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“Yes. Yes, I think you do. I’ll do what I can for you, I promise. ”
That was the end of it. Bryn retrieved Mr. French from where he’d been snoozing in the corner of a very empty plastic-walled room, and five minutes later they’d negotiated the spy-quality security and were driving out into the sunlight. Mr. French wiggled into the front seat, onto Bryn’s lap, and gave a pointed whine as he put a paw on the door.
“Oh—ah, we need to stop somewhere,” she said. “Time for a walk. ”
McCallister was frowning, very inside himself, but that startled him into an even deeper frown. He said, “Do you trust me?”
“I hate it when you ask me that, because it means you’re about to do something I won’t like. ”
“Bryn. ”
“It depends. ”
“That’s … not what I was hoping for. ”
“Look, could you please just stop the car?”
“Not yet. We have an alibi to establish. ”
“Which is …?”
“You’re not going to like it. ”
It took fifteen minutes for him to finish his drive and arrive at the destination, and he was entirely right: she didn’t like it.
“Seriously,” she said, as he parked.
“Take Mr. French for a walk. I’ll check us in. ”
Bryn opened the door, and Mr. French hopped down and ran, loose skin flapping, for the small, straggly strip of brush and grass at the rear of the parking lot. “Wait!” she called, and hurried after him as McCallister headed in the opposite direction. “Stupid dog. ”
Well, it wasn’t exactly his fault; he clearly had needs. So did she, as a matter of fact, and standing out here fidgeting from one foot to the other reminded her of it. Not that she was looking forward to exploring the bathroom facilities of the Hallmark Motor Court Inn, which looked like it had last seen any kind of upgrade in the 1970s. It was faded pink stucco, flat roofed, built in an L shape around a parking lot and a fenced-off, trash-filled dry pool that insurance issues had probably long ago rendered useless. There were six cars in the parking lot, mostly beaters, and it didn’t look like a place anyone stayed for more than a couple of hours unless they were seriously down on their luck.
She was starting to get a sense of what McCallister’s alibi would be, and no, she didn’t like it at all.
When she blinked, she had an image of utter darkness, of being trapped in a coffin, like Manny Glickman; of gasping for each trembling breath, knowing that each one was one closer to the end. That would happen to her, too, when she missed a shot. How long would it take for the invisible little machines that kept her breathing to slow, drift, shut down? How long would it take for the toxins to build up and poison her? God, how long would she be able to feel it?
Mr. French watered a few dry spots on the ragged lawn, then wandered over to the edge of the building. The wilderness was thicker there, mostly knee-high grass and some very wild-looking shrubs, everything shrouded in shadow by the angle of the sun. Bryn patted her thigh. “Come on, boy. Let’s go. ” He ignored her to sniff the concrete, intensely interested in some ghost of a prior dog or cat. “Oh, come on! Seriously?”
He waddled farther into the shadows, nosing out scents, peeing where he felt it might be necessary, and then squatting down at a modest distance.
Bryn was peripherally aware of a man coming out of a room a couple of doors down, but her attention was on the dog and her near-bursting bladder; when a shadow came into her peripheral vision she was sure it was McCallister, returning for her.
But it wasn’t.
The shove caught her unprepared, sending her stumbling after Mr. French, and as she twisted to get a look at the man who’d pushed her she realized that she was in deep and immediate trouble. He was big, and his eyes were dead in an immobile, expressionless face. “Cash,” he said. “Give it up, bitch. ”
She didn’t have a purse, or anything in her pockets. “I don’t have—”
He hit her, hard, in the face, and the pain exploded into black waves and red stars. Mr. French came charging out of the grass. He latched on to the man’s pant leg, but was kicked away.
Bryn immediately went for her gun.
Too slow. Her attacker grabbed her by the shirt and punched her again, even harder, twice in the face, once with shattering force in the gut. She only managed to jerk her sidearm partway from the holster before he’d slammed her down on the ground, and then twisted, trying to throw him off to get leverage to draw it the rest of the way. No good. He grabbed the gun butt and pulled it free. She struggled with him for it, but the knee in her stomach was making her giddy and weak.
With a final wrench, he got control of the weapon.
She didn’t hesitate; she slammed her fist into his balls as hard as she could, and he flinched, off balance. That let her throw him off, but he held on to the gun.
