“That’s nice,” I said, my scotch still in a holding pattern. I was going to down it soon if she didn’t get to the damned point. I don’t know why I was holding back; taking it down might have made me more apt to listen. Except … I was listening, without fail and only the occasional sarcastic interruption. Maybe I was curious about where this old biker chick was taking this story.
“One night when Clara was real young,” she said, “her momma kinda hit her limit. Cooped up all day with the baby, she needed to get out. So she decided to take her out shopping. And Chanhassen has a few places, but she wanted to go, to really get out for a while—so she took her to Eden Prairie Center.”
I started to feel a little tingle across the back of my neck, working its way down my spine.
“And you’d think, you know … peaceful night of shopping. Nothing bad ever happens when you’re shopping … except something did.” She was still staring straight ahead, at the bar, but she was starting to get choked up. “Some man … some … superpowered man … he came charging through the store wearing this … this black armor.” She sniffed a little. “He was running from someone, see?”
Now I really started to tingle. Mainly because I remembered this. Remembered the man in black armor. His name was David Henderschott.
“He tosses a clothing rack across the damned store,” she said, and now she turned to look at me. “And Missi is right there, inches away—but she’d stepped back from the stroller where Clara was sitting to look at something—and that rack is just whizzing at Clara, and Missi told me—’Momma, all I could think was our little girl was going to die.’” She shuddered. “Makes me sick every time I think about it—how close she came.”
I just sat there. My hand shook a little, and a cold drip of scotch hit me on the leg.
She pulled out a phone and tripped the touch screen so it lit up. A picture of a ten year old girl was right there, long pigtails and … a Grateful Dead t-shirt?
“You saved my little granddaughter,” she said, sniffing a little. “You threw yourself in front of that clothing rack and yanked her out of the way so fast her momma barely even saw it. She told me—told me later after—after the world found out who you were, she said—’That’s her. That’s the girl that saved our baby.’”
Scotch was spilling all over the place now, and I sat my drink down in front of me, hand shaking. I remembered that night, now that she’d reminded me. It wasn’t a memory I’d lost; it was one I’d buried, an afterthought, jumping in to save that little girl—Clara. Some offhand action by me, pure instinct.
And here was the consequence. A little girl who’d grown up because I’d acted.
“I know,” Biker Grandma went on, “you find yourself in some trouble lately. And I don’t believe a bit of what they’ve said about you. Because I know who you are. You showed us when you saved my Clara, when you risked your life when you didn’t have to, when there was nobody who knew who you were. That told me everything I need to know about you.”
She reached over and brushed my hand. “The cops and the government and the press can say whatever they want. Call you a criminal. But I know who you really are—”
“Who am I?” I asked, a little afraid to find out.
“You’re a damned hero,” she said. “And you don’t let anyone tell you any differently.” She stood up, turned to the bartender and said, “Her drink’s on me. As many as she wants.” And with one look back, and a smile, she started back to her friends.
“Thank you,” I said, and stared at the spilled scotch in front of me. “But … I hope you’re not offended if I …” I smelled the scotch on my hand where it had dripped, strong and pungent, and …
… I didn’t want it anymore. Not a single sip. “… If I don’t, because …” I stood, composing myself. “… I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be. An … ass … I’ve got to kick.”
“You go get ‘em, girl,” she said, with that same, encouraging smile.
“I will,” I said, as I turned to leave. “I just gotta figure out how.”
36.
Eilish met me at the door, peering in just as I was heading out. She sniffed the air once and declared, “Not exactly JD Wetherspoon’s, is it?” as I passed her.
The cold air hit me, bracing and powerful, frosting my cheeks where—frigging again—I’d been crying. I mopped my eyes and resolved that this was the end of the waterworks for a while.
No more tears. From me, at least. There were going to be lots of tears from the Terminator and the Predator. I was resolved to make those little bitches cry, then cry uncle.
“Harry sent you?” I asked as Eilish tried to follow beside me but failed to keep up with my quickstep.
“Uh, yeah,” she said as a car honked at me when I went to cross 61. I flipped him the bird and kept walking. “Seemed to think you were about done.”
“I am about frigging done, that’s right,” I said, clutching the quilt tight around me. “But why did he send you? I was heading back.”
“Hey!” the driver shouted out the open window from where he’d screeched his car to a stop. “You’re Sienna—”
“Would you kindly get back in your car and drive on?” Eilish asked, waving a hand at him. “You’re not going to call the cops or do anything else except drive home and go to sleep, right?”
The man just sat there, head stuck out his window. “I’m just going to drive home and go to sleep.”
“Good boy,” Eilish said. “Also, obey all traffic laws and make sure you yield to pedestrians, even when they’re not in the crosswalk, all right?”
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.” And stuck his head back in the window and patiently waited for us to clear the lane before slowly accelerating away.
“Guess that explains why Harry sent you,” I mused as I stepped up on the sidewalk and headed back toward the house. “He doesn’t move in very mysterious ways.”
“I don’t exactly consider him an open book, though, do you?” Eilish asked. “I mean, you still don’t know why he’s here.”
“Said he needed my help with something,” I said, turning the corner back onto the residential street. Even though the sidewalks were icy, I stuck to them because snow was piled on the lawns. “I assume I’ll find out what that something is when the moment comes, since he’s not exactly Mr. Forthcoming, and he’s been overly solicitous thus far in terms of giving help and asking for none in return.”
“Aye, he’s probably got a big favor to ask,” she said, nodding along.
“What about you?” I asked as she pulled her hands out of her pockets and blew on them ineffectually. This cold was miserable, probably way beyond what Ireland got in winter.
“What about me?” Eilish asked, stopping alongside me.
“Don’t give me that crap, Eilish,” I said, pulling the quilt tight. “You came to me in Scotland because you wanted to know the truth about Breandan. You got drawn into a fight you didn’t ask for, it’s true, but you could have left and gone back to London afterward. Instead, you got on the plane with me, came to America, and you’ve been hanging out ever since.”