“Hey,” she said, softly, and his gaze came back to her. “What is it you always tell me? This is all we can do, so it’s what we will do.”
He’d told her that time and time again, on rain slick roads, the wipers beating across the windshield; in eighties-era hotel rooms while every set of headlights that skimmed across the wall made her jump; in small towns, and in big cities. He pressed onward, again and again, killing when he had to, always keeping her safe. He’d been a Marine for so long, much longer than the war had actually lasted, and she could see the cracks at his edges. Could feel the way the gaps between healings were getting shorter and shorter. He would break – her unbendable, implacable, too-brave Rooster – and she thought he could sense it, too, the way his hand had shook on the gun before, the way he was willing to put at least a little trust in a stranger.
He gave her a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”
He slid over to climb out of the driver’s side and reached back into the cab to help her out with the hand that wasn’t hovering near his gun.
Red stepped down onto the cracked asphalt and was greeted by the smell of motor oil and hot pavement, boiled peanuts and fresh-cut grass.
Fucking Mayberry indeed.
*
If it hadn’t been the transmission…
A spark plug, a fan belt, a battery, a fuel pump – there were any number of things that could have gone wrong with the truck that could have been fixed in a few hours – or a few minutes – and allowed them to get back on the road. Put that much needed distance between themselves and Evanston City.
But no. It was the transmission. Because that’s how life went.
Rooster cursed softly to himself, clicked off the flashlight, and climbed out from under the truck. Fucking Dodge, he thought, ready to take on the whole damn Chrysler company for letting him down like this. “Fluid everywhere,” he said in response to Red’s questioning look.
The kid who worked for Jake – his name tag declared him Spence – stood with his hands on his hips, expression somewhere in the neighborhood of regretful and told-you-so. “We won’t know what’s going until we open ‘er up, but–”
“Yeah,” Rooster said, grim.
“I’m guessing I’m gonna have to order some parts.”
“Yeah.” He allowed himself a moment – just one – to wallow in his absolute fury. He couldn’t ever decide, in moments like these, if he was angriest at himself, at the Ingraham Institute, or the world at large.
A very dark, very deeply buried part of himself liked to play the what-if game. What if he hadn’t been blown up? What if he’d finished his tour? He wouldn’t have been living in Deshawn and Ashley’s basement; would never have gone to the Institute hoping to get put on a drug trial; wouldn’t have been there for Red to follow home.
But would she have followed someone else? Someone who wouldn’t, or couldn’t, keep her safe?
She sent him a crooked little smile, now, and he hoped she hadn’t developed the ability to read minds. Not that it would surprise him. He took a deep breath and bundled all his dangerous doubts back up, shoved them into the mental closets where they belonged.
He turned to Spence, shame heating his face. “I’m – I’m not much good with transmissions.”
Spence nodded. “Lucky for you, I’m the best. Gimme a couple hours and I’ll know what we need to order.”
“Thanks.”
He locked up his gun cases with the key, not caring if Spence wondered what was in them, then hooked his arm around Red’s shoulders and steered her around to the front of the building.
Jake was in the process of pressure washing his flatbed, and Rooster paused, hanging back a moment. “What’s your read on this guy?”
Red made a surprised sound, and said, “My read?”
“Yeah. I’ve trained you well.” He gave her shoulders a squeeze and she breathed a quiet laugh.
“Okay, well.” Her brows stitched together in thought as she studied their rescuer with Marine-worthy scrutiny. “I don’t think he’s lying. Not really. I believe he was Army. And I don’t think he wants to hurt us.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but.’”
Her frown deepened. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just paranoid…”
“You and me both, kiddo.”
“…but I think…I think it’s okay. For now.”
“Well, that’s good enough for me.”
She sent him a doubtful look.
“We’ll just be careful.”
She nodded.
Jake glanced up and noticed them, and shut off the pressure washer. “Spence get you sorted?”
With the exception of brief interactions with clerks and waitstaff, Rooster didn’t really interact with people anymore; his social skills were rusty. Still, he knew he ought to be polite – if he couldn’t force himself to be outright pleasant.
“Yeah,” he said, aiming for a neutral tone. “He’s gonna take a look. Probably have to order some parts.” A flutter of panic surged in his belly at the thought. Shit, they were stuck here. He cleared his throat. “Thanks – for your help.” The words felt dragged out of him. He didn’t like having to thank people – owing them.
Jake nodded. “Shouldn’t be more than a few days, then. There’s a decent motel here in town. Nothing fancy, but it’s clean.”
Motel. Waiting. Sitting ducks. Rooster nodded and swallowed with difficulty. “Yeah, maybe…where can I get the classifieds? I’ll just buy another truck.”
Jake frowned. “You won’t find anything worth a damn around here. Not with a full back seat and all the mods on your truck.”
Yeah, but it would get us the hell away from here, Rooster thought. “Still.”
Jake looked doubtful. “I’m sure Marty can hook you up with a paper inside.” He jerked a thumb toward the convenience store. “Can’t promise you’ll have any luck.”
Rooster turned that way, towing Red with him. He had to try, at least. The only thing more unforgivable than failing to protect Red would be to stop trying – even if he failed all the same.
9
New York City
The bodies lay beneath white sheets. Harvey made no move to walk her over there and lift up the covers, and Trina didn’t insist. Frankly, just the shapes of them under the drapes was enough to give her the cold chills. The silhouettes weren’t quite…right. Pieces missing. Pieces in the wrong place.
Harvey, drawn and tired, flipped through her notes and stared down at them as she said, “Webb’s not joining us?”
“No,” Trina said, and left it at that. She could have pretended he was still hungover and his stomach too jumpy for the post-mortem, but she didn’t feel like lying to Harvey any more than necessary.
The ME looked up, finally, expression pinched. “You were at the scene. You saw. Cause of death was exsanguination. The victims were hacked apart. Eviscerated. Parts are missing – fingers, mostly, like they were trying to fend off their attackers.” She paused a moment, allowing Trina a brief shudder. “They looked like they were killed by a bear, Trina.”
Not far off. “I–”
“Now look,” Harvey continued, voice hardening. “I know it’s a leap to go from missing bodies to chewed on bodies – oh yeah, there are teeth marks, animal teeth marks – but lots of weird shit is going on around here and you? You’re not even questioning it. Just standing there looking like you’ve got a stomach ache. So this is me asking, unofficially, off the record – as a friend – what you know about all this.”
For a moment, Trina almost caved. In part because Harvey was a competent ally in her day-to-day job, who worked tirelessly to help them catch criminals. And also in part because she was starting to feel like a shaken soda, and wouldn’t it be wonderful to confide in someone? My great-grandfather’s not only alive, but ageless, and also a vampire, and the former tsarevich of Russia turned Lanny into one, too.
‘Cause that would go over well.
Trina waited a beat too long. Swallowed. “Christine–”
“Forget it.” Harvey turned away, disgusted. “Get out of my morgue.”