Winter's Daughter Read Free Page A

and added with one eye on the advancing patrol car, "I’m waitin’ for a friend."
    "I’ll be your friend," the wino whined in his soft, whiskey voice.
    Tannis’s breath caught. Her heartbeat accelerated as she looked up into the derelict’s face. Friend? It didn’t seem likely; there was something about that face, something dark and dangerous.
    A small movement drew her eyes downward. Deep in his coat pocket the wino’s hand was turning the orange over and over, almost, she thought, as if he were caressing it. Oh, dear, Tannis thought, bitterly regretting the impulse that had led her to give it to him. Now what had she done? How in the world was she going to shake this poor guy? She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she couldn’t have him following her around, either.
    There was something about him that unnerved her.
    Out of the corner of her eye Tannis saw the patrol car cruise closer, only ten or fifteen yards away. She sucked in air. It was now or never.
    "I have to go," she said, and aiming the cart at the derelict’s midsection, gave it a mighty shove. It caught him just below the place where his belt would have been if he’d been wearing a belt.
    Air exploded from the wino’s lungs. Hurtling backward in a half crouch, he struck a trash can a glancing blow. There was the sound of breaking glass. The trash can careened into the gutter and overturned, followed immediately by the wino, who landed on his backside squarely in the middle of a pile of spilled refuse.
    Tannis clamped her hand over her mouth and stared in horror at the wino’s contorted face. Well, she hadn’t meant to hit him
there.
Too late for regrets though. It hadn’t been pretty, and she wasn’t proud of herself, but the maneuver had provided her chance to escape. As she was pushing her cart hurriedly down the sidewalk, she heard a screech that could only be the police car braking to a stop at the curb.
    Dillon heard the screech too. It was followed by the slam of two car doors almost simultaneously. He heard a voice say disgustedly, "Jeez, Louise, ten o’clock in the morning. Isn’t it a little early for this shit?"
    Another voice answered, "Five’ll get you ten he doesn’t know what the hell time of day it is." Two pairs of khaki–clad legs planted themselves, one on each side of Dillon. The second voice went on, jacked up a notch or two now in volume. "Okay, buddy, having a little trouble keeping our feet, are we?"
    Dillon could only shake his head. He was getting his wind and probably even his voice back, but he didn’t waste either one on explanations. It wasn’t going to do him any good, these guys weren’t about to believe him. Hell, he thought morosely, I wouldn’t believe me.
    One of the cops squatted down beside him and picked up a fragment of the broken whiskey bottle. "Whoo–ee!" he said, waving his hand in front of his nose. He glanced up at his partner. "Couldn’t have wasted much of this stuff, by the smell of him."
    Dillon groaned and closed his eyes. "Hey, guys, this isn’t what it looks like."
    "Yeah?" The cop seemed interested. "What does it look like?"
    Knowing it was pointless, Dillon said, "I know you think I’m drunk, but I’m not."
    "Of course not," the squatting cop said in a soothing tone, "you’re just a little under the weather, right?"
    "More than a little, actually," Dillon muttered darkly. "Listen, I know you’re not going to believe this, but I haven’t drunk a drop of what was in that bottle."
    "Right." The cop ducked his head to hide a grin. "Uh—you got any identification?"
    Dillon just sighed and shook his head.
    "Come on, buddy," the cop said, slipping a hand under Dillon’s elbow. "I think you’d better come with us."
    "What charge?" Dillon grunted as he was hoisted to his feet. And then, sourly, he said, "Never mind. Let me guess. Public intoxication? Disorderly conduct? Creating a public nuisance?"
    The older of the two cops, the one who’d remained standing, gave a low whistle