He straddled the bike, put up the kickstand. There was no way to ride the motorcycle and still keep the blanket. He was going to be cold no matter what. His ass stuck to the freezing leather.

DelPrego stood on the kick-starter. The engine sputtered. Smoke. Come on, come on. He kicked it again, and the engine howled to life. He twisted the accelerator, made sure it didn’t conk out. It sounded good, powerful. It took him a few seconds to figure the gears. The bike leapt forward, through the barn doors. DelPrego felt like he was riding a dragon.

An old memory flashed in his mind, senior year of high school. His only motorbike experience, an old dirt racer. Every weekend out with his cousins, to the bottom of the dried-out quarry and back. It was coming back to him now. He leaned into the turn, coming around the farmhouse. Once on the other side, he’d break for the road. The cold wind bit hard into his naked flesh.

He sped past the front porch, black guys spilling out, white eyes wide. But they didn’t have guns drawn. He was going to make it.

A car parked at the end of the drive. The driver’s door swung open. Another black guy stepped out. He wore a red suit, black shirt, and no tie. He flicked a cigarette away, and his hand went into his jacket. DelPrego knew it would come out with a pistol.

DelPrego still had the.410 across his lap. He took it in one hand, kept the bike steady with the other. He lifted the shotgun level with his chest, arm outstretched. Even hacked down, the shotgun was heavy. He pointed it directly at the red suit blocking his path. He spurred the bike faster. It shot forward, a thundering mechanical warhorse.

Ivanhoe. I’m fucking Ivanhoe.

The red suit pulled a silver automatic, thumbed off the safety, and squeezed two shots. DelPrego heard and felt the second slug whizz past his ear.

He pulled the trigger and the shotgun belched fire, kicked out of his hands, and tumbled back along the dirt driveway. The slug knocked the red suit back across the car, his chest exploding in blood.

Shots behind DelPrego now. But he was already leaning low over the handlebars. He’d found the road and opened the bike up for all she had. A wild, bare-assed streak across eastern Oklahoma.

thirty-eight

For Christ’s sake.” Jones panted. “You trying to give me a fucking stroke here?”

Bob Smith slowed down halfway up the flight of stairs. “Sorry, Boss. We’re almost there. One more flight.” Sometimes the boss scared him. Smith didn’t know what to do those times the old man overexerted himself, the blood draining from his pinched face. Smith had made the mistake once of suggesting the boss hire a nurse. Jones had chewed him out good for that one.

“Fucking Mount Everest.” Jones sucked breath.

“You want a hand, Boss?” Smith reached for the old man’s elbow.

Jones swatted him away. “Lay off. I can make it.”

They made the fifth floor and Jones took a minute to catch his breath. Professor Morgan had told the boss to listen for the music. It had sounded goofy to Smith, but he cupped a hand to his ear and listened. A faint tune echoed through the halls.

“Benny Goodman,” Jones said.

Smith would have to take the boss’s word for it. The big man stood quietly with his hands folded in front of him. A minute later, the old man stood straight, nodded at Smith. They followed the music, and Smith let the old man set the pace.

Not for the first time, Smith wondered how he and the boss had ended up in bumfuck, Oklahoma. But it wasn’t Smith’s job to wonder such things. The boss still had a lot of connections and more than a few enemies. So when it was time for the relocation, Smith packed his bags. There had never been any question that Smith would go wherever Jones went.

They arrived at an office door. Jones knocked, didn’t wait for an answer, and pushed the door open. Smith’s hand drifted into his jacket, a habit from the old days. He always itched for the feel of his gun butt when they walked through a strange door. Never can tell what’s on the other side.

A wild-haired man scribbled fiercely at his desk. He looked like a cross between Santa Claus and Charles Manson. There was a colored kid on the sofa reading a book. Both looked up as Smith and Jones entered the room.

Jones asked, “You Valentine?”

“Who are you?”

“Jones. I’m a friend of Professor Morgan,” the old man said. “He said you’d look at my poems.”

“He lied.”

“What?”

“I don’t do that. Look at poems, I mean.”

Jones frowned. “Maybe I made a mistake. You’re the professor?”

“Yes.”

“You won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry?”

“Yes.”

Jones threw up his hands. “Then what the hell is this?”

Smith stirred behind the old man. He didn’t like it when the boss was unhappy. The colored kid watched the whole thing with big eyes.

Jones said, “Morgan mentioned you enjoyed your privacy. Maybe I should pay the dean a visit.”

Valentine blinked. “Hell and blood.” He held out a hand. “Let me see the poems.”

Jones nodded. Smith handed the folder of poetry to the professor, then stood in a spot where he could see the door and the whole room.

Jones sat on the couch and turned to the colored kid. “Who are you?”

“Harold.”

Jones pulled a cigar out of his coat pocket, handed it to Harold Jenks. “Smoke that, will you?”

Jenks shrugged, unwrapped the cigar, and bit off the end. He lit it, puffed. The old man closed his eyes, let the cigar aroma wash over him.

Jones opened his eyes again, looked Jenks up and down. “So what’s your story?”

Morgan got Sherman Ellis’s address from the registrar’s office and drove to his apartment. Nobody home. He called four more times and left a note on Ellis’s apartment door.

It was getting down to crunch time, and Morgan was getting desperate. He had no idea where students kept themselves, where they hung out. Blindly roaming the campus looking for Ellis didn’t seem too productive. He needed some help.

Morgan parked on campus and went to Albatross Hall. He locked his office door behind him, slumped at his desk. He didn’t turn on the light, didn’t want people to see it shining under the door and know he was there. He especially wanted to avoid Dean Whittaker.

He got on the phone and dialed the hospital, where some clerical person told him Ginny Conrad had checked out.

His fingers hovered over the Touch-Tone pad, and Morgan realized he didn’t know Ginny’s home number. It had never occurred to him to ask for it. She’d always just been there, showed up on his doorstep. Another call to the registrar produced her number.

Morgan looked hard at the phone for a long time. Ginny had said her parents were coming. Morgan didn’t want to talk to Ginny’s father, but he needed somebody to help him track down Ellis. Ginny probably knew all the student hot spots.

Morgan found the bottle in his desk drawer. A few belts would help him think. The booze splashed harshly in his gut. He hadn’t eaten anything, and his stomach made little dying sounds.

He grabbed the phone, dialed quickly before he changed his mind or puked.

Morgan was ready to hang up, but Ginny answered after twelve rings. “Hello?”

She sounded good, Morgan thought, voice strong. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Morgan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Maybe Ginny didn’t want to talk to him.

“Hello? Helllloooo.”

“It’s me,” Morgan whispered. He didn’t want anyone walking by his office to hear him.

“Professor Morgan?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in the library or something? I can hardly hear you.”

Morgan raised his voice slightly. “How are you feeling?”

“The doctors said it looked worse than it really was. A lot of bruising.”

“Uh-huh.”