CHAPTER TWENTY.

Dukane brought his Cessna Bonanza in for a landing in Tucson, rented an Oldsmobile from Hertz, then sped toward the city.

He pressed a switch to lower the window, and put an arm out to catch the air. The night felt warm and dry.

Tuning in a country music station, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor. A straight, deserted road like this, no reason he shouldn't get it up to eighty. Cut off a few extra minutes. Might mean the difference to Scott.

Up against an invisible man? The more he thought about it, the crazier it sounded.

How the h.e.l.l do you make a man invisible?

Even better, how do you nail him?

We shall see, Dukane thought, and began to sing along with Tom T. Hall.

When he reached downtown Tucson, he knew there was too much commotion for 3 a.m. He swung the Olds onto Garfield Street. A block ahead of him, a fire truck and a dozen police cars filled the road. Their spinning domes flung red and blue lights over the crowd of onlookers, splashed their colors against walls and store windows. Most of the crowd's attention was focused on the hotel. The Desert Wind. Peering up through the windshield, Dukane saw no trace of fire or smoke. Except for a few broken windows, the hotel looked fine. Whatever had happened was over.

That explained why there was only a single fire truck. The others had already left. This one remained for the mop-up. Its crew might stay for a few hours, checking around, making sure the fire wasn't still burning secretly inside a wall, ready to blaze up the minute they took off.

But why all the police cars?

Easy. Because more must've happened than a fire.

He hadn't been in time to prevent it. From the look of things, what ever happened must've been an hour ago. At least. No way he could've arrived in time to help. Christ, he just hoped Scott was all right.

He turned the corner, and found an empty stretch of curb. He pulled over, took his attache case from the backseat, and walked back to Garfield Street. Crossing to the left side, he made his way through the crowd. Many of the people were dressed in nightclothes, obviously hotel guests who'd been evacuated.

"What happened here?" he asked a man in a bathrobe.

"Some excitement, huh? Fire. And I hear some nut went after folks with an ax. Panicked, I guess. Killed half a dozen folks. I saw'em cart out the bodies."

"How long ago?"

"Seems like hours. All over, now. You should've got here sooner. Brought'em out in body bags, just like in the news. All over, now. Hope they're gonna let us in pretty soon. Got a conference at nine. Can't very well go dressed like this, can I?"

Dukane shook his head, and moved on.

A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. He whirled around and looked into the haggard, boyish face of Scott.

"Glad you made it," Scott said.

"Glad you did."

"Dukane, this is Lacey Allen."

She nodded a greeting. Her hair was mussed, her face dirty or bruised, the tail of her tank top half untucked.

"Let's go to my car," he said. "We can talk there."

"So he's still in that room," Scott finished, "unless he walked off."

"Or the police found him," said Dukane.

"If they did, they haven't brought him out."

"Not that we saw," Lacey added, and stubbed out her cigarette in the car's ashtray.

"What'll we do?" Scott asked.

"If you're so determined to get his life story, I suppose we'll have to go up there and bring him out. Lacey, you'd better wait here. They'll have found the editor's body in your room. They'll be looking for you, and we can't have you pulled in for questioning just now. Scott, take off that silly robe."

"But my Colt..."

"Leave it with Lacey."

In the hotel lobby, Dukane showed a false FBI credential to the officer in charge, explaining he needed to retrieve paperwork from his room. He and Scott were allowed to pa.s.s.

As they stepped into an elevator, two men in plain clothes joined them. Dukane pushed a b.u.t.ton for the fifth floor.

"Which floor?" he asked the men.

"Same."

The door closed, and the elevator started upward.

"Are you gentlemen guests of the hotel?" asked the taller of the two. He was about forty, with neatly trimmed black hair and the weary, cynical eyes common to cops. He appeared in better shape than his younger buddy. From the thickness of his neck, Dukane guessed that he worked out with weights.

"We're on official business," Dukane said.

"ID?"

Dukane showed it.

"FBI, huh? I'm impressed. Aren't we impressed, Arthur?"

"I know I am," said Arthur.

"What about you?" he asked Scott.

"Me?" Grinning, Scott scratched his bare chest. "I'm impressed, too."

The man didn't look amused. "Got an ID?"

"He's with me," said Dukane.

The doors opened, and all four left the elevator. A uniformed cop nodded to the other pair. He glanced at Dukane and Scott.

"Let them pa.s.s," said the tall one. "FBI." He pointed to a dark pool of blood. "Try not to step in it."

"We'll be careful," Dukane said.

Scott nodded to the left.

"Hope you catch him," Dukane told the men, and started away.

"We're not the FBI, but we sometimes do get our man."

"I'm sure you do."

"Come along, Arthur." The pair turned to the right and started up the corridor.

Dukane and Scott walked the other way. As they reached the corner, Dukane glanced back. The uniformed cop was still near the elevator bank. The two in plain clothes had nearly arrived at the far end of the corridor.

"Lucky they didn't come with us," Scott said.

"We're not out of here yet."

Halfway up the short hall, Dukane spotted the battered door. He entered first, stepping over the strewn contents of a suitcase. Women's clothing.

Scott pointed to the first bed.

They crouched beside it. Dukane lifted the draping edge of the coverlet. In the s.p.a.ce below the bed, he saw a naked, silverskinned man. He grabbed an arm, and dragged the man out.

"Good Christ," Dukane muttered, staring at the empty face, at the bandages suspended over the hollow chest cavity. He laid a hand on the chest. He felt the texture and warmth of skin where none was visible, felt the slow rise and fall of breathing. "I'll be d.a.m.ned," he said. "I never would've believed it."

"Thought I was kidding you?"

"Not exactly. Just figured you were mistaken, somehow. But he's invisible, all right."

"How'll we get him out of here?"

"Won't be easy. Especially the way he looks." Dukane swiped a finger over the paint. It was dry. "Got any turpentine?"

Scott made a feeble laugh.

"Too bad he's not completely invisible when it would do us some good. Where's your room?"

"Third floor."

"You still have the key?"

"Sure."

"Go downstairs and bring up your luggage. You have extra clothes?"

Scott nodded.

"They'll be a tight fit on this guy, but we can't haul him out of here looking like this."

"What about his face?"

"I don't know. Go get your stuff, though. Take the stairs. I don't want you running in to more cops."

Scott stood up. He started to turn away, but hesitated. "You know, Matt...those cops. The plain clothes guys? They looked familiar Tome. I can't quite place them, but..." He chewed his lower lip. "They worry me."

"Think about it. In the meantime, get your stuff up here."

"Right."

While Scott was gone, Dukane searched the suitcase of the room's occupant. He found no make up, so he checked the bathroom. There, on a shelf above the sink, was a blue canvas satchel. He unsnapped it, folded it open, and studied the contents neatly arranged inside clear plastic pockets: Q-tips, skin moisturizer, fingernail polish and remover, blush-on, mascara, lipstick, an eyebrow pencil, and a tiny tan bottle of make up base. He took out the bottle of base, dabbed a bit of the fluid onto his fingertip, and tapped it on the mirror. The smudge was opaque, and nearly flesh-colored. A bit too dark, with a reddish tinge, but close enough.

He took the bottle into the bedroom. Kneeling down, he poured the beige fluid onto the man's face and spread it evenly. The face took form under his fingers. He saw the broad forehead, the prominent cheekbones, the hollow cheeks, the long narrow nose. As he progressed, he wished he had shaved the man. The make up clung to his heavy eyebrows, gave his whiskers the look of spiky, mutated skin.

At the sound of footsteps, Dukane drew his automatic from its shoulder holster. Scott came in, swinging his suitcase and attache case onto the bed.

"Any trouble?" Dukane asked.

"Didn't meet a soul. But I remembered about the cops. I saw them at dinner to night."

"Where?"

"At Carmen's, a couple of miles from here. They sat at a table across from us. Maybe it's just a coincidence..."

"A surveillance team."

"Why would cops be watching Lacey and me?"

"Good question."

Scott opened his suitcase. He tossed a sport coat, shirt, and a pair of trousers to the floor.

"Sungla.s.ses?"

"Yeah."

"We could use a hat."

"He'd better not lose it," Scott said, and removed a battered, tan fedora from his suitcase. He took out a shirt for himself. "You did a nice job on his face."