Split Second
Page 74
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Not good.
Kirsten froze, her hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm.
Sherlock waggled her fingers in Mrs. Spicer’s direction and said to Kirsten, “Next time maybe I’ll give that mechanized bull a try.” She beamed drunkenly up at Kirsten. She could feel Mrs. Spicer’s eyes fastened on them, prayed Kirsten was too focused on killing her to pay any more attention to Mrs. Spicer.
Sherlock staggered out of the bar in lockstep with Kirsten. Four guys, all of them drunk and laughing and insulting one another, spilled out behind them. They were older, and one of them started singing “Good Night, Irene.”
Sherlock knew she was going to throw up, and she had to act first. Had Kirsten’s other victims felt this sick this fast? She had to hold on, had to. She couldn’t believe it when a big black Pathfinder screeched up to the curb right in front of them and at least a half dozen guys and girls in their early twenties belched out of the behemoth and surrounded them on the sidewalk. Oh, no. Dillon, you can’t get to Kirsten, not with all these drunken happy people in the way.
So it would be just her and Kirsten. Sherlock was leaning heavily on Kirsten’s arm, her steps uneven and jerky. She wondered if she’d be able to take Kirsten down with the cramps coming in vicious waves that made her want to double over. She tasted bile in her throat, and swallowed, once, twice. Soon, she thought, she’d be throwing up her toenails, completely helpless. She knew what to expect, and she hated it.
Hold on; get yourself ready.
“We’re getting there, sweetie. Don’t worry, I’m with you, and I’ll stay with you. Ignore all the drunk hee-haws. Maybe tomorrow you can take me for a nice long drive in that sexy Corvette of yours. Hey, sister, watch where you’re going!”
Sherlock was nearly in Kirsten’s arms, people forcing them closer. She managed to say, “Yeah, that’s a plan. What’s going on here? I can’t believe it, three beers and I want to throw up on my expensive heels.”
CHAPTER 42
The bar doors flew outward again, and more laughing, hooting drunk people spilled out. She didn’t see Dillon or Lucy or Coop, but she couldn’t really see much at all. She was surrounded by merry, mentally debilitated people who had no idea a monster was in their midst.
Sherlock felt her mind floating away, only to have it whip back when the cramps and the nausea struck harder. Through a haze, she saw Mr. Spicer come roaring out of the bar. What was he waving? Good Lord, it was a bat, and he was yelling something. She saw a blur of movement—Mr. Spicer was swinging the bat, mowing through the crowd like a berserker.
I’ve got to act; there’s no more time. Where are you, Dillon? There was a space, and as she fought off a wave of nausea, Sherlock jerked away from Kirsten’s grasp, whirled back, and struck her hard in the jaw. But there was no leverage behind it, because the world was spinning madly, and she was too close.
She saw Kirsten fall back, slam into a couple of people, who yelled in surprise as they leaped out of the way. She watched her trip and go down with a yell into a guy’s legs.
She heard one of the older guys who’d been belting out Irene’s name yell, “Hey, Redhead, what are you doing? Why’d you knock her down? You nuts?”
Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, managed to pull out her SIG and press the barrel to her mouth. “Hold it right there, Kirsten, party’s over. You’re under arrest.” She knew her words were slurred, and though she wanted to tell her what she was under arrest for—how many women?—she barely managed to call over her shoulder, “Dillon, I’m here. I’ve got her down!”
Had anyone even heard her over the singing, the shouts, the laughter? If they had, had any of them even understood her words?
Kirsten came up on her elbows, stared up at Sherlock. “What? You’re not—”
She knew she was going to heave, and yelled, “Dillon!”
She was weaving over Kirsten, unable to control herself, her SIG a dead weight in her hand, all the people pressing closer. There were shouted questions, angry voices—she heard someone yell, “She’s got a gun!” No more drunken laughter now.
Everything was happening so fast, all in an instant of time, and Kirsten was squirming wildly. Sherlock tried to hit her again, but it wasn’t going to happen. She had to do something before she passed out, but her coordination was shot, the world and all its noise was fading in and out on her now. She managed to grab Kirsten’s head between her hands and slam it against the sidewalk. Kirsten’s eyes went blank; she was out. Thank you, God.
Kirsten froze, her hand tightened on Sherlock’s arm.
Sherlock waggled her fingers in Mrs. Spicer’s direction and said to Kirsten, “Next time maybe I’ll give that mechanized bull a try.” She beamed drunkenly up at Kirsten. She could feel Mrs. Spicer’s eyes fastened on them, prayed Kirsten was too focused on killing her to pay any more attention to Mrs. Spicer.
Sherlock staggered out of the bar in lockstep with Kirsten. Four guys, all of them drunk and laughing and insulting one another, spilled out behind them. They were older, and one of them started singing “Good Night, Irene.”
Sherlock knew she was going to throw up, and she had to act first. Had Kirsten’s other victims felt this sick this fast? She had to hold on, had to. She couldn’t believe it when a big black Pathfinder screeched up to the curb right in front of them and at least a half dozen guys and girls in their early twenties belched out of the behemoth and surrounded them on the sidewalk. Oh, no. Dillon, you can’t get to Kirsten, not with all these drunken happy people in the way.
So it would be just her and Kirsten. Sherlock was leaning heavily on Kirsten’s arm, her steps uneven and jerky. She wondered if she’d be able to take Kirsten down with the cramps coming in vicious waves that made her want to double over. She tasted bile in her throat, and swallowed, once, twice. Soon, she thought, she’d be throwing up her toenails, completely helpless. She knew what to expect, and she hated it.
Hold on; get yourself ready.
“We’re getting there, sweetie. Don’t worry, I’m with you, and I’ll stay with you. Ignore all the drunk hee-haws. Maybe tomorrow you can take me for a nice long drive in that sexy Corvette of yours. Hey, sister, watch where you’re going!”
Sherlock was nearly in Kirsten’s arms, people forcing them closer. She managed to say, “Yeah, that’s a plan. What’s going on here? I can’t believe it, three beers and I want to throw up on my expensive heels.”
CHAPTER 42
The bar doors flew outward again, and more laughing, hooting drunk people spilled out. She didn’t see Dillon or Lucy or Coop, but she couldn’t really see much at all. She was surrounded by merry, mentally debilitated people who had no idea a monster was in their midst.
Sherlock felt her mind floating away, only to have it whip back when the cramps and the nausea struck harder. Through a haze, she saw Mr. Spicer come roaring out of the bar. What was he waving? Good Lord, it was a bat, and he was yelling something. She saw a blur of movement—Mr. Spicer was swinging the bat, mowing through the crowd like a berserker.
I’ve got to act; there’s no more time. Where are you, Dillon? There was a space, and as she fought off a wave of nausea, Sherlock jerked away from Kirsten’s grasp, whirled back, and struck her hard in the jaw. But there was no leverage behind it, because the world was spinning madly, and she was too close.
She saw Kirsten fall back, slam into a couple of people, who yelled in surprise as they leaped out of the way. She watched her trip and go down with a yell into a guy’s legs.
She heard one of the older guys who’d been belting out Irene’s name yell, “Hey, Redhead, what are you doing? Why’d you knock her down? You nuts?”
Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, managed to pull out her SIG and press the barrel to her mouth. “Hold it right there, Kirsten, party’s over. You’re under arrest.” She knew her words were slurred, and though she wanted to tell her what she was under arrest for—how many women?—she barely managed to call over her shoulder, “Dillon, I’m here. I’ve got her down!”
Had anyone even heard her over the singing, the shouts, the laughter? If they had, had any of them even understood her words?
Kirsten came up on her elbows, stared up at Sherlock. “What? You’re not—”
She knew she was going to heave, and yelled, “Dillon!”
She was weaving over Kirsten, unable to control herself, her SIG a dead weight in her hand, all the people pressing closer. There were shouted questions, angry voices—she heard someone yell, “She’s got a gun!” No more drunken laughter now.
Everything was happening so fast, all in an instant of time, and Kirsten was squirming wildly. Sherlock tried to hit her again, but it wasn’t going to happen. She had to do something before she passed out, but her coordination was shot, the world and all its noise was fading in and out on her now. She managed to grab Kirsten’s head between her hands and slam it against the sidewalk. Kirsten’s eyes went blank; she was out. Thank you, God.
