Part 21 (2/2)

Skelington knew Teacher White got the sleepy weed from a character named Kolda. Skelington believed there was an antidote and he thought Kolda had it.

Also in were a witch and a healer of the laying-on-of-hands variety. Neither did me any immediate good. Both agreed that I should drink water by the gallon. And Old Bones got to visit with a witch even though I'd been unable to deliver. He never explained why.

Others came in response to rumors of my ill health but waited till sunrise. Except for Tinnie Tate. She found a way to put the contrary aside when life got down to its sharp edges.

I woke up long enough to say, ”Sometimes dreams do come true.”

Tinnie Tate is one incredible redhead. All the superlatives apply. She's the light of my life-when she's not its despair. In some ways she's the gold standard of women, in some the source of all confusion and frustration. The trouble with Tinnie is, she doesn't know what she wants any better than I do. But she won't admit it.

She was there. And that was enough for now. She looked thoroughly distressed-until she realized that I was awake. Then her demeanor turned severe.

”When you do that, the freckles just stand out.”

”You're a b.a.s.t.a.r.d even on your deathbed.”

”I'm not gonna die, woman. 'Cept maybe from lack of Tate.”

”And crude to your last breath.”

”Cold. It's so cold. If I just had some way to keep warm...”

She was a step ahead.

Only one weak candle provided light. It was enough. For the hundredth time I was stunned and awed that this woman was part of my life.

How can I rail against the G.o.ds when once in a while they back off and let wonders like this happen?

Nothing happened. The Dead Man was right there in my head, disdaining discretion.

37.

It don't matter who spends the night, snuggled up or otherwise. Pular Singe will drop in before the birds start chirping. And blame it on Dean. Or the Dead Man. Which was the case this time.

”You are needed downstairs.”

I doubted it. His Nibs could have summoned me without troubling Singe. I grumbled, growled, muttered, disparaged some folks' ancestry. But by the time I arrived in what Old Bones had turned into an operations center, I knew all he wanted was my managing my own breathing so he could free up the secondary mind keeping me huffing and puffing.

There was a vast, ugly conspiracy afoot, designed to confine me to the house. So I wouldn't get involved in anything strenuous, like, say, discouraging somebody who wanted to twist little bits off of me.

I sat. I watched folks come and go. I breathed. Smiley didn't fill me in. This was how he worked. He gathered information. He looked for unexpected connections. Usually, though, I'm the main data capture device.

Dean brought food and tea. I ate. And sat some more while people came and went. I wondered who was paying them. Being a natural-born, ever-loving blue-eyed investigator, I intuited the answer. And felt the wealth sucking right out of me. My a.s.sociates have no concept of money management.

I wondered who all my guests were. Some were complete strangers. Not Relway Runners, Combine players, Green Pants thugs, nor even part of the Morley Dotes menagerie.

”What are we doing?”

The Dead Man didn't answer me. You believe Teacher White's men took your roc's egg You believe Teacher White's men took your roc's egg?

”I had it before I turned unconscious. I didn't have it when I woke up.”

Exactly.

”Excuse me?”

I sent Mr. Tharpe to the place where you were held, immediately after I determined where it was. His examination of the site and the corpses suggests third-party involvement.

”Huh?”

When drugged you were supposed to remain able to do Teacher White's dirty work. The you who staggered away from there may not have been intended to wake up at all. You have contusions and abrasions unaccounted for in your memories. There are indications that someone attempted to strangle you.

”How do you figure all that?”

Circ.u.mstantial evidence. Your condition. The fact that Spider Webb was strangled with your belt. It was still around his neck when Mr. Tharpe arrived. The other man was strangled, too. There were bruises on his throat. Similar bruises are on your throat. More suggestive is the fact that the bodies and other evidence were gone when Miss Winger went up there this morning.

”Teacher is in deep gravy and don't even know it? Who?”

That would be the question.

”A question, certainly.” question, certainly.”

We may be able to ask Mr. White himself soon. His a.s.sociate Mr. Brix has told us where to find him.

”Who's Mr. Brix?”

The man you know as Skelington. His name is Emmaus P. Brix. With the middle initial standing for nothing. Ah. Mr. Tharpe has achieved another success.

Two minutes later Saucerhead's a.s.sociates from Whitefield Hall, Orion Comstock and June Nicolist, stumbled in, struggling with a wooden box obviously heavy for its size. Dean appeared immediately, armed with a specialized pry tool. Another product of my manufactory.

Singe paid Nicolist and Comstock, painstakingly recording the transaction. Neither seemed troubled by the Dead Man. They thought he was still hibernating. Despite the crowd, all of whom seemed part of the Dead Man's club.

These gentlemen have not been here before. They may not come here again.

”Oh.”

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