Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (35 page)

“Prove it!”

Mike straightened up so he towered over her. “Cousin Melinda, I don’t know who you think you are speaking to. I don’t need to prove anything to you.”

Henry, the secretary, tapped her on the arm.

“A shape-changer, Mrs. Wurmley,” he said. “She had an accomplice. Someone who could come and go without challenge.”

“How did she make contact with anyone? You have been careless!”

“Not I.” Henry raised his nose haughtily. “Perhaps you should ask your lovely housekeeper?”

Melinda turned on Marcella. “Is. This. True?”

“I don’t know what’s going on here, ma’am,” the woman said. She was being very brave, but her voice shook. She knew more than she was saying. Melinda sensed it and brought her face close to the young woman’s.

“Tell me!”

“Don’t hurt her,” Mike said, fiercely. If Val wanted to get away from there, all she had to do was ask him for help. He wondered why she hadn’t trusted him.

The answer was simple: Melinda.

“She can’t tell us anything more,” Henry said, dismissively. “My little pet is on their trail. All we need to do is follow him.”

Mike looked from one to the other.

“Pet? What kind of pet? Is that what killed the burglar the other evening? It’ll kill Val!”

Henry shot him a triumphant glance.

“No, but it will kill anyone near her. Collateral damage. Regrettable but inevitable.”

“I’m going with you,” Mike said at once.

Melinda and Henry seemed to share an unspoken conference.

“Why not?” Melinda said. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into her. Dean! Get the car!”

At
2:19 in the morning, Griffen’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket without taking his eyes off the cards in his other hand. Pocket rockets, two aces, lay facedown on the table before him. He could not lose. The kitty held at least five thousand dollars. He had cajoled, teased, and trash-talked his fellow players into raising against him. He was about to crash their dreams of avarice. Jerome grinned at him. Griffen had no tells to speak of, but his friend could discern when Griffen was setting other people up to lose.

“Griffen McCandles,” he said.

“Griffen?”

“Val?”

He stood up, knocking his chair backward to the floor. The other players exclaimed in alarm. He patted the air with his hand.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I fold.”

“You what?” asked the high roller from Springfield. Griffen gave him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. I have to take this call. Family emergency. Your two queens can win the hand.” He turned away from the table. Behind him, the other players threw in their cards with mixed groans and laughs.

“Is he a mind reader, or what?” one of them asked, as the whale hauled the chips toward him. Griffen didn’t care.

“Val, are you all right? Where are you? This isn’t your number. Whose phone is this? Where the hell have you been?”

The connection was poor. Griffen strained to hear over the crackling. He moved around the room, seeking the strongest cell-phone signal.

“. . . On the road . . . following . . . ! Coming in . . . east. Damned mountains!”

“Wait a minute, I can hardly hear you!” Griffen said. By then, Jerome had left the table and was standing at his elbow. He mouthed the question.

Val?

Griffen nodded enthusiastically. She was alive. Relief, anxiety, and anger battled it out for dominance in his belly. He shouted to be heard over the static.

“Listen, Val, I have a warning for you. Holly said to look out for a bald . . .” He glanced back over his shoulder at the other players, who were listening avidly to his side of the conversation. “A bald, white guy. He’s following you. It sounds like trouble. Bad trouble.”

“I know!” Val’s voice trumpeted suddenly from the speaker. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes!

“Where are you?”

“What?”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know! Somewhere in North Carolina!”

“North Carolina? Where are you coming from?”

“Melinda’s house.” She kept her answers short and repeated them until Griffen shouted an acknowledgment.

“Let me talk to George.”

“He’s not here.” She sounded puzzled.

“Where is he?”

A roar interrupted Val’s reply. Griffen heard a shriek, then the connection cut off.

“Val? Val?” He stared at the inert handset for a moment. Val didn’t call back. He tapped the
RECEIVED CALLS
folder. The number from which Val had called was Mai’s.

What was going on?

Griffen thumbed the green button to dial the number. No answer.

He looked up at Jerome.

“Can you finish up here?”

Jerome glanced at the table. The dealer had gathered up the cards and was counting chips. The players were chatting among themselves, clearly curious.

“Looks like we’re all done, Grifter. Hey, everyone, no need to rush off.”

“No problem,” said the whale from Springfield. “We can see you’ve got a problem.”

“Sorry about that,” Griffen said.

The player pointed a playful finger at him. “Just don’t cop out on the tournament. I’m looking forward to taking that first prize. Five grand would be a nice going-home present.”

“You can try.” Griffen tried to look playfully predatory, but too many thoughts were playing bumper cars in his mind. “You’ll have to go through me, first.”

“It’ll be my pleasure to leave you in the dust.” He shook hands with Griffen and the other players. The room cleared out in moments.

“I have to find her,” Griffen said as soon as the door closed. “She’s in danger. George isn’t with her, and it looks like Mai is. Where did she come into this?”

“No idea,” Jerome said. “How do you plan to find them?”

Griffen thought hard for a moment. “Harrison. Maybe he can trace the call.”

Jerome looked at his watch. “It’s after three.”

“If he’s on duty, he’ll still be up.”

•   •   •

The
burly Vice cop looked as weathered as his leather jacket. He chugged down half of the first cup of coffee, though it had to be boiling hot, and set the pottery mug down on the diner counter. The eyes he fixed on Griffen were bloodshot.

“This had better be important, McCandles. I was about to sign off. It’s been a hell of a night.”

Griffen explained about the call from Val. He held out his cell phone to Harrison. “So, could you trace where it was coming from? I have to find her before that thing gets her.”

Harrison gave him a weary glare. “Is this the trouble you didn’t want to tell me about?” he asked. “Your kind of trouble, not mine?”

“No,” Griffen said. “This is something more.”

“Do you have a court order? An FBI notification?”

“No.”

“Are the people involved suspected of any felonies?”

“No, of course not.”

“Are you still on the line with her?”

“No.” Griffen frowned. “You can see that. She screamed, and the phone went dead. I’ve been trying to reach her ever since.”

“Then how the hell do you think I can call out the NOPD to put a trace on a nonexistent call? We don’t get to use that technology unless we have legal permission. You watch too many movies, McCandles. We don’t have the magic grid sweepers Hollywood gives the TV cops. We can’t guess when the perps are going to commit crimes, but we have to catch them doing it. Jesus, sometimes I think we score arrests as much on dumb luck as on slogging police work.”

Griffen stood up. “Then I had better get out there. I’ll drive until I meet her coming the other way.”

Harrison raised his eyebrows.

“Are you kidding? What highway are they coming west on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know how many roads there are between here and North Carolina?”

“No.”

“Five good ones, plus dozens of dirt tracks, side streets, and dead ends.”

Griffen felt hopeless. He had a mental picture of Val at the mercy of some kind of maniac with long teeth and a battle-ax. He plumped down on the cushioned stool. It exhaled a gust of stale air.

“Then what can I do?”

“Delegate,” Malcolm said.

Griffen jumped. He turned to see his uncle, sleepy and peevish, wearing an open-necked polo shirt and khaki trousers. He had his arm through Holly’s, escorting her as if she were a princess. Gris-gris, in his lightweight jacket, danced impatiently beside them.

“I called them, Grifter,” Jerome said, in answer to Griffen’s unasked question. “You can’t do anything alone.”

“You cannot do anything about Valerie, period,” Malcolm said, fixing Griffen with an austere look. “We are nine hours before an incredibly important event, at which you will occupy a position of prominence and responsibility. Ms. Dunbar still requires your guidance, and your protection.”

“Uncle Malcolm, Val is my sister,” Griffen said.

“If I infer from what I just overheard, you do not know her whereabouts. There is nothing you can do, apart from being ready to respond when and if she comes within range of your aid.”

“I know, but . . .”

“You heard from Val?” Gris-gris interrupted. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Griffen felt contrite. “I should have, Gris-gris. I
don’t
know where she is, just that she’s on her way here.”

“She’s all right so far,” Holly said. She took a faceted crystal the size of Griffen’s fist from her shoulder bag and held it out to him. He peered at it but wasn’t surprised that all he could see through it was fragmented views of her hand.

“Thank goodness for that.”

“How do we get her home?” Gris-gris asked.

Holly looked grave. “I have no knowledge of that, Gris-gris. We just have to do the best we can and hope she can outrun her pursuers.”

“Pursuers, plural?” Gris-gris looked as if he would explode with impatience. “Or you just seein’ mirror images in that crystal?”

“Don’t be like that, man,” Jerome said. “She’s giving us the best she has.”

“I know that, but I want my lady back!”

“Come, then,” Malcolm said with a weary sigh. “Let us lay the facts on the table and try to make a plan that will cover all possible contingencies.” He glanced at Harrison. “Detective, I appreciate your assistance. I am sorry my nephew interrupted your night.”

It was a clear dismissal. Harrison took a breath all the way down to his potbelly, but he matched Malcolm’s baleful mien with easy authority.

“Thanks, Mr. McCandles, but I’m okay. I need to know everything that’s going down. Maybe I can help.”

Malcolm studied him, then nodded.

“Very well. I appreciate your time.” He surveyed the diner. The glaring fluorescent light spilled down on an array of melamine, chrome, and vinyl padding, and a few late-night customers. “Let us take that table in the corner. It is more private.”

Griffen signaled to the waitress. They were going to need a lot of coffee.

•   •   •

Mike
kept the speedometer needle at a steady sixty-five. Melinda had wanted to go faster, but he had refused.

“I still want to run for office next year,” he said. “It would look bad if I had multiple interstate violations on my record. That is, if I still have your support.”

“We’ll see,” she said. She sat back in the rear seat and refused to speak to him again. Mike was left alone with his thoughts.

He had taken over the wheel after both bodyguards had driven for four-hour stretches apiece. They both insisted they could go on, but Melinda didn’t want them to make stupid mistakes. They needed to be alert once they found Valerie again.

At the moment, all of them were asleep. Mike wished he could doze off, but he was almost afraid to. He was alone with his thoughts, which were so conflicted he thought he was seeing things. Not long after Charlotte, they had passed a white Prius on the road. Mike had to do a double take. The man behind the wheel looked exactly like him.

No, that had had to be an illusion. Mike shook himself again. He was playing in a game out of his league. Melinda might be his cousin, but she was certainly not his ally.

Until that afternoon, he had never really considered how dangerous Melinda was. She had led him to believe—no, she let him believe—that he had impressed her and was worthy of her backing for his Senate run. She had even allowed him to think that he might have found a suitable mate in Valerie McCandles. She gave him permission to woo Val and made the girl available anytime he was in the state. He and Val were compatible in so many ways, but Mike was wondering how much of that was genuine and how much influenced by Henry and his machinations.

As a dragon, he dismissed magicians and humans in general as an inferior race. It seemed that he had underestimated at least this one. To render Val as complacent as she had been was an amazing feat. He had known from watching his parents that he would not rule the roost when he mated. No male dragon ever really controlled a female. All he could do was convince her to allow him to form a household with her and help protect any offspring they might have. Val had made it seem like such a relationship would be easy.

He hoped she was all right.

An exit for Louisville loomed out of the darkness. If he took a wrong turn, he could delay Melinda’s pursuit until Val was safely back home. He glanced at his mirror. Yes, all four of them, including the two bodyguards, were asleep. He eased the car slowly toward the turn.

He felt a sharp prod in his neck. A wave of flowery gentleman’s cologne wafted around and tweaked his nose.

“Don’t even consider it,” Henry said, a menacing whisper in his ear. “Treachery will be met with death.”

Mike glared at the windshield. “Do you always talk like a cheap movie?”

“Only when I am dealing with cheap politicians,” the warlock said. “Drive to New Orleans. Perhaps you’ll get to live.”

Griffen
took a deep breath to compose himself. Though every red blood cell in his body wanted him to look hard, he did his best to ignore the curvaceous black woman sliding the zipper of her skintight red dress down between her breasts. She leaned forward. Her ripe breasts surged, so close to popping out. Griffen squeezed his eyes closed.
She’s not there. She’s not there.
He slid the pool cue forward. With a gentle
CLACK
, the cue ball rolled eighteen inches over the smooth green felt and tapped the nine ball. He found himself holding his breath. Almost in slow motion, the nine edged toward the far-side pocket. It began to slow down even further. Griffen exhaled, willing the ball to fall. Two inches. One inch. Then it vanished into the dark pocket as if a conjurer had made it disappear.

The crowd around him burst into polite applause.

“Well, damn you to hell, Griffen McCandles,” Penny said. She leaned on her cue with an insouciant smirk. She was framed fetchingly against the haze of smoke filling the ballroom of the Fairmont Hotel. “That’s four racks!”

“Going for five,” Griffen said. Jerome stood up and handed him the glass of Diet Coke that he had been carefully guarding. With cash prizes on the line, a number of local Louisiana pool clubs had signed up teams, hoping to bring home some of the loot. That meant dirty tricks were not only possible but expected. Adulterating drinks was the least obtrusive distraction. A player might find his innocent beverage spiked with a healthy dollop of Everclear or flavored with something less palatable. Maestro, third on their roster, raised his own glass to him.

“You good,” said the elderly dark-skinned man in sunglasses and a porkpie hat, the fourth player at Griffen’s table. His paste-on badge identified him as
ELMER
. Griffen smiled.

“You don’t make it easy.”

“Not supposed to, my friend. Not supposed to.” Elmer smiled back, showing crooked, yellow teeth. “All’s fair in love and war, and this is war. In a genteel sort of way, y’understand.”

“Yes, I do,” Griffen said. Penny racked the balls. Griffen sighted the one ball, leaned forward, and shot. The cue ball bounded off two cushions and hit the diamond of pool balls, nipping the one from the rear of the pack. The onlookers let out a pleased exclamation as it skittered into the side pocket. The white ball came to a rest at the bumper an inch from falling in.

Anything that broke concentration was fair game. Not even the presence of television cameras, of which there were many, deterred experienced contenders from bringing their A game. One well-known pro, now playing somewhere across the room, had brought along his three “girlfriends.” These well-endowed women, dressed in skintight dresses, flashed a hint of breast or bottom when the other men at his table were lining up tricky shots. The first time he had spotted a striptease in progress, Griffen had marched over to put an end to it, but Gris-gris, Jerome, and even Penny assured him that such subterfuges were normal.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be so snappish. I’m just worried about Val.”

“Enjoy it,” Jerome said. “You’d pay fifty dollars to see some of these ladies shake it in the clubs on Bourbon Street. I think I recognize the one in the blue bra.”

The woman in question, a lushly figured African-American with hair dyed bright gold, threw Jerome a kiss. After that, Griffen had let the visual displays go ahead. The crowds loved them. The happier the onlookers were, the more likely they were to drop donations in the collection boxes arranged near every table. The cash prizes, represented by wads of fake hundred-dollar bills, lay on silver platters under glass domes beside the registration table. That had inspired other entrants as well as donors.

The event had been going smoothly. Griffen could almost forget his personal concerns in satisfaction for the way the elements had fallen together. He kept checking his cell phone for calls from Val or Gris-gris.

He had no way of knowing where Val and Mai were. At 5:40 in the morning, they had called one more time to say they had crossed the line into Alabama. Mai’s phone battery was nearly empty. They had no charger and were too afraid to stop and buy one. Both of them were unharmed. Neither of them had seen the bald demon since their last fill-up. Griffen had just enough time to give her the hotel address before the connection had gone dead for good. Malcolm felt there would be greater safety in numbers, and in a building with several entrances and exits. The apartment complex might prove a trap for Val as well as her pursuer. They couldn’t risk that.

George had called in. He was in a similar fix with regard to his cell phone. It seemed that he and Mai had switched cars. He refused to give Griffen any details as to how that had come about. George didn’t know if he was ahead of or behind Val, though he suspected he was trailing her. He informed Griffen that four demon hunters were on-site in New Orleans and would help Griffen catch the dragon killer when it turned up. He told Griffen its name, but Griffen couldn’t make sense of eight syllables of nonsense that weren’t English or any other language he had ever heard.

Malcolm had not been pleased to hear that a demon capture might occur during the high-profile event. He stalked the hall like a private detective looking for evidence, as he tried to identify the demon hunters among the throng of players and onlookers. He was even more of a distraction than the girls, coming almost within elbow’s reach of the tables to survey the action. After a few complaints, Ms. Opal had set a young porter to walk beside Mr. McCandles and keep him back out of the players’ sight lines.

The elder McCandles had to be satisfied with the take the event had made so far. In addition to the players who had signed up in advance, a few dozen others had shown up just before noon to play. Griffen’s chart was not only full but overflowing. He had had to calculate a rotation for additional newcomers. Malcolm checked the ledger from time to time and collected excess cash from Jerome and the campaign volunteers at the tables. Griffen had done the math in his head. The seed money from this tournament would kick-start Penny’s campaign again. She could go the distance. To his own surprise, he felt excitement at the prospect.

Horsie seemed to be everywhere at once. She brought local luminaries over to shake hands with Penny. Griffen caught glimpses of her on the sidelines giving interviews to the press. He even saw her chatting with the dour producer from his visit to the local morning talk show. The glare from television cameras strobed over the tables like searchlights as the camera operators sought interesting angles. Horsie was thrilled with the way the event was running. On those rare times that Griffen caught her eye, she beamed at him and gave him a happy thumbs-up. Griffen and Malcolm had not told her or Penny of Val’s imminent arrival. It might turn out to be a nonevent. In the meantime, they saw no point in adding to her concerns. To Winston, on the other hand, they had given a full briefing. The security agent accepted the confidence with a stony face and a curt nod. Since then, he had remained close to Penny, present but unobtrusive. Griffen had to admire him even if he didn’t much like him. He had also approved hiring three off-duty Vice cops, Harrison among them, as extra protection.

Penny was on her brightest public behavior. She greeted everyone with a warm handshake and smile, and posed for dozens of pictures. She saved her normal vitriol for her volunteers and Griffen when she couldn’t be overheard by reporters. He had made a point to avoid her, until they had ended up at the same table in round five.

Griffen had handicapped her in the middle of the pack so she would play against more than just visiting professionals. She dazzled the less-skilled players with her skill as well as her banter. She, Fox Lisa, and another redheaded volunteer from the campaign office had on tight, bright, aquamarine T-shirts printed with
LUCKY PENNIES
. They went well with other team shirts, such as the black-clad Agents
of Chaos, the blue-shirted Ball Hogs, and many others based on puns or in-jokes. The roar of conversation in the hall was cheerful. As players were knocked out of competition, they started scratch games at available tables, half the (official) bets going to Penny’s fund. Griffen had spotted a few of the local oddsmakers and had shaken them down, gently, to put in a portion of their winnings at the end of the day.

Griffen lined up his next shot, trying to ignore the antics of Maestro, an Agent of Chaos, who kept flicking a cigarette lighter just in the corner of his peripheral vision.

“So, do y’all know what it means to have ‘savoir faire’?” Elmer said suddenly, just as Griffen prepared to shoot. Griffen lowered his head. At least it hadn’t caught him in midstroke.

“Why, no,” Penny chirped, smiling over her shoulder at a photographer from the
Times-Picayune
. “What does it mean?”

“Well, say you have a man in bed with a lady who is not his wife, and the husband comes home unexpectedly. The husband stops at the door of the bedroom. Then he steps back and turns away, pretending he doesn’t see a thing. Would you say he has savoir faire?”

“Yes, I would.”

The old man leaned back and put his thumb in his belt.

“Well, you’d be wrong. How about if the husband stops at the door of the bedroom, sees what’s going on, then says to the man, ‘Sorry to interrupt. Keep going.’”

Griffen tried not to chuckle. He took that moment to shoot. The three rebounded off a corner cushion. It slowed, then crept toward the side pocket. If he blew on it, it would drop. Instead, he stood up and leaned on his cue. The ball ambled along the felt, then dropped with a clatter.

“Sounds like savoir faire to me.”

The dark glasses turned his way. “Not so fast, my friend. That still ain’t it.”

Griffen sighted the four ball. It was in a tricky position, next to the eight. If he sank the eight, he’d scratch. He could do it with a two-bank shot. He leaned over the cue.

“No, if the husband came home, saw the man, said, ‘Keep going,’ and the man
can
, then
he’s
got savoir faire!”

Griffen couldn’t help himself. The cue skidded out of his fingers. The white ball snicked right into the black eight ball, and both of them fell into the corner pocket.

Elmer smiled at him. “Like that one, huh? Well, looks like it’s my turn.”

“Now, was that nice?” Penny asked, sidling into Elmer’s sight line.

“No, but it’s a good story, ain’t it?”

Maestro racked up the balls. Elmer leaned down. His cue was a beauty, hard maple, shiny with age. Griffen watched as he sighted down the diamond of balls, then moved the cue ball four inches to the right. It wasn’t where he would have placed it.

Snick!

Elmer stood back. The balls leaped away from the white intruder in their midst. Griffen watched in amazement as the balls bounded off their fellows. The one, two and three, dropped into the left-hand pockets in order, one after the other.

“Well, damn,” Maestro said, with open admiration.

“You just got to know where to stroke ’em,” Elmer said. “Now, watch the four and five. They don’t get along so good, but I can make ’em behave.”

“That I have to see,” Griffen said.

The old man took his time lining up the shot. The four and five sat a couple of inches apart near the rear-right cushion. An amateur would knock the five into the corner. Elmer seemed to take it as a challenge.

“I like to clear more than one ball at a time, if there’s even a chance at sinking them. Makes the game more exciting, don’t it?”

The physics that must have been going on in his mind made Griffen’s own mind whirl. Elmer angled his thin body to aim his cue at the rear-left edge of the white ball.

Clack!

The white ball banked off the left, shot straight across the table. It narrowly missed the eight ball and nipped into the narrow space between the four and five.

As if stung, the four ball zipped down the back side of the table. Griffen held his breath. The colored sphere dropped with a clatter into the left-rear pocket. Almost at the same time, the five, caught by the backspin of the cue ball, rolled lazily up the right side, teetered, and plunked into the right-center pocket.

“Damn,” Maestro said. “I think I paid my entry money for a master class.”

“You too kind,” Elmer said. “You could buy an old man a drink.”

“My pleasure. What are you having?”

Griffen felt his phone erupt. He pulled it out of his pocket and stepped away from the table.

“Griffen McCandles.”

“Grifter, I got ’em!” Gris-gris said triumphantly. “Melvin spotted the car comin’ in on Route 10. He’s been followin’ ’em, and I just joined the parade. We’re on Canal Street, comin’ toward the central city.”

“Any sign of a bald white guy?”

“Nothin’ but a lot of traffic,” Gris-gris said. “You want us to come right into the ballroom?”

“No, bring Val to the lobby,” Griffen said, glancing around at the tables. “If that thing turns up, I don’t want it to be right in the middle of this crowd. How does she look?”

“Beautiful. See you in a few.”

He put the phone away.

“Gotta take care of something,” Griffen said. “I’ll come back if I can. You get to fight it out for who advances to the semifinals.”

“Well, that’ll be me, of course,” Penny said, with an exaggerated wink. Elmer missed a shot in his third frame and ceded the table to Maestro. Griffen left them to it.

Val was coming home! Griffen kept the glee he felt off his face in case the other players misunderstood it. He would be so glad to see her. Then he was going to give her a piece of his mind for running away and not letting him know where she was for months. He put his cue away and headed toward the lobby.

Fox Lisa waved to Griffen from a table near the front of the room. Feeling light on his feet in spite of his lack of sleep, Griffen loped over to tell her. He swept her up, cue and all, and gave her a big kiss.

“Well, thank y’all,” Fox Lisa said, her eyes shining as he put her down. “What’s that all about?”

“Val’s on the way in.”

“Wonderful!” Fox Lisa said. “She okay?” Griffen nodded. She gestured toward the two men and a woman who were playing on her table. “Do you need me to bow out here?”