Circus of the Damned - Laurell K. Hamilton [80]
“I’m sorry, Mr. Inger. I . . . I’ve been spending too much time looking for criminals. It makes you cynical.”
He still looked puzzled.
“Never mind, Mr. Inger; just take me to see this Oliver.”
“Mr. Oliver,” he said.
“Sure.”
“Shall we take my car?” He motioned towards his car.
I wanted to say I’ll follow you in my car, but I couldn’t. I had no car, dammit. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“You don’t trust me.” He looked hurt. I guess most people aren’t used to being suspected of wrongdoing before they’ve done anything wrong. The law says innocent until proven guilty, but the truth is, if you see enough pain and death, it’s guilty until proven innocent.
“Alright, you drive.”
He looked very pleased. Heartwarming.
Besides, I was carrying two knives, three crosses, and a gun. Innocent or guilty, I was prepared. I didn’t expect to need the weaponry with Mr. Oliver, but later, I might need it later. It was time to go armed to the teeth, ready for bear, or dragon, or vampire.
30
INGER DROVE DOWN OLD Highway 21 to East Rock Creek. Rock Creek was a narrow, winding road barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Inger drove slow enough for the curves, but fast enough so you didn’t get bored.
There were farmhouses that had stood for years and new houses in subdivisions where the earth was raw and red as a wound. Inger turned into one of those new subdivisions. It was full of large, expensive-looking houses, very modern. Thin, spindly trees were tied to stakes along the gravel road. The pitiful trees trembled in the autumn wind, a few surprised leaves still clinging to the spider-thin limbs. This area had been a forest before they bulldozed it. Why do developers destroy all the mature trees, then plant new trees that won’t look good for decades?
We pulled up in front of a fake log cabin that was bigger than any real cabin had ever been. Too much glass, the yard naked dirt the color of rust. The white gravel that made up the driveway had to have been brought in from miles away. All the native gravel was as red as the dirt.
Inger started to go around the car, to open my door I think. I opened my own door. Inger seemed a little lost, but he’d get over it. I’d never seen the sense in perfectly healthy people not opening their own doors. Especially car doors where the man had to walk all the way around the car, and the woman just waited like a . . . a lump.
Inger led the way up the porch steps. It was a nice porch, wide enough to sit on come summer evenings. Right now it was all bare wood and a huge picture window with closed drapes in a barn-red design with wagon wheels drawn all over it. Very rustic.
He knocked on the carved wooden door. A pane of leaded glass decorated the center of the door, high up and sparkling, more for decoration then for seeing through. He didn’t wait for the door to be opened, but used a key and walked in. He didn’t seem to expect an answer, so why knock?
The house was in a thick twilight of really nice drapes, all closed against the syrup-heavy sunlight. The polished wood floors were utterly bare. The mantel of the heavy fireplace was naked, the fireplace cold. The place smelled new and unused, like new toys on Christmas. Inger never hesitated. I followed his broad back into the wooden hallway. He didn’t look behind to see if I was keeping up. Apparently when I’d decided not to let him open my door for me, he seemed to have decided that no further courtesy was necessary.
Fine with me.
There were doors at widely spaced intervals along the hallway. Inger knocked at the third door on the left. A voice said, “Enter.”
Inger opened the door and went inside. He held the door for me, standing very straight by the door. It wasn’t courtesy. He stood like a soldier at attention. Who was in the room to make Inger toe the line? One way to find out.
I went into the room.
There was a bank of windows to the north with heavy drapes pulled across them. A thin line of sunlight cut across the room, bisecting a large, clean desk. A man sat in a large chair behind