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Chapter Ten

Richard's first instinct was to surge forward, grab him by the throat, and gut the bastard bare-handed. The impulse, all fire and ice, roared over him. It felt good, but he could not give in to it, and made himself ride it out until he could think again.

Alejandro was unaware of his doom standing a scant few yards from him. He was grinning, enjoying a joke from the naked girl seated next to him, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, his other on the girl's thigh. His shirt was open, and the way things were proceeding it wouldn't be long before his pants went the same way.

It's a victory party. He's celebrating their deaths.

The sounds and movement of it abruptly resumed again in Richard's perception. He stalked slowly into the middle of it, heart pumping hard with pure rage. He went straight to the girl, gently touching her arm to get her attention. She paused in her laughter to look up, saw his face, and blanched. He gestured for her to leave. Not understanding the why of it, but clearly relieved to be excused, she boosted from her chair and tottered off, amazingly quick on her six-inch heels.

Richard took her seat. Alejandro's expression was a study in puzzled fury for the interruption. He brought himself under swift control.

"What do you want?" he asked. No need for the preamble of demanding this stranger identify himself; any man making such an approach would always want something.

"Do you know who I am?" Richard asked in perfect Spanish.

Slightly older than his brother, Alejandro bore a sibling's likeness to Luis, but his good looks were dissipated, his expression remote, stony. He could smile and laugh as heartily as the next man, but the humor would never reach his shark's eyes. They were hooded over now with supreme caution. He raised his hand lazily. The people nearest to them drew back and several men materialized in their place. The brassy music continued, but the dancers faltered in their gyrations.

"I don't think it matters who you are," Alejandro replied. "You do not belong here. I will ask you to leave."

"Not if you are a wise man."

"Indeed?"

"A wise man knows the face of his enemy."

"And how have I offended you to make you my enemy?"

"You breathe. That is offense enough."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. You will be too, I expect. Very soon."

"As will you. For Luis."

That shot home. Alejandro's eyes flickered. "I know many named Luis."

"But only one you may call brother."

"What is your business with me?"

Richard made no immediate answer, putting forth his concentration to snare Alejandro's will and subjugate it to his own. "I want you to listen very carefully. What I say is important to you. Your life depends on it."

Alejandro had had drink, quite a lot, but the words, the soothing tone were having their effect. He blinked, eyes just beginning to glaze.

"You must tell me where Luis is. That's the most important thing in the world to you now."

"I . . ."

"Yes, you know where he is. You must tell me." Richard felt the veins in his temples pulsing as he pressed matters. "Where. Is. Luis?"

"He's . . . he's . . ." Alejandro wavered, fighting it.

"Where?"

"You—you're the one who . . ."

Richard kept his voice even and low. Velvet persuasion. "Never mind that. Tell me where Luis is."

His breath came harsh, sweat popped on his brow, but Alejandro could not pull away. He raised his arm, weakly, like one drowning.

"Tell me." Someone slapped a hand down hard on Richard's shoulder. He continued without pause. "You must tell me. You will tell me. Where is Luis?"

"No . . ." Alejandro won his struggle, his head jerking to one side as though to avoid being struck. He nearly fell from his chair, but one of his men caught and steadied him. It was a general signal to the others to do something.

They hauled Richard up and back. He recovered himself in an instant, but they were fast. More hands grabbed his arms, fists pummeled his body. He shook off two men and felled two more. Three took their place, hampering each other, but eager to get in on the kill.

Something slammed against the side of his head. It was meant to be a fatal blow, but only slowed him. He punched backward reflexively, his elbow connecting with a skull to judge by the bruising impact that shot up his arm. A gun was shoved in his face. He batted it away, breaking bones, and tried to force himself through to Alejandro, who was retreating toward the door, yelling orders.

Richard felt a terrible shock in his back, level with his right kidney; his legs suddenly gave out. The lot of them toppled, their combined weight pinning him to the floor. He tried to shoulder his way from under the pile, but could not. Then he couldn't move at all. He lay dazed and inert, his mind tardily concluding some minutes later that he'd suffered another strike to the head, this one decidedly effective. Somewhere above, his enemies caught their breath and discussed what to do with him.

"Who is he?"

"Man, I need a doctor."

"Gonna kill that mother—"

"What was that shit about Luis?"

"Goddamn fucker . . ."

"Man, I'm bleeding, gimme some help here . . ."

". . . busted my arm."

"Enough! Shut up!" Alejandro. Very much in charge. They subsided. "You—put that damn thing away. You think they would not hear a shot?"

Richard was turned over. His eyes refused to focus properly. He winced against the spin of too-bright lights and the flesh-colored blobs that were people. His primary sensations had to do with lack of air, bruisings, and an appalling burning in his back.

A blurred face came near, scowling. "It is you. I thought you were in— How in hell did you get here?"

"Who is he, boss?"

"Never mind." Alejandro snapped. "Everyone out! The party's over. Move! Now!"

A general shuffling took place, accompanied by muttered questions or grumbles at the fun cut short. Soon the room was cleared of all but a few of the crowd. Richard dimly recognized the oversized form of Nick Anton among their number.

Alejandro nodded at him. "You and your men, get this bastard out of here."

"What do you want us to do with him, sir?"

"What do you think? Get rid of him."

"Permanently?"

"Of course. And make damned sure you do not leave a trail—of any kind. If this comes back to me you are dead."

"Yes, sir." Anton was apparently unfazed by his employer's threat. "What about the manager?"

"I will make it okay with him. You do this."

Not one to waste time, Anton directed two of his people to see to Richard. He was roughly lifted and carried through a side exit. He registered the change from cool, smoke-filled air, to muggy outside air. Most of his attention was on the bonfire in his back. He belatedly recognized the distinct pain of a knife wound. It had gone deep. He'd be a little while recovering—if they gave him the chance.

They won't. 

The men dropped him onto the hot, gritty concrete. One went off to get a car. Two remained. He'd never have better odds and, given his condition, two against one were more than enough.

Anton bent close, one hand holding an odd-looking knife. The thing was half a yard long with a viciously sharp Damascus blade, some sort of a custom job. He wiped the flat of it against Richard's shirt to clean the blood away, straightened, then apparently slipped it into his pants pocket. He must have removed or put a hole in it to allow him access to whatever hidden sheath he had strapped to his leg.

Once the knife vanished, Richard abruptly came to life, seizing Anton's ankles. The big man was just stepping away, and his forward momentum worked against him. He cursed and tried to right himself, but came crashing down, hands barely cushioning his fall.

His friend had time to turn and react, aiming a kick at Richard's face. He caught it with his hands and twisted hard, throwing him severely off balance. The man gave a hoarse yell of pain, not only for his jolting hit to the ground, but for his greenstick fracture.

Anton was quick. That long knife magically reappeared in his hand, and he made his thrust just as Richard was getting to his feet. The blade caught him across the back of his right knee, slicing easily through the tough denim to bite the flesh. He grunted as his leg caved. More fire shot through him as he dropped and rolled, trying to gain time. Anton followed with a backswing, but Richard dodged it, moving awkwardly.

He pushed upright, but could place no weight on his leg. Anton charged in, death in his face; Richard dove under his guard, tackling him. It was like trying to bring down a well-muscled refrigerator. He just barely managed, landing on top. Seizing his slim advantage, he smashed a fist into Anton's jaw with as much force as he could summon. The man stopped fighting. Thank God.

The second one was too busy moaning over his injury to do anything. Good. Richard used the pause to assess his own damage. A bad wound in his back, yes, but starting to ease. His knee was far worse; the bastard had hamstrung him. He'd not felt anything like this since swords had gone out of fashion. Keeping as immobile as possible, he put pressure on the vein to keep from bleeding to death before he healed, his breath made short and shallow by the pain. He'd had worse, but it was still a bitch to get through.

The car was on its way. A third man inside, possibly more. Certainly well-armed.

Damnation. He was too vulnerable and weak for any chance of success against them. If he called for help, the club bouncers patrolling the outside would either throw their lot in with Alejandro's men or bring police, medics, and other unwanted complications. Richard despised the idea of retreat, but saw no other alternative.

His bad leg dragging, he crawled toward the darkness edging the boundaries of the club and prayed the hunters had no flashlights.

He found brief cover between two cars. It felt like the knife was yet cutting him with each jarring move, but he kept going, not daring to stop. He got over a curb into a patch of dried-out scrubby grass littered with empty beer cans and broken glass. A neglected lot between buildings. It stretched on for several yards, the grass growing higher with distance, until interrupted by the thick posts and crosspieces of an old wooden fence. He scrambled toward it, hearing activity behind him. The car had arrived. Men clustered about the fallen.

They'd start casting about for him and would not easily give up. Alejandro had no tolerance for failure.

Richard made it to the fence. The crosspieces were set very close together, making it almost easy to climb, but they were shoulder-high. The landing on the other side was singularly unpleasant. He bit off a cry and had to waste a precious moment before the agony released him enough to move again. To his dismay, he found himself trapped in a small enclosure. A cattle pen. From the look of age and neglect on the weathered fencing, it'd not been used in decades, a relic from the city's early years when beef on the hoof was money in the bank and this area was a true stockyard, not a tourist trap.

Though decrepit, the enclosure was yet strong enough to keep him in place. The overgrown patch of iron-hard ground within offered no concealment. He crept to the opposite side, not wanting another climb and drop, but found one of the lower slats was cracked across. He broke through, gaining another dozen feet of distance between himself and pursuit.

The next pen was in even worse repair with part of one side gone. The opening led to a narrow alley running between sections. Here, long ago, cowboys could drive the cattle in single file toward the slaughterhouse.

"He went this way; Hub tol' us—not over there!"

A man's voice, unexpectedly close, froze Richard. He had the visual advantage at night, but it was of little use when he couldn't stand to see.

"Hub also tol' us Nick nearly chopped his leg off, so no way could he climb that," another man countered. "He'll be along here, not in that mess."

"Then you tell the boss."

"No way."

The first man clambered up to survey the area. He had a flashlight. Richard rolled against the near side of the fence, face into the dust, pale hands under him, hoping his dark clothes would blend with the general gloom. He went absolutely still.

Was it fancy, or did he actually feel the beam of the light playing across him?

It danced and flickered along the fencing, making harsh shadows. Confusing ones, he hoped. He held his breath, listening for the least sound of movement from the hunter.

The man was thorough, his search lengthy. Richard's time sense distorted as the minutes stretched to infinity. He forgot his pain in the waiting.

"Aw, hell." The voice of defeat. The man jumped down—on his own side—and trudged off.

Richard sagged, sweating with relief, but remained in place. They might decide to swing back. At least this forced respite offered him a chance to heal.

And thirst. He'd bled quite a lot from both wounds. He swallowed dry, his throat aching.

They kept at it for twenty minutes, twice coming his way. There was some argument about searching the pens. Most were reluctant to venture in. They paused, uncomfortably near, their voices carrying well in the motionless air.

"Place'll be fulla rats," said one. "Or snakes."

Now they tell me, Richard thought.

"Nah, they's a lotta cats get dumped here; they eat the snakes," came another.

"All they gotta do is miss one. Ain't worth it to me to step on some rattler what got missed."

"You gonna say that to the boss's face?"

"Don't matter to me; I ain't gonna say it. Not worth it to do this."

"Huh. Don't like playing with the big boys?"

"Nope. Grabbing some ass inna titty bar is one thing, but chasing down some fucker who should be dead is another. I saw Nick stick him. Where he got it, he shouldn'ta got up again, but he did, an' he got away after decking Nick and Hub. That ain't anybody I wanna meet out here inna dark. What about the rest of you? Think it over."

They did. One by one, they departed. Richard thankfully marked their retreat as they crunched their way over the trash in the lot.

The threat of rats and snakes aside, he decided to remain a while longer. The burning in his leg and back was beginning to cool. It meant recovery, but was tedious. So bloody . . . damned . . . tedious . . .

He jerked awake, disoriented and strangely cold. He peered at his watch. Past midnight. He'd been out that long? Or that short? With the damage he'd suffered he could have lain unconscious until dawn.

With great caution, Richard slowly got up, using the fence to keep his balance as he tested his leg. It hurt like hell, but he could walk—make that limp—on it. Shivering, he made his way along the alley until finding a break in the pens that allowed him real escape.

From the look of the buildings fronting the lot, he judged himself to be just a little south of the club. His car would be close by, just off the main street. All he had to do was avoid drawing attention. Not easy, given the state of his bloodied and torn clothes.

God, but he was thirsty.

The walk was not amusing. The new-healed tendons were stretched tight and diabolically sore. Each step over the uneven ground was needed physical therapy for them, but it was much too soon to press himself. And it was all his own fault.

Damn it, why had he charged in like that? He could have waited for a better moment to take out Alejandro.

But the sight of that bastard laughing, enjoying himself, positively gloating over his success had been beyond endurance. Richard accepted that he was far too emotionally involved for common sense to rule, but that had been pure insanity.

And yet in reproachful retrospect, given the time to think, he knew he'd do the same thing again. Richard would not have been Richard if he'd stood by, stoically marking time until a reasonable opportunity presented itself.

Had Alejandro not been so drunkenly resistant to hypnosis, the whole business would have ended quite differently. He'd been sober enough to eventually recognize Richard, though. Disturbing, that. Was the New Karnak sanctuary compromised?

Alejandro would have been well aware of Luis's job at Arhyn-Hill, but Richard kept a very low profile there. Some of the employees had heard of him, but his name wasn't listed on any company directory. One of the reasons he'd chosen the job for Luis was its lack of an obvious connection.

Ingrained caution dictated that he not underestimate Alejandro's resources.

A desire to conclude things dictated that he turn this possible breach in his defenses to his advantage.

All I need do is go home and wait for him to find me.

Not the best of strategies. But then he was hardly at his best right now. Later—he would plan something out later.

The pavement resumed behind the buildings, beginning with an access drive for delivery trucks, the lighting sparse. He hobbled across to an alley that led to the brighter areas of the main street and the parking annex. The eateries were closed or closing, the shops dark, only the bars showed activity. And a police car was parked right in his path opposite the alley mouth. They'd see him going to his car, and at the moment he certainly looked to be a highly suspicious character.

He paused well back in the narrow space between aged buildings. Hidden by shadows, he leaned against the indifferent red brick, wearily wishing the officers would take themselves elsewhere before he collapsed.

Then he came abruptly alert, sensing another presence nearby. Just a few paces ahead he made out the form of a petite woman pressed into a doorway set in the opposite wall. She was also keeping a wary eye on the patrol car, shifting uneasily on her too-high heels, waiting for it to leave.

Well, well. If it wasn't Gail like-a-tornado-but-spelled-with-an-i. Her blonde friend Stormee was nowhere in sight. Perhaps busy with a customer. Gail was losing business with the cops in the way. Perhaps he could amend that.

"Hallo, Gail," he called in a soft low tone, hoping she wouldn't run away. "Remember me?"

She gave a violent start, whipping around to peer into the general darkness. "Who's that?"

"It's all right. We met earlier. Stormee was with you."

This reassured her. Slightly. "An' who're you?"

"Just a lonely man looking for some southern comfort." He noticed she had a small object ready in one hand. Pepper spray. In her line of work a girl couldn't be too careful.

"Why you hiding?" she demanded.

"I got into a scuffle tonight, and those policemen might wonder why my clothes are in a less than pristine state. I'd just as soon avoid official notice, if you know what I mean."

She chuckled once, relaxing somewhat. "I sure do, honey. You said you were lonely?"

"Exceedingly so. You may recall that I was too busy earlier."

With a quick look over her shoulder at the car, she cautiously stepped across to him. "You got some time now?"

"Oh, absolutely. Do you think we could come to some mutually advantageous arrangement?"

"Depends what you want, honey." Gail gave him a hard look, for all the good it did her in these dense shadows. "An' I'll tell you first off I use protection no matter what you want. You don't like that, then too bad."

"Not at all. I quite approve."

A big smile. "Then we should get along just fine."

"This is hardly the place, though."

"Yeah. If one of those cops decides to take a leak, it could get embarrassing. Come over this way." Gail took his arm. He tried to disguise his limp, but she noticed anyway. "You hurt?"

"Not much. You should see the other fellow."

A short laugh. "You men. Get a drink, have a fight, get laid."

He had to agree. In his fifteen hundred years' observation of human nature, nothing much had changed about that particular male ritual. He planned to shortly modify the ordering of the pattern for himself, though.

"Jeez—are you all right?" Her voice rose with alarm.

They'd come to a place with light, the outer nimbus being sufficient to reveal his severely disheveled condition to her. She gaped exactly one second at the dirt and blood and turned to run.

He caught her just in time, lifting and hauling her back.

"Lemme go!" Her voice was climbing to a full-blown shriek. Before she could vent it, he clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed her to the building to minimize her struggles. He did not want to do it this way, but had no other choice.

She brought up the pepper spray. He was expecting that and took it from her.

"Just hold still," he whispered, trying to catch her gaze.

Her eyes were wild and staring, flushed with fear and anger. She fought as best she could, kicking, clawing, screaming under the pressure of his hand. Very little noise of it came out.

"Gail, it's all right, I'm not going to hurt you."

She'd heard that one before, to judge by her frenzied reaction, and why not? Didn't killers and rapists always make such empty promises to their victims?

He had to get her attention, to put a quick end to her terror. Toward that goal, he gave her a good shake, not so much as to snap her neck, but enough so she'd know that he was very much in charge. With her feet dangling a foot off the ground it was easy for her to take the point. "Be still," he ordered in a no-nonsense tone.

He got an anguished look from her.

Eye contact. All he needed.

He focused the whole of his will upon her. "Hush now and listen to me. I won't hurt you. Listen to me, Gail . . ."

Fear could be almost as potent as alcohol as an impediment to hypnosis. She had strong resistance to suggestion, and did not readily accept his soothing persuasion. Some of them were like that, especially if they were on guard to start with, so he never forced the issue if he could help it. Much better for them both that he take what he needed from a willing woman, much simpler, much easier on his battered conscience.

He kept at her, counting each moment that she did not try to bolt as a victory, until at long last she went under and truly relaxed. Her desperate fight forgotten, she stood quietly—waiting and oh, so willing. Thank the Goddess for large favors.

His velvet soft words to Gail now had the effect of foreplay. He caught the gradual change in her scent, heard the quickening of her breath. He would never tire of it, never. She soon lifted her face to him as she would to a lover, wearing a smile of pure trust, eager, with demands of her own.

Southern comfort, indeed.

Some crates had been left stacked by a delivery entrance. He sat on one to rest his leg, drawing her toward him.

Richard hungered, but took time to kiss her ardently, his hands roaming her body, not restraining it. She responded in kind with an expert's skill, her touch making him hard with need. He lifted her easily onto his lap. She giggled, wrapping her legs around him, pressing her hips and breasts close.

His corner teeth budded. He wanted her, wanted to strip the clothes from her well-muscled body and thoroughly lose himself in her. She offered love and solace and release from his cares and griefs. Only momentarily, though. It was ever thus with all of them.

Damnation. 

He'd have liked nothing better than to be able to properly take her, to really make love with her. But this was not the time or place. He had to hurry, to feed his hunger rather than his desire. Not fair, but often what he had to settle for when circumstances were unfavorable. In instances like this, the lady always came out ahead of him in pleasure.

But not too far ahead, he thought, nuzzling the taut skin of her throat. He bit down, holding her tight. She made a long, gasping cry at this, then another as the first rush of blood left her. He drew strongly on its healing fire, so different from the burn of injury. The red heat instantly relieved his countless aches and bruisings. It was miraculous stuff. His wretched hunger fled; his torn flesh painlessly renewed.

Gail murmured something, arching strongly against him. For a second he thought she'd resumed her struggles, then realized she was climaxing. Her whole body shuddered in reaction. It was quite lovely, holding her as he was, feeling what was happening to her, knowing he'd brought it about. He drank deeply, drank until she finally wilted with exhaustion.

He pulled away, the small wounds he'd made still bleeding a little. He kissed them clean until they closed, then inspected her face. Her eyes were half shut, drowsy. She would sleep very well tonight. Perhaps she'd feel light-headed for a day or two, but nothing more serious than that. Good. He'd promised he wouldn't hurt her and preferred to keep his word.

As for those very visible marks on her sweet neck . . . well, the blood donation story would not suit. This time the blame must be placed on insect bites. The ruse went over rather better in Toronto, for even Texas mosquitoes were no match to their Canadian cousins when it came to size and sheer viciousness.

Richard primed Gail with that unlikely explanation after wiping the reality of their encounter from her conscious memory. He substituted a more mundane one in its stead, then raided his wallet. Knowing that she might not be recuperated enough to work the following night, he was generous, covering whatever earnings she'd lose, and putting an extra hundred on top. He felt badly for having scared her so much at the beginning.

No trace of fear from her now as they strolled back to the alley. They were able to continue on to the sidewalk, for the patrol car was gone.

"You look me up again sometime soon, honey," she drawled as he crossed the street. His limp was nearly gone. "That's Gail—like a tornado . . ."

"But with an i," he finished amiably. "I won't forget."

Richard went back to the club.

He was in no presentable state to be allowed inside, but did not plan a direct approach. He parked in a handicap space, killed the motor, but left the headlights on, blinking them several times. This was sufficient to catch the attention of one of the door bouncers, who sauntered over. He came close, bending to peer in the open driver's window.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I hope so," said Richard. "I'm having a problem with my contacts."

"Oh, yeah?"

He vaguely gestured toward his face. "I think one them slipped down but I can't feel anything. The light here is really bad."

"Why don't you put your dome on?"

Richard gave a self-effacing laugh. "It's a rental, I can't find the damn control."

"Might be on the steering wheel."

"Really?"

He leaned closer to point. "Try that one."

The dome came on, bright enough to work with. Richard caught the man's attention. "Would you look at my eye? Maybe you can see the lens. It's rather hard for me."

The man looked. After a long, still minute, Richard had him. He instructed him to find the manager and bring him out.

"Tell him it has to do with the large private party that left earlier. He should understand."

"Okay." The bouncer departed, pushing past his fellows at the door, obviously on an errand with no time to waste.

Richard watched and waited, refusing to allow his hopes to rise.

Presently, a dark-haired man in an open-neck white polo with the club's name stitched on the pocket emerged. The bouncer pointed out Richard's car to him. He came around to the driver's side, too.

"Yes, sir?" He possessed the grim, tired expression of one who expects the worst of people and usually gets it.

"You're the manager who dealt with the host of the private party?" He did not think Alejandro would have used his real name.

"Yes, sir. I'm Mr. Forestieri. I spoke to Mr. Gonzalas earlier. Is there a problem?"

"No. Mr. Gonzalas wanted to arrange another party, perhaps for next week."

"We may be booked. Why don't you come to my office? The schedule's there."

"No need to trouble yourself, if you'll just listen to me very closely . . ."

Forestieri proved to be a bit less of a challenge than the bouncer. It took only half a minute to hook him. He obligingly got in on the passenger side. Richard had many questions. Unfortunately, the answer to them all was "no." Forestieri only knew Trujillo as Gonzalas, had no address or number for him; the party had been paid for in cash. Lots of it.

"Who made the arrangements?" Richard asked, exasperated in spite of himself. He'd known this foray would probably not have a payoff. "You had to have talked to someone."

"Nick Anton set it up for him."

"When?"

"Last week."

That far back? Alejandro had been quite confident of success, then. "Anton was the only go-between?"

"He came in with the deposit for the room and entertainment. He's done that before for this guy and others." Forestieri, once started, had no trouble imparting information; the problem was finding anything useable in it.

"How often has Gonzalas been here?"

"Couple times a year."

"Where do you think he gets his money?"

"Oh, he's in drugs, anybody can see that."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Money's money. He don't deal on the premises."

No, just shares in the bounty and bribes you to not notice, he thought, the sights and smells of the private room still fresh in his memory. "Where's Nick Anton tonight?"

"I dunno. Maybe with Gonzalas. The guy likes to have plenty of muscle around him. It's a status thing."

"Who would know where to find Gonzalas?"

"I dunno." Forestieri stared at the dashboard, indifferent. His clothing stank of cigarette smoke and sweat.

"Someone here must."

"I dunno."

Richard held his temper in check. "Then you will go out and ask. Talk to every girl who was at that party; talk to anyone who had anything to do with it or Anton. I have to know where Gonzalas is. Go."

Forestieri left, beginning his questions with the men at the door. One and all shook their heads or shrugged. He went inside. Richard cut his lights and ran the air to clear out the stink. After that, he had nothing more to do but stare at the club entry for the next hour.

Forestieri returned. What he imparted was a collection of conflicting stories of where Gonzalas might be staying. The guesses ranged from a prim bed-and-breakfast in Weatherford to several swank hotels in Dallas, to a private mansion at an unspecified location. There wasn't even that much speculation about Anton, as he didn't talk to fellow workers about his jobs outside the club. Little wonder.

Richard gave Forestieri his cell phone number. "When you next see Anton, Gonzalas, or anyone in that group or find out where they are, you will call me, no matter what the time. You will not speak of me to them or anyone else. Is that clear?"

The reply to that, of course, was "yes." It made a change, at least.

Nick Anton's Euless apartment was dark at this late hour. Richard moved quietly, eschewing the squawking gate, climbing over the porch wall instead. His instinct told him the place would be empty, but he had to be thorough.

His leg all mended, he landed lightly, crept to the door, and pressed his ear to its glass panel. His shadow would show against the closed blinds on the other side, but at this point he didn't care. He'd welcome the chance to engage Anton in a short, violent conversation. That would be extremely satisfying.

The door had a deadbolt as well as a regular lock in the knob. Richard's burgling tools were at home, and he didn't fancy the noise of breaking glass as an announcement of his presence to the other tenants.

Perhaps the would-be dancer in the flat upstairs might have a key to Anton's place. She seemed to know more about his doings than his coworkers.

She was also, alas, popular. Not at home to Richard's knock. Either working or on a date. Or both.

He gave up this trail for the time being. Anton probably wouldn't be back for hours, if at all. He could even still be out cold from the fight.

Cheering thought.

Richard headed east, swooping into his slot in New Karnak's parking garage just after two-thirty. Weariness enveloped him the closer he got to his refuge. When the elevator doors slid open, he was mentally prepared to go straight to bed.

Two messages were on his machine.

Bourland had phoned some six hours earlier to give his flight number and when he'd be arriving on Monday. He'd sorted out the details for Michael's travel as well. The boy would go back with him when the time came.

"There's one other thing," he added. "I'll be telling the police I'm Stephanie's uncle. If they think I'm next of kin, it will make the process easier—and yes, I'll have papers to prove that if necessary. My coming in will draw police attention to me and thus to you. I'll stop at your place, but it'll be better if I take a hotel room before I contact them. Call me if you've any news."

Considerate of him to be so cautious. Richard wondered what explanation Bourland would give to account for his knowledge of the murder victims ahead of anyone else. The media had not released any names yet, pending notification of family. Not to worry, the man was wily and charming as a cat; he'd smooth things over.

Dr. Sam left the second message. He announced that he and Helen had arrived safe at her home, gave the address and number and said that Michael's condition was unchanged.

"If he doesn't start to snap out of it tomorrow, I'm going to hunt down a specialist. That's not a threat, it's a necessity, so get used to the idea."

Sam was an easy subject for suggestion, but surprisingly forceful about getting his own way when it was important to him. It always had to do with the care of his patients.

Very well, so be it.

Richard stripped on his way to the shower, once more carefully trashing his ruined clothes. Damn it. He'd liked those jeans.

When he emerged, the night scrubbed from his once-bruised body if not from his spirit, he stopped cold, halted by an eerie, insistent sound. It was like a baby's cry, meant to get attention.

The awful déjà vu stole the blood from his face and strength from his limbs.

His computer was flashing the letter S. It had the same program as the one in his Toronto home.

Stephanie?

No. Utterly impossible, though an instant of hope had split through him like lightning. More likely this was an emergency call from another friend in desperate need.

He groaned inwardly, approaching the computer as though it were a bomb, and tapped in the access code.

The message that came through floored him.

This is Luis. Phone me. Please. 

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Ten

Richard's first instinct was to surge forward, grab him by the throat, and gut the bastard bare-handed. The impulse, all fire and ice, roared over him. It felt good, but he could not give in to it, and made himself ride it out until he could think again.

Alejandro was unaware of his doom standing a scant few yards from him. He was grinning, enjoying a joke from the naked girl seated next to him, a half-smoked cigar in one hand, his other on the girl's thigh. His shirt was open, and the way things were proceeding it wouldn't be long before his pants went the same way.

It's a victory party. He's celebrating their deaths.

The sounds and movement of it abruptly resumed again in Richard's perception. He stalked slowly into the middle of it, heart pumping hard with pure rage. He went straight to the girl, gently touching her arm to get her attention. She paused in her laughter to look up, saw his face, and blanched. He gestured for her to leave. Not understanding the why of it, but clearly relieved to be excused, she boosted from her chair and tottered off, amazingly quick on her six-inch heels.

Richard took her seat. Alejandro's expression was a study in puzzled fury for the interruption. He brought himself under swift control.

"What do you want?" he asked. No need for the preamble of demanding this stranger identify himself; any man making such an approach would always want something.

"Do you know who I am?" Richard asked in perfect Spanish.

Slightly older than his brother, Alejandro bore a sibling's likeness to Luis, but his good looks were dissipated, his expression remote, stony. He could smile and laugh as heartily as the next man, but the humor would never reach his shark's eyes. They were hooded over now with supreme caution. He raised his hand lazily. The people nearest to them drew back and several men materialized in their place. The brassy music continued, but the dancers faltered in their gyrations.

"I don't think it matters who you are," Alejandro replied. "You do not belong here. I will ask you to leave."

"Not if you are a wise man."

"Indeed?"

"A wise man knows the face of his enemy."

"And how have I offended you to make you my enemy?"

"You breathe. That is offense enough."

"I'm sorry you feel that way. You will be too, I expect. Very soon."

"As will you. For Luis."

That shot home. Alejandro's eyes flickered. "I know many named Luis."

"But only one you may call brother."

"What is your business with me?"

Richard made no immediate answer, putting forth his concentration to snare Alejandro's will and subjugate it to his own. "I want you to listen very carefully. What I say is important to you. Your life depends on it."

Alejandro had had drink, quite a lot, but the words, the soothing tone were having their effect. He blinked, eyes just beginning to glaze.

"You must tell me where Luis is. That's the most important thing in the world to you now."

"I . . ."

"Yes, you know where he is. You must tell me." Richard felt the veins in his temples pulsing as he pressed matters. "Where. Is. Luis?"

"He's . . . he's . . ." Alejandro wavered, fighting it.

"Where?"

"You—you're the one who . . ."

Richard kept his voice even and low. Velvet persuasion. "Never mind that. Tell me where Luis is."

His breath came harsh, sweat popped on his brow, but Alejandro could not pull away. He raised his arm, weakly, like one drowning.

"Tell me." Someone slapped a hand down hard on Richard's shoulder. He continued without pause. "You must tell me. You will tell me. Where is Luis?"

"No . . ." Alejandro won his struggle, his head jerking to one side as though to avoid being struck. He nearly fell from his chair, but one of his men caught and steadied him. It was a general signal to the others to do something.

They hauled Richard up and back. He recovered himself in an instant, but they were fast. More hands grabbed his arms, fists pummeled his body. He shook off two men and felled two more. Three took their place, hampering each other, but eager to get in on the kill.

Something slammed against the side of his head. It was meant to be a fatal blow, but only slowed him. He punched backward reflexively, his elbow connecting with a skull to judge by the bruising impact that shot up his arm. A gun was shoved in his face. He batted it away, breaking bones, and tried to force himself through to Alejandro, who was retreating toward the door, yelling orders.

Richard felt a terrible shock in his back, level with his right kidney; his legs suddenly gave out. The lot of them toppled, their combined weight pinning him to the floor. He tried to shoulder his way from under the pile, but could not. Then he couldn't move at all. He lay dazed and inert, his mind tardily concluding some minutes later that he'd suffered another strike to the head, this one decidedly effective. Somewhere above, his enemies caught their breath and discussed what to do with him.

"Who is he?"

"Man, I need a doctor."

"Gonna kill that mother—"

"What was that shit about Luis?"

"Goddamn fucker . . ."

"Man, I'm bleeding, gimme some help here . . ."

". . . busted my arm."

"Enough! Shut up!" Alejandro. Very much in charge. They subsided. "You—put that damn thing away. You think they would not hear a shot?"

Richard was turned over. His eyes refused to focus properly. He winced against the spin of too-bright lights and the flesh-colored blobs that were people. His primary sensations had to do with lack of air, bruisings, and an appalling burning in his back.

A blurred face came near, scowling. "It is you. I thought you were in— How in hell did you get here?"

"Who is he, boss?"

"Never mind." Alejandro snapped. "Everyone out! The party's over. Move! Now!"

A general shuffling took place, accompanied by muttered questions or grumbles at the fun cut short. Soon the room was cleared of all but a few of the crowd. Richard dimly recognized the oversized form of Nick Anton among their number.

Alejandro nodded at him. "You and your men, get this bastard out of here."

"What do you want us to do with him, sir?"

"What do you think? Get rid of him."

"Permanently?"

"Of course. And make damned sure you do not leave a trail—of any kind. If this comes back to me you are dead."

"Yes, sir." Anton was apparently unfazed by his employer's threat. "What about the manager?"

"I will make it okay with him. You do this."

Not one to waste time, Anton directed two of his people to see to Richard. He was roughly lifted and carried through a side exit. He registered the change from cool, smoke-filled air, to muggy outside air. Most of his attention was on the bonfire in his back. He belatedly recognized the distinct pain of a knife wound. It had gone deep. He'd be a little while recovering—if they gave him the chance.

They won't. 

The men dropped him onto the hot, gritty concrete. One went off to get a car. Two remained. He'd never have better odds and, given his condition, two against one were more than enough.

Anton bent close, one hand holding an odd-looking knife. The thing was half a yard long with a viciously sharp Damascus blade, some sort of a custom job. He wiped the flat of it against Richard's shirt to clean the blood away, straightened, then apparently slipped it into his pants pocket. He must have removed or put a hole in it to allow him access to whatever hidden sheath he had strapped to his leg.

Once the knife vanished, Richard abruptly came to life, seizing Anton's ankles. The big man was just stepping away, and his forward momentum worked against him. He cursed and tried to right himself, but came crashing down, hands barely cushioning his fall.

His friend had time to turn and react, aiming a kick at Richard's face. He caught it with his hands and twisted hard, throwing him severely off balance. The man gave a hoarse yell of pain, not only for his jolting hit to the ground, but for his greenstick fracture.

Anton was quick. That long knife magically reappeared in his hand, and he made his thrust just as Richard was getting to his feet. The blade caught him across the back of his right knee, slicing easily through the tough denim to bite the flesh. He grunted as his leg caved. More fire shot through him as he dropped and rolled, trying to gain time. Anton followed with a backswing, but Richard dodged it, moving awkwardly.

He pushed upright, but could place no weight on his leg. Anton charged in, death in his face; Richard dove under his guard, tackling him. It was like trying to bring down a well-muscled refrigerator. He just barely managed, landing on top. Seizing his slim advantage, he smashed a fist into Anton's jaw with as much force as he could summon. The man stopped fighting. Thank God.

The second one was too busy moaning over his injury to do anything. Good. Richard used the pause to assess his own damage. A bad wound in his back, yes, but starting to ease. His knee was far worse; the bastard had hamstrung him. He'd not felt anything like this since swords had gone out of fashion. Keeping as immobile as possible, he put pressure on the vein to keep from bleeding to death before he healed, his breath made short and shallow by the pain. He'd had worse, but it was still a bitch to get through.

The car was on its way. A third man inside, possibly more. Certainly well-armed.

Damnation. He was too vulnerable and weak for any chance of success against them. If he called for help, the club bouncers patrolling the outside would either throw their lot in with Alejandro's men or bring police, medics, and other unwanted complications. Richard despised the idea of retreat, but saw no other alternative.

His bad leg dragging, he crawled toward the darkness edging the boundaries of the club and prayed the hunters had no flashlights.

He found brief cover between two cars. It felt like the knife was yet cutting him with each jarring move, but he kept going, not daring to stop. He got over a curb into a patch of dried-out scrubby grass littered with empty beer cans and broken glass. A neglected lot between buildings. It stretched on for several yards, the grass growing higher with distance, until interrupted by the thick posts and crosspieces of an old wooden fence. He scrambled toward it, hearing activity behind him. The car had arrived. Men clustered about the fallen.

They'd start casting about for him and would not easily give up. Alejandro had no tolerance for failure.

Richard made it to the fence. The crosspieces were set very close together, making it almost easy to climb, but they were shoulder-high. The landing on the other side was singularly unpleasant. He bit off a cry and had to waste a precious moment before the agony released him enough to move again. To his dismay, he found himself trapped in a small enclosure. A cattle pen. From the look of age and neglect on the weathered fencing, it'd not been used in decades, a relic from the city's early years when beef on the hoof was money in the bank and this area was a true stockyard, not a tourist trap.

Though decrepit, the enclosure was yet strong enough to keep him in place. The overgrown patch of iron-hard ground within offered no concealment. He crept to the opposite side, not wanting another climb and drop, but found one of the lower slats was cracked across. He broke through, gaining another dozen feet of distance between himself and pursuit.

The next pen was in even worse repair with part of one side gone. The opening led to a narrow alley running between sections. Here, long ago, cowboys could drive the cattle in single file toward the slaughterhouse.

"He went this way; Hub tol' us—not over there!"

A man's voice, unexpectedly close, froze Richard. He had the visual advantage at night, but it was of little use when he couldn't stand to see.

"Hub also tol' us Nick nearly chopped his leg off, so no way could he climb that," another man countered. "He'll be along here, not in that mess."

"Then you tell the boss."

"No way."

The first man clambered up to survey the area. He had a flashlight. Richard rolled against the near side of the fence, face into the dust, pale hands under him, hoping his dark clothes would blend with the general gloom. He went absolutely still.

Was it fancy, or did he actually feel the beam of the light playing across him?

It danced and flickered along the fencing, making harsh shadows. Confusing ones, he hoped. He held his breath, listening for the least sound of movement from the hunter.

The man was thorough, his search lengthy. Richard's time sense distorted as the minutes stretched to infinity. He forgot his pain in the waiting.

"Aw, hell." The voice of defeat. The man jumped down—on his own side—and trudged off.

Richard sagged, sweating with relief, but remained in place. They might decide to swing back. At least this forced respite offered him a chance to heal.

And thirst. He'd bled quite a lot from both wounds. He swallowed dry, his throat aching.

They kept at it for twenty minutes, twice coming his way. There was some argument about searching the pens. Most were reluctant to venture in. They paused, uncomfortably near, their voices carrying well in the motionless air.

"Place'll be fulla rats," said one. "Or snakes."

Now they tell me, Richard thought.

"Nah, they's a lotta cats get dumped here; they eat the snakes," came another.

"All they gotta do is miss one. Ain't worth it to me to step on some rattler what got missed."

"You gonna say that to the boss's face?"

"Don't matter to me; I ain't gonna say it. Not worth it to do this."

"Huh. Don't like playing with the big boys?"

"Nope. Grabbing some ass inna titty bar is one thing, but chasing down some fucker who should be dead is another. I saw Nick stick him. Where he got it, he shouldn'ta got up again, but he did, an' he got away after decking Nick and Hub. That ain't anybody I wanna meet out here inna dark. What about the rest of you? Think it over."

They did. One by one, they departed. Richard thankfully marked their retreat as they crunched their way over the trash in the lot.

The threat of rats and snakes aside, he decided to remain a while longer. The burning in his leg and back was beginning to cool. It meant recovery, but was tedious. So bloody . . . damned . . . tedious . . .

He jerked awake, disoriented and strangely cold. He peered at his watch. Past midnight. He'd been out that long? Or that short? With the damage he'd suffered he could have lain unconscious until dawn.

With great caution, Richard slowly got up, using the fence to keep his balance as he tested his leg. It hurt like hell, but he could walk—make that limp—on it. Shivering, he made his way along the alley until finding a break in the pens that allowed him real escape.

From the look of the buildings fronting the lot, he judged himself to be just a little south of the club. His car would be close by, just off the main street. All he had to do was avoid drawing attention. Not easy, given the state of his bloodied and torn clothes.

God, but he was thirsty.

The walk was not amusing. The new-healed tendons were stretched tight and diabolically sore. Each step over the uneven ground was needed physical therapy for them, but it was much too soon to press himself. And it was all his own fault.

Damn it, why had he charged in like that? He could have waited for a better moment to take out Alejandro.

But the sight of that bastard laughing, enjoying himself, positively gloating over his success had been beyond endurance. Richard accepted that he was far too emotionally involved for common sense to rule, but that had been pure insanity.

And yet in reproachful retrospect, given the time to think, he knew he'd do the same thing again. Richard would not have been Richard if he'd stood by, stoically marking time until a reasonable opportunity presented itself.

Had Alejandro not been so drunkenly resistant to hypnosis, the whole business would have ended quite differently. He'd been sober enough to eventually recognize Richard, though. Disturbing, that. Was the New Karnak sanctuary compromised?

Alejandro would have been well aware of Luis's job at Arhyn-Hill, but Richard kept a very low profile there. Some of the employees had heard of him, but his name wasn't listed on any company directory. One of the reasons he'd chosen the job for Luis was its lack of an obvious connection.

Ingrained caution dictated that he not underestimate Alejandro's resources.

A desire to conclude things dictated that he turn this possible breach in his defenses to his advantage.

All I need do is go home and wait for him to find me.

Not the best of strategies. But then he was hardly at his best right now. Later—he would plan something out later.

The pavement resumed behind the buildings, beginning with an access drive for delivery trucks, the lighting sparse. He hobbled across to an alley that led to the brighter areas of the main street and the parking annex. The eateries were closed or closing, the shops dark, only the bars showed activity. And a police car was parked right in his path opposite the alley mouth. They'd see him going to his car, and at the moment he certainly looked to be a highly suspicious character.

He paused well back in the narrow space between aged buildings. Hidden by shadows, he leaned against the indifferent red brick, wearily wishing the officers would take themselves elsewhere before he collapsed.

Then he came abruptly alert, sensing another presence nearby. Just a few paces ahead he made out the form of a petite woman pressed into a doorway set in the opposite wall. She was also keeping a wary eye on the patrol car, shifting uneasily on her too-high heels, waiting for it to leave.

Well, well. If it wasn't Gail like-a-tornado-but-spelled-with-an-i. Her blonde friend Stormee was nowhere in sight. Perhaps busy with a customer. Gail was losing business with the cops in the way. Perhaps he could amend that.

"Hallo, Gail," he called in a soft low tone, hoping she wouldn't run away. "Remember me?"

She gave a violent start, whipping around to peer into the general darkness. "Who's that?"

"It's all right. We met earlier. Stormee was with you."

This reassured her. Slightly. "An' who're you?"

"Just a lonely man looking for some southern comfort." He noticed she had a small object ready in one hand. Pepper spray. In her line of work a girl couldn't be too careful.

"Why you hiding?" she demanded.

"I got into a scuffle tonight, and those policemen might wonder why my clothes are in a less than pristine state. I'd just as soon avoid official notice, if you know what I mean."

She chuckled once, relaxing somewhat. "I sure do, honey. You said you were lonely?"

"Exceedingly so. You may recall that I was too busy earlier."

With a quick look over her shoulder at the car, she cautiously stepped across to him. "You got some time now?"

"Oh, absolutely. Do you think we could come to some mutually advantageous arrangement?"

"Depends what you want, honey." Gail gave him a hard look, for all the good it did her in these dense shadows. "An' I'll tell you first off I use protection no matter what you want. You don't like that, then too bad."

"Not at all. I quite approve."

A big smile. "Then we should get along just fine."

"This is hardly the place, though."

"Yeah. If one of those cops decides to take a leak, it could get embarrassing. Come over this way." Gail took his arm. He tried to disguise his limp, but she noticed anyway. "You hurt?"

"Not much. You should see the other fellow."

A short laugh. "You men. Get a drink, have a fight, get laid."

He had to agree. In his fifteen hundred years' observation of human nature, nothing much had changed about that particular male ritual. He planned to shortly modify the ordering of the pattern for himself, though.

"Jeez—are you all right?" Her voice rose with alarm.

They'd come to a place with light, the outer nimbus being sufficient to reveal his severely disheveled condition to her. She gaped exactly one second at the dirt and blood and turned to run.

He caught her just in time, lifting and hauling her back.

"Lemme go!" Her voice was climbing to a full-blown shriek. Before she could vent it, he clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed her to the building to minimize her struggles. He did not want to do it this way, but had no other choice.

She brought up the pepper spray. He was expecting that and took it from her.

"Just hold still," he whispered, trying to catch her gaze.

Her eyes were wild and staring, flushed with fear and anger. She fought as best she could, kicking, clawing, screaming under the pressure of his hand. Very little noise of it came out.

"Gail, it's all right, I'm not going to hurt you."

She'd heard that one before, to judge by her frenzied reaction, and why not? Didn't killers and rapists always make such empty promises to their victims?

He had to get her attention, to put a quick end to her terror. Toward that goal, he gave her a good shake, not so much as to snap her neck, but enough so she'd know that he was very much in charge. With her feet dangling a foot off the ground it was easy for her to take the point. "Be still," he ordered in a no-nonsense tone.

He got an anguished look from her.

Eye contact. All he needed.

He focused the whole of his will upon her. "Hush now and listen to me. I won't hurt you. Listen to me, Gail . . ."

Fear could be almost as potent as alcohol as an impediment to hypnosis. She had strong resistance to suggestion, and did not readily accept his soothing persuasion. Some of them were like that, especially if they were on guard to start with, so he never forced the issue if he could help it. Much better for them both that he take what he needed from a willing woman, much simpler, much easier on his battered conscience.

He kept at her, counting each moment that she did not try to bolt as a victory, until at long last she went under and truly relaxed. Her desperate fight forgotten, she stood quietly—waiting and oh, so willing. Thank the Goddess for large favors.

His velvet soft words to Gail now had the effect of foreplay. He caught the gradual change in her scent, heard the quickening of her breath. He would never tire of it, never. She soon lifted her face to him as she would to a lover, wearing a smile of pure trust, eager, with demands of her own.

Southern comfort, indeed.

Some crates had been left stacked by a delivery entrance. He sat on one to rest his leg, drawing her toward him.

Richard hungered, but took time to kiss her ardently, his hands roaming her body, not restraining it. She responded in kind with an expert's skill, her touch making him hard with need. He lifted her easily onto his lap. She giggled, wrapping her legs around him, pressing her hips and breasts close.

His corner teeth budded. He wanted her, wanted to strip the clothes from her well-muscled body and thoroughly lose himself in her. She offered love and solace and release from his cares and griefs. Only momentarily, though. It was ever thus with all of them.

Damnation. 

He'd have liked nothing better than to be able to properly take her, to really make love with her. But this was not the time or place. He had to hurry, to feed his hunger rather than his desire. Not fair, but often what he had to settle for when circumstances were unfavorable. In instances like this, the lady always came out ahead of him in pleasure.

But not too far ahead, he thought, nuzzling the taut skin of her throat. He bit down, holding her tight. She made a long, gasping cry at this, then another as the first rush of blood left her. He drew strongly on its healing fire, so different from the burn of injury. The red heat instantly relieved his countless aches and bruisings. It was miraculous stuff. His wretched hunger fled; his torn flesh painlessly renewed.

Gail murmured something, arching strongly against him. For a second he thought she'd resumed her struggles, then realized she was climaxing. Her whole body shuddered in reaction. It was quite lovely, holding her as he was, feeling what was happening to her, knowing he'd brought it about. He drank deeply, drank until she finally wilted with exhaustion.

He pulled away, the small wounds he'd made still bleeding a little. He kissed them clean until they closed, then inspected her face. Her eyes were half shut, drowsy. She would sleep very well tonight. Perhaps she'd feel light-headed for a day or two, but nothing more serious than that. Good. He'd promised he wouldn't hurt her and preferred to keep his word.

As for those very visible marks on her sweet neck . . . well, the blood donation story would not suit. This time the blame must be placed on insect bites. The ruse went over rather better in Toronto, for even Texas mosquitoes were no match to their Canadian cousins when it came to size and sheer viciousness.

Richard primed Gail with that unlikely explanation after wiping the reality of their encounter from her conscious memory. He substituted a more mundane one in its stead, then raided his wallet. Knowing that she might not be recuperated enough to work the following night, he was generous, covering whatever earnings she'd lose, and putting an extra hundred on top. He felt badly for having scared her so much at the beginning.

No trace of fear from her now as they strolled back to the alley. They were able to continue on to the sidewalk, for the patrol car was gone.

"You look me up again sometime soon, honey," she drawled as he crossed the street. His limp was nearly gone. "That's Gail—like a tornado . . ."

"But with an i," he finished amiably. "I won't forget."

Richard went back to the club.

He was in no presentable state to be allowed inside, but did not plan a direct approach. He parked in a handicap space, killed the motor, but left the headlights on, blinking them several times. This was sufficient to catch the attention of one of the door bouncers, who sauntered over. He came close, bending to peer in the open driver's window.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"I hope so," said Richard. "I'm having a problem with my contacts."

"Oh, yeah?"

He vaguely gestured toward his face. "I think one them slipped down but I can't feel anything. The light here is really bad."

"Why don't you put your dome on?"

Richard gave a self-effacing laugh. "It's a rental, I can't find the damn control."

"Might be on the steering wheel."

"Really?"

He leaned closer to point. "Try that one."

The dome came on, bright enough to work with. Richard caught the man's attention. "Would you look at my eye? Maybe you can see the lens. It's rather hard for me."

The man looked. After a long, still minute, Richard had him. He instructed him to find the manager and bring him out.

"Tell him it has to do with the large private party that left earlier. He should understand."

"Okay." The bouncer departed, pushing past his fellows at the door, obviously on an errand with no time to waste.

Richard watched and waited, refusing to allow his hopes to rise.

Presently, a dark-haired man in an open-neck white polo with the club's name stitched on the pocket emerged. The bouncer pointed out Richard's car to him. He came around to the driver's side, too.

"Yes, sir?" He possessed the grim, tired expression of one who expects the worst of people and usually gets it.

"You're the manager who dealt with the host of the private party?" He did not think Alejandro would have used his real name.

"Yes, sir. I'm Mr. Forestieri. I spoke to Mr. Gonzalas earlier. Is there a problem?"

"No. Mr. Gonzalas wanted to arrange another party, perhaps for next week."

"We may be booked. Why don't you come to my office? The schedule's there."

"No need to trouble yourself, if you'll just listen to me very closely . . ."

Forestieri proved to be a bit less of a challenge than the bouncer. It took only half a minute to hook him. He obligingly got in on the passenger side. Richard had many questions. Unfortunately, the answer to them all was "no." Forestieri only knew Trujillo as Gonzalas, had no address or number for him; the party had been paid for in cash. Lots of it.

"Who made the arrangements?" Richard asked, exasperated in spite of himself. He'd known this foray would probably not have a payoff. "You had to have talked to someone."

"Nick Anton set it up for him."

"When?"

"Last week."

That far back? Alejandro had been quite confident of success, then. "Anton was the only go-between?"

"He came in with the deposit for the room and entertainment. He's done that before for this guy and others." Forestieri, once started, had no trouble imparting information; the problem was finding anything useable in it.

"How often has Gonzalas been here?"

"Couple times a year."

"Where do you think he gets his money?"

"Oh, he's in drugs, anybody can see that."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Money's money. He don't deal on the premises."

No, just shares in the bounty and bribes you to not notice, he thought, the sights and smells of the private room still fresh in his memory. "Where's Nick Anton tonight?"

"I dunno. Maybe with Gonzalas. The guy likes to have plenty of muscle around him. It's a status thing."

"Who would know where to find Gonzalas?"

"I dunno." Forestieri stared at the dashboard, indifferent. His clothing stank of cigarette smoke and sweat.

"Someone here must."

"I dunno."

Richard held his temper in check. "Then you will go out and ask. Talk to every girl who was at that party; talk to anyone who had anything to do with it or Anton. I have to know where Gonzalas is. Go."

Forestieri left, beginning his questions with the men at the door. One and all shook their heads or shrugged. He went inside. Richard cut his lights and ran the air to clear out the stink. After that, he had nothing more to do but stare at the club entry for the next hour.

Forestieri returned. What he imparted was a collection of conflicting stories of where Gonzalas might be staying. The guesses ranged from a prim bed-and-breakfast in Weatherford to several swank hotels in Dallas, to a private mansion at an unspecified location. There wasn't even that much speculation about Anton, as he didn't talk to fellow workers about his jobs outside the club. Little wonder.

Richard gave Forestieri his cell phone number. "When you next see Anton, Gonzalas, or anyone in that group or find out where they are, you will call me, no matter what the time. You will not speak of me to them or anyone else. Is that clear?"

The reply to that, of course, was "yes." It made a change, at least.

Nick Anton's Euless apartment was dark at this late hour. Richard moved quietly, eschewing the squawking gate, climbing over the porch wall instead. His instinct told him the place would be empty, but he had to be thorough.

His leg all mended, he landed lightly, crept to the door, and pressed his ear to its glass panel. His shadow would show against the closed blinds on the other side, but at this point he didn't care. He'd welcome the chance to engage Anton in a short, violent conversation. That would be extremely satisfying.

The door had a deadbolt as well as a regular lock in the knob. Richard's burgling tools were at home, and he didn't fancy the noise of breaking glass as an announcement of his presence to the other tenants.

Perhaps the would-be dancer in the flat upstairs might have a key to Anton's place. She seemed to know more about his doings than his coworkers.

She was also, alas, popular. Not at home to Richard's knock. Either working or on a date. Or both.

He gave up this trail for the time being. Anton probably wouldn't be back for hours, if at all. He could even still be out cold from the fight.

Cheering thought.

Richard headed east, swooping into his slot in New Karnak's parking garage just after two-thirty. Weariness enveloped him the closer he got to his refuge. When the elevator doors slid open, he was mentally prepared to go straight to bed.

Two messages were on his machine.

Bourland had phoned some six hours earlier to give his flight number and when he'd be arriving on Monday. He'd sorted out the details for Michael's travel as well. The boy would go back with him when the time came.

"There's one other thing," he added. "I'll be telling the police I'm Stephanie's uncle. If they think I'm next of kin, it will make the process easier—and yes, I'll have papers to prove that if necessary. My coming in will draw police attention to me and thus to you. I'll stop at your place, but it'll be better if I take a hotel room before I contact them. Call me if you've any news."

Considerate of him to be so cautious. Richard wondered what explanation Bourland would give to account for his knowledge of the murder victims ahead of anyone else. The media had not released any names yet, pending notification of family. Not to worry, the man was wily and charming as a cat; he'd smooth things over.

Dr. Sam left the second message. He announced that he and Helen had arrived safe at her home, gave the address and number and said that Michael's condition was unchanged.

"If he doesn't start to snap out of it tomorrow, I'm going to hunt down a specialist. That's not a threat, it's a necessity, so get used to the idea."

Sam was an easy subject for suggestion, but surprisingly forceful about getting his own way when it was important to him. It always had to do with the care of his patients.

Very well, so be it.

Richard stripped on his way to the shower, once more carefully trashing his ruined clothes. Damn it. He'd liked those jeans.

When he emerged, the night scrubbed from his once-bruised body if not from his spirit, he stopped cold, halted by an eerie, insistent sound. It was like a baby's cry, meant to get attention.

The awful déjà vu stole the blood from his face and strength from his limbs.

His computer was flashing the letter S. It had the same program as the one in his Toronto home.

Stephanie?

No. Utterly impossible, though an instant of hope had split through him like lightning. More likely this was an emergency call from another friend in desperate need.

He groaned inwardly, approaching the computer as though it were a bomb, and tapped in the access code.

The message that came through floored him.

This is Luis. Phone me. Please. 

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Framed