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Sirens.
Somewhere in the distance sirens screamed through the night. Horns honked, people shouted, and the pounding in his head wouldn’t fade. Slowly Zach opened an eye. The floor tilted and for a second he didn’t know where he was. He tried to move and pain ricocheted down his arm. He was woozy and his head felt as if it weighed a ton.
Gritting his teeth, he got to his knees and saw the dark stain of blood—his blood—on the cheap carpet. The room swayed. He was dizzy, his mind a blur, until he saw his bloody reflection in the mirror over the bureau. The Orion Hotel. Room 307. Sophia. All at once he remembered everything—the pretty girl, the hoodlums barging in and nearly killing him.
Why?
Because the thugs had thought he was Jason.
That bastard. He’d been set up. By his own brother. Zach pulled himself upright and staggered into the bathroom. His head throbbed, his gut ached from being kicked and his shoulder felt as if it were aflame, but somehow he managed to twist on the faucets and splash some water onto what had once been his face. He looked like hell. His eyes were already beginning to blacken and swell shut, blood crusted in his nostrils and clotted over his lips. One cheekbone was crushed, and a clean slice ran from the top of his head and down to his cheek.
His monkey suit, the tuxedo Kat had bought for him, was torn and stained with blood.
Shame and rage grappled with each other as he glared at his reflection. Jason had lured him with a hooker—a lousy hooker—and then let Zach take the fall. Jesus, he could have been killed.
But he hadn’t been. He was alive and though he’d probably have to be stitched up at a hospital, he’d survive long enough to beat the living shit out of his brother. With a white terrycloth rag emblazoned with a black “O,” he cleaned his face, wincing when the warm water touched the knife wound. He didn’t dare mess with his shoulder, couldn’t afford to have it start bleeding again. Besides, he had to leave quickly. No way did he want to try and explain what had gone on here or give the thugs another chance at him. He’d have to sneak back into the Hotel Danvers and up to his own room without being spotted by anyone.
That shouldn’t be too hard. According to his watch, it was almost four-thirty, nearly dawn. Witt’s party should have wound down to nothing. Anyone who was still awake would be too drunk to notice Zach slinking in.
And then he’d hunt down his older brother and beat the piss out of him. Jason had a lot to answer for.
He slipped out of the room unnoticed, took the stairs to the first floor, and while the desk clerk had his back turned, Zach crossed the lobby, hurried past the magazine stand where some old coot was hoping to sell the early edition of the newspaper, and was out the door.
A summer storm had hit. Warm rain lashed from the sky, puddling on the sidewalk and drizzling down the back of Zach’s neck. Ducking his head against the wind, he started back toward the Hotel Danvers. He hunched his shoulders—his legs felt as if they were made of rubber.
As he rounded a corner, he noticed the police cars, six or seven of them, parked in front of the hotel like vultures hovering over a dying sheep. Blue and red lights flashed against the side of the building and a dozen uniformed officers milled around the grounds.
Zach stopped dead in his tracks.
His anger turned to fear as he realized what had happened. Joey and his pal had probably left Zach and attacked his older brother right in his father’s hotel! Jason was dead! Oh, God! Without realizing what he was doing, Zach started running, forcing his heavy legs forward, unaware of the sight he made, unafraid of the police with their riot sticks and guns. His footsteps pounded on the wet cement and he dashed across the cross streets, ignoring the early morning traffic, mindless of the brakes squealing and the horns honking as he flew toward the hotel.
Jason. Oh, God—
“Hey, you!” a loud male voice yelled.
Zach didn’t pay any attention. He sidestepped between two parked cars.
“Kid, I’m talkin’ to you. Stop!”
Zach was barely aware of anything except the fear that gripped him and a burning sensation in his shoulder.
“Police! Freeze!”
He skidded to a stop as the words sank in and whirled on the two officers who approached him. They emerged from one of the cars, their weapons drawn, no-nonsense written all over their features.
“Hands in the air! Do it!” Zach slowly raised his one arm. The other hung limply at his side. “Shiiiit, look at him, will ya, Bill?” the one with the loud voice said. “Looks like our boy here got himself into a fight. What happened to you? Haven’t seen a little girl, have you?”
“What?” Zach figured they must be talking about Sophia, but he kept his mouth shut. Something wasn’t right and he didn’t trust the cops.
The stocky officer—Bill—smiled without a trace of humor in his suspicious eyes. “Don’t you know who this is, Steve? It’s the Danvers kid. The one who’s supposed to be missing.”
“Zachary?”
“Yeah, so what?” Zach snarled.
The policemen exchanged glances and Zach’s blood ran cold as ice. The tall one, Steve, said, “So where’s the girl?”
PART THREE
