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Thin air

Кейн Рэйчел

David, where are you? I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. I was some kind of supernatural weather agent. Supernatural weather agents didn’t get arrested and dressed in tacky bright orange jumpsuits. Supernatural weather agents kicked ass and took names, and they did not, ever, end up with a criminal record and a jailhouse address.

I was leery of falling asleep, but staying awake was too much of a struggle. I was exhausted, and even if the cot was no feather bed, it was at least horizontal. The pillow smelled of industrial soap, but it was clean. Even Samantha’s snoring seemed less like a disruption and more like a white-noise generator to lull me into a coma.

I woke to a clank of metal, and opened my eyes to see that it was still artificially dark out in the hall, but a guard was opening up my cell. I sat up when she gestured at me. “Let’s go,” the guard said. “Baldwin. You’ve made bail.”

“I have? How?”

“No idea,” she said. “Maybe somebody got you confused with one of those actor people; we’ve had one in here before.”

I tried to get my head around that, but not for long. Bail sounded like a great idea, even if it seemed suspiciously miraculous. I followed the guard out, and we marched down the center of the prison hallway. On both sides of the hallway were rows of bars and dimly lit rooms. Snoring. Mumbling. Crying. The guard was short, round, and jingled with keys. Her name tag said, ELLISON. “Who posted for me?” I asked as we arrived at the sally port gate. She gave a high sign to the guard on the other side, and we were buzzed through.

“Don’t know,” she said. “Let’s go, honey; you may have all night, but my shift’s over in twenty.”

Processing me out took nearly as much time as it had spent to lock me up-the wonders of bureaucracy-and it gave me plenty of opportunity to wonder who, why, and how. I tried to decipher the forms they had me sign, but the light was poor, I was tired, my head hurt, and those things were complicated anyway.

So by the time I’d changed back into street clothes, it was getting near morning. Or at least, the indigo horizon was turning more of a milky turquoise. I’d hardly been in the big house long enough to get nostalgic about freedom, but still, that breath of cool, fresh air was sweet. Even if I still had to go through two more gates, some steely-eyed guards, and a final intrusive pat-down on my way out of the yard.

Beyond, there were a couple of taxis parked, complete with sleeping drivers. I wondered at the desperation involved in ferrying around criminals for cash, but remembered just in time that not all of us were, in fact, criminals. Some of us were just alleged criminals.

I looked around, wondering who would bother to bail me out and then leave me standing by the side of the road. I didn’t have to wonder long. A sleek black car pulled out from behind one of the taxicabs and ghosted up next to me. The passenger window power-rolled down, revealing a pale, tired face. I didn’t recognize her for a second, and started automatically cataloging features. Like blond hair that needed a root touch-up. Like an inexpert, hastily applied makeup job that didn’t conceal the discolored bags under her eyes.

Like eyes that seemed a lot like my own blue shade.

I blinked. “Sarah?” I asked, and took a tentative step closer. It was the woman from Cherise’s memories, rode hard, put away wet.

She gave me a thin, tired smile. “Jo,” she said. “Need a lift?”

I nodded and opened the back door of the car. No surprises lurking back there, just clean dark upholstery. My sister rolled up her window, and the driver-I couldn’t see him-accelerated the car smoothly away from the jail into traffic. No matter what time of the day or night, there was traffic in Las Vegas, at least near downtown, where we were. I saw a confusing blare of neon up ahead, and had a strong, wrenching sense of déjà vu.

“How’d you find out I was here?” I asked.

“A detective called me, and Eamon and I pulled together the bail money.” She looked kind of defiant. “Can’t say we don’t care, can you?” Like I was going to?

“Of course we care,” said the driver, in a low, musical accent that I could only vaguely identify as British. I saw his eyes in the rearview mirror, couldn’t tell what color they were in the glare of passing headlights and ambient neon. He was watching me as much as he was watching the road. “You’re looking better than I expected-a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you. Feeling all right?”

I opened my mouth to reply, something polite and nonconfrontational, because I had no idea what my relationship was to this new guy. I didn’t get a chance to be evasive.

“Before you start,” Sarah said, “Eamon wants to apologize. So let him, please. He’s the one who insisted we come and get you. You owe him, Jo. Give him a chance.”

Who was Eamon, and what did he have to apologize for? What was I holding against him? God. Welcome to Brain Damage Theater. I was tired of confessing ignorance; I decided that maybe dignified silence was the best defense. They must have taken it for assent.

“I know you told me to stay away from Sarah, but I couldn’t do it,” the driver-Eamon-said. “I won’t apologize for that; whatever she and I do is between the two of us. But I do apologize for making that promise to you in the first place.”

Okay, so whoever Eamon was-and nice voice, by the way-I hadn’t approved. But since I had no idea why I hadn’t, and Eamon and Sarah weren’t likely to give me an unvarnished explanation, I just nodded. “Water under the bridge,” I said. Aphorisms were made for moments like these. Saved me from saying anything that might be proven wrong. “Are you two okay?”

Eamon’s eyes focused on me in the rearview for so long that I thought he might drive over a curb. Or another car. He was one of those avoidance drivers, though-either great peripheral vision or awesome luck. Or something else. Maybe he’s a Dji

“Us?” Eamon said, and raised his eyebrows. “Of course we’re all right. Sarah, tell your sister you’re fine.”

“I’m fine,” Sarah said. She didn’t look it. She looked tired and puffy and not in the best possible state. Hungover, maybe. Or worse. The way she said it sounded hollow, but not as if she were really scared of him. Just…submissive. Wonderful. I had a wet rag for a sister. “Jo, you need to understand, I love Eamon. I know you didn’t want us to stay together, but…”

Oh, God. The last thing I needed was to be the relationship police for a sister I’d barely met and-based on Cherise’s memories-hadn’t had much in common with to begin with. “I’m over it,” I said. “Eamon and Sarah, sitting in a tree. True love. Trust me, I’m more worried about the fact that I was sitting in jail for a murder that I didn’t commit.” I left it there. I wanted to see what they’d have to say. Which was nothing, apparently. Eamon braked for the light at Fremont Street, and we all stared at the explosion of dancing lights during the pause. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

“It seemed the thing to do.” Eamon was being just as uninformative as I was. Not helpful. “Did you speak with the good Detective Rodriguez while you were in the precinct house?”