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“Is your face that red from the climb or—”
That was when North pushed him into the fence. A couple of times, actually, taking advantage of the chain-link’s natural springiness to throw Show around.
Shaw was still giggling when North stalked off, and he had to run after him to catch up.
When they pressed through the rest of the new growth, the remains of the resort came into view. It must have been impressive sixty or seventy years ago: arcs and fins and curving walls of concrete, faded reds and yellows, everything channeling a dated futurism that also had a dash ofThe Jetsons.
In the decades since, generations of local kids—and God only knew who else—had trashed the place. Sheets of plywood that had been fastened over the doors and windows had been broken or torn free and were now swollen and disintegrating from years of rain and humidity. A heart-shaped mattress floated in the murky rain-trap of an old swimming pool. Shards of glass—from the windows, yes, but also, Shaw could tell even at a distance, mirrors too—lay everywhere. And, of course, the graffiti. Some of it was the graffiti artist’s stock in trade: boobs, dicks, and bubble letters that said FART. Someone possessed of unshakeable confidence had tagged a concrete fin with the proclamation BEST BALLS IN TOWN, and someone else had done what Shaw thought might be a hippo but with a threatening case of…engorgement.
No sign, though, of Eric Brey or whoever he might be meeting here.
“This is why I don’t go in for that psychic bullshit,” North said as he started toward the closest building. “You go see a psychic—”
“I’m a psychic.”
“No, you’re not. You go see a psychic, and the first thing they say is, ‘You’re going to die in an abandoned hot springs resort.’”
“I’m a psychic.”
“And then you’ve got to live with that shit for the rest of your life. Which, in my case, probably isn’t going to be much longer.”
“North, I’m a psychic.”
“Ok.”
“I am.”
“Baby, come on. Level five?”
“No! I’m—” Shaw hesitated because on his last visit to Master Hermes, there had been some talk about advancing to a higher plane and reaching a new stage of consciousness and, of course, something about the manipulation of ferrets. But they’d both been pretty high by that point, and Shaw couldn’t remember if he’d already made the appropriate donation, which meant maybe he didn’t have any right to claim—he wanted to say level twenty?
“It’s ok,” North said with that syrupy, placating tone Shaw recognized as specifically meant to chap his ass. “At level five you’re allowed to fuck goats or something, right? That’s pretty good.”
Shaw tried to shove him off the path, but sometimes North had surprisingly good reflexes.
They fell silent as they moved into the resort. The concrete walls gave back strange echoes, and both men slowed, trying to minimize the sound of their steps. Even North, in those ridiculous boots, managed it. Most of the time. The smell of rust and mold shifted with the air, rising with the occasional reek of stagnant water. Flattened plastic two-liters of Vess had tumbled into available corners. Needles glittered between the cracks in the pavement, but then the sky darkened, and everything became flat and matte. A stronger breeze pulled at Shaw’s hair, stirring the loose ends of his bun. The underbelly of the cloud wall moving towards them was purple.
More of those Jetsons-style signs met them at an intersection, where the boarded-up eyes of half a dozen buildings stared down at them. POOLS, one said. And SPA. And NATURE WALK. North studied the signage for a moment. Shaw touched the one for the pools; the metal was gritty, and he pulled his hand back.
They followed the path in the direction the sign had indicated. The ground sloped down, following the curve of the land as they left behind the cluster of blinded, gap-mouthed buildings. As they moved lower, the stench of moldering textiles and rotting wood thinned, and something else took its place. Something…stronger. Shaw’s first whiff made him think of eggs, and then he caught it again and recognized it: sulfur. The hot springs.
Voices drifted up to them, and North put out a hand to stop Shaw. The words were indistinct, warped by distance and, Shaw thought, perhaps by more than that. But he thought the voices belonged to men. And if he had to put money on it, he would have guessed one was Eric Brey.
After a moment, North started forward again.
The curve of the path brought them around the side of a steep hill, and when they reached the bottom, Shaw saw why. In the face of the hillside, visible even behind the prairie grasses and sedge that had grown almost to Shaw’s chest, was the mouth of a cave.
North shook his head, his mouth compressed into a thin line. He eased the CZ from behind his waistband, motioned for Shaw to stay back, and started toward the limestone opening. The voices were clearer now, and one was definitely Eric’s, although Shaw still wasn’t able to make out the words. The clouds continued to push in. Shadows thickened, and the weight of the sun eased; the day almost felt cool. Then they reached the mouth of the cave. The gloom of the storm wall meant that Shaw’s eyes only had to adjust a little to the darkness of the cave’s interior.
Philip Welch was even smaller than he’d looked in the photos, but his face was a hardened mask, the kind he had learned, Shaw guessed, to wear young. He’d lost the prison scrubs somewhere along the way, and now he wore a dark tee and baggy jeans. In one hand was a gun. The edge in his voice made the words carry, and Shaw caught the end of the sentence: “—get in his fucking house and find it!”
Eric Brey was still in his suit, and for an instant, that fact alone made Shaw want to roll his eyes. Brey opened his mouth to say something, and then he saw North and Shaw. Shock blitzed across his face.
Welch turned to follow his gaze. His eyes widened with shock, and then he spun back toward Brey, shouting, “You piece of shit!”
His voice was high. That was Shaw’s last thought before Welch fired.
The muzzle flash lit up the cave, and for a moment, light and color popped into existence. Then it was dark again, and the thunder of the shot echoed back from the limestone. Brey was shouting. Welch was shouting. In the aftermath of the flash, Shaw could only make out their shapes, both men separating. Welch fired again, and the flash was like a lightning strike. For a moment, Welch was there, painted against the cave wall by his own gunfire. And then North grabbed Shaw and yanked, and Shaw tumbled with him into the prairie grass.
