In a Fix (17 page)

Pay dirt!

The keys were there, next to a bunch of receipts. Guess even criminal organizations have to keep track of expenses. I pressed the simple key ring tightly into my palm—didn’t want to be given away by any stray jingles—and snuck back to my room. I figured my best shot at getting out of the house undetected was through the same window I’d come in earlier.

On my way across the room, my left foot found the one floorboard in the house that creaked. I cringed at the sound and stood frozen until I could be sure the snoring from the next room continued. Various snorks and rumbles reassured me.

The window slid open easily, once I remembered to unlatch it. Between the long dress and the unwieldy frying pan, it was difficult to haul myself through, but I managed, going out feet-first and dropping soundlessly to the ground. (Mostly. Unless you count the muffled “Shit!” when I banged the skillet against my knee as I hit the grass.)

I turned around to shut the window behind me—anything to help dampen the sound of the car engine—and jumped back when Per’s head popped out of it, a snarl on his lips. Reaching for me, he gave a big shout-out to his buddies.

Crap!
I raised my arms and brought them down swiftly, bashing his forehead a good one.
Pan, meet Per. Per, pan. There, intro complete.
His eyes widened for just a second before they fell shut, and he slumped over the sill.

I dropped the skillet and ran for all I was worth,
fuckity-fucking
under my breath all the way to the car. Keys still in a death-grip, I yanked the car door open, dove in, and pulled most of my dress in behind me. With trembling hands, I found the ignition. Cranked it. The car lurched forward, then jerked to a stop, rattling my teeth.

Right. Manual transmission. Okay, I
knew
how to do this. Didn’t do it often, but I
could
. Clutch. Stick in first. Turn the key. The engine roared in my ears as a wild-eyed face appeared in the driver’s side window.

Fuck!

This
Nils looked like he could kill me without blinking an eye. I should’ve bashed him while I had the chance. See what you get for being nice?

I locked the door with one hand at the same time I released the clutch and stomped on the gas. Repeated the clutching process, gaining momentum with each shift. Surely he couldn’t keep up with a speeding car—he’d have to let go, or else risk getting dragged.

Or he might just give a mighty heave with his legs and wind up on top of the car.
Shit!

I stomped on the gas, veered to the right, and found myself in the wooded area behind the farm, slaloming between the larger trees and mowing down the smaller ones. Nils pounded on the car top, sliding from side to side above me. I caught glimpses of his feet through the windows. Why didn’t the idiot just get off? Did he want to die?

I pulled to the left, and narrowly avoided turning the Mini into a Christmas tree ornament. Found myself bearing down on a primitive-looking horse.

Oh, for the love of…!
What was
with
this place?

The horse stood still, calmly gazing at me while chewing on a mouthful of something green. The trees to either side of me were too big and too close together to risk veering again, so I braked. Hard.

What else could I do? I couldn’t hit the horse. I
love
horses.

Nils flew off the top of the car and landed with a thud in front of the placid beast. I shoved the gearshift into reverse, reacquainted the accelerator with the floorboard, and was back to the farm road by the time the crazy-eyed Viking was on his feet.

Chapter 16

I drove as fast as I dared, letting instinct lead me. When you have a sense of direction like mine, that’s risky, but what choice did I have?

Eventually I got to a real road. Paused briefly, trying to figure out if one direction had any notable advantage over the other. None that I could see, so I eeny-meeny-miney-moed, turned right, and floored it, for the first time in my life hoping a cop would pull me over. No such luck. The tree-lined road, dappled with pinkish-gray, early-morning light, was deserted. I wasn’t charmed by the fairy-tale beauty of the setting. There were ogres in these woods. Fricking big Viking ogres with needles, and I had to get away.

After a mile or so I came upon a long driveway, at the end of which there was a farmhouse. I slowed to a stop, but stayed on the main road. Did I dare take the time to see if anyone was home? What if they didn’t speak English? Or didn’t have a phone? Or worst of all, what if they knew Per or Nils?

I stepped on the gas. Better not risk contact with anyone until I was in a more populated area. A couple of more miles down the road I saw a blue destination sign, slowed just enough to read “Visby,” and sped onward. Fantastic. I sort of knew where I was, then. Visby was the town Billy had been heading for on Gotland. Not that he’d be easy to find, but I felt better just knowing he was in the vicinity. If I could find a phone, maybe I could even track him down.

I knew I was getting close when I saw the old stone wall in the distance, and the Baltic beyond it. Three black spires rose from a sea of red-tiled rooftops, maybe some sort of church. I remembered Billy telling me about the wall—it dated from medieval times and surrounded the town—but he’d extolled the virtues of the beautiful Swedish girls a lot more than the buildings, so I wasn’t as up on the architectural details. I just hoped the town wasn’t so medievally picturesque that I couldn’t find a public phone.

I ditched the car in a stand of trees. It was no good to me anymore, and might be a liability if Nils had called ahead and warned anyone to be on the lookout for it. It was going to be hard enough to blend in, dressed as I was, and there was no point in dropping Mina’s aura until I could find less identifiable clothes. Besides, I’d draw even more attention to myself tripping over my hem.

The noise hit me first, before I even got close to the gate—happy babbling, raucous laughter, and lots of singing of the decidedly unsober sort. My puzzlement grew as I passed though the gate. Groups of people strolled the bricked and cobbled roads, making merry in languages I didn’t understand. Mostly Swedish, near as I could tell, but also some German (possibly), a soupçon of French (maybe), and even a little Japanese (okay, that one was a stab in the dark). Most of them were dressed as oddly as I was. What was going on?

I kept to the smaller roads and avoided eye contact with anyone until I came upon a group of jolly, English-speaking inebriates, and smiled at a girl dressed in garb similar to my own. She smiled back and said, “Isn’t this the coolest place? Too bad the festival is only once a year.”

Festival? Okay, that would explain the clothes. I’d been to Renaissance Faires in the States—guess this was similar. “Yeah, too bad, “ I said, feigning a touch of tipsiness. “Um, I seem to have lost my friends. You haven’t seen any big, blond Viking types, have you?”

Laughter rolled through the group. Yeah, okay, it
was
kind of a stupid question.

One dark-haired, skinny guy, dressed as some sort of robed medieval scholar, said, “You’re kidding, right? This place is lousy with Vikings. Kind of trite, if you ask me.”

I shrugged. Thought about explaining that my Vikings wouldn’t necessarily be in period costumes, but decided not to waste the time. “It’s our first visit here. They figured they’d go with tried and true.”

One of the other girls, a dreamy-eyed, golden-haired princess type, said, “Oh, I love the Vikings. They’re so … well,
so
.” The last word was carried on a sigh; the scholar rolled his eyes.

“Um, yeah. So so,” I said.

One of the guys—a large, generic peasant with longish, super-curly brown hair and black-framed, squishy glasses—pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began texting someone. I almost salivated. There was my link to Billy.

The scholar tried to grab the phone. “You doofus—you’re not supposed to have that. We all agreed to play it real,” he said with a scowl.

The peasant twisted away, blocking him with his back. “My phone is a part of me. It doesn’t count.”

“You dipshit.”

The peasant merely sniffled, wiped his nose on his sleeve (he could have a cell phone but tissues were too modern?) and continued texting. I edged myself between the boys. “Excuse me. Could I possibly borrow your phone when you’re through? I accidentally left mine at the hotel, and it would sure save me a long trudge back if I could call my friends and see where they are.” I put forth my best damsel-in-distress vibe and smiled, stopping just short of batting my eyelashes.

“Sorry. Can’t spare the minutes. Roaming charges are already killing me,” he said, his thumbs never pausing.

“But…” I was about to offer to pay him for his damned minutes, but of course I had no money.

“Put it away, turd. You’re ruining the experience.” The scholar was getting seriously bent out of shape.

“Screw you.” The thumbs never missed a beat.

Dreamy girl tried to intervene. “Come on, Phillip. Lay off him—he’s only checking on Emmie.”

The peasant turned beet red. “I am not.”

“Jesus. She doesn’t want to hear from you, asshole!” Phillip might have been a scholar, but he was not the soul of tact.

Assho—er, I mean peasant boy, turned and walked away, his eyes locked onto the two-inch display. Phillip, totally irritated, followed him and, after pretending to go in from the left, grabbed the phone from the right. He threw it into the nearest rosebush.

“Hey! That is not cool, jerk!” Peasant boy shoved Phillip aside and dove in after his prized possession, ignoring thorns and curious passersby alike. “If you broke it—”

“Get a life, jackhole.”

“That wasn’t very nice, Phillip,” the first girl I’d approached said.

“It’s tough love. We took him on this trip to get his mind
off
the bitch, didn’t we? How’s he gonna do that if he keeps contacting her?” Phillip explained patiently.

As much as I wanted to get my hands on that phone, I had to admit Phillip had a point. Unrequited love was painful, but clinging pathetically never got anyone to requite. Trust me, I know. Much better to moon longingly from afar. Well, maybe not better, necessarily, but less embarrassing in the long run.

The dreamy princess reached down and tugged on Peasant Boy’s pants leg. “Come out of there, Kevin. You’re getting all scratched up.”

“I don’t care,” he said, his voice thick. I suspected he wasn’t so much hunting for his phone now as he was giving himself a moment to recover.

“Leave him,” Phillip told the girls. “Kev, we’re going. See you back at the hotel later.”

“Fine,” Kevin said, and stayed in the bushes.

The rest of the crew waved and set off down the narrow, cobbled road, debating the relative merits of forcing fun on someone recovering from a broken romance. I stayed where I was, still hoping to convince Kevin he really wanted to let me use his phone. As the sound of his friends receded into the distance, it was replaced by suspicious snuffling noises coming from the bushes.

Oh, God. He was crying. What was I supposed to do with a crying, barely post-adolescent peasant boy? I had problems of my own.

I nibbled a nail and tiptoed away. Got about five steps before I stopped and turned back. I couldn’t leave him like that. Poor kid. He was really hurting.

I cleared my throat. The quiet sobbing stopped.

“Kevin? Are you okay?”

“Go away.”

“I will, but first I want to make sure you can get out of there all right. You, um, your clothes might get caught on the thorns. Just come on out and then I’ll leave.”

He took a deep breath and started backing out. Sure enough, the branches grabbed him mercilessly, clinging to him even harder than he was clinging to his lost love. I plucked them away as best I could, holding branches aside while he finished extricating himself. He stayed on the ground, knees up, elbows hooked around them, staring into the middle distance.

I checked him over as casually as I could, figuring the last thing he needed right now was mommy-ing. His face and arms were crisscrossed with tiny red lines, but I didn’t think he’d need a transfusion. Nodding my approval, I deadpanned, “So, that was a pretty impressive dive there. I give it a solid nine point five for form and a nine point seven for originality.”

That got me a ghost of a smile.

“Yeah, well, ten years on the swim team will do wonders for your technique,” he said. “Normally I make it a habit to land in water, though.”

I chuckled. “Did you at least find your phone?”

“Yeah.” He held it up by the flip top, leaving the bottom dangling by one hinge. “For all the good it does me.”

Well, damn. Stupid Phillip.

“I don’t suppose you carry a spare?” I asked, not too hopefully, seating myself gingerly beside him, trying to avoid grass stains. Not that I should care. They weren’t my clothes.

“If I’d known what an asshole Phillip would turn out to be, I would have.”

“Hard to know stuff like that in advance,” I said. “Well, I guess I better, um, head back to my hotel.”

Finally looking in my direction, he squinted his eyes, pushed his glasses up, and said, “Hey, I’ve seen you before. This afternoon at the hotel. You were coming out of one of the second-floor rooms when I was getting off the elevator.”

Huh? “Really? This afternoon?”

“Yeah, only you were in other clothes. Modern ones. Guess it was before you changed.”

My first thought was,
you’re delusional, kid
. My second thought was,
I just found Billy
. He was trying to connect with Trey. What better way than to be visible as Mina?

“Oh yeah. Right,” I said. “Say, are you heading back to the hotel now? Maybe we could walk together. I hate to admit it, but I’m a little lost. No sense of direction.” I tacked on a self-deprecating shrug for good measure.

Kevin sat himself up a little taller, cleared his throat and said, “Sure. I’m not really in the mood for more partying, anyway.” We walked along in silence for a while, Kevin taking the lead. He was still immersed in his cocoon of gloom, but I did catch him flitting glances at my chest, so I suspected he’d pull himself out of the mire eventually.