Kiss of Death Page 0,33

look, then dropped it back into Claire's bag, rummaged around, then closed it. He left the suitcases and bags outside the car, scattered around, and after checking in the wheel wells and in the spare tire section, he finally shook his head. "All right," he said. "I'm going to let you all go, but you need to go right now."

"What?"

"I need to see your taillights disappearing over the town limits. And I'm going to follow to make sure you get there nice and safe." Oh crap. "What about Oliver?" Claire whispered. "Well, we can't exactly give him as an excuse," Eve whispered back fiercely. She ate the last bit of ice cream cone and smiled at the cop. "We're ready, sir! Just let us get loaded up." Michael grabbed Shane, and they had an urgent conversation, bent over Eve's giant suitcase. Eve leaped up, tripped over a random bag, and went down with a yelp that turned into a howl. The sheriff, proving he wasn't a total jerk, immediately came to bend over her and see if she was okay. This gave Michael enough vampire-speed time to retrieve the cooler from the alley, put it back in the car, and be innocently reaching for the next bag before the sheriff helped flailing, clumsy Eve up to her feet. "Sorry," Eve said breathlessly, and gave Michael a trembling little smile and wave. "I'm okay. Just bruised a little."

"That's it," Shane said. "No more ice cream for you." They finished loading things in the car, and Claire took a last look at the deserted streets, the flickering, distant, dim lights. There was no sign of Oliver; none at all. "Well?" the sheriff said. "Let's go."

"Yes sir." Eve slid into the driver's side, closed her eyes for a second, then fumbled for her keys and started the car. Michael took the passenger seat in front, and Claire and Shane climbed in the back. The sheriff, true to his word, got in his cruiser, parked across the street, and turned on the red and blue flashers; no siren, though. "Thanks," Michael said, and sent Eve a quick smile. "Good job with the tripping. It gave me time to get the blood."

"Wish I'd meant it, then." She put the car in reverse. "And could we please have another word for blood, outside of Morganville? Something like, oh, I don't know. Chocolate? Red velvet cake?"

"Why is it always sugar with you?" Shane asked. "Shut up, Collins. This one was all on you, you know." He shrugged and put his arm around Claire's shoulders. "Yeah, I know. Sorry."

"What are we going to do?" Claire asked. "About Oliver?" Nobody had an answer. The sheriff's cruiser let loose a shocking little whoop of siren, just to let them know he meant business. Eve swallowed, put the car in reverse, and backed the sedan onto the street. "Guess we'll figure it out as we go," she said. "Anybody got his cell number?"

"I do," Michael and Claire said, simultaneously, and exchanged guilty looks. Michael took out his phone and texted something as Eve drove--staying well under the speed limit, which Claire thought was very smart--and as they passed a sign announcing the town limit, the sheriff's car coasted to a stop. The lights were still flashing. "Keep going?" Eve asked. She kept looking in the rearview mirror. "Guys? Decision?"

"Keep going," Shane said, leaning forward. "We can't get back as long as he's watching. If we're going back at all. Which I don't vote for, by the way."

"Better idea," Michael said, and pointed up ahead, on the left side of the narrow, very dark road. "There's a motel. We check in, wait for Oliver to join us. We're going to have to sit the day out somewhere, anyway."

"There?" Eve sounded appalled, and Claire could see why. It wasn't exactly the Ritz. It wasn't even as good as that motel in the movie Psycho. It was a little, straight line of cinder-block rooms with a neon sign, a sagging porch, and one big security light for the parking lot. And the parking lot was empty. "You can't be serious," Eve said. "Guys. People get eaten in places like this. At the very least, we get locked in a room and terrible, evil things get done to us and put on the Internet. I've seen the movies."

"Eve," Michael said, "horror movies are not documentaries."

"And yet, I really think a serial killer owns this place. No. Not going to--" Michael's phone buzzed. He flipped it