Deadline

“We’re going to the airport to pick up a friend, and you’re coming because Maggie has to tell me how to get there.” By group consensus, Kelly was never left alone in the house for any reason, not even for a few minutes. The closest we’d come was leaving her in the custody of a few of Maggie’s Fictionals, and even then, it was never for more than an hour. We weren’t afraid she was going to run—not anymore—but there was always the chance the CDC would finally track her down when we weren’t there to protect her.

To her credit, Kelly had stopped arguing about our refusal to leave her by herself after the first week, and she wasn’t arguing now. She nodded, saying, “I’ll go get my coat,” before disappearing back into the dining room.

Maggie and I exchanged a glance. “I didn’t think he’d come here,” she said. “I’ve only met him the once, at… the last time he came to California.”

The event she wasn’t naming was Georgia’s funeral. I nodded, both in acknowledgment and as silent thanks for her not saying the word “funeral” out loud. “He’s a good guy. If he’s here, he must have found something pretty big.”

“Or he’s running from something pretty big.”

“That’s also possible.” Mahir hadn’t said anything about his wife being with him, and somehow I couldn’t imagine that she’d approved this little jaunt without a good reason. “Let’s go find out, shall we?”

“I’m pretty sure we don’t have a choice,” Maggie said, and patted my arm lightly before heading for the door.

I paused long enough to grab my gun belt and laptop, and followed. “I guess this means the break is over,” I muttered.

I think you’re right.

Maggie and Kelly were waiting next to Maggie’s van when I made it outside, miniature bulldogs frolicking around their feet. Maggie smiled wryly. “They can’t imagine any reason for us toI’ll goutside that doesn’t involve playing with them.”

“I’ll throw tennis balls for an hour once we finish the debriefing,” I said, holding up my hand. “Keys?”

“You’re driving?” asked Maggie, as she lobbed them to me underhand.

“At least that way we’ll get there alive.”

Maggie’s laughter was echoed by George, the two of them setting up a weird reverb that no one but me could hear. George always hated letting me drive, said I was trying to send the both of us to an early grave every time I swung around a corner without slowing down. I do the driving for both of us these days, by necessity, and she mostly doesn’t give me shit about it, but still, the irony wasn’t escaping either one of us.

Even when she was alive, George would have admitted that I was a better driver than Maggie. I’ve never let the car spin out just to see what would happen, for example, and I don’t view rainy days as an excuse to hydroplane. I may be crazy, but I think there’s a pretty good chance that Maggie’s suicidal.

Kelly crawled into the backseat. Maggie and I took the front, Maggie programming an address into the GPS as I started the van. I drove slowly down the length of the driveway, pausing only for the exit checkpoint—a small, almost cursory confirmation that we were aware of the dangers inherent in choosing to leave the property—before turning onto one of the winding two-lane roads that pass as major streets in a town the size of Weed. There weren’t many potholes. That was about as far as the civic planners went in terms of preparing the citizenry for an outbreak. In places like Oakland and Portland, there are standing defenses, blood test checkpoints, and lots of fences. In places like Weed, there are doors with locks, safety-glass windows, and room to breathe. I’d never spent much time in a stable rural area before; I always thought the people who chose to live that way were sort of insane. It was sort of surprising to realize that I liked it.

When all this is over, I’ll make sure you can retire on a farm with lots of room to run around and play with the other puppies, said George dryly.

I managed to turn my laughter into a shallow cough, ducking my head to the side before Maggie and the Doc could see me smile. With as good as things had been going, I was trying not to shove reminders of my relationship with George in their faces. Knowing the boss is crazy is one thing. Dealing with it is something else.

“How far is the airport?” asked Kelly, leaning between the seats so she could see the road. Her hair was starting to grow out, and it tangled in front of her eyes in a tawny fringe. It made her look more like herself, and that made it easier for me to deal with her, especially since she was still wearing Buffy’s clothes everywhere. One ghost was more than enough for me.

“About ten miles,” said Maggie. She picked up the radio remote, beginning to flick through the frequencies. Our van has a sophisticated antenna array capable of picking up police and even some military bands, thanks to Buffy’s tinkering and George’s endless willingness to throw money into improving our access to information. Maggie’s van, on the other hand, has six hundred channels of satellite radio. Prior to riding with her, I didn’t know there was enough, say, Celtic teenybopper surf rock to fill a podcast, much less an entire radio station. Live and learn.

Maggie settled on a station blaring pre-Rising grunge pop, cranking the volume a few notches before she put the remote down and reclined in her seat. “That’s better.”

“Better than what?” asked Kelly.