ser vice revolver.“Thank God you’re h ere,” Scott blurted. “Some maniac…”“I know.” The cop holstered his pistol.A fireman with a smudged face stepped out of the room.“Came after us with a goddam ax,” Scott said. “We were over by the elevators, and…Christ, did you see what he did to those people? He came after us—my wife and I…” Scott put an arm around Lacey. “We barely got away. He tried to bash our door down.”“What did he look like? Couldn’t get a decent description from the others.”The fireman walked past them, past their broken door, and knocked on the next door down. “Fire’s out,” he called. “Anybody here?”“Describe him,” the cop said. Glancing at the fireman, he called, “Don’t go in there without me.”“Tall, maybe sixtwo. Long dark hair.”“Caucasian?” the cop asked, writing on his notepad.“Yes. Maybe thirty years old. He was wearing pajamas. Striped pajamas. Blue and white. I’m not sure, but I think he went out there.” Scott pointed at the fire door across from Hamlin’s room. “Didn’t see him, but the door made a metal sound, you know, like it was closing.”“ID?”“Ours?” Scott asked.“Please.”Scott slipped a wallet from his hip pocket. He pulled out the driver’s license and handed it to the officer.“Name?”“Scott Bradley.”“This is your current address?”“Yes.”He copied the information, then returned the license. “Thank you, Mr. Bradley, missus. Now you two go on downstairs, see one of the officers in the lobby.”“Can we get some things from the room?”“Go ahead.” The policeman stepped past them.Scott and Lacey entered the room. Scott shut the door.“Now what?” Lacey asked.“I don’t know. I’ve got to think. They’re clearing the building. We have to get him out of here, somehow.”“Why don’t we turn him over to the police?”“Now? Are you joking? I’ve got to have a few hours alone with him.”“But…”“We could make a million bucks off the guy. Nobody’s going to get a crack at him till I’ve had a chance to get his story.”“If he dies…”“Bite your tongue,” Scott said.They stepped around the corner and Lacey looked down at the man. His chest and face were still unpainted. The chest bandages seemed to hang in space above his silver back.“Okay,” Scott said. “Let’s leave him. We’ll come back and pick him up later.”Together, they pushed the body under the nearest bed. Scott retrieved his automatic. He shoved it into a front pocket, but the grips protruded. In the suitcase by the door, he found a pink bathrobe. He put it on and belted it. “How do I look?”The robe was much too small, his shoulders straining the fabric, the sleeves reaching only halfway down his forearms.“Pink’s your color,” Lacey said.“We’d better make sure we get back here before the lady,” he muttered, and turned off the lights.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dukane brought his Cessna Bonanza in for a landing in Tucson, rented an Oldsmobile from Hertz, then sped toward the city.He pressed a switch to lower the window, and put an arm out to catch the air. The night felt warm and dry.Tuning in a country music station, he pressed the gas pedal to the floor. A straight, deserted road like this, no reason he shouldn’t get it up to eighty. Cut off a few extra minutes. Might mean the difference to Scott.Up against an invisible man? The more he thought about it, the crazier it sounded.How the hell do you make a man invisible?Even better, how do you nail him?We shall see, Dukane thought, and began to sing along with Tom T. Hall.When he reached downtown Tucson, he knew there was too much commotion for 3 a.m. He swung the Olds onto Garfield Street. A block ahead of him, a fire truck and a dozen police cars filled the road. Their spinning domes flung red and blue lights over the crowd of onlookers, splashed their colors against walls and store windows. Most of the crowd’s attention was focused on the hotel. The Desert Wind. Peering up through the windshield, Dukane saw no trace of fire or smoke. Except for a few broken windows, the hotel looked fine. Whatever had happened was over.That explained why there was only a single fire truck. The others had already left. This one remained for the mop-up. Its crew might stay for a few hours, checking around, making sure the fire wasn’t still burning secretly inside a wall, ready to blaze up the minute they took off.But why all the police cars?Easy. Because more must’ve happened than a fire.He hadn’t been in time to prevent it. From the look of things, what ever happened must’ve been an hour ago. At least. No way he could’ve arrived in time to help. Christ, he just hoped Scott was all right.He turned the corner, and found an empty stretch of curb. He pulled over, took his attache case from the backseat, and walked back to Garfield Street. Crossing to the left side, he made his way through the crowd. Many of the people were dressed in nightclothes, obviously hotel guests who’d been evacuated.“What happened here?” he asked a man in a bathrobe.“
In the hotel lobby, Dukane showed a false FBI credential to the officer in charge, explaining he needed to retrieve paperwork from his room. He and Scott were allowed to pass.As they stepped into an elevator, two men in plain clothes joined them. Dukane pushed a button for the fifth floor.“Which floor?” he asked the men.“Same.”The door closed, and the elevator started upward.“Are you gentlemen guests of the hotel?” asked the taller of the two. He was about forty, with neatly trimmed black hair and the weary, cynical eyes common to cops. He appeared in better shape than his younger buddy. From the thickness of his neck, Dukane guessed that he worked out with weights.“We’re on official business,” Dukane said.“ID?”Dukane showed it.“FBI, huh? I’m impressed. Aren’t we impressed, Arthur?”“I know I am,” said Arthur.“What about you?” he asked Scott.“Me?” Grinning, Scott scratched his bare chest. “I’m impressed, too.”The man didn’t look amused. “Got an ID?”“He’s with me,” said Dukane.The doors opened, and all four left the elevator. A uniformed cop nodded to the other pair. He glanced at Dukane and Scott.“Let them pass,” said the tall one. “FBI.” He pointed to a dark pool of blood. “Try not to step in it.”“We’ll be careful,” Dukane said.Scott nodded to the left.“Hope you catch him,” Dukane told the men, and started away.“We’re not the FBI, but we sometimes do get our man.”“I’m sure you do.”“Come along, Arthur.” The pair turned to the right and started up the corridor.Dukane and Scott walked the other way. As they reached the corner, Dukane glanced back. The uniformed cop was still near the elevator bank. The two in plain clothes had nearly arrived at the far end of the corridor.“Lucky they didn’t come with us,” Scott said.“We’re not out of here yet.”Halfway up the short hall, Dukane spotted the battered door. He entered first, stepping over the strewn contents of a suitcase. Women’s clothing.Scott pointed to the first bed.They crouched beside it. Dukane lifted the draping edge of the coverlet. In the space below the bed, he saw a naked, silverskinned man. He grabbed an arm, and dragged the man out.“Good Christ,” Dukane muttered, staring at the empty face, at the bandages suspended over the hollow chest cavity. He laid a hand on the chest. He felt the texture and warmth of skin where none was visible, felt the slow rise and fall of breathing. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I never would’ve believed it.”“Thought I was kidding you?”“Not exactly. Just figured you were mistaken, somehow. But he’s invisible, all right.”“How’ll we get him out of here?”“Won’t be easy. Especially the way he looks.” Dukane swiped a finger over the paint. It was dry. “Got any turpentine?”Scott made a feeble laugh.“Too bad he’s not completely invisible when it would do us some good. Where’s your room?”“Third floor.”“You still have the key?”“Sure.”“Go downstairs and bring up your luggage. You have extra clothes?”Scott nodded.“They’ll be a tight fit on this guy, but we can’t haul him out of here looking like this.”“What about his face?”“I don’t know. Go get your stuff, though. Take the stairs. I don’t want you running in to more cops.”Scott stood up. He started to turn away, but hesitated. “You know, Matt…those cops. The plain clothes guys? They looked familiar Tome. I can’t quite place them, but…” He chewed his lower lip. “They worry me.”“Think about it. In the meantime, get your stuff up here.”“Right.”While Scott was gone, Dukane searched the suitcase of the room’s occupant. He found no make up, so he checked the bathroom. There, on a shelf above the sink, was a blue canvas satchel. He unsnapped it, folded it open, and studied the contents neatly arranged inside clear plastic pockets: Q- tips, skin moisturizer, fingernail polish and remover, blush-on, mascara, lipstick, an eyebrow pencil, and a tiny tan
