The Nightworld - Jack Blaine [52]
“Lara.” I don’t want to have this talk, but I feel like we have to do it. She looks at me, all traces of laughter gone, almost as though she knows what I’m going to say. “We need to be safe. I think it would be better if you would just let me take the lead sometimes, just until we know what we’re dealing with.” I think it’s a good start. But when I look at her face, I can tell I’ve just made a big mistake.
“Are you talking about back there, when you wanted me to wait for you while you made sure the place was safe for li’l ol’ me?”
Yep. Big mistake.
“Because I can tell you right now, Nick, that will not fly. I am not some little girl you can order around, and I am not going to wait back at the fucking ranch while you go make sure everything’s safe on the prairie or whatever the hell . . .”
I can’t help laughing just a little, but Lara doesn’t think it’s funny. “Look, I get it.” I try for a conciliatory tone. “I know we’re equal, blah blah blah. It’s not about that. It’s just about . . .”
“About what?” She is ready to throw down.
I shrug. “I just worry about you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” I have never meant anything more. She seems to know it too. Her expression goes from furious to soft.
“Okay. I get that. Because I feel the same way about you.” She looks down for a minute, but then she looks up, fierce, and meets my eyes. “But from now on, we go in together, wherever we go. Because I worry about you too, and me waiting around while you play at some idea that you can keep me safe? That’s not going to work.”
“Deal,” I say. There’s nothing else to say, really. She’s right. I probably can’t protect her. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try. Lara seems mollified, and we finish our meal in a more companionable silence. I keep my hand cupped over the flashlight even though I don’t think it illuminates anything past the van’s dark hulk. As I’m drinking the last of the water, we hear it.
It’s distant, but I know it won’t be for long. An engine. Who knows what kind, maybe a truck, maybe that car I saw on my way into the city, driven by a crazy man with a gun. I kill the flashlight and take Lara’s hand. We huddle as close to the roof of the van as we can. We look at each other—her eyes reflect the dread she must see in mine. Tank stays with us; he seems to know something’s wrong. Lara puts her free arm around him and holds him.
The engine gets louder and louder, closer and closer. It must not have a muffler; it feels like the noise is actually going to assault us. As the volume increases, I can feel fear buzzing up my spine. It’s like we’re waiting for some huge fist to make impact, and my reflexes are telling me to duck. I think I actually do duck, just a little, when the thing passes where we are. As it passes, I don’t feel relieved. Instead I imagine the sound of the motor, sputtering to a stop just a few yards past us. I imagine the driver looking back, wondering what it was he saw—a movement? A glint from our motorcycle? I see him reaching for a gun, backing up, scanning the wrecked cars for life.
None of that happens. The vehicle passes us and keeps on going. After a minute or so, we can’t even hear it anymore. I can feel my body relax. Lara takes a deep breath and lets it out.
“Let’s get going,” she says.
We get Tank strapped back into the sidecar, and Lara digs an extra shirt out of her pack to put on under her jacket. It really is cold, and having the wind whip through us while we’re on the bike doesn’t help. It strikes me that Tank might be cold too. I rummage through my own pack; I threw one of the afghans from the couch in Lara’s apartment in there. I wrap it around Tank, tucking in his toes. A few strategic adjustments of the strapping holding him in, and he’s snug and warm. He looks up at me, and I can see in his eyes he’s more comfortable. When I turn around, Lara is watching me, smiling. She tilts her head at me, and it seems like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t. She just smiles wider and motions