Darby still had the bullet in her pocket, too. She’d inspected it under green fluorescent lights in the women’s restroom. The bullet’s blunt nose was split with four cross-cuts, which appeared deliberate, for some unknown reason. The bottom of it, the brass rim, had stamped lettering: .45 lic. She’d heard of guns called forty-fives before, in cop movies. But it was chilling to think that there was a real one right here, in the room with her, tucked under Lars’s jacket. Just a few feet away.
Darby had known this in her gut for an hour now, but her mind was finally coming around to it, too. A suspect description and a blurry, half-assed photo wouldn’t be good enough. It would be enough for the media to brand her a hero if things worked out nicely, but it wasn’t enough to guarantee Jay’s rescue.
And afterward, if the cops never found Lars, what would she tell the poor girl’s parents? Sorry your kid is dead, but I called the police and wrote down the license plate and ran everything through the proper channels. I even drew a picture.
No, she needed to take action.
Here. Tonight. In this snowbound little rest area. Before the plows arrived at dawn, she needed to stop Lars herself.
Somehow.
That was as far as her plan went.
She sipped her coffee. This was her third cup, bitter and jet-black. She’d always loved her stimulants — espresso shots, Red Bull, Full Throttle, Rockstar. No-Doze pills. Her roommate’s Adderall. Anything for that addictive little buzz. Pure rocket fuel for her paintings and oil pastels. Depressants — alcohol, weed — they were the enemy. Darby preferred to live her life wide-eyed, tormented, running, because nothing can catch you if you never stop. And thank God for it, for caffeine’s acidic little kick. Because tonight, of all nights, she would need to stay pin-sharp.
Above the regional map, she noticed an old analog clock. Garfield-themed. In its center, Garfield courted the pink female character — Arlene — with a handful of crudely drawn flowers. The clock’s hour hand indicated it was almost midnight, but she realized it was an hour ahead. Someone had missed winter daylight savings.
It wasn’t even eleven yet.
Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure which was more nerve-racking — running out of time, or having too much of it. As she completed her sketch (shadowing the lumpy slope of his forehead, which reminded her of a human fetus) she noticed Lars was finally warming up to the others. At least, there was a little more of a group dynamic now. Ashley was showing Lars and Ed a card trick, something he called a Mexican turnover. From what Darby overheard, you flip over a card using another one in your hand — but really, you’re switching them. In plain view. Lars was fascinated by the maneuver, and Ashley seemed delighted to have an audience.
“So that’s why you keep winning,” Ed said.
“Don’t worry.” Ashley flashed a huckster’s grin, hands up. “I beat you fair and square. But yes, if I may be permitted to toot my own horn, I did take silver in a stage magic competition once.”
Ed snorted. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a thing?”
“Of course it’s a thing.”
“Second grade?”
“Third, actually.” Ashley shuffled cards. “Thank you very much.”
“Did you wear a little tux?”
“You have to.”
“How’s the current job market for silver-medal magicians?”
“Staggeringly poor.” Ashley shelved the cards with a rattlesnake-chatter. “So I went to school for accounting. And let me tell you, that’s where the real magic is.”
Ed laughed.
Lars had been listening to their conversation, his hairy lips pursed, and now he seized this pause to involve himself in it: “So, then, were the . . . ah, were the magic tricks real?”
The blizzard intensified outside. The window creaked under the pressure of gusting wind. Ashley glanced to Ed for a smirking moment (Is magic real? Really?), and Darby watched him decide whether to play it straight or to indulge in a little sarcasm at the expense of the armed child abductor.
Don’t do it, Ashley.
He turned back to Lars. “Yep.”
“Really?”
Ashley’s grin widened. “Absolutely.”
She felt a shivery pool of dread growing in her stomach. Like witnessing the moments before a car accident. The scream of locked tires, the unyielding kinetic power of momentum: Stop it, Ashley. You have no idea who you’re talking to—
“So it’s real?” Lars whispered.
Stop-stop-stop—
“Oh, it’s all real,” Ashley said, milking it now. “I can bend time and space, pull surprises out of my sleeves, make people misremember. I can cheat death. I can dodge bullets. I’m a magic man, Lars, my brother, and I can—”
“Do you know how to cut a girl in half?” Lars asked abruptly.
The room went quiet. The window creaked under another howl of wind.
Darby glanced back down and pretended to doodle again with her blue pen, but she realized with a sour tremor — he was staring across the room at her. Lars, the chinless child abductor with a Deadpool beanie and a child’s fascination with magic tricks, was looking directly at her.
Ashley hesitated. His bullshit machine was out of gas. “I . . . uh, well . . .”
“Do you know how to cut a girl in half?” Lars asked again, eagerly. Same tone, same inflection. His eyes were still pinned on Darby as he spoke. “You know. You put her in a big wooden box, like a coffin, and then you . . . ah, you cut it with a saw?”
Ed stared at the floor. Sandi lowered her paperback.
Again: “Can you cut a girl in half?”
Darby’s fingers tightened around her pen. Her knees hunched closer to her chest. Rodent Face was standing about ten feet from her. She wondered — if he went for the .45 under his jacket, could she yank the Swiss Army knife from her pocket, retract the blade, and cross the room quickly enough to stab him in the throat with it?
She rested her right hand on the countertop. Near her hip.
Lars asked again, louder: “Can you cut a girl in—”
“I can,” Ashley answered. “But you only win gold if she survives.”
Silence.
It wasn’t particularly funny, but Ed forced a chuckle.
Sandi laughed, too. So did Ashley. Lars cocked his head — like he had to squeeze the joke through the clockwork of his brain — and finally gave in and laughed along with them, and the room thundered with belly laughs. Ringing in the pressurized air, until Darby’s migraine returned and she wanted to clamp her eyes shut.
“See, I got silver,” Ashley added. “Not gold—”
Under another crescendo of strained laughter, and still grinning widely, Lars whipped his coat aside and reached for something on his hip. Darby grabbed the knife in her pocket — but he was just adjusting his belt.
Jesus. That was close.
He’d moved quickly, though. If he were really going for his gun, she realized, he could have killed everyone in the room. Lars only appeared clumsy and sluggish — until he surprises you and strikes.
“Gold medal,” he chuckled, tugging his belt around his scrawny ass, pointing a thumb at Ashley. “I, ah, like his jokes. He’s funny.”
“Oh, give me time,” Ashley said. “You’ll find me quite grating.”