Dixie Lou Jackson, who had emerged from another doorway. Blood ran down her face, from a deep gash high on her forehead. “That way,” Dixie Lou said, pointing to a closed door at the end of the corridor. She gave Lori a shove in that direction, but the girl resisted.
Going back, Lori dragged her mother out into the corridor, while Dixie Lou protested, trying to get her to go the other way. Dixie Lou went ahead.
Struggling with the almost lifeless weight of her mother, the teenager made her way to the door just as Dixie Lou opened it. Breathing hard, the UWW officer leaned against the door jamb.
The door opened into a garage, but not the one in the front of the house that Lori had seen upon arrival. On the side of the house, then? At the rear? In the confusion she had lost all sense of direction. The small garage, illuminated by an overhead bank of lights, contained only one vehicle—a sleek, black van with tinted windows and mirror-like tires and wheels. Everything high-gloss.
“Help me into the van!” Dixie Lou said.
But Lori pushed by her and pulled her mother toward the vehicle instead. Cursing and muttering at the teenager, Dixie Lou stumbled behind her, and closed the door behind them.
Lori tried to open the rear passenger side door of the van, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Get out of the way,” Dixie Lou said. She touched what looked like the same black hand-held transmitter she had used inside the house, for control of the music and holo-recording system. The van’s door slid open, and the rear seats folded flat into the floor.
Lori laid her mother on the floor and propped a folded blanket under her head, while Dixie Lou went around toward the driver’s side door. Suddenly the black woman cried out, and fell on the concrete, face down. She twitched and groaned. Hurrying to her, Lori saw another wound, on the back of her neck.
As quickly as she could, Lori helped her into the front passenger seat and engaged the safety harness, which clicked over her the moment it was touched. Lori also had contact with Dixie Lou.
Abruptly, the teenagers neck flopped to one side. “What are you doing?” Dixie Lou asked.
Lori hesitated, because she had received a strange tingling when she touched the woman, somewhat like when she felt the paper of the goddess circle flier. She shook her head to clear it, said, “I’m going to drive. I don’t have a license, but I know how anyway.”
“Not necessary. Get me the remote control. I just had it a moment ago. Look outside for me.”
Lori did as she was told, found the unit and climbed into the driver’s seat, closing the door. She handed the device to Dixie Lou, who fumbled with it and swore, trying to make it work. Finally, she slammed it down on the console and said, “Doesn’t work. You’ll have to drive after all.”
Fighting to remain conscious, with blood running down her forehead and neck, Dixie Lou muttered something about a homing signal they were supposed to pick up, and she must have damaged the transceiver when she fell.
Following additional instructions, Lori punched a code on a dashboard computer pad. The engine surged on, and the garage door slid open behind the vehicle.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Dixie Lou said. “Drive this thing fast.”
“OK.” Lori put the van in reverse.
Seeing a black handgun on the console between her and Dixie Lou, Lori grabbed it. The gun, a .45 long-barrel, was heavier than her mother’s .38 that she had used for target practice, and was one of the new rapid-fire automatics, but she thought she could figure it out. On the handle of the weapon she saw what looked like a sword-cross design.
For a moment, the woman met Lori’s gaze, with eyes full of pain. “I hope you know how to use that,” she said.
“I do.” Lori released the safety and cocked the weapon, then laid it on her lap. With a silent prayer, she nudged the accelerator and roared backward out of the garage, onto a side driveway. The house was
Going back, Lori dragged her mother out into the corridor, while Dixie Lou protested, trying to get her to go the other way. Dixie Lou went ahead.
Struggling with the almost lifeless weight of her mother, the teenager made her way to the door just as Dixie Lou opened it. Breathing hard, the UWW officer leaned against the door jamb.
The door opened into a garage, but not the one in the front of the house that Lori had seen upon arrival. On the side of the house, then? At the rear? In the confusion she had lost all sense of direction. The small garage, illuminated by an overhead bank of lights, contained only one vehicle—a sleek, black van with tinted windows and mirror-like tires and wheels. Everything high-gloss.
“Help me into the van!” Dixie Lou said.
But Lori pushed by her and pulled her mother toward the vehicle instead. Cursing and muttering at the teenager, Dixie Lou stumbled behind her, and closed the door behind them.
Lori tried to open the rear passenger side door of the van, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Get out of the way,” Dixie Lou said. She touched what looked like the same black hand-held transmitter she had used inside the house, for control of the music and holo-recording system. The van’s door slid open, and the rear seats folded flat into the floor.
Lori laid her mother on the floor and propped a folded blanket under her head, while Dixie Lou went around toward the driver’s side door. Suddenly the black woman cried out, and fell on the concrete, face down. She twitched and groaned. Hurrying to her, Lori saw another wound, on the back of her neck.
As quickly as she could, Lori helped her into the front passenger seat and engaged the safety harness, which clicked over her the moment it was touched. Lori also had contact with Dixie Lou.
Abruptly, the teenagers neck flopped to one side. “What are you doing?” Dixie Lou asked.
Lori hesitated, because she had received a strange tingling when she touched the woman, somewhat like when she felt the paper of the goddess circle flier. She shook her head to clear it, said, “I’m going to drive. I don’t have a license, but I know how anyway.”
“Not necessary. Get me the remote control. I just had it a moment ago. Look outside for me.”
Lori did as she was told, found the unit and climbed into the driver’s seat, closing the door. She handed the device to Dixie Lou, who fumbled with it and swore, trying to make it work. Finally, she slammed it down on the console and said, “Doesn’t work. You’ll have to drive after all.”
Fighting to remain conscious, with blood running down her forehead and neck, Dixie Lou muttered something about a homing signal they were supposed to pick up, and she must have damaged the transceiver when she fell.
Following additional instructions, Lori punched a code on a dashboard computer pad. The engine surged on, and the garage door slid open behind the vehicle.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Dixie Lou said. “Drive this thing fast.”
“OK.” Lori put the van in reverse.
Seeing a black handgun on the console between her and Dixie Lou, Lori grabbed it. The gun, a .45 long-barrel, was heavier than her mother’s .38 that she had used for target practice, and was one of the new rapid-fire automatics, but she thought she could figure it out. On the handle of the weapon she saw what looked like a sword-cross design.
For a moment, the woman met Lori’s gaze, with eyes full of pain. “I hope you know how to use that,” she said.
“I do.” Lori released the safety and cocked the weapon, then laid it on her lap. With a silent prayer, she nudged the accelerator and roared backward out of the garage, onto a side driveway. The house was
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