I hung back, not knowing where Mabel might be.

  "Miss Weaver isn't here."

  I resumed form and weight. Gravity's always an odd shock, like climbing out of a swimming pool after a long float.

  The door he'd been working on was open. I looked in. The flashlight was on the floor. Its beam took in Mabel, who was on her knees by a closet going through dozens of pairs of women's shoes. They have only two feet, why is it dames need so many things to put them in?

  Mabel stopped when she heard my psst. She hastily got up.

  "We're skunked," I whispered. "Agnes has the rock with her. You want to try the next plan?"

  She scowled. "You'll never talk her out of it. No matter what, there's going to be a fight."

  "Jack has a winning way with people," Escott assured. "This won't take long. We can wait in the car."

  "Oh, this I've got to see."

  "No." I was decisive. "You two clear out." But—

  "I promise not to break anything. Hand over the fake. I'll trade them."

  "But if you touch the real one… the curse—I can't." She was absolutely serious.

  "Please." I put a little pressure on. Since she'd been under so recently, it didn't take much. If the real diamond killed men, it was too late for me.

  Reluctantly, Mabel slipped the pendant off its chain. "You're sure?"

  I jerked my head toward the scattered shoes. "Put those back so she won't know."

  While she made repairs, I turned to Escott. "You hear of any gem collectors named Taylor?"

  He shook his head. When it came to various criminals working in Chicago and points east and south, he was an encyclopedia. Honest citizens held little interest for him.

  Mabel came out, easing the door shut; Escott locked it again. We took the back stairs down. The vulnerable spot on our exit was the dining room door, still wide open with a view through to the parlor. Anyone looking our way would see us passing.

  I put an eye around the edge. The coast was clear. A quick gesture, and Escott and Mabel slipped by, heading for the mudroom. Thunder covered the sounds they made.

  The coast was still clear, so I ducked into the dining room, staying solid and sneaking up on the parlor door.

  Standing behind it, I could peer through the crack on the hinge side.

  Agnes was in her chair with the magazine; Clive was back staring out the window.

  If they'd split up, the job would be easy. I could hypnotize them one at a time into a nap. Both at once would necessarily be violent. I'd have to physically restrain one while working my evil eye whammy on the other. Not impossible, but it's noisy, exasperating, and never goes smoothly.

  My best bet was to draw one of them from the room long enough to get to the other. A couple spoons from the uncleared dinner table would do. I'd toss them at the marble in the foyer. Clive was already up and more or less pointing in the right direction…

  The doorbell rang.

  "It's him," said Clive, excited.

  Crap. I didn't want to have to take out three of them.

  "Didn't you see him drive up?" Agnes asked.

  "It's like Niagara out there. You can't see anything."

  She put the magazine to one side, stood, smoothed her dress, and sat down again, ankles crossed, hands in her lap they way they teach girls to do in finishing schools. She had a little black box in one hand, not hard to guess what was in it. "When this is done I want a real honeymoon," she said with a spark in her eyes. She was as tall as Mabel, but finer-boned and more aristocratic in features.

  "You got it, baby!" He hurried to the foyer.

  I had my chance. He'd be busy with the guest, finding a place for his hat and umbrella. I'd have the moment I needed to steal in and put her out.

  Only Agnes did something odd, and that made me hesitate. While looking toward the foyer with the box in her left hand, her right hand left her lap briefly, brushing against a pocket on her dress. It was swiftly and deftly done. She'd checked to make sure something was where it was supposed to be.

  What's in your pocket, Mrs. Latshaw?

  Then my opportunity was gone. Clive led the buyer in and introduced William D. Taylor (the Fourth) to his wife. I guess they make eccentric collectors in all types and sizes, but this one looked as average as Clive. Taylor wore a nice suit, a stuffy expression behind his wire-rimmed glasses, and had a briefcase.

  Pleasantries were exchanged about the terrible weather. Mr. Taylor apologized and was forgiven for arriving early.

  "You'll pardon if I'm in a rush, Mrs. Latshaw, but I've a train to New York to catch. The sooner I make a decision on this stone, the sooner I may leave. This dismal rain…"

  "I understand."

  "Excellent. I came prepared." He produced a jeweler's loupe. "Mr. Latshaw, may I trouble you to move a lamp to this table?"

  When the lamp was in place, Agnes stepped forward.

  "This is my family's prize heirloom: Hecate's Golden Eye," she said with a well-calculated dose of hushed respect as she opened the box.

  Taylor accepted the box, held it under the lamp's light, peered at the contents, and set it down on the table. He pulled on a pair of white gloves, and only then picked up the pendant. I wondered if they'd be enough to protect him from the curse.

  He screwed the loupe in one eye and spent several minutes examining the gem.

  Clive and Agnes exchanged worried looks, but resumed their poker-playing faces when Taylor grunted.

  "The genuine thing. Superb clarity for its size. I can see that legendary flaw quite clearly. A perfect eye with pupil and even lashes. Extraordinary."

  "My dear grandmother often mentioned it. She loved the piece very much."

  "No doubt. I'm sure you would rather keep it in the family."

  Clive worked hard to hide his alarm. "You're not interested?"

  "I am, sir, but cannot offer you much for it. I collect with the intent of appreciation of value as well as for a gem's unique beauty. Without provenance—you were clear this diamond has none beyond private family records which, forgive me, can be forged—I cannot easily resell it in the future for as much profit as I would like."

  "You could to another private collector."

  "Humph. That would be that so-and-so Abercrombie. I'd never give him the satisfaction. I'm glad he's moved to Switzerland or he might have gotten wind of this first. I'm sorry, but I can offer you only so much and no more. You may take it or leave it as you choose."

  Then he said a number that made my jaw drop.

  The Latshaws failed to hide their gleeful satisfaction.

  Clive recovered first. "My wife and I assure you that we would be very pleased for Hecate's Eye to become part of the Taylor collection."

  "Very good." They shook hands.

  "A check will suffice, and once it clears you may take possession."

  "Mr. Latshaw, my train won't wait for the banks to open, but I am prepared to conclude this transaction now."

  He put the briefcase on the table and opened it to reveal a respectable load of wrapped banknotes. The Latshaws were appropriately impressed. My jaw kept swinging. I'd seen bigger stacks of cash, but only in gangster-controlled gambling clubs. I drew breath for a silent whistle and could actually smell the ink.

  "How can you carry all that?" Agnes asked. "What if you're robbed?"

  "I can take care of myself, ma'am." Taylor opened his suit coat just enough to give her a glimpse of his shoulder rig and whatever gun it held. "If Mr. Latshaw would count the money and sign a receipt, I'll be off to catch my train."

  Clive counted, and Agnes poured sherry into three stemmed glasses, making small talk with Taylor. Alone on the table was the open black box with the Eye still in it.

  Even across the room I could tell it was a real gem. The glass imitation in my pocket was a vulgar peasant compared with the elegant royalty over there. Simply lying on its white silk padding, the stone glowed like molten gold. It took light and set it on fire. When I shifted, futilely trying to move closer for a better view—I swear it—the thing winked at me.

  That was eerie. The longer I stared, the less I liked it. The damned thing was just a chunk of crystallized carbon in an unexpected color with a fancy name, and for some reason, people had decided it was worth something. They killed and died for such shiny baubles. Insane.

  Despite that, I wouldn't have minded having a few locked up in the safe at home.

  Just not this one.

  Hecate's Eye twinkled goldly at me, and I fought down a shiver.

  Clive finished his count and closed the briefcase. Taylor said he could keep it along with the cash.

  Taylor picked up the Eye and peered through his loupe. Wise of him. He'd been distracted by Agnes; Clive could have slipped a fake in.

  "It is beautiful," Taylor said. "I've seen its equal only at the British Museum, and that one had two inclusions, but neither like this simulacrum."

  They made a toast, and everyone looked pleased. Agnes gently took the pendant from Taylor—to have one last look at her darling grandmother's pride and joy, she said.

  "I shall miss you," she said, holding the stone to the light, gravely wistful.

  Clive and Taylor exchanged glances, two men in silent agreement about the frail sentiment of the fair sex, shaking their heads and smiling. By the time they turned back, Agnes had made the switch.

  She'd practiced; she was so fast, I almost missed it. She put a pendant in the box and closed the lid, handing it to Taylor. The real stone was still in her palm so far as I could tell. While the men shook hands, she slipped it into her dress pocket.

  Slick, but foolish. Sooner or later, Taylor would take another gander at his toy and call the cops. How could she think she'd get away with it?

  Someone eased up behind me, and I did not trust it to be Escott checking to see what was taking so long.

  I ducked and twisted in time to avoid the full force of the crooked end of a tire iron on my skull. It smashed into my left shoulder square on the bone joint. Most of the time a regular person hasn't got the strength to damage me, but the application of raw kinetic force on a single spot with an unbreakable tool—something's going to give. I heard it do just that with a sickening, meaty pop and dimly knew that it hurt, but was too busy to register how much. I spun the rest of the way around to face Riordan. He was ready and punched the iron hard into my gut. It had a hell of a lot more force than a bare fist. I doubled over.

  Not needing to breathe, I wasn't yet on the mat, and I lunged forward to tackle him. He danced back and almost made it, but collided violently into the dining table, tumbling it and himself over with a satisfyingly noisy crash. A woman screamed.

  My left arm was completely useless and hanging. I grabbed at Riordan with my right, but he didn't stop, cracking the tire iron smartly on the back of my hand. I heard bones snap, but again felt no pain, which meant serious, crippling damage. Before he caught me another one—dammit, he was fast—I got a fist in his belly. It was a lighter tap than I wanted, since I was forced to use my right. No pain—things were moving too quick.

  Riordan did have to breathe, and slowed just enough that I had time to stun him silly with an open-handed slap on the side of his head. Again, not my full muscle behind it, but it got the job done so well that I wanted to scream as my shattered bones ground against one another under the skin.

  The starch left him, but he fought it, his eyes going in and out of focus. I grabbed the iron. It took effort to pry from his grip, and I had to drop it immediately as my fingers gave up working. Everything came to roaring, agonizing life. One arm dead, the other much too alive, I needed to vanish so I could heal.

  "Hands up!"

  William D. Taylor (the Fourth) had me covered with an efficient-looking semiauto. A .32 or .38, it gave the impression of being field artillery from my angle on the floor.

  I froze. I hate getting shot. It hurts like hell, I lose precious blood, and the bullets go right through to hit anything and anyone with the bad luck to be behind me. I also tend to involuntarily vanish. With the damage I already had, I'd not be able to stop the process.

  Couldn't risk it in front of this bunch. None of them needed to know that much about me. In the spirit of cooperation, I tried to raise my one moving arm. Pain blazed down it like an electric shock. I gasped and hunched over it, suddenly queasy. My left arm wasn't responding at all; a major nerve or something was gone, couldn't feel it except as a heavy dragging weight. I smelled blood where the skin was broken on my shoulder, but the black shirt hid it.

  Clive Latshaw, the outraged man of the house, demanded to know who I was and what I was doing there.

  Not having a good answer for either, I told him to call the cops.

  Their reaction was interesting. When trespassers demolish your house, most folk are eager to turn them in.

  This trio hesitated with an exchange of uncomfortable glances.

  Taylor spoke first. "I have to be on that train tonight. It's vital to my business."

  Clive slowly nodded. "Of course. I can take care of this. We don't need the police."

  Not too strangely, given the switch she'd pulled and the fact that she'd stolen the gem in the first place, Agnes did not utter a single reasonable objection to this extraordinary statement. Instead, she glared at the wreckage that happens to a nice room when two grown men try to kill each other in it.

  "Who are they?" she asked, somehow taking me and Riordan in at the same time.

  She'd shown no recognition at all for him, but then neither had Clive. They were both competent enough liars. Were they in on it together or separately? Did she have a reason not to tell her husband about hiring a man, or had Clive retained him and not shared with her?

  Visible through the parlor curtains, lightning flashed bright. Thunder boomed, shaking the whole house again. We all jumped a little under flickering lights.

  Her hand was in her pocket, nervously touching Hecate's Golden Eye, and I wondered briefly about the curse. This weather had me spooked.

  I'd only looked at the damned thing and had a bushel basket of bad luck dropped on me. Had I been normal, I'd be maimed for life.

  I needed to vanish; a few seconds out of their sight would be enough. My best option was to hypnotize them into a nap on their feet, but attempting to take all three at once while they were on guard was bound to fail. I was too distracted by pain, which was getting worse.

  Get them separated.

  "Call the cops," I said, looking at Clive, willing him to listen. If just one of them left, I had a chance. "I'm a burglar and this is another burglar. We came here to steal everything, and we should be jailed."

  Riordan roused himself enough to mutter, "Y'daft b'sturd." He was soaked through from the storm. He might have entered the house from some other door than the one in the mudroom, but it wasn't likely. Worry for Escott and Mabel stabbed through me, breaking my concentration. If he'd gotten the drop on them…

  Riordan won his struggle back to consciousness and dragged himself to a sitting position. "Jesus, Mary, an' Joseph, for a skinny git, you know how to scrap."

  "Where are they?" I snarled.

  "If you're meanin' the Holy Family, take yourself to a church, they'll be glad to inform you. If it's Charlie an' his new sweetheart, you'll find them tight as sardines in the boot of his car."

  Clive looked ready to choke. "Quiet!"

  As if to punctuate him, thunder boomed over the house, rattling everything and everyone.

  Riordan squinted up at him. "Friends in high places, have ye?" With a groan, he found his unsteady feet.

  Agnes instinctively retreated behind her husband. "Clive…"

  "Stay right there," Taylor ordered, reminding us he was armed.

  "I'm no burglar, missus, not t'worry." Riordan looked at me. "Don't kid yourself, mate, I had a great pleasure in bustin' you up, but it happens I'm here on me own business."

  "What business?" Taylor's aim was steady. A man used to firearms.

  Riordan rubbed the side of his head. "Me ears are ringing, but I've no time for that phone. It's you"—he looked at Clive Latshaw—"I want a word with."

  Clive had a good poker-playing face, but not good enough. Riordan was the last person he wanted here, that was plain.

  "Clive—do you know that man?" Agnes stared at him.

  "Indeed he does, missus. Pleased to meet you. Shamus Riordan, me name is me game, spell it the same. Pardon me manners, but I've had a bad night. I want a word with your mister about me payment."

  "Who is he?"

  Clive did his best. "He's a man I hired to follow Mabel. It's nothing important." He was desperate for her to take the hint. Mention of Mabel could bring out that she was the real owner of the Eye. Taylor might not care, but then again, he might.

  "An' paid well for it," Riordan added. "Very well indeed from a man with holes in his shoes. Polish on top, holes on the bottoms, an' I'll not mention too loudly the shockin' state of your heels. You had work for me, that's all I care about. But I began wonderin' how you got hold of so much lovely money, when it was clear you were in such need for yourself—"

  Clive told him to shut up. I had to read his lips; the thunder drowned him out.

  Despite the agony, I started to laugh, getting a collective glare from them. Perversely, I enjoyed the moment. It happens when the adrenaline's running and certain oddities suddenly make sense.

  "Would you let us in on the hilarity?" Riordan asked.

  "You already got the joke." I let the laughter run down. Continuing was too painful.

  "I don't consider it t'be all that amusin'."

  He wouldn't. No one would. It was hard to read Taylor's eyes behind those wire glasses. My guess was that I'd said too much already. We were in dangerous waters.

  Riordan started to speak, but I caught his eye and gave a fast wink, hoping the others would miss it and that he'd take the warning. If I got shot, I'd vanish. Riordan would bleed out and die.

  He gave a snort of contempt, muttered about "bloody Yankee Doodles," and subsided, turning away. Good man.

  Another exchange of looks between Taylor and Clive. I pretended not to see, but Agnes had picked up on things. She backed off to watch them both, her eyes sharp and suspicious.

 

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