The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [30]
This makes me suspicious. “Why would you do that?”
He considers me. “You’ve heard of common human decency, right?”
“Heard of it. Haven’t seen much lately.” I think of the men who killed my father. Of the screaming in the suburban streets. Of the girl in the Subaru, ready to shoot me without a qualm. Of the leather-clad man who killed that man and his little boy.
“It still exists, my friend.”
His voice brings me back to the freeway. I think of Gus, sitting in his son’s house, waiting to die. “I guess it does.”
“So? Want a ride?”
I consider my options. I can keep walking and maybe run into someone like that leather-clad guy or, worse, some government thugs, or I can take a detour back to the ’burbs and maybe actually make it to the city in one piece. I peer into the car. It looks warm. “Okay. Deal.”
We both hear it at the same time: a low thrum far off, the sound of an engine.
“Crap. Get in, fast.” The passenger-door lock clicks.
I don’t have to be told twice. I hop the cement barrier, and so does Tank. There’s room for him in the backseat, and I stash my backpack there too. Before I have the door all the way closed, the guy is accelerating. It’s blissfully warm inside the car; the heater is going and the fans are blowing out toasty air.
“Name’s Morton Caruthers.” The guy laughs, a ratchety sound. “I know. A very stupid name for a very rich man. Not that that will matter for much longer. The rich part, I mean. Money’s gonna be as worthless as, well, as the dollar.”
“I’m Nick.” I pick up a roll of toilet paper from the center console. “So this is your white flag, huh?”
“It’s all I had handy. I’ve got the trunk stuffed with it—my theory is it will be as valuable as gold soon.”
“Really?”
He smirks. “Nah. I just don’t want to have to wipe my ass with leaves. Listen, Nick. Want to keep an eye on the back so I can drive faster?”
“Sure.” I twist in my seat so I can see out the rear window. “Nothing back there yet.”
Morton floors it and the sedan surges forward like a stallion, strong and steady. He smiles. “Always did love this machine.”
I look around. Leather everything, with brushed chrome accents. A sound system so fancy I don’t even recognize the brand. “Rich, huh?”
“Oh, yes. Filthy rich. Made a lot of money buying shares of the right stuff and selling before it became the wrong stuff. But like I said, it’s meaningless now, or it will be soon enough. And of course I was not one of those survival buffs. So I don’t have a bunker filled with emergency supplies.”
“Bummer.” I check the rear window. “So what’s your plan?”
“Head south. As far south as I can get, because it’s a little warmer. Try to stay out of the way of the wackos. And hope that somebody somewhere is working on the situation.”
It doesn’t sound like a very good plan to me. But I don’t even have a plan at all, beyond finding Lara, so who am I to talk? “Who are you checking on, before you go?”
“Nadine.” Morton doesn’t say anything more until we’re off the freeway, in a neighborhood not so different from my own.
Chapter 17
Morton pulls into the driveway of a deserted-looking split level. He lets the car idle and stares at the house, frowning.
“Shit. I thought it was 2523, but this doesn’t look right.” Morton gestures toward the glove box. “Can you get in there, please, Nick? There’s a paper with an address.”
I find it, a scrap of notebook paper in an otherwise empty glove box. “It says 2528. Humbuld Street.” I stretch to see the corner sign. We’re on Humbuld.
“Right.” Morton backs down the driveway. Across the street, a few houses down, is a brick colonial with brass numbers: 2528. We pull into the driveway.
“Yep. This is it.” He turns to me. “I suggest we stick together.”
“We’re going in there?” The house looks safe enough. The whole neighborhood looks safe enough. There are working streetlights and everything is quiet. But there’s an odd, deserted look to all the houses. I don’t see any lights on inside any of them at all, even though the streetlights attest to a