FLEMING
I GOT one of the friendlier mugs at the Nightcrawler to give me a lift home and to take the long way so I could hear the club gossip. He filled me in, carefully not inquiring about my own state of scruffiness. Things in the trenches were copacetic, considering. Some of the guys were edgy about the Alan Caine murder, but only because the cops had hauled a few in for questioning. Chicago's finest were looking for Mitchell, but they'd have to hold a s��ance to get him now. He'd had a summons to a higher court, and good riddance to the bastard.
When I asked about my called-off hunt for Gilbert Dugan, the mug didn't have anything that could be called cheerful. Half the guys who'd wanted the reward money felt cheated, and the other half thought I'd just blown smoke to make myself look important. I shrugged it off as booze talk. Some of the boys were smart, like Derner and Strome, the rest couldn't beat a monkey at checkers.
Our ramble around the Loop turned up an unexpected bonus: a butcher shop that was open. Lights were on, and they seemed to be taking a delivery via the side alley door. Open late or up early, it would save me a trip to the Stockyards. My last meal had been interrupted, and tonight's exertions left me tired and in want of fuel, fresh or not. What they had couldn't be worse than the stuff I stored at home. I had the guy pull over.
My order got me a predictably fishy look from the hired help. He couldn't have had many customers stopping in at this hour in need of a pint of beef blood, but the crisp dollar bill I put on the counter must have reminded him the customer was always right. He put the stuff in a thick cardboard container, passed it across, and I told him to keep the change. He told me to come back soon, adding a smile that looked genuine.
I emerged, signed for my driver to wait, strode purposely off to the next alley, turning into its shadowed cover. Human eyes had no chance in this darkness, so I eased the top from the container and sniffed the contents. Not fresh, but better than anticipated. One sip, then another. Not bad. Though cold, it raised a nice heat in my belly that spread to my limbs. I'd taken a lot of abuse; it was good to feel warm again.
Only after I'd eagerly and with much relish drained off the last ounce did I realize I was not in the throes of frenzied compulsion. I'd taken in enough and was satisfied. The thought of going back to the shop for more raised no impulse within to do so. I gave it a few minutes just to be sure, then got bored with the waiting. Tossing the cardboard into a dented trash can, I left, revived and hopeful about... well, everything.
I took care not to look at my driver, knowing my blood-flushed eyes were something he wouldn't want to see. He asked no questions about our stop, seemed utterly incurious about it, and I liked that. Strome would have also not asked questions, but he'd have wondered.
My driver dropped me at the front door of my home and settled in to wait again. Apparently he didn't know I lived in the old pile. I tipped him a magnanimous five and told him to spend it in one place. He told me I was a card and rumbled away.
I unlocked the door and listened, but the house was quiet. A quick check proved that I was alone. The only intruder must have been Kroun, to judge by the discarded clothing thrown over the stair rail. His suitcases were here, so he'd return.
Maybe. He'd be off making another try at seeing Mrs. Cabot, I was sure of it, and if he wasn't quick enough, she'd put a second bullet in his skull. He could do his own damned sneaking around, though, I'd had enough. Michael could find someone else to babysit.
Upstairs I washed and changed into dry clothes, which improved my mood. I hid the two grand inside a hollowed-out book in my room and felt even better. That much money could buy a lot of car with plenty of change left over.
For insurance. Yeah. This time I would get insurance.
I phoned for a taxi, scrounged a dry overcoat from the hall closet, and had sorted through the day's mail just as my ride pulled up. A lot of them had radios just like the cops, and it made things faster. I gave the driver directions rather than say outright the address. Some guys were reluctant to go to the Bronze Belt, daylight or dark.
I spared this one and paid him off in front of a drugstore in a border area, going inside to phone Bobbi. She sounded awake and yes, she still wanted me to come over. Just as I'd done earlier, I walked within sight of Coldfield's hotel, then vanished, skimming the rest of the way unseen, eventually slipping inside. It took a few minutes to find Bobbi's door, but I figured it out.
When I was solid again, it was in a room very similar to Gordy's. Just one light by the bed was on. Newspapers and a couple of magazines lay on the floor by a reading chair. The radio played softly. I heard water running in her bathroom. She finished brushing her teeth and came out, stopping short with surprise.
"Wow, that was quick," she said.
"You complaining?"
"Nope."
The next little while was very pleasant for us.
It had been an ice age since I'd last held her, and this time it wasn't about hanging on to life and sanity or shared grief for a dying friend. If she sensed that, it didn't show. Tonight was about us being together.
I wasn't sure how things would go. If I felt the onset of a seizure, I'd have to leave, whatever the consequences. Better that I hurt her feelings than do something much, much worse.
When those fits began ambushing me, I'd not dared to go near Bobbi. While feeding at the Stockyards, I'd taken in more than was needed or wanted by my body. I'd fed until it was agony, then fed some more. Now I understood it was connected to how starved I'd been for blood when Hog Bristow had been carving on me. Some part of my mind was trying to take back that lost blood, unable to accept that the crisis was past.
The gorging had terrified me. If it took over at the wrong time, I could kill Bobbi.
My taking from her when we made love was a very delicate process; I had to be in control. Too deep a bite, too great a flow, too long a drink, and she could die.
Since the fight with Escott, though... I felt different. Much had changed that night and since.
"I talked with Charles," I said. "We're still friends."
"He told me when he came back. He's in his room if you want to see him again."
"No, thanks." She had to be kidding. I wasn't about to leave. However things went, I just wanted to be with her.
So far as I could tell through the smooth fabric of her silk robe, she didn't have anything on under it. I breathed in the scent of her hair while kissing her temple and tried holding her even closer. My body reacted to this in an entirely normal manner, which was damned reassuring.
"Ho-ho," she said, pressing against me down there. "Isn't this nice?"
"Oh, yeah." I felt my corner teeth budding-from arousal, not hunger. There's a big difference between the two.
But she pulled back a little. "Are you all right, Jack? I mean it. You've been-"
"I know what I've been, baby. And I'm sorry. I didn't... I wasn't ready."
"You sure you are now?"
"Pretty sure. Be gentle with me?"
She snickered, pressing close again. "The walls here... I'll have to be quiet."
"Both of us." After a moment, I took off my overcoat and suit coat, just to start things.
She liked to undress me and began with my tie, working her way down. In short order my tie was off and shirt open, and she stopped, stopped cold.
"Oh, Jack... oh, my God, sweetheart... I didn't know."
Oh, hell.
I'd forgotten the scars. A wave of mortification started up from God knows where, but I smothered it, quick and with absolute finality. They weren't my fault. I had nothing to be ashamed of; she'd have to see them sooner or later. "It's all right. They don't hurt."
Bobbi was a woman who didn't cry much, hated to cry, but she gave in to it now, silently, tears brimming, then streaming from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
I couldn't think of anything to say. Might as well get it over with and let her have the worst of it. I removed my shirt and turned slowly so she could see them all, see every last square inch of Bristow's brutal handiwork-chest, arms, and back covered with thin white threads where he'd stripped away the skin with his knife. Ugly.
But I'd survived. I'd earned them.
She rushed back to the bathroom, shut the door, and sobbed.
I waited her out. When she was ready, she'd emerge again. It was how we did things. While I was prepared to offer her a shoulder to soak, that wasn't what she wanted this time.
The wait was hard, but I felt strangely patient. I thought about putting the shirt on again, but decided against.
Bobbi blew her nose, splashed water, and returned. She'd smoothed her expression out, but I didn't think she was finished with the high emotions just yet.
"They don't hurt," I gently repeated.
"Why don't they heal? When you vanish, shouldn't they-"
I shrugged. "I don't know." Maybe the damage had been too great or I'd come too close to death or bled too much or it was all in my head. Pick one, pick them all. "They might fade with time. Just have to wait and see."
"Is it all right if I..." She faltered, staring.
I took her hand in both of mine. "You don't have to. We can wait."
"What?" She broke off her stare. "Wait? What are you talking about?"
"Uh..."
"You think I don't want to be with you because of this?"
"I'll understand if you-"
The blazing glare she shot shut me right up. "Jack Fleming, stop being an ass."
"Yes, ma'am."
We didn't say anything for a while. She looked at my scars; I didn't know where to look. The mood was shattered. We'd been together long enough to not try forcing things back into place. It was there, or it wasn't.
She tentatively put her hand on my chest. "Is that okay?"
"Yes." I was not going to push her. She had a lot to absorb, and it could take days, weeks. However long, I would wait.
"You're so cold."
I didn't feel it. "How 'bout you?"
She made no reply, still getting acquainted with the changes, touching me. "I'm fine. I'm so sorry."
"It's all right." I wasn't sure what she was sorry about, that I'd suffered so much or that she'd not fully understood the extent of it. It was pointless to dwell, though.
She took my hand, tugging just a little. "Come on."
"Wha...?"
"Let's just take this slow. Get to know each other again." She backed toward the bed.
"You sure?"
No reply, unless unbuttoning my trousers counted.
She tenderly stripped me, shed her robe, and we slipped between the clean white sheets. Kissing, lots of kissing. I'd missed that.
"We can shut the light off if you want," I suggested when she paused for breath.
"You'll still be able to see me. I want to be able to see you."
"So I really should stop being an ass?"
"Uh-huh."
She rolled on top, straddling me. I sprawled, arms up, fingers grasping the head rail of the bed. She moved over me, scarred skin and all, and at some point murmured that I was feeling warmer. Then she was too busy to talk, her beautiful mouth doing other things.
I didn't usually breathe, but could certainly gasp and call on God when inspired to do so.
Bobbi threw me a quick smile at my reaction and went back to driving me crazy. I remembered to keep quiet, but there was no helping the squeaking bedsprings as we rolled around, and I turned the tables. With my confidence restored, I pushed her legs apart and gave as good as I got. She stuffed a corner of a pillow in her mouth and bit hard on it as I kissed and teased and tasted.
"Jack." She had the softest whisper. That tone meant she was close to a release. I pulled away and moved up.
"You bastard," she said, grinning, reaching. I didn't move and let her play some more, but there was only so much I could take.
Rolling again until she was on top, she guided me in. She eased forward, her neck taut, brushing against my lips. I didn't take the invitation, though my teeth were out.
"Soon," I said.
She rode me, and I looked on her face in delight, wonderment, and awe as she climaxed. It was as intense as hell but all too brief, and she did not quite succeed at keeping quiet. As the last of it passed, she slumped forward, and I caught her shoulders, easing her on her side, then her back. I was still erect and hard and in need of my own release. I'd seen where she'd gone, my turn to take her there again... for a longer visit.
The vein in her neck pulsed, her heart pumping strongly, her blood rushing swift. I kissed her there for a long moment, this time teasing myself. She pressed the back of my head, urging.
But I moved down, nuzzling her breasts for some while before going lower, pausing at the velvet-smooth skin just below her navel, then biting just deep enough and no more. A very tiny flow beaded up, just enough to taste and trigger my own climax. Her response was immediate and strong, and she smothered her cry with one hand. I drew hard, seeming to feed as much from her reaction as from the small wounds in her sweet flesh. Her pleasure was mine, while it lasted. This was no slow rise and fast fall of sensation; I had us both at a peak and could keep us there for hours.
We had the time.
As requested, I took it slow.
She slept in my arms for a long while afterward. I kept still and held her until my muscles burned, and I was thankful for it. A sweet feeling that I eventually recognized as absolute contentment saturated me through and through. We had no past or future, the present was everything and more than enough. Those moments never last, of course, but while this one was upon me I would enjoy it. I wanted to sleep as well, but the closest I could get was this sense-swamped doze.
However thin the walls, no one had bothered to investigate the noise we'd made. This was a real hotel, and doubtless others were here tonight who had indulged themselves in a similar manner. Eyes half-closed, I drowsily regarded the shadows on the ceiling, and even at this late hour heard activity in the various rooms. Snoring was the main sound, distant, originating from several individuals on this and the other floors. A night owl's radio played far down the hall. The one in our room was tuned to a station that had signed off for the night a while ago; only low static came through the speaker. I pretended it was rain. In a few more weeks, if we were lucky, the first spring rains would fall and eat away the snow. That would be good.
Bobbi stirred, murmured something, and left our bed. She went to the bathroom still half-asleep, but returned woken up again.
Those moments... never long enough.
She turned the bedside light out and snuggled close for warmth. "Can we talk?"
Women. Always talking. Gordy had that right. "Aren't you tired?"
"Wonderfully tired."
"But things have been happening?"
"A lot of things."
"What's the matter?"
"You are such a pessimist."
"Which is how I can always be pleasantly surprised. On the phone you said there's more. This is the more?"
"A big bunch of more." Her tone indicated it could be a good thing.
"I'm not going anywhere."
She held her breath, then let it out. "It's to do with Roland and Faustine and Lenny Larsen going out to Hollywood."
"Yeah, he fixed them up with a movie you said."
"Not all of it. They want me to come out, too. Lenny can get me a screen test."
At that I went very, very still. With no breath or heartbeat, it's easy.
"Jack...?"
"You serious?"
"Yes. This is what-"
"I know what it is."
She'd been working, dreaming, and praying for this. She had the talent and at long, long last the door had opened for her. I'd known that it would happen sooner or later, but had hoped for later.
"Jack?"
"Well, this is great." I tried to sound happy for her, but it didn't work. It failed miserably.
"You hate it."
"No, baby. I'm... getting used to the idea." I couldn't let her see that she'd pushed me off a cliff. Good thing the light was out. If she saw my face, she might start crying again. "When?"
"Not right away. Roland's in no shape to travel."
We had a couple weeks then. Plenty of time for me to get used to things.
Maybe.
"Look, this might not work out. I could take the test, and they might not want me."
"Of course they will. They're not dopes."
"Jack-I want you to come with us."
We'd discussed this angle before. We knew it by heart. I didn't want to go to sunny California. My job was in Chicago, my friends, everything. I wouldn't know what to do with myself surrounded by movie people and orange groves. The one thing I could not do at this moment was to give her a blunt no or the coward's no of a weak and limping I'll think about it.
"Will you think about it?" she asked, and I wondered for the umpteenth time if she could read minds.
"Of course. This is a lot." Like getting gut-punched, only I couldn't vanish and heal from it.
"Your nightclub. I know what it means to you."
And I knew what this meant to her. The one sure way to lose her forever would be to try holding her back. She'd had this dream long before we'd met. She loved me but wouldn't put up with me being an unreasonable, selfish ass.
I thought of another angle that we'd never discussed. I had one hell of a lot of time ahead of me, decades, centuries of it. Bobbi had only a short span, and not just her lifetime. She had precious few years left of still being young enough for the merciless cameras to find her interesting.
"I'll think about it, baby," I heard myself saying, but it sounded sincere. "I mean that."
Dammit. She started crying again.
And kissing me.
Okay, I liked that part.
I left well before dawn and walked in the cold for a while, head down, trying to think.
Solutions to my problems came easily to me during that walk-what I wanted was some way to quash them.
Yes, I could hire a general manager to look after Lady Crymsyn. Gordy could help there and keep things above-board, no gambling, good acts, plenty of business, and someone mailing me a check each week. Hire the right people, and the place could run itself.
But I didn't want that easy a fix. I wanted a way to stop it, stop her, and it just wasn't coming to me.
There was no reason why I shouldn't go with Bobbi and the others when the time came. None at all.
So why did this feel like the end of the world?
That sweet contentment was gone. In its place... yeah, something familiar and dark had flooded in.
When Maureen-my lover, the woman who gave me her blood, who changed me forever-when she vanished with no word, no explanation, that was a world-ender for me.
She'd never returned.
That too-familiar dark was the fear that I would lose Bobbi, too. Not in the same way, but just as permanently.
Damned stupid to feel like that, but there it was.
It had been a hell of a night. I needed a day's rest and would figure things out later. The situation would be there when I woke, but my mind would be clear. I'd think of something brilliant then.
Making my way to an el platform, I waited for one of the early trains. It took me to the stop close to Lady Crymsyn. I passed the drugstore where Kroun had bought the cigars. He was a problem that could wait as well.
The club's outside lights were off. I let myself in and locked up behind.
"Hello, Myrna," I said to the empty lobby. The light behind the bar remained steady. I listened, but the place was eerily quiet. That was wrong. It should be full of people and music, with Bobbi on the stage singing under the spotlights. Why couldn't that be enough for her?
I climbed the stairs. My office was dark, the radio off. I changed that, wanting sound and illumination, if only in this small space.
While the radio warmed up, I dropped in the chair behind my desk and had an unsettled moment noticing that things had been changed around. The mail wasn't in its usual spot, items were lined up, pencils sharpened. In the middle of the blotter was a thin stack of writing paper. The sheets had been crumpled, then spread flat. They bore my handwriting. My hand was usually hard to read-the years in journalism had degraded it-but the lines I'd put down were strangely neat, almost mechanical. In them I had tried to explain the inexplicable. I'd given up and left them unfinished.
Escott had spent hours sitting here. He'd walked in, found me on the couch with a hole blown through my skull, seen the gun, and in the trash found the notes I'd attempted. He'd have read them, over and over.
I couldn't imagine what he'd gone through in those hours before sunset waiting to see if I would wake up. For distraction he'd cleaned things, made order from the chaos, enforced some form of control in the room despite the cold presence of my corpse. He had sat in my chair, thought God knows what thoughts, and...
How could I have done that to him?
And how had he ever been able to forgive me?
Feeling sick, my face hot with fresh shame, I crumpled the papers again, took a big glass ashtray from a table, and burned them in it. The fire flared and died, the smoke lingered a bit longer. I used the blunt end of a pencil to crush what was left to gray powder. No one else would ever know about this.
The radio now played dance music, but when an announcer came on he was replaced in midword by a polka tune. Myrna was up and about. Of course I'd missed seeing the radio dial move. The polka ended, and some guy spoke enthusiastically in German or Polish. Another polka started. Who on God's green earth would be in need of such music at this hour in the morning?
"Hi, Myrna," I said again. "I've had a rough night."
Maybe I could tell her about it, but where to begin?
The less sprightly dance music returned. I didn't see the dialing knob move then, either.
"I'm spending the day here, if you don't mind."
I stared at the long leather couch against the wall opposite my desk. I'd planned to lock the door and sleep the day through on that couch, having done it many times before.
Not tonight. I couldn't go near the thing now.
At the far end was a hole in the leather back, and a messy spray of dried blood, visible evidence of my attempt to kill myself. The wooden slug I'd carved was probably embedded in the stuffing someplace.
It seemed like some other man had gone through that horror, suffered with, and then caved in to despair. How could I have been that man?
I wasn't.
He'd been Hog Bristow's awful creation. Some portion of him was still inside, but no longer able to influence me. Maybe with time he would fade completely. I wanted that.
I should leave the couch there as a reminder never to be stupid again, but Bobbi would see the damage and ask questions. She wouldn't be fobbed off with a lie, and knowing me as well as she did, might even figure things out.
That couch was the scene of an attempted murder. Looking at the bullet hole and stains made me feel like I was my own ghost. No way in hell was I going to keep that hunk of furniture here one more minute. It had to go.
After removing several oilcloth packets of my home earth from under the cushions, I considered how to move it out. It was too big to push through the window. While I had the strength to lift it easily, I was short on space and leverage. The thing was almost too wide to get through the door and had to go in stages, pushed through until it wedged against the wall opposite. I had to crawl over to pull, then crawl back to push, and was sweating by the time I got the awkward bastard clear. How anyone had gotten it into the office in the first place was beyond me.
I manhandled it down the hall and regarded the stairs with aggravation. Certainly I could pitch the whole thing down, not caring if it broke apart, but the marble-tile floors below were of some concern. I didn't know how much abuse they could take before shattering.
In the end I took the hard road and worked the couch gradually down the steps into the lobby and outside. Once there I carried it toward the parking lot, placing it on the edge of the curb, where it would not block foot traffic. I had every confidence that some scavenger would take it away before the day had passed. The bloodstains and that hole might make someone wonder...
To hell with it. I couldn't be bothered with "what ifs" and went inside, locking the front doors with a sense of relief.
My office looked considerably larger now. Perhaps I could leave it this way with no couch, bringing in a couple of chairs instead. But the old caveman inside reminded me that sometimes Bobbi and I found a couch to be a very convenient and comfortable place for reclining.
I'd get a new one-but what was the point if she was leaving for Hollywood?
I sat behind the desk and scowled at its tidiness. There was always something that needed to be done, my club kept me damned busy. I always had paperwork, mail to answer, supplies to order; even with the place closed there was work needing attention, and I liked that work. But tonight I had absolutely nothing to keep me from thinking about Bobbi leaving.
Damn it.
Getting hot under the collar, pacing, grumbling about how unfair the world was, eventually speaking aloud, eventually shouting, it came rushing out, all the stuff I couldn't say to her face.
Just as some tiny bit of normality began to creep back to my life, this had to happen. I didn't want it. I wanted Bobbi to stay here and for things to be like they'd been. My job was to run a fancy nightclub, glad-hand happy customers, and her job was to be onstage singing to them. Her job was to be my girl, not go running off to be a movie star.
I got louder as what churned through my head got worse. The depth of anger surprised me, and I gave in to it. By God, she wasn't going to do this to me. How dare she? After all the crap I'd been through, I needed her here. I'd put my foot down-
The glass ashtray flew off the desk. The damn thing launched itself, crashing against a wall, landing hard on the wood floor, scattering ash from the burned notes, making a hell of a noise-yet not breaking.
I yelped and jumped about two miles.
As I stared at the ashtray, it slid half a yard toward me. It was as though someone had kicked it along. The glass grated loud over the wood. It moved again, half as far, then stopped. The place was silent. Even the radio was turned down. I seemed to feel a kind of pressure around me, like a pending storm.
Myrna.
She'd scared the hell out of me. All the anger, too. I would never have cut loose like that had anyone been here, but had forgotten about her. She must have gotten fed up. Dames. Always sticking together.
"Sorry," I said.
The lights remained steady. The radio music came up. Dance music.
She was getting stronger, I thought.
In a much calmer tone-and feeling like a fool for talking to what might well be an empty room-I told Myrna what was going on and the problems they'd brought and the fears I had. Whether she hung around to listen was unimportant, I let it pour out until nothing remained.
The room was quiet, but it was different from that earlier angry silence. At some point the radio had switched off again. The only sound was the desk clock ticking and the distant hiss of traffic in the waking streets below.
I'd not made a decision, nor did I feel any better, but the worst was past. Thankfully, Bobbi would never hear any of it.
Maybe things would be more clear tomorrow.
A glance at the clock told me to get moving if I wanted to beat the dawn.
I went downstairs into darkness. The light behind the bar was off. Myrna always liked having it on. Maybe the bulb had burned out again; it often did. No time to check and change it. I continued through to the main room, crossing to the larger bar at the far end.
The three tiers of platforms for tables and booths arranged in an ascending horseshoe shape created a lot of dead space below, but it wasn't wasted. A small access door led under the seating, and we used the area for storage. Usually I spent the day up in the office when I didn't feel like driving home, but this bolt-hole was more secure. I'd taken pains over it.
The storage section was sizable, stacked with bar supplies and extra chairs, with an unremarkable plywood wall that blocked access to the rest of the dead space. The wall looked solid, but with Escott's help I'd put in a hidden door. You had to know it was there, and even then you had to look hard for the trigger to get it open. The door was partially blocked by boxes; I usually entered by sieving through. Inside was a sliding bolt lock so I could seal myself in. I wouldn't have bothered with a door at all, but Escott pointed out that sometime or other I might have need of one should there be an emergency. The only drawback was that the place wasn't fireproof.
I vanished and went inside.
The concealed area was roomy, plenty of space for an army cot with a layer of my earth under an oilcloth sheet, a box, and a lamp on the box. It was a near duplication of the basement sanctuary at home. I re-formed in darkness and fumbled quickly to switch the lamp on. Nothing had changed since my last visit, just a little more dust than before. On the cot were several spare oilcloth packets of my home earth and a months-old Adventure Tales I'd forgotten. Well, something to read before the day took me. I had been thinking of writing a story for... maybe I could get back to that. In California, with no nightclub to distract me, I'd have plenty of time to write.
I snarled again. That was too much like giving in.
The cot-side lamp flickered.
"Not now, Myrna. I'm too tired, and it's too late."
It went out completely.
Damn her. What was her problem? Probably still mad about me yelling to myself up in the office.
I hated the dark, but had come prepared. On the way down, I'd pocketed one of the many flashlights scattered throughout the building. I took it out, snicking it on.
"So there." I slid the bolt, officially shutting myself away from the rest of the world for the next several hours.
Stretched on the cot, I opened the magazine and its half-remembered stories, flipping to an editorial page. Nothing like out-of-date opinions for numbing the mind.
The lamp came on again, very bright. I cut the flash and checked my watch. Not long now. No more than a few seconds. I felt the sluggishness sweep over me. It was a sweet lethargy. Things would look after themselves while I got a good day's rest. I fell gently toward that stupor, carefully not thinking about Bobbi leaving me.
The lamp went off-on-off-on.
Oh, hell.
Something was wrong. My internal alarm finally got the message and shrieked a belated warning. I struggled to stay awake, but was too far over the edge.
At the very last instant before slipping away, I heard the destructive crash as the hidden door was forced open, lock and all, then a shadow blocked the lamp's light from my now-sealed eyelids.
Too late. Much too late.
I'd made a terrible, terrible mistake-
