Rosemary and Rue
Page 45
There was someone else in the car.
FOURTEEN
MY FINGERS CLENCHED ON THE WHEEL as I stiffened, forcing myself to keep looking straight ahead. This was just great. Positively peachy. Finding an intruder in my car when I was on a bridge, driving over more water than I cared to think about? Exactly what my day didn’t need. I searched frantically for options and couldn’t find any. There was nothing I could do but keep on driving.
After a moment I cleared my throat, and said, “You realize that if I go off the bridge here, we’re both going to die.”
I don’t know what kind of reply I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what I got: a deep, rolling chuckle, one that was almost closer to a growl. Laughter over the idea of a watery grave is never precisely a sign that you’re dealing with a sane individual.
Swallowing, I tried again. “I’ve got to admit, you’ve got the advantage. I’m pretty sure you know who I am, or else you wouldn’t be here. You mind telling me why you’re in my car?”
The only answer was another chuckle. I fought the urge to turn around for a better look. Even if he was unarmed, which I doubted, you should never give up any degree of control over your car when you’re on the Bay Bridge. It’s a form of Darwinism: if you’re dumb enough to take your eyes off the road while crossing part of one of the largest bodies of water in the world, you’re too dumb to be allowed to live. Then again, if the guy in the backseat killed me, that would also be a form of Darwinism. This situation seemed less escapable by the moment.
“My patience isn’t eternal, you know,” I said, calm fading from my voice. I was scared and I was angry, and there was no sense in trying to hide it. “If you’re going to threaten me, can you hurry and do it before we crash? I just got this rust bucket paid off, and I really don’t feel like looking for another car.”
This time, he didn’t laugh; he just loomed even larger in my rearview mirror, edges blurred by a block-me illusion and his silence telegraphing the fact that one way or another, he didn’t expect me to be shopping for a new car anytime soon.
He was in the car. That was a fact. It was something I couldn’t change, and that meant I needed to stay calm. It’s hard to be rational when you’re mad, and it’s even harder when you’re scared, so I refused to go with either one. Once the bastard was out of the car, I could pull over and have a nice nervous breakdown. Assuming I survived.
The first off-ramp was just ahead. Good. The San Francisco streets aren’t necessarily safer than the Bay Bridge, but it’s harder to fall to your death if you make a wrong turn. Harder, not impossible; if the world actually has an edge, it’s probably hidden down a one-way street somewhere in San Francisco.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, sending a silent “sorry” to my car. I was serious when I said I didn’t want to go shopping for a new one. Sure, it was a 1974 VW Bug with enough miles on it that I thought someone might have driven it to Hawaii, but it was still my car. I chose it because I liked it, and I was honestly sorry we weren’t going to get more time together. At least it was going to die in the line of duty.
The exit loomed, and I hit the gas, accelerating off the bridge and onto Harrison Street. Most of the traffic stayed behind us, heading toward more acceptably tour isty locations. That was dandy. I watched the shadowy man in the mirror as he moved closer to my side of the car, obviously still under the assumption that we were playing by some sensible set of rules. He was wrong.
I like games. I usually win.
As soon as he was fully in motion, I slammed my foot down on the gas, jerking the car into a hard left. He flew across the car, hitting the door with a satisfying thud. Horns blared around us as we went rocketing the wrong way down a one-way street. “What the—?” demanded a voice from the back. I didn’t recognize it—good. That meant it wasn’t anyone I knew, and there’d be less guilt on my part if I managed to smash the car into a wall and kill him. I can be mercenary, but I’m not heartless.
“It’s called reckless driving, asshole!” We were on a direct collision course with a taxi. I swerved at the last moment, swearing. The man in the back did the same, more loudly. I didn’t want to hurt anyone but him, and I’d settle for shaking him up enough that he wouldn’t chase me when I ran. “I know I’ll survive if we crash. How about you? Did you remember to buckle up?”
“You’re going to kill us both!”
“That’s the idea!” It was actually fun, in a fatalistic sort of way. I smiled grimly as we wove in and out of traffic, watching the near misses become less miss and more near. There’s nothing like a good high-speed car chase to get the evening started off right, even if there’s technically only one car involved.
“Stop this car right now, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I turned down another one-way street. We were going with the flow of traffic this time, if you ignored the fact that I was doing ninety when everyone else was doing twenty-five. “Hit me? Honey, if you take the wheel away from your Auntie Toby while we’re going this fast, we’re both going to die—that means you and me, not just me. Settle back and enjoy the ride, unless your employer paid you so well that you’re willing to die.”
The figure in the backseat pulled back, snarling, “Pointy-eared bitch . . .”
“Actually, I’m a pointy-eared slut. Only purebloods get to be bitches.” I swerved left, and heard him hit the side panel. “Are you still not wearing your seat belt?”
“I’ll kill you!”
“You’ll have to get in line.” Somehow, we’d wound up driving half on and half off the sidewalk. That was fine by me, as long as the pedestrians kept getting out of our way.
This time he just snarled. Fine. He was getting pissed and I was getting tired, and it was time to stop. I slammed my foot down on the brake, bringing the VW to a screeching halt as I undid my seat belt with one hand. The shocks were definitely going to be a write-off, but it was almost worth it—I hadn’t had that much fun in ages.
My unwelcome passenger hit the back of my seat with a resounding thump. I caught a brief glimpse of his angry snarl, thin lips drawn back from oversized yellow teeth, before I was out the door and on my way down the street, not looking back.
Fear and adrenaline are a runner’s best friends. I was almost a quarter of a block away when I heard the car door slam, followed by a man’s voice shouting for me to stop. That wasn’t going to happen. The man was a Redcap, and Redcaps are almost all paid thugs—they don’t attack at random. Someone sent him after me. Whoever it was had almost certainly killed Evening, and once they’d tortured me into telling them where to find the hope chest, I’d be the next to die. I kept running, and I never even heard the gun go off.
FOURTEEN
MY FINGERS CLENCHED ON THE WHEEL as I stiffened, forcing myself to keep looking straight ahead. This was just great. Positively peachy. Finding an intruder in my car when I was on a bridge, driving over more water than I cared to think about? Exactly what my day didn’t need. I searched frantically for options and couldn’t find any. There was nothing I could do but keep on driving.
After a moment I cleared my throat, and said, “You realize that if I go off the bridge here, we’re both going to die.”
I don’t know what kind of reply I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what I got: a deep, rolling chuckle, one that was almost closer to a growl. Laughter over the idea of a watery grave is never precisely a sign that you’re dealing with a sane individual.
Swallowing, I tried again. “I’ve got to admit, you’ve got the advantage. I’m pretty sure you know who I am, or else you wouldn’t be here. You mind telling me why you’re in my car?”
The only answer was another chuckle. I fought the urge to turn around for a better look. Even if he was unarmed, which I doubted, you should never give up any degree of control over your car when you’re on the Bay Bridge. It’s a form of Darwinism: if you’re dumb enough to take your eyes off the road while crossing part of one of the largest bodies of water in the world, you’re too dumb to be allowed to live. Then again, if the guy in the backseat killed me, that would also be a form of Darwinism. This situation seemed less escapable by the moment.
“My patience isn’t eternal, you know,” I said, calm fading from my voice. I was scared and I was angry, and there was no sense in trying to hide it. “If you’re going to threaten me, can you hurry and do it before we crash? I just got this rust bucket paid off, and I really don’t feel like looking for another car.”
This time, he didn’t laugh; he just loomed even larger in my rearview mirror, edges blurred by a block-me illusion and his silence telegraphing the fact that one way or another, he didn’t expect me to be shopping for a new car anytime soon.
He was in the car. That was a fact. It was something I couldn’t change, and that meant I needed to stay calm. It’s hard to be rational when you’re mad, and it’s even harder when you’re scared, so I refused to go with either one. Once the bastard was out of the car, I could pull over and have a nice nervous breakdown. Assuming I survived.
The first off-ramp was just ahead. Good. The San Francisco streets aren’t necessarily safer than the Bay Bridge, but it’s harder to fall to your death if you make a wrong turn. Harder, not impossible; if the world actually has an edge, it’s probably hidden down a one-way street somewhere in San Francisco.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, sending a silent “sorry” to my car. I was serious when I said I didn’t want to go shopping for a new one. Sure, it was a 1974 VW Bug with enough miles on it that I thought someone might have driven it to Hawaii, but it was still my car. I chose it because I liked it, and I was honestly sorry we weren’t going to get more time together. At least it was going to die in the line of duty.
The exit loomed, and I hit the gas, accelerating off the bridge and onto Harrison Street. Most of the traffic stayed behind us, heading toward more acceptably tour isty locations. That was dandy. I watched the shadowy man in the mirror as he moved closer to my side of the car, obviously still under the assumption that we were playing by some sensible set of rules. He was wrong.
I like games. I usually win.
As soon as he was fully in motion, I slammed my foot down on the gas, jerking the car into a hard left. He flew across the car, hitting the door with a satisfying thud. Horns blared around us as we went rocketing the wrong way down a one-way street. “What the—?” demanded a voice from the back. I didn’t recognize it—good. That meant it wasn’t anyone I knew, and there’d be less guilt on my part if I managed to smash the car into a wall and kill him. I can be mercenary, but I’m not heartless.
“It’s called reckless driving, asshole!” We were on a direct collision course with a taxi. I swerved at the last moment, swearing. The man in the back did the same, more loudly. I didn’t want to hurt anyone but him, and I’d settle for shaking him up enough that he wouldn’t chase me when I ran. “I know I’ll survive if we crash. How about you? Did you remember to buckle up?”
“You’re going to kill us both!”
“That’s the idea!” It was actually fun, in a fatalistic sort of way. I smiled grimly as we wove in and out of traffic, watching the near misses become less miss and more near. There’s nothing like a good high-speed car chase to get the evening started off right, even if there’s technically only one car involved.
“Stop this car right now, or I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I turned down another one-way street. We were going with the flow of traffic this time, if you ignored the fact that I was doing ninety when everyone else was doing twenty-five. “Hit me? Honey, if you take the wheel away from your Auntie Toby while we’re going this fast, we’re both going to die—that means you and me, not just me. Settle back and enjoy the ride, unless your employer paid you so well that you’re willing to die.”
The figure in the backseat pulled back, snarling, “Pointy-eared bitch . . .”
“Actually, I’m a pointy-eared slut. Only purebloods get to be bitches.” I swerved left, and heard him hit the side panel. “Are you still not wearing your seat belt?”
“I’ll kill you!”
“You’ll have to get in line.” Somehow, we’d wound up driving half on and half off the sidewalk. That was fine by me, as long as the pedestrians kept getting out of our way.
This time he just snarled. Fine. He was getting pissed and I was getting tired, and it was time to stop. I slammed my foot down on the brake, bringing the VW to a screeching halt as I undid my seat belt with one hand. The shocks were definitely going to be a write-off, but it was almost worth it—I hadn’t had that much fun in ages.
My unwelcome passenger hit the back of my seat with a resounding thump. I caught a brief glimpse of his angry snarl, thin lips drawn back from oversized yellow teeth, before I was out the door and on my way down the street, not looking back.
Fear and adrenaline are a runner’s best friends. I was almost a quarter of a block away when I heard the car door slam, followed by a man’s voice shouting for me to stop. That wasn’t going to happen. The man was a Redcap, and Redcaps are almost all paid thugs—they don’t attack at random. Someone sent him after me. Whoever it was had almost certainly killed Evening, and once they’d tortured me into telling them where to find the hope chest, I’d be the next to die. I kept running, and I never even heard the gun go off.
