What the hell was that supposed to mean? They’d lost my “key,” so they’d tossed me back to earth—had I ever really left it?—with nothing but mychangedbody and some cryptic advice from a faceless man in gray? I’d definitely gotten the frayed end of that particular rope. Come to think of it, I’d never had much luck with ropes…
“Who was the man in gray?” I asked, running one finger down the slender barrel of Murphy’s gun. The smooth finish felt good beneath my skin. “Do you know him?”
“Not personally, but everyone meets him eventually. Most everyone, anyway.” Something quiet and dangerous flickered behind Devich’s eyes as he blinked. “He’s the Gatekeeper.”
Silence reigned for a moment. Then I shattered it with an outburst of laughter, images of proton packs and ectoplasm flashing through my memory. “Are you the keymaster?”
Devich frowned, and my smile faded. I tossed back the rest of my whiskey. I could not trust someone who didn’t even know he was quoting Ghostbusters.
I cleared my throat and set my empty glass on the table. “This Gatekeeper…he’s the one who lost my key?”
“Probably not. But it was likely his decision to send you back.”
Thenthatwas the motherfucker I’d have to hunt down.
The thought must have shown on my face, because Devich shook his head, an arrogant smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You can’t find him; when the time is right, he’ll findyou.”
My jaw clenched and I had to force it open. “I can find anything.”
That arrogant smile faded into a look of pity, as if I were too dense to comprehend a simple concept. “I know of just one way to get to the Gatekeeper, and that particular road only goes one way.” He seemed to realize the error in his assertion as soon as the words left his mouth.
Onecouldcome back from seeing the Gatekeeper—I was living proof. Of sorts. But what I had no inclination to explain to Troy Devich was that I was no longer sure I even wanted the return trip.
SIX
Late afternoon sunlight receded from my windshield as I pulled Rusty into the shade of the awning overhead, parking her between Lacey’s charcoal-colored, turbo-charged firebird—It’ll be a classic someday!—and the bright pink Jeep sitting in our only customer spot. The Jeephadto belong to someone from the nail salon next door. People who drove cars like that didn’t have TVs old enough for Lacey to fix. Or any need for my services.
Eyeing the pink monstrosity, I tossed my sunglasses onto the dash and lugged my duffle from the passenger side floorboard, then leaned over to snatch a thick envelope from the glove compartment—my fee for delivering Cari Murphy.
I trudged across the sidewalk and shoved open the glass door, wincing as the bell overhead jingled to announce my presence. Four p.m. was too early in my day to endure high-pitched noises. Especially after all the whiskey I’d had last night to block out recently resurrected mental images of muddy shoes, red uniforms, and rough wooden planks.
In the office, I inhaled the scent of strong, fresh coffee. Somehow, Lacey always knew precisely when to start brewing, though I was as likely to show up for work at six as I was at three, when we officially opened for business.
I was half-way to the coffee pot when a sound from the back room froze me in mid-step. It was high-pitched and bubbly. It was…a giggle, giddy and irritating. And it was followed by a familiar masculine chuckle.
Was Lacey on adate? During office hours? That was about as likely as a Led Zeppelin reunion tour.
I set my duffle silently on the floor next to my desk as I pulled my Ruger from the holster beneath my right arm. From the back, two sets of footsteps approached: the familiar squeak of Lacey’s old, floppy sneakers, and the distinctive click-clack of a pair of heels.Highheels. Whoever she was, she was wearing pumps during the day.
No good can come of this.
The knob on the workroom door turned, and I trained my gun on the hollow oak panel, at chest level of the average human adult. Muffled voices echoed from behind the door. That same giggle sliced through my brain like an ice-cream headache, sharp and blinding.
The door creaked opened. A girl stepped into the doorway, still smiling. My gun sight centered on the swell of her chest beneath pristine white cashmere, and she froze, staring at me with wide violet eyes.
I blinked, trying to clear my vision and verify what I was seeing. It reallywasa girl. A child. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, and she certainly wasn’t legal. What thehellwas Lacey doing in my back room with a teenager?
“Lori? What’s wrong?” His arm reached around the girl’s shoulder to push the door open wider. That was all I could see of him behind her curvy, five-and-a-half-foot frame.
“Aaron, I think you’re being robbed,” Lori whispered, her voice cracking on the last word. The girl’s wide-eyed gaze never left mine, her hands hanging limp at her sides. Her chest rose and fell dramatically with each deep, obviously frightened breath. She was the picture of innocence and virtue—in a tight sweater and short skirt.
What thefuckis going on?
“No one wouldeverrob us,” he assured her. “Damn it, Lex, put down the gun.” Lacey moved Lori aside gently because he was too short to see over her. “What the hell are you doing? She’s acustomer!” From the way he hissed the last word, I gathered she was one of his customers, rather than one of mine. “She’sunarmed.”
“I can see that.” There was no way this child was packing anything but a set of D-cups. If she were, the outline would have been obvious beneath her skin-tight attire.
I flipped up the safety lever and holstered my gun, shooting Lacey an irritated look. Hopefully it said,Get your ass over here and start talking before I take up target practice on your stubby little toes.
