Gin Palace 01 - The Poisoned Rose

got to get out of here.” I glanced at her torn shirt. “Do you have a jacket somewhere around here?”
    “No.”
    I was wearing an unbuttoned denim shirt over a dark T-shirt. I took the denim shirt off and swung it around her shoulders quickly. She held it tight around herself, covering herself up. I smelled her sweat and a sweet, citrus perfume.
    “Did you have a purse with you, did you drop anything?”
    “No.”
    “You’re sure.”
    She nodded her head quickly. Her features were a blur in the dark. Her mouth was hanging open slightly, almost dumbly. “Yes.”
    “We can’t leave behind anything they could use to identify us.”
    “I didn’t have anything.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you hurt?”
    “No.”
    “Can you walk?” She was frozen, her muscles locked tight. She held her shoulders high and was all but rooted to the ground.
    “I think so.”
    “All right, let’s get out of here.”
    “I think I’m going to be sick.”
    “Not now. Suck it up.”
    Voices were coming from the lot behind the police station. I heard keys jingle and hurried footsteps.
    I put my hand over Tina’s mouth. Her eyes went wide. I held my index finger up to my own lips, locked eyes with her to make certain she understood, then took her by the hand and led her along the path that wound around the library to Job’s Lane.
    We stopped by the front of the building, out of sight, and knelt down. I had her slip her arms into the sleeves of the shirt and button it up. I checked up and down the street, and then we rose and walked as casually as we could up Job’s Lane. We rounded the corner onto Main Street and walked to my car. I had my arms on her shoulders and looked around as we went. I saw nobody.
    We hurried into my car and I cranked the ignition till the motor caught. Then we backed from the curb onto Main Street. I shifted into gear and eased up to the traffic light at the corner of Main and Job’s Lane.
    As we waited for the light to turn green, I looked back in my rear view mirror toward the Village Hall. I searched for signs of commotion. But there were none. I glanced to my right, down Job’s Lane. No motion there, nothing to be seen but a few cars parked down the block, outside the Driver’s Seat.
    The light changed and I eased down the accelerator and made the left-hand turn onto Meeting House Lane. We rode the side streets back to the Hansom House. It was less than a mile, and I obeyed every traffic law there was along the way.
    Tina sat still in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead. She said nothing. Her fingers were long and bony, and her hands shook as if from a killing cold.
    She sat at my kitchen table with a pint glass of cold green tea in her still-shaking hands. She had yet to take a sip from it. I doubted she even knew she was holding it. I was behind her, leaning against my kitchen doorway with my arms folded across my chest. I watched her. I knew a person in shock when I saw one. I thought of the night Augie and I were attacked, remembered how I just stood there with the Maglite in my hand, unable to let go of it, unable to do anything except stare at Augie in the darkness.
    Maybe five minutes passed before Tina’s head moved suddenly, like someone waking up from a bad dream. She looked around the kitchen, startled. Finally she turned and spotted me behind her.
    “You’re okay,” I told her. She was looking over her shoulder at me. Her eyes were gray and a little more focused now. Her mouth was still hanging open slightly, but there was a look of alarm on her face now, so she was no longer dumbstruck, finally aware—or becoming aware—of her surroundings.
    I moved from the doorway and sat across the small table from her. She turned her head and kept her eyes on me the whole way.
    “You’re okay,” I said again.
    She stared at me, said finally, “You’re name’s Mac, isn’t it?”
    I nodded. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
    She took two breaths before answering. “I came home from school a few months ago and you were passed out on our couch.”
    I had no memory of that. “Oh,” I said.
    “My father told me you were his friend.”
    “I am.” I kept my voice low, just above a whisper. She matched my tone.
    “Is he here?”
    “No.”
    “He said he was going to meet you tonight.”
    “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” I said. I was trying to convince myself of this as much as trying to assure her.
    “I need to see him.”
    “I know. You’re okay for