Part 6 (2/2)

Then I wondered if they were like me. That particularly uneasy idea held my attention for several miles before I filed it away for later consideration. It was not impossible, just unlikely.

My original thought that they were members of one of Chicago's mobs seemed the best explanation. But previous experience with them was in the nature of shooting first and never questioning later, so why just follow me? I'd have been easy enough to overtake on this lonely section of road. A few seconds of parallel driving would be long enough to deliver a .45-caliber greeting from a well-oiled Thompson, and they'd think themselves rid of me. They'd already had the chance to perform such an unsocial action outside Indianapolis. If their game was only to follow, it was becoming annoying, because I don't enjoy such games.

I kept my speed steady for many more miles, searching my memory for a clue as to who in the gangs would know me, and only came up blank. Perhaps it was some remnant of the Paco mob, or maybe something to do with Escott and that business with Swafford. I was getting more curious by the second.

Another hill loomed ahead and I hoped the far side would prove suitable. I stepped on the gas to gain a little more distance and time and topped the crest with the Lincoln half a mile behind. That would give me plenty of time, if my brakes were any good.

On the other side of the hill, I skidded to a stop and killed the lights, left the motor running, and got out. Standing in front of one taillight and holding my hat over the other, I waited for them.

They came over the hill, their lights still off. My estimate of their common sense was less than flattering, but the lack of extra glare was fine with me; their faces were now visible.

The one on the left was a scrawny brown chicken of a man in his late fifties, wearing a hat with a brim too big for him. The driver seemed to be of average height, but looked larger compared to his companion. From the look of his pocked skin and wet eyes, he was hardly out of his teens.

Both men saw me at the same time, and both registered the same expression: wide-eyed terror. Had it not been so genuine I would have laughed; as it was I resisted the impulse to look behind me, instinctively knowing that I was the inspiration for their fear.

The kid had quick reactions, he hit the gas, and the Lincoln stormed past, gaining speed from the slant of the hill. I got back in my car and roared after them.

Their headlights came on. The following game had been shot all to h.e.l.l and the high speeds put an end to their stupidity. I left mine off- the starlit landscape was like day to me and I wanted to get close to them.

The older man was turned around in his seat, watching for my approach. I got a good look at his face, which seemed familiar, and then memorized their number plate. They were from New York. That opened up a whole new line of questions as I dropped my speed and settled in to follow them for a change.

The new speculations were as futile as the old-I could think of no one from New York who'd have a reason to be after me. Curiosity was giving way to frustration, with a dash of worry for taste. Their terrified reaction had not been lost on me. I'd seen it before in the faces of people who knew what I was, but that only took me back to Chicago again.

There was Escott, but I trusted him. Besides, these two bozos were too amateurish to be connected with him. The same thing applied to Bobbi. Selma Jenks and her large friend Sled came to mind, but first they'd have to break jail or send someone after me-nope, that was too screwy even for Miss Jenks. The only one left was a mob strong arm named Gordy, but it didn't fit with him, either. If he had a grudge on me, and he didn't, he'd handle it himself and much more efficiently.

The Lincoln's brake lights flickered, held, and then the big car came to a stop, b.u.mping onto the shoulder of the road. I stopped as well and watched to see what they were doing.

The kid backed the car off the road and it vanished behind a thick strand of trees and brush. It was just the sort of hideout that state cops liked to use to spring out on unwary speeders. My two friends were going to sit there and wait for me to pa.s.s.

I was pretty fed up by now and pulled off the road as well, shutting down the motor. The silence of the country jammed my ears. I got out, not quite closing the door-the slam might have carried to the Lincoln. Keeping low, I quit my car and tiptoed up to theirs.

Their motor was off and neither seemed inclined to any fact-revealing conversation between themselves. While they waited for the approach of my car, I crouched over their right rear wheel and performed a small operation. After uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the cap in their tire, I located a pebble and jammed it inside at just the right depth and was quite satisfied with the faint hiss of escaping air.

Then I vanished.

It was a useful knack, and on occasions like this it was also fun. I materialized right by the open driver's window, clamped my hands on the kid's arms so he couldn't move to start the car, and asked a reasonable question.

”Who are you guys?”

Sometimes the element of surprise is not a good tactic. If your quarry is too surprised, the reaction you get is not necessarily the one you want.

Close up, the kid looked younger than I thought; his face still had the lingering softness of baby fat. There was a layer of smooth fat all over his body that didn't suit his years or his s.e.x, and he'd have to lay off the sweets or the problem would get worse with time. Between that and a colorful display of pimples in various stages of development and decay, I couldn't think he was much past eighteen. I'd seen younger thugs, but this guy didn't fit the mold.

His partner looked the age I guessed, past fifty or so. His hat was off now, revealing a thick growth of greasy hair that was too black to be true. His face had two deep scores on the cheeks, which were repeated countless times on the dry brown skin of his throat. He made me think of Boris Karloff in The Mummy, as though all the water had been squeezed out.

Both men confirmed that they knew what I was, and their reactions were again identical: utter terror.

The kid began yelling and fighting to get away. His legs had gone stiff and he was making a laudable effort at trying to levitate through the roof of the car. If Satan himself had appeared at his elbow in a cloud of sulfur, the reaction could not have been more violent.

His friend's mouth was wide open in shock. As a side issue I noted the yellow teeth and a number of black fillings. He was making incoherent, panicky sounds, and his eyes were stabbing around the car interior, looking for something. He was searching for a weapon, as I found out when, in desperation, he tore off one shoe and began hammering at me with the heel. It was an ineffectual attack. Between the kid's struggles and my ducking, he kept missing. When he did connect, it was usually with the kid, and that set up a whole new series of howlings.

Loud noises at close quarters make me nervous, but I was game enough to try and last it out. I ended up joining the chorus, shouting at them to shut up. Nothing less than violence would bring that about, as I quickly deduced, and so suited action to thought. I freed one hand and punched out the old guy and his annoying shoe, and he slithered from sight somewhere under the dashboard. The kid freshened his own fight until I stuck a mild fist in his stomach and knocked the breath out of him. He doubled over, b.u.mping his head on the steering wheel, and once again the country silence thankfully descended on us all.

While the kid worked to get air back in his lungs, I slipped the wallet from his coat and nosed through it. He was carrying thirty bucks and a New York driving license bearing the unlikely name of Matheus Webber. There was a small photo of two chubby people, who were probably his parents, a members.h.i.+p card to an athletic club, and a number of business cards from various New York bookstores. I shoved it all back in the leather folder and returned it to his pocket, then opened the door and dragged him out.

He was gasping for air and gray in the face, and I reasoned he must be a sporadic visitor to his club at best. Leaving him on the ground, I reached across the seat to the other guy and pulled him up. His wallet contained a hundred twenty bucks, and said he was James Braxton of New York and the owner of Braxton's Books in Manhattan.

He still seemed familiar, though the name didn't jog anything in my memory.

Neither of them looked like gangsters.

Matheus was just getting his breath back and seemed likely to bolt, so I caught his collar and tie before he got his legs set and pulled him up against the Lincoln so that we were face-to-face. He stared, lips flapping, and nothing coming out.

”Okay, bub, why were you following me?”

He looked wall-eyed toward Braxton for some moral support but got none. His legs sagged and I had to straighten him up. I repeated my question until it finally penetrated, and then he only looked incredulous. He seemed to think I already knew why. This little act went on for several minutes; me asking variations of why and him blubbering and not giving out any answers. I probably wouldn't have liked them, anyway. He wasn't even attempting to lie, it might not have been in his nature. He must have been real cute when his mom caught him raiding the cookie jar.

As with Selma Jenks, I could force a way into his mind that would make him cooperative enough, but decided against it. There was no real harm done and I'd scared them far more than they had annoyed me. I'd try a more reasonable approach.

After saying the kid's name enough to get his attention, I eased my grip a little when I was sure he wouldn't try to run. He was as relaxed as he'd ever be with me, which wasn't much. I pulled out my cigarettes and offered him one.

He looked at it like it was a snake and barely shook his head. ”I don't smoke.”

I nodded agreeably. ”It's a bad habit.” He had some idea that I was an inhuman monster, so I lit a cigarette, because in my limited experience, inhuman monsters rarely smoke. I puffed and blew the smoke out downwind of his face, trying to look harmless. ”I'm sorry I popped you and your friend, but things were getting out of hand, don't you think?”

He bobbed his head cautiously.

”Now, do you know me from somewhere? Do you know my name?”

Reluctantly, he nodded again.

”How do you know me?”

”Mr. Braxton told me.”

”Fine, how does he know me?”

”I don't know.”

”Why were you following me?”

”T-to see where you were going.”

This was getting nowhere fast. ”Could you be more specific?”

He had to think that one over, but I waited him out. ”W-we were going to see where you went for the day.””You mean where I was going to hole up?”

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