Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [122]
When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at me the way I imagined he looked at petty criminals who were their own worst enemies. “The arson investigator will give us a rational explanation for what just happened, and then maybe you’ll come to your senses. In the meantime . . .” He sighed. “I obviously can’t leave you here alone. So I guess you’d better pack a few things and—”
“No,” I said as I tied the gris-gris bag around my neck. “I have to go see Max.” If the bokor was so determined to kill me that my bed had exploded in flames, then I wanted to make sure I was adequately protected against whatever might be coming next.
Lopez closed his eyes again. After a moment, he let out his breath. “Fine.” He’d evidently run out of energy or will to keep fighting with me about this. “Fine. Let’s go. I’ve got a crime scene to get to.”
He was too much of a gentleman to dash off and leave me to find a cab by myself on Tenth Avenue this late at night, even though I lived here and was often on that street alone after dark. But he avoided my gaze, didn’t touch me, and scarcely spoke to me as we left the apartment and walked out to the main avenue.
The wind was high now, and the moonless sky was pitch black. I put a hand on my skirt to hold it down as the wind tugged at it, and my hair blew around my face. I glanced at Lopez. He was brooding and withdrawn, and he scarcely seemed to notice the wind tugging at his collar or slipping inside his shirt to make the fabric billow away from his skin.
We stood together in silence on Tenth Avenue until he saw an available cab and flagged it down. When it pulled up to the curb, he opened the door and waited for me to get in.
As he was about to close the door behind me, I said, “Lopez?”
He leaned over and peered into the cab. His face was in shadow, hiding his expression. Apparently he could see my expression though. He gave in and said with weary kindness, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Since weary kindness was not what I wanted from him—now or ever—I said, “No, don’t bother.”
“Esther—”
“You were right before,” I said. “We’ve done enough talking.”
I pulled the door closed and gave the driver Max’s address in the West Village. And I resolutely did not look back at the ex-would-be lover who watched the cab pull away from the curb and speed down the windswept avenue.
21
“Holy crap,” Jeff said when I walked into the bookstore. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Huh?”
Max, who was sitting at the old walnut table with a man who I assumed was Frank Johnson, rose to his feet, his expression concerned. “Have you been attacked by the baka again?”
“Attacked? Oh, man!” Frank said, looking panicky.
I blinked. “No.”
Jeff asked, “Did the cop go berserk when he woke up? Did he attack you?”
“What?” I looked down at myself and realized for the first time what an alarming picture I presented at first glance. “Oh! Um, no . . .”
The side of my bodice was hanging open, the remnants of the zipper dangling limply. Part of my skirt had been ripped away from my waistband, and the torn seam gaped open loosely over my hip. There were black smudges of soot all over the dress and my arms. Probably on my face, too.
Recalling how I had gotten into this condition, my skin grew hot with embarrassment as I realized that Lopez might well have left telltale marks on my neck and shoulders. I nervously pulled my loose, tangled hair forward over my shoulders, hoping to cover as much as I could of the skin that my sundress left bare.
I said, “The bokor just tried to kill me.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Frank was on his feet, looking for an exit.
“Hi, I’m Esther,” I said to him.
Max said, “Oh! Pardon me.” He made the introductions.
Frank was exactly as Biko had described him: A thin man, not much taller than I, who wore his hair in twists. I sensed that his speaking voice was probably very appealing under less stressful conditions; right now, though, it was strained and a little shrill.
“I gotta get out of this town!” he said.
“Where’s Lopez?” Jeff asked in confusion.
“He had to go to