“Mr. Lilly,” she said in a tone that was almost scolding, “you aren’t calling from an unsecure location, I hope.”
“Considering what I’ve been seeing here, I don’t think a secure location is possible.”
“I understand.” She had dropped the scolding tone. “The phone GPS has given me your location. Return to that location at this time each day for the next four days.” I glanced at my watch. It was just after seven-thirty. “You will be met.”
She hung up and so did I. There was a trash receptacle right next to me, but I was supposed to ditch the phone where no one would notice. And while I couldn’t see anyone nearby …
I swept my right arm away from me and struck something invisible a foot from my elbow. It was sticky, just like Caramella’s slap. I heard a hiss and the scuffle of shoes on concrete.
I grabbed the invisible shape, shoving it toward the bench and knocking it off balance. It suddenly darkened, becoming an outline with a misty blackness inside, just like the Empty Spaces.
Damn. That’s exactly what it was. I was looking into the Empty Spaces.
I would have freaked out if I’d had the time, but the vision vanished suddenly, and I was holding Summer by the shoulders. She was staring at me with wild, dangerous eyes. “Let go of me, Ray,” she said, and grabbed my wrist with her bare hand. My skin began to itch and burn under her grip.
I pulled her to her feet and spun her around. She tried to resist—and she was strong—but she wasn’t as strong as me. I yanked a pistol out of the back of her waistband, then patted the pockets of her gym shorts. They were empty.
The urge to run was unbearable, but I knew it would be useless. They still had Bud’s truck. “Keep away, Summer.” My breath was coming in gasps. I barely recognized my own voice. “Don’t make a bigger mistake than you already have.”
I backed toward the lot, holding the gun on her. My mind was racing. There were no other pedestrians nearby, but someone in a passing car might see me and call the cops. For a moment I tried to imagine what I would say if a patrol car suddenly pulled up to the curb, but I couldn’t focus on it.
Summer stood in the bus shelter with her arms at her sides, watching me. I bolted back into the lot.
Bud was standing beside his pickup, scanning the lot for us. He had a little shopping bag in his hand. I ran toward him. Once he spotted me, he patted the truck bed.
“Back here, Ray. You’re giving off fumes. We’ll get you showered and changed as soon as we can, but first”—he held up the shopping bag—“we’ll mix these and—”
I came up next to him, and he saw the gun in my hand. “Give me the keys, Bud.”
His good-ole-boy grin twisted with disappointment. “I thought you were out of the car-stealing business.”
“Keep back. Don’t touch me. Give me the keys. I’ll drop your truck within a few blocks of the Bigfoot Room, but I’m not going anywhere with you. And don’t touch me. Get it? Don’t touch me! I’m not going anywhere with you!”
“Don’t get all wigged out, Ray. All right? Don’t. Here’s the stuff you need for your skin.” He tossed the grocery bag onto the passenger seat. “Just mix it one to one. And don’t scratch my truck.” He set his keys on the hood.
While he backed away, I picked them up. I wondered where Summer was—I should have made her come with me. I should have made her stay visible. I imagined her behind me, knife in hand. I imagined the point digging into the back of my neck or into my kidneys, and my skin prickled all over. My breath rushed in and out of me, and even though everything was different I felt that same urge to scream that I’d felt that last night in Washaway, just before the killing started. My finger tightened on the trigger.
No. No, I wasn’t going to shoot Bud. I was in control of myself. I was in control.
I climbed into the truck. Bud stood with his hands at his sides. If he’d been one of the shooters inside the Bigfoot Room, and I was ready to believe he was, he had a gun on him that I’d forgotten to take. I was screwing up, and that was going to get me killed. Either that, or I was going to have to kill him. I wasn’t ready for that. I started the engine and lurched out of the spot.
In a mild voice, Bud said: “My apartment keys are on that ring, you know.”
“Within a few blocks,” I told him, fighting the urge to flee flee flee. “You fucked up, Bud.”
“Robbie will still want to talk to you.”
“And I want to talk to him,” I said, and raced out of the lot. Summer stood by the entrance, watching me impassively. She was still there when I drove down the street.
I forced myself to take long, slow breaths. I looked down at my wrist. My skin had turned red and gotten inflamed where Summer’s little hand had touched me.
An idea occurred to me, and I lifted my arm toward the rearview mirror when I stopped at the next stoplight. My shirt was a henley, three buttons at the neck, no collar, and sleeves that reached just past my elbow. Both Summer and Bud had grabbed my arm where the sleeve covered it, but I couldn’t see any effect on my clothes. They weren’t sticky, discolored, or slowly dissolving.
The light turned green and I drove on. Could Bud turn invisible? I hadn’t seen him do it, and I hadn’t touched his skin, but something about the way he’d acted—as though he’d expected my reaction, just not so soon—made me think he could.
And Caramella. I thought she’d transported herself out of my room after that last, aborted slap, but maybe she’d hung around for a while, watching me sleep.
The idea gave me the shivers, and I almost blew through the next red light. Instead, I forced myself to calm down. Potato Face and his men hadn’t triggered this kind of response when they’d swarmed around me, but why should they? They were men. All they could do was kill me.
When the light changed, I parked the truck. I was only a block and a half away from the Bigfoot Room, and that was close enough. I didn’t like the idea of driving Bud’s truck when another drop of sweat could blind me.
I wiped my fingerprints off Summer’s gun. There was no reason to—the twisted-path spell on my chest altered the physical evidence I left behind, like fingerprints and DNA, making it impossible to pin me to a crime scene. It still felt good. Then I stuffed the weapon under the seat.
I opened the glove compartment. Sure enough, there was Summer’s purse. I flipped through it. There was no makeup—the only thing she had in common with her mother was her refusal to wear it. There was an address book and a billfold with a little cash inside. I was tempted to take the money to teach her a lesson about fooling around with magic, but I didn’t. Class hadn’t started yet.
I did take her address book. I flipped to the H and read the entry for Caramella Harris. She lived in Silver Lake.
There was only one more thing to do. I still had the cellphone the society had given me. If I turned it on and stuffed it into the back of the seat, the society would be able to locate them the same way they’d located me.
I didn’t do it. The risk that Bud or Robbie or someone else in the crew would find it and press REDIAL may have been slim, but I still wasn’t going to take the chance. Secrecy came first. I pocketed it, tossed the keys under the front seat, and picked up the grocery bag. Then I climbed out, leaving the driver’s window rolled down.
I walked back to the church and my car. There were police cars with flashing lights parked in front of the bar, and plenty of yellow tape on the sidewalk. I stopped at the corner to gawk a little; it would have looked suspicious if I hadn’t. A patrol cop looked at me, then looked away, uninterested.
I went to my car and drove away before a cop came close enough to smell the tear gas.
Summer and Caramella could turn invisible. Probably Bud could, too. I tried to figure who else should be on that list, but I didn’t know enough yet. I was sure Arne knew about it, even if he couldn’t vanish himself. I suddenly understood why there was sawdust on the floor of the Bigfoot Room.