Then, finally, it began to subside. I struggled to my knees, not ready to stand yet. My ghost knife lay on the carpet beside me. It was mine. I’d created it. I’d used it against other people.
I shuddered. The pain from my iron gate had been so overwhelming that I thought it would destroy me, but I’d needed it to scour away the influence of the ghost knife. The spell hadn’t affected other people the way it affected me, but I had no idea why. I also didn’t have a coherent thought in my head; this was something I’d have to puzzle out later, if ever.
But my own spell had been just as hungry as the predators I fought, and by cutting myself I’d let it take control of me. I could never let that happen again. Never.
The pain wasn’t entirely gone. My face, neck, and head were burning, just as they had the first time a drape attacked me, and so was my leg. I struggled to my feet. Exhaustion made me unsteady, and my leg felt stiff and swollen. I needed to wash away the sticky acid the predators left on their victims. Maybe a shower?
I stepped onto the section of the floor that had closed over the gap, feeling miserable enough to risk my life. It felt solid—I didn’t fall through into the Empty Spaces, at least. Was it safe to bring Maria and Jasmin back into the room?
I glanced out the window. The big guy in the red shirt and camo pants was back, and he was looking right up at me. He took something long and thin from a hockey bag at his feet. One end was vaguely spear-shaped.
He lifted it to his shoulder and pointed it at me.
Oh, shit. I spun and hustled for the apartment door. It was seven or eight strides away—too far. I was never going to be able to run that far before the explosion hit. I ran anyway, because the only other option was waiting to die.
My stiff leg made me lurch across the room like a wounded drunk. I was halfway there and the explosion hadn’t come. Then I had my hand on the knob, then I was pulling the door open, knowing that would only make it easier for the flames to blast out into the hall. Then I shut the door behind me, threw my leg over the railing, and jumped toward the pool below.
The explosion, when it came, was loud but not as loud as I expected. The flames never reached me; I struck the water with a painful slap and was shocked by how cold it was.
The pain on my face and leg eased immediately, and I struck the bottom gently. For one disorienting moment, I lost my bearings, but I saw light above and struggled back to the air.
The building was burning. Fire alarms blared and doors around the complex swung open. What were all these people doing here so late in the morning? Didn’t they have jobs?
I saw Maria and Jasmin standing beneath a set of concrete stairs. They both had a shell-shocked look about them. I paddled to them and pulled myself out of the water.
“Take her out the back way,” I said, straining to keep my voice low.
Maria grabbed my hand. “What—”
“Don’t ask me questions!” I snapped at her. “It’s not the time! Take Jasmin out the back way and get her someplace public. She’s still not safe here.”
Maria snapped her mouth shut. Jasmin tugged at her arm. “Abuela, I want to go.”
They both hustled toward the little door on the far side of the pool, leaving me dripping water onto the pavement. People were charging around the complex, shouting at one another, demanding to know what had happened.
Me, I turned toward the front gate. I should have been exhausted, but my anger gave me a surge of energy. Someone had just fired a grenade at me, and I was going to kick his ass.
I ran out to the sidewalk. The asshole in camo pants was nowhere in sight. I looked up the street both ways; a Jeep Cherokee was driving away in one direction, a Dodge Ram truck in the other. Which one should I chase?
I had no reason to choose either, then the choice was gone. Both vehicles turned corners and vanished. Neither had been driving fast, like they would if they were fleeing the scene of a crime. Which meant the asshole could still be here.
And I was standing out in the street like a target at a gun range. I ran toward the spot where he’d stood, but I wasn’t quite sure where it was. I turned around and surveyed Violet’s burning building.
The flames were already shining through the windows of the apartment above, and the smoke was billowing out in two heavy black columns. I heard sirens in the distance, and people were rushing out of the courtyard with cats in their arms, or baby gear. One woman ran across the street toward me and set a milk crate full of paperbacks on the lawn, then sprinted back to the building.
Things would get very crowded soon. I tried to remember everything about Camo Pants that I could. I had seen the hockey bag at his feet, so I moved away from the line of parked cars. Had the telephone pole been on the right or the left? Had he stood on grass or the pavement?
I walked around the area, looking for something that looked like a clue. In Chino, I knew a guy who’d left his wallet on the front seat of a Lexus he’d jacked. Camo Pants wasn’t so considerate. I couldn’t find anything but cigarette butts and food wrappers. Maybe TV cops could spend hours going over all this trash in some lab and finger the guy, but it was useless to me. And I’d forgotten to ask where I could find Violet.
The sirens were getting closer, and that made me itch to leave the scene. But as I turned toward my car, someone behind me said: “Hey, Mr. Lilly.”
I turned slowly and saw a homeless man walking toward me. His clothes were tattered and stiff with dirt, and even at this distance I could smell a year’s worth of cheap cigarettes on him. “Hey, Mr. Lilly,” he said again, his pale blue eyes wide and blank. “Your sick friend asked me to give you this.” He held out a cellphone.
I didn’t move to take it. “Who gave it to you?”
“Come on,” he said, “he paid me ten bucks.” He sounded a little nervous, as though he’d have to give back the money if I didn’t accept it.
The phone rang.
“Who?” I asked again. I still didn’t move to take it.
“I don’t know his name, but he looks like a cancer patient or something. He said he’s your friend. Come on.”
Okay. I can come on with the best of them. I took the phone from him. He bustled away, looking relieved.
The phone was a cheap flip-closed type. It stopped ringing as the call went to voice mail. I opened it and looked at the number. It was an 818 area code, so it was coming from somewhere nearby. As expected, it started ringing again a few seconds later. I answered. “This is Ray.”
“Ray! It’s been so long. Remember me?”
“I remember you, Wally. Why don’t we get together? We can talk about old times.”
“Heh. I’m sure you’d like that, Ray, but I haven’t forgotten that you tried to kill me. I mean, some stuff is hard to remember, but not that.”
He sounded different, almost dreamy. Wally had never been the sharpest guy, but he’d never sounded like this. “I’m a different person now,” I said.
“I’ll bet. Listen, Ray, I do want to meet with you. Right now. Walk west about three blocks. There’s a little diner that serves a nice breakfast. My treat.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Do you think I’m stupid, Wally?”
“Not at all, buddy. I know you still want to kill me. But I haven’t forgotten what you did for me over the years. I still owe you. So we’ll meet in a public place, and you’ll give me a chance to talk for, say, sixty seconds before you try to kill me again. Okay? After that, we’ll see what happens. The place is called the Sugar Shaker.
Okay?”
“Okay.” I closed the phone and started walking west. The fire engines drove by me as I went, and I saw bystanders and lookie-loos helping tenants unload their apartments or stand guard over their stuff.