If I’d said that, she probably would’ve turned around and walked away and never come back. So it was a good thing I kept my mouth shut.
But I had to do something. I swung away from her and went back to my drink. The stuff was there waiting for me. It was the right color, even if the feeling was gone. I wrapped my fist around the glass and raised it in the direction of my face.
Ginny’s hand came down hard on my wrist, slapped the glass back to the counter so hard the stuff spilled all over my fingers. Which isn’t easy to do to me, even when I’m not expecting it.
If anyone else had done it—anyone at all—I would’ve taken their hand off. At the wrist. People don’t do that kind of thing to me—just like they don’t call me Mick.
Only this wasn’t anyone else. It was Ginny Fistoulari. I couldn’t even try to get her hand off of me. I was doing everything I was capable of when I worked up enough energy to be mad.
“God damn it, Ginny—”
She came right back at me. “God damn it, Brew”—she had one of those voices that can do anything, melt in your mouth or tear you skin off your bones—“you’re going to come with me, or I swear to God I’ll let you have it right here.” At the moment she sounded like being pistol-whipped. She didn’t shout—she didn’t have to. When she used that tone on me, there was no question about which one of us was in charge.
So much for my being mad. I’ve never been able to be mad at her at the same time she was mad at me. Which is probably a good thing. But this time I didn’t have the vaguest idea why she was mad at me.
I didn’t want to have any ideas. I wanted to drink. Without looking at her, I said, “I’m not ready.”
Her voice practically jumped at me. “I don’t give a flying fuck at the moon whether you’re ready or not. You’re going to come with me.”
That reached me. Ginny doesn’t talk that way very often. Only when she’s furious. I turned, met her eyes.
She didn’t look furious. The anger was just in her voice, not in her face. Instead, she was worried. Her nostrils were flaring and pale, and there were lines at the corners of her eyes that showed only when she’s worried. And her eyes were wet. They looked like they might overflow any second now.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her look so concerned. Concerned about me. All of a sudden my throat was dry, and I could barely scrape the words out. “What’s the matter?”
Anybody else, and the tears would’ve been running down her cheeks. But not her. She was Ginny Fistoulari, private investigator. Licensed by the state to work on other people’s misery. Human trouble and pain did a lot of different things to her, but they didn’t make her cry. She just looked straight at me through the wet and said with all the anger gone out of her voice, “Your niece is missing.”
I heard her, but something about it didn’t penetrate. “Alathea?” Of course I had a niece, by dead brother’s daughter. Her mother hated me. Alathea was another one of those people I was responsible for without being able to do anything about it. And on top of that I liked her. But I couldn’t seem to remember what she looked like. “Missing?”
I couldn’t call up an image. All I got was her name—and a blank wall of dread. “What’re you talking about?”
Ginny didn’t flinch. “Lona called me today. I’ve been looking for you ever since. Alathea has been missing for a week.”
I went on staring at her. Then it got through to me. Alathea was missing. Her mother had called Ginny. Ginny had come looking for me. We had work to do.
There were things about it that didn’t make sense. But right then they didn’t matter. Not with Alathea missing, and Ginny looking at me like that. I fumbled some money onto the bar, got off my stool and started for the door. I didn’t know how much I owed because I didn’t know how much I had to drink, but Jose didn’t even blink at me so I must’ve paid him enough—or else he was just glad to get a woman out of his bar without trouble. I stumbled once, then Ginny took my arm. I didn’t say goodbye to the Hegira. Together we went out into the night.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE MAN WHO FOUGHT ALONE
Copyright © 2001 by Stephen R. Donaldson
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429973014
First eBook Edition : February 2011
EAN 978-0-765-34124-2
First edition: November 2001
First mass market edition: October 2002
Stephen R. Donaldson, The Man Who Fought Alone
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