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Two Wolf Press A Division of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. Atlanta, Georgia By the Same Author The Sonja Blue Series Sunglasses After Dark In the Blood Paint It Black (new edition forthcoming) A Dozen Black Roses Darkest Heart Dead Roses for a Blue Lady Other Titles Dead Man's Hand: Five Tales of the Weird West (forthcoming) For all these titles and more, visit www.twowolfpress.com © 1992, 2003 Nancy A. Collins. All rights reserved. Cover Art by Thorn Ang. Book design by Katie McCaskill. Art direction by Richard Thomas. Copyediting by James Stewart. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical-including photocopy, recording, Internet posting, electronic bulletin board-or any other information storage and retrieval system, except for the purpose of reviews, without permission from the publisher. White Wolf is committed to reducing waste in publishing. For this reason, we do not permit our covers to be "stripped" for returns, but instead require that the whole book be returned, allowing us to resell it. All persons, places, and organizations in this book-except those clearly in the public domain-are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons, places, or organizations living, dead, or defunct is purely coincidental. The mention of or reference to any companies or products in these pages is not a challenge to the trademarks or copyrights concerned. White Wolf is a registered trademark of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. Two Wolf Press is a trademark of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. Previous Edition: Mass-Market Paperback (New American Library, 1992) ISBN 0-4,5145-151-1 ISBN: 1-58846-876-3 First Trade Edition: May 2004 Printed in Canada Two Wolf Press 1554 Litton Drive Stone Mountain, GA 30083 www.twowolfpress.com 1 Where is she? Palmer looked at his watch for the fifteenth time in as many minutes. She was late. Again. He wanted to believe that it wasn't deliberate on her part, but the truth was Loli enjoyed keeping him waiting. No, not waiting; twisting in the wind on the end of a meat hook. The woman knew she had him: heart, soul and gonads. Palmer had recognized Loli as bad news the moment she sashayed into his office, but the knowledge hadn't kept him from falling hard and messy, like a jumper off the Empire State Building. She'd hired him to follow her husband, a well-to-do contractor named Samuel Quine, trying to get some dirt on him for a nice, juicy divorce settlement. It didn't take long. Quine was seeing someone on the sly, all right. They met at a motor court at the edge of town twice a week. It was all very discreet and proper, in a suburban middle-class kind of way. Palmer was all too familiar with the pattern. He'd spent a good chunk of his professional life taking incriminating photos of unfaithful husbands and wives sneaking in and out of hot-sheets joints. What he couldn't understand was why Quine needed to get it on the side when he was married to a woman as sexy as Loli. Before Palmer could finish that thought, he was dazzled by the high beams from Loli's candy-apple red Trans Am as it pulled into the deserted parking lot, Bon Jovi pumping out of the speaker system. Palmer grimaced. Loli's taste was dreadful. Except for him, of course. She shut off the engine, returning the lot to shadows and silence. There was still enough illumination from the distant streetlights for him to see her slide out from behind the wheel of her car. She was dressed all in red, from the ribbon wrapped around her ash-blond ponytail to the skintight red leather stiletto-heeled knee boots that matched her miniskirt. Her fingernails and lips glistened as if she'd painted them with fresh blood. Palmer's anxiety and aggravation transformed itself into pure lust. It was like being high on a wondrous drug that made rational thought and common sense not only irrelevant, but impossible. He wondered if this was how male praying mantises felt during the mating dance. "You got it?" Her voice was honey and whisky poured over crystal-clear ice. She raised her cornflower-blue eyes to his dark brown ones. He nodded dumbly, his tongue turned into a useless wad of dry cotton. Palmer handed her a manila envelope full of pictures of Sam Quine and his mistress leaving their trysting place, information detailing the days and times they kept their rendezvous, and the name they registered under. Loli quickly scanned his notes, her mouth set into a predatory smirk. Palmer was startled by the cruelty he saw in her eyes, then shamed by having felt revulsion. But he couldn't help feeling he'd been allowed an unintentional glimpse of the woman Sam Quine was married to. "Loli, we need to talk." "I'd like to stay and chat awhile, Bill. I really would. But there's something I need to attend to." She opened the carmine designer purse that hung from her shapely, white shoulder as she spoke. "Loli, it's about us__" "Now, where did I put that thing? Oh, here it is!" "When will I get to see you again?" Loli turned to face him, pulling a Smith & Wesson .38 out of the tangled mess of cosmetics and half-read romance novels in her purse. "I guess you'll see me in hell," she replied, leveling the gun at his chest. Palmer stared in mute horror at the piece of blue steel pointed at his heart. He recognized the weapon as his own, supposedly locked in the desk at the office. He disliked guns, but his clients expected it of him. Damn Bogart. "But, Loli... I love you!" Her painted lips pulled back into a grin that seemed to spread until it bisected her face. "That's sweet of you, Bill. I love you, too." And then she shot him. William Palmer woke in a puddle of sweat. Had he screamed? He listened to the other inmates in the prison, but all he heard were the usual snores and farts. He uncoiled his rigid shoulder and leg muscles. He'd recently taken to sleeping with his arms crossed, corpse-style, across his chest. The prison psychologist had made a big deal out of that. Palmer sat up, dabbing at the sweat rolling off his brow with the edge of the bed sheet. His hands trembled and he wanted a smoke real bad. Hell, he'd even settle for one of those shitty big-house cigarettes, made from Bugler tobacco and a page from the New Testament. Regular cancer sticks like Camels and Winstons were hard to get under these circumstances, much less his preferred brand: Sherman's Queen-Size Cigarettellos. That dream. That goddamned dream. How long was it going to keep on? He'd been having the same dream-or variations on the theme-ever since he'd come out of the coma six weeks ago and been informed of Loli's perfidy. The dreams varied widely, but they were essentially all the same: they involved him, Loli and his gun. Each dream ended with Loli opening fire. Sometimes the dreams were nonsensical, the way dreams normally are: he and Loli riding a merry-go-round in the middle of a forest when Loli pulls out the gun and shoots him. Others were so realistic he didn't know it was a dream until he was jerked back into consciousness by the sound of the gun: he and Loli naked in bed, screwing away, and she pulls the gun out from under the pillow . . .Palmer squeezed his eyes shut, deliberately blocking the image. That one had been bad. Worse than the one tonight. None of the dream-shootings were the real one, though. He guessed he should be grateful for small favors. It was bad enough remembering what had happened in the motel room without being condemned to relive it every night. His right hand absently massaged the scar on his chest that marked Loli's parting gift. She'd called late, babbling that she needed his help and protection. She'd decided to confront Quine at the motel but things had gone wrong. They got into a fight and she was locked in the bathroom-although she'd somehow succeeded in dragging the phone in after her. Quine had gone crazy, threatening to kill her. She was scared; Palmer didn't realize what a violent temper Quine had, how brutal he could be. She'd pushed the right buttons. Palmer was in his car and on his way to the motor court before the receiver hit the cradle. The door was unlocked when he got there. He wasn't too worried about Loli's husband. Quine was in his late fifties and heavier than Palmer, and not in the best of shape. Palmer knew how to handle himself in a fight. But he was unprepared for the sight of Sam Quine sprawled naked across the motel room's double bed, his brains splashed across the headboard and nightstand. Palmer heard the bathroom door click open behind him. He turned in time to see Loli at the threshold, stark naked and holding a recently fired .38. His. 38. "Loli, what the fu-" And she'd fired. Three weeks passed before he was able to stay conscious long enough to understand what was being said to and about him. Sometimes he wished he could return to the painless gray of twilight sleep and never come out. Anything would be better than the truth. Loli was dead. The whole thing was like a bad Mickey Spillane novel. It was typical of Loli, though. The cops kept commencing on the half-baked nature of the scheme. Did she really think no one would question her version of what happened? Didn't she know that forensics could read the splatter pattern left by her husband's exploding head and triangulate the trajectory of the fatal bullet? Did she really think the police were that stupid? There was no way she could have pulled it off. It didn't make any sense unless you knew her. Or thought you did. Loli had never been one to concern herself with consensual reality. If she said her husband was a brute, a cheat and a liar, then it was true. That she refused to have sex with him for two years was unrelated to his infidelity. He was the one in the wrong, the one to be punished. If she told the police that she and her husband had gone to a certain motel to celebrate their reconciliation, and while they were there, her jilted lover broke in on them, blowing her husband's gray matter all over the wallpaper, then that's what happened. It never occurred to her that she would be suspected as well. When the police began asking her questions, suggesting that she and Palmer had conspired to murder Quine, it proved too much for her. That Palmer had survived the bullet she'd pumped into him was another contingency she had been unprepared for. She kept insisting that she'd wrested the gun from Palmer and shot him in self-defense, but the police suspected Palmer's wounding had more to do with a falling-out between illicit lovers. Frightened and confused upon finding herself, possibly for the first time in her life, in a situation where her sex appeal could not free her from the consequences of her actions, Loli panicked. A fifth of Everclear and a bottle of sleeping pills provided an escape route from justice, but not before she penned a venomous farewell note, implicating Palmer in Quine's death, and mailed it to the district attorney: "It was all his idea. I didn't want to go along with it." What she really meant was that it was all his fault for not dying. If he'd died like she'd planned, everything would have gone off the way it was supposed to. Funny how he was finally becoming adept at understanding Loli, now that it was too late to do him any good. As soon as the doctors proclaimed him fit, he would be brought before the judge for bail designation. As far as the district attorney's office was concerned, it was a clear-cut case of conspiracy to commit murder; it didn't matter who actually pulled the trigger. His public defense attorney told him there wasn't much hope of making bail. Palmer craned his head so he could catch a glimpse of the sky through the heavily secured window over his bed. It was still dark out. He remembered his mother insisting, during the periodic hard times the family roller-coasted through, how "it's always darkest before the dawn." His mother was a good woman, bless her, but incapable of making a statement that wasn't cobbled together from cliches. His father had been a great one for cliches as well. His one real effort at handing paternal wisdom to his only son had come in the form of a nose-to-nose yelling match when he'd told the fifteen-year-old Palmer: "Boy, if you don't get your head outta your ass, you're gonna find yourself up shit creek without a paddle!" Thanks, Dad. "Palmer? Somebody here to see you." Word had come through that morning that the doctors had okayed his transferal to the prison. He was to be placed with the rest of the prisoners the next day. This had not come as welcome news. "Is it my lawyer?" "Beats me. The guy says he wants to talk to you." The orderly jerked his head toward the single door leading to the recovery ward. A man Palmer had never seen before was standing at the check-in desk, an expensive attache case in one hand. "You wanna see him?" There was no privacy in the prison infirmary, but the patient-inmates had the freedom to turn away visitors if they chose. Palmer looked at the stranger for a moment. "Yeah, send him over." Moments later the stranger with the attache case stood at the foot of Palmer's bed. He was a middle-aged man dressed in an expensive, if drab, silk suit. His skin was pallid, even by today's melanoma-conscious standards. He looked like a man who spent a lot of time indoors. "Mr. Palmer? Mr. William Palmer?" "Yeah, that's me. Who're you?" The stranger's mouth smiled, but his eyes did not join in. "My name is Renfield. And I believe I can be of some service to you, Mr. Palmer." "That so? You a lawyer?" Palmer motioned him to a metal folding chair next to the bed. Renfield lowered himself into the seat. His movements were so rigid and stylized that he reminded Palmer of an animated mannequin. Renfield's mouth curled into another simulated smile. "Not exactly. I am a representative for a third party who has an... interest... in your case." "Look, Mac, I don't know what it is you're getting at. Say what you have to say and get it over with, okay?' You are innocent, are you not? Of the crime they accuse you of, I mean. You did not murder, nor did you conspire to murder, Samuel Quine. Is that right?" You got it." Palmer wished he had a smoke. This pasty- faced suit was making him nervous. "Would you care for a cigarette, Mr. Palmer?" Renfield leaned forward, pulling a pack from his breast pocket. Palmer was surprised to see a flat, red-and-white case of Sherman's Queen-Size Cigarettellos in the man's pale hand. "Yeah, don't mind if I do." He eagerly accepted one of the thin, unfiltered brown cigarettes. "Go ahead, take the pack." "Uh, thanks." He stared at the cigarettes, then back at Renfield's blandly smiling face. "How did you know I smoke this brand?" "There is a lot we know about you, Mr. Palmer." Palmer looked up from his cupped palms as he lit the Sherman. "We?" "Meaning my employer." "Exactly who is this guy interested in my well being?" "That is not important, for now. What is important is that he can- and will, providing you agree to work for him-clear you of all charges with the district attorney. He can also get your private investigator's license reinstated." "What is this? Some kind of joke? If so, it's not a real knee-slapper." "Joke?" Renfield's brow creased. "I never joke, Mr. Palmer." "I should have guessed. Okay, let me rephrase what I just said. What's going on? Who sent you and what exactly am I to him that he's willing to pull those kind of strings? You're not Mafia, are you?" "I assure you, Mr. Palmer, my employer has no need of such petty power brokers. All I need to know is whether you are amenable to certain terms of employment in exchange for your freedom." Again the smile. Palmer felt a sudden urge to grab the drab little bastard and shake him by his lapels. Palmer shrugged. "If your boss can spring me like you said, I'll walk on my hands all the way to Timbuktu, if that's what he wants." "I doubt that will be necessary. Then you accept my employer's offer?" "That's what I said, didn't I?" Renfield nodded and closed his eyes. "It is done." It sounded like a verbal signal. Palmer wondered if the creep was wired for sound. Renfield stood up, straightening the creases in his suit. "You will be hearing from us shortly. Good day, Mr. Palmer." "Yeah. Sure. Hang loose, dude." Palmer lay back in the bed, arms folded behind his head, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. Who the hell was this Renfield geek? He didn't like the whey-faced bastard, but if he was telling the truth... Well, it wouldn't be the first time he had shaken hands with the Devil. He glanced at the pack of Shermans resting atop the bedside table. There is a lot we know about you, Mr. Palmer. Twenty-four hours after his initial meeting with Renfield, Palmer was standing on the street outside the Criminal Justice Building, blinking at the late afternoon sun. It had been over two months since he'd last been outside. He was still a bit weak from the gunshot wound that had creased his heart, but, all in all, he felt pretty damn good. Freedom was an amazing tonic. I'll be damned. The little wonk said he could do it, and whatever else he might be, he sure as hell isn't a liar. Palmer hefted the plain canvas tote bag the prison quartermaster had given him before jettisoning him back onto the streets. Inside were what few possessions he could call his own, salvaged from his apartment by his erstwhile public defender before the landlord changed the lock. Hardly the most auspicious of new beginnings. Palmer glanced at his wristwatch. He'd received a note from Renfield just prior to his release telling him to wait on the corner. But for what? He'd been waiting fifteen minutes already__ A stretch limo, black and shiny as a scarab, pulled up to the curb, its windows polarized against prying eyes. The rear passenger door opened and Renfield leaned halfway out, motioning for him to climb in. "You seem surprised, Mr. Palmer." "Dazed is more like it. How did you do it?" "Do what?" "Pull that trick with the DA's office? They said something about Loli's diary turning up." Renfield shrugged. "My employer is not without... connections, Mr. Palmer. Besides, what does it matter, so long as you are cleared?" Palmer wanted to press the issue, but there was something in the way Renfield smiled that made him keep silent. Renfield may have saved him from a jailhouse welcome-wagon party, but that didn't mean he had to like the guy. In fact, Palmer felt uncomfortable sitting next to him. He couldn't help himself; there was something inherently loathsome about Renfield that he couldn't quite peg. "Where are we going?" "We are going to meet my employer. He is as interested in seeing you face-to-face as you are in meeting him. You should relax, Mr. Palmer. It will be some time before we reach our destination." Renfield leaned forward and opened the liquor cabinet built into the back of the front seat. "Help yourself." A hour later the limo coasted to a halt. The time passed in silence, except for the occasional rattle of ice as Palmer replenished his bourbon and coke. Renfield drank nothing but bottled mineral water, and that sparingly. The driver moved from behind the wheel of the car and opened the door for Renfield. Palmer slid out after him, feeling a bit more tipsy than he'd realized. ...
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