Dead Harvest

  It was a Volvo station wagon, blue as sky beneath the streetlights, and it rocked to an awkward, diagonal halt just inches from where I stood. The driver, a woman in her fifties, was fumbling with a cell phone, her eyes wide with fright. I hoisted Anders over my shoulder, Flynn's well-muscled frame protesting under the strain, and broke for the driver's side door, yanking it open with my free hand and clawing for her phone. She was too stunned to resist. I snatched the phone from her hand, and tossed it in a lazy arc toward the woods. Her eyes flitted back and forth between the patch of woods in which it landed and me – filthy and bloodied in an undershirt and navy trousers, my only hope of passing as a cop in her eyes the uniform shirt currently pressed tight to Anders' wound – her face twisted into a rictus of terror.

  "T-t-take the car," she said.

  "I don't want the car," I said.

  "I… I have money." She twisted in her seat, fumbling around in the back for her purse. I grabbed her wrist, and she turned, her gaze meeting mine.

  "I don't want your money, either. This boy – he's hurt. What I need is a ride."

  "I don't," she stammered, "I mean, I can't –"

  "Do you know where the nearest hospital is?"

  She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Yes."

  "Then you can."

  She stared at me a moment, her face a silent plea.

  "If you don't do this, he'll die."

  That did the trick. She clicked the rear doors unlocked. "Get in," she said.

  I dropped Anders in the back, and gestured Kate in there as well. I climbed into the passenger seat, fetching Anders' blood-streaked knife from my pocket and laying it at ready across my lap. Our Good Samaritan didn't fail to notice. The blood drained from her face, and she gripped the steering wheel hard damn near enough to break it off, her knuckles bone-white.

  "You did this to him?"

  I didn't hesitate. "Yes," I said.

  "You're a monster," she replied, not just a little bit of steel in her voice. "A goddamned monster."

  "Lady, you have no idea how true that is. And if you don't start driving, I swear you're gonna get the same."

  Again her tires squealed. This time, the car lurched forward.

  "Easy!" Kate called from the back. "He's seeping through his bandages. I'm doing my best to stanch the flow, but if you rattle around too much, I won't be able to keep the pressure on."

  "She slows down, it doesn't matter how careful she is – the kid's gonna die," I replied.

  We squealed around a corner, rocketing through a red light. I braced myself against the door handle, the knife gripped tightly in my free hand. I didn't think our driver was gonna be a problem, but Bishop was another matter. As far as I knew, he might be halfway around the world right now, but even if he were, he wouldn't stay that way for long. If he'd found his way back in time to see our little traffic stunt, our new friend here'd become a liability right quick. If that happened, I had to be ready. No qualms. No hesitation.

  Still, I hoped for all our sakes it wouldn't come to that.

  The woman glanced at Kate in the rear-view. Her eyes narrowed. "You're that girl from the news, aren't you? The one that killed her family."

  Kate said nothing.

  "You think that silly punker get-up's going to fool people for long? Your picture's been on every television in the city. It's just a matter of time before they find you."

  "Just shut up and drive," Kate said.

  "I'm trying," the woman replied, and then, as she screamed past her intended turn: "Shit!"

  Do you have any idea where we're going?" I asked her.

  "Do you?" she shot back.

  I thought a moment. "St Vincent's is close, if it's still around. But we shoulda been there by now."

  "It is," she said, "although it hasn't been St Vincent's for years. And we would have been, if I weren't pointed in the wrong direction when you stopped me. You would have done better to carjack someone headed south."

  "A lot's changed since the last time I was here. That's kind of why you're doing the driving," I said. "Now get us turned around, and quick."

  "What's to stop me from just driving straight to the police?"

  "This, for one," I said, brandishing the knife. "But more importantly, there's no time. You take the time to turn us in, the boy dies. You look like a decent person to me. I think you're gonna make the right choice."

  "They'll almost certainly apprehend you when we reach the hospital," she replied.

  "Then what exactly is the problem? Now if you wanna get out of this alive, you're gonna shut your mouth and get us to the hospital, you hear?"

  I was kinda shocked she listened, but I guess she'd already said her piece. She just gripped the wheel and drove like it was the last lap at Indy, barreling down the street with breakneck speed – and ignoring every light, every sign, every lane marker on the way. Had her lips not been pursed in grim concentration, I'd have thought she was enjoying herself. Of course, right now, I couldn't give a shit about her motivation – all I cared was that we get Anders some help before it was too late.