“Took it?”
“Drained it right away from him. Took it right out of his body and old Robert died looking at me, knowing what I did. I felt bad because we were friends. We talked all the time. He played music on his mouth harp. He was a blues man, nicknamed Lightning. When I knew I killed him I was even more scared. I reached out and took more from others. I felt stronger. More powerful. In the end, I didn’t even know what I was doing. How many I killed. I just know that I walked out of that hospital when I’d been days, maybe hours from death. Walked away with a spring in my step, black hair on my head, and juice in my lemon, if you know what I mean. It was like I was fifty years younger.”
“You turned over an ace,” Cameo said. “You tapped into their life force. Somehow converted it for your own use.”
“Which I’ve been doing ever since,” Nighthawk admitted. “But usually carefully, taking the energy mostly from those about to die a violent death, drawn to them by my other power—visions, unclear and uncertain, of the future.”
Cameo pursed her lips. “Awesome,” she said.
Nighthawk nodded. “Yes. So you see. I have to find the answer to my question. You can tell me.”
“Your question?”
His eyes were pleading, even tortured. “Have I been stealing their souls? Have I been using them up, condemning them to limbo, or worse?”
They looked at each other in silence for a long moment before Cameo spoke. “How can I know that?” she asked quietly.
Nighthawk reached into his jacket pocket and held up an old mouth organ. “I took it from Robert’s bedside before I left the hospital,” he said. “I’ve carried it with me for almost fifty-seven years.”
Cameo stared into space, fingering the jewelry around her neck, and her eyes changed again. As did her voice when she spoke. “What’s in it for me?” she asked.
Nighthawk smiled. “Fair enough,” he said. He got out of his comfy chair, and moved it aside as Cameo looked on curiously. There were seams in the carpet under the chair. Nighthawk removed a square of pile, and flipped up the trap door that was revealed underneath. He took a metal box from the small cavity under the flooring. From the metal box he took half a dozen bundles of hundred dollar bills and put them on the coffee table. They were thick bundles. “How about,” Nighthawk asked, “sixty thousand dollars?”
Cameo laughed out loud, uproariously. “Don’t you trust banks?” she asked.
“They keep inconvenient hours, “ Nighthawk said.
Cameo grew quiet. She looked serious. “I think I should get out of town for awhile.”
“That’d be real smart,” Nighthawk said, but he said it flatly, without emotion or hope.
“For that,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ll need money.”
Nighthawk’s face suddenly shone. “We best be careful,” he said. “If Contarini catches us we’d both be consigned to the pits of St. Dympna.”
“I’ll leave it up to you,” Cameo said, “to keep us out of there.”
Nighthawk nodded. He gave the old mouth organ a last loving glance and put it away in his jacket pocket. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in a hundred and fifty years, it’s caution.”
Cameo laughed again. “I see. That’s why you cross men like Contarini. Don’t they ever go after you?”
Nighthawk smiled. “Not more’n once,” he said.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
Las Vegas
The cell in the city lock-up was totally wrecked. Its bars were broken and steel door burst asunder like a herd of buffalo had run through cardboard toilet paper rolls. The bodies had been removed from the corridor, but bloodstains still splattered the floor and half way up the walls to the ceiling. Ray had seen worse, but not often.
“How many cops were killed?” Ray asked.
“Seven,” Captain Martinez said through clenched teeth.
Ray looked up at the sharpness of the tone in her voice. “Hey, don’t blame me. I warned you.”
She sighed. Her dark, short hair was plastered to her skull with sweat which ran in runnels down her full cheeks. Her eyes were big, soft, and brown. They were not cop eyes. She herself was big, soft, and brown. She looked as if she were out of her depth. Ray actually felt somewhat sorry for her. Clearly she was not used to dealing with killer aces.
“You got any aces on the roll call?” Ray asked.
“Quite a few,” she said. “Mostly telepaths and a few precogs who work out of bunco. Assigned mostly to casino duty trying to keep scumbag wild carders from ripping the casinos blind.”
Ray just looked at her.
“Sorry,” she said after a moment, her eyes avoiding his.
“That’s all right,” Ray said flatly. “I’ve dealt with a few scumbag wild carders in my day. A few scumbag nats, too. I suggest you take your best telepaths and precogs off keeping the casinos safe from losing a couple of bucks to rogue gamblers and put them on scouring the city to keep your citizens safe from a homicidal maniac.”
“Of course.” Martinez turned to a group of horrified-looking assistants who were clustered around her. “You heard the man.”
One of them nodded, and ran off.
Ray looked into the cell. Butcher Dagon’s one-piece orange jumpsuit lay shredded among the twisted metal that was once his bunk. Fortunately, he hadn’t had a roommate, or else what was left of him would have been lying on the floor in pieces as well.
“Were all the bodies fully dressed?” he asked.
“What?” the Captain asked.
Ray looked at her coldly. “I’m beginning to think that you’re out of your depth here, Captain. Dagon loses his clothes when he transforms into his fighting form. I was wondering if he’d managed to dress after waltzing out of your cell here, or if we’re still dealing with a naked homicidal maniac. If that’s the case, he should be a little easier to spot, and we’re going to need all the help we can get with this one.”
Martinez looked at another one of her assistants, a tall, thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed nervously every time he swallowed.
“Well.” Swallow. “I don’t know.” Swallow. “Some of the bodies.” Long swallow. “Were pretty... damaged.” Swallow.
“Find out,” Martinez said between clenched teeth.
He nodded, swallowing, and ran off as well.
Ray shook his head. “Not much we can do until he’s spotted.”
Martinez nodded. “I was afraid you were going to say that. I was hoping...”
Ray shrugged as her voice trailed off.
“I’m a fighter,” he said. “Not a finder. Our best hope is the telepaths and precogs. Our second best is the ordinary citizen. If this burg has any ordinary citizens. You’ve got to put the word out, publicize his escape like Hell. Let everyone know he’s dangerous. Someone has to have seen the hairy little bastard.”
Martinez frowned. “That’ll only cause a panic. Plus, we’ll look bad.”
“You’ll look worse,” Ray pointed out, “as the body count mounts. Now you’ve got a cop killer running around. The citizens are sympathetic. But when—not if, but when—Dagon adds a couple of ordinary citizens to his score, all Hell will break out. You’ve got to let the public know what’s going on.”
Martinez nodded reluctantly.
“Put me in a room with him,” Ray promised, “and I’ll take care of him. Until then, I’ve got to be patient and wait. Just like you.”
Martinez nodded again.
Ray had the feeling that this was going to be a long, difficult wait.
Staten Island: Nighthawk’s Nest
Cameo spread the comforter that Nighthawk had given her upon the living room sofa. It was new, right out of its plastic wrapping. She settled down on it and closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at Nighthawk.