by Rob Thurman
“Sounds like quite a lady.”
“She is. She’ll take me in. I’ve always been her favorite.” She grinned cheekily. “I’m a troublemaker just like her.”
I had no problem believing that. Despite myself, I was actually coming to like . . . to tolerate Miss Fisher Lee. She was somewhat obnoxious and more than a little pushy, but she was entertaining. And despite my earlier reservations, I now thought she was good for Michael. I was more than willing to be everything and everyone I could for him, but realistically he was going to have to learn to accept other people in his life. It was the only healthy option. I didn’t break him out of the Institute only to let him enclose himself in walls that while different, were just as isolating.
The barbecue was excellent, in every way as good as the biscuit crumbs. I curved a protective arm around my plate to fend off the rampaging piranhas. Finishing every bite but the pickle, I slid the slice of dill onto Michael’s plate. He was developing a fondness for things sour that rivaled his love of sweets. See the human trash compactor, only fifty cents. Walk this way and don’t stick your fingers between the bars.
“I think I’ll have me a piece of apple pie.” With a hand resting on the swell of her stomach, Fisher looked up at the waitress and added, “And don’t be stingy with the à la mode, sugar. Give me a bowl on the side. I’m eating for two.”
“What’s your excuse?” I murmured to Michael as he ordered the same.
“Youth,” he retorted without hesitation. “When I’m old like you, I’m sure I’ll have to cut back.”
Twenty-four . . . old? Punk-ass kid. Unfortunately, I had to admit there were times I felt much older than my true age. A culture of violence and a past full of regret will do that to you. That aside, this was not one of the times I felt like reaching for a walker. This was a good time. I was enjoying myself as I watched the dessert duel, and with bemusement I saluted Fisher as she finally finished two spoonfuls ahead of my brother. “The king is dead. All hail the queen.”
The queen laughed and gathered up the sauce-stained doggy bag for Blossom. She then went to stand by the front door and plugged a quarter in a gumball machine. As she blew large purple bubbles and tapped her foot impatiently, I came to the conclusion I was picking up her and Junior’s tab. After I forked over the twenty-five bucks, grumbling under my breath that I wasn’t a goddamn charity, the three of us stepped out into the winter sunshine.
That was where I lost considerably more than lunch money.
She was walking, waddling really, ahead of us by ten or fifteen feet. The parking lot was empty except for a few parked cars. The white fur trim of her coat waved sea anemone tendrils in the brisk breeze and her hair was as bright as the smile she gave us when she turned around. The metal of the gun she pointed at us was bright too, like a mirror. It was a cute little chrome revolver held in a cute little hand. It was also a steady hand, I noticed—rock steady.
“I almost feel bad, you know?” She tossed a braid over her shoulder and cocked her head coquettishly. “Ah, who am I kidding? Robbing y’all’s going to be the most fun I’ve had all day.”
My first thought when she’d gotten into the car was that she was playing us, if only a little. But somewhere between foot rubs and stories about a crackerjack grandma I’d let even that mild suspicion drift to the back burner. I’d forgotten the lesson of Wendy and the stripper at Koschecka and gone with the conclusion that the ride and a free lunch were all that Fisher was after. Too bad deductions such as that came from thinking with my smug ass instead of my empty head. In my business, I’d made my living outthinking predators, and yet here I stood . . . taken down by a pregnant girl in braids. Trying to live the straight and narrow—I wanted to be better for my brother, but being better could get us both killed.
I could try to get her gun before she shot Michael or me, but I had serious doubts. Her peaches and cream complexion was high with bright color and the grip she had on her weapon was as practiced as that of any three-time loser. Her eyes met mine with the same lighthearted cheer she’d shown since we’d picked her up. There were no reservations, no guilt, but worst of all . . . there was no fear. She didn’t care that someone might leave the restaurant and see her or that someone could drive by and call the police. Being utterly amoral and completely fearless . . . There was no deadlier combination.
“What do you want?” I asked neutrally. “My wallet? Fine. Take it.” There was a little less than seventy dollars in there. She was welcome to it. Slowly and carefully, I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and tossed it at her feet. I could’ve tried for my gun hidden under my shirt, but what then? Shoot a pregnant girl? Granted, she was a sociopathic, thieving pregnant girl, but that wouldn’t make pulling the trigger any easier.
“I love men who share,” she purred, discarding the bag of food to one side. “Albert, sweetie, pick that up and hand it to me real careful like. I’m not quite as limber as I used to be.”
I didn’t need to see the questioning look Michael gave me to know what he was thinking. With one touch, just one, a thousand or so cells would suicide and the gun would fall. It could potentially work; she certainly wouldn’t be expecting it. But it wasn’t worth it, putting Michael through that, not over less than a hundred bucks. It just wasn’t worth it to me, and not to him either, whether he knew it or not. I gave him a minute shake of my head. “Do as she says, kiddo. Exactly as she says.”
For a moment it seemed as if he would protest, but he didn’t. He only nodded, walked forward to retrieve the wallet, and placed it in her free hand. “Good boy. Such a good boy,” she cooed before shooing him backward. “All right, scar face, now lift up your shirt.”
So much for the specialty makeup I’d swiped under bright drugstore lights, but that was the least of my concerns. Losing my wallet and the money in it was nothing. Losing what was under my shirt would have much more serious consequences for my brother and me.
“Why?” I asked bluntly.
“You’re a shady one, Bubba.” A pink tongue touched cat quick to her upper lip and she winked. “I know my kin when I see them. And people like us have secrets we don’t keep in our wallets. Now get that shirt up before I turn it red, hear?”
I heard. Giving in to the bitter inevitable, I pulled up my shirt to chest height and revealed the money belt around my waist. It was there that I kept every penny I hadn’t paid to Saul. There was nearly fifty thousand dollars along with all of my fake ID in that belt. I couldn’t keep it in the car. I’d stolen our transportation easily enough; there was no guarantee someone else might not do the same.
“Jackpot,” she breathed, eyes locked on my waist with naked avarice. “Baby needs a new pair of shoes. And it looks like he’s going to get them, a whole store’s worth.” Waggling the revolver, she ordered, “Fork it over. Now.”
There was only one way out of this that didn’t involve gunfire and blood, and it sucked. It sucked thoroughly, but I didn’t see a way around it—not one I was willing to involve Michael in at any rate. Gritting my teeth against a cold rush of anger, I released the buckle on the belt and held it out to her. Her gun unwavering, she took a step forward and snatched the thick strip of nylon out of the air as it swung back and forth. As she did so, I heard an excited barking. It was Blossom. She was riding in the back of a pickup with her front paws propped up on the tailgate in true time-honored country style. The truck pulled up not quite ten feet from us, stopping just behind Fisher. The pickup itself was a dusty reddish brown or brownish red; it was hard to tell. Either red with brown mud or vice versa, it was completely nondescript. And so was the guy behind the wheel.
Dirty blond hair under a baseball hat, denim jacket, and a two-day beard, he could’ve been any good old boy in a two-hundred-mile radius. The deer rifle pointed at my head was the only false note. Through the open window the man showed white teeth any Gulf shark would be proud of. He didn’t take good care of his truck, but he loved his teeth. Or he loved his meth and those were dentures. “You thin
k good thoughts, fella.” Calling to Fisher, he added, “You ’bout ready, honey?”
Here was the boyfriend who had supposedly left a pregnant girl high and dry on a lonesome road. In reality he was her partner in crime, although I had the feeling she would wear the pants in any relationship. They might be maternity pants, but she was the boss. On that front I had no doubts.
“Coming, doll baby.” She hefted the money belt to feel the weight. Her eyes were brilliant with pleasure. “Boys, boys, you’ve been so good to me. Better than even Gramma Lilly.”
Gramma Lilly, my ass. Her lies had been consummate, her acting flawless. She’d put Meryl Streep out of business. There was no Lilly. But if there were, I would’ve hoped she didn’t have life insurance naming her grand-daughter as beneficiary. The old lady wouldn’t have been long for this world if that were the case. I remembered with perfect clarity how Fisher had pointed out the restaurant for its great food. That the gun-toting boyfriend would be meeting her here was only a bonus to the best barbecue in the tri-state area. Who knew how many times before they’d pulled a stunt like this. Who knew how many people out there were as stupid as I was.
“Yeah, it’s been our pleasure,” I said with tight-lipped venom.
“Now don’t be that way.” She backed toward the truck and punctuated the remark with the cocking of the revolver. It was unnecessary. The damn thing was double action; she could pull the trigger at any time, no preparation necessary. “I was sweet as pie to you. Told you some good stories, flirted with the boy. It was like a dinner and a show. You should be thanking me, not being all pissy.”
“Yeah,” I gritted as she began to back away. “I’m a real bastard.”
Her partner put his rifle down to open the door for her and take the belt from her hand. Then he opened his door and stood within the opening to keep us covered while she climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat. When she had closed the door and settled in, she rested her arm out the window, cheek lying against shoulder, and watched us—just watched. I could see the thought swimming beneath the blue violet water of her eyes, a silver fish circling and circling.
To kill or not to kill?
It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it had a certain poetry that held my attention all the same. Her finger caressed the trigger as a dreamy smile curved her lips. She’d reapplied her lip gloss at the table after finishing her pie and ice cream. I’d caught a whiff of the pink stuff as I watched the tube glide across her mouth. It had smelled like strawberries. Realistically, I was too far away to smell it now, but I did. I smelled it as strongly as if I stood in the middle of a field of berries ripe for picking, sweetly tart and warm from the summer sun. It’s strange what you think of when a bullet is seconds away from shattering your skull.
I was going to have to try for my gun. I wouldn’t make it in time, that was a given, but I had to try. Just before my hand began to move Fisher made her decision. “What the hell. You did buy a lady lunch.” Blowing us a triumphant and gloating kiss, she and the truck disappeared in a cloud of red dust. I didn’t know if the chalkiness in my mouth was from the free-flying grit or was merely the taste of my own idiocy. As I stood there minute after minute, unmoving, the taste grew stronger instead of fading.
It was definitely idiocy.
In the choking thick silence came Michael’s wary voice. “I’m guessing calling the police is out of the question.” I didn’t blame his caution. My mood was less than pleasant.
“Pretty much,” I said shortly, eyes still riveted on the dissipating dust.
“And her name probably wasn’t really Fisher Redwine.”
“No.” I felt the muscle in my jaw spasm and that was when the calm broke. “Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit.” I kicked the dirt, sending a spray of earth flying. It didn’t make me feel any better, so I tried again—and again. Then with temper spent for the moment, I turned to Michael and gave a rueful sigh. “This, by the way, is why we don’t pick up hitchhikers.”
“Yes, I see your point,” he offered gravely. Scrubbing a hand across my face, I said wryly, “And you thought I had trust issues before. Just wait.” I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick, hard squeeze, trying to reassure him things weren’t as bad as they really were. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Two of a kind.” He allowed the embrace for a second, forgetting momentarily that he was an island unto himself, then subtly shifted to pull away. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”
“We’ve been in trouble for a while, kid,” I countered lightly. “What’s one more drop in the bucket?”
“Stefan.” His gaze was uncompromising. “Don’t.”
He was right. Not only was trying to protect him from this pointless and dangerous; it was also insulting to his intelligence. He knew as well as I did that this wasn’t a drop; it was a fucking waterfall. “Yeah, trouble is a good word for it. They took every penny, and we’re not getting very far without money.” The door to the restaurant opened and five people came spilling out, their voices magpie loud. It was getting a little crowded out here, and I started toward the car. “Shoplifting and boosting a car is one thing,” I continued quietly. “Knocking over a gas station or a bank is a different matter altogether. That’ll get us shot or in custody in no time. We can’t risk it.”
“What will we do then?”
“Give me a while. I’ll think of something.” It wasn’t as if I had much choice. Our backs were to the wall. If I didn’t come up with a plan and quickly, Jericho wouldn’t have to put any effort into finding us. We would fall right into his psychotic lap. “Have faith.” I didn’t put any thought into the words; it was automatic—just something you say. It made Michael’s response, murmured under his breath, that much more gratifying.
“I do.”
Chapter 23
When you’re a kid, there are miraculous things in the world. Even a tiny bit of ice fluff can seem more like magic than a part of nature. Growing up mostly in southern Florida, I hadn’t seen a lot of snow, but there had been the occasional vacation to Colorado or New York. The memory of the first flake cradled in my hand was as distinct as the edges of the ice crystal had been soft. You knew then that every snowflake was different, every one a uniquely carved diamond.
You forget that. I’m not sure when, but somewhere, sometime the knowledge fades away. It’s bad enough losing sight of the singular nature of snow, but that’s not the worst of it. You even forget the myriad lacy patterns exist. You forget that anything lies in the white drifting from the sky. It was only crumbs from God’s table; misshapen wet pearls before an invisible swine; just snow. And because you’ve forgotten, you never look anymore.
Michael still looked.
South Carolina had been hit with an unlikely snowstorm. It seemed to be happening more frequently these days. Excessively bad winters, global warming messing with weather patterns; who knew? It didn’t matter. The result was a seventeen-year-old’s nose pressed nearly to the palm of his hand as he studied a melting snowflake.
“They really are all different.”
I leaned over his shoulder and took a look for myself. It was nearly gone, a victim of body heat. Only the barest tracings remained, a transparent filigree that disappeared as I watched. “So they are.” I hefted the snowball I held behind my back and then dumped it down the back of his shirt. “Here’s some more to study.”
By the time we were done, the empty lot behind the motel was witness to an epic battle, a hundred flying snowballs, and one lopsided snowman. It was fairly juvenile play for an ex-mobster and a kid who ate books on genetics as if they were Pop-Tarts, but it was one of the best hours I’d spent in years. Michael caught on quicker than I would’ve thought to the idea of rough-and-tumble. There were a few hesitations on his part, but those ended with one spectacular tackle that had me face flat. My brother’s weight on my back kept me sputtering in five inches of snow until my nose was in danger of frostbite.
The heat in the room took care of that quickly
enough. As with all cheap motel rooms you could either freeze or swelter. Our thermostat was stuck firmly on swelter. I dumped my snow-covered jacket on the carpet and ran a hand over my wet hair. “Okay, track is out, but I’m thinking there’s a football scholarship in your future.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” In contrast to my sloth, Michael had carefully placed his jacket on the one rusty hanger in the shallow depression in the wall that passed for a closet. “Your side?”
He’d done a little forgetting himself. The fact I was in the state of delicate health shared by the rest of humanity had escaped him for a little while. “I’m okay, Misha.” I slapped my stomach lightly. “Healing up just fine.” It was true. The bullet wound had scabbed over and rarely ached.
He accepted the statement with only mild skepticism and went for the phone book. “Supreme or double pepperoni?”
“Whichever is cheaper.” We had about seventy dollars left after paying for the room. It was money I’d previously given Michael. If something happened to me, he would have enough to keep him safe and holed up until Saul could reach him. We were lucky Bonnie and Clyde hadn’t thrown him down and strip-searched him; if they had, up shit creek would’ve been more than a quaint little saying. It would’ve been our life. As it was, the money would barely be enough for gas and food to get us to our first destination. We were now facing not one but two detours on our way to North Carolina.