I picked up the apartment’s landline, dialed my cell phone number, and hung up. “Hit redial if you need me,” I said. “I’m going to go look for your jacket. Then I’ll drop by the warehouse, see if there’s anyone there who’ll talk to me.”
“Why?”
“They might be able to help. I’m thinking that might have been all they were trying to do when you ran away. If Quicksilver’s hiding behind their music, there’s a good chance they’re no more complicit than I am.”
“But what if they are?”
“Then maybe they’ll give that away when I talk to them, and that’ll be all right too. It’ll tell us a little more about where we stand, what we’re dealing with.” I started toward the door, paused, looked back at her. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Ariana. It’s just . . . I need to do this.”
She stared at me. “All right.” Her voice was thin and full of pain, but something in her eyes told me she approved. We couldn’t just huddle together in my apartment. We had to take action, even if it was only revisiting the scene, gathering information, assessing our losses.
The rain that had been threatening earlier in the evening had come and gone, leaving behind a heavy fog that muted the streetlights, stilled the air. I felt alone, uncommonly afraid, and more willing than ever to believe Ariana’s crazy stories. Yet one thing gnawed at me. If Quicksilver was a monster, what was the agenda? What harm could Quicksilver possibly do by helping musicians find one another, celebrate their talents, and bring joy to an increasingly joyless world? It seemed more like the work of an angel than a demon.
I drove east on Smallman until I reached the now-familiar side street. From there I headed back to the dark, boarded-up warehouse. The cars and people were gone, only the graffiti announcing Quicksilver’s performance remained. I did a U-turn and drove the route again, making two circuits before noticing a streak of burned rubber on the pavement two blocks from the warehouse. I parked and got out, studied the concrete and found some shards of broken taillight. Nearby, an alley ran deep and shadowed between close-set walls. About fifty feet back, something lay sprawled beside a sewer grate. I walked to it, picked it up, studied it in the glare of my flashlight. It was a jacket, or had been. It was now a mass of shredded leather and ripped lining. Only one of the pockets remained. Nothing in it. I knelt beside the sewer, shined my light through the grate . . .
Something moved beside me. I swung the beam to my left.
There it was, twenty feet away, looking at first like a large dog. But then it stood, raising its arms in a gesture that recalled Quicksilver’s appearance on the warehouse stage. This time it didn’t sing. It just stared with eyes the color of mucus set in skin so pale it revealed the tendons and veins of its tapered face.
I drew my pistol, braced it on my flashlight hand, took aim.
“Easy now.” Its voice was low and rough, like the growl of an animal. No music in it now. “I’m not threatening you. Just watching.” It lowered its arms. They were muscular and long, extending nearly to its knees. “I saw you shining that light, figured you were looking for something. Did she send you?”
I kept the light centered on the creature, drawing down on its chest. Hideous as it was, its basic physiology seemed human. No doubt it had a heart. If necessary, I was prepared to find out.
“I want her things.”
“Things?” Its long mouth seemed to chew the word. “Is this one of them?” It opened a hand, revealing Ariana’s driver’s license, her face smiling through the glare on the plastic.
“Where’s the rest of it?” I said.
“Don’t have it on me.”
“Let’s go get it then.”
“No. I can’t take you there. Not yet. But look. I have this too.” It opened its other hand, revealing my business card, the edges slightly bent. “See? I know both of you—who you are, where you live.”
“Put them on the ground and back away.”
“I don’t think so.” It balled its fists, hiding the cards again. “How about I bring them to you . . . not now, though. At your place, sometime late, maybe when you’re sleeping.