Page 35 of Looking Grimm

Any advantage that might have given me would be negated when Tobin got one good look at me. He would confirm what the cashier had rightly suspected, and the obligatory response would be escalated to a full-blown manhunt.

I chanced one more look outside, where the second investigator had crossed the lot to my parked Porsche. She shone a flashlight through the windows, then waved and shouted something that made Tobin stop in his tracks.

A chill raced through me. I’d been warned about my car and had been dumb or cocky enough to drive it anyway. What choice did I have? I couldn’t trust a cab driver not to do the same as a lackadaisical liquor store employee, and I doubted Ripley would have been willing to chauffeur me on a late-night booze run. My only other option was Donovan’s Bronco, which hadn’t left the garage at the Bitters’ End since my brother died. I didn’t want to see the thing, much less drive it.

I wouldn’t be driving anywhere from here, not with Tobin and his no-name accomplice having changed tactics entirely. Tobin had returned to the patrol car to trade his cell phone for a pistol which he openly brandished. Its chrome barrel glinted as he held it aloft. I was less worried about the gun than I was about his ability to trap me here. If I lingered much longer, I would be caught in a time bubble, giving him the opportunity to slap a pair of handcuffs on me or put a bullet in my brain, whichever proved easier.

When I whirled around, the clerk threw his hands up again.

“Settle down, Danny DoGooder,” I snapped at him, then asked, “Does this place have a back entrance?”

He gestured mutely toward the rear of the store.

Snagging the whiskey off the counter, I put it under my arm, then dug out my wallet. A twenty-dollar bill fluttered from my hand, and I mentally directed it to land atop the register keypad. “So they don’t say I’m a thief, too.”

I sprinted down the middle aisle, quickly spotting a dented metal door in the middle of the far wall. A red and white sticker across the middle of the door read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY – ALARM WILL SOUND.

It was a fair warning but, with Tobin and his time-stopping power closing in, I needed to get out of range, even if that meant making an abrupt—and noisy—escape.

Slamming into the crash bar, I flung the door open wide. As promised, the alarm began to wail. I emerged on the other side to find a wide field stretching out ahead of me. A line of scrubby trees defined the distant horizon.

The liquor store was relatively isolated. The next nearest developed area was about a half mile north, and that meant running along the side of the road in plain sight and possibly past the next wave of patrol cars. I’d thought the solitude was a perk when I first arrived, but now it left me with literally nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

Crisp night air kissed my cheeks as I glanced from side to side. If the investigators identified my car, they would call for backup. Soon, this place would be crawling with cops and the likes of that tactical team I’d been introduced to at my arrest. It was not an encounter I cared to repeat.

Fumbling to my hip pocket found it flat and empty. I had no phone to call for help, not that I was sure who I could call. Ripley would read me the Riot Act if he knew what I’d been up to, and I didn’t expect to pull Nash away from thebar during operating hours. I wasn’t the only one desperate for a drink late at night.

I glanced side to side across the employee parking lot and spotted a pair of dumpsters. Sending out mental tethers, I wrangled one of the dumpsters and dragged it toward me, raising a low roar as the hulking thing rumbled across the pavement. Sidestepping, I slung the dumpster against the liquor store’s closed door.

That would buy me some time; time I was wasting standing in place while my brain churned through bad plan after worse.

If they caught me, I’d go to jail. If I went to jail, I’d never get out. Staying here meant fighting my way out and killing anyone who got in my way. How many investigators would it take to win my escape? How many officers with assault rifles and riot shields could I face down before they overwhelmed me?

I tested my fingers, wondering if I could somehow feel the pull of the puppet strings tattooed on every digit. How many more would it take before I was done? Before I could stop? Before it was over?

I looked toward the distant tree line, then started to run.

My legs and lungs burned as I slumped against the tree trunk, scrabbling at the rough bark in need of support to hold myself upright. The tall grass had whipped against my shins as I raced through it and now lay bent in a visible path behind me. The investigators would have no trouble trackingme to the woods in which I’d taken shelter. I needed to lose them from here.

Sirens wailed, and the black sky flashed with red and blue as reinforcements arrived. I glanced back at the strip center, expecting to see cops filing after me like ants in a line. No one gave chase, and I wondered why until I heard the faint yips and howls of dogs in the near distance.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I said between panted breaths.

Sweat slicked my face and dampened my clothes, making every whip of the night air like a frigid blast. I shivered between gasps for air. The whiskey bottle remained hugged against my side, heavy as an anchor, but I’d be damned if I went through all this and had nothing to show for it.

The dogs bayed at one another, not needing a trail in the grass to pick up my scent and run me ragged through these woods and into the neighboring county. As if I could make it that far.

I needed shelter or a goddamned vehicle. I had no chance of outpacing hunting hounds, especially the kind the Capitol employed. Jaxon Rhodes wasn’t the only shapeshifter in town, and witches wearing animal skins were far savvier than mundane dogs.

Panic surged, but I stuffed it all the way down to my feet where it could maybe give me the boost I needed to try this. Trees dotted the ground on three sides, with the field of no return making the fourth. Venturing into the woods and away from the road that brought me here risked becoming hopelessly lost. I decided I would rather stay parallel to the two-lane highway with the intention of nearing civilization and better options for this high stakes game of hide-and-seek.

I cut my rest short and broke into a loping jog. Zigzagging between tree trunks, I tried not to stare at the strip center that must have been crawling with cops. The barking scared me more. Shapeshifted hounds were no taller than the grass and able to race toward me silent and stealthy until they sprung out with gnashing teeth and claws. I’d been dogpiled once already this week, and I had the feeling a second onslaught would end far bloodier.

My feet pounded against the cold-hardened ground, crunching dead leaves while I ducked slightly deeper into the cover of the trees. The distant sparkle of streetlights led me on. Buildings. Businesses. Hope… of what?

It was laughable to assume a Superman-style phone booth would be parked on a corner. Most everywhere was closed this time of night, and even if they weren’t, I couldn’t exactly burst through someone’s door and ask if their desk phone dialed out. Borrowing a stranger’s cell was equally out of the question with conscientious citizens on the lookout.

Also, I was a little ashamed to realize that I didn’t know a single phone number by heart. Not Ripley’s, or Nash’s, or even Donovan’s…

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