stood wide open. Sister Theresa stood framed in the open doorway, talking to a man wearing a long, old-fashioned-looking raincoat. The man carried a compact black bag.
A doctor? If Mac paid the guy for his trouble, would he examine the girl and help her out?
Sister Theresa called to him. “Mac? Is that you? Come in out of the rain. Have a hot cup of coffee or some cocoa. And bring your friend. Everyone’s welcome here.”
He felt a tug on the back of his coat and turned swiftly. The girl was shaking her head, trembling from the cold or a bad case of nerves, or maybe something less obvious.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders, trying to reassure her.
She peered around his side, then back at him. My, she had pretty blue eyes. “Is that the woman you mentioned? The kind one?”
He furrowed his brows. The quaint phrasing of the question sounded odd, especially coming from this drowned rat of a woman whose sodden clothes probably outweighed her.
“That’s Sister Theresa, though you’d never know it by the way she dresses. As you can see, the good sister doesn’t go in for the traditional habit. Seems it’s your lucky day. Her visitor looks like a doctor—”
He stopped talking because the girl had wrenched herself free and was now walking away from him as fast as she could, which wasn’t all that fast but was decidedly determined. He called out to Sister Theresa that he’d be back and trotted after his waif, calling for her to wait up. She pulled the hat down farther on her head and kept walking.
He caught up with her easily and even as he seized her arm, he wondered why he bothered. Reasonable or not, she was a grown woman with the right to make any decision she so desired. No cop would arrest her for changing her mind about a shelter. So far as he knew, she’d done nothing wrong and hurt no one, not even herself. But he couldn’t ignore the vulnerable slump of her shoulders or the way her gaze faltered when their eyes met.
She was afraid. If not of Sister Theresa, then of what? Or whom?
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She cast a wary look toward the still lighted doorway and the two figures who had turned back to their conversation. She shook her head as though unable to put this new fear into words.
“Is it the doctor? Do you know him?”
Again she shook her head.
“Then let him examine you.” He touched her hand. “Come on—”
Again, he was talking to thin air as she’d managed to dart away. Instead of walking, she’d broken into a run. He’d seen a flash of terror in her eyes before she turned and that flash now yanked him after her.
“Wait,” he called, but she only ran faster. The clomping of her boots echoed on the wet sidewalk. A gang of five or six boys parted like the Red Sea as she plowed heedlessly through their midst. He heard them heckle her. Wearing that plaid coat and a man’s hat, they probably mistook her for Jake. He doubted she heard a single word.
Then he was among the kids, a few of whom he recognized from the dozens of times he’d seen them roaming the streets. They ignored him, he ignored them. Determined not to lose the girl, he kept up the pace.
It was inevitable that sooner or later the icy sidewalk would claim her and it did as she rounded a corner. He saw her feet slip out from under her and heard her cry as she hit the concrete.
He was there in a second but she was already scrambling to her feet, driven it seemed by panic, more powerful than any drug.
But of what? Of a doctor she’d never met? Of a nun?
She fell again, on hands and knees this time. Another sob, another mad scramble to her feet. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her toward him. She came kicking and screaming, out of control. She kept crying, “No, No. Please, no.”
He wrapped her tightly against him. “It’s okay, honey,” he said. “Calm down.”
“I don’t want—”
“I know, I can see that. I’m not going to make you do anything. Tell me what you want me to do.”
She collapsed against his chest.
Another group of teenagers—apparently the only people willing to brave the elements—passed on the other side of the street. Mac could see more people peering from sheltered doorways.
He couldn’t abandon the quivering mass of flesh and bones who clung to him for support. He just couldn’t—not here, not like this.
“Try to walk,” he told her. “Let’s get out of here.”
With his arm around her, he helped her along, but not back toward the unknown terror of the doctor or the Catholic nun.
But where?
The shelter seemed to be out of the question. Making a snap decision, he said, “I’m taking you to my place for the night. You’ll be safe there. Tomorrow, we’ll think of what we should do.”
Even as these words left his lips, he recognized the foolishness of this decision. He was promising this extremely needy young woman a haven for the night and help the next day; he would keep his word, but the motivation for his offer had as many facets as an octopus has arms.
Oh, well.
Where before she’d followed, now she leaned on him heavily, her slight weight no problem, but her sudden emotional withdrawal unnerving. He tried asking her questions, but she ignored him and seemed to put all her energy into the act of walking. She must have hurt her knee when she fell; he noticed she’d developed a slight limp and a whimper when she stepped hard on her right leg.
Eventually, he got her back to his car. By now, he was as wet and smelly as she was. On the way around to the driver’s door, he found a spanking new parking ticket tucked under his windshield wiper. Jeez, did these guys follow him around and wait for a meter to run out? The citation went into the glove box with all the others. If the cops didn’t knock off all these tickets, he was going to have to go to the D.A. and complain.
It took several minutes to navigate his way across town. During the drive, he tried not to inhale deeply. The two of them smelled like old rubbish stewed in street grime and booze. He’d probably have to fumigate his car.
The girl rubbed her left shoulder and said nothing.
For once, there was a parking spot within a block of his apartment. If anything, the rain had grown icier and more vicious, and, heads down, they made their way to his place. A short flight of stairs seemed like more of a challenge than she was up to; without hesitation, he swept her into his arms and carried her up the stairs.
By the time he unlocked the door, she seemed more zombie than human. He didn’t want her clothes, or his outerwear, either, for that matter, inside the apartment proper. He wasn’t sure how to tell her she had to strip.
Thankfully, the entry floor was tile, as they both dripped a river of rainwater. An opposing door that locked on its own led to the apartment itself, providing a nice barrier for cold winters. Now, it gave him a staging area for getting
