Anonymous Rex (22 page)

“One more question,” says the Coleo. “And then I’ll have Harry and Englebert take you back to your hotel.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s a personal question.”

“No kisses on the first kidnapping.”

“I know you went to the hospital to see Donovan,” she says, and the way she says the burned Raptor’s name—the tidal swell on the first syllable, the lilt on the next two—tells me she knew him once upon a time.

“I did.”

“Tell me …” And then a hitch, a snap in her voice. She doesn’t want to ask the question, perhaps because she doesn’t want to know the answer. “Tell me, how is he doing?”

That pleading look in her eyes, the one that says
tell me everything’s
okay, tell me he’s in no pain
, sets in motion a train of thought I never knew I had on the tracks: She’s a Coleophysis—she’s been watching me from the shadows—she has experience with Dr. Vallardo—she had her goons clip my nose so that I couldn’t imprint her scent on my mind and thus find her again—she has remained out of sight, and wants to continue that way—but most of all, most important, she is still very much in love with Donovan Burke.

Even after all these years.

“He’s looking swell,” I lie, and the elusive Jaycee Holden smiles. “He’s doing just great.”

The bag is over my head again, though I’ve spent the last ten minutes protesting the decision, on the basis that since I already know where we are, there’s no use in keeping me blinded in this fashion.

“Orders is orders,” grumbles Harry.

“The lady told you to drive me back to the hotel. I was there, I heard her, she said nothing about the bag.” Indeed, Jaycee had instructed the two dinos to return me to the Plaza safe and sound, and as quickly as possible. She emphasized this last part, as if she had some reason to feel they would act otherwise, and the dinos grudgingly acquiesced.

There is a grunt from the driver, whom I have yet to see, and Harry leans forward, mumbling something I cannot understand. Englebert has been closed-lipped the entire time, and his earlier willingness to play along with me has disappeared. I consider piping up again, perhaps asking that the air-conditioning be turned higher, but decide to sit back and play it cool for a while, to use the extra time to sort things out in my head.

I’m running over the connections one by one—Vallardo knew McBride, Nadel, Donovan, Jaycee—Judith McBride knew them all plus Sarah—Sarah slept with McBride and had a short interview with Ernie—Nadel ran autopsies on both McBride and Ernie—Nadel was killed by these two dinos sitting next to me—

And I notice that the surface of the road has changed. We’re off the highway, off any form of pavement whatsoever, and onto a soft shoulder. Dirt kicking up behind the tires, car moving slowly now as it digs for purchase.

I put a hand on the bag—“Where are we?”

And my hand is roughly batted away. “None of your freaking business.”

Brambles and branches scrape against the side of the car, and despite my lack of knowledge regarding the Tri-State area, I’m quite sure this isn’t the way back to Manhattan.

“You fellas made a wrong turn,” I say.

“No we didn’t—did we, Harry?”

“No.”

“I’m pretty sure you did. Ms. Holden told you to take me back to the Plaza, and this isn’t Park Ave.”

Harry leans close, pressing his forehead up against the bag, my ear and his lips separated only by a thin sheet of brown paper. “We don’t take our orders from that bitch.”

I know what this means even before I hear the snap of buttons, the zing of claws extending, locking into place. I know that I will never be brought back to my hotel room. They are planning to kill me, right here and right now.

With a mighty heave from my legs, I launch myself backward, into Englebert, my hands ripping away the bag over my eyes even as they tear away at the buttons that hold my gloves in place—

“Hold him!” Harry screams. “Get the—”

But I’m a slippery little eel, sliding behind the confused Englebert, pushing him in front of me like a shield. My gloves are sticking too well—no time to unsnap them properly—so I let my claws fly free, the sharp edges tearing through the soft latex fingertips, my weapons slicing up and through these useless human hands.

A tail slams into the seat next to me, nearly ripping the cushion in half, and I scoot back against the Town Car door, propping my feet against the window—it’s come down to kill or be killed again, and I’m ready to play. Mustering all my strength, I hurl myself into the warm bodies of my attackers. The driver looks back, worried, slowing the car. The scent of battle is overwhelming, a rich blend of fear and anger.

We’re balled in a heap of claws and growls, none of us able to free up our limbs, no time or chance to remove our masks, spit out our bridges. Harry’s tail is free, but flails about wildly—if he tries to strike me, he’ll hit himself as well, so I hold on to his body, scratching away
at the eyes, the ears, any soft tissue I can find. Blood and sweat coat the inside of the car—Englebert’s tangled up with us as well, and I think his claws might actually be digging into Harry’s side—

“Give—give it up—” pants Harry—“you—ain’t—gonna win—”

And the rest falls into a roar as I find some hidden reserve of energy, flipping the Brontosaur up and over, slamming him face first into the passenger seat. I reach back with my right claw, muscles taking control, ready to end it here and now—and an electric burst of pain, four sharp syringes of agony, shoots through my rib cage. Behind me, Englebert’s claws come away coated with my blood.

I spin, arms outstretched, momentum carrying them in a wide circle—not knowing where the blow will land, not really caring as long as my claws hit something, anything.

They tear through the driver’s neck.

The car shoots down the unpaved road as the driver slumps against the steering wheel, his foot a dead weight against the gas pedal. The sound is ferocious now, and I cannot distinguish the growling from the screaming from the roaring from the rumble of the engine as the claws continue to fly and the blood continues to pour and the flesh continues to vanish beneath the furious assault and as I come up for air I get a glimpse out of the windshield of the giant tree ahead of us looming closer with every second and as I fall back into the tangle of shredded human guises and dino flesh—

We crash.

It is a dream of sorts, though I am well aware that I’m lying on the floor of the Town Car, blood covering my body, claw still extended, one arm buried in the ripped passenger seat in front of me. In this … hallucination, let’s call it, a young human woman approaches the car—the same young woman from the last few dreams, in fact—and stares down at my prone body. I try to wave, try to blink, try to signal that I need help of some sort, but it is of no use. She opens the car door and my head falls out, banging roughly against the door frame. I am unable to move. Apprehension increases.

I am powerless to do anything but watch as this woman, whose features are clear but whose overall face is still obscured by that glowing light that comprises her hair, leans over me like a mother
tucking in her child at night. Our eyes meet, and I can see my reflection within them. She smiles, and my nerves subside. Wordlessly, her mouth opens, heading toward mine. A kiss in the making, and I am unable to pucker. Lips parting, tongue snaking out—

And she licks up the blood covering my face, slurping it down with a smirk upon her lips. I scream and, once again, pass out.

The driver is dead. Harry is also dead. Englebert is not, though he is unconscious, and will probably remain that way for a few more hours. All three of them were thrown through the windshield of the car when we hit that big old oak, and I can’t thank the Lincoln people enough that they made their front seats sufficiently sturdy to withstand the force of a Velociraptor propelled forward at sixty miles an hour. My guess is that this is not a standard safety test.

I awoke on the rear floor of the Town Car, just as in my dream, covered in blood, some mine, some not, and stumbled out onto the soft ground. It has taken me some time since to regain my bearings. The highway is nearby; I can faintly make out engine noise and horns in the distance. As usual, my first order of business is to clear the scene, and though it takes me some time, I manage to reguise Harry and Englebert, taking great pains to manually retract their claws and replace their gloves. If for some reason Englebert is unable to deal with the situation once he awakens, or should he croak from his considerable injuries, I can’t take the risk of a human coming across a bunch of half-guised dead dinosaurs in the middle of New Jersey.

I’m hoping that a quick search of the Town Car will give me some clue as to who ordered the hit on me. But the trunk is empty, the glove compartment similarly so, except for the standard pink slips. Even the registration doesn’t help; the owner is listed as Sam Donavano, an unfamiliar name. A quick search of the dead driver produces a wallet and a smattering of identification cards—sure enough, it’s Mr. Donavano himself.

My own costume, though ripped, is certainly salvageable and, as long as I can clean off some of the bodily fluids, should suffice on the trip back into the city. I’m able to hold off the more insistent geysers of blood with a tourniquet made from Harry’s shirt, and I’m glad that this time I don’t have to waste any of my own clothing for medical
supplies. It’s going to take some time to pick up a ride back to the city—even if I weren’t a little bloody, I’m limping and dragging my poor abused body along like a consummate drifter—and the sun is beginning its plunge toward the horizon. Darkness will only help obscure me, though, and obscuration is what I need right now, in spades. I sit down near the oak tree and try to remain awake.

The plan is simple: I will wait for nightfall, and I will return to the city and to the relative safety of my hotel room. Then I will get undressed, lie down on that cloud of a bed, and complete my trifecta of slumber for the day by passing out for a third and final time.

That is, if no one else tries to kill me.

N
o rest for the wicked. I have no sooner arrived back at the hotel room, removed my guise, taken a much-needed shower, sewn up more gaping holes in the pseudoflesh, reguised, and begun to dress for bed before there is a knock at the door. I waddle over, penguinlike, pulling a pair of pants up and around my hips, and peek through the peephole. Can’t be too careful, what with folks trying to kill me and all.

It’s the concierge, a pleasant fellow named Alfonse whom I had the pleasure of meeting this morning on my way out of the hotel. I open the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Rubio,” he says, bowing slightly at the waist. “I’m sorry to trouble you.”

“No trouble.” I pause. “Unless you’re here to tell me there’s trouble.”

“Oh no, sir. You have a message, sir.”

I glance toward the phone; the message indicator is not lit. Alfonse must understand, as he says, “I chose to deliver it by hand, Mr. Rubio, at the request of the lady who delivered it to me.”

A lady, eh? Alfonse places a small pink envelope in my outstretched palm, and I trade him for a five-dollar bill. Pleased, the concierge thanks me, bids me a good evening, and departs. I close the door and sit on the bed.

The envelope is scented with a strong perfume, which tells me right away it’s a human that sent it. Sarah.

Dear Mr. Rubio
, the letter reads,
I would be grateful if you would accompany me to the theater and dinner this evening. They always give me Halloween off, and rather than play dress-up, I would prefer to spend my night off with someone as interesting as you may prove to be. If you are able to join me, please arrive at the Prince Edward Theater no later than 7:30
P.M
. I hope to see you there, and remain Yours Truly, Sarah Archer
.

In my rule book, it’s illegal to turn down a dinner offer from a dame, especially when she’s also a suspect. But Sarah Archer … she’s interesting—intriguing even—and I can’t help feeling drawn to her in some way, even though the rest of her kind give me the shakes. As it is, logic’s been out the window since I got to New York, and though I’m treading in thick water, I choose to go with my instinct.

Downstairs, Alfonse gives me directions to the Prince Edward, which—surprise—consists of him hailing a taxicab to take me there. I’m decked out in the one suit I brought with me, a well-made ensemble of black and gray pinstripes, and while it might not have come from the rafters of Rodeo, I think it looks darned nice over my guise. I hand another fiver to Alfonse, he shuts the door, and the cab shoots off toward the heart of the theater district. I haven’t had any time to stock up on basil, and I find that though I’m fresh out, the lack of herbs doesn’t inspire in me the panic it once did. I’m sure I’ll find a hit somewhere, sometime.

“Prince Edward?” the taxi driver asks me. His accent is pure New York, not a trace of foreign inflection.

“Meeting someone there,” I explain.

“You seeing that show?”

“That show? The show at the Prince Edward, yes.”

“Weird fucking show,” says the cabbie, shaking his head back and forth. “That’s what they tell me—weird fucking show.”