Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(110)

“I’m not protecting him,” Petrie said, teeth gritted. He glanced over through the kitchen entrance, and saw Lily in the doorway, holding a suitcase and knapsack. The kids were gathered by the front door. He glimpsed Bruno, Kev, Edie. They were mobilizing.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I’m outside the motel where he stayed, Pine Manor. It’s on Cleary. He never checked out.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” he said, and hung up.

He walked into the living room. Bruno and Kev were both looking suspicious and hostile. They’d probably heard about the hot tryst with the Snow Queen, and violently disapproved.

Good. It was time for all of them to start getting used to the idea.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you today after all,” he said.

“Why?” Sveti’s voice rang out. She came walking out, bundled up in a thick, black down jacket, hair tucked under a hat. “It’s your job calling you, no? More important than anything else?”

This was not the time or place for that charged conversation, so he shined it on. “I need Miles’ number. His new one,” he said to Kev.

“Yeah?” The man’s voice was truculent. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m about to completely screw myself and my career by letting him know he’s about to be charged with kidnapping, rape, and murder. And I need to go talk to the guy who’s got the case. I have to tell him exactly what’s going on with Greaves. All of it. I don’t think anybody has anything to lose, at this point.”

Kev and Bruno exchanged glances. Kev nodded, pulling out his phone. He read off the number. Petrie plugged it in.

“I’ll take my car, with Kevvie and Jeannie,” Sveti announced.

Bruno looked displeased. “I wanted two adults in each car, at least one of them armed.”

“Edie can drive, and I’ll be the one who’s armed,” Sveti said.

Petrie whipped his gaze around, startled. “You? Armed?”

“Of course. Tam taught me.” She lifted the side of her sweater, and showed him the pistol tucked into the little holster snugged inside the waistband of her jeans. It had not been there during the kiss. He was sure of it. He’d had his hands all over that girl.

Whoa. He shook his head and pointed himself out the door.

He spent the seventeen minutes it took to speed to Barlow’s location wondering how to phrase this crazy story in such a way that Barlow wouldn’t call the psychologists and tell them he’d snapped. It was going to be a challenge, to gloss over the weird stuff when the omissions left gaping, improbable holes.

Barlow’s sedan wasn’t in the hotel parking lot, and he didn’t see it on the first pass around the block, either. He was just about to call again when he finally glimpsed it parked in an alley behind the hotel. It was raining. He could see Barlow in the front seat.

He tapped the horn, thinking he’d suggest the nearby Dunkin’ Donuts, or any other warm, dry place to talk this out over coffee.

Barlow didn’t move. Petrie jerked up the parking brake and got out, turning his collar up against the damp wind, the sideways raindrops. Barlow’s window was open, the rain blowing right in.

Barlow’s total stillness sank in.

An icy claw tightened deep inside him. His feet slowed, but he did not allow himself to stop. He kept walking, bracing himself. By the time he peered through the window, he knew what he would see.

And knowing didn’t help.

Barlow’s eyes were wide open, frozen in surprise. His shirt had a vivid splotch of red. A gunshot wound, straight to the heart.





26


Lara was stiff with cold when they finally cruised into a medium-sized town. They drove up and down the downtown streets, as if he was looking for something specific.

He pulled to a halt in a parking lot outside a fifties-era brick factory building with a faded sign that read, “St. Vincent’s Thrift Store.”

“Clothes,” Miles said, in answer to her silent question. “Hope you don’t mind used. Too many cameras in the Walmarts and the BiMarts and the Targets. I don’t know how far their ability to mine data reaches, and I don’t want to test it. But this place won’t have security vidcams.”

“Used is fine,” she said. “I like thrift shops.”

“Good. Pick out some stuff, fast. I’ll make some calls, set up the ID and credit cards. Then we’ll grab a bite and get you to the station.”

His brisk tone felt distant. “I want to stay with you,” she said, instantly wishing she had kept her trap shut.

He gave her his implacable look. He didn’t even have to say it.

The store itself was big and drafty, smelling faintly of mildew and old shoes. A grizzled old man sat behind an ancient cash register near the door. He appeared to be dozing.

Miles trailed protectively close behind her as she wound her way through the tables of miscellaneous junk, ceramics, old appliances, junk jewelry, shoes, dishes, glassware, furniture. At the racks of clothing she eyeballed the sizes, picked out two pairs of faded jeans that looked about right, a button-down of slate-blue cotton, a couple of long-sleeved tees. Miles plucked a big, wool army coat, olive drab, and tossed it on top of her pile. It looked huge for her, but warm. There was another one there, even larger, and he grabbed that one too, presumably for himself. Muttering on his phone all the while.