I groped in the dark for my clothes and pulled them on. Then I thundered down the front stairs to the street and turned north toward Chrystoble. I could find Sunny Rico, but depending on what incredibly stupid hour it was, she might not appreciate that. At the station I could tell them my news, and they could take responsibility for waking her up. Then she or someone like her could come along to help follow the invisible string that already stretched taut before me in the dark.

stretched taut before me in the dark.

Chapter 5. Special Deliveries

Sentiment Street to Chrystoble is a long walk. I had plenty of time to wish I was back in bed, and to congratulate myself for not dashing off alone to track down the mystery bike. Tick-Tick would be so proud of me; she’d once described me as the sort of person who’d try to sell magazine subscriptions where angels fear to tread.

I could feel the bike, though: My brain seemed to be leaning outward, yearning toward something off the port bow. I had real trouble keeping myself moving in the direction of the copshop. Also, not being able to scratch the ongoing itch gave the issue an artificial urgency I couldn’t shake. Reasonably speaking, I could have gone back to sleep ‘til noon, then trotted uptown to tell Rico (who would also have gotten a whole night’s rest), and we’d still have found our next clue waiting for us when we got there. After all, why suddenly dispose of the bike three days after the deed was done? Particularly, why dispose of it in the only way I could think of that would keep me from finding it again: namely, destroying it entirely? Assuming the motorcycle had anything more to do with Charlie than having been reflected off his retinas the day he died.

As I said, that’s reasonably speaking. My talent doesn’t care how reasonably it’s spoken to, unfortunately. I’d never have gotten back to sleep anyway.

For all the bustle and activity around the Chrystoble Street Station that particular middle of the night, it might still have been a library. I went up the broad concrete steps two at a time, which got me through the big front doors at a sufficient clip that the copper on front desk graveyard shift jumped out of his chair and dropped his book.

So I opened with “Sorry,” and segued into, “I don’t suppose I’m lucky enough to find Sunny Rico here?”

He sat back down, warily. “If she was still here, neither of us would be lucky. She was on until two a.m., and when she left, the whole shift believed in the Evil Eye.”