Don't Fail Me Now(49)

“Thanks,” I say when he comes back to the car clutching the bag filled with bills.

“Not bad, right?” He smiles nervously and searches my face for a reaction.

“Not bad.” I try to smile, but I’m afraid it looks too fake, like I don’t mean it.

“So what did you get?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I hold my hands out to prove it. “It’s all you. You win.”

“How much did you make?” Leah asks, grabbing at the bag. “Is it enough for sushi?”

“Yeah, got your fishing pole?” He laughs, holding it over her head. His arm brushes my waist, and I jump back like he’s on fire.

“We should probably get back on the road,” I say. “I want to make it into New Mexico before we camp.” Tim nods but doesn’t say anything. Now he’s the one staring at the ground.

You’re great, I think. I’m sorry. I’m just no good at this. But my telepathy only works on Cass . . . and maybe not even on her anymore.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing his hand. I notice that each nail has a perfect half-moon beneath it, not waxing or waning—just constant. Tim looks up, and our eyes meet. My heart beats in my ears like a snare drum.

But the words, whatever they are, die in my throat as I see the bald man emerge from the crowd and make a beeline for Leah. He’s broad-shouldered and over six feet tall but must be pushing sixty-five and moves like he doesn’t have all of his original parts. I could outrun him, I think wildly.

“Hey!” Now I’m yelling it. I drop Tim’s hand, push past him, and instinctively step in front of Leah and Cass, who are pawing through the crumpled ones and piles of quarters like winos. “Get in the car, let’s go,” I say. But physics fail me this time; he’s in motion and we’re standing still, and he closes the distance before the last word is out of my mouth.

“Excuse me.” His voice is raspy and thin like a rusted-over flute.

“What?” I ask, a little too sharply. He frowns in my direction but doesn’t seem to see me; he’s looking back and forth between Tim and Leah, finally settling on Tim.

“Can I speak to you for a moment, son?” he asks.

Tim looks confused but offers up a tentative half-smile. “I guess so. What about?”

“Maybe he wants to give you a record deal,” Leah quips.

“No, nothing like that, I’m afraid.” Baldy smiles, but his eyes are steely. I feel Denny’s hand close around my wrist. “I was just wondering . . . is your car an old beige station wagon?”

Tim looks at me and furrows his brow. “Yeah,” he says. “Why?” I can see Goldie about fifty feet down the block, slumped against the curb. Apart from her general appearance nothing seems amiss.

“I thought so,” Baldy says.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“You tell me.” He sounds angry now. The glare is back with a vengeance.

“Hey, man,” Tim says. “There’s no need to talk to her like that, she didn’t do anything to you.”

Baldy ignores him and turns to Leah. “Where are your parents?” he asks.

“Um, none of your business?” she shoots back.

“I think it’s time for us to leave,” I say as calmly as I can manage. For once I’m going to follow Buck’s sole contribution to the Devereaux Rule Book: When it starts to get bad, walk away.

“Where you headed?” He won’t let it go.

“Home,” I say.

“Do you live nearby? I couldn’t help but notice your car had out-of-state—”

“Dad!” The blonde he was sitting with at Taco Bell appears behind him, looking pissed. She’s got a thin, angular, aggressively tanned face, but there’s a softness to her eyes that seems to defy her genetics. “Jesus, Daddy, I told you to leave them alone.”

“Stay out of it, Natalie,” Baldy says. “I know it’s them.” A chill runs up my spine, but I try to channel Cass and keep my face bored and blank.

“I’m sorry,” Natalie says. “Please forgive him; he’s just a music teacher who wishes he was a private detective.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“We just—well, we heard something on the radio earlier,” she says. “An AMBER alert about some missing kids. Two white ones and three, um—” She looks at me apologetically. “African American.”

Radio. AMBER alert. For a second I wonder if I’m dreaming, or in some weird exhausted fugue state where I’m hearing things that aren’t there. But then I see Tim’s face, slack with disbelief. He heard it, too. This is happening.

“Not missing,” Baldy interrupts. “Kidnapped. And the car exactly matches the description. Exactly! It’s even got Maryland plates!”

My heart threatens to burst out of my chest, Alien-style. They know about Goldie. And about the three of us. Not even Tim’s dad knows we’re involved. The only place anyone could trace us to is—

“You’re wrong,” Tim says softly.

—the hotel. The parking lot. Shit. Of course they had cameras. So much for identifying my obstacles.

“I’m not wrong, you said so yourself!” Baldy sputters. “A beige station wagon, you said!”