Greywalker - Kat Richardson [30]
“With my luck it’ll turn out to be just the right size to fit between the toilet and the sink. It’s ugly, but it sort of . . . talks to me.”
“Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk to strangers? And I doubt they come much stranger than this bit.”
“Talking to strangers is what I do, and the stranger the better.”
He laughed, and the round, brandy-rich tones rolled over me like velvet blankets, sending an electric jolt of lust down my spine. His eyes sparkled as he laughed, deepening the sketch of wrinkles at their corners. I revised my mental estimate of his age to between thirty-five and forty. I also added, sexy. And I was in trouble.
“Well, you’re certainly standing in the right place for strange.” He chuckled. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Ingstrom and look for you tomorrow. All right?”
“That would be great. I appreciate it.”
He gazed down at me with a half smile, then shook himself. “Mind’s wandering, I guess. I’d better finish locking up. Would you like a guide to the door or can you blaze your own trail through the maritime wilderness?”
I blushed again, for some reason. “I can manage.”
He grinned. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
I started walking backward, smiling like an idiot, before common sense reminded me that eyes should be pointed in the direction of travel. I shrugged the jacket up around my neck and turned, hurrying toward the front.
I heard Novak call out behind me. “Hey, Mikey! Unlock for this lady, will ya?”
An answering shout: “Michael! Not Mikey, you attenuated stick insect! No waffles for you!”
As I got to the desk, I saw that Michael was grinning the same grin as William Novak. He unlocked the walk-door in the larger rollaway door for me. “See you tomorrow, right?”
“You bet,” I answered as I stepped through.
He waved to me as I started across the gravel.
The rain was taking a breather, as it often does, now coming down as just a fine drizzle, wetter and fresher than the dry, uncanny mist with its accompanying vertigo and unpleasant reek of dead things. The moist, uneven ground slithered under my feet as I made my way across the now mostly empty lot. All the cars were gone except my Rover, a bland sedan, and a recent-model pickup. The car was just starting to pull out of the lot as I got near my truck. Headlights swept over me and I put my head down to avoid the glare.
The gravel crushed and clattered under the sedan’s tires with a screech from the clutch and a roar of the engine. It was loud. And getting louder. I glanced toward it, blinded by the headlights, but neither deaf nor stupid. The car hurtled toward me.
TEN
Screwed, big-time. The car was a blur of headlights in motion toward me, safety just too far away. My fingers, under my jacket, hooked round the pistol grip. I pushed myself sideways, through thickened air . . . through fear, with a runaway-elevator sensation as I dropped . . . dropped . . . and fell . . . through coiling fog stinking of rot . . . and landed rolling. A hot gust, like the breath of a monster, blasted into my face and body, shoving against me as the car churned past. Wet gravel slashed my leather jacket, stung my cheek.
I dug my toes in and crouched, leveling the pistol.
No safe, clear shot. The car fishtailed out of the lot and turned onto the access road. I spun, lunging to my feet, slamming the gun back into the holster, snatching truck keys from my pocket. I dashed to the Rover, fumbled the lock. By the time I was in the driver’s seat, the sedan was out of sight . . . last seen joining the stream of headlights on Aurora Avenue North.
I yelled and pounded the steering wheel. “Damn it! Damn it!”
I slumped back into the seat, shoved my hand through my hair, and vibrated for a minute or so as the adrenaline dispersed. Then I got back out of the Rover and went to retrieve my bag. I felt like I’d had too much to drink or not enough, shaking a little and shuddery in the knees. I stuffed spilled items into the bag and trudged back to