Greywalker - Kat Richardson [104]
She narrowed her eyes and my breath went cold. “What? You think I had anything to do with that?” She laughed flaming shards of ice through my skin. “You’re not worth the expense.”
“Then maybe it’s Edward. If he’s onto me, he’ll be onto you next. You need to start covering both our backs, as you promised, or you won’t have much chance to put your plans into action.”
Alice glared in silence, thinking.
I took my time, breathing with care to avoid the lump of ice in my throat. “Alice, you know that if Edward thinks I’m the only source of his troubles, he’ll swat me and then you’ll have no opportunity to move. So let’s just get on with it. You’ll get your chance.”
“I had best to.” Alice faded back into the doorway, vanishing into the dark.
It would have been more dramatic if I couldn’t see her slipping through the Grey. And that confused me. Because, if Alice didn’t know what I could do or see, why had she been tailing me so long?
I shook my head, turned my back, and started walking again, looking at the list. There was only one name left, added in Alice’s unpleasant purple ink.
TWENTY-FIVE
Part of the corrupt charm of big cities is their acceptance of the wacky, weird, and outrageous within business as usual. But I doubt there were many other venues that hosted something as unpredictable as Radio Freeform. Format varied wildly from minute to minute; you could be scratching along with an old Bill Broonzy blues tune and smash into a cut from Lunch-box next. Your brain and ears might feel assaulted, but it would hold together. Wygan, the overnight man, had a deft touch with the mix. It was his name Alice had inked at the bottom of the list.
Late-night DJ was a pretty good gig for a vampire, I thought, and a well-known local voice wasn’t likely to attack me. I drove to the row of red and white broadcasting towers on top of Queen Anne Hill and parked in the small, deserted lot outside the tiny building. I was glad that this phase of the project was nearly over. I was tired, felt low-level ill and ready to call it quits, no matter how much Alice threatened. I was a little jittery from her threats and too much caffeine, but I figured this one would be easy. Nothing could be as bad as Carlos.
Beside the steel security door was an intercom with a switch. I pushed it. A cautious voice answered.
“ ’Ello?”
I leaned toward the box and spoke. “Hi. My name is Harper Blaine. I’m a private investigator. Alice Liddell told me to contact Wygan. Can I talk to him?”
I heard a guffaw. “Alice sent you to me?” I recognized the soft slurring of Wygan’s working-class English accent. “Sure. Why not? Hang on. I’ll buzz you through. Just us chickens here tonight.” The low electronic burring of the latch cut off any reply.
The corridor beyond the door was painted industrial green. The lighting was poor enough to make the dirt on the linoleum look like a pattern instead of bad housekeeping. I closed the door behind me and walked. The booth was a beacon of red light pouring through Lexan. I wondered why it was red.
I hadn’t reached the booth’s door before I began feeling queasy. It might have been the way the light strobed and switched to amber, but I was afraid I’d underestimated my mental and physical exhaustion. The Grey was flickering in the corners of my eyes. When I reached it, the door was open a crack and the moans of unhappy electronic instruments leaked out. I peered through the window beside the door.
A lanky, pale man waved at me. “Come on in. Mic’s not live.”
I stepped in. “You’re Wygan?”
Leaning back in his fully gimbaled leather chair, the bony young man shot his arms straight into the air above his blond electroshock hair. “I am the eggman, I am the walrus! Goo goo g’joob!” he caroled. “Alice sent you?”
“Yeah, but I’m really here on behalf of Cameron Shadley.” I looked around, trying to hold on to normal. I grasped at the first thing. “What’s with the lights?”
“Keeps a certain creature away from me. He doesn