Winter's Daughter Read Free

ran the newsstand on the corner. If there was anyone she could count on to help her, it was Gunner.
    Dillon stared after the bulky, shuffling figure and looked thoughtfully at the cigarettes he still held in his hand. It was another incongruity, her passing up a good clean pack like that. Even if she didn’t smoke, most of the street people he knew would consider them as good as money in trade. If she hadn’t figured that out yet, she hadn’t been on the streets very long.
    And yet, the cart and the clothes said otherwise. Odd.
    Stuffing the cigarettes into his pocket, Dillon rubbed his hand across his mouth, waited for a break in traffic, and crossed the street. On the other side he paused, then turned south. His loose–jointed stride was deceptive; it looked aimless and unhurried but wasn’t. In no time at all he had the bag lady’s purple knit cap in sight again.
    No doubt about it, there was something haywire about that woman. Here it was, a gorgeous January day, with clear skies and the mercury moving toward a high in the upper seventies, and she was still wearing the coat, cap, and gloves. Moving along as fast as she was and pushing that cart to boot, she had to be working up a sweat. Dillon was beginning to feel sticky himself, and all he had on under the jacket was a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of his oldest, rattiest jeans. He was beginning to itch too; the jacket’s former occupant had had company.
    He was getting too old for this, Dillon decided, indulging in a good scratch while his quarry waited fretfully at a stoplight. It had been a long time since he’d done any of this undercover stuff. Like his instincts, the old moves were coming back to him, and he hadn’t lost much in the way of reflexes. He just didn’t remember minding the discomforts so much.
    Of course, he’d been a lot younger then. Younger, and idealistic enough to think he could make a difference. In the old days he’d known the seamy underside of the city as well as most people know their own living rooms. And he’d known the people—the hookers, the pimps, the winos and wierdos, the bag ladies, runaways, addicts and dealers—better than most people know their own kids. Eventually, though, he’d gotten to feeling like the Dutch boy with his finger in the dike, and the time had come when he’d known he had to get out or wind up being sucked into the sewer himself.

    The newsstand was closed. Tannis had forgotten Gunner’s habit of slipping away to the deli for coffee and a bagel once the morning rush was over. It was past ten o’clock. She should have remembered. Sometimes, if her timing was right, she could get Gunner to bring back a cup of coffee for her, balancing it in the caddy he’d rigged up on the arm of his wheelchair.
    As she leaned against the side of the newsstand to catch her breath, Tannis stole a quick look back. Yes, the wino was still coming, still following her, only half a block away now. He was impossible to miss. The blue baseball cap easily topped every other head in the crowd.
    With a dry mouth and pounding heart she looked around her, studying the lay of things, considering her options. About a block away she saw a police black–and–white rolling slowly toward her. Briefly she considered flagging it down but rejected that except as a last resort. It would mean questions and explanations, and the odds were that before she was through, her cover would be completely blown. Word traveled fast on the street. There had to be a better way of attracting the patrolmen’s attention, one that wouldn’t focus it needlessly on
her.
    "Hey!"
    Tannis jumped as if she’d been stung as a dark, saturnine face was thrust around the corner of the newsstand, practically at her shoulder.
    "Hey," the wino said, "where you goin’ in such a hurry, huh?"
    Tannis ducked her head, tucking her chin into the collar of her coat as she pushed away from the plywood wall. "I’m not goin’ anywhere," she muttered,