“But you’ve been frowning at it wherever we go. I think it’s telling you the whole town is enchanted. It’s picking up a lot of background static but not directing you to the source. Maybe those two mechanics have lost their kids, too. Maybe that waitress cries herself to sleep at night, thinking about the son who never came home from school.”
Annalise sighed. “I usually drive around until the spell registers magic, then I home in on foot.”
“What does it mean that the magic is so spread out?” I tried to keep my voice reasonable and calm. Professionalism breeds professionalism.
Annalise sopped up some ketchup with a fry. “It means I don’t know what to do next.”
The window beside us shattered. I covered my head as shards of glass rained over me. Annalise turned toward the window, her hand reaching under her jacket.
Broken glass covered my half-eaten burger. Ruined.
I turned my attention to Annalise. She was standing beside the broken window, staring into the street.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Him,” she said.
I looked into the dark street. I couldn’t see anyone, but I heard a voice.
“Where are my daughters?” a man shouted. “Who stole my little girls from me?”
Then I saw him. He was tall and stooped, with lank hair hanging past his shoulders and a bare scalp on top. He was so skinny he looked like his skin had been shrink-wrapped around his bones.
And he was carrying a rifle.
It looked like a bolt-action hunting rifle, but he was all the way across the street just beyond the glow of a streetlight, so I couldn’t be sure.
“Who took my daughters?” he shouted. A man and woman bolted from the cover of a parked car, sprinting for the corner. I clenched my teeth as the tall man noticed them. He aimed the rifle at them but didn’t fire. The couple reached the corner and safety.
“Where are they?” he shouted again. “Who stole my little girls from me?”
“He remembers,” I said to Annalise. “Just like we do. How can he remember his kids?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Go ask him.”
CHAPTER THREE
She wasn’t joking. She wasn’t smiling. She just looked at me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.
I did. Hell, who wouldn’t?
But I still made my way toward the front door. When it came down to a choice of facing a gunman or my boss, it would be the gunman every time.
One of the two mechanics had ushered the old ladies out of their booth and led them into the kitchen. The other mechanic and the waitress crouched beside the door, peering out into the street from the dubious cover of a foam-padded wooden bench. The cook left the relative safety of the kitchen and joined them.
The waitress swore under her breath. “Old Harlan has finally gone round the bend.”
The mechanic dared a glance into the street. “I thought Emmett Dubois confiscated his guns.”
The waitress let out a contemptuous grunt. She didn’t think much of Emmett Dubois.
“Whose guns?” I asked as I crouched beside them. We were all keeping our voices low.
“Harlan’s,” the waitress said. I glanced out the window. Harlan sighted along his rifle, slowly turning toward us. I ducked back down before he saw me.
“This Harlan guy,” I said. “I take it he’s local color?”
The mechanic snorted. “You could put it that way.”
The cook came up behind me. “He fell off a ladder in ‘97 putting up Christmas lights. Hit his head. He ain’t been right since.”
“He was never a bad guy, though,” the mechanic said.
The cook scowled at him. “Tell that to my window, and these customers he nearly killed.”
“What was he shouting about?” the waitress asked.
“His daughters,” I answered her. “He wants to know who took his daughters away.”
“Why, that’s just crazy,” she said. “He doesn’t have any little girls. He never has.”
“What the hell?” the cook said. His sour breath was right next to my ear. “Your girlfriend is just sitting in her booth like a duck in a shooting range. Don’t she care about her own life?” He scrambled across the dirty floor toward her.
“Care about her own life?” I said. “Where’s the fun in that?” Before anyone could stop me, I opened the front door and bolted into the street.
I didn’t look at Harlan. I looked at the Corolla I was planning to use as cover.
I hit the pavement and rolled behind the wheel. I heard a shot and more glass breaking in the diner behind me. Someone cursed up a storm, which I’m sure was directed as much at me as at old Harlan.
