An oncoming car in his lane screeched as it braked; it swerved but managed to skid to a stop just feet away. Harris turned right, finally traveling with the traffic.
There was the sound of an impact behind him, followed by a metallic crunch. Harris looked in the rearview mirror—to no avail; it was shattered, pieces of glass still falling from the frame. He glanced over his shoulder.
The pursuing car straddled the median. It was motionless, pinned between the two trees Harris had cleared.
“And then you returned to the Monarch Building?” Doc persisted.
“No, I went back and got our blue jeans.”
“That would seem to be a foolish choice.”
“Damned right it was. But I was mad.” He shrugged. “After that I did come right back. You should have seen Fergus’ face when I drove in and he saw what had happened to the Hutchen.”
“And what about you, Harris?” Doc peered over Harris’ shoulder. “How is he, Alastair?”
Harris winced as he felt the doctor’s tweezers tug at his bare back again.
“Not bad,” Alastair said. “A few pieces of shrapnel that probably used to be car door. Nothing serious.”
Harris glanced again at the faces around him. Doc looked thoughtful. Jean-Pierre was frowning. Gaby was worried. Noriko’s expression was, as usual, serene, but Harris thought he saw tension in her pose. And Joseph, standing near the door, arms folded, looked just plain mad.
Harris’ attention was drawn to a jar on the nearest laboratory table. The jar held a brain and eye-stalks floating in what looked like red jelly, and he had the sudden disconcerting feeling that the eyes were looking at him. As soon as he glanced at them, the eyes looked away. He shuddered.
“Anyway,” Harris continued, “my guess is that they were just getting ready to shoot me when I accidentally sideswiped them. I figure that the impact made the first guy drop his gun. I think maybe I was saved by my bad driving.”
Jean-Pierre asked, “Did you ever return fire?”
“Nope.”
“Did you drive past the car once it was stopped to see what condition the gunmen were in?”
“No.”
“Did you contact the Novimagos Guard?”
Harris shook his head, impatient. “That’s what I’m doing now, right? What are you getting at?”
Doc interrupted: “Who knew you were going out?”
Harris thought it over. “Jean-Pierre and Joseph. And Fergus.”
“And who knew you were going to Brannach’s?”
“No one. No, wait. I told Jean-Pierre and Joseph.”
Jean-Pierre stiffened. “What are you suggesting?”
Harris looked at him evenly. “I’m not suggesting anything, JayPee. I’m answering questions. I know you didn’t have anything to do with this. If you wanted something bad to happen to me, you could have arranged for it lots of times. Stabbed me in a back stairwell or something.”
Jean-Pierre slowly relaxed back into his chair. “Well, then.” He turned to glare at Doc. “Stop trying to pick fights, Doc.”
Alastair slathered balm on the last of Harris’ cuts and affixed another bandage.
Doc ignored Jean-Pierre. He said, “The Novimagos Guard found the car. It was wedged too firmly between the trees to drive clear; you chose very well. But the gunmen were gone.”
“Great.” Harris glanced back over his shoulder, saw that his cuts were all bound, and shrugged back into his shirt. “Thanks, Alastair.”
Doc said, “I need to make some talk-box calls. And then . . . I’d appreciate it if you would arrange to go driving again.”
“Oh, yeah? And how about gunmen?”
“There will probably be even more this time, and better armed.”
“Great,” Harris said. “Sign me up.”
Gaby glared at him. “I think that too many days of being cooped up here have made you crazy.”
“Maybe it’ll be an improvement from when I was sane,” he shot back.
“You want what?” Fergus asked.
“I want the Hutchen again,” Harris said. “I’m stubborn.”
“You mean you’re mad. I haven’t even begun the repairs.”
Harris shrugged. “If it’s drivable, it’s what I want.”
Fergus sighed. “Give me a few beats; I have to look over my notes.” He turned away from the madman, sorrowfully shook his head, and walked into the little office, closing its door behind him.
Once inside, he kept a nervous eye on the door and picked up the handset of his talk-box double. “Morcymeath five nine one naught,” he told the operator.
After a minute, he heard the click of connection, but no voice spoke. Fergus said, “It’s me.”
The other voice was low and smooth. “What?”
“He’s coming out again.”
“With anyone?”
“No, alone.” Fergus paused a moment. “He’ll be in the same car as before. It should be even easier to spot. It’s shot up all to Avlann.” He waited a moment longer, but the other voice didn’t speak again. Fergus replaced the handset in his cradle.
He picked up the Hutchen’s key and his notebook and consulted the latter as he walked back out.
“It should carry you,” he said, not looking up. “The Hutchen. But don’t beat it too much about before I can repair it.”
“I won’t,” Jean-Pierre said.
Fergus looked up, confused. Jean-Pierre stood beside Harris, both of them leaning against the wall, looking identically nonchalant.
“Oh. Both of you? Or do you want a different car, Highness?”
“In fact, we’ll need the slabside lorry instead.”
Fergus looked in some confusion at Harris. “I’m glad you changed your mind. I’ll just get the key to the lorry.”
Harris shook his head. “Not yet. Stay here. Doc will be here in a second to talk to you. He’s just up in the building’s switchboard office.”
Fergus’s stomach went cold.
He threw his notebook into Jean-Pierre’s face and sprinted for the stairwell.
He was two steps from it when an impact like a sledgehammer blow hit the small of his back. He smashed into the wall beside the door, staggered backwards, and felt his head crack on the concrete floor of the garage.
Harris stood over the unconscious mechanic and searched him for weapons. Fergus carried nothing but the tools in his belt.
Jean-Pierre joined him. “I have never seen a jumping kick like that.”
“Flying side kick. Best used against immobile targets and blind men. But when it connects, it tends to smart.” Harris unbuckled the tool belt and pulled it free of Fergus. “Say, what’s all this ‘Highness’ stuff, anyway?”
Jean-Pierre shrugged. “By an accident of birth, I am prince and heir to the kingdom of Acadia.”
“Hey. Nice work if you can get it.”
The other man smiled thinly. “If I thought it was such nice work I would not be here.”
Fergus felt pain in his back and heard a murmur of voices. He forced his eyes open.
Doc’s face hovered above him. Fergus closed his eyes again.
He felt Doc seize him by the lapels; then he was swung through the air. His back slammed into the wall and the pain grew. He dangled in Doc’s grip, his feet well off the floor, and opened his eyes again.
Doc’s face was set in angry lines. Behind him waited his associates, the two grimworlders, and the huge man named Joseph. Their expressions were unforgiving.
Doc said, “Do you want to go to gaol, or do you want to walk away?”
Fergus felt a little surge of hope rise through all the fear. “Walk, please.”
Doc dropped him. Fergus’ heels hit the floor but his legs would not hold him up; he slid down and sat, legs drawn up, at Doc’s feet.
Doc glared at him. “You have to do two things. First, tell me everything you know about the place you called to—Morcymeath five nine one naught.”
“It’s the number he gave me.” Fergus heard his voice quavering, but he couldn’t stop it. “It belongs to a man named Eamon Moon.”
“Tell me about him.”
“My height. Lean, like Jean-Pierre. The ladies all seem to like him and he spends a lot of money on them. He has a flat in Morcymeath.”