Part 17 (2/2)
The doors opened, and all four left the elevator. A uniformed cop nodded to the other pair. He glanced at Dukane and Scott.
”Let them pa.s.s,” said the tall one. ”FBI.” He pointed to a dark pool of blood. ”Try not to step in it.”
”We'll be careful,” Dukane said.
Scott nodded to the left.
”Hope you catch him,” Dukane told the men, and started away.
”We're not the FBI, but we sometimes do get our man.”
”I'm sure you do.”
”Come along, Arthur.” The pair turned to the right and started up the corridor.
Dukane and Scott walked the other way. As they reached the corner, Dukane glanced back. The uniformed cop was still near the elevator bank. The two in plain clothes had nearly arrived at the far end of the corridor.
”Lucky they didn't come with us,” Scott said.
”We're not out of here yet.”
Halfway up the short hall, Dukane spotted the battered door. He entered first, stepping over the strewn contents of a suitcase. Women's clothing.
Scott pointed to the first bed.
They crouched beside it. Dukane lifted the draping edge of the coverlet. In the s.p.a.ce below the bed, he saw a naked, silverskinned man. He grabbed an arm, and dragged the man out.
”Good Christ,” Dukane muttered, staring at the empty face, at the bandages suspended over the hollow chest cavity. He laid a hand on the chest. He felt the texture and warmth of skin where none was visible, felt the slow rise and fall of breathing. ”I'll be d.a.m.ned,” he said. ”I never would've believed it.”
”Thought I was kidding you?”
”Not exactly. Just figured you were mistaken, somehow. But he's invisible, all right.”
”How'll we get him out of here?”
”Won't be easy. Especially the way he looks.” Dukane swiped a finger over the paint. It was dry. ”Got any turpentine?”
Scott made a feeble laugh.
”Too bad he's not completely invisible when it would do us some good. Where's your room?”
”Third floor.”
”You still have the key?”
”Sure.”
”Go downstairs and bring up your luggage. You have extra clothes?”
Scott nodded.
”They'll be a tight fit on this guy, but we can't haul him out of here looking like this.”
”What about his face?”
”I don't know. Go get your stuff, though. Take the stairs. I don't want you running in to more cops.”
Scott stood up. He started to turn away, but hesitated. ”You know, Matt...those cops. The plain clothes guys? They looked familiar Tome. I can't quite place them, but...” He chewed his lower lip. ”They worry me.”
”Think about it. In the meantime, get your stuff up here.”
”Right.”
While Scott was gone, Dukane searched the suitcase of the room's occupant. He found no make up, so he checked the bathroom. There, on a shelf above the sink, was a blue canvas satchel. He unsnapped it, folded it open, and studied the contents neatly arranged inside clear plastic pockets: Q-tips, skin moisturizer, fingernail polish and remover, blush-on, mascara, lipstick, an eyebrow pencil, and a tiny tan bottle of make up base. He took out the bottle of base, dabbed a bit of the fluid onto his fingertip, and tapped it on the mirror. The smudge was opaque, and nearly flesh-colored. A bit too dark, with a reddish tinge, but close enough.
He took the bottle into the bedroom. Kneeling down, he poured the beige fluid onto the man's face and spread it evenly. The face took form under his fingers. He saw the broad forehead, the prominent cheekbones, the hollow cheeks, the long narrow nose. As he progressed, he wished he had shaved the man. The make up clung to his heavy eyebrows, gave his whiskers the look of spiky, mutated skin.
At the sound of footsteps, Dukane drew his automatic from its shoulder holster. Scott came in, swinging his suitcase and attache case onto the bed.
”Any trouble?” Dukane asked.
”Didn't meet a soul. But I remembered about the cops. I saw them at dinner to night.”
”Where?”
”At Carmen's, a couple of miles from here. They sat at a table across from us. Maybe it's just a coincidence...”
”A surveillance team.”
”Why would cops be watching Lacey and me?”
”Good question.”
Scott opened his suitcase. He tossed a sport coat, s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of trousers to the floor.
”Sungla.s.ses?”
”Yeah.”
”We could use a hat.”
”He'd better not lose it,” Scott said, and removed a battered, tan fedora from his suitcase. He took out a s.h.i.+rt for himself. ”You did a nice job on his face.”
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