Part 10 (1/2)

The woman shut his door, limped around the hood and slid behind the wheel. Her mouth was set, her eyes narrowed in determination.

”Where are we going?” she asked him.

”Just get out of here,” Lannes said, eyes swimming shut.

She did. Fast.

Chapter Nine.

The woman drove for a long time. She headed south because it was the first entrance to the highway that she saw. No other thought was in her head. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might burst. She wanted to vomit. Dizziness made her lean against the wheel, gripping it so tightly her knuckles felt fit to burst. Chills shook her.

Lannes was unconscious. The big man was slumped against the pa.s.senger door, still breathing. Not one sign of an injury marred his body. Despite the fact that he was bleeding. Despite her having seen him hit.

And also despite the fact that she had touched his torso, trying to find those wounds, and discovered that Lannes really did feel a great deal different than he looked. She could not handle that. She could hardly handle the car.

She drove, looking for a good place to pull over. The highway itself was too risky. Exits seemed to lead to wide-open country lanes with no shoulder. Gas stations and fast-food restaurants had too much light in their parking lots.

In Lafayette, however, she saw a small sign advertising a Meijer's grocery store, and she envisioned an expanse of pavement that stretched like the bad yawn of a concrete monster. Lots of s.p.a.ce. A anonymous parking lot. It would be exposed, but she had to stop. She had to check Lannes.

She took the highway exit and turned left, following her instincts more than the signs. She could not remember if she had ever been here, but her gut seemed familiar with the area, and when she pa.s.sed Cracker Barrel on her left, she knew it. Meijer's would be on her right, ahead.

And it was. She pulled off the road, bouncing slightly over the curb, and started coasting for an out-of-the-way parking spot. She found one on the east side. No other cars around. No tall lights. Just darkness and solitude. For now.

The woman shut off the engine. Her hands shook the moment she took them off the wheel. She held them close to her stomach, rubbing her knuckles. Thinking about the man and his gun. What she had done to him.

Lannes, she told herself fiercely. Worry about Lannes.

She turned to him. Darkness was safer, but it limited what she could see. Which wasn't much. He looked fine. Healthy. But he lay still, and the scent and heat of his blood filled the Impala's interior, burning her heart.

The woman touched his shoulder, just to remind herself. She did not feel a s.h.i.+rt. Just skin. Hot sticky skin. And past his shoulder, around his back, something even softer, like supple leather. Something bigger than his body. What she touched terrified her, but not nearly as much as the fact that she thought he was dying.

But she could not take him to a hospital. That much was clear.

Cell phone, she told herself. He said he was talking to his brother.

Her breath caught. She began patting his pockets, grateful that his jeans seemed to be real. She was losing her mind, losing her mind. Oh, G.o.d.

His jeans were soaked in blood, but she found the phone and wiggled it free. The case was also sticky, but she wiped it on her skirt and tried to make her hands stop shaking long enough to use the d.a.m.n thing. Lannes stirred slightly, groaning. She whispered his name but he did not respond, not even with a flutter of an eyelid.

She managed to punch into the menu on his phone and found the last number dialed. It was labeled with a name, Charlie. She hoped that was the right person to call. She also hoped the battery lasted. The dial was red, and she heard a loud warning beep.

A man answered on the first ring. His voice sounded like Lannes. The woman heard a cartoon blaring in the background, and had to take a breath.

Again, the man said, ”h.e.l.lo?”

”h.e.l.lo,” she whispered. ”Are you Lannes' brother?”

There came no reply, but a moment later she heard a click like a door closing, and the cartoon music faded. He said, ”What happened? Where is he?”

She looked at Lannes, then twisted to peer out the car windows, checking to make sure they were still alone. The battery warning beeped. ”Here with me. Someone came after us. He's been hurt. Shot. I don't know how to help him. I can't see the wounds, but I can feel them, and there's so much blood-”

Charlie interrupted. ”Where are you?”

”Lafayette, Indiana. Meijer's parking lot, just off the highway.”

”Stay there, if you can. If you have to move, call me. I'm sending help.”

The phone beeped again. ”Wait. What can I do?”

”Protect him,” Charlie said grimly. ”I'll call you when my friends are close.”

And he hung up. The woman stared at the phone for a moment and slid it onto the dashboard. She looked out the windows again, taking in the mundane process of cars pulling in and out of the grocery store parking lot and the distant signs of restaurants and hotels. Normal lives, normal people.

Lannes made another small sound. She remembered what had happened the last time she got close while he was unconscious, but even though her shoulder was a painful reminder, she scooted as near as she could and rested her hand against his face. His skin was hot, even feverish. She cast about for something, anything she could use to help him, and found nothing in her immediate vicinity. She opened up the glove compartment, hoping at least for a cell-phone car charger.

She found nothing of the kind, though a block of wood fell out, an unevenly shaped chunk that looked as though it had been hacked from the heart of a tree. She picked it up off the car floor, turned it over in her hands. Six inches long and almost as wide. Part of it had been carved into what seemed to be the vague outline of a man with wings. Not much detail, but exquisite nonetheless. Every stroke was filled with character.

She focused again on the carved wooden wings and remembered the motel. She would never forget. Never. Even if her memories were stolen again, she knew something- something of him-would remain.

Lannes, stepping into the path of those bullets. Taking them. Protecting her. Falling to his knees. Getting back up again.

The woman looked over and saw a human man. A big, strong, handsome man. A man who looked healthy but who was dying, maybe. The closest thing she had to a friend in all the world.

”Don't go,” she whispered. Don't leave me. Don't leave me alone.

He stirred. She touched his face-a careful, tentative brush of her fingers against his feverish cheek. His bone structure was strong, p.r.o.nounced. Still craggy. Her heart rate began to slow. Her hands stopped shaking. She remembered touching him in the parking lot just before the gunman had arrived. She remembered the sensation of what she had felt. His horror when he had turned on her.

You're more mystery than I am, she thought, then heard something behind her on the driver's side. A car engine idling.

Black Humvee. Huge car. She could hardly imagine how it had pulled up without her noticing, but its lights were off. The woman suddenly wished she had taken the gun with her. Or that she knew how to... to do that thing again. Whatever it was that had stopped the gunman. It had been a force in her mind that was hers and hers alone, not the work of an outside influence. Which was frightening, but not nearly as much as being unable to protect Lannes.

It was a woman who got out of the Humvee. An old woman, tall and slender, with short silver hair and a narrow face that sagged around her chin. She wore all black, except for a string of heavy pearls. She was elegant and feminine, but her gaze was as cold and sharp as knives.

The woman could not see if anyone else was inside the Humvee. She started the Impala's engine, shoved down the clutch and s.h.i.+fted into first gear. She did not go, though. She thought about Charlie. He had said he would call.

The old lady tapped on the car window with one slightly gnarled finger. ”You. Open up.”

Like h.e.l.l. The woman glared, trying not to let on how frightened she was. ”Who are you?”

”My name is Etta Bredow,” said the old lady, speaking loudly. ”I work with your friends.”

”What friends?”

Etta's withered lips pulled into a hard smile. ”Charlie. Fredrick.”

The woman hesitated, then reached for the cell phone. Its battery light was s.h.i.+ning red. She remembered Charlie's number and dialed quickly, trying not to take her eyes off the old lady, who stood back, arms folded over her sunken chest.