Escott made a fast, abortive move toward the protection of the Nash, but not fast enough.

The gun made a bright flash-several bright flashes-of fire and smoke. The vicious noise of the shots bounced off the surrounding buildings.

Five shots. Very quick.

Two caught Escott square in the chest.

I saw it so clear it was like a still picture of the instant.

He jerked and made a strange breathy grunt, then dropped straight down like his knees had been cut from under him.

11

Brakes squealed as the car came to a rolling stop between me and the gunman. He ducked and dove inside, his form hidden by the bulk of the vehicle. The driver hit the gas and gears and hurled off, taking the first corner on two screeching wheels.

Escott sprawled facedown on the sidewalk. Very still.

Not fair. It's just not fair.

The thought rolled over and over in my mind, blocking out everything else. I could not see for a moment; gray mist enveloped me. When it cleared I was kneeling by him with no memory of how I'd gotten there. I just couldn't take it in, only feel an overwhelming black sickness washing over me like a wave of icy lake water.

I reached out, took his shoulders, and eased him over.

Not fair.

"Charles?" It was someone else's cracked and frightened voice, not mine.

He was still alive. Mouth open. Trying to breathe. Looking up at me.

"G.o.d, Charles, I'm sorry."

He struggled, his whole body shuddered from the effort. Struggled. And drew in a ragged, shallow breath.

Not enough. It rushed right out again. He labored for another gulp of air.

"I'll call for help."

But when I started to move, he flailed a hand, catching my arm. He shook his head, lips forming the word "no."

"But I've-"

"No," he coughed out. He mouthed the word once more, shaking his head.

"You've got to..."

No. His paper white face made a ghastly smile as he fought for air.

"-wait a second."

He feebly patted his chest, nodding.

And I suddenly understood him. "You... you G.o.dd.a.m.ned son of a b.i.t.c.h."

He relaxed slightly and closed his eyes. The next breath he took was less shallow, and he held on to it longer.

"You G.o.dd.a.m.ned b.l.o.o.d.y son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

Still wearing that rictus of a smile, he made a sound like a tiny laugh. I wanted to belt him, but he'd been hit hard already. Trembling head to toe, I stood and paced, unable to stay in one spot. I wanted to yell or punch holes in brick walls. Only by using up a ton of self-restraint did I manage not to do both.

"Thought you knew," he wheezed out a full five minutes later. He made motions that he wanted to stand.

"I forgot," I said through my teeth. I had to clench them tight to keep them from chattering in the aftermath of the adrenaline. It left a metallic taste in my mouth, and my guts churned with nausea. Helping him up, I felt the thickness of his bulletproof vest through his clothing.

"Could have. Noticed lack. Of blood."

Of all people in the world, I should have noticed. But the only thing that had stuck in my brain was the sight of my best friend falling, and the thought that it wasn't fair for him to die. I made a choking sound he took for a response.

"Understandable. Heat of. The moment. All that."

"You scared the s.h.i.t out of me," I finally snarled. The two of us staggering like drunks, I got him over to the car.

"You going to be all right?" "Just. A bit. Winded," he said, leaning heavily on the fender and puffing. "Knocked it. Out of me."

I looked him over and didn't care for what I saw. "Just how hurt are you?"

"Don't know. Chest heavy. Bruised."

"I'll find a hospital."

He shook his head. "Not that bad. Need rest. Not questions."

I thought of an alternative for him, a doctor who would not ask about the bullet holes. "Okay, inside the car. We're getting out of here."

He nodded, and I got him past the door and in so he could collapse onto the seat. I slammed things shut, went around, and slipped behind the wheel. The big motor was still idling smooth; I worked the clutch and gears and shot away without looking back.

"My pipe's on the walk," he said in a faded version of his normal tone.

"For Christ's sake, you'll get another." And live to break it in, thank G.o.d.

"I creased the files rather badly." He indicated where he'd rolled them up and stuffed them in his inside pocket.

"We'll send them to the cleaners for ironing."

He make an abortive sound in his throat suspiciously like a laugh, then subsided, holding his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't completely recovered. When he breathed in too deeply it came back out as a cough.

"You break any ribs?"

"Don't think so." He was getting some color back, though there was a sheen of sweat on him. "Bruised. Never had the wind knocked so thoroughly from me before. Thought I'd pa.s.s out."

I thought I'd pa.s.s out, too. "Did you see who it was?"

He shut his eyes, thinking, then shook his head. "When you shouted I was looking at the car. It was probably meant to be a distraction from the shootist. When he appeared all I saw were the muzzle flashes. Did you-"

"Same thing. Hat and m.u.f.fler covered him up, but he was big, well built. I think it was McCallen. The car looked like his Ford, but-" All I could remember of it were the headlights dazzling my sight. And after the shooting started my memory blurred. Only the sharp image of Escott dropping remained.

"The car was not unlike his," he said. "The gun I'm not sure about. McCallen fired once in the office. I counted six shots in the street."

"You counted them?"

"Strange how the mind will fix on the most absurd things in a crisis. I was thinking if he would only just run out of bullets without hitting anything vital-and counted them. Six. Not just five. McCallen's revolver was a six-chamber model, and he'd already used a bullet."

"So he reloaded. Or had another gun."

"But a motive?"

"He's crazy."

"Even mad people have their reasons. Why kill me before finding out what he wants to know?"

"That's something we can answer tonight."

He didn't ask what I meant, not after he realized where I was driving. A short detour first, then I'd find him some medical help-if he'd accept it.

"This should be most interesting," he said sometime later when I parked the Nash in front of Jason McCallen's modest residence.

His car was on the street and lights showed behind the house's drawn shades. "Looks like he's home," I said, setting the brake.

"Which is a most foolish spot to hide himself if he's guilty."

"Not unless he's packing to leave. I'll change his mind." "I'm coming as well."

I nearly argued with him, worried that he was too fragile yet, then thought of how I'd feel if it'd been me. I got out and went around to the pa.s.senger side to help him. He was moving as little as possible and slowly, for which I could not blame him, and briefly took my arm for balance until he was clear of the running board. Then he settled his clothes into place, pausing as he fingered the holes made by the bullets. They were larger than a .22 would have made. One was on the right, the other just left of center over his heart. Either of them would have been fatal.

He looked at me with a tight smile, a corpse's smile. "Could have been quite nasty, don't you think?"

I pushed a return of that icy-black sickness away. "I'm glad it wasn't worse. Come on, let's get this b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He followed, waiting on the sidewalk as I ghosted up the steps to try peering through the windows. I returned a moment later.

"Can't tell if he's there or not. I'll go in first and unlock the door. Give it a few minutes, then you come in. I want to see his face when he finds out you're alive."

"As do I."

I disappeared fully and slipped between the cracks around the door, re-forming just inside. The living room looked the same as the last time, but with a few more newspapers added to the pile around the chair by the radio. A man's topcoat was flung on another chair. Listening hard, I heard an irregular clinking noise from the kitchen. McCallen must have worked up quite an appet.i.te. After fixing the door for Escott, I went transparent and silently drifted down the hall.

As I guessed, McCallen was about to feed his face. He'd made a sandwich and was in the process of pulling a bottle of beer from the icebox. His cat meowed plaintively, circling his legs.

"All right, y'greedy little b.u.g.g.e.r, here's another bit, but that's the last one." He pulled some small item out for the cat, who devoured it with a purr I could hear even in my present state.

I made myself solid and stood framed in the doorway. McCallen was partially turned from me. An easy enough mark.

He straightened, saw me, and gave a satisfyingly startled jump, but recovered lightning fast. He set his feet, hunching his shoulders forward, and very deliberately set down the bottle of beer. There was murder glowing in his eyes as he glared at me.

"Now I've got you," he rumbled. "You'll be leaving here in a box by the time I'm done with you, laddie."

His reaction was all wrong. He was surprised, but it was not the surprise of a guilty man.

"Where's the gun?" I asked.

"I won't need a gun for the likes of you."

He bulled forward. I stayed put. He threw one very quick right. I went transparent for exactly how long it took his fist to travel through me, went solid, and caught him a smart punch in the gut. I pulled it, not wanting to damage him too much. He doubled over with an oof and staggered back, clutching his midsection. He crashed against the table, and went down. As he sat on the floor trying to get his lungs to work, Escott walked in.

Most of his color was back, concentrated in two spots high on his cheeks. His gray eyes had a hollow, haunted cast to them. He'd just looked his own death in the face; it would leave marks. "Mr. McCallen," he said after a few moments, sounding quite normal.

McCallen squinted up at him and sneered. "So the two of you have come to gang up on me? Brave of you."

Escott frowned mightily, glancing once at me. "Jack, we have the wrong man."

"I think you're right." McCallen was p.i.s.sed as h.e.l.l but not shocked.

"Well, if he didn't shoot you, who did?"

"I'm not averse to discussing that subject, but elsewhere, if you please."

McCallen looked back and forth between us. "What are you two gits on about? I never shot you-only your d.a.m.ned wall."

"Indeed, and were I not distracted by a greater problem, I'd have you arrested for it." "Why, you-" He started to gather himself, but I made a swipe with one foot, knocking his legs from under him.

He sat down again with a thud.

"Hey! What the h.e.l.l is this?" Paterno appeared behind us, shoved his way past, and went to McCallen. "You all right?"

"Where the h.e.l.l were you?" McCallen shrugged off Paterno's offered help.

"Taking a leak. What's going on here?"

"It's two against two now, that's what." He started to get up.

But Paterno grabbed him and told him to wait a minute, then looked at my partner. "You-you're Escott, aren't you? The agency?"

"That is correct, sir."