Strafa was more exhausted than I was. She had put in a heavy, hard day. I carried her upstairs. We collapsed on top of the covers in our wet clothes. Singe and Dean would raise hell in the morning.
106
I woke a couple of times, used the pot, shed some of the miserable wet clothing, went back to sleep. Hunger brought me out after fourteen hours.
Strafa remained dead to the world. She hadn't moved since I laid her down.
The night did tell me one more thing about her. She snored like a longshoreman when she was exhausted.
Dean fed me an indifferent meal. He was distracted. He foresaw a crowd gathering. I told him, "If you don't open the door you won't have to entertain them."
"No doubt true. However, I lack your facility for pragmatic rudeness." Muttering, he headed out to answer a knock.
He was back in a minute with Playmate. I said, "That wasn't so bad. Put him to work. How goes, Play?"
"Screaming fine. But I do need to find Kolda. I'm almost out of medicine."
"We'll hunt him down as soon as. ." Done eating, I was moving into the hallway. Penny was at the peephole. She looked rather nice.
I am still alive. I do notice things.
Penny opened up. John Stretch and Dollar Dan trundled in. Singe was right behind. She had the boys doing porter work. She had looted a stationery shop.
"What the hell?"
"I was out of paper and low on ink. What did the Dead Man say?"
"How much paper do you. .? He didn't say anything. He tends not to talk in his sleep."
"He woke up hours ago, Garrett. Definitely dragging, for him, though. What did you do?" Suddenly suspicious.
"I didn't do anything. I just got up. Why do you need so much paper?"
"I'm recording the family history."
Garrett. Please join me.
He was back. That was the difference I'd felt. The place just fits different when he's awake. Though Singe had it right. This was just barely.
I stepped into his room. A handful of candles burned there. The cold was a shock. The light was for Penny. She had a painting going.
Saucerhead had arrived at some point. He sprawled in a corner, snoring.
I told Penny, "That's really good. You even got Sarge's wart."
The kid flinched but beamed. She was doing a collage of faces, working from memory. I had no trouble recognizing anyone.
You managed without me.
I sensed both pride and disappointment. "I worried every minute of it, too."
A virtual sneer. So I see. Nor have you fully worked out your woman issues yet.
"That's a little harder. I want to do the right thing."
Really? Or might it be that you do not want people seeing you as the bad guy when the crying starts?
"There is that."
It is safe for Mr. Dotes to go when he wishes. The threat no longer exists. The Royals gave up the last villain. Fear of the mob moved them. The King, when glimpsed by General Block, appeared to be a scant sixteen. The antiaging process must be highly unpredictable. Though he has been aging since before you and Mr. Dotes became involved, he remains a decade younger than was his target.
It is probable, by the way, that Mr. Dotes was taken originally not because he saw prisoners being shifted but because he might have seen the King's coach. I found a glimpse, never noticed or recognized, in a backwater of what he has been able to recall of that night.
"Dramatic age shifts? Could that explain the child's room in the Elf Town warehouse? Did one of the female villains get pushed back all the way to childhood?"
A plausible theory. I expect that the wild unpredictability began when they started using live bodies. The dead would be at a near ground state and much alike but the living would sprawl across a vast range.
That sounded good but didn't make much sense. I stopped listening. Nor did I harken to Dean and Singe squabbling about the work involved in throwing a victory party. Strafa had come into the Dead Man's room. She had cleaned up and dressed herself fit to kill. She didn't have to turn on the girl power.
So. I believe that issue has been worked out, too.
Maybe. A choice had been made. Questions remained. And I still had to summon the guts to face Tinnie and tell her there was nothing more she could do. I had to say good-bye.
I didn't want to see that being brave, sad, resigned look. But I couldn't disrespect her and what we had been to one another by just turning my back.
I wished there was a way we could stay friends. But that wouldn't work any better for us than it had for Kevans, Kip, and Kyra.
Old Bones settled back virtually and included the entire household in the warm glow of his approval.
He had gotten his boy all growed up.
Even Penny gave up a grudging smile.
About the Author
Glen Cook was born in 1944 in New York City. He has served in the United States Navy, and lived in Columbus, Indiana; Rocklin, California; and Columbia, Missouri, where he went to the state university. He attended the Clarion Writers Workshop in 1970, where he met his wife, Carol. "Unlike most writers, I have not had strange jobs like chicken plucking and swamping out health bars. Only full-time employer I've ever had is General Motors." He is now retired from GM. He's "still a stamp collector and book collector, but mostly, these days, I hang around the house and write." He has three sons-an Army officer, an architect, and a music major.
In addition to the Garrett, P.I., series, he is also the author of the popular Black Company series.