Driving as fast as he dared, Shadow swore to himself as he gunned the sedan away from the Shell Road cemetery that if he saw The Blonde anywhere, he'd floor it and turn her into road kill. No such luck. The rain continued to pour down, all the way out to the main road, where the next few miles saw it die away entirely. Weather conditions were only half of Shadow's concern; the consequences of a traffic stop with an unconscious naked man in the back seat were too heinous to think about for very long.

The nearest motel was almost 40 miles away. Shadow pulled a fistful of cash from Corso's satchel and got a single room. The guy behind the front desk gave him a wide-eyed look, but Shadow blew him off with an involved story about changing a flat tire in the rain. Improvisational bullshit was obviously an inherited trait, he thought with satisfaction as the clerk handed him the key.

The far side of the motel was deserted, no other cars nearby. Carrying Corso in, Shadow laid him down on the double bed. At once, he curled into a fetal position on one side, his eyes tightly closed as Shadow carefully removed his glasses. What animal was it that curled into a ball for protection? Possums? Porcupines? Dean Corso could give them lessons.

Grabbing the biggest towel he could find, he wet it down with hot water and went back over to the bed. It took some coaxing to get the wounded man to move. Shadow was too tired and Corso was too badly hurt for a struggle. Dean's back was filthy and scratched. Shadow wiped him clean as best he could, trying not to cause any unnecessary pain. Corso's ribs showed like a washboard, and his collarbones were pronounced. He had almost no muscle tone to speak of. Had it been this bad before tonight?

In the dimness--only the light over the sink was on--it looked like Corso's dark hair was frosted with silver. As Shadow gently daubed away the mud, he could see that the age lines on Dean's face were much sharper. Anyone looking at his passport would've thought he was the father of the man in the picture.

There was no telling how lucid Dean was; if he came around, it was better for him to know he was with someone he trusted. Making trips back and forth, rinsing out the towel with fresh, hot water, Shadow talked quietly, letting Corso know they were safe. Shadow never pictured himself in the role of ministering angel, but he couldn't very well leave Corso muddy and shivering. Trying to get the other man in and out of a bathtub...no, not with his shoulder feeling like somebody had hit it with a baseball bat.

Damn, the poor guy was really a mess. Red welt-like marks streaked and splotched Corso's body where The Blonde had touched him. Shadow noticed distinct handprints where she'd restrained her victim. He blotted Dean's taut skin as carefully as he was able. She'd really gone to town on him. There were several places where it looked like she'd been doodling on his bare flesh just for fun. As angry as Shadow felt toward The Blonde at that moment, it was difficult to keep his hands gentle as he tended his friend.

If not for the faint, wounded animal noises Dean was making, Shadow would've checked for a pulse. "I don't know what to do, Dean," he said out loud. "Should I take you to Mr. Nancy? I don't know for sure if he can do anything, and Florida's a hell of a long way off. I can try to get you back to Cairo. Maybe there's something they can do if--"

He stopped. He couldn't say the words. Jacquel and Ibis had hinted that if Corso were dead, they might be able to help. It seemed like his only chance at that point was to try to get his friend back there fast. If he and Ibis and Jacquel could be there, waiting when Corso died--right now, that looked unavoidable--maybe there was something they could do. Maybe.

Methodically, tasting ash and bile in his throat, Shadow continued to blot the dirt from Dean's emaciated form. "I'll get you back to Ibis and Jacquel. They'll know what to do." Corso groaned. "Dean? Can you hear me? I'm gonna get you back to Cairo."

"Noooo." One hand flailed weakly, landed on Shadow's forearm as much by luck as intent. The big man bent closer to hear the sick man's words. "Old...too old.... She'd kill them...both."

"They're the only chance you've got!" said Shadow angrily.

"Not worth it. Won't let them...Florida...you said...Florida...."

Fuck. The worst part was, Corso was probably right. The more he thought about it, the more involving Jacquel and Ibis sounded like a bad idea. He rested his free hand lightly on Dean's shoulder. "Okay, Florida it is. You try to get some rest. I'm gonna get myself cleaned up."

He went swiftly back and forth to the car for clean clothes. It wasn't until he pulled the room divider to keep the light from disturbing Dean that Shadow saw how bad he himself looked. His shirt was a shredded, blackened rag. He peeled it off, wincing, and pitched it into the trash pail. Mud and dried grass streaked his body. Looking at the side of his scalp, he saw a knot that was going to make shaving a touchy subject for the next few days. Both knees of his pants were holed, and their cuffs were tattered and singed. Shadow stripped down the rest of the way, emptying his pockets of wallet, passport and...

Rediscovering the book in his thigh pocket, Shadow thought of the incident in the graveyard. He couldn't quite believe it had happened. He opened the book and leafed through it to the portrait. Yes, that was the man from the Shell Road Cemetery. There was a twinkle in Houdini's eyes in the picture, the twinkle of a man who knows secrets he's not telling.

The signed title page was opposite the old photograph. Where the fading black ink had read simply "Harry Houdini" when he first purchased the book, now the inscription was: "Shadow--I still think it's a nice trick! Harry Houdini".

Shadow stared at the words for a moment. The script didn't appear any different from the style of the original signature--it looked like the same bold penmanship from the same fountain pen. The signature was in the same place--the lower right hand corner of the page--it seemed like the new writing had been there all along and just bled out of the paper.

"Thanks," Shadow said out loud, then closed the book, put it down with the rest of his things, and went in to take a shower. Cleaner, but no more refreshed, he checked on Corso again. Not good. His friend seemed unconscious, but Shadow heard a low mumble as he sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He leaned closer. "What, Dean? I can't hear you."

"My fault...all of it...she told me...why...told me...all the things I ever did...screwed people over...they wanted me...to destroy myself...." Silent agony halted him for a moment. "I did it to myself...even if I didn't...go through the Gate...they still got me."

Dean Corso's face was twisted with pain, but it was his tone that got to Shadow. It sounded too much like he was giving up; Shadow heard defeat in the sorrowing note to his voice and saw it in the way his eyes didn't quite track.

"Hang on!" he pleaded. It was getting easier to access that inner stillness; Shadow rested one hand on Dean's forehead, covering the smudge of taint, let his other hand hold his friend's in a loose handshake.

This wasn't like shaping the weather...this cloud was much thicker and more damaging. Years of moral compromises and rationalizations had shaped Corso's conscience into an overgrown no-man's land. There had been a time when Shadow had had to face judgement on the state of his own soul; he knew how many tiny wrongs could build up on a man's heart and render him sick with guilt. He thought it was quite possible that guilt was killing his friend as much as infernal radiation sickness.

Carefully, very carefully, he chopped away at it--it was like hacking his way through a dense jungle with a dull machete. In addition, he tried to offer Dean reassurance. It wasn't too late to start over. Corso was forty-one, that wasn't old. He could reinvent himself as the person he wanted to be, there was still time--if he'd just hang on....

Corso's subconscious was tangled, sprouting bitter weeds. In its thick foliage, a predator waited for opportunities, not suffering fools. "Is that really what you want?" Shadow asked him. "You're not that much of an asshole, remember?" Something growled at him. "And I'm not selling you my Houdini book for fifty bucks, either."

He heard it retreating, the leaves rustling with its passage, growing fainter. Around him, the rank foliage closed in. "You can't do anything about the past except put it behind you, Dean." He whacked at the jungle. "Everybody who ever did you wrong probably isn't losing as much sleep over it as you are. Give it up." This was as hard as if he was actually swinging a machete. "Let it go. Look ahead. You've got a future, you just have to show up." The last of the weeds fell. Then, like watching the crops in the field shrivel away, they were gone, but instead of black, smoking ruin, faint green blades of grass broke the ground like a newly seeded lawn.

Shadow was exhausted from the long day, but he remained there, holding on, giving as much of his own strength as he could to his friend. Presently, Corso stirred. "Shadow? That you?"

"Hey, Dean. How're you feeling?"

"Better. Slept a little. Dreamed about a tiger."

I'll bet you did, Shadow thought. He yawned. "Sleep some more. I'm gonna catch a few myself. We want to hit the road early."

"She's afraid of you," Dean said suddenly. "Because you're not afraid of her...." His eyes closed then, and Shadow tensed, but Corso's breathing was slow and even. He'd stopped trembling.

You wouldn't think two adult men could fit in one double bed, Shadow thought. He took up a goodly amount of space all by himself. Corso was a mere twig beside him, so if Shadow rolled onto his side--luckily, not onto the shoulder he'd had to dislocate--they fitted the bed and each other comfortably. He didn't dream.