Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,55

and down-at-heel pair of black cowboy boots with red stitching, so score. I sat thinking how, in the old days, I’d have struck out for Boston on my own, and fuck Pickman’s “someone will be in touch” and his “there’s more a stake” shtick. In fact, I’d have said fuck him, in general. If all that mattered to me was getting Selwyn back— and that was all I gave a shit about—I had the twin’s precious gewgaw, didn’t I? How hard could it be to find them?

But now there was this nagging fear that doing things the old way, my way, might get Selwyn killed—or worse (because when dealing with nasties, there’s always something worse than dying). I’d spent the past three years solving problems with brute fucking force, putting out fires with gasoline, as Mr. Bowie said. There’d never really been anything at stake except my own sorry hide and, occasionally, a paycheck. I’d always come out in one piece, more or less, no matter how close the calls. But now . . .

Now Selwyn’s life was at stake. And the fact that I cared was paralyzing me. Hobbling my tried-and-true recklessness. Never mind that for all I knew she was already being ceremonially tortured, raped, or served up with an apple in her mouth as the main course at some ghoul fête.

I looked up, and standing a few feet away, there was a homeless man pushing a baby stroller stuffed to overflowing with garbage. He was just standing there in his filthy rags, staring. And I realized my true face was on display for anyone and everyone who wanted a look-see. So, this guy with his scraggly gray beard and ratty Sherpa hat missing an earflap, he was gazing into the abyss, and it was gazing right back into him. But from his expression, I got the feeling he’d spent a decent part of his life seeing monsters of one sort or another. Maybe he was a war vet, and maybe he was a schizophrenic. Maybe he was just a drunk or a fellow junkie. Whichever way it was, he didn’t look particularly surprised. Well, good for him. Too many ignorant motherfuckers walking around with blinders on and no idea whatsoever what the world’s really made of.

I winked at the man, and he smiled a smile mostly devoid of teeth, then went on about his day.

Overhead, the sky was growing lighter, the oncoming day—whichever one it might prove to be—dimming the stars. I pulled on the dead woman’s black wool peacoat, turned up the collar, and left it unbuttoned. I checked the pockets and found an iPhone, half a pack of American Spirits, a disposable lighter, an unopened pack of Juicy Fruit, and a MetroCard. After checking for cash (there wasn’t any), I’d left her purse with the body, back beneath the oak tree.

The phone told me it was, in fact, Tuesday morning, 5:55 a.m. So . . . I’d missed a whole damn day in there, presumably lying unconscious on that abandoned subway platform, healing from my wounds while Richard Pickman watched over me. Presumably. There are few things I find more unnerving, on general principle, than missing time. And in this case, it was missing time during which fuck knows what all had happened to Selwyn.

Anyway, I still had four and a half hours left until I was supposed to see Mean Mr. B, and since I didn’t have money for a taxi, and since I’d had my fill of tunnels and trains, I figured the long walk uptown would be good for me, give me some time to think some of this shit through, consider my options. But on the other hand, let’s say the hand that still had five fingers, what options? It was hard to imagine there was much to think through. I was along for the ride.

* * *

I was still about fifteen minutes early, despite having traveled in anything but a straight line and having passed some time poking about the Garment District and Times Square and then the Sheep Meadow. Along the way, I’d shoplifted a head scarf and a pair of cheap black wraparound sunglasses, because nothing screams “I’m not a vampire” like wraparound shades. As long as I didn’t smile and was careful when I spoke, I could almost pass for a normal person. It was a sunny autumn day. Too damn sunny. One of those wide carnivorous skies, right? The blue like the blue of a demon’s