The Dirty Secrets Club

by Meg Gardiner

  A fire engine roared past on the street, lights and siren screaming.

  He looked at the video store. His fingertips itched. He could use the season three Sopranos box set. And some microwave popcorn.

  His phone beeped.

  He looked at the message. Forgot everything else.

  Your gal, Johanna Beckett, M.D.

  "Got you, Spider."

  It was about time. He scrolled through the rest of the message.

  No firearms. Must appear accidental.

  Huh? Perry, what the fuck?

  Need time to get what they owe me. And to get away. City is crazy—"accident" means cops won't look for us.

  Skunk read the rest, dropped the phone on the bench seat, and started the engine. The Caddy purred heavily to life. He pulled out onto the dark lunatic street. Another fire engine went roaring by. His mind was roaring, too. Accident, fine, he could handle that. He screeched up the road, turning over the final phrase from the message in his mouth. It was a new one, high-powered even for Perry. Equivocal death.

  Didn't matter. It meant the Spider was going down.

  When Jo stepped outside the air felt colder. In the beam from her flashlight she could see Sophie's breath frosting the air.

  "We'll get my neighbor and his buddies to come over and help me muscle the doors into shape," she said.

  Or maybe Ferd and his World of Warcraft crew could bring a lock and chain to secure it. Or they could guard her house. She took Sophie's small hand and led her next door.

  At Ferd's, jack-o'-lanterns provided ruddy light. The front door was open. Jo knocked, called hello, and went in. She heard conversation in the back of the house.

  "This is spooky," Sophie said.

  Jo had never been inside Ferd's home. The front hall was hardwood, varnished, and creaky. Lit only by low-burning candles, the light faded and the ceiling was lost in darkness. It did feel spooky. She held tight to the little girl's hand. Sophie's palm, so chilly when they were trick-or-treating, now felt clammy.

  "Ferd?" she called.

  At the end of the hall he appeared in the doorway. "Jo!"

  He clapped his hands and trundled down the hall toward them. "You're here. This is wonderful."

  He was wearing improvised medieval gear and carrying a plastic sword. He seemed to have antlers.

  He touched his chest. "I'm a Blood Elf. And look at you two. You came as the Undead. Thank you."

  "This is Sophie Quintana," Jo said.

  "I'm a Bratz zombie."

  Jo handed him her bowl of artichoke dip. He pulled the cling wrap off the top and scooped a glop onto his index finger.

  He made a yum sound. "This way. Oh, thank God. Hardly anybody's able to make it. The city's had a system crash. They're going to have to do a hard restart to get it back up and running."

  In the kitchen they found three people standing around a cauldron of popcorn. Candles and a hurricane lantern provided the light. The costumes gradually came into focus. There were fewer Klingons than she had expected, and more women. In fact, now that she was here, there were twice as many women as she had expected.

  Mr. Peebles was perched on the kitchen table. He was wearing a harness, like a human toddler. Or a small prisoner. He was also wearing a tiny Blood Elf outfit. Even from across the room he still smelled like a bottle of Forest Fresh shampoo.

  He turned his head sharply to stare at Jo. His eyes were shiny black buttons. Disturbingly, she couldn't tell whether he was thinking Run. It's the duct tape lady, or Drain cleaner in her coffee.

  Ferd rubbed a hand over his chest. "I filled the bathtub with water and sealed all my food in freezer-proof bags. I just don't know what kind of disaster we might be facing. How long will it be before there's a risk of cholera?"

  "You're safe for at least a week. And in a minute I need you and some of your friends to help me get my kitchen doors shut and locked."

  "Sure." He looked around. "B'Etor can help us."

  The Klingon lurched forward. "Qastah nuq!"

  Soprano battle cry. Make that three times as many women as she'd expected.

  "Thanks," Jo said.

  She looked back down the hall. Through the open door she thought she saw a man standing on the porch, silhouetted by the faint light coming from the street. She stopped. Sounds and images ran through her head.

  Help me.

  Stop it.

  She felt a cold breath of fear pass through her. She looked closer down the long hall. The jack-o'-lantern light threw weightless shapes against the walls. In the night beyond the front door, everything was shadow.

  A car passed on the street. Headlights swelled, illuminated the porch like a scrimshaw carving, and faded. Nobody was there.

  "I'm nearly out of Maalox," Ferd was saying. "If the pharmacies can't get supplies, what'll I do? Or if there's looting ..."

  "If there's looting, they'll go for the narcotics before the antacids," Jo said. "Kiddo, don't hyperventilate."

  "Right. Right." He pressed the back of his palm to his forehead.

  "Use your emotional support mechanism," she said.

  "Of course." He hurried to the kitchen table, unhooked the harness, and picked up Mr. Peebles. The monkey gripped his shirt with his feet and reached up to hang on Ferd's Blood Elf antlers.

  Jo's phone beeped. Mr. Peebles leaped from Ferd's chest to the stove, aiming for the cauldron of popcorn. She had a text message.

  From: Leo Fonsecca.

  Concerned, she took a look.

  Urgent. Felon at large. May have your address. Vital you go to Central Station immediately.

  She stared for a hard moment, and called Fonsecca's number. Circuits busy.

  She tried the Central Station. Same. Amy Tang—third strike. Only texts were getting through. She replied to Fonsecca's number. Going now.

  "Sophie, come with me, honey."

  Ferd rubbed his chest. "Is something happening? You sound alarmed. Do we need to seal the house?"

  "I need you to walk me to my truck."

  He inhaled and seemed to stand five inches taller. "I would regard it as my honor."

  Eyes shining behind his glasses, he strode beside her, plastic sword at the ready.

  Sophie hopped into the Tacoma beside Jo.

  "Lock your door and buckle up." Jo started the engine.

  Ferd stood outside, her knight in shining antlers. "Call me when you get there."

  "If I can get a call through."

  She shut the door. Ferd backed up and saluted with the sword. Then he looked at his house.

  "Oh, the door. I left it open—" He hurried away. "Mr. Peebles . . ."

  Jo's heart was thumping. "As soon as we get to the police station, we'll call your mom."

  "She's at a party. I don't know where. She doesn't have a cell phone."

  The flatness in Sophie's voice told Jo all she needed to know about her mom's reliability. "In that case, you get to be my zombie apprentice tonight."

  "Okay." The anxiety was back in her voice.

  Jo pulled out. "If you're real good, I'll let you pry open a brain."

  Sophie looked small in the seat. "Do you think my dad's okay?"

  "Yes." Jo didn't need to put conviction in her voice. She had no doubts. "Sophie, this earthquake isn't a disaster; it's a hassle. Ferd's a nervous guy. Don't worry about the stuff he was saying. Your dad is fine. He's just making sure everybody else is fine, too. That's his job."

  "I know."

  "And he's extremely good at his job."

  Sophie looked at her, like, really? Jo had a sad feeling she didn't hear that very often from her mom.

  Jo turned the corner and drove down the steep hill toward the police station. Up here traffic was spotty, the streets empty. The station was only a mile away, on Vallejo near Columbus Avenue, but to get there she'd have to navigate dense downtown streets where the traffic was likely to be messy. She checked her phone again. No messages. No signal.

  At a corner she stopped and checked all wa
ys, looking for wraiths, ghouls, or ex-cons. A block to her left, a car tore through the intersection parallel to hers. She went straight. The road angled sharply downhill and she kept it in low gear. Everybody had been warned to stay indoors, but she didn't want to hit any intrepid trick-or-treaters.

  Or even a looter making off with Ferd's Maalox. She turned the radio to a news channel. Chatter streamed out, words keeping pace with the city's incipient panic.

  She signaled left, turned, and braked sharply to a stop. A Volvo had crashed into a PG&E truck. They sat in the middle of the street in a spray of broken glass, abandoned. She swerved back and kept going. In her rearview mirror, headlights rose, bright and harsh. She adjusted the mirror, making sure the car didn't get too close. Nervous, she turned left at the next corner. Glanced again in the mirror.

  The car behind her kept heading straight, down the hill out of sight. She breathed out and accelerated.

  She only heard the revving engine for a single second. It came at her from the left, a gigantic whale of a car with its lights off. She was in the middle of the intersection when it slid around the corner and slammed her broadside.

  37

  The noise and the blow swallowed everything. It was a huge, heavy sound. Two tons of momentum snapped the truck sideways. Jo's head hit the frame of the cab. Sophie shrieked.

  The pain flicked her hard, but she held on to the wheel. Jesus.

  She braked, head pounding, and held her hands steady on the wheel. She'd been knocked to the right like a hockey puck slap shot into the boards. She realized the car hadn't T-boned her, but had swung around the corner like a scythe and sideswiped the truck.

  He was still sideswiping the truck. He was pushing her toward the curb.

  What the hell was the guy doing?

  "Sophie, you okay?"

  "I'm scared." Tears were in the girl's voice.

  Jo looked out her window. The car was squealing against her, forcing her toward the sidewalk. Adrenaline jacked into her system like a flood, so hard that her vision lit white.

  It was a vintage white Cadillac.

  There were cars parked along the curb. She felt her truck getting pushed toward them. The Cadillac outweighed the Tacoma by a ton.

  It was a gleaming shark of a car, beautifully restored; she could see that by the shine of the roof under the moonlight. If the driver was willing to wreck it, that could only mean he wanted to do something worse to her. He wanted it bad.

  "Sophie, hold on."

  She couldn't let him force her to a stop. She floored the truck.

  The Cadillac accelerated with her. Shit. She held the wheel with all her strength. Sophie wheezed and sobbed, a high-pitched sound of terror. Come on, truck, come on, you tough son of a bitch. She felt tears sting her eyes.

  The screech of metal against metal grated on her ears. In the corner of her eye she saw sparks jumping between the vehicles. Come on ...

  The Cadillac was muscling the truck toward the curb. Foot by foot.

  "Come on," Jo shouted.

  Too late. The telephone pole was twenty feet ahead of her. She braked, but momentum carried her forward. The Cadillac shoved her at the curb. The truck hit the pole straight on.

  They smashed to an instant stop. Seat belts, air bag punched her in the chest, gray gas from the air bag everywhere, she and Sophie whipped forward, hard, and snapped back.

  The shock of it was like a slap across the face. She bounced back against the headrest.

  Her headlights were still shining. The engine was still running. The Cadillac had stopped ten feet ahead of her.

  Don't just sit here. She threw the truck in reverse. The gears ground. She popped the clutch, floored it, and heard the tires spin. The truck shrieked and limped backward. A foot, two feet, bumping hard. Something major was broken in the front end. She Saw steam blowing from the radiator.

  She pressed the horn. Nothing happened.

  The Cadillac idled in the street. In her headlights, she could see exhaust pouring from its tailpipe.

  The driver's door opened. A shudder ran through her.

  Sophie was keening uncontrollably.

  "Don't touch your door. Don't unlock it. Hang on. We're getting out of here."

  The man called Skunk got out of the Cadillac and walked toward them.

  From the far end of the street, another car's headlights came toward them. Thank God. Thank God. The car approached the wreck, slowed for a look, and drove on by. Jo tried not to cry.

  She kept the pedal to the floor. The engine revved like a maniac. Rubber burned off the back tires. They only moved a foot.

  Skunk walked toward them, stepping without concern into the glare of her headlights. He was a hunched thing, with no neck. His eyes shone in the headlights.

  "Hold on, Sophie."

  Jo wrestled the gearshift, put it in first, and popped the clutch. The truck jerked forward. Skunk stared at her.

  She saw him swell in the windshield, and her heart constricted. He just stood there, right in front of her. He wasn't scared. She wasn't going fast enough to kill him.

  He raised his right arm. Oh, Christ—

  She grabbed Sophie roughly by the shoulder and shoved her down. But it wasn't a gun in Skunk's hand. It was a tire iron from the Cadillac. He leaped out of her way and swung it against the windshield.

  She heard a crack, and a hole appeared in the windshield. She bit on her lip to keep from bursting into tears.

  This wasn't going to work. The Cadillac was blocking her path. The telephone pole blocked the sidewalk, bent and tottering at an angle. Steam was shrieking from her radiator. She had nowhere to

  go-

  She fumbled her phone from her pocket and shoved it into Sophie's hand. "Call 911."

  Skunk stepped around to the driver's window of the truck. This time when he swung the crowbar, the glass pebbled.

  He swung again and the window broke.

  The glass fell like a sheet of rocks, spilling on Jo's lap.

  "Sophie, get out. Run. Scream."

  Sophie was looking past Jo's shoulder at Skunk. She was frozen.

  "Now!" Jo started screaming herself, as loud as she could. "Go!"

  Sophie fumbled for the door handle. Her seat belt was still buckled. Jo hit it. She kept on screaming.

  Sophie jumped out and ran up the sidewalk. She was screaming now, too.

  Skunk reached through the shattered driver's window, grabbed Jo's hair, and hauled her head back.

  "Shut up," he said.

  She screamed. He slapped her across the side of the head. She fumbled for her own seat belt.

  "Shut up. Where are the names? Give me the fucking names."

  What the hell? "Names?"

  He hit her again. Her vision shot fireworks-white. Oh, God. She saw the phone on the passenger seat. Christ. . . she stretched for it, fighting him, and grabbed it.

  Nine one one. Even when the entire phone system was locked solid with panic, that single number should still be available. And Sophie had dialed it.

  She yelled, "Police. Help. I'm being attacked."

  Skunk heard what she was shouting and reached in to grab the phone. She stretched, trying to keep the phone from his reach.

  She was so scared that it took her a moment to grasp that he was panicking, too. He was reaching through the broken driver's window. Sophie was shrieking. The truck itself seemed to be shrieking.

  She fumbled behind her back for her door handle.

  "Give me the fucking names. You have them. I saw you take them off Scott Southern's body."

  She scrambled for the handle. What names? Southern's body?

  She got the driver's door handle in her fingers. She jammed her feet against the gearshift—and saw the cup holder. She pulled the door handle. With her weight pressing back against it, the door popped open. As soon as she felt it give, she shoved hard with both feet.

  The door swung, she fell backward, and Skunk was knocked off balance. He let go of her hair.

&n
bsp; She scrambled upright. He was already coming back at her. She grabbed the Java Jones stainless-steel coffee mug and swung her arm as hard as she could. It hit him in the face.

  Into the phone she shouted, "I'm being attacked. I have a child with me." She yelled the street name and fought her way across the hand brake and gearshift toward the passenger seat. Skunk looked at her through the doorframe. His face was murderous.

  She'd never known what that phrase meant. Oh, God. With a clarity like ice, she understood. It was up to her. There was now, or it would be never.

  Skunk yanked the driver's door open wide. Jo pulled her knees up and kicked him with both feet, hard, in the face.

  She heard his jaw crack closed, teeth hitting teeth. His head snapped back and he staggered away from the truck.

  Oh, shit, now he was really going to be mad. She stumbled crazily out of the passenger door. Sophie was about ten yards up the street. Jo ran toward her.

  "Help!" Jo yelled. "Help us!"

  Nobody else was on the street. All she could hear was Sophie crying, and an eerie echo of the little girl's voice against the walls of the unresponsive buildings around them. In an apartment window, a curtain shivered aside and Jo saw a silhouette. The curtain dropped back into place.

  She turned back around. "The names are in the glove compartment. Take them. I don't care."

  She ran and grabbed Sophie. Skunk was gathering himself up, rubbing his jaw. Had the police gotten her message? Did they hear her?

  If they did, how long would it be before they came?

  She hauled Sophie to the nearest apartment building. The front door was locked. She pushed the doorbell.

  Nothing. The power was out. Nobody could buzz her in.

  She looked back at the truck. Skunk was digging through the junk in her glove box. He stopped, straightened, looked around. He knew what he was after wasn't there.

  A quick black blur pounced from the Tacoma's cargo bed onto the roof of the cab. Skunk looked up.

  "What the fuck?"

  He was staring straight at Mr. Peebles.

  The monkey shrieked. Jo saw it fling something at him. Skunk jumped back, yelling, "Shit!"