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.
The first was necessary, but the second I had my qualms about. It was Michael’s idea and it was a good one, but I didn’t know whether we had the time. I had the instinct to go to ground, dig a hole, and pull it in behind us. And it was getting stronger all the time. The sooner we arrived at the house in North Carolina, the happier I would be. But Michael was right, as much as my gut hated to admit it. The more information we had about Jericho, the better. To that end, we were going to visit a Dr. Bellucci.
My brother had started to tell me about Marcos Bellucci seconds before we’d spotted our pregnant downfall at the side of the road. The man had been mentioned in several of the books we’d purchased. He had worked along the same lines as Jericho had, before Jericho’s theories had split away from the mainstream. He’d even coauthored a few papers with our favorite monster. But as their scientific outlook began to diverge, so had their professional relationship. Dr. Bellucci had spent a considerable amount of time refuting Jericho’s work after that. He kept it up for quite a while, even after his newly ordained rival dropped out of sight. Michael thought if anyone knew something that might help us, it would be Bellucci.