9

At eight o'clock, when Lane came out through the curtains for her first song, Garreth sat at a table talking to a barmaid while he ordered a drink. "How long has she been singing here?"

The barmaid, whose name tag readNikki, shrugged. "She was here already when I came last year."

"What do you think of her?"

Nikki sighed. "I wish I had her way with men. They fall all over themselves for her."

Lane worked her way through the club as she sang. On one turn, she saw Garreth. For a moment, her step faltered and a musical note wavered, then she smiled at him and moved on.

After the last song of the set, she came over to his table. "We meet again. I thought you weren't going to work overtime tonight."

He smiled. "I'm not. I'm here for pleasure. I'd also like to apologize again for disturbing you this afternoon."

She smiled back. "That isn't necessary; I realize you were only doing your job."

"Then may I buy you a drink?"

"Later, perhaps. Right now I've already promised to join some other gentlemen."

Nikki, pa.s.sing the table, said, "Don't waste your time; you're not her type."Garreth watched Lane sit down with three men in flashy evening jackets. "Whatis her type?"

"Older guys in their thirties and forties. Guys with bread to throw around. And her man of the evening is always a tourist, an out-of-towner. She only likes one-night stands."

Garreth recorded it all in his head. He asked casually, "Man of the evening? She lets herself be picked up often?"

"Almost every night, onlyshe does the picking up. The suckers just think they picked her up."

"Really?"Be an audience. Keep her going, Garreth, my man.

"Really. She chooses one, see, and tells him to leave but that she'll meet him later. She never goes out the door with one of them."

"Then how do you know that's what happens?" He kept his voice teasing.

"Because," Nikki said, lowering her voice, "I've overheard her giving them instructions. She tells the guy that the boss is her boyfriend, see, and that he's very jealous, but then she tells the sucker he's turned her on so much, she's justgot to see him. He leaves thinking he's really a superstud. Every night she tells a different guy the same thing."

"Always a different guy? No one ever repeats?"

Nikki shook her head. "Sometimes they try. She's polite, but she never goes with them again." Nikki sighed. "She must do something they really dig. I wonder if I should try the tigress bit, too."

"Tigress bit?"You're doing great, honey; don't stop.

"Yeah. If they come back for another try, the guys she's gone with always have this huge hickey on their necks. I've never-"

The whole world screamed to a halt for Garreth. He felt electricity lift the hair all over his body. "Hickey?" he asked breathlessly. "About this size and located here?" He demonstrated with a circle of thumb and finger.

The barmaid nodded.

She's dirty!But for a moment Garreth could not be sure whether he felt satisfaction or disappointment at proof of her involvement. Perhaps both. Wanted or unwanted, this gave him a legitimate excuse to ask all the questions of her he liked.

He gave Nikki a five-dollar bill. "For you, honey. Thanks."

He made his way to the table where Lane sat. Nodding to the three men with her, he said, "Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but I need to speak with the lady for a minute."

Lane smiled. "I said, later, perhaps."

"It can't wait."

One of the men frowned. "The lady said later. Bug off."

Ignoring him, Garreth leaned down to Lane's ear. "I can use my badge and make it official."

She glanced up sharply at him. Her eyes flared red in the candlelight again. Why did her eyes reflect when most people's did not? Garreth wondered. Lane stood, smiling at the men, cool and gracious. "He's right; it can't wait. I won't be a minute." As they walked away from the table, though, the tone of her voice became chiding. "So you're on duty after all. You lied, Inspector."

"So did you. You said you didn't see Mossman after he left the club on Tuesday, but we found him with a bruise on his neck just like the ones the girls here tell me you put on all your men."

She glanced around. "May we talk outside?"

They left the club. Outside, the street stretched away from them in both directions, glittering with the lights of signs and car headlights, smelling of exhaust fumes and the warmth of ma.s.sed humanity. Like accents and grace notes, whiffs of perfume and male cologne reached them, too. Voices and cars blended into a vibrant roar. My city, Garreth thought.

Lane breathed deeply. "I do so love the vitality of this place."

Garreth nodded agreement. "Now, about Mossman . . ."

"Yes, I saw him. What else could I do? He would have waked all the neighbors, pounding on my door that way. He got the address from the phone book."

"So you invited him in?"

She nodded. She strolled down the street and Garreth followed. "I invited him in," Lane said, "and then . . . well, he was a charming man and . . . we ended up in bed. He left about three, alive, I swear. But he insisted on walking, even though I warned him not to and offered to call a cab."

Garreth counted two possible flaws in the story. Three o'clock lay on the edge of the limits given by the M.E. for Mossman's time of death. He would have had to die very soon after leaving Lane's apartment. And would a man careful enough to leave his keys and extra money and credit cards hidden in his hotel room ignore the offer of a cab and walk down a street alone in the middle of the night?

They turned the corner. Once around it, the traffic thinned and the noise level dropped dramatically. Garreth asked, "Why didn't you tell me this before?"

She sighed sheepishly. "The usual reason: I didn't want to be involved."

"The autopsy found puncture wounds in the middle of the bruise on Mossman's neck. How did they get there?"

"Punctures?" She stared down at him. "I don't have the slightest idea. They weren't there when he left me."

Garreth said nothing in response to that. Instead, he waited, curious to see what more she might say to fill the conversation gap. But unlike most people, who felt uncomfortable with silence and would say anything, often incriminating things, to avoid silence, she did not rise to the bait. She walked wordless beside him as they turned another corner.

Now almost no traffic pa.s.sed. Garreth found himself preternaturally conscious of the near empty street. Here on the back side of the block, they seemed a hundred miles from the crowds and lights.

He asked, "Did you ever meet a man named Cleveland Adair?"

Her stride never faltered. "Who?"

"Cleveland Adair, an Atlanta businessman. We found him dead last year with a bruise and punctures just like Mossman's. A woman matching your description was seen in the lobby of his hotel shortly before his estimated time of death."

He expected denial, either vehement or indignant. He was even prepared for her to try running away. Instead, she stopped and turned to look him directly in the eyes. "How many deaths are you investigating?"

Her eyes looked bottomless and glowed like a cat's. Garreth stared into them, fascinated. "Two. After all, it looks like the same person killed them both."

"I suppose it does, Inspector," she said quietly, "please back up into this alley."

Like h.e.l.l I will,he thought, but found he could not say it aloud. Nor could he act on the thought. Her eyes held his and his will seemed paralyzed. Step by step, as commanded, he moved backward, until he came up short against a wall.

"You're here alone." Her hands came up to his neck, loosening his tie and unb.u.t.toning the collar of his shirt. Her hands felt cool against his skin. "Have you told anyone where you are or about my little love bites?"

Yes,he thought, but he spoke the truth. "No." Should he have admitted that? He could not find concern in him; all he cared about at the moment was staring into the glowing depths of her eyes and listening to her voice. "I haven't told anyone."

"Good boy," she crooned, and kissed him gently on the mouth. She had to bend down her head to do it. "That's a very good boy." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't think you should ever tell."

He barely heard her. Her voice reached him from a great distance, like all sensation at the moment: the rough brick of the wall at his back, the chill of the evening, the increasing rate of her breathing. Somewhere deep inside, uneasiness stirred, but listening to it seemed too much trouble. He found it easier to just stand pa.s.sive and let her tip his head back against the wall.

Her lips felt cool on his mouth and cheek, and her fingers on his neck as she probed to one side of his windpipe. His pulse throbbed against the pressure.

"That's a nice vein," she whispered in approval. Her breath tickled as she spoke between kisses. "You're going to like this.

You'll feel no pain. You won't mind a bit that you're dying." She kissed him harder and he felt the nip of her teeth. Her mouth moved down over his jaw to his neck. "You're a bit short for me so this will be awkward unless you stand very still. Whatever happens, don't move."

"No." It emerged in a sigh.

"I love you, Inspector. I love all men of power." Her teeth nipped harder, moving toward the spot where his pulse beat against her fingers. "You don't have money or position like the others, but you have knowledge, knowledge I can't afford to have spread around, so that gives you more power than most of my lovers. Still, I have more. I have the power of death, and the power to take your power from you. I love doing that."

She bit harder. A distant sensation told him her teeth had broken his skin, but he felt no pain, only a slight pressure as she sucked.

"What-" he began.

Her finger brushed across his lips, commanding him to silence. He obeyed. All desire to talk had left anyway. A wave of mixed warmth and cold moved outward through his body from where her mouth touched him. He shivered in pleasure and moved just a little, straining toward her mouth.Yes. Nice. Go on. Don't stop.

Presently, though, he wondered if maybe she should. He felt very weak. He needed to sit down before he collapsed.

His knees buckled, but her hands caught him under the arms and held him against the wall. She must be very strong, a languid thought came through the tingling of his nerves . . . certainly stronger than she looked, to be holding up someone of his weight so easily. Dreamily he thought,The maiden is powerful, just like the sage said.

But with the thought ofI Ching la.s.situde disappeared. Fear rose up through him like a jet of ice water. Two men the singer knew had died of blood loss. Now she kissed his neck in the very spot where the other men had had punctures and bruises and he felt himself weakening, too! With a profound shock of horror and revulsion, he realized why. Lane Barber was sucking his blood!

He shuddered and tried to pull loose, pushing at her shoulders with his hands. His body obeyed only sluggishly, however, and when she noticed his effort, her body pressed harder against his, pinning him to the wall.

Use your gun, you dumb flatfoot.

But her hand easily kept him from reaching it.

Abandoning pride in favor of self-preservation, he opened his mouth to yell for help. Her hand clamped across his mouth, silencing him.

Garreth's breath caught in fear. He did not have the strength to fight her. Only her weight against him held him upright. She was killing him, as she had killed Adair and Mossman-were human teeth really sharp enough to bite through skin into veins? Where had she learned such depravity?-and he could do nothing to stop her. He was dying, helpless to save himself.

In desperation, he bit at her hand to make her let go of his mouth. He sank his teeth in deep, using all his fading strength. Skin gave way. Her blood filled his mouth, burning like fire. Convulsively, he swallowed, and his throat burned, too . . . but with the fire came a surge of new strength. Lane jerked the hand to free it, but he hung on, making the most of the opportunity to hurt her. More blood scorched down his throat. He managed to bring both hands up to her shoulders and push her back.

But it was too little effort coming too late. She tore loose from him, her hand from his mouth and her mouth from his throat. He felt her teeth rip through his flesh. As she backed away from him, he fell, collapsing to the ground.

The pain of striking the ground barely reached him. He only saw, not felt, the blood streaming from his torn throat to make a crimson pool around his head. A suffocating fog m.u.f.fled all sensation . . . touch, sound, and smells.

"Good-bye, lover," a distant, mocking voice said. "Rest in peace."

Her footsteps receded into the darkness. Garreth tried to move, to drag himself to the mouth of the alley where he might find help, but a leaden heaviness weighted him down, leaving him helpless. He could not move, only stare into the growing, cooling pool of blood. He cursed his stupidity . . . for coming after her alone, for not letting someone know what he had found out, but most of all, as his breathing and heartbeat stumbled, faltered, and faded, he cursed himself for underestimating her . . . just whatI Ching warned against. How could he explain this to Marti when he saw her?

See the idiot cop,he thought bitterly.See him bleeding to death . . . dying alone in a cold and dirty alley.

1

Rest in peace.Like h.e.l.l. Death is not peace. It leads not to Marti, nor to any kind of heaven . . . not even to oblivion. Death is not that kind. Death is h.e.l.l.

It is dreams . . . nightmares of suffocation and pain, of restless discomfort, of aches when one cannot move to ease them, of itches impossible to scratch. It is hallucination invading the void, playing blurrily before half-open eyes that are unable to focus or follow . . . imaginary hands on him, patting him, then lights, footsteps, sirens, voices.Oh, G.o.d! Call the watch commandeer . . . I didn't kill him, Officer! I'd never kill no cop, and anyway how could I do that to him? I just took the gun and stuff out of his pockets. Would I show you where the body was if I'd done it? . . .Garret ? . . . Easy, Takananda. Garreth! Oh, G.o.d, no! . . . He hasn't been dead long; he's still warm . . . Are there loose dogs in this area?

Death is h.e.l.l, and h.e.l.l is dreams, but mostly, h.e.l.l is fear . . . panicstricken, frantic. Are all the dead aware? Do they remain that way? Is this to be eternity . . . lying in twilight and nightmares, throat aching with thirst, body crying for a change of position, mind churning endlessly? Does Marti lie like this in her grave, insane with loneliness, begging for peace, for anend? No, not for her . . .

please, no.

He hates giving up life, but accepts that in the jungle, death is the price of carelessness, of error, and he has errored badly.

Surrendering life to rejoin Marti would be welcome. He could even accept oblivion. This, though . . . this limbo? The thought of having to endure it for eternity terrifies him.

He screams . . . for himself, for Marti, for all the dead trapped sleepless and peaceless and tormented in their graves. He screams, and because it is without sound, unvoiced, it echoes and reechoes endlessly down the long, dark, lonely corridors of his mind.

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