Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(78)

He stopped, took a second to yank on his shirt, since it didn’t look like she was going to attack him. Those racking shudders did not look like an act. She’d forgotten that he existed. She was f*cked up.

He cut off the bra knotted around her hands. Draped his jacket over her, tucking it under her chin. Thus thoroughly shoring up his persona as a real badass motherf*cker. He blasted heat on her as they drove. He’d expected a shrill scolding, a string of inventive lies, or at least some slick, jive-ass rant. All he heard was teeth chattering.

He went back and forth in his head on what to do with Naomi about a thousand times as he drove. The more miles that went by, the worse she looked. And the more his options narrowed.

He hated sticking his neck out, getting squashed onto an examining glass under blazing light and powerful lenses. He’d rather lose a limb. But what the f*ck else could he do right now? With her? He couldn’t just dump her by the side of the road somewhere. Particularly now with his genetic material inside her bodily orifices.

He clenched his jaw, grabbed his cell phone, dialed the number he’d found for Detective Sam Petrie the day before.

The guy picked up quickly, considering that it wasn’t quite eight o’clock yet. “Detective Sam Petrie here,” he said.

“Detective Petrie, my name is Alex Aaro,” he said. “I have with me a person of interest in your case, involving the three dead guys that turned up behind Tony’s Diner yesterday.”

“Ah.” Petrie paused expectantly. “And? Why is this person interesting?”

“She just tried to kill me,” he blurted.

Petrie made an encouraging sound. “Tell me more.”

“I will, but I’ve got to take this girl somewhere. Are you at the Justice Center now?”

“Ah, almost,” the guy replied. “Just have to park. Where are you?”

“About ten minutes away. Look, could you meet me right out front, or in the lobby? I don’t want to have to look for parking with her.”

“Ah . . .” Petrie hesitated, sensing the swiftly rising level of weirdness. “What’s wrong with this girl? Is she hurt?”

“Just get her some coffee, would you? Or a pastry.” Aaro stared at Naomi’s grayish face, her chattering teeth. “Something with lots of sugar.”

“Mr. Aaro, do you—”

Aaro cut the connection and thumbed off the phone. His jacket had slid off her again and hit the floor. She vibrated against the seat belt. Maybe she actually was a junkie, and she’d mixed her fix.

He picked uped, racing through red lights. God, how he wanted this to be over. He hoped Petrie would show up on time.

He jerked to a stop on SW Third, right outside the imposing main entrance of the Justice Center, figuring he’d unload the girl and leave her with Petrie while he re-parked. Please, God. He took her purse for Petrie’s benefit, but the phone he wanted to look at himself, so he tossed it into the front seat for future study.

He hustled her up the broad stairs of the entryway, through the bank of glass doors. She weaved and wobbled, dangerously unsteady.

He glanced wildly around the place, trying not to look as desperate and harried as he felt, scanning for someone whose body type fit the voice from the phone conversation. There. Tall guy, thirtyish, big jaw, tousled hair. Lots of stubble. He held a paper coffee cup, a white paper bag. Good man. He’d brought sugar. His eyes asked Aaro the question. Aaro’s feet answered it, forcefully steering Naomi’s body toward the other man. “Detective Petrie?” he asked.

The guy’s eyes flicked over Naomi, who was breathing with a strange, audible wheezing sound now. “Yeah, that’s me. Hey, looks like your friend there needs the emergency room.”

“She’s not my friend,” Aaro snapped. “She just tried to kill me.”

Suddenly, Naomi jerked, so violently she wrenched herself out of his grip. She vomited, a projectile fountain that rose into the air and spewed around in a nasty arc as she twisted, flailing her arms, her body jackknifing. The people nearby leaped back from the splatter with shouts of disgust. She thudded heavily to her knees, and then fell flat, her body twitching.

Aaro knelt next to her, placed his finger on her carotid artery. He saw Petrie in his peripheral vision, crouched on the other side. He felt an irregular flutter . . . and then nothing. For many long seconds. Dead.

The convulsions had snapped her spine.

Someone elbowed him roughly aside as people gathered around Naomi’s curled-up body. Someone was pumping on her chest. Others were shouting instructions, suggestions. One guy was calling for EMTs on his cell. A woman was crying, noisily.

Boom. The sound jolted him. From outside. Shouts, screams. Alarms began to squeal, at every pitch, a crazy, cacophonous chorus.

Aaro staggered to his feet with the others and went to look out the door. He stared, barely surprised at what he saw, right outside, in the street. His Chevy. Windows blown out. Smoke pouring. Blown up.

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, looked into Petrie’s bloodshot eyes.

“Is that your vehicle?” Petrie asked.

Aaro nodded. “Second time in six months,” he said, for no reason that he could fathom. Like it was any of Petrie’s goddamn business.

A short, fat guy who’d come to the door to gawk whistled appreciatively. “Oh, man. That’s gotta hurt. You must have an exciting life.”