Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,65

her watch. She’d missed dinner. Niko would not be happy. The communal Saturday dinner was a must—a chance to discuss the busy night to come and reallocate resources if needed. Damn Robyn Peltier. Adele needed to wrap this up before she got into serious trouble.

She reached into her pocket and touched the silk shirt. A few days more and the link would be so strong she wouldn’t need the prop—she could just visualize Robyn and see her, as she’d been able to do with Portia. It would never get that far, though. Robyn would die tonight, then Adele would call Irving Nast and continue negotiations.

She closed her eyes.

Oh, look, there she was, coming out of yet another store. What did you buy this time, Robyn? She’d already picked up a clean shirt and bandages and water to clean her wound. When Robyn retreated to a bathroom stall to fix herself up, Adele would have had her best shot to kill her . . . if Neala hadn’t picked that exact moment to return the message Adele had left for Colm. Neala had phoned back to say Colm could not help her practice tracking Jasmine Wills. He had a lesson with Niko and, really, if Adele was going to learn to track Jasmine, didn’t she need to be doing it by herself?

Bitch.

Adele could have really used Colm. After she finally got off the phone and fixed on Robyn, she’d seen her in a bathroom stall, dressing her wound. Which would have been perfect, had there been any way to identify the bathroom. The last time Adele saw Robyn, she’d been on a street filled with eateries, any one of which could have housed the stall she saw Robyn using.

Robyn’s wound hadn’t seemed too debilitating. Still, Adele had hoped it was slow-acting, that the bullet would work its way toward some vital artery and, any moment now, Robyn would keel over dead.

The whole situation was ridiculous. Robyn Peltier might be older than Adele, but she was light-years behind in world experience. A sheltered upper-middle-class girl, recently moved to L.A., didn’t know the city, probably never set foot in an alley for fear of stepping in something icky. Now she gets shot in the shoulder and what does she do? Fights back and runs. Field dresses the wound in a bathroom.

Stores were closing now. Restaurants would follow. All that running would start taking its toll and Robyn would begin to grow tired, to wear down, and then . . .

Adele smiled.

ROBYN

Running about like a chicken with its head cut off. That’s what Robyn had been doing since Adele shot the bike officer.

She’d had a few patches of lucidity. Holding a newspaper to hide the blood, she’d bought a shirt and first-aid supplies, then she’d found a bathroom to change and fix up her shoulder. She’d also bought a cell phone using most of her remaining money. She’d intended to use it to get help. But she hadn’t turned the phone on yet, much less made a call.

Every time Robyn got her head on straight, Adele would pop up, like an ax-wielding killer in one of those movies she hated. Now she was living her own version. How did the woman keep finding her? In the bathroom Robyn had even removed and shaken all her clothing, looking for a transmitter.

She’d given up trying to lose Adele, and her game plan now was to stay in populated places while she figured out what to do. But her exhausted brain couldn’t contemplate any one-step long-term strategy.

She kept hoping Adele would give up. Go home, get some sleep, try again the next day . . . giving Robyn a chance to rest and regroup. Yet Adele was as tireless and relentless as any of those cinematic monsters.

As the stores closed and streets emptied, Robyn knew she had to find a place to sit and get her wits back. A club or movie was guaranteed to be full of people, but dark, too, and Adele wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her there.

She hailed yet another cab.

“Where to?” the driver asked as she climbed in.

She wanted to say “any place that’s busy,” but she had enough experience with cab drivers thinking she was nuts.

“I’m in L.A. on business,” she said. “I’m looking for something fun, but not a club. Something outdoors would be great.” She thought of the street festival earlier. “Maybe a festival?”

She braced for a gruff brush-off, but the cabbie smiled. “You like carnivals? There’s a spring fair