Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(111)

“. . . goddamnit, how many times do I have to go through this? You’re dealing with f*cking telepaths, Seth. All the rules change when they . . . yeah, well, look what they did to Davy! He’s already fingered Davy’s and Connor’s families, do you want him to go after Jesse and Chris and Mattie and Raine, too? . . . we’ve been through that, and we can’t. I appreciate the offer. Pick a town at random and send the . . . yeah, to a big chain hotel and—f*ck, no! Don’t tell me where it is! I can’t know! Jesus, Seth, keep your finger on the page!”

Miles noticed her listening and gestured sharply, frowning, toward the racks of clothes. She turned her eyes to the hanging shirts, picked out a forest green pile sweatshirt.

“. . . debit card and a credit card, too. You sure there’s no way you can score a passport for her? It would be great if she could leave the country . . . yeah, well, work on it, then. Work on it fast . . . hey, don’t get twitchy on me, man. I’m having a hard enough time as it is.”

She kept her ears perked up as she circled the racks, flipping through totally irrelevant used vintage dresses—and then she saw it. She caught her breath, and lost the thread of Miles’ phone conversation.

It was the dress. The exact dress that she had worn in the Citadel. The dress he had torn off her, or thrown the skirt up, countless times, in countless erotic episodes. Ivory white, low cut, with a satin underskirt, a gathered chiffon overskirt, a ruched chiffon sash. Right down to the rosettes that trimmed the bodice, though one was ripped loose, dangling from a single thread. Swatches of white chiffon for straps over the arms. It made her toes curl.

She peered at the size. One size smaller than what she used to wear in her former life. Which was about right, or even a little large, in her current state. Maybe it was a discarded bridesmaid gown. In perfect condition, other than a little yellowing on the satin lining inside of the bodice, and what looked like a coffee stain on the skirt.

Her heart was thudding as if she’d seen a ghost. She wanted to think of it as a hopeful omen, but she was afraid to. It was so frivolous. Mortal danger, death on every side, innocent children threatened, and here she was swooning over a dress? Time to grow up.

She was embarrassed to show it to Miles, or more to the point, to ask him if he would buy it for her, being as how she didn’t have a cent to her name. But he would probably say something cutting, in his present, edgy mood, and she didn’t want to deal with that.

She couldn’t leave the dress, either.

Lara yanked it off its hanger, and peered at the price. $16. Whoop de doo. As deceptions went, it was a relatively harmless one, and she would make it up to him. If she got the chance.

She folded it up as small as it would go, which wasn’t very, it being big and pouffy. She sandwiched it between the practical clothes and the big coat and circled the rack back to Miles again.

“. . . don’t know what else I can do at this point, so don’t give me any more shit,” Miles was whispering savagely. “Yeah, you think? And let them kill Jeannie and Kevvie? He would do it, Seth. Davy, too. He’s one psychic finger jab away from death right now. The guy could probably do him from a car driving past the f*cking hospital.” Miles caught sight of her standing there in the aisle between the racks with her armful of clothes, and gestured her toward the wall. “Move over there, against the white wall,” he directed. “No, a little to the left, so the light hits you. Hold on a sec,” he said into his phone. “I’ll take this picture for you right now, and call you right back.”

Lara lay her armful of clothes onto one of the tables, and stood against the wall. He thumbed his smartphone and framed her, squinting intently through the viewfinder. “Smooth down your hair a little,” he ordered her. “It’s all over the place.”

She did her best, unfastening her braid and finger-combing the wind-whipped tangles around her ears. She posed again.

He still didn’t look happy. “Hold your head up straighter,” he said, frowning. “Try not to look so scared.”

“Try not to be a jerk,” she suggested.

His grin flashed. He snapped the picture, gave it a long, critical once-over, then tapped the phone again.

“Let me see it,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. You look beautiful.” He thumbed open his call again, held it to his ear. “Yeah. Me again. Sent. Yeah, okay. I’ll pass you to her.” He held out his phone. “Here. Talk to my friend, Seth.”

She looked at the proffered phone as if it were a snake that might bite her. “What . . . who?”

“He’s helping us,” he explained, impatiently. “He has information for you. Info I do not want to store in my own head, so I can’t pass it on to you. He has to give it to you directly. Got it?”

She still hesitated, so he just grabbed her hand and slapped the phone into it. She held it up to her ear. It was so warm from his hand.

“Um, hello?” she said. “This is Lara.”

“Hey. I’m Seth.” The guy’s deep voice sounded angry. “Miles wants me to give you some coordinates, so pay attention. Buy a bus ticket for Pendleton, via Eugene, then Portland. There’s one that leaves in an hour and ten, and if you miss it, you’ll wait four more hours, so don’t. Once you’re in Pendleton, get a cab to the Hampton Inn. The front desk will be holding a package for Melissa Whelan. Got that? Melissa Whelan, that’s you, now. Your wallet got left behind, so you had it couriered to your hotel. Your room for the night is paid. In the morning, you rent a car, and blow on out of there, fast. Once you’re off, none of us will know where you are. Still with me?”