Catching up on two month's rent and mid-winter utilities had been the killer. At that, they were damned lucky the landlord hadn't just dumped their stuff on the sidewalk while they were gone.
He stood up, trying to stretch the kinks out of his back, and walked to the window. Of course, the scene out there just matched his depression, all mud and filthy snow and rusty cars. It was raining again, a nasty spitting half-sleet. To hell with the calendar -- winter just wouldn't let go.
This part of Naskeag Falls was a dump at the best of times, peeling paint and empty storefronts and old warehouses with the roofs caving in. Mud season made it worse, hard as that might seem, nothing but dark potholed streets robbed by ice storms and Dutch elm disease of even the slight softening touch of bare winter trees.
But any time he started longing for the fresh green magic of Maureen's fantasies, he remembered dragon teeth and claws. He remembered strangling briars that sank rootlets into his flesh and drank his blood. He remembered cold-eyed heartless soulless Old Ones who would torture or kill him on a moment's whim.
David squeezed his eyes shut against the memories. That didn't help, of course. The images were inside his head, not out that window.
And they all lived happily ever after. The End.
Well, at least Maureen had her prince and her castle and her household full of servants. She got something out of the fairy tale. All he had to show for it were the persistent nightmares.
And the professional attention of the cops. That was a weird scene, however you looked at it. Maureen and then Brian had shown up and gone to the cops like good little girls and boys. They'd arrested Brian. Maureen had gone to bail him out. Now the cops seemed more interested in talking to both of them than before, and both of them had vanished.
He wrinkled his nose and scanned along the street in both directions. No light-bars or two-way radio whips showing, no idling black-and-white cruisers from the city or tan specials from the county sheriff, no unmarked Crown Victorias or Caprices that looked out of place in the neighborhood because they didn't sport rust-eaten fenders and cracked windshields. Must be time for a donut run.
Or they were following Jo, not bothering to hide, giving her a gentle reminder that they still wanted answers. Answers no cop would believe even if David or Jo had felt inclined to give them. "Yes, we know where Maureen and Brian are. No, you can't call up the local police to question them. Not even Interpol. The Sidhe don't use telephones, and the feds don't have an extradition treaty with Camelot."
He didn't want to think about that scene. Instead, he wondered where Jo had gone. "Errands," she'd said. After a breakfast-table "discussion" about finances. "Fight" would be more accurate. David wondered what percentage of divorces hid "discussions" over money. Empty cupboards and refrigerator sure added to the tension factor. And Jo wasn't stuck with him, wasn't even married to him. Any time she wanted, she could just take three steps and be warm and dry and rich.
A key scratched in the lock, and Jo walked in. He glanced out the window. Yep, black-and-white cruiser idling to a stop right next to the "No Parking This Side of Street" sign. Didn't they have anything better to do with their time, like hand out summonses for littering? Looked like Barnes behind the wheel. David made a habit of asking all of them for identification. Politely.
Jo dumped a fistful of mail on the kitchen table, ads and bills most likely, tossed her soaked jacket over the coat rack, and slumped into a chair. She looked tired and bedraggled, and David noticed the knife-edge crease between her lowered eyebrows that meant she had turned into a ticking bomb. Whatever she'd been doing all morning, it sure hadn't turned out well.
"I stopped by Dom's on the way back from the nursing home. Start tomorrow, breakfast shift."
David blinked and then stared at her. "Dom's? Doing what?"
She glared back at him and then shrugged. "Waiting table."
Dom's. Dominic's Café. "God, the health inspector let them open up again? Hey, nobody but winos and day labor eats there. Breakfast shift, your high-rollers are going to tip a quarter."
Jo shrugged again. "Hey back at you. Right now, I've got twenty-three dollars and seventy-six cents to my name. Just counted it to make sure. Supper tonight is stone soup. What're you tossing into the pot?"
"Jo, you won't even eat at Dom's. Isn't there anything else?"
"Haven't you heard, we've got a fucking recession on. Fifteen restaurants and gin joints and greasy spoons in two hours, working downwards. Fourteen places ain't hiring. At least four of them are thinking of letting people go. Three guesses who was at the bottom of the list, and the first two don't count."
"But . . . Dom's?"
"Look, babe, I'll do lap dances down at The London Derriere if that's what it takes to stay warm and fed. What are you planning to do?"
Now the corners of her lips had turned white with tension. David felt the hairs standing up on his forearms and the crown of his skull, the static charge of a thunderstorm right overhead. He reminded himself of what this woman was, what she could do. He needed to defuse the bomb before that timer hit zero. "They're closed, remember? Burned out?"
"Moved over two blocks and reopened. Can't keep a good strip-joint down. Essential civic service."
Jeezum. She'd checked. He'd been joking. She wasn't.
"What about the CAD jobs? You've got the certificate, you've got the experience . . . ." He stopped. That knife-edge on her forehead was getting deeper, and her eyes had narrowed to slits.
"Screwed. They check with Rob. He just tells them the truth. I didn't show up. I didn't call. He had a deadline, and I didn't even answer
