Odd Girl Out

"I suppose," she said. "I wonder what's in all those boxes."

"Probably her shoe collection," I grumbled. "That's going to be a major headache all by itself."

"You'll figure something out."

"I appreciate your confidence," I said. "Speaking of figuring things out, how did you figure out where she was?"

"I don't know," Bayta said, shaking her head slowly. "It just seemed …I don't know."

"Oh, well, that clears it up," I said, trying not to be too sarcastic. "Come on—work at it a little. Did you hear her, or smell her, or what?"

"I don't know," Bayta said again, starting to sound a little exasperated.

"Okay, okay, take it easy," I soothed. "But if the details ever surface, be sure to let me know."

We reached Broadway, pausing on the corner as I looked both directions down the street for the traditional green-and-yellow banner of an autocab stand. But there wasn't one in sight. I focused my attention on the traffic flowing briskly along, wondering if autocabs simply roamed the streets like they did in some of the cities I'd visited.

But I couldn't see any of them tucked in among the streams of private cars and trucks, either. "I guess you have to call them," I said, pulling out my comm and punching up the city directory

"We could just walk," Bayta offered, pointing to our left. "If I remember the map right, Third and Chestnut is only five or six blocks away. Probably be just as fast as calling a cab."

"It won't take long in a city this size," I assured her. I found the number and punched in a request, glancing up and down the street again. A block away to our right, a middle-aged man in a jogging suit trotted to a stop at the corner, peering closely at his reader. Checking the news as he ran, I decided, or else he had a map of the city pulled up and was trying to figure out the next leg of his urban walking adventure.

I frowned, red flags going up in the back of my brain. I'd noticed a man in similar garb a block away in that same direction as we were leaving Veldrick's house. If this was that same man, and if we'd reached Broadway half a minute before he did, he had to be the slowest jogger in the business.

Or else he was making sure he didn't get ahead of us.

"On second thought, maybe you're right," I told Bayta, canceling the autocab request. Swapping out the comm for my reader, I punched up a street map.

She was right—the Hanging Gardens was five blocks north and one block east of where we were standing. Between us and it was one of the city's commercial and shopping areas, with most of this section of Broadway lined with shops and restaurants. A number of the businesses on our side of the street, I noted, opened onto service alleys running along behind them.

"Yes, you're definitely right," I went on, shutting off the reader and putting it away "Besides, it'll be dinnertime soon. A walk will give us a chance to check out the restaurants along the way."

Bayta had a faintly suspicious look on her face, no doubt prompted by my sudden one-eighty on the autocab thing. But she merely nodded, and we set off.

We took our time, strolling at a leisurely pace as we checked out the window displays of the shops along our way and paused at each restaurant to look over its posted menu. I made sure not to check on whether our jogger was still back there, either by looking for his reflection in the windows or by actually turning around. Unless he was a complete amateur he would know all the techniques for clearing a back-trail, plus all the techniques for not getting spotted in the first place.

Two and a half blocks later, we reached the place where I planned to lose him.

It was a hardware supply store, one of the establishments I'd noted that had a service alley running behind it. It was a large place, the sort that would likely have tall display shelves, somewhat winding aisles, and perhaps the occasional blind corner. "In here," I told Bayta, nudging her toward the main door as we started to pass.

Accustomed to taking even ridiculous orders from me, she obediently pulled open the door and headed inside. I followed, and for the first time since we set off on our stroll up Broadly I looked behind me.

The man in the jogging suit was nowhere to be seen. I checked the other side of the street. No jogger. He'd either changed outfits, gotten around in front of us and was lying low, or passed us off to a second tail.

This was possibly going to be more interesting than I'd thought.

The store did indeed have the tall racks and relatively narrow aisles I'd hoped for. Catching up to Bayta, I took her arm and steered her onto a zigzag path toward the rear. "What are we looking for?" she asked as we reached the plumbing section.

"Freedom of movement," I told her. "I think we were followed from Veldrick's place."

She digested that as we passed through Plumbing and reached Storage and Shelving. "All right," she said. "But if we lose him now, won't he just pick us up again at the Hanging Gardens?"

"That assumes we're still going to the Hanging Gardens," I said. "I'm thinking now maybe we won't. In here."

We slipped through a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. Beyond it was a typical retail store back area: cluttered and uncarpeted, its walls decorated with notices and inspirational placards and the occasional gouge where someone had missed a turn with a loaded cart. I glanced around, spotted a lighted EXIT sign, and steered Bayta toward it. Reaching under my jacket to my belt holster, I got a grip on my Glock and pushed open the back door.

The service alley was much nicer than I'd expected. There were large bins on both sides, but they were neatly lined up and even looked relatively clean. There were only a few stray papers blowing around loose, with none of the more disgusting debris that had a tendency to collect in out-of-the-way places like this. Apparently, the merchants on this block took pride even in the less public areas of their properties.

"Which way?" Bayta whispered.

I pointed south, the direction we'd just come from. "Let's see how fast they are on the uptake." I turned and started to take a step.

And froze as a soft click came from the far side of one of the bins now behind us. The soft but distinctive click of a gun's safety catch being released.

Bayta heard it, too. "Was that—?"

"Yes, it was," a raspy voice said from the direction of the click. "Just pull your hand out of your coat, friend. Nice and easy. And empty."

Keeping my head motionless, I gave the area around us a quick scan. But there was no cover anywhere, at least nothing Bayta and I could reach fast enough. With a sigh, I pulled my hand out of my jacket, holding it up to demonstrate its emptiness. "You're good," I complimented my ambusher.

"No, you're just predictable," he said. The voice was moving, indicating he'd left his cover and was coming up behind us. "You really should work on that."

"I'll make a note," I said.

"You'd better," he warned. "In this business, when you get predictable, you die."

I frowned. Fatherly advice from a street assailant?

And then, suddenly, it clicked. "Well, you would certainly know," I agreed. Without waiting for permission, I turned around.

It was the middle-aged jogger I'd spotted earlier, all right, his gun in hand but pointed harmlessly up at the sky. His hair was gray and ponytailed behind him, his face was lined and leathery with age and a lifetime of too much sun, and he was sporting a two-day stubble on his cheeks. It was a face I'd never seen before in my life. "Hello, McMicking," I greeted him. "What in the name of hell are you doing here?"