Midnight Alley (27 page)

‘‘I'm fine,'' she said. ‘‘Except that I'm scared for you.''

‘‘I'm okay.''

‘‘Except for the stab wound and all the internal bleeding? Yeah, sure, tough guy.'' She heard her voice quiver, and knew she was about to cry. She didn't want to. He wanted to laugh it off, wanted to be tough, and she ought to let him, right?

He tried to shrug, but it must have hurt, from the spasm that went across his face. One of the machines near Claire beeped, and he let out a slow sigh. ‘‘That's better. Man, they give you the good stuff in ICU. Remind me to always get seriously wounded from now on. That minor injury stuff isn't as much fun.''

It was wearing him out to talk. Claire got up and leaned over to stroke her fingertips lightly over his lips. ‘‘Shhhh,'' she said. ‘‘Rest, okay? Save it for somebody who isn't me. It's okay to be scared. It's okay to be hurt, Shane. With me, it's okay.''

For a second his eyes glittered with tears, and then the tears spilled over, threading wet trails into his hair. ‘‘Damn,'' he whispered. ‘‘Sorry. I just—I felt it all going away, I felt you going away, I tried—I thought he was going to hurt you and there was nothing I could do about it—''

‘‘I know.'' She leaned forward and kissed him very lightly, careful of the bruises. ‘‘I know.''

He cried a little, and she stayed right where she was, his shield against the world, until it was over. Finally, he fell into a light sleep, and she felt a tap on her shoulder. The nurse motioned for her to step out, and Claire carefully pulled her hand free of Shane's and followed.

‘‘Sorry,'' Helen said. ‘‘I'd like for him to sleep a while before we start with the poking and prodding. You can come back this afternoon, all right?''

‘‘Sure. What time?''

Four o'clock. That left her the entire day to kill, and not the slightest idea what she ought to be doing with it. She didn't have to see Myrnin; Amelie hadn't given her any other instructions to follow. It was Saturday, so she wasn't cutting any classes, and she didn't want to go back to the Glass House and just . . . worry.

Claire was still trying to decide what to do when she spotted a familiar, well-groomed figure standing outside the hospital doors.

What was Jennifer, one of Monica's regular clique, doing hanging around here?

Waiting for Claire, apparently, because she hurried to catch up as Claire strode by, heading for the taxi stand. ‘‘Hey,'' she said, and tucked her glossy hair behind her ear. ‘‘So. How's Shane doing?''

‘‘Like you care,'' Claire said.

‘‘Well, yeah. I don't. But Monica wants to know.''

‘‘He's alive.'' That was no more than Monica could learn without her help, so it didn't really matter, and Claire didn't like having Jennifer this close. Monica was creepy, but at least she was Alpha Creepy. There was something pathetic and extra-weird about her two groupies.

Jennifer kept pace with her. Claire stopped and turned to face her. They were halfway down the sidewalk, in the full glare of early-fall sunlight, which at least meant it wasn't too likely some vampire would be sneaking up on her while Jennifer kept her distracted. ‘‘Look,'' Claire said, ‘‘I don't want anything to do with you, or Monica, okay? I don't want to be friends. I don't want you sucking up to me just because I'm . . . somebody, or something.''

Jennifer didn't look like she wanted to be sucking up, either. In fact, she looked as bitter and resentful as a glossy, entitled rich girl could look—which was a lot. ‘‘Dream on, loser. I don't care who your Patron is; you're never going to be anything more than jumped-up trailer trash with delusions. Friends? I wouldn't be friends with you if you were the last person breathing in this town.''

‘‘Unless Monica said so,'' Claire said spitefully. ‘‘Fine, you don't want to exchange friendship rings. So why are you bothering me?''

Jennifer glared at her for a few seconds, stubborn and angry, and then looked away. ‘‘You're smart, right? Like, freak smart?''

‘‘What does that have to do with anything?''

‘‘You placed out of the two classes we were in together. You must have aced the tests.''

Claire nearly laughed out loud. ‘‘You want
tutoring
?''

‘‘No, idiot. I want test answers. Look, I can't bring home anything under a C; that's the rule, or my Patron cuts off my college. And I
want
my full four years, even if I never do anything with it in this lame-ass town.'' A muscle fluttered in Jennifer's jawline. ‘‘I don't get this economics crap. It's all math, Adam Smith, blah blah blah. What am I ever going to use it for, anyway?''

She was asking for help. Not in so many words, maybe, but that was what it was, and Claire was off balance for a few heartbeats. First Monica, now Jennifer? What next, a cookie bouquet from Oliver?

‘‘I can't give you test answers,'' she said. ‘‘I wouldn't even if I could.'' Claire took in a deep breath. ‘‘Look, I'm going to regret this, but if you really want help, I'll go over the notes with you.
Once.
And you pay me, too. Fifty dollars.'' Which was wildly out of line, but she didn't really care if Jennifer said no.

Which Jennifer clearly thought about, hard, before giving her a single, abrupt nod.

‘‘Common Grounds,'' she said. ‘‘Tomorrow, two o'clock.'' Which was pretty much the safest time to be out and about, providing they didn't stay too long. Claire wasn't wild about visiting Oliver's shop again, but she didn't suppose there were too many places in town that Jennifer would agree to go. Besides, it wasn't far from Claire's house.

‘‘Two o'clock,'' Claire echoed, and wondered if they were supposed to shake hands or something. Not, obviously, because Jennifer flipped her hair and walked away, clearly glad to have it over with. She jumped into a black convertible and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires.

Leaving Claire to contemplate the afternoon sunlight and the odds of walking home through a Morganville where Jason was still on the loose.

She took out her cell phone and called the town's lone taxi driver, who told her he was off duty, and hung up on her.

So she called Travis Lowe.

 
Detective Lowe wasn't really happy to be the Claire Taxi Service. She could tell because he wasn't his usual self, not at all—he'd always been kind to her, and a little bit funny, but there wasn't any of that in the way he pulled his blue Ford to the curb and snapped, ‘‘Get in.'' He was accelerating away even before she got strapped in. ‘‘You do know I've got a real job, right?''

‘‘Sorry, sir,'' she said. The
sir
was automatic, a habit she couldn't seem to break no matter how hard she tried. ‘‘I just didn't think I should be walking home, with Jason—''

‘‘Right thought, just wrong timing,'' he said, and his tone softened some. He looked tired and sallow, and there were dark bags under his eyes as though he hadn't slept in days. He needed a shave and a shower. Probably the shower more than the shave. ‘‘How's Shane?''

‘‘Better,'' she said. ‘‘The nurse told me he was going to be okay; it's just going to take some time.''

‘‘Good news. Could've gone the other way. Why'd you try to walk home like that?''

She fidgeted a little in the seat. In contrast to the vampire cars, with their dark tinting, the glare inside Lowe's car seemed way too bright. ‘‘Well, we tried getting a ride,'' she said. In retrospect, none of the explanations seemed all that good, really. She didn't mention that she'd tried both Lowe's phone and Joe Hess's. No point in making him feel guilty. Guiltier. ‘‘We thought with the three of us together . . .''

‘‘Yeah, good plan, if it had been any other kids. You guys, you're just trouble to the power of three. And I'm no math whiz, but I'm betting that's a lot.'' His eyes were cold and distant, and she had the distinct feeling he wasn't really thinking about her at all. ‘‘Listen, I've got to make a stop. I'm running late as it is. You stay in the car, okay? Just stay in the car. Do
not
get out.''

She nodded. He turned some corners, into a residential area of Morganville she didn't recognize. It was run-down and faded, with leaning fences that were marked with sun-bleached gang signs. The houses weren't much better. Most of them just had sheets tacked up in the windows instead of real curtains.

He parked in front of one, got out, and said, ‘‘Windows up. Lock the doors.''

She followed his orders and watched him go up the narrow, cracked sidewalk to the front door. It opened on the second knock, but she couldn't see who was inside, and Lowe closed the door behind him.

Claire frowned and waited, wondering what he was doing—cop stuff, she guessed, but in Morganville that could be anything, from running errands for vampires to dog-catching.

He didn't come back. She checked her watch and found that more than ten minutes had passed. He'd ordered her to stay put, but for how long? She could have been home already if she'd been able to get the taxi, or even if she'd walked.

And it was getting hot in the car.

Ten more minutes, and she started to feel anxious. The neighborhood seemed deserted—no people on the street, even in the bright sunlight. Even for Morganville, that didn't seem . . . normal. She didn't know this area, hadn't been through it before, and she wondered what went on around here.

Before Claire could decide to do something really stupid, like investigating on her own, Detective Lowe came out of the house and, after rapping on the window for her to unlock the door, got back in the car. He looked, if possible, even more tired. Depressed, almost.

‘‘What's wrong?'' she asked. The sheets tacked up as curtains twitched in the window of the house, as if somebody was peering out at them. ‘‘Sir?''

‘‘Quit calling me sir,'' Lowe snapped, and put the car in gear. ‘‘And it's none of your affair. Stay out of it.''

There was blood on his hand. His knuckles were scraped. Claire pulled in a fast breath, her eyes widening as she noticed, and he sent her a narrow glance as the car accelerated away down the deserted street. ‘‘Were you in a fight?'' she asked.

‘‘What did I just tell you?'' Detective Lowe had never been angry before, not with her, but she could tell he was being pushed pretty far. She nodded and turned face forward, trying too keep herself still. It wasn't easy. She wanted to ask questions, a dozen of them. She wanted to ask him where Detective Hess had gone. She wanted to find out who lived in that house, and why Lowe had gone there. And whom he'd hit, to scrape up his knuckles like that.

And why he was so desperately angry that he'd snap at her.

Lowe didn't enlighten her about any of it. He pulled the car to a stop with an abrupt jerk of brakes, and Claire blinked and realized that she was home. ‘‘You need another ride, call a taxi,'' Lowe said. ‘‘I'm on police business the rest of the day.''

She climbed out and tried to thank him, but he wasn't listening. He was already flipping open his cell phone and dialing one-handed as he put the car in gear with the other. She barely got the door shut before he pulled away from the curb.

‘‘Bye,'' she said softly, to the empty air, and then shrugged and went inside.

Michael was sitting in the living room, playing guitar. He looked up and nodded at her when she came in. ‘‘Eve went to the hospital,'' he said. ‘‘She must have just missed you.''

Claire sighed and slumped down on the couch. ‘‘They won't let her in. Visiting hours are over.'' She yawned and curled up, tucking her feet under her. She ached all over, and everything seemed too bright, and not quite right. ‘‘Michael?''

‘‘Yeah?'' He was working out a chord progression and was focused on the music; his response didn't mean he was listening, really.

‘‘Shouldn't you be asleep? I mean, don't vampires—?''

He was listening after all. ‘‘Sleep during the day? Yeah, mostly. But I—couldn't. I keep thinking . . .'' The chord progression turned minor, then wrong, and he grimaced. ‘‘I keep thinking that I should have fixed this crap with Shane by now. I don't know if he's going to get over it, not really. Not in the ways that count. And I hate it. I can't stop thinking—I don't want him doing this stuff. Not without me watching his back.''

Claire leaned her head against the battered black pillow on the corner of the couch. It smelled like spilled Coke, a little, but mostly it smelled like Shane, and she gladly turned her face into it and took a deep breath. It made it seem like he was here, at least for a second.

‘‘He wouldn't hate you so bad if he didn't love you, at least a little bit,'' she said. ‘‘We'll be okay. We're going to stay together, right? The four of us?''

Michael looked up, and for a second she wasn't sure what he was going to say; but then he said, ‘‘Yeah. We'll stay together. No matter what.''

It felt like a lie, and she wished he hadn't said it.

She fell asleep, listening to him compose a new song, and dreamed about vibrating strings and doorways that led nowhere, and everywhere. Someone was watching her; she could feel it, and it wasn't Michael. It wasn't warm and kind; it wasn't safe. She wasn't safe, and there was something wrong, wrong,
wrong
. . . .

She nearly fell off the couch, she jerked so hard. Michael wasn't there, and his guitar was in the case on the table. Claire squinted at the clock. It was nearly two o'clock, and she'd slept through lunch, but it wasn't hunger that had woken her up. She'd heard something.