A Cast of Killers (39 page)

Without warning, Lance Worthington's face
popped into view and began to fuzz and bounce in front of T.S.'s
own. The producer was laughing and pounding him on his back. T.S.
wanted to cough but his mouth would not move.

"I've got a special treat for you," an
unctuous voice urged and T.S. realized that it belonged to
Worthington. "Just leave it all up to me. Live and let live, I
always say." Something had gone wrong with the producer's voice; it
sped up to the chatter of a chipmunk then slowed suddenly like a
record on the wrong speed.

It was all T.S. could do to open his eyes.
When he did, there was the redhead inches away, staring back at him
while her red-slashed cheeks danced in the field of his vision.
Behind her, silver wallpaper pulsated to the beat of the pounding
music. His stomach cramped and T.S. was sure he would vomit.

"Steady there, sir," a deep voice
interrupted. "Where are you taking this gentleman? He looks like he
needs to go home." Strong arms pulled him away from the
talon-adorned hands of the redhead and, suddenly, breaking through
the madness, the face of the elderly bartender swam into focus.
Coal skin gleaming in silver light; small eyes piercing through his
own; lips pressed together, worried and tight: the bartender's face
stopped, fixated in perfect clarity before T.S. Behind him, the
room spun in circles and the silver wallpaper sent starbursts
tumbling across the hallway. How had he gotten so far? What was he
doing in the hall?

"Sir? Sir? Shall I fetch the lady?" It was a
golden voice, a trustworthy voice, far preferable to the rest. T.S.
leaned, seeking the source of that comfort, and managed to drape
both arms over the bartender's shoulders. There he clung, unwilling
and unable to let go.

An argument ensued but the voices were too
jumbled to decipher. It sounded instead as if small animals were
quarreling at his feet. T.S. was vaguely aware that they were
arguing about him, that the deep-voiced bartender wanted to take
him away from the madness. T.S. clung harder, trying to tell the
kind man that he was right, that he wanted more than anything to
leave. Hands tugged at his jacket and he felt the sharp fingernails
of the towering redhead scrape his back through the thin cotton
shirt underneath. The bartender's weight shifted as he attempted to
fend off the others. Without warning, T.S. lost the strength in his
arms and began to slide to the floor.

Just as he was ready to fall asleep, new
hands were there, helping him up. Two more pairs of hands: one
strong, the other cool and fluttering.

"Theodore? Theodore? What's the matter,
Theodore?" Lilah's voice cut through the crashing sounds exploding
in his brain. Lilah was there. What was happening to him?

"He's taken sick," the kind voice said from a
great, hollow distance. "I'll help you get him into a cab."

"No need," T.S. heard Lilah say. She, too,
seemed far, far away. "I've got a car downstairs. Could you help me
get him there?" Why did she sound so upset? Where was the problem?
He should be helping her, T.S. thought vaguely, not slumped here
like a dead man propped for one last good look against the
wall.

He was aware that Albert was beside him as
well, tugging him forward on one side while the bartender pulled
him along on the other. It was hateful to be so helpless and in
Albert's power, but there was nothing T.S. could do. His brain
still functioned, albeit slowly, but his feet would not work, his
arms were as limp as wet noodles and a small fire flared in his
stomach. Somehow he was heading toward the door, though his legs
dragged behind him like the support poles of a litter. His coat was
thrown over his shoulders.

"Hurry! Hurry!" he heard Lilah say. He tried
to walk faster and managed to move his legs. He pulled away from
Albert before crashing into the door.

He did not remember the elevator ride
downstairs, but surely he had taken one. Because the next thing he
knew, he was leaning against the cushions in the backseat of
Lilah's limo. Ah, safety. He was home free. And away from that
whirling crowd, those darting red tongues and those hideous
serpentine glances. And here was Lilah, dear, dear Lilah,
whispering gently to him as she brushed the hair off of his
brow.

"Shhhh," she was saying, still from a place
far, far away. "Don't try to talk." A cool wetness covered his
brow, it swept over his face like a balm. Ice. She was patting him
with ice. What a wonderful thing a limousine was, he thought
thickly. Full of ice and glasses and liquor and… liquor. Ugh. The
very word sickened him. His back stiffened and his stomach began to
spasm.

"Grady!" Lilah shouted in sudden alarm. "Pull
over. I think you'd better pull over."

What was this? Who was bothering him now?
Someone was trying to pull him from the safety of the limo. Strong
arms grabbed at his shoulders and he was halfway outside. He
fought, pushing away the arms, struggling to be free.

"Just do it," he heard Lilah's sharp voice
command. "Throw up, Theodore. Forget that I'm here. Just throw
up."

Throw up? How odd. He was dreaming again.
Lilah, acting as a cheerleader for him to be sick? He did not have
much time to think about the absurdity of it because the nausea
finally hit, overwhelming him and stripping him of any strength he
had left to resist. He gave up his struggle and stopped fighting
the feeling. With a sense of relief, he felt his stomach lurch
again and again, jumping beneath his shirt like some sort of small
animal trapped inside. I'm sick, T.S. thought vaguely, I'm throwing
up in the gutter. People walking by are watching, but what can I
do? Another wave of nausea hit and he gave himself up to it.

When he was through, strong arms leaned him
back into the car, against the firm leather cushions. The cool balm
returned and he could feel the purr of the motor beneath him. With
his stomach calm again, Lilah's murmur began to soothe his soul.
"They did this to you," she was whispering angrily. "I just know
it. Oh, Theodore. What an awful place. What an awful, awful
party."

His lips moved. He wanted to speak. Thought
formed without sound until finally a half squeak came out.
"Albert?" he cried and was silent.

"Albert's not here," Lilah assured him.
"Don't worry about Albert. Albert's just a friend. He helped you to
the car."

"A friend," T.S. repeated, his head lolling
back. The nausea was gone but now a terrible black cloud descended
on his head. His temples were pounding and pulsating, and there
were needles being jabbed into his eyes.

"My head," he groaned. Oh, my head."

He felt Lilah's hands on his body, patting
him down. What was she doing? Had she turned into one of them?

"What?" he asked woodenly. "What are you
doing?" His tongue hung to one side like a dead slab of meat. Would
none of his body cooperate?

"Your handkerchief is bigger," she explained.
"Here it is." She pulled it from his pocket and filled it with ice,
fashioning a makeshift pack that she held up to his throbbing
temples. He lay back, helpless and unable to respond. The coolness
spread across his forehead, distracting him from the pain. He
managed to raise an arm and grasped Lilah's hand.

"Lilah," he whispered. His eyes would not
open, they were glued down. Still, he could see her sitting beside
him. She was so lovely. So pure and graceful and honest and lovely.
"Lilah…”  His voice trailed off. He wanted to collect his
thoughts, he felt it was very important that she know how he felt
about her before it was too late. But there were so many things he
wanted to say and he did not know where to begin. "You must think
I'm awful," he whispered in agony. Now that his physical symptoms
were abating some, his pride began to ache from the bruising it had
suffered. He was disgraced.

"You're not awful," she whispered urgently
into his ear. "You're a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man. Now,
stop thinking and talking and just get better."

"You're home," she told him softly a few
blocks later. She smoothed his forehead with a practiced hand.

His eyes still would not work properly, but
he saw enough to be comforted. They had pulled up in front of his
apartment building and there was that splendid fellow, his very own
doorman, good old Mahmoud, hurrying to help him inside. The world
still washed up and receded with alarming irregularity, but he
could hear and feel small snatches of reality as strong arms
grabbed him and he was hustled inside.

"I've never seen him like this," Mahmoud said
with genuine concern. "What has happened to Mr. Hubbert?"

"Bad business of some sort," the driver,
Grady, replied darkly. "Can you help me get him upstairs?"

T.S. saw Lilah in front of him, pressing an
elevator button. How lovely. It was his elevator button and if he
could only walk inside that little door, why he'd soon be looking
at his walls. And there would be the deep and cool comfort of his
bed. Sanctuary. Sanctuary was home.

It seemed like a dozen or more arms pulled
and pushed him along. Hands fumbled in his pocket, male hands, and
he struggled.

"Whoah! Steady as she goes," Grady boomed in
his Irish brogue. T.S. fell still and his keys were extracted.

"Save me a trip downstairs," Mahmoud said
with relief as he propped T.S. against the doorjamb.

"You'll definitely get a Christmas bonus for
this," Lilah told him. They laughed and T.S., thinking they were
laughing at him, began to struggle again. He pushed his door open
and they tumbled inside.

"Easy! Easy!" Grady's strong arms closed
around him and helped him to the couch. He sank back gratefully.
"Mighty neat place," T.S. heard Grady say through the fog.

"I'll say," Mahmoud replied. "Mr. Hubbert
here is a real stickler for order."

"I'll take it from here," Lilah interrupted
the men firmly. "Grady, please come back for me in the morning.
Nine o'clock will be fine."

The men retreated out the apartment door,
both looking mildly scandalized. But T.S. and Lilah were too
exhausted to notice. She loosened his shirt for him and he breathed
in huge, even gulps of air. The room grew still around him. But
just when he thought that he was safe at last, a tiny spark of
burning sensation flamed into life at the pit of his stomach and
spread rapidly through his abdomen.

"Oh, no." He struggled upright and stumbled
to his feet. "I think I'm going to be sick again." He staggered
down the hall, searching out his bathroom, his lovely, clean
bathroom where he could be alone. Lilah gently guided him and
watched anxiously as he lurched inside and dropped to his knees,
hunched over the toilet bowl.

Gently, she closed the door and stood waiting
across the narrow hallway where she could hear him if he cried out.
He would be all right now, she thought vaguely, and he would
certainly want to be alone.

Only T.S. wasn't alone. As he began to heave
and an urgent need to void himself of poison overcame him, two tiny
heads poked their way out of the small swinging door that was inset
into the larger bathroom closet door. Brenda and Eddie watched
cautiously as their master made strange retching sounds into the
toilet bowl. They inched forward, tails switching cautiously, and
sniffed delicately at his trouser legs. Unsure of their findings,
they withdrew in silence to watch. Their creature was very sick
indeed.

By the time Auntie Lil had been rescued from
Homefront by a distracted Annie, it had been too late to track down
Herbert for any fresh information. Not even she would tempt the
dark city streets at two in the morning. She had, instead, returned
home in a glum mood, troubled both by the thought that someone had
died in the Hudson River that day and by the many unanswered phone
calls she'd made to her nephew. There had to be something else she
could do.

She went to bed in a bad mood and rose in a
worse one. Half a pot of black coffee did little to improve Auntie
Lil's outlook. She sat by the phone, increasingly frustrated, as
she dialed without success. Herbert was not home yet—he was
probably still overseeing surveillance at Emily's—and Theodore
refused to answer his phone. She'd left dozens of unanswered
messages and would be damned if she'd leave one more.

She took her anger out on the operator at New
York Newsday, who kept insisting that Margo McGregor was not in.
When Auntie Lil persisted, the canny woman recognized her voice
from the day before and launched into an impromptu lecture on how
low it was to pretend to be someone's mother.

"Miss McGregor's mother died last year, I'll
have you know," the woman informed her importantly. "It was very
awkward when I mentioned that you had called."

"I didn't say where I was calling from,"
Auntie Lil pointed out in desperation, but the operator had already
cut the connection.

That did it. Another hour like this and the
inactivity might actually drive her to start cleaning up the
apartment. She dressed and made her way back to midtown, arriving
near Times Square just after ten. If the police couldn't solve the
mystery of Emily's building, she had decided, she'd just have to do
it herself. After that, she'd return to the soup kitchen and snoop
around some more.

If Herbert was on duty, he remained well
hidden as she marched firmly up the front steps of Emily's building
and peered boldly in the front door. She'd gotten in once before
and she could do it again. Unfortunately, mid-morning was a bad
time to be lurking around a building full of actors and night
people. Everyone was probably still in bed and no one was likely to
be coming or going. After five minutes of waiting—a near record for
Auntie Lil—she took matters into her own hands. Rummaging through
her enormous pocketbook, she found several credit cards jumbled
among a tangle of handkerchiefs and loose jewelry at the bottom.
She contemplated which one to use and decided to sacrifice her
Macy's charge card to the cause.