Rob Thurman - Chimera

“Coming, doll baby.” She hefted the money belt to feel the weight. Her eyes were brilliant with pleasure. “Boys, boys, you’ve been so good to me. Better than even Gramma Lilly.”

Gramma Lilly, my ass. Her lies had been consummate, her acting flawless. She’d put Meryl Streep out of business. There was no Lilly. But if there were, I would’ve hoped she didn’t have life insurance naming her grand-daughter as beneficiary. The old lady wouldn’t have been long for this world if that were the case. I remembered with perfect clarity how Fisher had pointed out the restaurant for its great food. That the gun-toting boyfriend would be meeting her here was only a bonus to the best barbecue in the tri-state area. Who knew how many times before they’d pulled a stunt like this. Who knew how many people out there were as stupid as I was.

“Yeah, it’s been our pleasure,” I said with tight-lipped venom.

“Now don’t be that way.” She backed toward the truck and punctuated the remark with the cocking of the revolver. It was unnecessary. The damn thing was double action; she could pull the trigger at any time, no preparation necessary. “I was sweet as pie to you. Told you some good stories, flirted with the boy. It was like a dinner and a show. You should be thanking me, not being all pissy.”

“Yeah,” I gritted as she began to back away. “I’m a real bastard.”

Her partner put his rifle down to open the door for her and take the belt from her hand. Then he opened his door and stood within the opening to keep us covered while she climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat. When she had closed the door and settled in, she rested her arm out the window, cheek lying against shoulder, and watched us—just watched. I could see the thought swimming beneath the blue violet water of her eyes, a silver fish circling and circling.

To kill or not to kill?

It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it had a certain poetry that held my attention all the same. Her finger caressed the trigger as a dreamy smile curved her lips. She’d reapplied her lip gloss at the table after finishing her pie and ice cream. I’d caught a whiff of the pink stuff as I watched the tube glide across her mouth. It had smelled like strawberries. Realistically, I was too far away to smell it now, but I did. I smelled it as strongly as if I stood in the middle of a field of berries ripe for picking, sweetly tart and warm from the summer sun. It’s strange what you think of when a bullet is seconds away from shattering your skull.

I was going to have to try for my gun. I wouldn’t make it in time, that was a given, but I had to try. Just before my hand began to move Fisher made her decision. “What the hell. You did buy a lady lunch.” Blowing us a triumphant and gloating kiss, she and the truck disappeared in a cloud of red dust. I didn’t know if the chalkiness in my mouth was from the free-flying grit or was merely the taste of my own idiocy. As I stood there minute after minute, unmoving, the taste grew stronger instead of fading.

It was definitely idiocy.

In the choking thick silence came Michael’s wary voice. “I’m guessing calling the police is out of the question.” I didn’t blame his caution. My mood was less than pleasant.

“Pretty much,” I said shortly, eyes still riveted on the dissipating dust.

“And her name probably wasn’t really Fisher Redwine.”

“No.” I felt the muscle in my jaw spasm and that was when the calm broke. “Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit.” I kicked the dirt, sending a spray of earth flying. It didn’t make me feel any better, so I tried again—and again. Then with temper spent for the moment, I turned to Michael and gave a rueful sigh. “This, by the way, is why we don’t pick up hitchhikers.”

“Yes, I see your point,” he offered gravely. Scrubbing a hand across my face, I said wryly, “And you thought I had trust issues before. Just wait.” I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick, hard squeeze, trying to reassure him things weren’t as bad as they really were. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“Two of a kind.” He allowed the embrace for a second, forgetting momentarily that he was an island unto himself, then subtly shifted to pull away. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

“We’ve been in trouble for a while, kid,” I countered lightly. “What’s one more drop in the bucket?”

“Stefan.” His gaze was uncompromising. “Don’t.”

He was right. Not only was trying to protect him from this pointless and dangerous; it was also insulting to his intelligence. He knew as well as I did that this wasn’t a drop; it was a fucking waterfall. “Yeah, trouble is a good word for it. They took every penny, and we’re not getting very far without money.” The door to the restaurant opened and five people came spilling out, their voices magpie loud. It was getting a little crowded out here, and I started toward the car. “Shoplifting and boosting a car is one thing,” I continued quietly. “Knocking over a gas station or a bank is a different matter altogether. That’ll get us shot or in custody in no time. We can’t risk it.”

“What will we do then?”

“Give me a while. I’ll think of something.” It wasn’t as if I had much choice. Our backs were to the wall. If I didn’t come up with a plan and quickly, Jericho wouldn’t have to put any effort into finding us. We would fall right into his psychotic lap. “Have faith.” I didn’t put any thought into the words; it was automatic—just something you say. It made Michael’s response, murmured under his breath, that much more gratifying.

“I do.”

When you’re a kid, there are miraculous things in the world. Even a tiny bit of ice fluff can seem more like magic than a part of nature. Growing up mostly in southern Florida, I hadn’t seen a lot of snow, but there had been the occasional vacation to Colorado or New York. The memory of the first flake cradled in my hand was as distinct as the edges of the ice crystal had been soft. You knew then that every snowflake was different, every one a uniquely carved diamond.

You forget that. I’m not sure when, but somewhere, sometime the knowledge fades away. It’s bad enough losing sight of the singular nature of snow, but that’s not the worst of it. You even forget the myriad lacy patterns exist. You forget that anything lies in the white drifting from the sky. It was only crumbs from God’s table; misshapen wet pearls before an invisible swine; just snow. And because you’ve forgotten, you never look anymore.

Michael still looked.

South Carolina had been hit with an unlikely snowstorm. It seemed to be happening more frequently these days. Excessively bad winters, global warming messing with weather patterns; who knew? It didn’t matter. The result was a seventeen-year-old’s nose pressed nearly to the palm of his hand as he studied a melting snowflake.

“They really are all different.”

I leaned over his shoulder and took a look for myself. It was nearly gone, a victim of body heat. Only the barest tracings remained, a transparent filigree that disappeared as I watched. “So they are.” I hefted the snowball I held behind my back and then dumped it down the back of his shirt. “Here’s some more to study.”

By the time we were done, the empty lot behind the motel was witness to an epic battle, a hundred flying snowballs, and one lopsided snowman. It was fairly juvenile play for an ex-mobster and a kid who ate books on genetics as if they were Pop-Tarts, but it was one of the best hours I’d spent in years. Michael caught on quicker than I would’ve thought to the idea of rough-and-tumble. There were a few hesitations on his part, but those ended with one spectacular tackle that had me face flat. My brother’s weight on my back kept me sputtering in five inches of snow until my nose was in danger of frostbite.