Whispering Nickel Idols Part 21

I clung to the doorframe, feeling too sick to move. Chunks of hardened rain took the occasional nick out of my face. I looked back at what I needed to leave behind, fast.

There were dead bodies in there. Original d.i.c.k and Spider Webb. I didn't know why. Or how. I wasn't going to check. Original was still curled up where he'd been all along, clinging to his midnight specials.

I staggered into the weather and hiked. I reached an intersection. It told me nothing. I clung to my a.s.sumption that I was inside Teacher's patch. I turned left because that would take me uphill. A higher vantage might reveal a familiar landmark next time the lightning flashed.

I s.h.i.+vered a lot.

I figured out where I was after two more blocks. Headed the wrong direction. Four blocks down that way... stumble. Stumble. And there I was, in a lane I knew, that led me to a street everyone knows. Two blocks east I hit a thoroughfare that would take me home. But my head wasn't clearing up. I had a serious concussion. And huge trouble breathing.

35.

Somebody too close to me had breath that should've drawn flies. Then I realized that stinky mouth had kept me breathing with the kiss of life.

Then I was home. Installed in a chair in the Dead Man's room. With no clue how I'd gotten there.

In a chair. Again. Barely rational. Among many chairs, some occupied by people maybe worse off than me.

The Dead Man had them under control. I felt his grip on me, which I resented immensely till I worked out that I was still alive because old Smiley was working my lungs for me.

The Dead Man's company included Skelington, looking more cadaverous than ever, John Stretch in his sister's chair, Saucerhead, Winger, and the Remora. Jon Salvation glowed because he was mind to mind with the famous Dead Man. Oh, and there were three guys who worked for Block or Relway, tossed in a corner.

Relax, Garrett. I have to examine your memories directly.

I was focused on breathing so didn't argue. Ah. Here came hot soup and a toddy. Here came Singe and a baby cat that wanted nothing to do with the Dead Man's room. She set it in my lap. The arch went out of its back. Its fur lay down. It started purring. And I became both calm and optimistic.

Winger and Jon Salvation got up and left, obviously on a mission. Saucerhead left soon afterward. Then Dean appeared. He said the rain had eased up enough for pixies to fly. If any flying had to be done.

He went away and returned shortly with a toddy for my other hand.

I began to feel more upbeat. My tummy was full, the toddies were warming me, and Singe was tending my dents and dings. "Careful with the ribs." The concussion seemed to have faded.

Old Bones had turned off all my pain. Singe is no light-fingered nightingale. She poked, prodded, dug, gouged. "Nothing broken. This time. I need your s.h.i.+rt off to see how bad you are bruised."

Several of Morley's men were on hand, looking nervous and inclined to be elsewhere. One snickered. Puddle's hulking shape made a sharp gesture. The others kept it to themselves after that.

I focused a thought, wondering what they were doing here.

It will be done as soon as possible. I must install memories in the one named Puddle that will permit him to carry information to Mr. Dotes without his recalling having had contact with me.

"What happened to me?"

My mind filled with outside recollections.

One of Morley's boys had found me on his way to work. He'd been late. A woman was responsible. Married. To somebody who wasn't him. He wouldn't have noticed me if I hadn't been pointed out by some street kid.

He told Morley that his friend Garrett was in the gutter down the street, bleeding in the rain.

So I'd tried to reach The Palms after realizing that I couldn't make it home.

A rescue team went out and sc.r.a.ped me up.

There.

Puddle and the boys departed, zombielike. Dean made sure they all left the premises.

I recalled the terrible bad breath. And decided never to mention the kiss of life.

Puddle has trouble with his breath.

I find myself in a quandary.

"Yeah? That anywhere near Ymber? Dean. How about another toddy?" I'd apologize to Max Weider someday. Rare though they be, in some moments beer isn't the best choice.

Dean looked to the Dead Man momentarily before stating, "You get one more. Then there'll be no more drink."

"The quandary?"

I must see Colonel Block or Deal Relway. I will need them to help me get into the minds of the servants of A-Laf.

"Then you turned Puddle loose too soon. Him and his crew could spread the word about how they brought me home and it don't look like I'll make it and you won't wake up to help. Or send that stack o' Watch in the corner."

The front wall reverberated to a major pixie launch.

I will correct that oversight. Dean. Take a few coins to the front door to express our grat.i.tude to Mr. Dotes' men.

Let Miss Pular put you to bed now, Garrett. You need not worry. As you surmised, Teacher White blundered badly.

"Makes you wonder if anybody anybody could be that dumb, don't it?" could be that dumb, don't it?"

Never underestimate the reserves of stupid lying within this city. Nevertheless, an amble through Mr. White's mind might prove interesting.

I wanted to ask what Skelington had revealed, but Singe didn't give me time.

I know where to find you. Dean, see to the door, please know where to find you. Dean, see to the door, please.

36.

I slept like a baby, thanks to my partner. One of his lesser minds managed my breathing. The samsom weed caused a sleep almost as deep as a coma. I had visitors during the night and was unaware of it. They included the herbalist who named what I'd been given but who knew of no antidote except good luck, time, and lots of water. He was amazed that I was still alive, so the luck did seem to be in.

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."