No one paid any particular attention to Crow Daddy and his snoozing passengers as they left Anniston on the old Granite State Highway, headed west. With a few notable exceptions (sharp-eyed old ladies and little kids were the worst), Rube America was staggeringly unobservant even twelve years into the Dark Age of Terrorism. If you see something, say something was a hell of a slogan, but first you had to see something.
By the time they crossed into Vermont it was growing dark, and cars passing by in the other direction saw only Crow’s headlights, which he purposely left on hi-beam. Toady Slim had called three times already, feeding him route information. Most were byroads, many unmarked. Toady had also told Crow that Diesel Doug, Dirty Phil, and Apron Annie were on their way. They were riding in an ’06 Caprice that looked like a dog but had four hundred horses under the hood. Speeding would not be a problem; they were also carrying Homeland Security creds that would check out all the way up the line, thanks to the late Jimmy Numbers.
The Little twins, Pea and Pod, were using the True’s sophisticated satellite communications gear to monitor police chatter in the Northeast, and so far there had been nothing about the possible kidnapping of a young girl. This was good news, but not unexpected. Friends smart enough to set up an ambush were probably smart enough to know what could happen to their chickadee if they went public.
Another phone rang, this one muffled. Without taking his eyes off the road, Crow leaned across his sleeping passengers, reached into the glove compartment, and found a cell. The geezer’s, no doubt. He held it up to his eyes. There was no name, so the caller wasn’t in the phone’s memory, but the number had a New Hampshire area code. One of the ambushers, wanting to know if Billy and the girl were all right? Very likely. Crow considered answering it and decided not to. He would check later to see if the caller had left a message, though. Information was power.
When he leaned over again to return the cell to the glove compartment, his fingers touched metal. He stowed the phone and brought out an automatic pistol. A nice bonus, and a lucky find. If the geezer had awakened a little sooner than expected, he might have gotten to it before Crow could read his intentions. Crow slid the Glock under his seat, then flipped the glove compartment closed.
Guns were also power.
11
It was full dark and they were deep into the Green Mountains on Highway 108 when Abra began to stir. Crow, still feeling brilliantly alive and aware, wasn’t sorry. For one thing, he was curious about her. For another, the old truck’s gas gauge was touching empty, and someone was going to have to fill the tank.
But it wouldn’t do to take chances.
With his right hand he removed one of the two remaining hypos from his pocket and held it on his thigh. He waited until the girl’s eyes—still soft and muzzy—opened. Then he said, “Good evening, little lady. I’m Henry Rothman. Do you understand me?”
“You’re . . .” Abra cleared her throat, wet her lips, tried again. “You’re not Henry anything. You’re the Crow.”
“So you do understand. That’s good. You feel woolly-headed just now, I imagine, and you’re going to stay that way, because that’s just how I like you. But there will be no need to knock you all the way out again as long as you mind your Ps and Qs. Have you got that?”
“Where are we going?”
“Hogwarts, to watch the International Quidditch Tourney. I’ll buy you a magic hotdog and a cone of magic cotton candy. Answer my question. Are you going to mind your Ps and Qs?”
“Yes.”
“Such instant agreement is pleasing to the ear, but you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t completely trust it. I need to give you some vital information before you try something foolish that you might regret. Do you see the needle I have?”
“Yes.” Abra’s head was still resting against the window, but she looked down at the hypo. Her eyes drifted shut then opened again, very slowly. “I’m thirsty.”
“From the drug, no doubt. I don’t have anything to drink with me, we left in a bit of a hurry—”
“I think there’s a juice box in my pack.” Husky. Low and slow. The eyes still opening with great effort after every blink.
“Afraid that’s back in your garage. You may get something to drink in the next town we come to—if you’re a good little Goldilocks. If you’re a bad little Goldilocks, you can spend the night swallowing your own spit. Clear?”
“Yes . . .”
“If I feel you fiddling around inside my head—yes, I know you can do it—or if you try attracting attention when we stop, I’ll inject this old gentleman. On top of what I already gave him, it will kill him as dead as Amy Winehouse. Are we clear on that, as well?”
“Yes.” She licked her lips again, then rubbed them with her hand. “Don’t hurt him.”
“That’s up to you.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Goldilocks? Dear?”
“What?” She blinked at him dazedly.