Child of Fire

“That’s him,” someone said. Another man was standing behind the first four. His hands were wrapped in casts. It was Floyd.

I didn’t recognize the others. I realized that I should have been afraid, but my adrenaline glands had apparently not gotten the danger message yet.

The door to the warehouse was still open behind me.

“Don’t do it,” one of the men said. “Hear me out first.”

He was medium height and built like a decathlete. He had a thick mustache and goatee, but his head was shaved. Finally, I’d met the fourth man who had spoken with Dubois, Charles Hammer, and the mayor when Harlan had been shot.

His expression told me what I wanted to know most: he wasn’t jumpy, wasn’t nervous, wasn’t uncomfortable. He would kill me if he had to, and then he’d go on with his day. I shrugged. “Okay. What do you have to say?”

“Our boss is interested in you. She would like to invite you to have lunch with her.”

His expression was cold. All four guns were still pointed at me.

“I accept.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

This time we rode in a Chevy Sport van. It had plenty of space for the goons to sit around me and keep me covered.

Floyd sat in the front passenger seat. The guy who extended the invitation sat on the bench behind me. Another sat beside me, and the last two were on the seat in front of me. They twisted around to aim their revolvers at me.

The one beside me held his gun too close to my arm. I could have wrestled him for it, if he didn’t have three armed friends backing him up.

“Bobby?” the one next to me said.

“Do it now,” the man behind me answered. “And don’t use my name, dipshit.”

I looked at the guy beside me. I’d known dozens of guys just like him inside, and the one thing I couldn’t do was show them my fear. “Why can’t you use his name but he can use yours?”

If the guy took offense, he hid it well. He pocketed his gun and started to search me. He did a pretty terrible job of it, even if he did manage to find everything useful I had on me. He took Cabot’s gun, my wallet, Annalise’s keys, and my ghost knife and handed each one back to Bobby.

“What’s this?” Bobby asked me, holding the ghost knife over the back of the seat so I could see it.

“My good-luck charm.”

“Yeah? What’s this squiggle?”

“My doctor’s signature. I copy it when I’m forging a prescription.”

“Not funny. Give me the real answer.”

“Okay. Really, it’s the last signature Kurt Cobain ever gave. He died the day after he signed it.”

“Whoa,” one of the guys in front of me said. He was a scrawny black guy with bad teeth. “I want to see that.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed.

“Shut up up there. It’s nobody’s signature. And it sure ain’t no good-luck charm, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“You just wait.” I winked at the scrawny guy in front of me and sat tight. As long as I didn’t make a break for it, I figured I’d live long enough to eat lunch.

I sat quietly and watched the town pass by. I could feel the ghost knife behind me. I knew I could call it, but this wasn’t the time.

We approached the supermarket. I told the driver I wanted to stop in and pick up a bottle of wine-I hated to show up at someone’s house empty-handed. He slowed at the entrance to the parking lot, unsure if he should stop. Bobby cursed at him and told him to pass it by.

I didn’t laugh this time, but I did smile. The guys were liking me less and less all the time. Bobby, unseen in the backseat, griped and mumbled about the amateurs he had to deal with.

“Don’t be an idiot, Bobby,” I said. The vehicle was suddenly silent. “Professional criminals are the stupidest people in the world. I know. I’ve been one of them.”

We drove the rest of the way to the Curl Club in silence.

The first thing I saw when we approached the club was a high wall. It looked freshly painted. Tall, flower-less stalks had been planted along the cinder block. I wondered what sort of plant it was.

We pulled up to the wrought-iron gate. The driver lifted a remote control, pressed a button, and the doors slid apart.

Inside, I saw a big lot with a line of cars along the far wall, parked out of sight of the road. The club itself was off to the right, nestled into the side of the hill. It was four stories high, and judging by the long windows, the bottom floor was some sort of auditorium.

To the left, there was a smaller building, only two stories, with a loading dock in the front. Finally, at the far end of the lot sat a little cottage. It had a little weather vane on the top and a mailbox in front. A homey little sign above the door said simply OFFICE.