08 The Dark Sleep by P. N. Elrod

08 The Dark Sleep by P. N. Elrod

Author:P. N. Elrod
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00


His mouth sagged. Dead-fish time. And I had him hooked solid. I gave him the works. Not too easy at first, because I’d gotten hot under the collar, but I kept it under control. The more orders I gave to LaCelle, the better I felt; there wasn’t much danger of me driving him insane. That was a

distinct problem if I hypnotized anyone while I was angry.

When I finished with him everything was crystal clear in his mind about talking Archy Grant into cutting short his Romeo act with Bobbi. He could be friends with her, joke and flirt if he liked, but anything more than that would only bring him grief. If Archy had any questions on this change of mind, he could come to me for answers. The same

went for Dalhauser.

And the radio show would go on with Bobbi as scheduled.

I was skating close to the edge with that last one, considering the promise I’d made to her not to interfere. But in

this case I was only making sure things stayed as they were, not changing them in her favor.

LaCelle was as primed as I could make him. I let him go and checked the dance floor. Bobbi and Grant weren’t there. A wash of unease went through me because I wouldn’t put it past him to actually kidnap her. It changed to vast relief when she came back to the table from a different direction. Her color was high and she was seething so much she trembled.

“I’m ready to leave,” she whispered, holding tight to a thin, unnatural smile. Her public face, because people were still looking on.

I tossed an outrageously generous ten on the table and escorted her out; we retrieved our coats, the valet brought my car around, and I got her inside. I didn’t say a word while driving, giving her a chance to work through things, to get calm enough to speak.

It took her a good five minutes, and when she did speak it would have made a marine blush. She had quite a few names for Archy Grant, and an equal number of things that he could do with himself after he went to hell, along with several creative ways she would be glad to use to send him there. Her fury seemed to fill the whole car. I found an empty parking lot and pulled into the middle of it. Soon as we stopped, she said a terse thanks, then launched out and stalked up and down for a while, still cursing.

I held hard to the wheel and hunched down. She wasn’t mad at me—God help me if I ever worked her up into such a state—but the force of it was such that all my instincts said to take cover until the storm passed.

Eventually the pacing in the cold April wind got her cooled down to the point where she could come back inside

again. When she was settled in I shifted gears and drove toward her hotel at a sedate pace.

“Thanks,” she said.



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