Split Second - Catherine Coulter [84]
Sherlock gave her a sloppy grin she didn’t fake. “Yeah, you’re okay, Stephani with an i.” She took a step and nearly fell over a big-haired woman at a table, but Stephani caught her arm again and pulled her back.
“You sure aren’t much of a beer drinker. I’m glad you don’t want to ride that mechanical bull. Look at all those yahoos hooting and hollering and getting tossed on their butts.”
“No bull. I want to ride in my blue Corvette. I sure hope that dip-brain brought her back safe and sound.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sherlock saw Ruth, Dane right behind her. Good, they were following them. She heard a guy yell “Yahoo!” Then hoots of laughter and boos when he went flying off Ivan. The people at the bar looked like they were slowly moving toward the shows on Ivan. Sherlock saw Bruce Comafield toss a bill on the bar counter, force his way through the crowd toward the bathroom and the back door. Sherlock hoped Ollie and Jack were on him. She saw Mrs. Spicer standing frozen in the middle of the bar, a full tray in her hands, customers flowing around her, staring after Sherlock and Kirsten, her face wild with excitement. Thank God, Kirsten hadn’t noticed Santa.
And then Mrs. Spicer yelled over all the noise, “You have a nice evening, all right?”
Not good.
Kirsten froze, her hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm.
Sherlock waggled her fingers in Mrs. Spicer’s direction and said to Kirsten, “Next time maybe I’ll give that mechanized bull a try.” She beamed drunkenly up at Kirsten. She could feel Mrs. Spicer’s eyes fastened on them, prayed Kirsten was too focused on killing her to pay any more attention to Mrs. Spicer.
Sherlock staggered out of the bar in lockstep with Kirsten. Four guys, all of them drunk and laughing and insulting one another, spilled out behind them. They were older, and one of them started singing “Good Night, Irene.”
Sherlock knew she was going to throw up, and she had to act first. Had Kirsten’s other victims felt this sick this fast? She had to hold on, had to. She couldn’t believe it when a big black Pathfinder screeched up to the curb right in front of them and at least a half dozen guys and girls in their early twenties belched out of the behemoth and surrounded them on the sidewalk. Oh, no. Dillon, you can’t get to Kirsten, not with all these drunken happy people in the way.
So it would be just her and Kirsten. Sherlock was leaning heavily on Kirsten’s arm, her steps uneven and jerky. She wondered if she’d be able to take Kirsten down with the cramps coming in vicious waves that made her want to double over. She tasted bile in her throat, and swallowed, once, twice. Soon, she thought, she’d be throwing up her toenails, completely helpless. She knew what to expect, and she hated it.
Hold on; get yourself ready.
“We’re getting there, sweetie. Don’t worry, I’m with you, and I’ll stay with you. Ignore all the drunk hee-haws. Maybe tomorrow you can take me for a nice long drive in that sexy Corvette of yours. Hey, sister, watch where you’re going!”
Sherlock was nearly in Kirsten’s arms, people forcing them closer. She managed to say, “Yeah, that’s a plan. What’s going on here? I can’t believe it, three beers and I want to throw up on my expensive heels.”
CHAPTER 42
The bar doors flew outward again, and more laughing, hooting drunk people spilled out. She didn’t see Dillon or Lucy or Coop, but she couldn’t really see much at all. She was surrounded by merry, mentally debilitated people who had no idea a monster was in their midst.
Sherlock felt her mind floating away, only to have it whip back when the cramps and the nausea struck harder. Through a haze, she saw Mr. Spicer come roaring out of the bar. What was he waving? Good Lord, it was a bat, and he was yelling something. She saw a blur of movement—Mr. Spicer was swinging the bat, mowing through the crowd like a berserker.
I’ve got to act; there’s no more time. Where are you, Dillon? There was