I heard Novak call out behind me. "Hey, Mikey! Unlock for this lady, will ya?"
An answering shout: "Michael! Not Mikey, you attenuated stick insect! No waffles for you!"
As I got to the desk, I saw that Michael was grinning the same grin as William Novak. He unlocked the walk-door in the larger rollaway door for me. "See you tomorrow, right?"
"You bet," I answered as I stepped through.
He waved to me as I started across the gravel.
The rain was taking a breather, as it often does, now coming down as just a fine drizzle, wetter and fresher than the dry, uncanny mist with its accompanying vertigo and unpleasant reek of dead things. The moist, uneven ground slithered under my feet as I made my way across the now mostly empty lot. All the cars were gone except my Rover, a bland sedan, and a recent-model pickup. The car was just starting to pull out of the lot as I got near my truck. Headlights swept over me and I put my head down to avoid the glare.
The gravel crushed and clattered under the sedan's tires with a screech from the clutch and a roar of the engine. It was loud. And getting louder. I glanced toward it, blinded by the headlights, but neither deaf nor stupid. The car hurtled toward me.
Chapter 10
Screwed, big-time. The car was a blur of headlights in motion toward me, safety just too far away. My fingers, under my jacket, hooked round the pistol grips. I pushed myself sideways, through thickened air… through fear, with a runaway-elevator sensation as I dropped… dropped… and fell… through coiling fog stinking of rot… and landed rolling. A hot gust, like the breath of a monster, blasted into my face and body, shoving against me as the car churned past. Wet gravel slashed my leather jacket, stung my cheek. I dug my toes in and crouched, leveling the pistol. No safe, clear shot. The car fishtailed out of the lot and turned onto the access road. I spun, lunging to my feet, slamming the gun back into the holster, snatching truck keys from my pocket. I dashed to the Rover, fumbled the lock. By the time I was in the driver's seat, the sedan was out of sight… last seen joining the stream of head-lights on Aurora Avenue North.
I yelled and pounded the steering wheel. "Damn it! Damn it!"
I slumped back into the seat, shoved my hand through my hair, and vibrated for a minute or so as the adrenaline dispersed. Then I got back out of the Rover and went to retrieve my bag. I felt like I'd had too much to drink or not enough, shaking a little and shuddery in the knees. I stuffed spilled items into the bag and trudged back to the Rover.
At 7:34, William Novak came out of the warehouse. I was still trying to reengage my brain. He started toward the lonely pickup truck, then changed direction, coming toward me through the drizzle. He tapped on my window.
I rolled the window down and he asked, "Problem?"
"Not now."
"Sure? You've got blood on your cheek."
"Yeah, well. Somebody tried to run me down."
"And that's not a problem?"
"Not at the moment. I'm still alive and he's long gone. But I didn't get the license number. And I really want a drink."
"There's a decent Italian place nearby that's open until ten. They serve drinks, but their bar's the size of a French provincial commode. I was going to get a little supper myself. I'd be glad to take you."
I hesitated. My innards were still jumping in syncopation with my nerves. "What about your youthful assistant?"
"Mikey? He's got some work to do and he knows how to forage. See, there he goes." He pointed toward the warehouse.
A small motorcycle grumbled out from the building's shadow. The slender, helmeted figure on the back waved to us and went slowly out the gate. The machine whining and coughing, the unsteady firefly of the taillight jounced away. We watched it until it vanished into a curve.
"So, you coming with me or you prefer to follow?" Novak asked.
I sighed. "I'll follow."
He grinned. "You shouldn't have any trouble—I give great signal."
I had to roll my eyes. "You'd better."
I followed him around the perimeter of the lake to a scruffy-looking little building just off the lakefront industrial area. The rents are affordable and so was the food. If we leaned our heads a bit, we could still see the lake in all its famous nighttime beauty. The water looked like polished obsidian, reflecting the lights of the city and the boats. I could just glimpse the Space Needle pointing its green-glowing crown at the clouds.
The scent of food reminded me that I hadn't eaten since lunch with RC, and that was mostly coffee.
As soon as we were seated, Novak ordered antipasto and then looked at me for my drink order. "Can I guess?" he asked.
"What I drink? Sure, give it a shot," I allowed, leaning back on the padded bench.
"I'll bet you used to drink white wine, but switched to something more interesting… Scotch?"
I made a face. "Irish. I don't like peat smoke."
He looked at the waitress who had one eyebrow raised and a cynical crook to her mouth. "Bushmills?"
"Double?" she shot back.
I just nodded. Novak ordered a local beer and the waitress stalked off.
He glanced at me and gave an embarrassed smile. "The service here stinks. Luckily you only pay for the food."
"So long as she doesn't put ice in my drink, I don't care."
"She won't—that would be extra effort. Can I ask what happened?"
"Back at the warehouse?" I clarified, and he nodded. "Not much, really. Some jerk tried to run me down. I jumped. He missed. He fled. Pretty much the whole tale."
"Not the first time, I suspect."
"You think weirdos in light-colored sedans chase me down every day of the week?"
"No," he said. "But I also don't think most women wear makeup that looks like bruises, so I'd assume that the marks on your neck and cheek are the real thing. Since you're not wearing a wedding ring, I assume they aren't there because your husband beats you."
"No husband. I can't believe you can still see the bruises."
"Faintly. I thought it was the lighting in the warehouse. Same guy?"
"No." I didn't volunteer any more and turned my eyes to the menu instead. Novak did the same.
The waitress returned and put down our drinks. She nearly spilled Novak's into his lap and gave him a curt little «Sorry» and an insincere hitch of the mouth before she handed me my drink. No ice. We ordered food and I asked where the restroom was.
"I'll show you," she offered.
We were crossing the tiny foyer when she said, "If some guy smacked me around I'd serve him one to the crotch and scram. You don't have to put up with that, you know."
" 'Scuse me?" I asked, catching her arm. "You think that guy back there hit me?"
She faced me square-on and crossed her arms over her chest. "Well, look at ya. Face all scraped up, bruises, he bullies you… Think I'm blind? You don't deserve it, you know. Don't have to take it just 'cause he's got the dangly bits and you don't."
"Hold on," I said, digging around in my pockets. I found a business card and handed it to her. "I'm a private investigator. I got these bruises at work. That man had nothing to do with it and if he did, he would be suffering a lot worse than a beer in his lap."
She stared at my card, then peered at my face. "Really? You're not just trying to cover up?"
I nodded. "Really."
Our gazes locked and her mouth formed a little O, but no sound came out. Memories leave a light in the eyes, just as plain as scars.
I shifted expression and smiled. "Now, where's the restroom? I really need to pee." She pointed and I headed for the door.
I looked at my face in the restroom mirror. The bruising wasn't that bad, but I'd acquired a new graze on my left cheek. My jacket was roughed up and stained with mud. My hair stuck out in tufts. I looked like Ophelia three days after the river. No wonder the waitress thought someone had hit me. I'd have been indignant, too, if it happened to be true. I straightened myself up before I headed back to the table, much cleaner and looking a little less like a tragic heroine.