Living with the Dead

ROBYN



Robyn followed Hope onto the path. They’d emerged near the barricade. Hope looked around, then jammed the gun into the back of her jeans like an action-movie chick.

“Which shoulder was it?” Hope asked.

“What?”

Hope waved for her to sit on the barrier. “Which shoulder were you shot in?” When Robyn paused, Hope prodded her until she was sitting, then said, “Take off your shirt,” as she pulled what looked like a first-aid kit from her pocket.

“Karl . . .”

Hope glanced toward the forest, then blinked, erasing a flash of worry. “He’ll be fine. Let’s get that shoulder cleaned up before we go.”

Robyn shed the shirt and Hope set to work, as competent as any field medic.

I don’t know her. I don’t know her at all.

She shivered.

“Cold?”

Hope took off her denim jacket and started pulling it around Robyn’s bare shoulders. Then her face lifted, eyes closing. A soft gasp. When she opened her eyes, Robyn saw the same gleam from before, now fading into a glow of rapture.

“It’s over,” she whispered. “He’s okay.”

“Hope?”

She jumped, startled, then busied herself tugging the jacket on Robyn. “I don’t hear them fighting anymore, and I think Karl called out. Once he gets here, we need to leave—”

“What happened?” Robyn’s throat was dry, her whisper like the rustling of dry leaves.

“Hmm?”

“Back there. In the forest. The man.”

“My guess is that he’s the partner of that girl who shot you. Luckily she seems to be relying on him to bring you in and staying clear. One less problem for us to deal with.”

“He’s not working with her.”

A tight laugh. “That would be awfully coincidental, you having two people hunting you for unrelated reasons. I’m sure he’s—”

“He’s not. He took a call. He was talking about her—Adele—about getting me away from her.”

“Oh?” Hope’s head shot up. “What did—?” She stopped. “You saw a man at Judd Archer’s house, right? I bet that was him. Her former partner, now pursuing his own agenda.”

“And, according to what he said on the phone, pursuing Karl.”

It took a moment for Hope to find the proper expression of surprise. “I guess we’ll have to figure it all out later. For now—”

She looked up, then quickly plastered on a fresh bandage before hurrying to the forest’s edge. Robyn heard and saw nothing, but a moment later, Karl appeared. He and Hope stayed there, a dozen feet away, murmuring in voices too low for Robyn to make out.

Hope checked Karl’s lip, then fingered a bloodied rip in his shirt. He bent over her, talking, Hope nodding.

Then Karl brushed hair back from her face, leaning to say something more intimate. The other Karl—the one in the forest, the one who’d pushed them aside—was gone.

“I’ll walk you two back to the car first,” Karl said as they approached Robyn.

Hope shook her head. “We’ll be fine. You finish here, then meet up with us.” She looked at Robyn. “Karl has to clean up.”

“Get rid of the body,” Robyn said.

Hope let out a chirp. A laugh? Or a choke of surprise? “Damon really did subject you to too many crime shows, didn’t he? I meant Karl needs to clean himself up.” She waved at his bloodied shirt and split lip. “He can’t go traipsing around in public like that.”

Robyn gave her a look. Hope met it without flinching. Robyn continued to stare, trying to make Hope look away, give another nervous laugh. When she did neither, Robyn strode toward the forest. She got to the edge. Then Karl’s hand fell on her shoulder.

“You’re going to the car,” he said.

There was no menace in his voice. No room for questions either.

She looked back at him, lifting her chin to meet his eyes.

“Yes,” he said. Nothing more. It could have meant “yes, you’re going to the car” or “yes, I will stop you from taking another step.” But she knew it didn’t. It meant “yes, you’re right.” That was all she needed. She backed onto the path and followed Hope.



IT TOOK NO MORE THAN FIVE MINUTES to walk from the forest. As Robyn saw the woods opening up, the field ahead, she slowed, certain the edge couldn’t be so close. When she’d been running she’d told herself repeatedly how small the woods had to be, but with everything that had happened in there, it felt like those trees should go on forever, that they’d been miles from civilization.

And here, just ahead, was civilization, as garish as it got. The fair. The music still boomed. The kids still screamed. The lights still colored the night sky. The air smelled, not of fear and blood and dirt, but of corn dogs and cotton candy.

Robyn rubbed her arms and blinked. They’d been gone less than an hour, but she’d somehow expected to walk out and find the fair packed up, the field a desolate wasteland of half-filled Coke cups and unwanted prizes. She felt like Lucy, stepping from the wardrobe to see that despite everything she’d seen in Narnia, the everyday world had continued, oblivious.

“Where’s the car?” she finally asked. Her first words since leaving Karl.

Hope didn’t break her silence—only pointed at the fair, then headed deeper into the field, leaving Robyn squinting to see why she wasn’t taking the direct route along the fence. When she asked, Hope just shook her head.

“Hope?”

Her friend stopped. It was a moment before she turned. The moon had slid behind wisps of cloud, leaving Hope’s face shadowed, her expression unreadable. It was another moment before she spoke.

“You said Adele can find you anywhere.”

Robyn nodded.

“I’m making sure she doesn’t.”

Hope resumed walking. Robyn trudged behind her, the late-night dew soaking her shoes. Exhaustion slumped her shoulders, the injured one aching. The adrenaline rush from earlier was long gone. Like a midafternoon caffeine-and-sugar-crash, all she wanted to do was follow Hope, let her worry about Adele and find them someplace safe to hide, and to hell with the questions, the whys and hows. But those questions buzzed in her brain like bees, stinging her every time she tried to ignore them.

How did taking this route protect her from Adele? The field was empty—all Adele had to do was glance out when the moon reappeared and she’d see them.

She remembered when they’d first entered the forest, the man saying it was “suitably nondescript” and would keep Adele from finding them.

“She can see me, can’t she? She’s . . . like one of those psychics the police use to find people.” Even as Robyn heard the words, she couldn’t believe she was saying them, and worse, saying them as if she believed them.

“Adele sees me,” she pressed on. “She sees what’s around me and that’s how she tracks me down. If there aren’t any hints in the landscape—”

“—then she can’t find you.”

There, Hope had admitted it.

They traveled another twenty feet before Hope stopped. “Going to the car might not be the wisest idea. Something tells me Adele wouldn’t hesitate to turn the parking lot into the O.K. Corral.” She took the gun from her waistband. “We’ll wait for Karl to come. He’ll find us.”

Of course he would. He always did. An unnatural ability to find them anyplace they left a trail. Like a tracking dog. She shivered and looked over at Hope. She was scanning the field. At a glance, Robyn could see there was no one around, but Hope kept looking, slowly turning. Robyn leaned toward her to say something. Hope’s eyes were closed.

“Hope?”

She lifted a finger, telling her to wait. After a few seconds, Hope flinched and went rigid. Her eyes flew open, gaze swinging to something white in the grass a dozen feet away.

Robyn walked closer and saw a small, white cross with a faded plastic wreath. “Someone must have died here.”

“Yes.” Firm, as if Hope knew that for sure.

Robyn rubbed the goose bumps from her arms, started to sit, then felt the cold, wet grass and changed her mind. Arms wrapped around her chest, she looked at the forest.

“What happened back there?”

“I don’t know. You said that guy seemed to know Adele and know she was after you, but he definitely wasn’t planning to rescue you, at least not in the sense of letting you walk away—”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The wail of an ambulance filled the silence. They both turned to follow the sound. It seemed to be heading for the fair, but with all the flashing lights, it was impossible to tell. After a moment, Robyn wasn’t even sure it was an ambulance at all, not just the sirens on a ride.

When it stopped, Robyn waited. Still Hope didn’t respond.

“That’s not what I meant,” Robyn repeated.

Hope nodded. And said nothing. At least thirty seconds passed before she looked over.

“What did you mean?” she asked.

Robyn blanched under that look—a hard challenge that dared her to elaborate and maybe warned her not to, told her she was better off letting it go. Robyn knew it would be better to forget. Chalk it up to exhaustion and strain. Hope was offering her an easy way out. A safe way out. But nothing in Robyn’s nature would let her take it.

“Tonight I saw my best friend pull a gun I never knew she had, and know how to use it. A man threw me like a rag doll, then I watched another man do the same to him. I heard a man talk about demons and witches and werewolves like I knew what he meant, like he was discussing something as undeniable as the trees around us. And I know that man is now lying in the woods, beaten to death by a guy I thought wouldn’t know how to throw a punch.”

“Did you see a body?”

“No, but—”

“Yes, Karl beat the crap out of him. That’s all. Now he’s checking his ID to see why he was following you, then he’s getting himself clean enough to walk out here. Yes, Karl knows how to fight. That story I told you about him being in security? A lie. Any security Karl did was from the wrong side of the law. That’s all in the past, but he has a reputation and he has enemies and he knows that at any time he might need to protect himself, so he keeps in shape. As for the talk of were-wolves and demons and witches? Someone is off his meds.”

In the world of public relations, there are two kinds of spin. One is the totally plausible alternative explanation, like “Yes, my client was arrested for DUI, but the reports show she was barely over the limit so she must have picked up the wrong drink at the party.” The bigger and more convoluted the problem, the harder it is to find a perfect excuse. In that case, publicists have to settle for the second type, the kind that says “I know it’s far-fetched, but work with me on this one, okay?” like explaining that yes, your client blew double the legal limit, smashed into a Victoria’s Secret window, stripped to her underwear and posed for pictures, but she must have picked up the wrong drink and it reacted badly with her cold medication.

Hope’s explanation fell squarely under type two.

“I want to know the truth,” Robyn said.

“Do you?”

“Yes, I do.” The bite in her words hid the undertone of hurt. “I’m your friend. Of course I want to know—”

“Then, as a friend, I’d suggest you spend a little more time thinking about it. Decide whether you really want to know more. As a friend, I’d suggest maybe you don’t.”