Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (18 page)

Mai
struggled with her Patagonia tent. She wanted to go back to New York and take the Erewhon salesman by the scruff of his neck up to the top of a very high building. She would listen to him describe once again how easy it was to deploy—yes, his word—
deploy
the three-man dome tent, then she would drop him from the heights into the midst of Manhattan midday traffic. She yanked the skewerlike tent peg from the long grass and flung it down. Nothing to do but start over again. She flipped the misshapen bundle of cloth out like a bedsheet and felt for the grommets. Her hands were getting dirty, as were the knees of her expensive, zip-leg, tropical trousers. She longed for a leisurely soak in a nice, deep bathtub, and she resented hugely that it was impossible.

She wished that she could stay in a hotel, but there was only one in this pitiful village in the midst of rural Pennsylvania, and Melinda’s party occupied an entire wing. She could not hope to go unnoticed. Nor could any kind of tracer spell be missed. Melinda had ripped apart the subtle threads that Mai had laid on the Lexus sedan and each of the Armani suitcases in the enormous trunk. That meant, to Mai’s horror, that tailing her to wherever in the world Melinda had stashed Val had to be done by actually spying on her. Luckily, New York was full of dragons and other shape-shifters, so Melinda and her goons couldn’t detect her. Mai was proud of how good she had become at blending into the scenery. In her guise as a Swedish tourist, she overheard plans for the elder female’s departure by hanging out near the desk of the luxury hotel.

Mai had a rented automobile waiting on the curb when Melinda emerged. She longed to have a vehicle that she truly deserved, like a late-model Maserati, but in order to remain incognito, she had to pick something more nondescript. As she sulked over the wheel of the black Prius, Melinda waddled from the building and waited while the doorman helped her into the Lexus. Behind her, the two goons escorted Lizzy out. The young female dragon grinned drunkenly at the doorman and hotel guests as she was pushed into the backseat beside her mother. No one thought much about it. Between the
dernier cri
fashions Lizzy wore and the expensive car, she must be wealthy. Poor people were crazy. People with money were eccentric. Eccentricity was tolerated, if often with a forced grin. Mai had to smile at the thought. If they knew how dangerous Lizzy was, they’d have readjusted their thinking back to crazy, where it belonged.

Mai waited while a taxi and two cars passed before pulling out into traffic accompanied by the sound of screeching brakes.
Death before eye contact
, was the motto for driving in New York.

And thence had begun eight days of aching boredom. It seemed Melinda was not in a hurry to go home. Mai drove at a discreet distance behind her. If Melinda had detected that she had a pursuer, it appeared that she didn’t care. Mai followed her into the Hamptons. Naturally, the Eastern dragons had five mansions there, but Mai could not stay in any of them without losing sight of Melinda. Instead, she was forced, at enormous expense, to take a room in a property adjacent to the sumptuous estate that opened its gates to the Lexus. Normally, such a humble car as a compact would have been refused with a sneer, but the trendy nature of the smart new hybrid gave it entrée in this trendiest of venues. Even so, her pride still ached.

In order to check in, Mai was forced to use a charge card with a very high limit. Her honored ancestors couldn’t miss a four-figure sum on the balance. Before she had unpacked her Louis Vuitton bags, the antique telephone on the bedside table sounded a whiny ring.

“Why are you not in New Orleans?” the male voice at the other end demanded.

“Most honored elder,” Mai said humbly. “I am pursuing other avenues of fulfilling the assignment you gave to me.”

“And how does a six-thousand-a-week villa in the Hamptons aid in that mission? Not to mention the camping equipment and wardrobe that you purchased in Manhattan? And why did you not go to visit your celestial grandmother in Chinatown? She was displeased at the slight. She even prepared your favorite delicacies.”

Mai swallowed hard. Grandmother was a terrible cook, and she insisted on telling stories about long-dead relatives dating back to the fourteenth century.

“I offer my humblest apologies. My time was not my own. I must remain close to Melinda,” she said. “I need to be prepared for any eventuality.”

“Why? She is not Griffen McCandles!”

“She holds Griffen’s sister in some place of concealment,” Mai said. “Most wise father, Valerie McCandles is with child. A nearly pure-blooded dragon child.”

“Ahhhhhh . . .” The voice exhaled and went silent. “And it is your intention to secure this child and its mother?”

“Yes,” Mai said. “At the moment, Griffen is in thrall to Melinda, pending the safe return of his sister. If she was in
our
hands . . .” She let her voice trail off suggestively.

“That is unusually perceptive of you,” the voice said. Mai made a face at the phone. “Yes, a pawn of that quality could prove very useful to us. Very well. Secure this child in any way that is necessary. But curb your endless hunger for retail purchases, Mai. To become a thrall to the physical is to ignore the wisdom of the infinite.”

That was rich coming from him, Mai reflected, since his first gift to her had been a solid-gold teething ring. His own homes could have been object lessons in creative spending.

“As you say, honored ancestor,” she said. “But I may need to go further to obtain possession of this infant.”

“Do what you must,” the voice said. “Results will defend you far better than the sound of your own tongue.”

With that, the line had gone dead. Mai hadn’t heard from him since. She assumed that he had gone away to confer with the other elders on the possibility of such a powerful child. Griffen might well be the young dragon of the prophecy her ancestors muttered about all the time, but he might not. What if this next generation brought the prophecy to life?

Mai was careful not to go
carte blanche
with her credit cards, but she felt freer to indulge in a few of the extravagances she had so missed during the long months she had spent in New Orleans. Fine dining was one. Cash advances for bribes was another. It turned out that her chambermaid was a friend of the receptionist at the villa next door. No, no tall, pretty woman, blond or pregnant, was staying in the mansion or any of its guesthouses, but the short woman with the many employees had excited a lot of interest.

A hefty tip each for the maid and the friend ensured that Mai would get all details of Melinda’s comings and goings. The friend made a reservation for her at an exclusive restaurant in the small town at the same time as Melinda’s party. Mai had gone in disguise and enjoyed the elegant-tasting fare at a table nearly back-to-back with Melinda’s, but she saw no sign of Val; nor did Melinda mention her to the Tommy Hilfiger–clad dragon couple having dinner with her. In fact, they seemed to be discussing politics. Mai tuned them out and concentrated on haute cuisine.

The ensuing three days followed the same pattern. Melinda visited with other dragons resident on the island. She attended garden parties, to which Mai obtained access by disguising herself as a catering assistant or other kind of attendant but not actually doing any work. To a casual observer, Melinda was doing what any other visitor to the Hamptons might: enjoying the springtime weather, dining well, and hobnobbing with the hoi polloi. Mai seethed privately, unable to similarly enjoy the good life as she would under her own face and name.

She was relieved when Melinda finally decamped—daughter, enforcers, luggage, and all—and headed south. To Mai’s annoyance, Melinda, having enjoyed New England, took a leisurely tour of the nation’s historic sites along the Eastern Seaboard. Val was not in Philadelphia nor in Colonial Williamsburg. This rural town was their third stop in as many nights. Mai hoped that Val was there in Virginia. She had to be, to make up for the horror of sleeping in a tent.

At last the khaki dome was erected. Mai surveyed it resentfully by the light of a Princeton Tech fluorescent lantern. Her Neiman Marcus titanium kitchen unit was set up and ready to heat a UHT package of Lobster Newburg. She unrolled the Integral Designs handmade custom sleeping bag inside her tent and hooked up her battery-powered lamp and cell-phone charger beside it. A bottle of vintage chardonnay chilled in a self-cooling bucket. Mai all but fell into the Hennessy hammock lounger and sighed. As the sun rolled behind the rounded peaks, she unwrapped the crystal tumbler and poured herself a welcome glassful of chardonnay. She sipped the wine and savored its fresh flavor. Even in barbaric circumstances, a good wine improved matters.

Suddenly, she heard a yell. Mai doused the lantern and rolled to a ready crouch behind the lounger. Fifty years and more of martial arts discipline had tuned her nerves and muscles to fine instruments. She set the glass where she would not step on it, and listened carefully.

The bellow was not directed at her. She peered downhill toward the guesthouse. Shrieking and crashing noises erupted at the end of the rustic building. Dogs began to bark. Mai tried to see what was happening through the windows, but sheer curtains obscured the view. She crept downhill, keeping low and silent in spite of her heavy Asolo boots.

She jumped as a dark-clad body thudded against a window. Now she could hear crying and, above all, Melinda’s voice tearing the air.

“How dare you call my daughter a freak!”

The body thumped against the window again, then disappeared. With lightning reflexes, Mai ducked aside just in time as a desk chair came crashing through the glass and landed on the gravel path alongside the building. Seconds later, a balding man in suit trousers and a short-sleeved Oxford shirt flew through the jagged opening. He landed on his shoulder and collapsed on the ground. He moaned. The arm had to hurt, but he didn’t stop to tend it. He scrambled up and fled into the darkness. A heavy book and a brass bust flew out and thudded down where he had just been.

Melinda was not finished yelling. “You will be hearing from our attorneys in the morning! As if I would stay the rest of the night in this fleabag you call a historic hotel—you have no idea what a historic hotel was like! I was there! Now, get out of my way. Dean! Get the car! Lizzy, darling, calm down. The nasty man is gone.”

Mai groaned. Not now! Not when she was ready to settle down for the night!

But Melinda was preparing to move on. Stocky pulled the car up to the side door and left it running as his employer shouted for him.

Mai ran silently up the hill. Without caring what damage she did, she bundled together all her camping gear and shoved it into the hatchback trunk of the Prius. The tent poles snapped. She hoped they were replaceable. Curse Melinda! Couldn’t she even dawdle considerately?

Luckily, Melinda could be heard even by ordinary human ears at a distance of hundreds of yards. Mai pulled around the mountain road and was twenty feet behind the Lexus as it pulled out of the hotel drive and rolled southward. She poured herself another glass of wine.

“I refuse to let the whole evening go to waste,” she said to her reflection in the rearview mirror. She lifted the crystal tumbler in a toast to herself. “Their next stop had better have a decent hotel!”

•   •   •

The
doorbell of the New Orleans apartment rang. Penny Dunbar looked up from the mass of papers spread out across her desk. It was after eight—not too late for friends to come calling and certainly early enough for someone to come over from the campaign office. Still, it never hurt to be cautious. She picked up the holstered pistol from where it lay on the corner of the desk. She slipped her feet into the scuffs under the desk and padded over to the apartment door.

“Yes?” she asked, through the peephole.

The corridor was unusually dim. Penny peered out. A man with a baseball cap pulled down over his face stood there with a clipboard held tightly in his hands. The light made his dark skin look gray. His untidy dreadlocks spilled from under the cap and clumped on his shoulders. Penny opened the door but with her foot braced against the edge on the inside.

“Scuse me, lady, I takin’ a suhvey. Who you votin’ foh gov’noh dis Octobah?”

Penny sighed inwardly, but mustered a bright smile.

“Well, I’m going to be voting for Penny Dunbar,” she said. She posed prettily in the doorway, waiting for the poll taker to recognize her.

The man leaned toward her, grinning, his eyes leering out from under the brim of his cap.

“You sure she gonna live to election day?” he asked.

Penny recoiled backward. The man’s face looked as though a car tire had crossed it, leaving tread marks where the nose should have been and a mouthful of broken teeth. She choked with fear. But just as quickly, fierce indignation rose beneath it. She reached toward the man’s throat with one hand.

“And just what do you mean, saying something like that?” she demanded, but to a blank wall.

In that split second, the man had retreated a dozen feet up the hallway, too fast for an ordinary man to move. Penny rushed out after him. He outdistanced her easily. The fire-escape door banged closed in her face. She hoisted the pistol in one hand and flung the door open.

Except that he wasn’t going down the stairs. He stepped out of the shadow of the recessed apartment door ten feet away and smiled at her. Her heart pounded in her chest. She spun and squatted into a square stance, the gun pointing at him. He tipped a salute to her with a finger broken into a Z shape.

“Y’all keep in mind what I said, heah?” he said. “Have y’self a good night, now.”

Duvallier
sat in the skybox and contemplated the open-air stage in the well-lit middle of the Superdome. That Penny Dunbar was a fine-looking woman. Spirited, too. He was enjoying the game mightily. She’d taken the last few attacks in her stride, no problem. This one ought to be ready halfway through her speech. He sat back in the elegant, padded armchair and put his thumbs behind his suspenders.

The arena, a modern white puffball of a building, its brilliant green Astroturf surface covered with a protective fitted floor, had filled up with people and equipment long before the debate was scheduled to begin. Nine of the declared candidates were present, including the two frontrunners, Bobby Jindal and Kathleen Blanco. Their supporters, who must be numbering in the thousands, Duvallier estimated, waved banners and ribbons. The others, like Penny Dunbar, had fewer prospective voters present, but they all wore expressions that said they were the only people there who mattered. The multicolored seats in the stands were, for once, filled to capacity. Duvallier watched with interest as devices like small construction cranes trundled through the mass of humanity. Two or three technicians, mostly men, rode each device on tractor saddles, operating cameras and sound equipment that fed a central control room somewhere he could not see. A couple rolled around the perimeter of the arena, but most of them were right in the heart of the crowd, pointing straight at the main stage. He also spotted men with cumbersome cameras on their shoulders racing back and forth between the moderator’s table and the stage like squirrels trying to find the best nuts. It was quite a performance. Duvallier was enjoying it. He liked to see how things were done.

“I don’t see how she stays in the race,” Albert Sandusky said, sitting beside him. That man had a voice like a bad conscience, always haranguing. Duvallier snapped out of his pleasant reverie. “You must not be doing enough to deter her.”

“You bother me enough, I won’t be able to keep track of what I’ve got goin’ on in here,” Duvallier said, letting a little of his temper show. “I ain’t got to be here to make this work, son. ’Fact, sometimes it makes my people a little nervous if I’m around, know what I mean?”

By the look on his face, Albert Sandusky knew exactly what he meant, but he was determined to watch Duvallier oversee the trip wires being planted in Penny Dunbar’s path. Those weren’t nothin’ to brag about. Just another little reminder or two that there were forces out there that didn’t want her goin’ a step further in her political career than she already had. Tough girl, though. Big, strong men had died of fright facing what he’d sent her way. Duvallier was halfway inclined to let her go on and win, yes, win. He could make that happen. It’d take a little more effort than getting her to lose, but it might be worthwhile. He’d certainly enjoy seeing Albert’s reactions. And maybe it would provoke Sandusky’s reluctant partners into showing up and having a conversation with Duvallier at last. Duvallier didn’t like the disrespect that the lack of such a visit showed.

At five minutes before eight o’clock, the nine candidates filed out onto the stage and took their places at matching podiums, probably brought over from Tulane University, only a few blocks from the enormous sports arena.

Each of the luxury skyboxes had been furnished with a gigantic television set built into the wall. The one to Duvallier’s right came to life at that moment with a blare of sound. Sandusky leaped for the silver-gray remote control and brought the volume down to a reasonable level. The whole Superdome was wired for sound, and pictures, which were brought right to one’s easy chair. Duvallier had a superb close-up view of the candidates, one at a time and in groups, from several different camera angles.

The men were, except for hair and skin color, fairly indistinguishable from one another. Every one of them had on a dark blue suit with gray pinstripes, and a red tie. The two women wore two-piece suits like those Miss Callaway fancied, with a pale blouse underneath and a bow tied at the neck. Mrs. Blanco was an attractive woman, but she didn’t shine like Miss Dunbar. Penny drew the eye. If beauty were the sole characteristic for success, she’d have won the race.

They had all had their faces made up for the cameras. A few had the grace to look embarrassed about it. Their managers and assistants bustled around, filling their water glasses, brushing imaginary flecks off the shoulders of their coats, handing them updated copies of their position papers. Sandusky’s employer didn’t seem unduly nervous. His manager, a fresh-faced, café-au-lait African-American man of about thirty, leaned in to murmur in his ear, pointing out lines on the papers in his hand.

“I been following your man in the newspapers,” Duvallier said, lighting his cigar. Without Miss Callaway present, he felt free to indulge in tobacco. He blew a stream of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling. “Smart fellow, Congressman Benson. I remember when his daddy held the same post. Like it’s been passed down in the family. Little on the dull side, ain’t he?”

Sandusky’s mouth dropped open in shock. “I’ve never told you his name, Mr. Duvallier!”

Reginaud shook his head.

“You didn’t have to, son. I’m no fool. I guessed a long time ago. He’s not one of the leaders, but he seems a little too plain. He has to get past Miss Dunbar’s popularity to gather a large enough base to go all the way. None of the others need a face to step on as much as he does.”

“Oh,” Sandusky said. If a man could be said to look crestfallen, he did. “Please don’t approach him, Mr. Duvallier. I implore you.”

“I know, I’m your secret weapon. But when all this is over, I want to meet the man.”

“I’ll . . . make sure of that.”

“You be sure you do.” Duvallier said. He settled back to watch.

A distinguished man, a local celebrity with a great following in popular media, stepped forward to run the debate. Duvallier had seen him in the newspapers and on television now and again. The fellow ran a cooking show and an outdoor show as well as hosting news programs. Duvallier liked his folksy personality.

“Candidates, ladies and gentlemen, and members of the press,” the moderator said, with a genial smile to each. His voice echoed out over the heads of the thousands of people standing around the stage. “Good evening. I’m proud to be able to present this gathering of highly qualified and intelligent people. These are your candidates for the office of governor of the great state of Louisiana.” As he reeled off the names, each candidate gave a dignified nod. “Welcome and thanks to you all for being here. Now, I’ll start out the first question with you, Lieutenant Governor Blanco. About environmental protection, it has been said that you don’t support . . .”

Behind Penny Dunbar, Duvallier could see her manager, a lovely white-haired woman with some curves to her, and, he was delighted to observe, Griffen McCandles. Duvallier had received some more pleading notes from Malcolm McCandles. He had ignored them all, in spite of Miss Callaway’s insistence. Making dragons sweat was good fun. He was about to do it again.

Sandusky fidgeted, but Duvallier relaxed. The psychological moment hadn’t come yet. This was going to be a long process. He was in no hurry. He had nothing ahead of him but time.

The environment was too easy a subject. Each of the candidates wanted to be seen to be doing the most he or she could for it. No disagreement there except where the budget should be spent first. Duvallier could not have given a barrel of piss for any of their opinions, but to the moderator, who was an outdoorsman, it was catnip. He beat the subject half to death before someone made him call for a station break. The hot lights powered down slightly.

The candidates gulped water and had sweat patted off their brows by their solicitous staffers. Only a minute or so went by before the action started all over again. The assistants scooted back to their places, and the debate resumed.

The outdoorsman, deprived of his pet subject, got onto the topic of public education. Jindal trotted out his views, which he presented pretty well, about paving the way for improvements in primary schools across the state. The others didn’t have much to add to the topic that was any more interesting. Duvallier watched the lights in supporters’ eyes go out as the candidates started citing results from educational programs that they backed. It just couldn’t be good for the television ratings to have them all quoting statistics. But mavericks were already breaking away from the crowd, speaking out of turn. One after another, the candidates interrupted each other, challenged one another on figures and grade-point averages. Penny Dunbar waded into the fray on this one, cutting off Congressman Benson. He looked peeved.

Sandusky let out a wordless exclamation.

“Are you going to let her get away with that?”

Duvallier smiled. “Still not the right moment.”

This subject was best for Blanco, who as lieutenant governor had been involved in updating the school system, but she had some challengers.

Another break, to sell some more soap. Anyone could tell that the outdoorsman wasn’t keen to break into the third topic on the agenda, law enforcement. This was Penny Dunbar’s pet pony.

The moderator knew it and wanted her to speak toward the end. He kept holding her off with a stern finger, but Penny didn’t take that kind of admonition seriously.

“Madam Lieutenant Governor, I think you’re wrong about those figures!” Penny said, cutting off Mrs. Blanco in midsentence.

“I think if you’ll let me get to the end of my remarks,” the other woman said, with an aggrieved expression.

“Well, if you’re basing your whole remarks on a fallacy, maybe you ought to rethink them.”

“Representative!” the moderator said. “Please let the lieutenant governor finish.” As Penny started to open her mouth again, he spoke first. “Please!”

“My dear sir, I can’t stay silent when my honored opponent is getting everything so wrong!”

The moderator remained genial. “Well, Representative, if you’d just hold your fire until the end, I know all of us want to hear your views.”

Duvallier grinned. He very much doubted whether anyone wanted her to pick their arguments apart, but he was looking forward to her trying.

She was fidgeting like a racehorse waiting for the starting gun. Before the words, “Representative Dunbar?” were out of the moderator’s mouth, she was off.

“You all know my record on supporting law enforcement,” she said. She brandished a handful of papers. “I have the latest documentation on the result of bills on crime prevention passed from laws I sponsored in the state legislature. A drop in crimes against property of over thirteen percent! A drop in crimes against people down by seven!”

Congressman Benson cleared his throat. “It would be a fine thing to attribute the reduction to bills, but don’t you think the fine people of law enforcement . . . ?”

Penny turned a smug look on him and returned her gaze to the cameras.

“Distinguished ladies and gentlemen, the safety of the people of the state of Louisiana is my very nearest and dearest concern,” she began. She raised her arms, and her body began to sway gently.

Faster than you could say “leading economic indicators,” the other candidates were in trouble.

Duvallier had not been born in time to see either of the ladies named Marie Laveau, but he’d heard from his own grandfather that the elder of the two voodoo queens could do a dance that would make people go out of their heads. Benson ought to have been afraid of Penny Dunbar, not just because of her dragon blood but because she had learned how to charm mankind without having to resort to her other natural gifts. Both together were a powerful combination.

Penny started that movement from her ankles upward. It was subtle but powerful. Before too long, every man in the arena was focused on her. Not on what she was saying, though the honeyed words melted into their ears and convinced them they were wise and profound, but the movement. It was something so primal that they couldn’t have described what it was that made them pay attention so closely. She had them, had them all. Mrs. Blanco, four down from her on the stand looked puzzled, but the men were rapt. Penny’s voice droned on, almost a hypnotic accompaniment to her dance. She spouted off facts and figures lyrically, like the words of a song. The men nodded, their faces blank. Her image was all that they could absorb.

Time to interfere. Duvallier spoke to the air. “Miss Daphne, honey, is Mr. Suskind in place?”

The ghostly voice of his late cousin wafted in the air like stale mist.

“Why, yes, Reginaud, he most surely is. He’s enjoyin’ the show. Always did like a spirited debate.”

Sandusky’s eyes went as wide as saucers. Reginaud grinned at him.

“You didn’t really believe until this minute, now, did you?” he said. “What I look like, you could have had some of those Hollywood makeup men and special effects, too. But unless you think I snuck some of that electronic equipment into your own skybox overnight, you’re just gonna have to take that step into the unknown. Daphne, darlin’, get his attention. He’s workin’ for me today. He can watch television at the mortuary later.”

“Now, Reginaud, you know he don’t stay around that mortuary!” Daphne said, shocked. “Those days are over! It’s not like it was in the old days. There’s no one for him to meet. The nice people don’t get brought there anymore.”

Duvallier waved a hand. “Time’s wastin’, Daphne. Please boot Mr. Suskind in the behind.”

“Oh, Reginaud!” She sounded exasperated at his crude remark, but the chill presence receded. Sandusky gulped.

“Suskind?”

“Oh, well, he weren’t from my neck of the woods, but he obliges once in a while. Can’t keep a good man down, no matter how much earth you pile on top of him.” Duvallier grinned. “Now, keep an eye on our little girl up there.”