She was shivering convulsively as they slammed the back door of the squad car, but she was alive. Alive.

  The man was gone from across the street. His coat lay discarded on the sidewalk, flapping like a ghost in the wind.

  “How much did you have to drink?” one of the cops asked her. She tried to talk past the chattering of her teeth.

  “N-n-nothing. H-help me.”

  “We’re going to help you. We’re taking you to the station.”

  “N-no,” she said, and took a deep breath. “T-t-take m-my clothes off.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Velvet

  Velvet played dead until she was sure he was gone, the asshole, the fucking asshole. At least he was a terrible shot. She didn’t even think he’d knicked the leather jacket, though laying on the cold street wasn’t doing much for it, either. She eased up to her knees and winced at the ache in her arm. She’d slammed her elbow when she’d dropped, but it was better than breaking her face again.

  He’d tried to kill her, the asshole. What had he said? Why aren’t you dead yet?

  “Oh, god, the clothes,” she said, and got to her feet. “He poisoned the clothes.”

  She remembered Burt, burning.

  It was definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge. Money or no money, it didn’t matter. She’d hitch a ride, she’d blow a truck driver, anything, anything. She couldn’t stay in this town one more minute.

  She slogged out to the street, keeping to the shadows and watching carefully for any signs of Mr. Julian, the murderous dry cleaner. She was being so careful that she stepped on something thick and metallic, and it slid under her foot with a screech and almost knocked her on her butt. She reached down and picked up the gun Mr. Julian had used to shoot her. Not only was he a lousy shot, he was clumsy, too.

  As she came out on the street, she saw him on the other side, walking with his arm around some woman.

  A date? He’d shot her and then went out on a date? The unbelievable fucker.

  The woman shoved him back and ran. She was wearing a short black leather skirt, a Spandex bodysuit, short boots. She ran right into the path of a cruising cop car.

  “Robby,” Velvet whispered.

  Robby was wearing the poisoned clothes. God, she’d told her to wear them. Her fault. Again.

  Robby fell on the sidewalk in a splash of water. The cops yanked her up, handcuffed her, and shoved her in the back of the prowl car. Mr. Julian left his coat lying on the sidewalk and ran off down the street. Velvet hid in the shadows and watched him go, bit her lip and danced from one foot to the other as the cops secured Robby. God, what could she do? Follow them? How?

  A thin hollow-chested guy came out of the Gearbox and walked over to a gray rusted-out Camaro. As he opened the door, she hurried up to lean casually against the ice-cube cold car fender.

  “Hey. I saw you inside,” she said. He looked surprised—and dazed. He’d had some chemical alterations. “I just had to talk to you.”

  “Yeah?” He licked his lips and looked around, as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him. “Well, uh, hi. So—”

  “Wanna party?”

  The lights in his head were 10-watt bulbs. She was beginning to think she’d have to give him the laundry list, but the switch flipped just as the police car doors slammed and it pulled away from the curb.

  “Sure!” He looked like she’d given him a winning Lotto ticket. “Uh, get in. Sorry, uh, about the mess …”

  He wasn’t kidding. She looked in and saw a mountain of fast food bags in the back, old mail, parking tickets, condom wrappers. She took the gun out of her pocket and pointed it at him. The terror in his eyes scared her.

  “Sorry, buddy, I need your car. Give me the keys.” When he didn’t move, she took a deep breath. “I don’t have time to fuck with you. Give me the keys, or I shoot you and take them.”

  He tossed them over. She caught them one-handed and slid in the driver’s seat. He stepped well back from the car, holding his hands in the air.

  “Sorry!” she yelled, and slammed the door. It creaked and the whole car rattled. The engine cranked sluggishly, then caught with a roar.

  When she looked in the rearview mirror he was running, hands still in the air, toward the Gearbox.

  “Sorry,” she said again, more softly. “I’m always fucking sorry.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Robby

  Robby started to feel warm again after five minutes or so; the blast of the car heater made her sick and dizzy. The cops had given up talking to her, and she’d given up pleading. They didn’t understand.

  They didn’t believe her.

  “Oh, hell, what the—” The car slowed; the back tires slid gently, and the cop corrected without even noticing. “Great. Looters. That’s just what we need tonight.”

  The car coasted to a stop. Robby opened her eyes and saw a hissing curtain of ice; it was falling faster now, building to a hard-packed surface on the street. A truck was overturned in the road, its load of boxes spilled out and broken. People scattered at the sight of the police car, arms full of what looked like shirts.

  Beyond the truck was a dark blue sedan. It was crushed like a beer can. As she watched, paramedics lifted a man onto a gurney. His face was covered with blood. His blue scarf dragged on the pavement behind him.

  “Let me out,” she whispered. Her shoulders ached with the strain of the handcuffs. “I’m serious. Lemme out or I’ll burn up.

  “Yeah, sure, honey. Just sleep it off or something.” The older cop didn’t even look back at her as he got out. A welcome puff of cold air blew back toward her, but it wasn’t enough, she was drying off, she was getting hot again.

  The younger cop turned toward her.

  “You okay?” he asked. She burst into tears. “We’ll be on our way in just a few minutes. Just sit tight.”

  She lay down on the seat, gasping for breath. So hot. She could feel the fire starting where she’d begun to sweat under the leather.

  “Hey!” The younger cop tried to pull her upright. “Hey—”

  He got out and opened the back door.

  She slammed her feet into the door and threw him out of the way, slithered out onto the pavement and launched into a stumbling weaving run. Her boots slipped and slid on the ice, her lungs ached from the shock of freezing air. Ice crystals stung at her face and neck.

  The young cop got up and chased her, shouting. She heard him fall and scream.

  “My leg! I broke my leg!”

  She made it to the opposite side of the street and into the shadows of an alley, charged past a Dumpster and around another corner, another alley, this one littered with paper sacks of garbage. The air stank of urine and rotting fish.

  She stumbled out onto another street, deserted except for a few parked cars. The waving curtain of icy rain swept toward her, and she slumped against a wall and let it soak her.

  She had to get out of the clothes. Had to.

  In the shadow of a boarded-up doorway, three homeless men warmed themselves over a hibachi fueled with old newspapers and magazines. She weaved toward them and stopped, gasping. They didn’t even look up.

  “Help me,” she managed. One of them glanced at her, then back down in to the fire. He added a curling TV Guide to the flames. “Please! Please, you—you—”

  “Can’t hep you,” he said in a high thin voice. “Can’t hep nobody. Git.”

  “I need—do you have—a knife—or—”

  The second homeless man looked up, frowning.

  “I got a knife,” he said, and grinned. His front teeth were worn to thin pegs. “Good knife. Sharp.”

  “Help me get my clothes off.”

  The third man added torn-up strips of USA Today to the hibachi, as if she hadn’t said anything at all.

  “Help me take my clothes off!” she screamed. “Don’t you understand? Take my clothes off!”

  “Been a long time since anybody asked for that,” the second man said to the first. The first nodded thoughtfully. “Been, oh, two year. Yeah?”

  “Yah. Two year. Maybe two an a haf. ’Member, was over on Ellum—”

  She let out a wordless scream of frustration and headed on up the street, into the wind and the bite of the ice.

  “You gonna freeze!” the first man yelled after her, and laughed. “Crazy bitch.”

  A car turned the corner behind her. She tried to run, but her feet couldn’t hold on the ice; she slipped off balance and fell heavily on her side. Her head hit the pavement hard enough to make her vision cloud. When she could see again, a rusty Camaro had eased to a stop next to the curb, and the passenger door was open.

  Velvet reached down and grabbed her under the arms.

  “Help,” Robby whispered. “Help.”

  “What do you think I’m doing?” Velvet asked, and got her in the car. Robby leaned against the door, face against the cold glass, and felt the nausea again. Still too warm. Soon it wouldn’t matter. Nothing could stop it. “Aw, shit, you look like hell.”

  “Dying,” Robby said. Velvet froze in the act of turning the ignition key.

  “It’s the clothes, right? I knew it. It’s the clothes. Listen, it’s okay, I’ll get you home and we’ll get them off—”

  “No time,” she said. “Going to die.”

  “Shit.” Velvet leaned over her and fumbled open the glove compartment. “Flashlight—oh, great, dead batteries—one glove—what the hell is this? Oh, yeah, ice scraper—uh—condoms—”

  She straightened up with a pair of rusty nail scissors.

  “Skirt,” Robby whispered. Velvet yanked the skirt around and found the zipper, slid the leather down Robby’s legs. The bodysuit was the problem—with her hands behind her, she couldn’t get it off. Velvet bit her lip and grabbed one sleeve; she sawed at the Spandex with the nail scissors.

  “Oh, Jesus, it’s like cutting steel or something! Ow!” Velvet wagged her fingers in the cold air. “Hang on, I’m trying—”

  Cold white headlights spilled into the car. Velvet stopped working and looked at Robby, wide-eyed.

  “Uh, did I mention I stole this car? And you, like, escaped from police custody? Maybe we’d better drive.”

  She adjusted the rearview mirror and looked behind her. Her face went chalk-white under its thick layer of makeup and bruises.

  “That ain’t the cops,” she said, and started the car. The second the engine caught, she jammed the accelerator and almost spun out on the ice. “Oh, shit, Robby, we’re in big fucking trouble here.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Velvet

  The car following them was a sky blue Mercedes, and it got close enough for Velvet to see the rabbity sweating face of the driver.

  Mr. Julian. Jesus, didn’t the guy know when to quit?

  The Mercedes spun out on Commerce, whirling around gracefully three times before it broadsided a light pole. Velvet kept driving as fast as she dared, and lost sight of him when she took another left.

  “Where’re we going?” Robby asked. Velvet risked a look at her. She looked—dead. Pale, sick, sweating. It was the fucking clothes, and she couldn’t stop to get them off. Not yet.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Velvet answered. “West. I’ll know when we get there.”

  She blasted through a red light and came out on the far side of Interstate 35, hung a left on Industrial. Not a great neighborhood, but deserted. She liked it. She’d just go under I-30 toward the open-all-night adult video place and—

  The Camaro died. Just like that. Sputtered and choked and hacked and died on her. It coasted to a stop and slid a little sideways. She pounded on the steering wheel and screamed.

  It was out of gas. Trust her to steal a car on empty.

  “Velvet?” Robby sounded worse than she looked. “Hot. Help.”

  “Yeah, okay, sure.” Velvet grabbed the nail scissors and got out, ran to Robby’s side and dragged her out. She left the Camaro sitting in the street, both doors open, and half-carried, half-guided Robby to the side.

  Robby pointed right in front of them, at a chain link fence, a collection of round squatty huts, skeletal machines, and piles of rock and sand.

  “There?” Velvet squinted at the rusty sign. “Highway Department. Why the hell not?”

  The gates were open, and the lights were on in one of the huts, but it was locked. She banged on the door, kicked it in frustration when nobody answered.

  “They’re all out icing the roads. Shit. Shit! Here, let’s work on this.” She wiggled the nail scissors back under Robby’s sleeve again and began to cut. It was slow work, and her fingers cramped with cold and pressure. Robby’s shivering got worse. “How you doing, kid? You with me?”

  “Y-y-yes. F-f-f-eel better.” She didn’t look better, she looked frostbitten. Velvet cut through the last inch of Spandex on the sleeve and got Robby’s arm free.

  It was covered with a raw-looking red rash. She transferred the scissors to the other sleeve and started sawing.

  There were still a few cars moving—one was coming slowly down Industrial. Velvet watched the approaching lights nervously as she cut. She freed Robby’s left arm, grabbed the bodysuit in front and back, and rolled it down.

  Robby’s skin was flushed red all over, like a terrible sunburn. She’d worn a pair of panties, no bra. Velvet wadded up the Spandex and tossed it in a trash barrel, stripped off her coat, and wrapped it around Robby’s shivering bare shoulders. Nothing she could do about the handcuffs yet.

  “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay now. You’re okay.”

  Robby sank down on the ground, still shivering.

  “Thought I was dying,” she said. Velvet sat down next to her and huddled close for warmth.

  “Yeah, I’d want to die if I had a rash like that.” She watched the car’s headlights slow and stop be-hind the Camaro. “I hope to hell that’s not the cops.”

  It wasn’t. It was a Mercedes, sky blue.

  Velvet grabbed Robby’s elbow and squeezed.

  “Stay low and follow me.”

  The highway guys had driven out every truck except one at the far end of the yard—it had a full load of sand, but one tire was flat. She slithered underneath and pulled Robby after her. She couldn’t see Julian anywhere.

  “What’re you doing?” Robby hissed. Velvet tried the truck’s door. It opened. The dome light came on.

  “Shit! Get in there!”

  She boosted Robby into the cab and climbed in after her, slammed the door, and locked it. Robby twisted and tried to push the button down on her side with her head; the coat slid off her shoulders.

  “Could you—”

  Velvet readjusted the coat and reached across to press the lock. Outside, everything was quiet, nothing moving. No sign of Mr. Julian, except for the blue Mercedes parked on the road behind the Camaro.

  “Now what?” Robby’s breath made a thick white cloud in the still cold air.

  “I’m thinking!” Velvet slapped herself on the side of the head. “The gun! The gun’s in your pocket!”

  “Gun …” Robby twisted as Velvet dug in the coat’s pockets. She came up with the automatic and smiled in triumph. “You can’t just—”

  “Oh, fuck that. He tried to kill me.”

  Something slammed into the back window, shattering it into a thousand glittering pieces; Velvet screamed and threw up her hands to cover her head; the gun fell to the floor. She hit some button on the dash, and the engine started up with a grinding roar. Cold air blasted out of the vents. Robby curled into a ball on the seat.

  Mr. Julian reached through the ruin of the back window and unlocked the door on Velvet’s side. She lunged for the gun on the floorboards, but it skittered away under Robby’s feet.

  The door jerked open. As Velvet got her fingers on the gun, an iron bar slammed into her arm. She screamed so loud she almost didn’t hear the bone break, but she felt it, all right, felt it even more when Julian grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her out of the truck. He hit her again, this time in the side. She fell flat and rolled, and the bar hit gravel instead of her head, where he’d aimed. She rolled under the truck and crawled desperately for the other end of the truck. Where the hell was he? Getting Robby? Beating her? Shit, shit—

  She crawled out under the truck’s bed and rolled to her knees.

  He came around the truck and swung the iron bar again. She overbalanced to avoid it and fell flat on her back. He grabbed her ankle and pulled, grinning. Winning.

  “You fucker!” she screamed, and kicked at him. Useless. He stepped back, breathing in deep foggy gasps, and raised the bar over his head.

  The truck made a deafening skull-grinding beeping noise. Julian looked up, startled, just as the first wave of sand spilled out.

  It didn’t seem like much until the second wave hit, deep enough to come up to Julian’s knees, deep enough to cover Velvet’s head. She clawed her way to a sitting position and tried to get up. The sand dragged like little hands.

  The third wave knocked her flat. She tried to scream, but sand was everywhere, in her mouth, her nose, a dusty flat smell in the back of her throat. The weight crushed her.

  Her good hand clawed for the surface and found cold air.

  Found warm skin. She grabbed on and pulled blindly.

  It was Robby’s elbow she’d grabbed. Velvet spat sand and gagged and blinked enough to see Robby sitting spread-eagled on top of the sandpile, naked except for a thin pair of panties, hands still cuffed behind her.

  “What—” Velvet choked and coughed, sand spraying in ripples under her chin. “What the fuck did you do?”

  “Pulled every lever I could find,” Robby said. She looked dazed and apologetic. “I couldn’t get the gun. I tried.”

  A man’s foot, still in an expensive leather shoe, poked out of the sand near Velvet’s face. It trembled two or three times, then went still.

  “Honey,” Velvet whispered, “you did just fine. Just fine.”

  With another tug on Robby’s arm, she dragged herself out of the sand and gave the woman a big long one-armed hug, never mind the red lacy rash all over Robby’s body. Pain had made her strangely happy. Velvet found her coat near the truck and draped it back over Robby’s shoulders and hugged her close for warmth, rocking a little.