“Look, I’m headed south. And I’m kind of in a hurry. I’m sure the cops can take you to your brother. Or …”
“Or?”
He leans toward her, and she sees a vast reservoir of confidence in his deep blue eyes. “Or I could take you very far away from all of this.”
Locked in his gaze, Dez feels a pull. Like she should climb atop this motorcycle and ride wherever this stranger points it. Like it might even be fun.
It’s insane. She breaks their gaze, turning her head in the direction her brother went. The trauma of tonight has rattled her. She needs to go toward Mo, not away with some five-alarm stranger. No matter what consequences she will have to face.
“I’ll take my chances,” she says, stepping away from the bike and its rider.
“Sorry to hear it,” he calls. “I was just getting the feeling we’re each other’s kind of trouble.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s in our eyes,” he says. He holds her gaze for a moment before he glances skyward. “You and I come from up there.”
Before Dez can argue, he kicks the bike to roaring life, then accelerates past the approaching police car at a speed that takes Dez’s breath away. She watches the bike vanish like a dream you wake up from and can’t quite remember.
And the strangest part is, when the cops pull to a stop in front of her, it’s like they never even saw the bike go by.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
As Dez stares at the two policemen suddenly in front of her, she realizes how unprepared she is to tell the cops the story in a way that won’t implicate her brother. In a way that won’t implicate herself. She needs time to think about how to spin it. Time she doesn’t have.
“What are you doing out here alone?” The cop behind the wheel looks at her, suspicious.
She inhales and tries to steady her voice. “There was a robbery at the Dairy Barn. I was working the closing shift. A guy in a black skull mask came in—”
“Did you call nine-one-one?” he asks.
“I— He had a gun. He took my brother. Stole my car—”
“Okay, okay,” says the cop in the passenger seat, an older man with softer eyes than his partner. “Slow down. Let’s back up.”
“They’re in a red Nissan Sentra,” Dez insists, and she sees the cops trade glances. “Please. My brother’s hurt. He needs to go to the hospital.”
“You’re saying the man with the gun shot your brother?”
“No,” she says. Her breath comes short as she chooses her words. “No. There was a fight. We … I … tried to stop him. And my brother—” She breaks off before she begins to sob.
“We have an ambulance headed for the Sentra,” the second policeman says. “If your brother’s there, he’ll receive medical assistance.” He’s good-copping her, she knows, but these are words she needs to hear.
“Thank you,” Dez says.
“Can you describe the gunman?” the first cop says.
Dez closes her eyes and tries to think. She shudders, remembering their confrontation, her hand around the man’s eye. It’s still in her apron. She slips a hand into the pocket, as if to cover the glowing radioactive evidence of her guilt. She’ll throw it away as soon as she’s alone.
“He … he was masked so I—” she stammers. “Maybe five-ten. Medium build. I never saw his face.”
“Not even his eyes?”
Dez swallows the bile rising in her throat. “They were black,” she makes herself say.
“So more or less any guy off the street?” says the cop behind the wheel. “Your typical forensic sketch?”
“What? No. I’m not making this up.”
