Mean Streak(35)
“When?”
“When we get there.”
“You’ll see.”
“Can’t you just tell me, so I’ll know what to expect?”
“It won’t be long now.”
Indeed, over the next half mile the steep grade leveled out and they began to pass houses. They were spaced widely apart, but they were the first signs of civilization she had seen in four days. Coming around a bend, the headlights caught a small city limit sign.
She turned to him with surprise. “This isn’t Drakeland.”
“No.”
“Is Drakeland farther on?”
“It’s in the other direction. This road doesn’t go there.”
“I thought you were taking me to Drakeland.”
“What made you think that?”
What had made her think that? He hadn’t told her that was their destination, but since it had been her starting point, she had assumed he would take her back there.
The town through which they were driving now barely qualified as such. It had two caution lights, one at each end of the narrow state road that bisected the town. On one side of it were a bank, a service station, and a double-wide serving as the US Post Office. A café, taxidermy, and general store were on the other side. All were closed for the night.
Emory had anticipated being returned to someplace with lights, activity, people. Batting down a flutter of panic, she asked, “Are you going to leave me here?”
“No.”
His terse response did little to assuage her misgiving.
At the second caution light he turned right, drove two blocks, then turned right again into an alley that ran along the back of a cluster of what appeared to be small businesses and offices.
“What are you doing? Where are we going? Are we meeting someone here?”
“We’re making a quick stop, that’s all.” He pulled up to the back door of a single-story brick structure, turned off the headlights, and cut the engine. “Sit tight for a sec.”
He got out and stepped around to the bed of the pickup. Looking through the rear window, she watched as he raised the lid of a tool box attached to the cab and took out a tire iron with a socket wrench at one end and a sharp, double-pronged hook at the other.
He carried it to the rear delivery door of the office. Before Emory could fully register what he intended to do, he’d done it. He used the tool to pop out the doorknob, including the entire locking mechanism, leaving a neat round hole in the metal.
He came back to the truck and returned the tire iron to the tool box, then opened the passenger door, unbuckled Emory’s seat belt, closed his hand around her biceps, and hauled her out.
“You’re up, Doc. Hustle.”
At first she’d been too dumbfounded to react. Now she did, frantically pulling against his grip on her arm. “What are you doing?”
“Breaking and entering.”
“Why?”
“To steal what’s inside.”
“Are you insane?”
“No.”
“You’re about to commit a felony!”
“Uh-huh.”
His reasonableness astonished her. It terrified her. Crazy people often appeared perfectly sane until they…weren’t. She wet her lips, took quick shallow breaths. “Listen, I’ll give you money. You know, you said I had gobs. I…I’ll give you all you want, just—”
“You think I’m after money? Jesus.”
The man who’d taken a tire iron to a locked door for the purpose of breaking in and stealing actually looked affronted.
“Then why in God’s name—”
“This is a doctor’s office.”
A new light dawned. “Drugs? You want drugs?”
He sighed and propelled her toward the door. “We haven’t got time for this bullshit.”
She dug her heels in. “I won’t be any part of this.” She swung at him with her free fist, but he dodged it. “Let go of me!”
“Quiet!” Gripping both her arms now, he looked around to see if her raised voice had roused anyone, but the alley remained dark except for a lone street light at the end of the alley, and somehow, impossibly, it beamed into his eyes as they bored into hers. “The girl in the pickup?”
“The F-Floyds’ sister?”
“She’s in a bad way and needs your help.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I’ll explain on the way back.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“We’re going back to help her.”
“I’m not going back.” She tried to push away from him and began struggling again.
“Emory.”
What stilled her wasn’t so much the little shake he gave her but the use of her name and the authority with which he spoke it. “We can stand here arguing and risk getting caught and going to jail, or—”
“You’d go to jail. Not me.”
“Or you can hold to your Hippocratic oath, get in there, and gather up what you’ll need to treat her.”
“I won’t commit a crime.”
“Not even for a good reason?”
“Nothing could compel me.”
“You’ll soon be eating those words.” He pulled her toward the door of the office. “You’re reputed to be a do-gooder. Here’s your chance to do some good.”