"Don't try that c.r.a.p with me, Charles. There has to be something mighty wrong for you to come this late looking like you do." "It was my idea to come here," I said. "Check his shirtfront."

He checked and his eyes widened. "s.h.i.t, Charles."

Escott gave him that corpse's smile. "Fortunately my extra insulation against the cold came in quite handy."

"Are you all right?"

"A little sore..."

"He's a lot sore and needs a safe place for the night," I put in.

"He's got it, but I want to know what happened."

"I'll give you the goods if you can get him off his feet."

Coldfield took over from there, dismissing everyone but Isham, who was still dressed and accompanied us upstairs.

He took a chair by the door and watched and listened as I related the evening's main event to his boss and what had led up to it. Coldfield wanted to send for Dr. Clarson to give Escott a once-over, but the patient turned him down.

"This can wait until morning, Shoe," Escott insisted, then swallowed four aspirins with a big gla.s.s of water.

"You could have a broken sternum."

"If I did, then I'd be in considerably more discomfort than I am and would readily agree to an examination. Right now all I want is a place to lie down and no one shooting at me for a few hours."

"It's yours, but first thing tomorrow you see the doctor."

To that Escott gave in. He actually looked like he might get some sleep for once. Isham escorted him out to settle him in a spare room.

Coldfield turned to me. "What about you? You going or staying?"

"Going. I should keep an eye on the old homestead. I'll be safe in my hideaway."

He had reservations about that, and also wanted to talk more. I spent an hour discussing all the stuff with him that Escott and I had covered. Coldfield knew Dalhauser, having had some dealings with him through the unions.

"He's dangerous," said Coldfield, "but he's nothing near to stupid. Standing around waiting to shoot Charles like that is plain stupid, and crossing a man like Gordy is just as dumb. You sure he's the gunman?"

"Neither of us got any kind of a real look, but Dalhauser's the most likely. Tomorrow Charles will call Gordy and let him know somebody's not listening to orders. The two of 'em might come up with a better choice for idiot of the year, and when they find him I'm gonna wring his neck."

"Shouldn't that be Charles's job?"

"Not if I get there first. I honest to G.o.d thought he'd been killed, Shoe. And the only thing I could think of was that it wasn't fair for him to die. Like he'd been playing a game and was counted out too soon by a crooked umpire. It sounds childish."

"It's called grief," he said.

"But Charles didn't die."

"Don't matter. The grief is for what might have happened. It don't hurt the same, but it still hurts. Say you're standing on the edge of a cliff and a gust of wind pushes you over, but at the last second someone grabs you back to safety. You're alive, but you're going to be shook up for a while about it. About what might have been. Charles is going to be feeling that stronger than you are."

"And doing his best not to show it."

He heaved a great sigh. "Oh, yeah. But there's gonna be a reckoning before this is done. I just hope he doesn't tear himself apart over it."

"What do you mean?"

"He's had some s.h.i.t thrown at him in the past. He didn't handle it too good."

"What was it?"

Coldfield shook his head. "Not my story to tell."

I'd hit that wall before, and knew better than to try to get more out of him. Isham returned, and Coldfield told him to drive me home in Escott's Nash, then bring the car back.

"Keep him here until I'm awake?" I asked Coldfield.

He snorted. "Do my best. But you know what he's like."

Isham hung around long enough for me to ascertain that no ambush lurked in the house, then drove off in the predawn light. I wondered if he ever slept, but not for long. The pale graying in the east was already starting to hurt my eyes. Funny how artificial things like candles and lightbulbs didn't affect me as powerfully as the sun. I hurried inside, dumped my tux coat and topcoat carelessly on the couch, then vanished to enter my bas.e.m.e.nt chamber while I still could. If I waited too long, I lost the ability to vanish and would have to use the trick trapdoor, which was a pain to bother with when I was rushed.

My limbs stiffened up even as I sank onto the earth-padded cot. When my head hit the pillow I was gone for the day.

The next night I woke to the sound of the kitchen phone ringing, and knew it must be for me. Someone had been waiting for sunset, probably Coldfield; Bobbi always gave me a few minutes to stretch out the kinks. I shot up through the cracks and materialized, snagging the receiver and cutting off the annoying bell.

"Yeah?"

"It's Shoe."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing that I know of, but I thought you should know that Charles took off around noon, so be on the watch for him."

"He took off? I thought you were going to-"

"You ever try to stop him when he really wants to do something?"

"Yeah, like trying to catch air in your hands. Did he say anything to you? Any idea where he went?"

"We had a late breakfast and he said he was going to do some poking around. I thought I'd talked him into waiting for Clarson to see him, but I had to think again. The son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"How was he feeling?"

"Good enough to slip away without me noticing-and I'd been expecting him to try something like that."

Great, Escott was on the hunt with no forwarding address, running on the edge of the cliff again. I hoped he'd not get so focused on his prey that he'd lose his footing. "The man's got a lucky star, he'll be all right."

"You saying that to convince me or yourself?"

"A bit of both, my friend. If he drags in home I'll call you at the Shoe Box."

"And I'll call you if he shows here," he said, and hung up.

I took a look at myself and decided I was a mess that needed to be swept under a rug. Just as I started for the stairs the phone rang again. This time it was Bobbi.

"Hi! I just wanted to thank you," she said, sounding fresh and bright, everything I wasn't.

"Uh..."

"You awake yet?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. But what'd I do again?"

"You fixed things with Archy, remember? And have you seen the papers yet? The reviews for both shows are fantastic."

"That's good. I'm glad something's going right."

"What's happening there? You sound off. You can't be having a hangover."

"Some stuff came up for a case Charles is working on, and it's got me distracted. Just as well you called, I might be busy tonight. If I'm not there by the end of the last show, can you get a ride home?" "No problem. What case? That blackmailer?"

"A new one. Tell you later. What's the deal about Archy? You saw him today?"

"Adelle invited me to come to the Variety Hour rehearsal so we could have lunch and shop afterward, and Archy was a perfect gentleman to me. No double meanings under the jokes, no trying to impress me with extra attention. I mean he was friendly, but that's where it ended. You're a miracle worker, Jack."

"I'm glad to be doing something right."

"It was great, even Adelle noticed what a good mood he was in."

"Is she still solid with Gordy?"

"She's coming to the club for dinner with him tonight."

It was good to know where he'd be later if I had to find him. Escott would have talked to him, and he might have a line on where my partner had taken himself.

Bobbi had to leave to get ready for her first show, so I was soon dropping the receiver back on its hook, free to finish the trip up to my room. I stripped and bathed and was just doing the last b.u.t.ton on a fresh shirt when I heard a noise downstairs.

I went to the landing and saw a man's shadow moving against the frosted panes of the gla.s.s inset of the front door.

His hat obscured details, but he had height. Maybe the gunman had decided to come check on me, the one he'd ignored. I vanished and reappeared in the lower hall, tucking my shirttails into my pants, listening with interest as he fumbled noisily with the lock. He apparently wasn't worried about alarming anyone. The k.n.o.b turned, and he pushed the door open. It swung back hard and banged against the wall, rattling the gla.s.s. The man swayed on the threshold, then lurched a few unsteady steps inside.

It was Escott.

"Charles?"

He didn't seem to hear me, and plowed toward the stairs, hand out to grab at the banister. He missed it by a mile and overbalanced, stumbling forward to sprawl gracelessly onto the treads. I went to him, got him turned over. For an awful moment I thought he'd been shot again, this time for real-until I caught a whiff of the booze. He reeked like a b.u.m on Sat.u.r.day night.

He looked at me earnestly, but didn't see me at all. He was drunk out of his mind, and his eyes were wild. In a pleading tone I'd never heard from him before, he slurred out, "Din' do it, Shoe. I swear I din' do it."

12

"Didn't do what?" I asked, too flabbergasted to do more than gape.

"Was Raymond, cou' o'ly be him. O'ly one. Swear it."

"Who's Raymond?"

"Not my fault, but my fault. 'F I'd jus' been there!" He pushed me away and tried to stand, then winced and sat again. " 'S wrong. Hurts." He gingerly rubbed his chest, puzzled by the pain.

"Yeah, I know. Come on with me, we'll fix things." I got an arm around him and hauled him up. He groaned with the movement, but didn't fight as I guided him upstairs.

"No good," he said sorrowfully, his feet dragging. "No good at all."

We made it to his room, and I got him to the bed. He lay down flat, staring at the ceiling, and still mumbling nonsense. He wouldn't or couldn't answer any of my questions.

His tuxedo was well creased, same as his topcoat, like he'd been in them both too long. His tie was gone, and his shirt gaped open around the neck. He hadn't shaved since yesterday and the uncharacteristic stubble, along with his present crazed state of mind, put fifteen years on him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he said again and again.

"It's all right," I told him. "It's all over now." Whatever it was.

I got his shoes off and pulled the bedspread across his body. He kept a carafe on the night table. I filled it in his bathroom, poured water in a gla.s.s, and managed to get him to drink most of it down. There was a storage closet in the hall. I rummaged and found a bucket, placing it next to the bed in case he woke up sick, which was very likely. Having survived a number of hangovers myself, I knew what a long trip it could be to the bathroom when your gut's unhappy and your legs aren't working.

"They proved it," he said earnestly. "You know they proved it." He was talking to the ceiling.

"What did they prove?"

"Tha' I din' do it."

"Do what?"

" 'S was Raymond. O'ly one."

"Charles? Charles, you hear me?"

"Mm?"

"You need to sleep now."

He shook his head over and over. "Bad stuff then. No dark sleep. No real..." He'd drifted off, mouth open, filling the air with the smell of stale booze.

I stared down at him and could not believe that he'd done this to himself. He was always sober and in perfect control. What the h.e.l.l had happened to make him do this?