But Ryan was out of the picture now, replaced by a stalker. It seemed impossible.
Think hard about acquaintances, coworkers, past associates, any customers at the Pearl Club who may have made you uncomfortable.
Melody was thinking hard, but nothing sparked. The people she’d associated with during the drug years were either dead by now or just trying to stay alive. Addicts were too concerned about the next fix to do anything but drug seek.
She considered Poke fans, but that was a nonstarter. She’d burned out like a supernova, as if she’d never existed, instantly replaced by the next new thing. Besides, a Poke fan would throw roses at her like they used to when Roxy Codone was on stage, not sneak them into her apartment. And Markus? The thought of him as a stalker was laughable. If he wanted her, he’d ask.
Her coworkers were the only family she had, and there had been no sketchy figures lurking in the shadows at Pearl Club. They all kept an eye out for that; it was a bullet point in the employee manual.
Maybe Ryan had lied about the roses, another cruel manipulation. It was entirely believable, and although a disturbing thought, it was a more comforting one than the possibility of a stalker.
Melody looked at her glass of rye, half-full or half-empty, depending on your perspective, and downed the rest in one burning gulp. Booze wasn’t instructive, but it let you forget, and that’s what she wanted to do.
She found her way to the sofa, curled up beneath the throw she was becoming fond of, and closed her eyes. Aunt Netta was in the room, strumming the guitar softly, putting melody to “The Owl and the Pussycat.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
SAM WAS LYING ON HIS BUNK in the barracks. Rondo was sitting next to him, dangling his dog tags like a hypnotist’s bauble.
“You gotta help me, Sam my man.”
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re after us.”
“The Taliban?”
“They’re not the only ones.”
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“You know.” He smiled and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. He wiped it away and looked down at his hand in surprise. “Shit. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”
Sam tried to sit up, but there was an invisible weight pressing down on him, suffocating him. “I can’t…”
“What? You can’t talk? You can’t get up? Join the club.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing you could do. You were good to me, Sam, I’m glad you made it.” Rondo’s flesh started suppurating, dropping glistening chunks of gore down the front of his camo and onto Sam’s chest. “Too late for me.”
Sam jolted upright, choking, still suffocating. He clawed at his throat, gasping, until finally a rush of air entered his lungs, feeding his oxygen-starved brain. His heart was a heavy metal double-bass drum, and Sam genuinely feared it was finally going to blow this time.
He reached to the nightstand for his water bottle, but his hand was shaking so badly, he couldn’t grasp it.
“About time you woke up, Sam my man.”
He bolted out of bed and grabbed his gun. “Jesus Christ!”
Rondo emerged from the shadows, whole again, but his camo was bloody. “Bad dreams, huh?”
His Anaconda bobbled in front of him and his teeth started chattering. “Y-you’re not real. Go away.”
“Some greeting for an old pal. Ty, Shaggy, and Wilson send their regards, by the way. You should put that thing away before you hurt somebody.” He started to laugh, a high-pitched trill.
“Leave me alone!”
“That gun’s not going to do you a whole lot of good. I’m dead, remember?”
There was a frantic knock on the door. “Sam! Sam, wake up!”
Rondo shrugged. “I guess it’s time for me to skedaddle. See you around.” And then he dissolved into translucency and disappeared.
“Sam!” Melody pushed open the door and a slice of light landed on him, igniting his brain. “Oh my god, you’re drenched.”
He placed the gun on the nightstand, sagged onto the bed, and pressed his hands against his temples. The mother of all migraines was moving in for the kill. “It’s okay, Mel. I’m awake now.”
“Jesus, Sam,” her voice was trembling. “Are you alright?”
Her face was paper white, her eyes huge and wet and fixed on the gun. She looked ready to take flight. He didn’t blame her. “I will be.”
“I thought there was a break-in. You were yelling at somebody.”
“A ghost.”
“Can I do something? Get you something? Rye?”
“I’m sorry I scared you. Go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
No. “Yeah. I’ll see you in the morning.”
The door closed and Sam sat in the dark, his blood still hot with fresh inoculations of adrenaline; he wasn’t confident Rondo was finished with him yet. Was it a psychotic break when dreams encroached into reality? Had he just crossed the Rubicon of insanity? Or was it the River Styx? Old Charon, a pole in one hand, a straitjacket in the other. Don’t pay the ferryman until he gets you to the other side.
Chapter Twenty-nine
REMY ROLLED OVER AND GROPED BLINDLY for his bleating phone. When had it seemed like a good idea to choose a ringtone that sounded like a distressed sheep? While he’d been sleeping, the vodka fairy had stuffed his mouth with cotton, his head with broken glass. The last martini had been a mistake.
“Remy Beaudreau.” The vodka fairy had put gravel in his throat, too.
“Hey man, it’s Froggy. I might have something for you.”
It was three-thirty in the morning, but drug dealing was a twenty-four seven vocation. Criminals were devoted to their craft and had a strong work ethic. He clicked on the lamp and found a notebook and pen. “Go.”
“This is worth something.”
“We’ll see.”
“Come on…”
“I like you, Froggy. Let’s keep it that way.”
Grumble, snuffle, snuffle, grumble. “I just asked some of the working ladies down here about the creeper. They gotta keep their eyes open, right? Figured it would be a good place to start. You wouldn’t believe the shit they see, I mean just last night…”
“Froggy, I’m not paying you by the word.”
“Okay, okay. You know that abandoned building on Broadway?”
“Which one?”
“The one where pincushions are OD’ing all the time. The shooting gallery.”
“The Rehbein Building, what about it?”
“The ladies tell me they heard about some trouble there. Some skel hanging around. Someone who don’t belong.”
“Did any of these ladies get a close look at him?”
“Nah, this is just word of mouth from a gal named Wanda. She took a paying customer in there and this dude shows up and starts flashing a knife around.”
Remy slid to the edge of the bed and tried to pull on jeans with one hand. “Can you get me to Wanda?”
“Nobody’s seen her around for a while. This was a couple weeks ago. That’s all I got. So what’s it worth?”