Ghost Hunter

Chapter 5

THE RUSH HIT HIM BEFORE HE GOT OUT OF THE catacombs, rezzing all of his senses, making him fully aware of his power.

It had been a close call tonight. Thanks to the stupid, weak-stomached chemist, the old woman had nearly escaped. Those damn ruin rats were hard to kill.

By the time he had arrived on the scene to clean up the mess, Bertha Newell and her utility sled had vanished, leaving only a pool of blood on the green quartz floor. The woman had evidently come back to her senses long enough to climb aboard the sled and drive off into the maze of tunnels. She had probably been terrified to return to the surface, fearing that someone would have been waiting for her. She had been right. Now that they knew she had seen the lab, she could not be allowed to live.

Luckily, the chemist had noted the frequency of the amber-rez locator on Newell's sled. It was the only smart thing the fool had done tonight.

He tightened his grip on the wheel of his sled. If it weren't for the fact that the chemist was the only one who knew precisely how to transform the psi-bright herbs into enchantment dust, he would have gotten rid of him long ago. But without the damn chemist, the herbs were just so many dried weeds.

It had not been difficult to track Newell's sled through the tunnels. Unfortunately, by the time he had caught up with her, she had abandoned her utility vehicle and crawled off into a corridor laced with myriad chambers, antechambers and mazelike passages.

He had hoped to find a trail of blood leading from the sled to the woman's hiding place, but there had not been one. She had somehow stopped the bleeding long enough to conceal her trail.

In the end, he had been forced to abandon the hunt.

He regretted the fact that he had not been able to make absolutely certain that Newell was dead, but he had used his para-rez talent to ensure that, even if she did survive, she would never be able to return to the surface.

There was little possibility that anyone would send a search-and-rescue team in after her, he told himself. Ruin rats were notoriously secretive. Most eventually became full-blown paranoids. They worked alone, rarely trusted anyone with their personal amber frequencies, and never told others about their excavation locations for fear of being ripped off by the competition.

But even if, by chance, someone did miss Newell and send a team in to search for her, there wouldn't be a problem. The amber-rez locator on the woman's sled no longer functioned. Not that anyone was likely to attempt a search-and-rescue operation. Who would give a damn about a lost ruin rat?

He left his sled in the green quartz chamber where he always stored it and headed for the surface as swiftly as possible. He was really on fire this time. He had been forced to use the blue stuff. The afterburn was tearing through him in hot, thrilling waves.

He had to find a woman before the crash came. He couldn't have her, not yet at any rate, and the other one was out of town.

He would have to make do with a street whore, he thought, climbing swiftly up the steps to ground level.

He found just what he was looking for a short time later in a twisted little lane. She was a cheap-looking blonde in a skimpy red dress, huddled in a dimly lit doorway, pulling on a synch-smoke cigarette.

He was desperately thankful for the fog, which was so heavy now that even if someone noticed him talking to the woman, he could not possibly be identified from a distance.

With a supreme effort of will he managed to summon enough control to conceal the feverish lust beneath his public mask. It wasn't easy.

"You look cold," he said, walking toward her.

She lowered the cigarette and gave him a professional perusal.

"You want to warm me up, handsome?" she asked.

"It would be my pleasure."

"It'll cost you seventy-five bucks. Cash up front."

He reached into his pocket for a small packet. "Got something better than money."

She took the packet, opened it, and inhaled gently. In the pale light of the vestibule he could see the sudden anticipation that animated her once-beautiful features.

"The chant will cover it, all right." She rose and opened the door. "What do you say we go upstairs to my place?"

"I'm in a hurry," he said, following her through the doorway.

"I know. They all are."

*****

HE BARELY MADE IT BACK TO HIS HIDING PLACE BEFORE he collapsed. The effects of the bad afterburn made him feel like a vampire. After the initial euphoric rush of heated lust came the inevitable crash into a deep, heavy slumber that could not be denied.

When he awoke the next morning, he reached for his journal. It was time to make another modification in the elaborately detailed plan he had constructed several months ago.

But first he made a careful note of the two recent deaths. He put a little question mark beside Bertha Newell's name because, although he was certain that she would not make it out of the catacombs alive, he had not actually seen the body. He liked to be precise.

He had no doubts about the fate of the hooker, however. The dose of chant that he had given her had been especially prepared by the chemist to be used in case of just such an emergency. No one could have survived it.