SANDY GREENE: DV
PAT PARNELL: Carl Billings, sf
HANK NANCE: Jan, Mar, Jul
Casey couldn’t make sense of Evan’s shorthand notes. The one obviously indicated months—but what about them? The months beside Hank Nance didn’t match up with the photos Evan had—the photos came from much later. And the SF by Carl Billings’ name—what was that supposed to mean? Death would probably suggest it meant Safety First.
Casey’s eyes drooped, and her headache had worsened. She piled the papers and slid them back into the plastic bag, deciding she wouldn’t be able to retain any new information even if she found it. After checking outside again for signs of life—well,
It didn’t take more than a few minutes for her body to give up the fight to stay awake.
Chapter Six
She woke with a start. It was dark. So dark she couldn’t see the other end of the shed. Noises came from outside—the sound of tires on gravel. Not heavy tires, like a tractor, but something lighter. The sounds stopped briefly, then resumed, accompanied by footsteps.
“Here they come!” Death’s breath hissed in her ear.
Casey eased silently to her feet, her brain instantly clear of fuzziness. “Here comes who?” Her muscles tingled and her breath deepened, her senses on hyper alert. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness, and she watched the outline of two bicycles and their riders enter the shed. The people kicked the stands to prop up the bikes, not speaking, or even whispering. Casey waited, hands loose at her sides, balanced on the balls of her feet.
Death watched, quiet now, but so close Casey could feel the chill.
The taller of the two shadows turned toward Casey and jumped back, grabbing toward the other.
“Who are you?” The taller one’s voice—a man’s, Casey thought—was husky, and quiet.
“Nobody,” Casey said.
Death chuckled.
“What do you want?” The second figure. Female, this time.
“I was just sleeping. I didn’t take anything.”
The taller one hesitated, but the female stepped forward, her eyes narrowed in the darkness. “There’s nothing here to take.”
More sounds came from the outside, and three additional people came in the door, halting when they saw the postures of the first two.
“What’s wrong?” Another female voice.
The tall one gestured toward Casey. “We have a guest.”
All three new people turned to Casey, one of them flicking on a flashlight and shining it in her face. “What do you want?”
They were very concerned with that.
Casey held up a hand to shield her eyes. “A place to sleep. That’s all.”
The one with the flashlight ran the light up and down Casey’s body, taking in the burlap bed at her feet. Death struck a pose as the flashlight came near, but the light went straight through, illuminating only the wall of the shed.
“What’s your name?” The first female again—a teenager, if Casey was seeing correctly.
“Casey.”
“Casey what?”
Casey hesitated. “Jones.” With a pang she thought of Eric, from back in Clymer, Ohio. She’d told him Smith, and he’d immediately equated it with Jones, yet another anonymous name. She should probably just go ahead and use Doe.
This girl seemed to believe Jones as much as Eric had believed Smith. “Terry, close the door.”
One of the last three—a guy this time—pulled the sliding door, and with a grunt shut off the only exit to the outside.
Casey remembered the broom with the cracked handle, as well as the iron implements hanging behind her. Plenty of weapons, but one against five? Only if she took them by surprise. And she didn’t exactly like the idea of beating up teenagers.
“Sheryl, can you light us up, please?” the first girl said.
The second girl handed her flashlight to another person and lit a match, holding it up to the oil lamp Casey had seen earlier. It cast a glow over the center of the shed, leaving the corners shadowed.
The teenagers looked like any group of kids. The girls were both slim, within an inch or two of Casey’s height. The second one, who had lit the lamp, was fair, freckled, and pretty; the other, who seemed to be the leader of the group, had dark hair, her skin pale in the light. While she wasn’t a traditional beauty, she was striking, and Casey could feel her charisma and focus. Casey wondered if the girl’s hair was naturally dark, or if it had had help from a bottle. Her fingernails, painted black, had Casey leaning toward the direction of cosmetics.
The boys were about as different from each other as they could be. The first was tall, thick, and handsome, his mouth partway open as he stared. His elevator didn’t look to be stopping at all the floors. The second boy was shorter—as short as the girls, light-haired, and thin—and cute as a hormonal button. More with-it, definitely, than the tall boy. The third one was still growing into his face, his ears and nose larger than what might be required, and his body hung softer and rounder than the others.
Death wandered toward the lamp and stopped at its base, blowing at the flame. It flickered, but didn’t go out.
“This is our place,” the tall guy said.
Casey held out her hands in a placating gesture. “I’ll go. I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes. I just needed a place to sleep.”
“Wait.” The first girl came closer, studying Casey’s clothes. “You don’t look so good.”
Death laughed. “Told you so.”
“Where are you from?”
Casey held her non-threatening stance. “I’m just traveling through. I can leave.”
“No. Hold on.” The girl nodded to the guy holding the flashlight—Terry, had the girl called him? “You bring the usual?”
“Sure. Everybody’s favorite.”
Oh, great. A teenage drinking party. Or something worse. Casey let her hands drop. “Look. I’ll just go, okay?”
“No. Stay.” The girl gave a little smile. “I’m Bailey. Bailey Jones.”
Casey checked a laugh. “Nice to meet you, Bailey. Are we related?”
“Probably, if we go back far enough. That’s Johnny.” She pointed at the tall one. “Sheryl, Martin, and Terry.” She indicated the pudgy one. “Terry’s got the goods. Martin?”
Martin slid a bulging backpack from his shoulders and pulled out two little speakers. He set them on one of the wall’s wooden slats and attached them to an iPod. Music filled the room; some singer-songwriter Casey didn’t recognize. Death immediately pulled out a guitar and began strumming, crooning along with the music, following a tune Casey had never heard.
From his still-fat pack Martin retrieved a blanket, which he spread out on the dirt floor. Terry, also carrying a bag, set it down and pulled out a stack of napkins, paper cups, and plates, setting them all in the middle of the blanket.
Casey wondered when teenagers had gotten so finicky about getting drunk.
“Pick a spot,” Bailey said.
