Head Rush (26 page)

But he could have been wiping the windows. Except the cloth wouldn’t look so pristinely white. But why chloroform me out here? Why not wait until I’m inside? That’s not the most comforting thought, either. My mind goes again to Packard’s severed head. My panic torques and rises.

“Justine,” Otto places his fingers on the small of my back. “We’re late, for God’s sake. Your hair is fine.” Gently he pushes.

I take a step. Another. I have to commit, or run. I decide to commit. “Okay,” I mumble. I accompany Otto through the door, as if in a dream. I’m on the sidewalk with him. I can still run. I get a closer look at what Smitty’s holding—it looks like a bunch of white-cloth shower caps. It could be chloroformed stuff, but it doesn’t seem likely.

But what’s the surprise? I close my eyes, try shaking myself out of it.
There is no actual sign you’ve been busted!
I tell myself. But I feel Otto’s eyes on me.

I steel myself as Smitty pulls open the door.

And then I almost fall over. Everything inside the limo, or at least the back passenger area, is blindingly white. My mind pretzels up with stress and confusion. “You’ve redecorated the limo?”

Otto laughs. “In a manner of speaking. Come here.” He holds out his arms like he wants to pick me up.

“What? You want to carry me over the threshold?”

“Come on.”

Warily I go to him. He lifts my arm and places it around his neck, and then he hoists me up. Smitty puts white shower caps over my shoes.

“What are you doing?”

“Give him your purse,” Otto says. “It’s a known fact that women’s shoes are every bit as filthy as the bottoms of their purses.

I hand it over and Smitty encloses it in a white thing and gives it back to me.

“What is this?”

“Don’t let your feet touch the ground.” Otto sets me down on the limo seat and I and I scoot over. He sits on the side of the seat and puts bonnets over his own shoes before sliding in. Smitty shuts the door.

“Oh my God.” I run a finger over the plastic-covered walls, the new white upholstery. Even the floor mats are white. And there’s a new vent in the back. “HEPA filter,” I whisper.

“That’s right,” he says.

I widen my eyes, so relieved. Stunned. “You’ve made this entire back area into a clean room,” I say. “This is a mobile clean room.”

“That’s right.” He runs his hand along the white seat between us. “Bacteria-resistant upholstery imported from Japan. I know your dad’s reluctant to travel, that it’s a big deal for him, and I want him to feel comfortable. Do you think he’ll like it?”

I’m speechless. His agitation, his pressuring me, all I could think all this time was
vicious killer
. But he just didn’t want to show up late. Otto is a man—a groom—desperate to impress his future father-in-law.

I swallow a lump, feeling so horribly sad. This is the old Otto. It would be so much easier if he’d stayed scary.

A dark look. “You don’t think he’ll like it—I see it in your eyes. Do you feel he’ll be insulted? Is that it?”

“No, he’ll love it,” I say. “He won’t even have to think twice about wearing his hazmat suit or respirator in here. Wow.”

“I had his room at the Midcity Arms done the same way,” Otto says. “And the church is being cleaned extensively, though with it being a historic property, there is only so much I could do as far as installing—”

I put my finger over his lips. “It’s thoughtful. Wonderful. It is a big deal for him to come, and you’ve made it so much better.”

He takes my hand and kisses it, then lets go and leans back contentedly.

I give him a bit of mock anger: “And what’s this about women’s purses and shoes?”

“More bacteria than a dirty toilet seat, according to the consultant I worked with. Mostly from public restroom floors. Apparently women put their purses down on the floors next to public toilets.”

“Right,” I say. “Yuck.”

“The germs from your purse are contained, and with this filter, we could drive through a cloud of nerve agent and be protected. Kind of nice.”

I place my bonneted purse on the seat across from us. It’s not nice. It’s insane.

Suddenly we’re zooming around the curves of the Tangle. I clutch the handhold, surprised that such a long car can take the hairpin turns, merging at such high speeds, and I’m struck with the crazy contrast of it all: Packard and me and our friends, down there just yesterday, covered in sludge and grime, and now Otto and me riding up here in this sterilized, hyper-clean pod. And down below, there’s truth, and up here, it’s just one lie piled on another.

“One of these days,” Otto grumbles darkly. He means, one of these days he’ll get rid of the Tangle.

“Messed up as it is, Midcity’s kind of known for it at this point, wouldn’t you say? The Tangle’s part of our heritage. Our mascot. We can’t kill it.” I think how it does seem alive sometimes.

“The Tangle’s not something to be precious about, it’s something to be erased. We should bulldoze and bury it. Forget it was ever there. Getting rid of this monstrosity would make for an impressive welcome mat to new businesses. Of course, I’m sure the Felix Five would find a reason to keep the Tangle. I’ll bulldoze it all the same if I so choose.”

We shoot off from the Tangle, heading west, leaving Midcity behind. “Good luck,” I say.

He smiles his little bow of a smile, eyes calm. “You think I can’t?”

Something in the way he says this stops me from the flip answer I was about to give.

He watches my face, like he’s enjoying my discomfort. Or is that my paranoid imagination? “Don’t underestimate your fiancé, Justine.” He raises a finger. “And before I forget, look what La Patisserie sent over.” He pulls out his phone and scrolls through his e-mail. “Mmm. We’re nearly thirty minutes late.” This, like it’s my fault. Which it is.

“It’ll be fine. Dad won’t even notice.”

“I hope not.” Otto comes to what he’s looking for. “Behold.” He hands the phone to me. “Ten tiers.”

With a silent sigh I look at the photo of our wedding cake, frosted and ready for tomorrow. It’s a flourless chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, draped with a white filigree of frosting lace and flowers. “It’s gorgeous,” I say, trying for a happy tone. “I might have to devour it all on my own.”

He gives me a smoldery look, lush smile playing on his lips, the kind that used to put butterflies in my stomach. Now I just feel tense. “I might have to devour
you
all on my own.” He takes his phone from me, pockets it, and slides his hand over my thigh.

“Not here,” I say, alarmed. “I mean, after you’ve done all this sanitizing?”

“He won’t know.”

“I can’t.
We
can’t.” I push his hand off, frowning. “And it’s disrespectful to his concerns.”

“The threat of germs is all in his mind.”

“How can you say that? How can you of all people say that? You hate when people doubt us about vein star.”

“That’s because there’s basis to our fears, but there’s no basis to his germ phobia. Germs help build immunities, and there’s certainly no pandemic raging at the moment.”

“When you fear something, that gives it more power. And it also makes it more powerful because of the negative visualization aspect, so that means he is more susceptible.”

“Negative visualization. You only believe that when it’s convenient,” Otto says.

I cross my arms and sit back with a huff. “I’m not going to argue with you about negative visualization the day before our wedding.” I like the way this small spat has taken the idea of sex out of the air. “I don’t want people doubting each other, or being disrespectful in any way for our wedding. Everything has to be perfect and beautiful. Like a fairy tale.”

He’s silent a few beats too long. “Justine,” he says finally, “that bridezilla bit may have worked on Max, but it doesn’t work on me.”

“Excuse me?” I say hotly.

“I know that’s what you told Max. It simply won’t work on me. You’re not a bridezilla type.” He watches me, head cocked. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“What aren’t I telling you?” I echo stupidly. I’m uncomfortably aware that I’m enclosed in a small pod with the most brilliant detective in Midcity history, a man who tends toward paranoia. And he thinks I’m hiding something, which I am. Still, I look at him like he’s crazy.

“Please. You have a
tell
when you’re holding something back. You make a certain face,” he says. “A micro expression.”

“A micro expression? Like what?”

“Now what fun would it be if you knew? Come now, my love.”

I try to look neutral, but of course, it’s too late. I have a micro expression. I scramble for something to say, recalling what Packard said, that deep down, most men are frightened of a bride—even the men who are keen to get married. I straighten up. “Okay, here’s the thing. I have always dreamed of the day when I’d walk down the aisle toward the man that I love, wearing a beautiful, amazing, white princess dress, and a veil, with perfect hair and perfect everything. With a train trailing behind me. Pure white.” His brows draw together just the tiniest bit. I press on. “I'm not a bridezilla. But do I want my wedding to be perfect? Of course I do! Every girl dreams of this day. You want to know if something is going on? Yes, our wedding is tomorrow and everything is going wrong. There’s a curfew out, and dangerous cannibals roam the streets at night. I’m in hairstyle limbo, I have to rearrange the reception place settings, and one of my maids of honor will be wearing a chest full of straps and tattoos, a fur-trimmed cape, and a top hat.” Never have I been so thankful for Simon’s fashion sense.

His brows draw together more. “Doesn’t the bride have some say in these matters?” he asks. “You don’t want him up there dressed as some sort of circus ringmaster.”

“Like an S&M circus ringmaster? No, I don’t,” I say. We discuss my taking the hat away from him and hiding it. Putting a button on the cape. Otto still seems suspicious. I continue on to my dinner-seating quandary. I’m feeling so tense, and I really am acting like a bridezilla.

“But more than anything, you’re worried about
him
.” He raises his brows. His knowing look. “Aren’t you?”

My throat seizes up; I’m sure I look like a scared rabbit. And then I realize he’s talking about my father. Or is he? I choose to assume he is. “Well, yes,” I say. “Not just that he’s going to be dressed more appropriately for a radioactive cleanup site than a wedding, but he’s never been to Midcity. To him, it’s like venturing into a dangerous wasteland. It helps, what you did with his room at the Arms.” I swallow here—it’s as good as any time to break this to him—“I’ll try to have my room moved near to his.”

He frowns. “What do you mean, your room?”

“At the Arms. Have you never heard it’s bad luck for the bride and groom to spend the night together before the wedding?”

“You’re not superstitious.”

“I’m a bride, Otto. I don’t want to jinx anything. This is what brides
do
. I’m staying at the Arms, and it’ll be my base of operations for getting ready. Everything has to be storybook perfect.”

He watches me with steady eyes. Does he sense the lie? My tension goes high and shrill, as does my voice. “Is it so wrong to want the next time you see me, after our dinner with Dad, to be the next day when Dad’s walking me down the aisle? To have there be a little anticipation? I know I’m not the most regular girl in the world, but I still have certain things about my wedding fixed in my mind. I want it to be perfect!”

His smile has a hawkish quality to it. “You’re not superstitious, and you’re not into fairytales.”

“Today I am.” Heart pounding, I turn my face to the window, where run-down developments rise out of the muddy, snowy fields. And what the hell is my tell? “Excuse me if I want it to be perfect.”

Nothing on the planet could make this wedding perfect. Then I get this new thought: I could be wearing tatters and standing in the Tanglelands in the midst of cannibal carnage, and things would be perfect if I were marrying Packard.

If I were marrying Packard.
I get this sick feeling in my stomach, thinking of him out there, searching for the glasses with all those maniacs after him. So determined, and really, so vulnerable, though he doesn’t think so. I only hope he stops when it’s curfew; being out after curfew will make things worse. For him, getting caught means death, or at best, eternal imprisonment.

At a gas-station stop, Otto has Smitty buy him a water and a nonaspirin pain reliever. I watch him swallow three of them as we pull back out onto the road.

“You’re only supposed to take one or two of those,” I scold, trying to sound normal.

“It’ll be fine.”

“Not if you get liver failure.” I don’t ask if it’s his head.

“I just need to relax the area. It’ll be okay.”
His head, then.

“I couldn’t even tell,” I say, a compliment we sometimes pay each other. At times it can be a point of pride, how well we conceal our freak-outs.

“I can feel them, the force of their will. Railing against their walls.”

His prisoners
, I think. And just like that, the little bit of sympathy I felt over his headache drains away. I picture Helmut banging on the fun house window. Carter looking so small and drained. I know I should say something comforting like,
It’s just the tension of the wedding. Just a stress headache.
But I don’t. He’s hurting my friends, and it’s not wrong that he’s suffering for it.

He bows his head, thumbs on his cheekbones, index fingers on his forehead. He stays like that for a long while. He expects me to put an arm around him, maybe rub his back. It would be smart if I did, but I keep thinking of Carter. Vesuvius. Helmut. Enrique. Packard’s severed head. Avery dead on the rocks.

“It hurts, Justine.”

My silence is getting weird. Grudgingly I hover a hand over his back, and finally force myself to settle it onto him. “I know.”

“I feel them more strongly than ever. They’re clambering to get out, as if they’re physically inside my head. They don’t want to be in there, and they never leave me alone. I can’t remember the last time I felt peace.” A silence, then, “Maybe I never have.” He rubs his forehead. “I’ll be relieved when tomorrow is over and we can start our life.”