobbered. I don’t know if one word in ten got through but he didn’t tell me to shut up.

“Pelham?” he asked.

“It’s northeast of Manhattan. I think. The woods are full of Swann’s men, but we’re walking away from them.” Maybe. Swann had a small army out here. They’d eventually circle back and start combing this neck of the woods. “Here’s the plan: we find Izzy, find a car, and get the hell away.”

“Whose car?”

“Anyone’s.”

“Steal it?”

“I’ll leave it at a police station when we’re done.”

“Oh, Well. All right. Please . . . slow down.”

I did so with reluctance, but he sounded bad. He was shivering. His overcoat was probably still in the nightclub’s check room next to Izzy’s. He didn’t need blood so much as a warm spot to rest until he healed enough to vanish, which would solve most of his problems.

“That was some footwork you did with the big palooka,” I said.