”Great. You’re some help, you know that, Sven?”
The weapons trainer just grunted and held the ice pack against his skull. Kit headed for home. Margo wasn’t at the apartment. Clearly she’d been there: damp towels and dirty clothes littered the bathroom. Wet footprints crossed the carpet into the living room. But she had departed for destinations unknown well before Kit’s arrival. He called Malcolms again. In the middle of the fifth ring, the connection went dead.
Kit stared at the receiver. “What the hell?”
Someone is going to give me some answers. And it had better be soon. But when he pounded on Malcolm’s door, a breakable object of unknown origin crashed against the panel and shattered noisily.
”Go ‘way!” He sounded drunk. The last time Kit had known Malcolm Moore to get drunk was the night the owner of Time Ho! had fired everyone in his employ, then quietly committed suicide rather than face his creditors.
”Malcolm! It’s Kit! Let me in!”
”Go the hell away!”
He considered breaking down the door. Instead, he leaned on the buzzer until the noise drove the younger man to distraction. Malcolm finally snatched open the door. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes were bloodshot He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week He gripped a whiskey bottle by the neck like he contemplated breaking it over Kit’s head
”You are drunk.”
”An’ I’m gonna be drunker. I’m in no mood for a visit.”
He slammed the door. Kit caught it before it could close all the way.
”Dammit, Malcolm, talk to me. What the hell happened down time?”