Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,9
hair and too much makeup for a uniformed cop. But then, I couldn’t quite focus on her face, so maybe I was wrong.
She shoved a bottle of Coke under my nose. “Here. He said you’d need this.”
I took it automatically and sat up to crack the seal on the plastic cap. “Agent Taylor sent you?” The soda was cold, and so was the air when my blanket slid off.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m assigned to take you to a hotel to get some sleep.”
I choked midswallow and wiped at my chin. “That is not the plan. The plan is I sleep here until the warrants come through.”
“What good are you when you can’t even drink properly, kid?” She stood, then hooked a hand under my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Come on. The motel is close and a lot more comfortable than this. I’ll come get you when those warrants are done.”
I wanted to be stubborn and tough things out. I also knew I’d recover faster in comfort and proper darkness. So I knocked back another slug of soda and followed the uniformed woman out of the office and down a hall. Either we were traveling very fast or my brain was moving very slowly, because it seemed like we were far away from the noise of the squad room by the time I wondered if I should text Taylor and remind him to take me with him to call on Maguire.
“What are you looking for?” asked the uniform, when she saw me digging in my backpack.
Earphones, lab notebook, e-reader, but no sweater. I had to start packing better. “My phone.” I couldn’t seem to put my fingers on that, either. And it wasn’t a big bag.
“I’m sure it’s in there somewhere,” she said as we neared a bar-locked door at the end of the hall.
I didn’t like that answer. I didn’t like that she wore so much makeup. I mean, I can rock the black eyeliner, too. But I wasn’t wearing the badge of the Minnesota PD.
“So, what do you hear?” I asked, in a conversational tone. If Taylor really had sent her, she’d give me the no-worries response.
“That they’re hoping to have those warrants in a few hours.” The officer didn’t miss a beat as she straight-armed the door and held it open to the frigid night. “Now come on. I’m letting all the cold air in.”
This? Was not good.
She saw in my face the instant I decided I wasn’t going anywhere. And holy cats, that chick moved fast. In a flash she snagged my arm, yanking me off-balance so I stumbled out into the cold.
The icy air sliced through the fog in my head, but too late. The door slammed and latched closed, and I was standing on a sidewalk, not in a squad car bay, and in front of me was not a black-and-white cruiser but a big black sedan.
This was also not good.
The young man who leaned on the fender straightened when he saw us. He looked about eight feet tall, and as he stepped forward he practically vibrated with purpose, all of it narrowed in on me.
I did the only thing possible: I ignored the red haze of the migraine and ran.
Tall Guy grabbed me by the shoulders, but I realized it wasn’t to catch me because I was running, but to catch me because I was falling. The haze was taking over, blossoming in crimson over my vision, closing in black from the edges until the last thing, the very last thing I saw was a pair of hazel-green eyes, swimming with ghosts.
5
I WOKE FACEDOWN in a drool-soaked pillow.
There were worse puddles to wake up in, I suppose, but I didn’t want to think about that. I just wanted to lie there, absolutely still, until I was certain that nothing was going to kill me. Not my migraine, not Agent Gerard, not whoever had snatched me off the curb.
Imminent death seemed unlikely. I was tucked under a fluffy quilt, sprawled on a bed that was more comfortable than the one in my dorm room. When I cracked an eyelid to take a peek, I glimpsed a nicely decorated room, with a reassuring absence of white slavers and crack whores.
A quick inventory under the covers revealed no amateur sutures, so I didn’t seem to be missing a kidney. Just my clothes.
Not all of them. I still had my underwear on, thank God. Good thing I listened to Aunt Pet and put on clean