Chimera

Chapter 22

Lunch turned out to be more exciting than I’d planned. It wasn’t the fun fest that had ended up with me shot in a parking lot, but neither was it hot dogs and a football game on the big screen. It just goes to show that it’s true what they say. No good deed goes unpunished, “unpunished” being the euphemism for many things. It could be a mild inconvenience or it could be a royal ass kicking. My punishment lay, as it usually did, somewhere near the ass-kicking end of the spectrum.

Picking up the pregnant girl was my first mistake.

Several minutes into the ride, Michael spoke up. He’d been busy entertaining the malevolent Zilla. Out of the cage and creating havoc, it was a must-buy option for every car—air, power locks, carnivorous eel with fur. And then there was the odor. What genetic manipulation had given Michael in healing and supersmarts, it had obviously taken away from his sense of smell in the worst sort of robbing-Peter-to-pay-Paul scenario.

“I was thinking,” he contemplated as the ferret perched on his shoulder. “One of the books mentions a Dr. Bellucci who . . .” He stopped and reached over to tap my arm. “Stefan, there’s a girl.”

I’d already seen her. She was standing nearly half a mile past the park entrance. On the gravel shoulder she stood prim and proper as a princess attended by her royal hound. They matched, the two of them. Woven into two thick strawberry blond plaits, her hair was nearly identical in color to the red-gold color of the dog sitting upright beside her. An unusual dog, it looked as if someone had wrestled Lassie to the ground and given her a marine buzz cut.

The girl was wearing jeans, a long lavender sweater, and a thigh-length white jacket trimmed in blatantly fake fur. Some Muppet had apparently given its all in the name of fashion. Together, she and the dog were pretty as a picture and completely out of place in the middle of nowhere. Those were the first things you noticed. That she was about nine months pregnant came as a surprising distant second.

“What’s she doing out here?” I muttered, my foot automatically easing up on the gas as we approached her. One hand was resting on the dog’s smooth head while the other was held shoulder height in a breezy thumbs-out. She was hitching. The princess was actually hitching, dog and all.

“Are we stopping?”

“Not hardly,” I retorted, getting my foot back under control. Feeding the car gas, I steered us into the opposite lane to give the girl a wide berth.

“But”—his head swiveled to keep her in view—“she’s pregnant, and she’s out here alone.”

“And that’s a big fat clue, isn’t it? No pun intended.” Hearing the engine of our car, she turned to face us while waving her thumb with almost-imperious demand. Royalty all right, even if only in her own mind. I swung the wheel even wider. “This is an urban legend in the making. Why doesn’t she have a cell phone? Everyone has a cell phone. Her dog should have a cell phone. Maybe she’s not even pregnant. She could have accomplices hiding in the woods, a gun in her purse, or an armed dwarf under her shirt. Who the hell knows? She could rob us and leave us for dead. Maybe even feed your damn rat to her dog. The possibilities are endless, kid.”

“All from a girl and her dog? And I thought I had trust issues.” He returned the ferret to its cage. “I’ll clean out the back.”

I was about to tell him there was no point, but at that moment in the rearview mirror I caught sight of the girl leaning over, clutching her stomach, and the happy hitching thumb gone. Even the dog looked worried.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

And just like that we were saddled with a hitchhiker. I didn’t kid myself. I would’ve kept driving and called her a cab—hell, no cabs out here; I’d have called 911. I would’ve let the local sheriff give her a ride, but with this . . . and in front of Michael. I’d told him I’d been a criminal, and I’d told him I would change. Passing up a pregnant girl at the side of the road possibly in labor didn’t make me appear particularly changed, but change I would. I’d promised Michael and I’d promised myself.

In other words, I was screwed—on the path to all that’s good and goddamn righteous, damn it, but still screwed. The knowledge didn’t improve my mood any when I pulled over. Michael rolled down his window and said, “Um . . . are you . . . you know . . . all right?”

The insistent tone he’d taken with Saul and the critical one with the ex-doctor had disappeared under this newly diffident one. I’d found a weakness in Mr. Extraordinary. He was shy around girls; how relentlessly common and mundane. How would he ever live it down? I smothered a grin as one pink-nailed hand found the window opening with entitled assurance.

About nineteen, the girl had a heart-shaped face—which I’d thought a trite phrase every time I’d read it—twilight blue eyes, that one as well, and a sudden and complete lack of labor pains. With pale skin free of makeup and only the lightest gleam of gloss on her lips, the princess was as beautiful as in any fairy tale or Miss Universe pageant, depending how your media tastes ran. She smiled and drawled in an accent as thick as clover honey as she addressed Michael’s concern, “Oh, that? That was just a little bit of indigestion. Goes with the territory. But right now, sweetie? I’m finer than frog hair.” I could all but hear Michael’s heart clunking against his ribs.

I couldn’t help but take the teasing shot and said lightly, “ Crashennui.” The tips of Michael’s ears flushed red at the remark. He was smitten indeed.

Studiously ignoring me, he asked her, “Do you need a ride?”

“That would be fabulous.” The smile and the drawl became even broader. “You boys aren’t killers or perverts, are you?”

Rarely in life is fifty percent a passing score, but it was the best that Michael and I could do between us. If she didn’t call us on that, I wouldn’t call her on her slightly overdone modern-day Southern belle act. She was playing us, although maybe modern-day Southern girls did say “finer than frog hair.” I wasn’t a Georgia guy; so I couldn’t say. But she was conning us. It probably was for a simple ride and not anything more sinister, on par with a pretty woman flirting her way out of a ticket, but that didn’t quell my suspicion completely. You never knew with people. You just never frigging knew. I did try to keep in mind she was just a teenage girl, but my faith in innocent girlish appearances had faded considerably in the past week thanks to Jericho’s Wendy.

“Not so much that you’d notice,” I replied in a lazy drawl of my own. “But we can call someone to come get you if you’d rather.”

“Oh, no. This’ll be just fine.” Before Michael could get out to open the back door for her, she’d already helped herself. The dog jumped in before her and she scooted with a heavy grace into the seat behind it. “I’m Fisher Lee. Fisher Lee Redwine. This is Bouncing Blue Blossom. The Bouncing Blue Blossom.” If thinking up names like that was what this girl did in her spare time, way too much spare time just reached a new standard of measurement.

Blossom, the Blossom, gave a soft yip when she heard her name, then curled up on the seat and dozed off immediately.

I held back a hand over the seat and waited until hers slid into mine. Shaking it briskly, I said, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Redwine.” I was far less concerned with the etiquette of introduction than I was with checking out her stomach to see if it looked authentic. Paranoia, suspicion; call it whatever. It had kept me alive thus far. Wendy wasn’t the only member of the fairer sex in my lifetime who had demonstrated deadly tendencies. One of the strippers at the club had once stabbed her boyfriend in the bathroom and then had calmly gone out to work another set. I’d been the one to find him. Facedown on the tile with his blood spider-webbing around him as it flowed along the path of the grout, he hadn’t been dead, but he probably wished he had been. She’d taken him down with a deep wound to the belly and then she’d gotten creative. The surgeons had stitched his face together like a patchwork quilt. Other parts of him weren’t so easily pieced together. She’d flushed those down the toilet.

It could’ve been that he’d deserved it; it could’ve been that he didn’t. I had never asked, but it was a lesson I hadn’t forgotten. Anyone could be dangerous—absolutely anyone.

“What should I call you handsome fellas?” Fisher asked as she pressed hands to the small of her back and stretched. “Besides my saviors?” The Georgia accent had the R sound fading before it hit the air.

“Nick and Albert,” I answered promptly before Michael could let slip our real ones. I wasn’t positive that he would have, but hedging my bets was a longtime habit. “You can call the kid Al.” Beside me Michael made an almost inaudible snort to let me know he had caught the Einstein reference.

Turning back, I took the car back out onto the road. She looked genuinely pregnant, but not being precisely an expert in the field, I kept a sharp eye on the rearview mirror. “We’re headed toward Waycross. We can drop you off there.” Can and would; a philanthropist such as I had to have his limits. The sarcasm sounded the same in my head as it would have out . . . sharp and edgy. I didn’t like risk where Michael was involved, and thanks to the past, I wasn’t wild about the unexpected. What was setting up camp in my backseat definitely qualified as one, maybe both.

“Waycross is fine. It’s a little one-horse town, one and a half at the most.” She smiled and patted the mound of her stomach. “Just like me. Horse and a half, right here.”

“What . . . mmm.” Michael cleared his throat, the redness in his ears fading to a pale pink. “What are you doing out here? All by yourself, I mean.”

“Oh, honey, y’all wouldn’t believe it if I told you.” She must have slipped off her shoes as up popped two feet on the console between my seat and Michael’s. The toenails were painted to match her fingernails, a pearlescent rose. Wiggling her toes, she asked Michael, “Albert, would you be a doll and rub my feet? They haven’t been the same since Junior here hit his seventh month.”

The flush was back and it spread to the rest of Michael’s face with the speed of a wildfire. Frozen, his eyes darted from the feet to me and then back again. I had to admit, even slightly swollen they were very pretty feet. Snorting, I took a hand off the wheel to grab his and place it on a foot. “You heard the lady, Big Al. Get to work.”

If I’d seen anything more amusing than a profoundly pregnant woman flirting with my brother, I couldn’t think of it offhand. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me from giving Miss Fisher Lee a good, hard verbal shove. “Go on with your story, Fisher.” I gifted her with an encouraging and completely insincere grin over my shoulder. It made my teeth hurt. “We’re interested. Goddamn interested. Couldn’t be more interested if we tried.”

Michael was touching the pink and ivory feet with acutely cautious fingers. For all the force he was using he might have been massaging a creation formed from the most delicate of blown glass. I’ve heard the old cliché before . . . a thousand times at least. But now was the first time I had felt it as opposed to only hearing it. Clichés make us cringe for a reason, and it isn’t from the banal repetition. It is the unbearable truth of them. I watched Michael touch smooth skin with a normal embarrassment and a not-so-normal wariness, and I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He wasn’t scared simply because she was a gorgeous, if rather round, girl. He was afraid he might accidentally hurt her. I’d seen his control over the past week and it was unshakable, but with that kind of power, how could you not have the occasional doubt slither through your mind? If a foot rub could help him overcome that, then I was all for it.

“Aren’t you sweet? Taking such a concern.” Unlike mine, Fisher’s sincerity was bona fide or at least it seemed to be from her good-natured tone. “Good guys like you make up for dirtbags like my boyfriend. Albert, honey, you can rub a little harder. I’m tougher than I look.”

I heard Michael’s convulsive swallow as loudly as if it had come from my own throat, but he obeyed and increased the pressure. The contented sigh that ruffled my hair from the backseat indicated he had hit the spot. “It’s the usual sad, sad story,” she said with a carefree air that was belied by a faintly bitter undertone. “Cocky guy, stupid girl. Junior doesn’t have a chance. With his parents, the poor kid will probably have to repeat preschool three times.” There was another sigh, this one much less content. “Can’t say I didn’t make my bed, though, and whining won’t change a thing. We had one last big fight and I told him to stop the car and let me out. Great guy that he is, he did. Took off and didn’t even look back.”

Pink nails flicked through Michael’s hair. “You get a girlfriend, sweetie; you treat her real nice, okay?”

On that note Michael’s blush progressed to full-blown, spontaneous human combustion and he hurriedly finished with the massage, “I’m not sure a girlfriend is the best idea for me.”

“Oh, well, a little boyfriend then.” Untroubled, she fished a piece of hard candy out of her coat pocket and popped it into her mouth. “Just be sweet to whoever you end up with.”

“That’s not what I . . . Never mind.” The conversation was too close to home for Michael and he turned in the seat to face the front. It was debatable whether he would ever trust himself enough to allow the creation of a bond—sexual, romantic, or both—with a girl or woman. That same uncertainty applied to the bonds between family . . . between brothers. Eventually, when we were safe, I could look into providing him with DNA evidence proving that we were related, but that still might not do the trick. Michael had to allow himself to believe, and I wasn’t sure he was emotionally capable of that—not now; perhaps not ever.

It was not the best of thoughts and I let it wash away under the bright chatter that flowed out of Fisher like an endless stream of sticky, sweet molasses. She talked about her worthless boyfriend, her cheerleading days, her plans to go to college after the baby was born, but mostly she talked about Blossom. Blossom this and Blossom that. The dog ignored it all, even the tale of her rescuing seven children from a burning building while still wearing the blue ribbon from her last dog show. I didn’t believe any of it for a second, but it made for a good story.

It wasn’t long before we had to stop for lunch. Waycross was only twenty or so miles, but it turned out a hungry pregnant woman could be a cranky one. The honey in her voice began to turn to vinegar after she finished off the last of her candy. We ended up at yet another barbecue joint. They sprinkle the landscape of the South like a savory-smelling, greasy-fingered Milky Way. This one was lacking a purple pig out front, which was probably for the best. A repeat of that scenario might have PETA all over my ass, and my ass was fairly well booked up for the moment, although we hadn’t seen any sign of Jericho in the past two days. Then again, I really hadn’t expected to. The fastest of supernatural healers wasn’t going to shake off a bullet to the gut and a shattered leg that quickly. And I doubted he would send a team after us that he couldn’t head himself. Jericho was the hands-on type.

“Here! Stop here.” A hand pounded the back of my headrest. “I’ve heard of this place. It’s supposed to be best round these parts.”

Best round these parts . . . who could argue with that? I pulled into the parking lot that was nothing more than a patch of bald, red ground. And there we were at Annie’s Big Fat Fannie. There was a blinking neon sign in the window that let us know just how fat that fanny was. It was a simple design: glass tubing twisted into two pinkish red curves that buzzed cheerfully as we walked to the door. If Annie’s fanny was indeed as large as indicated, the food they served must be good. Inside there were mostly booths with red and yellow plastic seats and a few scattered tables. We chose a table to accommodate Junior’s girth, but I did maintain enough control of the situation to choose one that gave me a clear view of both exits.

Fisher didn’t care one way or the other. She dived headfirst into the menu as she waved one frantic hand for immediate service. By the time the waitress—obviously not Annie as the fanny was flat as a pancake—arrived, Fisher had picked out three lunch specials. Two were for her and the other was for Blossom who was still snoozing along with Godzilla in the back of the car. Michael and I put in our own orders, unmanly single servings, and a few minutes later were provided with pint-sized jars full of iced tea garnished with a frozen peach slice. Fisher ignored hers and made her way through a basket full of fried biscuits slathered with apple butter.

“Someone who can out-eat you, kid.” I kicked Michael’s ankle lightly under the table and tipped the fruit into the tea before taking a swallow. Not too bad. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Even the best of us have off days.” Clearly challenged, Michael reached for a biscuit, only to have his hand swatted away.

“Sorry, sweetie,” Fisher apologized. “It’s you or Junior, and Junior always wins.”

“I see.” He shook his fingers as if they stung. Fisher must pack quite a punch, I thought with amusement. “It’s too bad Junior hasn’t learned about sharing yet.”

“Kids, kids, come on now,” I admonished. “Play nice. I’ll get another basket.” Rising, I went to the counter to ask for more biscuits. By the time I returned, the two had come to terms and they promptly divided the new basket between them. Licking a finger, I philosophically dabbed at the three or four remaining crumbs. “What was that you said about sharing?”

Michael didn’t blink an eye at his hypocrisy. “I don’t recall.”

“Yeah. Plead the Fifth. Toss me under the bus.” The gun in my back waistband dug into my flesh and I leaned a few inches forward away from the ladder-back chair. “You have family in Waycross, Fisher?”

“My great-gramma Lilly-Mae.” Biscuits gone, she rubbed the end of her braid across the curve of her cheek. “She’s amazing. Everything you can think of, she’s done. She ran moonshine with her brothers back when she was younger than me. She worked the farm all by herself when her first husband died. Then, when she lost it, she became a stripper. And not just to survive, but because she thought it sounded like fun.” The blue eyes glittered with laughter and pride. “And that was in the old days when they’d run you out of town for something like that. She remarried more times than I can remember and ran for mayor when she was fifty. She didn’t win, but they still talk about her campaign . . . even twenty years later. They say she threw the best ‘we lost’ celebration ever. There were buffets, clowns, belly dancers, and even an elephant. The guy who won left his own victory party to go to hers.”

“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 think 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.”