“You mind if I search the car, then?”
“I—” Claire looked at Shane, and he looked back at her, his eyes suddenly very wide. Claire continued. “It’s not our car, sir. It’s our friend’s.”
“Well, where’s your friend?”
“In there.” Claire’s throat was tight and dry, and she was holding Shane’s hand now in a death grip. If he searches the car, he’ll open the coolers. If he opens the cooler and finds Michael’s blood ...
She pointed to the ice cream shop door. The sheriff looked at it, then back at her, then at Shane. He nodded, switched off his flashlight, and said, “Don’t you go nowhere.”
Through all of that, Claire had only a blurry impression of him as a person—not too young, not too old, not too fat or thin or tall or short—just average. But as he walked away, his belt jingling with handcuffs and keys and his gun strapped down at his side, she felt cold and short of breath, the way she had when she’d faced down Mr. Bishop, the scariest vampire of all.
They were in trouble— bigtrouble.
“Fast,” Shane said, as soon as the door started to close behind the sheriff. He yanked open the door, grabbed Michael’s cooler, and looked around wildly for someplace to put it. “Go to the door. Cover me.”
Claire nodded and walked up to the door, looking in the grimy glass, blocking any view past her of the street. She made little blinders out of her hands as if it were hard to see in. It wasn’t. The sheriff had walked straight up to Michael and Eve, who were still standing at the counter of the ice cream shop. Eve had an ice cream cone in her hand, fluorescent mint green, but from the look on her face, she’d forgotten all about it.
Claire glanced back. Shane was gone. When she looked back into the store, the sheriff was still talking to Michael, Michael was answering, and Eve had a terrified look in her eyes.
Claire nearly screamed when someone touched her shoulder, and jumped back. It was Shane, of course. “I put it in the alley, behind a trash can. Covered it with a stack of newspaper,” he said. “Best I could do.”
The sheriff had finished his conversation, and he, Eve, and Michael were heading for the door. Claire and Shane backed up to the car. Claire leaned against him and felt his heartbeat thudding hard. He looked calm. He wasn’t.
Eve didn’t even lookcalm. She looked, well, distressed. “But we didn’t doanything!” she was saying, as they came outside. “Sir, please—”
“Got a report of trouble up at the Quik-E-Stop,” the sheriff said. “People fitting your description threatening folks. And to be honest, you kind of stand out around here.”
“But we didn’t—” Eve bit her lip on blurting that out, because in fact they had. Michael had, for sure. “We didn’t mean anything. We just wanted to get some ice cream, that’s all.”
Hers was starting to leak in thin green streams. Eve, startled, looked down and licked the melted stuff off her fingers.
“Better eat that before it’s all over you,” the cop said, sounding relaxed and almost human this time. “Do I have your permission to search your vehicle, ma’am?”
“I—” Eve’s eyes fixed on Shane, behind the sheriff, who was giving a thumbs-up. “I guess so.”
He seemed surprised; maybe even a little disappointed. “Sit down over there, on the curb. All of you.”
They did. Eve had trouble doing it gracefully in the poofy black skirt she was wearing, but once she was down, she started wolfing down her ice cream. Halfway through, she stopped and pounded her forehead with an open palm. “Ow, ow, ow!”
“Ice cream headache?” Claire asked.
“No, I’m just wondering how the hell we could be so bad at this,” Eve said. “All we were supposed to do was drive to Dallas. It shouldn’t be this hard, right?”
“Oliver made us stop.”
“I know, but if we can’t stay out of trouble on our own—”
“That wasan ice cream headache, right? Not an aneurysm?”
“That’s where things explode in your brain? Probably that last thing.” Eve sighed and bit into the cone part of her dessert. “I’m tired. Are you tired?”
Michael wasn’t saying anything. He was staring at the car, and the cop searching it—going through bags, purses, glove box, even under the seats. He finally glanced over at Shane. “What about the weapons?”
Shane’s mouth opened, then closed.
“Uh—”
Right at that moment, the cop opened Claire’s suitcase and pulled out a sharp silver stake. He held it up. “What’s this?”
None of them answered for a few seconds; then Eve said, “It’s for the costumes. See, we’re going to this convention? And I’m playing the vampire, and they’re playing the vampire hunters? It’s really cool.”
That almost sounded real.
“This thing’s sharp.”
“The rubber ones looked really fake. There’s a prize, you know? For authenticity?”
He gave her a long look, then dropped it back into Claire’s bag, rummaged around, then closed it. He left the suitcases and bags outside the car, scattered around, and after checking in the wheel wells and in the spare tire section, he finally shook his head. “All right,” he said. “I’m going to let you all go, but you need to go right now.”
“What?”
“I need to see your taillights disappearing over the town limits. And I’m going to follow to make sure you get there nice and safe.”
Oh crap.“What about Oliver?” Claire whispered.
“Well, we can’t exactly give him as an excuse,” Eve whispered back fiercely. She ate the last bit of ice cream cone and smiled at the cop. “We’re ready, sir! Just let us get loaded up.”
Michael grabbed Shane, and they had an urgent conversation, bent over Eve’s giant suitcase. Eve leaped up, tripped over a random bag, and went down with a yelp that turned into a howl.
The sheriff, proving he wasn’t a total jerk, immediately came to bend over her and see if she was okay.
This gave Michael enough vampire-speed time to retrieve the cooler from the alley, put it back in the car, and be innocently reaching for the next bag before the sheriff helped flailing, clumsy Eve up to her feet.
“Sorry,” Eve said breathlessly, and gave Michael a trembling little smile and wave. “I’m okay. Just bruised a little.”
“That’s it,” Shane said. “No more ice cream for you.”
They finished loading things in the car, and Claire took a last look at the deserted streets, the flickering, distant, dim lights. There was no sign of Oliver; none at all.
“Well?” the sheriff said. “Let’s go.”
“Yes sir.” Eve slid into the driver’s side, closed her eyes for a second, then fumbled for her keys and started the car. Michael took the passenger seat in front, and Claire and Shane climbed in the back.
The sheriff, true to his word, got in his cruiser, parked across the street, and turned on the red and blue flashers; no siren, though.
“Thanks,” Michael said, and sent Eve a quick smile. “Good job with the tripping. It gave me time to get the blood.”
“Wish I’d meant it, then.” She put the car in reverse. “And could we please have another word for blood, outside of Morganville? Something like, oh, I don’t know. Chocolate? Red velvet cake?”
“Why is it always sugar with you?” Shane asked.
“Shut up, Collins. This one was all on you, you know.”
He shrugged and put his arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Yeah, I know. Sorry.”
“What are we going to do?” Claire asked. “About Oliver?”
Nobody had an answer.
The sheriff’s cruiser let loose a shocking little whoop of siren, just to let them know he meant business. Eve swallowed, put the car in reverse, and backed the sedan onto the street. “Guess we’ll figure it out as we go,” she said. “Anybody got his cell number?”
“I do,” Michael and Claire said, simultaneously, and exchanged guilty looks. Michael took out his phone and texted something as Eve drove—staying well under the speed limit, which Claire thought was very smart—and as they passed a sign announcing the town limit, the sheriff’s car coasted to a stop. The lights were still flashing.