"He's safe?" she said, a huge sense of relief sweeping through her.
"Madder than hell, but yeah, he's safe." Camille cast her a sly grin.
"You've got yourself a good man there, you know."
"He's a thief," she muttered. She pulled her gaze from Camille's, heat creeping across her cheeks. "And he's not my anything. I barely even know the man." And yet here she was, trusting him, and trusting his friends. Why? She wasn't entirely sure, and that scared her more than the heat that simmered between her and Doyle.
"What he may have been in his life ain't what he is, remember that," Camille said. "And sometimes you don't have to know someone to love them. Sometimes love is just predestined."
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right. Two souls fated to meet through time, and the ages, and all that crap."
Camille's smile was wry. "Not one ounce of crap involved, believe me. Especially in his family."
She looked away from the old woman's knowing gaze. Part of her wanted to believe that such a thing as predestined love could exist, if only because it would mean that there might be someone out there for her, that she wasn't fated to spend the rest of her life alone—a fear that had been with her for as long as she could remember. A fear that even Helen's presence in her life hadn't eased. But if she did let go, did take the chance and give in to the attraction she felt toward Doyle, she was more than a little certain she'd end up getting hurt. In some ways, he reminded her of Helen. He seemed to like walking the edge, courting danger. He didn't seem the type to want to settle down, and that was the one thing she wanted above anything else. Stability. A place to call her own. "What's so special about his family?" she said eventually. Camille laughed, a short, sharp sound of amusement. "Ask him sometime about his dad and his granddad." She glanced in the rearview mirror. 'There's a set of directions in the glove compartment, along with a map. Find Doyle, then hide somewhere safe for the night. Tell him to contact me when you're settled." Kirby opened the glove box and found both the map and directions. "What about the woman we're supposed to be looking for? Shouldn't we be trying to find her before the murderer does?"
"For the moment, it looks like the murderer has set her sights on you. Me and Russell will continue the search tonight, and we'll see what happens after that."
She tucked the two bits of paper into her pocket and noticed Camille looking in the rearview mirror again. Tension ran through her. "Are we being followed?"
"Maybe. There's a large white car that appears to be mighty interested in where we're going." The old woman's voice was vague, her attention on the mirror more than on the road. She reached into her pocket and withdrew what looked like a string of diamond-shaped beads. "Take these."
She did. They felt warm against her skin and pulsed slightly, as if alive. These were no ordinary beads, obviously. She frowned. "What are they?"
"A shield, of sorts. Won't work for more than a couple of minutes, but that's all you're going to need."
"Why do I need a shield?" She clenched her fingers around the string of beads and felt the sharp edges cut into her palm. An odd tingle of electricity ran through her.
"Because you're going to get out of the car and walk away as if you had all the time in the world."
Her frown deepened. "But isn't that a little dangerous? If we are being followed, they'll see me, plain as day."
"Not with that shield, they won't. It'll warp your appearance long enough to fool whoever's following us."
She glanced down at the beads clenched in her hands. Odd that something so incongruous could do magic powerful enough to change a person's appearance, if only for a few minutes. "When am I going to do this?"
"I'm going to run the next red light, and do a quick left. I remember seeing a small cafe on my way to the police station. Walk down to there, get yourself a coffee and a seat, and don't move for a good ten minutes. By then, I should be well clear."
Camille had slowed the van as she was talking, but the minute the lights ahead changed to red, she flattened the accelerator. The scream of the tires mingled with abuse from scattering pedestrians as Camille sped through the light and into the next street.
"I ain't stopping long," Camille muttered. "So grab your bag and get ready to jump, girl."
She undid her seatbelt, the beads and her bag gripped in one hand and the other braced against the dash. The van slid to a stop. She wrenched open the door and clambered out, barely having time to slam the door shut before the old woman was off again, burning rubber as she disappeared up the street.
Had to have been a race car driver sometime in her life, Kirby thought, and headed for the cafe. She'd barely made it inside when a white sedan thundered past.
"Teenagers," a woman in the shop muttered. "Should ban them from getting cars with big engines, they should."
She wondered what the woman would say if she knew one of those teenagers was at least sixty. After ordering a coffee, she sat down at a table near the back of the cafe and got out her phone, dialing directory assistance. Within a couple of minutes she had the number of the nearest car rental agency. She rang them, got their address and made arrangements to hire a car. An hour later she cruised down the Calder Freeway, heading toward Gisborne. According to Camille's map, Doyle was being held on a farm sitting on the outskirts of the small township, close to the Macedon Ranges foothills. Which didn't exactly make sense. If the v/oman was powerful enough to transport someone Doyle's size so damn far, why was she bothering to kill the circle? Surely her powers were greater than all of theirs combined. And why leave Doyle alive? It was odd, especially seeing her actions up until now suggested she had no qualms about killing.
She drove through Gisborne then slowed, looking for the right road. She turned right, and the asphalt gave way to dirt and dust. If there were any guards on this farm, they'd see her coming a mile away. She bit her lip and slowed, watching the numbers on the roadside letter boxes. They slowly climbed, as did the road. The gums huddled closer, casting deep shadows through which the occasional beam of sunlight danced.
Eventually she found thirty-eight and pulled off the road, squeezing the small Honda behind the wattles that framed the driveway with a haze of yellow. After locking the car, she made her way toward the gate. It was chained and padlocked. She climbed over it and walked up the deeply rutted driveway. Cicadas sung around her, their noise almost piercing. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and glanced skyward. Trees sighed in the breeze, but despite this, it suddenly felt a hundred times hotter up here near the mountains than it had in the city. She wished she had a drink. Her throat felt so dry it was aching.
A house appeared through the trees up ahead. It was long and ramshackle in style, and looked somewhat forlorn. She slowed, wondering if anyone was home. Wondering if there were guards—or dogs.
Nothing moved. The curtains were drawn across the windows, and no clothes fluttered on the washing line. She walked on carefully. No dogs barked or came out of the shadows at her.
Where was Doyle? Surely he couldn't be in the house. It didn't look strong enough to contain a gnat, let alone a fairly ingenious thief. But if he wasn't in the house, where was he?