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 attaché 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.“
Some excitement, huh? Fire. And I hear some nut went after folks with an ax. Panicked, I guess. Killed half a dozen folks. I saw’em cart out the bodies.”“How long ago?”“Seems like hours. All over, now. You should’ve got here sooner. Brought’em out in body bags, just like in the news. All over, now. Hope they’re gonna let us in pretty soon. Got a conference at nine. Can’t very well go dressed like this, can I?”Dukane shook his head, and moved on.A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. He whirled around and looked into the haggard, boyish face of Scott.“Glad you made it,” Scott said.“Glad you did.”“Dukane, this is Lacey Allen.”She nodded a greeting. Her hair was mussed, her face dirty or bruised, the tail of her tank top half untucked.“Let’s go to my car,” he said. “We can talk there.”“So he’s still in that room,” Scott finished, “unless he walked off.”“Or the police found him,” said Dukane.“If they did, they haven’t brought him out.”“Not that we saw,” Lacey added, and stubbed out her cigarette in the car’s ashtray.“What’ll we do?” Scott asked.“If you’re so determined to get his life story, I suppose we’ll have to go up there and bring him out. Lacey, you’d better wait here. They’ll have found the editor’s body in your room. They’ll be looking for you, and we can’t have you pulled in for questioning just now. Scott, take off that silly robe.”“But my Colt…”“Leave it with Lacey.”