Hideaway

own time in contemplation of them, he had been especially curious about what the voice would be like that went with that remarkably handsome yet forbidding face. It sounded nothing like he had imagined it would be, neither cold and steely like the voice of a machine designed to pass for human nor the guttural and savage snarling of a beast. Rather, it was soothing, honey-toned, with an appealing reverberant timbre.
    “Mr. Redlow, sir, can you hear me?”
    More than anything else, the kid's politeness and the natural formality of his speech disconcerted Redlow.
    “I apologize for having been so rough with you, sir, but you really didn't give me much choice.”
    Nothing in the voice indicated that the kid was being snide or mocking. He was just a boy who had been raised to address his elders with consideration and respect, a habit he could not cast off even under circumstances such as these. The detective was gripped by a primitive, superstitious feeling that he was in the presence of am entity that could imitate humanity but had nothing whatsoever in common with the human species.
    Speaking through split lips, his words somewhat slurred, Morton Redlow said, “Who are you, what the hell do you want?”
    “You know who I am.”
    “I haven't a fucking clue. You blindsided me. I haven't seen your face. What—are you a bat or something? Why don't you turn on a light?”
    Still only a black form, the kid moved closer, to within a few feet of the chair. “You were hired to find me.”
    “I was hired to run surveillance on a guy named Kirkaby. Leonard Kirkaby. Wife thinks he's cheating on her. And he is. Brings his secretary to the Blue Skies every Thursday for some in-and-out.”
    “Well, sir, that's a little hard for me to believe, you know? The Blue Skies is for low-life guys and cheap whores, not business executives and their secretaries.”
    “Maybe he gets off on the sleaziness of it, treating the girl like a whore. Who the hell knows, huh? Anyway, you sure aren't Kirkaby. I know his voice. He doesn't sound anything like you. Not as young as you, either. Besides, he's a piece of puff pastry. He couldn't have handled me the way you did,”
    The kid was quiet for a while. Just staring down at Redlow. Then he began to pace. In the dark. Unhesitating, never bumping into furniture. Like a restless cat, except his eyes didn't glow.
    Finally he said, “So what're you saying, sir? That this is all just a big mistake?”
    Redlow knew his only chance of staying alive was to convince the kid of the lie—that a guy named Kirkaby had a letch for his secretary, and a bitter wife seeking evidence for a divorce. He just didn't know what tone to take to sell the story. With most people, Redlow had an unerring sense of which approach would beguile them and make them accept even the wildest proposition as the truth. But the kid was different; he didn't think or react like ordinary people.
    Redlow decided to play it tough. “Listen, asshole, I wish I did know who you are or at least what the hell you look like, 'cause once this was finished, I'd come after you and bash your fuckin' head in.”
    The kid was silent for a while, mulling it over.
    Then he said, “All right, I believe you.”
    Redlow sagged with relief, but sagging made all of his pains worse, so he tensed his muscles and sat up straight again.
    “Too bad, but you just aren't right for my collection,” the kid said.
    “Collection?”
    “Not enough life in you.”
    “What're you talking about?” Redlow asked.
    “Burnt out.”
    The conversation was taking a turn Redlow didn't understand, which made him uneasy.
    “Excuse me, sir, no offense meant, but you're getting too old for this kind of work.”
    Don't I know it, Redlow thought. He realized that, aside from one initial tug, he had not again tested the ropes that bound him. Only a few years ago, he would have quietly but steadily strained against them, trying to stretch the knots. Now he was passive.
    “You're a muscular man, but you've gone a little soft, you've got a gut on you, and you're slow. From your driver's license, I see you're fifty-four, you're getting up there. Why do you still do it, keep hanging in there?”
    “It's all I've got,” Redlow said, and he was alert enough to be surprised by his own answer. He had meant to say, It's all I know.
    “Well, yessir, I can see that,” the kid said, looming over him in the darkness. “You've been divorced twice, no kids, and no woman lives with