In which two new players join the party...

CHAPTER 34: THE DROP-OFF

TIME AND LOCATION: 23:11, on the road
WEATHER REPORT: Heavy showers continuing overnight
FORTUNE: ?

The streets are a blurry collage of dark blues, slate browns and muddy grays, each hue barely distinguishable from each other as the rain slashes through the fragile outlines of shape and shadow. The result is a distortion of vision that makes identifying concrete objects nigh impossible: Sidewalks could be snakes, windows could be toothless mouths, telephone poles could be trees stripped black and branchless by the downpour. Then something breaks through the silvered curtain, as a whale breaks the surface of a stormy sea- It coughs and rumbles, headlights glowing like the eyes of some ancient underwater creature as yet undiscovered by man. It's a pick-up truck, either rusted all over or painted the color of rust. There's a doghouse in the truck bed with a single occupant, a dark-eyed creature with white and black-spotted fur. The Dalmation's tail thumps in time with the truck's coughing as it stares out at the ever-retreating landscape with its head on its paws. Every once in a while it lets out a doggy sneeze, but is otherwise completely silent.

The truck grinds to a halt outside a handsome building of wood and brick, or at least it would be handsome if the weather had not reduced it to an angular, featureless blot on the sliver of tree line behind it. Still faintly visible, in dark, curling script carved with handcrafted precision on the wooden sign out front, are the words: MUSES GALLERY.

For a while, nothing seems to be happening but the rain. The Dalmatian stops moving altogether, as if soothed by the rhythmic chug of the truck's idling engine. Then the passenger side door opens, light spilling out onto the puddles on the walkway, and a pair of legs in sheer, black-rose pantyhose swing out into the cold, wet night. And a female voice that would bring most men to their knees, in a tone that would send them the rest of the way down, says:

"Thanks for the lift."

The bulky shadow in the driver's seat nods. The woman laughs, in a manner carefully controlled to sound carefree and spontaneous.

"So quiet tonight! Can't say which version I like better, the strong and silent you, or the one that makes me giggle like a little girl. ...Oh, I see what you want. A goodnight kiss, is that it? Well, as long as it doesn't turn you back into a frog."

There's a slight hitch in the truck's springs as the woman leans back into the cab, and the dog perks up its ears. The woman's voice drifts out, lazily.

"Can't you even put that bloody thing down for a second?"

No answer. The two figures, as seen through the bleary windshield, meet, linger, then part. There's a few more softly exchanged words that are swept away by the rain; then the woman is trotting gaily up the front steps of the gallery, turning once to wave goodbye to the driver. A hand appears, upraised, in the shadows of the cab, five chubby fingers wiggling in brief farewell. Then it disappears, and the truck roars to life once more. The dog puts its head back down as it pulls away, a whimper caught in the back of its throat, unable to escape.

The Muses Gallery seems to float away down the road, away from the truck, which ploughs through the slick darkness with the mindless confidence of a shark through water. Eventually the building vanishes completely, leaving only the long snail-trail of the road and the jagged black cut-outs of trees on either side. Behind the wheel, the driver pats his ample stomach, and with a contented sigh places a small, potted sapling in the passenger's seat vacated by the woman. Its glossy red leaves tremble slightly with every bump and jolt, and once in a while the driver speaks gibberish in a low, soothing voice, as if to calm it down. A sign flashes by, indicating the direction of the Great Deer Yard Hotel, and the speed of the truck increases perceptibly. Water streams across the windshield, but the driver makes no move to activate the wipers. At some point he stops talking and begins to whistle, a bright, cheery tune that seems to go on forever.

Elsewhere, southeast of the gallery, Agent York lies teetering on the twilit precipice of not-quite asleep and fallen asleep. Just before he finally drops off, the smallest of sounds escapes the back of his throat, as if he were a child having a bad dream... But tonight, of all nights, he does not dream. And the sound he makes is that of the dog's whimper, having come unstuck at last, a barely audible pitch of the kind that only mothers seem able to hear, in the dead of night, when monsters come out to play on their children's pillows.

Headlights play swiftly across the hotel room's shuttered windows, and there is the sound of footsteps in the parking lot. But York, drifting in the void, hears and sees nothing.

And the rain pours down...

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