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Unfortunately, the giant pile of misanthrope sitting in front of me didn’t limit himself to rearranging my face with his headrest. For the next hour, the poor woman next to him had to hear his opinions on the health-care crisis, the economy, and “kids today” and how the current president was responsible for it all. And vampires. And any other minority you could think of. All in a loud foghorn voice that reminded me of my uncles after a few beers.
“I’m going to kill him just to shut him up,” Collin muttered.
“I’ll help you hide the body,” I promised.
The braying political commentator finally quieted, and I saw his seatmate’s shoulders relax. He stood to get something out of the overhead bin. As he moved, the zipper from his jacket whipped against my face. I winced, rubbing my hand over my cheek. Collin arched his eyebrow as my fingers snaked up. When the jerk sat back down, I had the contents of his wallet—two twenties and a handful of ones—crumpled into my palm.
Collin’s mouth popped open. “What are you—”
I shushed him gently, waiting for the woman in front of us to lean toward the window. When her head turned, I slipped my hand through the gap in the seats and dropped the cash into her breast pocket. I considered it hazard pay. The loud guy plopped back into his seat, none the wiser.
Collin whispered, “Morlock the Magician?”
I smirked. “I was always good with sleight-of-hand. Birds, not so much.”
“I’m continually amazed by the skills you have picked up along your way. What will you take away from your time with me, I wonder?”
“A profound fear of ravines and root cellars,” I muttered.
“The root cellar wasn’t all bad,” he murmured.
“A commitment to carry an industrial-sized can of anti-automotive-boob touch-up paint in every car I drive?”
He squeezed my hand. “I would hope that wouldn’t happen to any person more than once.”
“A distrust of any man bearing jewelry, family heirloom or otherwise?”
He chuckled. “I will remember you said that when we reach a gift-giving occasion.”
I shot him an incredulous look. He expected us to reach a gift-giving occasion? He said “when,” not “if.” He planned to spend more time with me. I tamped down the excited butterflies swooping through my belly. I didn’t know how to respond, what to say. So I just smiled and kept his hand clasped in mine. I kept him entertained with observations about our fellow passengers for the three-hour ride.
“When we arrive in the Hollow, what are your plans?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “A lot depends on how Iris reacts to her car being vaporized.”
“I told you, I’ll take responsibility for the car,” he said. “Do you think you would be interested—”
The driver’s voice boomed over the PA. “Folks, we are five minutes away from our stop in lovely downtown St. Louis. Please remember to stay seated until the bus comes to a complete stop. Standing to reach items in the overhead compartment can result in fallen luggage and cranky seatmates.”
I smiled slightly. “Would I be interested in what?”
“Driving me back home?” he asked sheepishly. “I don’t think I would trust anyone else with my safety.”
“Well, that’s just sad.”
FRIENDSHIPS SHOULDN’T BE FORMED IN PARKING LOTS
11
Marion, Illinois, was home to one of the highest-security prisons in the country. The inmate Hall of Fame included Noriega, John Gotti, and, most chillingly, Pete Rose. Needless to say, I was a little bit nervous when the driver unceremoniously dropped us at a bus depot five miles from the prison. Knowing my luck, there would be a jailbreak, and I would end up cannon fodder in some sort of standoff. I stuck close to Collin’s side as we exited the squat little concrete building marked “DEP T.” I think someone had stolen the O.
“How much time do we have?” I asked.
“Two hours until midnight,” he said. “What now?”
“I was really hoping you had some ideas,” I told him. “I am fresh out.”
The depot parking lot was dimly lit by badly maintained streetlamps, casting long shadows over the handful of cars parked there. In the far corner of the lot, a tall man with dirty-blond hair was leaning against the side of a dark blue El Camino, talking on his cell phone. On his bumper was a large blue and white sticker that read, “Howl, Half-Moon Howlers, Howl!” I edged a bit closer and saw that the bottom of his license plate read, “McClure County.”
