Spirit and Dust (11 page)

Mrs. Hardwicke appeared, but all I could see was a pair of gorgeous suede pumps a few inches from my nose. “This is really quite disgraceful, young lady.”

I ignored that, less worried about propriety and more concerned with dying stacked like a deck of playing cards.
Do you recognize these guys?
I asked her silently.
Do you know their names?

“Not their names,” she said. “They’re in some sort of brotherhood.”

Brotherhood? Like … monks?

“More like a fraternal order.” It was strange to hear the granite confidence of Mrs. Hardwicke’s tone crumble with worry. “I don’t like them. They made Alexis nervous.” Then she said, “Here they come.”

My tension must have warned Carson, because he tightened his arm around me. My heart gave a girly sort of flutter at the protective gesture before I was distracted by the sensation of something settling lightly over us, a net of static that played across my nerves like the electric tingle of a ghostly remnant.

“There’s no sign of anyone,” said one of the guys. He sounded youngish—not high school young, but not hardened, either. Maybe twenties? “You really think she told them where to find it?”

“She” must be Alexis, and “them” must be her father, maybe Carson. Now if the guy would just say what “it” was, then lying on the freezing ground would be totally worth the frostbite. But his pal was all business. “Shut up. Team Maguire must be around somewhere.”

Carson tensed, and I heard the first guy say, “Stop looking around like that. You’re giving me the creeps.”

How were they not seeing us? From the sound of their voices, they were right alongside our hiding place.

“You’ll have worse than the creeps if they’ve been here and gone. We need all the pieces, or nothing will be any good. Not the Jackal, not the girl … She’ll be useless.”

“Shhh,” said his buddy, on the steps to the mausoleum. “The door’s unlocked.”

I heard it swing open, and their footfalls going inside. But in my head was the menace of that simple statement:
She’ll be useless
. Expendable.

Carson exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time. The odd tingling feeling evaporated and the toes of Mrs. Hardwicke’s shoes wavered in front of me.

“Goodness,” she said, sounding shaken. “I thought for sure you would be caught.”

Had Carson done another Jedi mind trick? Sleight of hand, he’d called it when we were leaving the mansion.

He didn’t give me time to ask. “Let’s go,” he whispered, rolling to his feet and pulling me with him. Part of me said,
Yes, let’s run
, and another part said,
No, wait!
There was something I was forgetting. Only two guys had passed us. I hadn’t told Carson there were three.

The third guy came into sight just as we jumped up from behind the crypt. The moon was like a spotlight, and there was nothing to do but freeze.

The guy was young, like the others had sounded. He wore
a knit cap with a University of Minnesota logo, and brotherhood or not, he did look like a fraternity guy. He also looked as shocked to see us leap out of the shadows as we were to be seen.

The other two came out of the mausoleum behind us. “They’re not here,” the burly guy in the lead started, then broke off when I swung around, putting my back to Carson’s.

Carson squeezed my hand then let go. “Cover your eyes,” he said.

“What? Why—?”

An instant later I heard the flashlight smash to the ground. I clapped my hand over my eyes and squeezed them shut as light flared, reddening the edges of my fingers.

Then there was darkness, and a lot of cursing and yelling. When I dropped my hand, I saw the guy in the hat blinking blindly in the moonlight.

“Get them!” he shouted, but all Thugs One and Two could do was snatch at the spots filling their ruined night vision.

“Run!” said Carson, like I wasn’t already moving.

I took off through the headstones, saving my questions for later. That flare had been
way
more than a flashlight beam. Just then I was grateful for the head start and the advantage of being able to see by moonlight.

Carson followed on my heels as I weaved through the rows of stone markers. I remembered the way back to the car, and I could navigate the watercolor psychic landscape without relying on the path.

Thugs One and Two and the Cat in the Hat had gotten
themselves together, and I heard them galumphing after us. We reached the fence and I started over it with zero finesse, jumping to catch the top rail. And then I just hung there like I was trying to do a chin-up in the worst gym class ever.

Carson put a hand on my butt and shoved. Honestly, I’d seen more action since meeting him than I had in all of high school. I got my leg up and leveraged the rest of me to the top, just as the three hooligans came sliding down the icy grass of the graveyard hill.

Carson scrambled over and dropped to the other side. I tried to do the same, but the collar of my coat caught on one of the spikes. I tumbled from my perch and braced to hit the frozen ground from a nine-foot drop but instead jerked to a stop, half choked by the coat and hung out like a rag doll on a clothesline.

“Ditch the coat!” Carson said, his eyes on the hoodlums closing fast. I unzipped and wriggled out of the parka, then stumbled and hit the ground.

Something slithered from around my neck and dropped into the grass. The Hardwicke pearls. “Leave it,” said Carson, and only the sight of the three guys clambering up the fence convinced me to listen to him.

We raced to where we’d left the Taurus on the darkened lane. Momentum slammed me against the passenger door, and as I fumbled for the handle, Mrs. Hardwicke appeared beside me.

A desperate cold came with her, so intense that I wheezed with it. “You have to get away,” she said, her hollow eyes all icy burning. “Get away and help Alexis.”

“I will,” I swore, as solemnly as I’d sworn the oath to Maguire.

Behind her—no,
through
her—I could see the last thug, the guy in the hat, pick something up from the grass. Mrs. Hardwicke’s pearl necklace.

Carson started the car. Then the door banged me in the hip as he leaned over and opened it from inside. “Get in!” he snapped. “There’s no time for a tea party with Grandma!”

Mrs. Hardwicke’s glow brightened with gratitude. “Thank—”

Then she vanished. Not from sight, from
existence
.

How was that possible? I cranked up the psychic infrared to search for her, forgetting everything else.

“Daisy Goodnight!” Carson’s voice shook me to bedrock level. “Get in this car right now!”

I dove into the car and slammed the door as Carson gunned the engine and peeled onto the pavement. “Buckle up!” he yelled as the Taurus fishtailed and clipped a tree trunk close to the narrow lane.

I twisted to look behind us. Thug One and Thug Two ran for another car parked nearby. But their buddy stood in the middle of the road, both hands raised, palms up, Mrs. Hardwicke’s pearls catching the light as they dangled from his fingers. I didn’t know what he was about to drop on us, but it wasn’t going to be puppies and Christmas.

“Duck!” I yelled, and did. Carson stomped on the gas and hunkered down behind the wheel as the rear window exploded inward. I wrapped my arms over my head as the car was filled with chunks of safety glass, frigid air, and the scent of Chanel No. 5.

“
WHAT THE
HELL
just happened?” I had to shout over the noise, since we were speeding down a country road in a car that was totally missing its rear window. All that was left was a frame of pixelated safety glass. I craned my neck to look into the backseat but saw nothing that could have caused the damage.

Carson clenched the steering wheel at ten and two, a smattering of cuts on his white knuckles. There was one on his cheek, too, blood seeping in a slow trickle. “Just hang on, will you?”

“I will
not
just hang on,” I said, frustration and freak-out making me shrill. “Someone just Lord Voldemorted the back end of our car! I want to know what was that flash of light and where
did Mrs. Hardwicke go and,
seriously
, does
everyone
in Minnesota have superpowers?”

He ignored that and adjusted his grip on the wheel. “I mean buckle your seat belt, Sunshine. We’ve got someone tailing us.”

Sweet Saint Frances of Rome. I yanked the strap across my lap and fumbled it into the clasp just as Carson gunned the car through a yellow light to take a hard left turn from the right-hand lane. The engine whined and the tires squealed, and I may have made a couple of those sounds myself as I grabbed the door handle and braced for who knew what.

We straightened out and shot down a deserted state highway. I risked letting go long enough to look back, where a pair of headlights made the same turn we had, ignoring the red light and gaining on the straightaway.

“Are they still there?” asked Carson.

“Yep.” The wind through the missing window whipped my hair around my face and I gathered it the best I could. “Why are you heading into town?” I asked, alarmed to see the lights of the outskirts of Spring Creek.

“Quickest way to the interstate,” he said, never taking his eyes off the road. “I’m going to try to shake them on the way. Hang on.”

No argument from me this time. I sank into my seat as he punched the engine. It was just like a movie, except I couldn’t picture James Bond in a Ford Taurus. Carson took a turn without braking, miraculously not hitting the car illegally parked within twenty feet of the intersection. Another immediate left and we
were in a dark warren of side streets. I hoped he knew where he was going, because I was totally lost.

And
I was getting carsick, which never seemed to happen in heist movies, either.

“Will you lose all respect for me if I hurl?” I said.

He didn’t spare me a glance. “Roll down the window, because we’re not stopping.”

I didn’t dare move that far. Plus, if we flipped, I wanted all my parts inside the vehicle. So I battened down the hatches and breathed deep of the icy air coming in the back window.

Two more turns and we emerged onto the access road of the interstate. Carson took the ramp at an insane speed and we shot onto the highway like a shell from a cannon. He wove between two eighteen-wheelers, then slid into the gap between two more semis on overnight runs.

Only then did he glance at me. “Still need to stop?”

We were tucked so tight between the trucks I was surprised we didn’t have to buy them drinks first. “More than ever, if you don’t keep your eyes on the road.”

Incredibly, he smiled at that, then got back to business. “We’re going to have to ditch this car,” he said after checking the rearview mirror.

“You’re the boss.” I didn’t know anything about eluding kidnappers or police. I only knew ghosts. I was missing the graveyard, not to mention my law-abiding life. Though really, I’d settle for solid, unmoving ground just then.

“Who’s St. Frances of Rome?” Carson asked, after a glance at my face, which must have looked as bad as I felt.

Had I said that aloud? “Patron saint of automobile drivers.”

That got a half laugh. “Appropriate, the way they drive there.” He cut the headlights and the dashboard console went dark, though we were still bathed in the light of the semi behind us. “You might have another quick word with her. We haven’t quite lost them yet.”

There was an unlit turnoff ahead. It didn’t rate being called an exit. We slowed only enough for the truck behind us to ride our bumper, then slipped down the ramp at full speed. The service road plummeted out of sight and into shadow. Carson drove with calm intent, like a runner in the zone, a thrumming tension in his body as he hauled on the wheel and put the car into a skidding turn.

I prepared for death, wondering if then I would be able to talk to the living like I talked to ghosts now. But incredibly, we slid between the columns of the overpass and came to an abrupt stop before the drop-off into a drainage culvert. The engine subsided to an idle, and the car filled with the sound of our breathing. Overhead, the eighteen-wheelers rumbled like thunder across the vaulted ceiling of our concrete sanctuary.

I fumbled the door open and staggered to the culvert, where the turkey sandwich made a return appearance. I almost never eat meat. I would almost certainly never eat turkey again.

Carson killed the dome light. A moment later he was crouched beside me, making sure I didn’t tumble into the ditch while I heaved. Finally I half fell to a seat on the concrete, gasping and mortified. Wordlessly, Carson cracked the seal on a bottle of Coke and offered it to me.

It was something Agent Taylor had done a million times, and my throat clenched over sudden tears. I hoped he was all right. I hoped Alexis was all right. I felt swamped by responsibility, for them, for my family, even for Mrs. Hardwicke. The stress of it welled up until I thought I might puke again.

“This was just supposed to be a routine reading.” I let anger force the words past the choking weakness. “Find a body, point the finger, go home to Texas.”

“I know,” Carson said, his voice deep and rumbly, with something that sounded like real regret. He took off his coat and draped it over my shoulders. “Drink your soda.”

I took a swig, swished it around, and let the carbonated burn chase away the taste of deli mustard and fear. That left only anger with no target. “I was
not
supposed to end up freezing my ass off in a remake of
Harry Potter
meets
The Italian Job
by way of
Fargo
.”

“Fargo is in North Dakota.”

“I don’t need a flipping geography lesson!”

He made a shushing gesture. In the dark of the underpass, I couldn’t see much of his face, but I suspected he was trying not to laugh. “You watch too many movies.”

I restrained myself from dumping my Coke over his head. “Says the guy with
getaway driver
on his résumé. And just what was that with the light show back there? What else are you packing?”

“What else am I
packing
?” he echoed. “Have we gone back to the forties?”