It was a strange kiss, Shadow thought, as her lips pressed against his: it wasn’t intended for him. It was for the other people in the bar, to let them know that she had picked sides. It was a flag-waving kiss. Even as she kissed him, he became certain that she didn’t even like him—well, not like that.
Still, there was a tale he had read once, long ago, as a small boy: the story of a traveler who had slipped down a cliff, with man-eating tigers above him and a lethal fall below him, who managed to stop his fall halfway down the side of the cliff, holding on for dear life. There was a clump of strawberries beside him, and certain death above him and below. What should he do? went the question.
And the reply was, Eat the strawberries.
The story had never made any sense to him as a boy. It did now. So he closed his eyes, threw himself into the kiss and experienced nothing but Sam’s lips and the softness of her skin against his, sweet as a wild strawberry.
“C’mon Mike,” said Chad Mulligan, firmly. “Please. Let’s take it outside.”
Sam pulled back. She licked her lips, and smiled, a smile that nearly reached her eyes. “Not bad,” she said. “You kiss good for a boy. Okay, go play outside.” Then she turned to Audrey Burton. “But you,” she said, “are still a cunt.”
Shadow tossed Sam his car keys. She caught them, one-handed. He walked through the bar and stepped outside, followed by Chad Mulligan. A gentle snow had begun to fall, the flakes spinning down into the light of the neon bar sign. “You want to talk about this?” asked Chad.
Audrey had followed them out onto the sidewalk. She looked as if she were ready to start screaming again. She said, “He killed two men, Chad. The FBI came to my door. He’s a psycho. I’ll come down to the station with you, if you want.”
“You’ve caused enough trouble, ma’am,” said Shadow. He sounded tired, even to himself. “Please go away.”
“Chad? Did you hear that? He threatened me!” said Audrey.
“Get back inside, Audrey,” said Chad Mulligan. She looked as if she were about to argue, then she pressed her lips together so hard they went white, and went back into the bar.
“Would you like to comment on anything she said?” asked Chad Mulligan.
“I’ve never killed anyone,” said Shadow.
Chad nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “I’m sure we can deal with these allegations easily enough. You won’t give me any trouble, will you, Mike?”
“No trouble,” said Shadow. “This is all a mistake.”
“Exactly,” said Chad. “So I figure we ought to head down to my office and sort it all out there?”
“Am I under arrest?” asked Shadow.
“Nope,” said Chad. “Not unless you want to be. I figure, you come with me out of a sense of civic duty, and we’ll straighten all this out.”
Chad patted
Shadow down, found no weapons. They got into Mulligan’s car. Again Shadow sat in the back, looking out through the metal cage. He thought, SOS. Mayday. Help. He tried to push Mulligan with his mind, as he’d once pushed a cop in Chicago—This is your old friend Mike Ainsel. You saved his life. Don’t you know how silly this is? Why don’t you just drop the whole thing?
“I figure it was good to get you out of there,” said Chad. “All you needed was some loudmouth deciding that you were Alison McGovern’s killer and we’d’ve had a lynch mob on our hands.”
“Point.”
They were silent for the rest of the drive to the Lakeside police building, which, Chad said as they pulled up outside it, actually belonged to the county sheriff’s department. The local police made do with a few rooms in there. Pretty soon the county would build something modern. For now they had to make do with what they had.
They walked inside.
“Should I call a lawyer?” asked Shadow.
“You aren’t accused of anything,” said Mulligan. “Up to you.” They pushed through some swing doors. “Take a seat over there.”
Shadow took a seat on the wooden chair with cigarette burns on the side. He felt stupid and numb. There was small poster on the notice board, beside a large NO SMOKING sign: ENDANGERED MISSING it said. The photograph was Alison McGovern’s.
There was a wooden table with old copies of Sports Illustrated and Newsweek on it. The light was bad. The paint on the wall was yellow, but it might once have been white.
After ten minutes Chad brought him a watery cup of vending machine hot chocolate. “What’s in the bag?” he asked. And it was only then that Shadow realized he was still holding the plastic bag containing the Minutes of the Lakeside City Council.
“Old book,” said Shadow. “Your grandfather’s picture’s in here. Or great-grandfather maybe.”