I de­ci­ded it was worth a try, and as I tur­ned aro­und, a sle­ek black se­dan sped past the ope­ning to the al­ley. With a sud­den glow of red, the bra­ke lights lit up.

  For re­asons I co­uldn't exp­la­in be­yond in­tu­iti­on, I drew in­to the sha­dows.

  A car do­or ope­ned and the crack­le of gun­fi­re bro­ke out. Two shots. The car do­or slam­med and the black se­dan scre­ec­hed away. I co­uld he­ar my he­art ham­me­ring in my chest, and it blen­ded with the so­und of run­ning fe­et. I re­ali­zed a mo­ment la­ter that they we­re my fe­et, and I was run­ning to the mo­uth of the al­ley. I ro­un­ded the cor­ner and ca­me up short.

  The bag lady's body was in a he­ap on the si­de­walk.

  I rus­hed over and fell on my kne­es be­si­de her. "Are you okay?" I sa­id fran­ti­cal­ly, rol­ling her over. Her mo­uth was aga­pe, her ra­isin eyes hol­low. Dark li­qu­id flo­we­red thro­ugh the qu­il­ted co­at I'd be­en we­aring three mi­nu­tes ago.

  I felt the ur­ge to jump back but for­ced myself to re­ach in­si­de the co­at poc­kets. I ne­eded to call for help, but my cell pho­ne wasn't the­re.

  The­re was a pho­ne bo­oth on the cor­ner ac­ross the stre­et. I ran to it and di­aled 911. Whi­le I wa­ited for the ope­ra­tor to pick up, I glan­ced back at the bag lady's body, and that's when I felt cold ad­re­na­li­ne sho­ot thro­ugh me. The body was go­ne.

  With a shaky hand, I hung up. The so­und of ap­pro­ac­hing fo­ots­teps tap­ped in my ears, but whet­her they we­re ne­ar or far, I co­uldn't tell.

  Clip, clip, clip.

  He's he­re, I tho­ught. The man in the ski mask.

  I sho­ved a few co­ins in­to the pho­ne and grip­ped the re­ce­iver with both hands. I tri­ed to re­mem­ber Patch's cell pho­ne num­ber. Squ­e­ezing my eyes shut, I vi­su­ali­zed the se­ven num­bers he'd writ­ten in red ink on my hand the first day we met. Be­fo­re I co­uld se­cond-gu­ess my me­mory, 1 di­aled the num­bers.

  "What's up?" Patch sa­id.

  I al­most sob­bed at the so­und of his vo­ice. I co­uld he­ar the crack of bil­li­ard balls col­li­ding on a po­ol tab­le in the backg­ro­und, and knew he was at Bo's Ar­ca­de. He co­uld be he­re in fif­te­en, may­be twenty mi­nu­tes.

  "It's me." I didn't da­re push my vo­ice abo­ve a whis­per.

  "No­ra?"

  "I'm in P-Port­land. On the cor­ner of Hemps­hi­re and Nan­tuc­ket. Can you pick me up? It's ur­gent."

  I was hud­dled in the bot­tom of the pho­ne bo­oth, co­un­ting si­lently to one hund­red, trying to re­ma­in calm, when a black Je­ep Com­man­der gli­ded to the curb. Patch slid the do­or to the pho­ne bo­oth open and cro­uc­hed in the ent­ran­ce.

  He pe­eled off his top la­yer-a long-sle­eved black T-shirt- le­aving him in a black un­ders­hirt. He fit the neck­ho­le of the T-shirt over my he­ad and a mo­ment la­ter had my arms pus­hed thro­ugh the sle­eves. The shirt dwar­fed me, the sle­eves han­ging down well past my fin­ger­tips. It ming­led the smells of smo­ke, salt­wa­ter, and mint so­ap. So­met­hing abo­ut it fil­led the hol­low pla­ces in­si­de me with re­as­su­ran­ce.

  "Let's get you in the car," Patch sa­id. He pul­led me up, and I wrap­ped my arms aro­und his neck and bu­ri­ed my fa­ce in­to him.

  "I think I'm go­ing to be sick," I sa­id. The world til­ted, inc­lu­ding Patch. "I ne­ed my iron pills."

  "Shh," he sa­id, hol­ding me aga­inst him. "It's go­ing to be all right. I'm he­re now."

  I ma­na­ged a lit­tle nod.

  "Let's get out of he­re."

  Anot­her nod. "We ne­ed to get Vee," I sa­id. "She's at a party one block over."

  Whi­le Patch dro­ve the Je­ep aro­und the cor­ner, I lis­te­ned to my chat­te­ring te­eth ec­ho aro­und in­si­de my he­ad. I'd ne­ver be­en this frigh­te­ned in my li­fe. Se­e­ing the de­ad ho­me­less wo­man co­nj­ured up tho­ughts of my dad. My vi­si­on was tin­ged with red, and hard as I tri­ed, I co­uldn't flush out the ima­ge of blo­od.

  "We­re you in the mid­dle of a po­ol ga­me?" I as­ked, re­mem­be­ring the so­und of bil­li­ard balls col­li­ding in the backg­ro­und du­ring our bri­ef pho­ne con­ver­sa­ti­on.

  "I was win­ning a con­do."

  "A con­do?"

  "One of tho­se swank ones on the la­ke. I wo­uld ha­ve ha­ted the pla­ce. This is Highs­mith. Do you ha­ve an ad­dress?"

  "I can't re­mem­ber it," I sa­id, sit­ting up tal­ler to get a bet­ter lo­ok out the win­dows. All of the bu­il­dings lo­oked aban­do­ned. The­re was no tra­ce of a party. The­re was no tra­ce of li­fe, pe­ri­od.

  "Do you ha­ve yo­ur cell?" I as­ked Patch.

  He slid a Black­ber­ry out of his poc­ket. "Bat­tery's low. I don't know if it will ma­ke a call."

  I tex­ted Vee. WHE­RE ARE YOU?!

  CHAN­GE OF PLANS, she tex­ted back. GU­ESS J AND E CO­ULDN'T FIND WHAT THEY WE­RE LO­OKING 4. WE'RE GO­ING HO­ME.

  The scre­en dra­ined to black.

  "It di­ed," I told Patch. "Do you ha­ve the char­ger?"

  "Not on me."

  "Vee's go­ing back to Cold­wa­ter. Do you think you co­uld drop me off at her ho­use?"

  Mi­nu­tes la­ter we we­re on the co­as­tal high­way, dri­ving right along a cliff just abo­ve the oce­an. I'd be­en this way be­fo­re, and when the sun was out, the wa­ter was sla­te blue with patc­hes of dark gre­en whe­re the wa­ter ref­lec­ted the everg­re­ens. It was night, and the oce­an was smo­oth black po­ison.

  "Are you go­ing to tell me what hap­pe­ned?" Patch as­ked.

  The jury was still out on whet­her or not I sho­uld tell Patch anyt­hing. I co­uld tell him how af­ter the bag lady tric­ked me out of my co­at, she was shot. I co­uld tell him I tho­ught the bul­let was me­ant for me. Then I co­uld try exp­la­ining how the bag lady's body had ma­gi­cal­ly va­nis­hed in­to thin air.

  I re­mem­be­red the cra­zed lo­ok De­tec­ti­ve Bas­so had di­rec­ted at me when I told him so­me­one had bro­ken in­to my bed­ro­om. I wasn't in the mo­od to get eye­bal­led and la­ug­hed at aga­in. Not by Patch. Not right now.

  "I got lost, and a bag lady cor­ne­red me," I sa­id. "She tal­ked me out of my co­at…" I wi­ped my no­se with the back of my hand and snif­fled. "She got my be­anie, too."

  "What we­re you do­ing all the way out he­re?" as­ked Patch.

  "Me­eting Vee at a party."

  We we­re half­way bet­we­en Port­land and Cold­wa­ter, on a stretch of lush and un­po­pu­la­ted high­way, when ste­am spe­wed sud­denly from the ho­od of the Je­ep. Patch bra­ked, easing the Je­ep to the ro­ad­si­de.

  "Hang on," he sa­id, swin­ging out. Lif­ting the ho­od of the Je­ep, he di­sap­pe­ared out of sight.

  A mi­nu­te la­ter he drop­ped the ho­od back in pla­ce. Brus­hing his hands on his pants, he ca­me aro­und to my win­dow, ges­tu­ring for me to lo­wer it.

  "Bad news," he sa­id. "It's the en­gi­ne."

  I tri­ed to lo­ok in­for­med and in­tel­li­gent, but I had a fe­eling my exp­res­si­on just lo­oked blank.

  Patch ra­ised an eyeb­row and sa­id, "May it rest in pe­ace."

  "It won't mo­ve?"

  "Not un­less we push it."

  Of all the cars, he had to win the le­mon.

  "Whe­re's yo­ur cell?" Patch as­ked.

  "I lost it."

  He grin­ned. "Let me gu­ess. In yo­ur co­at poc­ket. The bag lady re­al­ly cas­hed in, didn't she?"

  He sco­uted the ho­ri­zon. "Two cho­ices. We can flag down a ri­de, or we can walk to the next exit and find a pho­ne."

  I step­ped out, shut­ting the do­or with for­ce be­hind me. I kic­ked the Je­ep's right front ti­re. I knew I was using an­ger to mask my fe­ar of what I'd be­en thro­ugh to­day. As so­on as I was all alo­ne, I'd bre­ak down crying.

  "I think the­re's a mo­tel at the next exit. I'll go c-c-call a cab," I sa­id, my te­eth chat­te­ring har­der. "Y-y-you wa­it he­re with the Je­ep."

  He crac­ked a slight smi­le, but it didn't lo­ok amu­sed. "I'm not let­ting you out of my sight. You're lo­oking a lit­tle de­ran­ged, An­gel. We'll go to­get­her."

  Cros­sing my arms, I sto­od up to him. In ten­nis sho­es, my eyes ca­me le­vel with his sho­ul­ders. I was for­ced to tilt my neck back to me­et his eyes. "I'm not go­ing anyw­he­re ne­ar a mo­tel with you." Best to so­und firm so I was less li­kely to chan­ge my mind.

  "You think the two of us and a slummy mo­tel ma­ke for a dan­ge­ro­us com­bi­na­ti­on?"

  Yes, ac­tu­al­ly.

  Patch le­aned back aga­inst the Je­ep. "We can sit he­re and ar­gue this." He squ­in­ted up at the ri­oto­us sky. "But this storm is abo­ut to catch its se­cond wind."

  As if Mot­her Na­tu­re wan­ted her say in the ver­dict, the sky ope­ned and a thick con­coc­ti­on of ra­in and sle­et ha­iled down.

  I sent Patch my col­dest lo­ok, then blew out an angry sigh.

  As usu­al, he had a po­int.

  CHAPTER 22

  TWENTY MI­NU­TES LA­TER PATCH AND I WAS­HED UP AT the ent­ran­ce to a low-bud­get mo­tel. I had not spo­ken one word to him as we'd jog­ged thro­ugh the sle­eting ra­in, and now I was not only so­aked, but tho­ro­ughly… un­ner­ved. The ra­in cas­ca­ded down, and I didn't think we wo­uld be re­tur­ning to the Je­ep any­ti­me so­on. Which left me, Patch, and a mo­tel in the sa­me equ­ati­on for an un­de­ter­mi­ned amo­unt of ti­me.

  The do­or chi­med on our way in, and the desk clerk sto­od ab­ruptly, dus­ting Che­etos crumbs off his lap. "What'll it be?" he sa­id, suc­king his fin­gers cle­an of oran­ge sli­me. "Just the two of you to­night?"

  "We n-n-ne­ed to bor­row yo­ur pho­ne," I chat­te­red, ho­ping he co­uld ma­ke sen­se of my re­qu­est.

  "No can do. Li­nes are down. Bla­me the storm."

  "What do y-you me­an the Mi­nes are d-down? Do you ha­ve a cell?"

  The clerk lo­oked to Patch.

  "She wants a nons­mo­king ro­om," Patch sa­id.

  I swi­ve­led to fa­ce Patch. Are you in­sa­ne? I mo­ut­hed.

  The clerk tap­ped a few keys at his com­pu­ter. "Lo­oks li­ke we've got… hang on… Bin­go! A nons­mo­king king."

  "We'll ta­ke it," sa­id Patch. He lo­oked si­de­ways at me, and the ed­ges of his mo­uth tip­ped up. I nar­ro­wed my eyes.

  Just then the lights over­he­ad blin­ked out, plun­ging the lobby in­to dark­ness. We all sto­od si­lent for a mo­ment be­fo­re the clerk fumb­led aro­und and clic­ked on an in­dust­ri­al-si­ze flash­light.

  "I was a Boy Sco­ut," he sa­id. "Back in the day. 'Be pre­pa­red.'"

  "Then you m-m-must ha­ve a cell pho­ne?" I sa­id.

  "I did. Un­til I co­uldn't pay the bill any­mo­re." He drew his sho­ul­ders up. "What can I say, my mom's che­ap."

  His mom? He had to be forty. Not that it was any of my bu­si­ness. I was far mo­re con­cer­ned what my mom wo­uld do when she ar­ri­ved ho­me from the re­cep­ti­on and fo­und me go­ne.

  "How do you want to pay?" the desk clerk as­ked.

  "Cash," Patch sa­id.

  The desk clerk chuck­led, bob­bing his he­ad up and down. "It's a po­pu­lar form of pay­ment he­re." He le­aned clo­se and spo­ke in con­fi­den­ti­al to­nes. "We get a lot of folks who don't want the­ir ext­ra­cur­ri­cu­lar ac­ti­vi­ti­es tra­ced, if you know what I me­an."

  The lo­gi­cal half of my bra­in was tel­ling me I co­uldn't ac­tu­al­ly be con­si­de­ring spen­ding the night at a mo­tel with Patch.

  "This is crazy," I told Patch in an un­der­to­ne.

  "I'm crazy." He was on the brink of smi­ling aga­in. "Abo­ut you. How much for the flash­light?" he as­ked the clerk.

  The clerk re­ac­hed be­low the desk. "I've got so­met­hing even bet­ter: sur­vi­val-si­ze cand­les," he sa­id, pla­cing two in front of us. Stri­king a match, he lit one. "They're on the ho­use, no ext­ra char­ge. Put one in the bath­ro­om and one in the sle­eping area and you'll ne­ver know the dif­fe­ren­ce. I'll even throw in the match­bo­ok. If not­hing el­se, it'll ma­ke a go­od ke­ep­sa­ke."

  "Thanks," Patch sa­id, ta­king my el­bow and wal­king me down the hall.

  At ro­om 106, Patch bol­ted the do­or be­hind us. He set the cand­le on the nights­tand, then used it to light the spa­re. Lif­ting his ba­se­ball cap, he sho­ok the ends of his ha­ir li­ke a wet dog.

  "You ne­ed a hot sho­wer," he sa­id. Ta­king a few steps back­ward, he duc­ked his he­ad in­si­de the bath­ro­om. "Lo­oks li­ke bar so­ap and two to­wels."

  I til­ted my chin up a frac­ti­on. "You can't f-for­ce me to stay he­re." I'd only ag­re­ed to co­me this far be­ca­use I didn't want to stand out in the down­po­ur, for one, and I had high ho­pes of fin­ding a pho­ne, for two.

  "That so­un­ded mo­re li­ke a qu­es­ti­on than a sta­te­ment," sa­id Patch.

  "Then ans-s-swer it."

  His ro­gue smi­le crept out. "It's hard to con­cent­ra­te on ans­wers with you lo­oking li­ke that."

  I glan­ced down at Patch's black shirt, wet and clin­ging to my body. I brus­hed past him and shut the bath­ro­om do­or bet­we­en us.

  Cran­king the wa­ter to full hot, I pe­eled out of Patch's shirt and my clot­hes. One long black ha­ir was plas­te­red to the sho­wer wall, and I trap­ped it in a squ­are of to­ilet pa­per be­fo­re flus­hing it. Then I step­ped be­hind the sho­wer cur­ta­in, watc­hing my skin glow with he­at.

  Mas­sa­ging so­ap in­to the musc­les along my neck and down thro­ugh my sho­ul­ders, I told myself I co­uld hand­le sle­eping in the sa­me ro­om as Patch. It wasn't the smar­test or sa­fest ar­ran­ge­ment, but I'd per­so­nal­ly see to it that not­hing hap­pe­ned. Be­si­des, what cho­ice did I ha­ve… right?

  The spon­ta­ne­o­us reck­less half of my bra­in la­ug­hed at me. I knew what it was thin­king. Early on I'd felt drawn to Patch by a myste­ri­o­us for­ce fi­eld. Now I felt drawn to him by so­met­hing en­ti­rely dif­fe­rent. So­met­hing with a lot of he­at in­vol­ved. A con­nec­ti­on to­night was ine­vi­tab­le. On a sca­le of one to ten, that ter­ri­fi­ed me abo­ut an eight. And ex­ci­ted me abo­ut a ni­ne.

  I shut off the wa­ter, step­ped out, and pat­ted my skin dry. One glan­ce at my so­aked clot­hes was all I ne­eded to know I had no de­si­re to put them back on. May­be the­re was a co­in-ope­ra­ted dryer ne­arby… one that didn't re­qu­ire elect­ri­city.1 sig­hed and pul­led on my ca­mi­so­le and pan­ti­es, which had sur­vi­ved the worst of the ra­in.

  "Patch?" I whis­pe­red thro­ugh the do­or.

  "Do­ne?"

  "Blow out the cand­le."

  "Do­ne," he whis­pe­red back thro­ugh the do­or. His la­ugh­ter, too, so­un­ded so soft it co­uld ha­ve be­en whis­pe­red.

  Snuf­fing out the bath­ro­om cand­le, I step­ped out, me­eting to­tal black­ness. I co­uld he­ar Patch bre­at­hing di­rectly in front of me. I didn't want to think abo­ut what he was-or wasn't- we­aring, and I sho­ok my he­ad to frag­ment the pic­tu­re for­ming in my mind. "My clot­hes are so­aked. I don't ha­ve anyt­hing to we­ar."

  I he­ard the so­und of wet fab­ric sli­ding li­ke a squ­e­egee over his skin. "Lucky me." His shirt lan­ded in a wet he­ap at our fe­et.

  "This is re­al­ly awk­ward," I told him.

  I co­uld fe­el him smi­ling. He sto­od way, way too clo­se.

  "You sho­uld sho­wer," I sa­id. "Right now."

  "I smell that bad?"

  Actu­al­ly, he smel­led that go­od. The smo­ke was go­ne, the mint stron­ger.

  Patch di­sap­pe­ared in­si­de the bath­ro­om. He re­lit the cand­le and left the do­or aj­ar, a sli­ver of light stretc­hing ac­ross the flo­or and up one wall.

  I slid my back down the wall un­til I was se­ated on the flo­or, then tip­ped my he­ad aga­inst the wall. In all ho­nesty, I co­uldn't stay he­re to­night. I had to get ho­me. It was wrong to stay he­re alo­ne with Patch, vow of pru­den­ce or not. I had to re­port the bag lady's body. Or did I? How was I sup­po­sed to re­port a va­nis­hed body? Talk abo­ut in­sa­ne-which was the ter­rif­ying di­rec­ti­on my tho­ughts we­re star­ting to go any­way.

  Not wan­ting to dwell on the in­sa­nity idea, I con­cent­ra­ted on my ori­gi­nal ar­gu­ment. I co­uldn't stay he­re kno­wing Vee was with El­li­ot, in dan­ger, when I was sa­fe.

  After a mo­ment's con­si­de­ra­ti­on I de­ci­ded I ne­eded to reph­ra­se that tho­ught. Sa­fe was a re­la­ti­ve term. As long as Patch was aro­und, I wasn't in harm's way, but that didn't me­an I tho­ught he was go­ing to act li­ke my gu­ar­di­an an­gel, eit­her.

  Right away, I wis­hed I co­uld ta­ke back the gu­ar­di­an an­gel tho­ught. Sum­mo­ning up my po­wers of per­su­asi­on, I ba­nis­hed all tho­ughts of an­gels-gu­ar­di­an, fal­len, or ot­her­wi­se-from my he­ad. I told myself I pro­bably was go­ing in­sa­ne. For all I knew, I'd hal­lu­ci­na­ted se­e­ing the bag lady die. And I'd hal­lu­ci­na­ted se­e­ing Patch's scars.

  The wa­ter stop­ped, and a mo­ment la­ter Patch strol­led out we­aring only his wet je­ans han­ging low on his wa­ist. He left the bath­ro­om cand­le lit and the do­or wi­de. Soft co­lor glo­wed thro­ugh the ro­om.

  One qu­ick lo­ok and I co­uld tell Patch cloc­ked se­ve­ral ho­urs a we­ek run­ning and lif­ting we­ights. A body that de­fi­ned didn't co­me wit­ho­ut swe­at and work. Sud­denly I felt a lit­tle self-cons­ci­o­us. Not to men­ti­on soft.

  "Which si­de of the bed do you want?" he as­ked.

  "Uh…"

  A fox smi­le. "Ner­vo­us?"

  "No," I sa­id as con­fi­dently as pos­sib­le un­der the cir­cums­tan­ces. And the cir­cums­tan­ces we­re that I was lying thro­ugh my te­eth.