"Interesting man. I can see why Gordy respects you."

"You got a way of contacting LaCelle?"

"Since I don't know where he is, I can only pa.s.s along word and hope it reaches him. Why?"

"You've warned me, you can warn LaCelle in turn. I could scrag him for what he almost did to my partner, but I won't if I don't have to. I don't like killing very much."

Dalhauser's brows twitched as he took that in. I could see he thought I looked too young and guileless to be a killer.

"Tell him I want to talk. He can pick the time and place; I'll come unarmed."

"Talk?" He looked at me like I was the biggest fool in the world. "You'd only make it easier for him to b.u.mp you."

I knew I could survive most any trap Ike cared to set up. Probably. If he decided to come after me with wood instead of lead, then I was out of luck. "He plans to b.u.mp me no matter what, right? At least this way I can find out why."

He shook his head. "I'll put a word out. But it may not get to him in time."

"You know when he's planning to do something?"

"Just that it will be late tonight. He may have people watching your house by now."

"Waiting for me to come back?"

"Yes. You're really not leaving?" When I didn't answer he moved past me and started down the stairs. "Then I wish you luck. It's been nice knowing you."

"That's it?" I asked, annoyed.

He paused, not turning around. "You've been warned, you choose to ignore it, so I'd say, yes, that is very much it."

Dalhauser continued down to the garage floor, then on outside. A motor started up, and from the window I saw him driving toward the gate, raising a thin cloud of dust that quickly settled.

I half expected Shep to follow and leave me stranded, but he and his friend waited and drove me back, neither of them sparing a word in my direction the whole trip.

As we neared the house I asked, "You two going to see Ike LaCelle later?"

They exchanged looks and did not reply. I'd figured these birds to be working both sides of the fence or simply available for whoever might be hiring.

"Good. Tell him Jack Fleming wants to talk with him before the shooting starts. He might hear something to his advantage." It was a sweet phrase lawyers liked to use before they started charging you for services rendered, and seemed appropriate here. "You got that?"

"I got it, punk," said Shep, unimpressed.

He dropped me at the corner, so I had to walk half a block, but it was just as well. I spotted an unfamiliar car with two men inside watching the house. Being direct always appealed to me, so I just went up to the driver's side and opened the door.

The element of surprise is always a good thing to have working for you. That and enough light. They could see me well enough to succ.u.mb, and less than a minute later they were hanging on my every word. I asked if there were any others spying on the house. They were the whole show. I gave them the same message I'd given Shep and stood out of the way so they could drive off to find their boss.

Maybe I should have gone with them, but there was a big Nash parked just behind my car out front, meaning that Coldfield was here, which was a huge relief. He'd be in six kinds of fits wondering what was going on after so long a wait. I wanted to talk with him and make sure Escott was all right. For all I knew, LaCelle might have hopscotched his own boys and come in through the back.

Making noise as I cautiously walked in, I called to Coldfield, holding myself ready to vanish at the first sign of gunfire. He yelled an answer that he was upstairs. He sounded impatient and irritated-that is, normal. I went up and found him in Escott's room sitting by a lamp with a newspaper in hand.

He tossed the paper aside and rose to face me. "What the h.e.l.l's going on? Where've you been? That phone call-"

He made no effort to hush his voice, but none of it disturbed Escott. He was exactly as I'd left him, soddenly asleep and snoring. The room's air had a decided tinge of his alcohol-soaked breath to it.

"Gil Dalhauser sent some muscle over to pick me up," I said. "That's what interrupted things during my call. Seems he wanted to talk, but without drawing attention to it. Apparently Ike LaCelle is behind the attempt on Charles, but Dalhauser couldn't say why." I crossed to a window and opened it a few inches. The draft coming in was cold, but helped to disperse the sour sickroom smell.

"How could he not know why?"

"It wasn't for lack of trying. Ike wouldn't tell him."

"Then you tell me what you know."

I looked at Escott. "I will, but I want to find out what's in his head. Come on, and I'll make some coffee that could float a horseshoe."

"You can drink coffee?"

"Nah. These nights all I can do is smell it, but we're going to get him up and sober and find out just what set him off."

Coldfield followed me to the kitchen, where I had to play hide and seek trying to find things, since cooking was not something I did anymore. Once in a while I made a sandwich for Escott when I was in a kindly mood, but that was pretty much the limit. The coffeepot was easy enough, being too large to conceal itself for long, but cups and spoons took longer. After locating the necessities, I made the concoction triple strength. While the stuff brewed, I told Coldfield all about my trip to the truck yard, finishing up with the orders I'd given LaCelle's watchdog lackeys.

"You mean you just let them go?" He was outraged. "You outta your mind to do that."

"Glad you think so. LaCelle might think the same and be curious enough to set up a meeting."

"He'll set up a shooting gallery."

"I've survived those before." "But Charles is in no shape for any of that."

"Then let's go get him into shape."

I got the pot and a cup and carried both upstairs.

Between the two of us we stripped Escott down to his skivvies and carried him to the bathtub. I pulled the curtain partway around to minimize splashing and opened the tap wide for a cold shower. He was sound asleep for a full minute before the icy water finally got to him, and he started fighting it. First trying to push it away, then sputtering and cursing. Coldfield held his feet, I held his shoulders, keeping him in place until he seemed more conscious than unconscious.

Escott's skin was a nice shade of blue and violently puckered with gooseflesh when I took pity and shut off the flow. He shivered like an earthquake and readily accepted the cup when I put it under his nose. He tried to take it but couldn't get his hands to work right. I held it, and he slurped some in, making an unhappy noise as it burned his tongue.

"He won't be able to keep that down," Coldfield observed.

"Which is why he's in the tub and I'm out here," I said. Sure enough, the coffee made a sudden reappearance. I turned the cold water on again and flushed everything clear.

Escott squinted blearily at me. "d.a.m.n your eyes."

"You know who I am?"

"d.a.m.n your-oh!" He leaned forward, coughing. I kept the water running, but twisted the tap on for the hot.

He eventually stopped shivering. I cut the water and offered another cup of coffee. He drank it down, then lay back in the water spray and groaned.

"You awake now?" I asked, drying off with a towel.

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Sick?"

"Please don't say that word."

I poured more coffee.

"This is wretched stuff," he complained.

"Sue me. Drink."

He choked more down.

"You need any help getting dressed?"

"I want to sleep."

"What a change. You can sleep later. In case you haven't noticed, we've got company."

Coldfield waved at him from the door. "Hi, Charles. You look like h.e.l.l."

Escott glared at him, then dropped his gaze, his shoulders slumping. "Nothing changes."

"Oh, yes, it does. Are you gonna pull yourself together and get off your a.s.s or do I have to come over and kick it for you? Maybe you've forgotten, but you told me a long while back to do exactly that the next time you got stupid. This sure looks to be one of those times."

"Very well," he said wearily. "Leave the coffee. Let me work on this."

I thought he would still need help, but Coldfield signed for me to come along. He was right. Escott had had enough self-induced humiliation for one evening; he didn't need us around to help him pull on his socks.

We tramped down to the kitchen. Coldfield expressed regret at not snagging a cup for himself.

"I can go up for the pot," I offered.

"No, give the man some privacy to recover. I'll make do." He found a shallow pot, put some water in it, and set it on the stove to heat.

I sat at the kitchen table and watched as he raised the flame on the gas ring to its highest level. Yellow tongues licked up the sides of the pot. "You've seen him like this before, haven't you?" I asked.

"Too many times to count."

"When? Back when you were actors?"

He shook his head. "Later. It's a long story." He pawed through a drawer and found a tea strainer, setting it next to a coffee cup. "He used to get drunk all the time because of something that happened in Ontario about a dozen years ago."

"You think it's related to what's happened to him now? The shooting?"

"I don't see how it could be."

"Something set him off. Tell me. It's time I heard."

"That's up to Charles."

"Not anymore. Not after the shooting and what he's done to himself today. Not after the way you reacted when I asked about 'Raymond.' Who is he, and why does Charles keep saying he didn't do something? What's he talking about?"

"It's not up to me to tell."

"Charles can't and probably won't, so you're the only one left. Is it connected to Ike LaCelle?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I read over those files Charles got from his office. LaCelle didn't catch anyone's notice until some ten years back. It's not impossible he's involved."

I resisted prodding him again, though the wait was making me crazy. He was working his way around to finally talking; he only just needed to get used to the idea.

The water started to steam. He waited for it to boil, cut the heat, then dropped in a big spoonful of coffee and stirred it around a minute. He poured it into a cup through the tea strainer. From where I was, it smelled good, but it would have a h.e.l.lish kick for drinking.

Coldfield sat opposite me and grimaced. "I really don't see how his shooting could have anything to do with what happened back then, but the only times he ever got this kind of stinking drunk was when he thought too much about it. He hasn't been like this for years, though."

"Then something today must have brought it all back to him. Come on, tell me what's going on that I should know about."

He put his hands around the cup as though to warm them, staring down into the coffee, and heaved a long-drawn, defeated sigh. "All right."

13

Ontario, Canada, April 1924

The sausage sandwich had been a mistake.

The afternoon stop of the Hamilton Players at Elkfoot Flats for petrol included just enough time for a late luncheon.

Charles W. Escott, second youngest member of the troupe, lavished several coins from the grouch bag hung around his neck on a meal that was meant to last him the rest of the day and into the next. Since joining the acting company six years before, he'd long grown accustomed to the vagaries of touring and knew the only meal you could count on was the one you'd just finished. He ate heavily and well for the money he'd spent, but was now having second thoughts about the last sandwich. Though it had looked and smelled quite toothsome in the tiny cafe, the sausage had had an odd taste to it, but at the time he'd put that down to the spices. Hunger won out over his usual caution in regard to road meals, and he'd finished every bite.

Now, as the first ominous tendril of nausea caressed his insides, he swallowed thickly and knew things would get worse before they got better. There wasn't much he could do about it, either, except sweat it through. They were all due to play in Ottawa the following evening and could not be delayed just because of an upset stomach.

Charles was one of the drivers in the little caravan of four cars and a large truck, a job he usually enjoyed. He continued at it, saying nothing about his growing sickness, for the activity kept his mind off the discomforts of his body. Besides, if he stopped, he'd likely lose his place in the car, having to give it up to one of the more senior members of the troupe. That meant bouncing around in the back of the truck with the properties, costumes, and extra luggage, something he literally would not be able to stomach.

The road between Toronto and Ottawa should have been in better condition, but winter had had its way with the surface, creating whole sections to challenge even Mr. Ford's indefatigable motor cars. About an hour after the last stop, two of them broke down within a mile of each other. One from a cracked axle, the other with bent wheel rims.

The grumbling pa.s.sengers wearily redistributed themselves into the remaining vehicles without much discussion and proceeded on toward the next village where they hoped to find aid for their stricken transportation. It was crowded in each of the remaining cars as seven people packed themselves into a s.p.a.ce more suitable for four. Those that were left had to make do crushed together in the cab of the truck or perched uneasily on top of things in its back.

Spirits were fairly high, though. Their last run had paid well, and the group in Charles's car entertained themselves exchanging plans on how they would spend their cash once they hit town. Bianca Hamilton, half owner of the company and also its pay mistress, longed to have her hair washed and styled. Cornelius Werner, one of the older leading men, spoke fondly of getting thicker socks. He often voiced complaints, his most frequent one having to do with his constantly cold feet.