Blood of the Reich

4

Seattle, United States

September 4, Present Day

F rozen foods guy rolled off Rominy and hauled her upward with arms around her rib cage, breasts lifted, delicacy ignored. “I tried to warn you but you kept moving away,” he said. “I feared they’d try this.”

“What happened?”

“You almost died.”

A contact had popped out. People were beginning to shout and run. In the distance she could hear sirens. Christ, it was downtown Baghdad. Her head, hands, and knees hurt and the bastard had just about crushed her torso. Her purse had spilled. “Who are you?” Rominy’s voice was thick.

“At the moment, the only friend you have.” He pulled on her arm. “Come on.”

She shook loose. “Let go of me!”

He grabbed her again, persistent and impatient. His fingers hurt as they clamped. “Come on, if you don’t want us both to die!”

“My purse.”

Holding her by one arm with an iron grip, he stooped to scoop things into her handbag and brought it up, tucking it under his arm. “Good catch. We don’t want to give them more information than they already have.” Then, dragged by his pull, she began to stagger away from the wreckage of her car. People hung back, bewildered. Someone’s cart had spilled and bright oranges spotted the pavement. The air didn’t just have a smoky smell, it had a chemical taste, and she realized her teeth ached from clenching. Her assailant, or savior, was pushing her toward a banged-up Ford pickup that was nothing like her late, lamented dream mobile. She clutched her arms to her aching torso. All her energy had been sapped by the shock of the explosion.

“Are you abducting me?” she asked dully.

“I told you, I’m rescuing you.” He shoved her into the cab, pushing on her butt without apology, and the door slammed shut. She looked at it foggily, trying to decide if she should flee. Her body felt sluggish.

“Rescuing me from what?” she asked as he climbed in the driver’s side.

He threw her purse into her lap. “Don’t you mean from whom?” He started the engine. The pickup was a stick shift like her MINI Cooper. Everything was a dream.

“Wait.” She looked outside. Blue lights were coming fast. “Police!”

He pulled away from the curb. “They can’t help.” He sounded grim.

The pickup swerved to let a fire truck pass and then accelerated. It was old enough to have locking knobs on the door by the window, but hers was missing. Had he locked her in? She tried the door handle and her heart sank. The lever jiggled uselessly. This was her worst nightmare. She was an idiot, a victim.

“Listen, I know you’re freaked out,” Frozen Foods said. “I am, too. I didn’t know they’d go this far. This whole thing is a royal mess. I just want to give us a little space in case the skinheads are hanging. Look behind. Are we being followed?”

Rominy looked out the dirty rear cab window. There was a gun rack behind: classic rural Washington. Was her rescuer, or kidnapper, from some gawd-awful backwoods Deliverance den like Twisp or Mossyrock? There was a chrome toolbox that spanned the width of the pickup bed, and surely there’d be a chain saw inside. Or maybe Leatherface here kept it back home in his creepy cabin.

“How would I know?” She had a headache.

“Any tough-looking guys with shaved heads?”

She looked. Following windshields seemed opaque. No, there was a driver… but with big hair, as puffed as a TV anchoress doing a storm report.

“No.”

Her head was beginning to clear, and she was in the one place she’d vowed never to be, locked in a vehicle with a stranger hurtling toward god-knew-where. She had no weapon, no clue, no… wait.

She did have her purse again. Frozen Foods guy had made a mistake. Hallelujah. Cell phone, car keys-now useless, she realized with sorrow-Tic-Tacs, a tissue packet, lipstick she rarely used, ChapStick she did, compact with mirror, business cards of her own, business cards of boring software clients she’d immediately forgotten and had failed to file, a packaged condom with an embarrassingly old shelf date, a wallet with thirty-two dollars (she had been going to get twenty more on her debit card at Safeway), forgotten souvenir wristband from a Dave Matthews concert, glasses…

She popped out her other contact and put on the spectacles. Her sight hadn’t been lost after all. Somewhere in there was a comb with a wicked pointed handle. Nail clippers. Loose earrings with a tip; she had inserted studs for shopping and brought along the others in case Erica texted about Happy Hour.

A veritable arsenal.

Frozen Foods glanced at her. “You wear glasses.”

“Duh.”

“They look nice.”

She regarded him with disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I mean…” He looked impatient but also somewhat intriguingly frustrated. Was he frightened, too? “Look, we’re going to be friends, okay?”

“The pickup door won’t open.”

“It’s an old truck.”

“Stop and let me out.”

“It’s not safe.”

“I can’t even roll down the window.”

“Give me a chance, Rominy.” It was a plea, not a threat.

She took a breath. “Tell it to the cops.” She pulled out her cell phone. How did he know her name?

“If you dial that, they’ll track us.”

“Who will track us?”

“The guys who blew up your car.”

“And who are they?” Her finger was poised.

“Men who are looking into your past like I have.”

“I don’t have a past worth looking into.”

“I’m afraid you do. I’m an investigator.”

“Is that why you have a gun?”

“What? I don’t have a gun. Wish I did, right now.”

“I saw it on your waist. In the grocery store.”

“This?” He pulled his jacket aside. “It’s my cell phone. What, you think I’m a dick? A private eye?”

“More along the lines of a serial killer. And where’s the twelve-gauge to fit into the gun rack here?”

“I’m a reporter for the Seattle Times. Investigative journalist with low pay, stingy budget, and an eye for a Ford pickup deal when he sees one. She’s a beast when I punch the gas, though I pay for her eight cylinders at the pump. The environmental writer gives me hell.” He held out his hand. “Jake Barrow. Harmless, when I’m not behind a typewriter. Or, well, terminal.”

She didn’t shake his hand but set her phone in her lap, still gripping it. “You tackled me like a linebacker.”

“You’re not the first girl to complain about my lack of finesse. Look, I’m new at this, too.”

“New at what?”

“Hiding from the bad guys.”

“What bad guys? And why are you looking into my past?” Her fist curled around her comb. How could she get out? Stab and climb over him at a stoplight, maybe. Make a scene. Holler. Anything but wait like a nitwit. Did she have the courage? Did he deserve her doubt?

He glanced, as if to seek alliance.

But then he accelerated up an on-ramp, merging into crowded Interstate 5 heading north, and took a breath, hesitating. She glanced back. The Space Needle was receding like some signpost to reality, Lake Union shimmering like a mirage.

“Because you’re not really Rominy Pickett.”