8456893456983

had a New Hampshire area code. One of the ambushers, wanting to know if Billy and the girl were all
right? Very likely. Crow considered answering it and decided not to. He would check later to see if
the caller had left a message, though. Information was power.
When he leaned over again to return the cell to the glove compartment, his fingers touched metal.
He stowed the phone and brought out an automatic pistol. A nice bonus, and a lucky find. If the
geezer had awakened a little sooner than expected, he might have gotten to it before Crow could read
his intentions. Crow slid the Glock under his seat, then flipped the glove compartment closed.
Guns were also power.
11
It was full dark and they were deep into the Green Mountains on Highway 108 when Abra began to
stir. Crow, still feeling brilliantly alive and aware, wasn’t sorry. For one thing, he was curious about
her. For another, the old truck’s gas gauge was touching empty, and someone was going to have to fill
the tank.
But it wouldn’t do to take chances.
With his right hand he removed one of the two remaining hypos from his pocket and held it on his
thigh. He waited until the girl’s eyes—still soft and muzzy—opened. Then he said, “Good evening,
little lady. I’m Henry Rothman. Do you understand me?”
“You’re . . .” Abra cleared her throat, wet her lips, tried again. “You’re not Henry anything. You’re
the Crow.”
“So you do understand. That’s good. You feel woolly-headed just now, I imagine, and you’re going
to stay that way, because that’s just how I like you. But there will be no need to knock you all the way
out again as long as you mind your Ps and Qs. Have you got that?”
“Where are we going?”
“Hogwarts, to watch the International Quidditch Tourney. I’ll buy you a magic hotdog and a cone
of magic cotton candy. Answer my question. Are you going to mind your Ps and Qs?”
“Yes.”
“Such instant agreement is pleasing to the ear, but you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t completely
trust it. I need to give you some vital information before you try something foolish that you might
regret. Do you see the needle I have?”
“Yes.” Abra’s head was still resting against the window, but she looked down at the hypo. Her eyes
drifted shut then opened again, very slowly. “I’m thirsty.”
“From the drug, no doubt. I don’t have anything to drink with me, we left in a bit of a hurry—”
“I think there’s a juice box in my pack.” Husky. Low and slow. The eyes still opening with great
effort after every blink.
“Afraid that’s back in your garage. You may get something to drink in the next town we come to—
if you’re a good little Goldilocks. If you’re a bad little Goldilocks, you can spend the night swallowing
your own spit. Clear?”
“Yes . . .”
“If I feel you fiddling around inside my head—yes, I know you can do it—or if you try attracting
attention when we stop, I’ll inject this old gentleman. On top of what I already gave him, it will kill
him as dead as Amy Winehouse. Are we clear on that, as well?”
“Yes.” She licked her lips again, then rubbed them with her hand. “Don’t hurt him.”
“That’s up to you.”
“Where are you taking me?”