Ring Game (46 page)

Wes fixed his eyes on Crow, giving him a disconcerting I-am-a-giant-thumb-and-you-are-under-me look. “I don’t think they let you have coffee here,” he said. “You look better than you did last night.”

“I’m conscious. That’s got to help. Why are you looking like that, Wes?”

“This is how I always look.”

“No it’s not. You usually look stern and uncomfortable. Today you just look stern.”

A ghost of the old Wes appeared and disappeared. “I’m here on business,” he said.

“Oh.” Crow understood. The last time he’d seen him, Wes was being “old friend.” Now he was being “peace officer,” a role with which he was far more comfortable. “I thought you BCA guys didn’t step in till the locals yelled uncle.”

“We’re flexible. In this case, I had a prior relationship with one of the parties involved.” Wes removed a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his gray suit.

“And that would be me?”

“That’s correct. I’d like you to tell me what happened yesterday afternoon.”

Crow took a few moments to adjust his blanket and drink some water. He had no reason to hide anything. On the other hand, he didn’t know anything. His memory cut out after seeing that look of surprise on the clerk’s face. But if he said he remembered nothing, he’d get nothing in return.

“Why don’t you bring me up to speed,” Crow said. “Tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll fill it in for you. If I can.”

“You were driving a limousine registered to Biggie Industries, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“But you are not employed by Biggie Industries.”

“That’s right. Look, Wes, I’m sort of under the weather here. Haven’t even had my breakfast. I don’t know how many questions I’m going to be able to answer. Maybe you should just tell me where you’re at instead of asking me for answers you already got.”

Wes glowered at him for a few seconds, then said, “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“Maybe you could start by telling me whether you’ve found the bride and groom.”

“No and yes.” He consulted his notebook. “Hyatt Hilton showed up with the limousine at four o’clock this morning at the police station in Prescott, Wisconsin, just the other side of the St. Croix. He drove his vehicle directly into one of their patrol cars, then proceeded to tell the officer on duty that his bride had been kidnapped by vampires.”

“Vampires? What about the bride?” Crow asked.

“Carmen Roman is still missing.”

“The vampires have her?”

“According to Hilton, yes. He said they were doing some sort of weird cult ritual, these—” Wes checked his notebook. “Amaranthines. He reported that they were draining out her blood. The Prescott cop figured he had a chapter fifty-one, but apparently Hilton convinced them to take a ride out to this little church up on the bluffs, where he claimed he’d last seen Miss Roman. There was nobody there. No evidence of foul play. That’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“That’s where we’re at.”

“Where is Hyatt now?”

“We don’t know.”

“You couldn’t figure out some excuse to hold him?”

Wes shrugged. “The Prescott police had him. Like I said, they thought they had a psycho, holding him on a chapter fifty-one, but he walked.”

“You’re kidding. They just let him leave?”

“The way the Prescott cop told it, he just turned around and Hilton disappeared.”

“Turned into a bat or something?”

“All I have is what the Prescott cop said. At the time, they thought he was just another nut job. They didn’t even know that his missing fiancée even existed. They probably left him unattended, and he walked off. Okay, that’s all we got. Now how about you tell us who it was hit you.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I didn’t see him.”

“It was a he?”

“It could have been a hermaphroditic Martian, for all I know. All I remember is going into the Clark station, and then I woke up here. That’s it.”

“So it could have been anybody hit you. It could have been Hilton.”

“I suppose. Why don’t you talk to the clerk? Didn’t he see the guy?”

Wes frowned and put away his notebook. “He gave the investigating officers a statement, but when we attempted a follow-up interview we were unable to locate him. He gave us a fake name. We believe he was an illegal. Or maybe he was in on it.”

“In on what?”

“Whatever. We’re trying to get hold of the station owner. It’s not clear from what the clerk said, in his initial interview, what actually happened. He just said a ‘man in black’ came in and clobbered you and stole all his Snickers. It could easily have been your buddy Hilton.”

“You like Hyatt for kidnapping his own bride? Why would he do that?”

“We were hoping you could tell us.”

“Sorry. I think you got yourselves a mystery.”

“Good morning!”

Crow looked past Wes and saw Debrowski holding a Starbucks tray, two tall coffees. A small duffel bag was slung over her shoulder. She walked in and set the tray on the bedside table.

“You were sleeping so hard before, I thought you could use some real bean.”

“Wes has been helping me to full consciousness,” Crow said.

Debrowski nodded to Wes. “You want a coffee?”

“No thanks, I was just leaving.” Wes stood abruptly. “We’ll talk later,” he said to Crow.

“Anytime,” said Crow.

Crow and Debrowski watched him leave, then looked at each other.

“Was that fun?” Debrowski asked.

“A blast.” He decided to plunge. “We have to
talk
,” he said, giving the word a portentous ring.

“Oh?” Debrowski drew back, startled. “You mean you and me?”

“Yeah …” Crow faltered. “Uh, they told me Hyatt turned up in Prescott.”

“That’s right. How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad, but I still don’t remember anything. Wes seems to think it was Hyatt that bopped me.”

“That’s not what the clerk said.”

“They told me the clerk disappeared. All he told them was it was a guy dressed in black.”

“Yeah. A stocky guy dressed up like a ninja. That doesn’t sound like Hyatt. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“No. I want to talk about you and me.”

“Oh!” Debrowski looked down at the bag in her hands, thrust it toward him. “You want to check out of this dive? I brought you some clothes.”

“Yeah.” Crow sat up. “A ninja? A Japanese guy?”

“He didn’t say that. What he said was, ‘a ninja with a nose like a pig.’”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know. Is that all you wanted to ‘talk’ about? I was hoping for something juicy.”

“Just a second.” Crow held up a hand. He felt a memory coming, a black, gauzy image. Black shoes. “Just a second.” Blank pants. He closed his eyes and remembered being in the Clark station, seeing the clerk’s bored eyes widen. He remembered turning to see what the clerk was seeing. A pair of nostrils.

“Crow?”

Crow opened his eyes.

“You okay?”

“I remember now, the guy that hit me. You want to know something amazing?”

“Always.”

“I think Hyatt Hilton might be telling the truth.”

Carmen woke up in the land with thick air. It was a familiar atmosphere, but an unfamiliar room. She sat up slowly, the air sliding past her face. A motel? The furnishings—a bed; a bedside table; a television mounted high on the wall; thick, ugly curtains over the window—had the anonymous quality of a Motel 6. She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, let her feet touch the floor. Cold linoleum. She had never been in a motel room with linoleum floors. But she
had
been stoned before. She was stoned now, on something really strong. She hadn’t felt like this since she’d tried Quaaludes, back when she was just thirteen.

Carmen looked down. She was no longer wearing her wedding dress. She was wearing a loose cotton gown, open at the back.

She remembered riding in a car with pig-face Chip, an older man with a bandage over his eyes, and a woman with big hair. She remembered waking up later and watching the fat doctor giving her something in her arm, smiling as he did it. Whatever the stuff was, it had knocked her out long enough for them to undress her and get her into bed. The fat doctor had probably intended for her to sleep for hours, but he hadn’t taken into account the size of her liver. Carmen stood up. Her legs were a bit wobbly, but the thick air helped. She moved toward the window, eight slow-motion steps, and parted the curtains. Bright daylight flooded the room. She was on the first floor, looking out onto a small park with benches, picnic tables, and dew on the grass. She could be anywhere. She did not know how long she had slept. She was sure of only two things: That Hy’s plan had gone kablooey—no surprise there—and that it would be in her best interest to get out of this place. She considered simply climbing out the window. Why not? She raised the window. No alarms, but the cool air raised goose bumps. She would go, but first she needed to find something to wear.

Daytime drama star Wayne Savage, recovering from a chin and hair implant doubleheader, was awakened from his morning nap by a soft, clicking sound. In his dream, the sound had been a pair of geishas making music with chopsticks. He opened his eyes. A long-haired figure in a hospital gown stood at his closet looking through his clothes. The sound was that of plastic clothes hangers clacking together. Wayne worked his tongue around his mouth preparing to say something when he noticed that the back of the gown was open, revealing a nicely rounded female posterior. He decided to withhold comment and see what developed.

The girl suddenly froze, then turned her head and looked back at him. Wayne remained very still, watching through nearly closed eyes. A pretty, sleepy-looking girl. She watched him for a few seconds, apparently decided he was still asleep, and shrugged the gown from her shoulders. Her body was full and round and much appreciated by Wayne, who had had his fill of the emaciated Hollywood type. This girl would look like a cow on film, but live in person she was a goddess.

She returned her attention to the contents of his closet and came up with a pair of his chinos and a UCLA T-shirt. She dressed slowly, starting with the T-shirt, pulling it down over her head, over her breasts—a striptease in reverse. Grabbing her long hair and tugging it up out of the T-shirt. Stepping into each leg of the chinos. Tucking in the shirt, pulling the belt tight, rolling up the cuffs to keep them from dragging. She tried on his Bally slip-ons, but they were too big on her, like clown shoes.

She was going through the pockets of his jackets when Wayne broke his silence.

“You won’t find it,” he said.

The girl stopped and turned slowly to face him.

Wayne said, “My wallet is on the table here, but you can’t have it.”

“I wasn’t looking for your wallet.”

“Oh?” Wayne sat up, letting the sheets slide off his upper body to give her a look at his chest. “What were you looking for?”

“I was hoping for a set of car keys,” she said.

“Sorry. I didn’t drive.”

“Oh, Well, thanks anyway.” The girl backed toward the door, then was gone, with his clothes.

Wayne smiled. A fair trade. This was what he needed to cut through the boredom of his stay at Youthmark. Something pretty.

Whatever drug the doctor had given her, Carmen liked it. Instead of being nervous taking that guy’s clothes, she had felt totally calm, even after she’d realized he was Wayne Savage. She’d actually talked to him, and she was wearing his clothes. This was even better than the time she’d served a bean taco to Kevin Bacon. Or anyway a guy who looked like Kevin Bacon. She was pretty sure it had been him. Whatever.

She exited the building through a side door into a parking lot containing half a dozen vehicles. Beginning with the Mercedes, she began to check for hidden keys. Hyatt had once told her that one out of every four vehicles had an extra key hidden somewhere on or in it. She got lucky on her second try—the Range Rover was unlocked and a set of keys was stashed above the sun visor. In minutes, she was on something called County Road 2. She planned to drive until she reached the next town, then stop and ask for directions, but the drug in her bloodstream began to assert itself anew, and a few miles later she found herself drifting in and out of her lane. Trying to make the vehicle easier to steer, she sped up. Fields of corn and soybeans flashed by, became a blur. The landscape warped, an ocean of cornstalks rose up before her, the vehicle bucked and heaved. A roaring, grinding, and crunching preceded a loud pop. The airbag hit her in the chest and face. All motion stopped. The air was filled with dust from the field and talc from the airbag. Dazed, Carmen took in her surroundings. Cornstalks lay across the hood and pressed against the glass on both sides. Behind her lay a swath of crushed stalks. As far as she could tell, she was unhurt and remarkably calm. These things happen, she thought. She closed her eyes, feeling safe in the arms of the corn. After a few minutes she slipped into a deep sleep.

Marriage and hanging go by destiny; matches are made in heaven.

—Robert Burton

“
YOU SURE YOU WANT
to do this?”

“No. What I
want
is to go home and sleep for about a hundred years.”

“How about we go home and you get started.”

“Later.” Crow pulled into the left lane and tromped on the accelerator. The engine roared, the hood seemed to swell, and Debrowski felt her spine sink into the vinyl seat.

“I never thought I’d say this, Crow, but I kinda miss your Jag.”

“I just want to check this place out.”

“I understand that’s what you want. What I don’t get is why you’re the one that has to do it. Call your friend the cop. You got his card.”

“I’m the one who made it all happen. I’m the one that brought Hyatt and Carmen together. I’m the one who got the Amaranthines all stirred up. I’m the one who arranged for the limousine, and I’m the one who was driving it. The rest of them—Axel, Hyatt, Carmen, and the Amaranthines—they’re all victims of circumstance.”

“Crow, the universe does not tremble when you scratch your ass. Didn’t they teach you that in AA?”