He strode back into Hallmark’s with a single-minded purpose: a plush dog for his niece. He could hear sirens in the distance, so his time was almost out. He would have to leave the car here, perhaps until nightfall, which meant finding a safe place to stash his coat and weapons and spending the day in town, potentially avoiding a dragnet. Nicholas thanked God for his former occupation, so he knew what to expect, but he had no doubt that the remainder of the day would prove to be very long.
He had stopped by the security office and destroyed today’s tapes, so that would buy him some time, at least.
Like the rest of the mall, Hallmark’s was a disaster. Shelves and merchandise littered the store, and shattered glass from broken displays crunched under Nicholas’ boots as he picked his way through the debris. The only shop that had managed to escape unscathed, he had noted while returning, had been Spencer’s.
Which figured.
A brief search produced the desired animal, and Nicholas was turning to stop by the counter which, miraculously, had also escaped the carnage, when he caught motion out of the corner of his eye. He snatched out his revolver in a practiced left-handed draw and covered the spot, eyes scanning for threats, any beasts he might have missed.
An auburn head retreated under a toppled shelf with a fearful squeak.
Nicholas relaxed; it was the concerned employee girl from earlier. One of the ghast must have transformed right outside the store, and she had been trapped here the entire time.
Holstering the gun, he faced the downed shelf and squatted.
“I’m buying this,” he said, holding the dog in front of him.
He waited for a moment, then stood, returning to the counter. Setting the dog on top of it, he withdrew his wallet.
The girl emerged slowly out of hiding, the knees of her uniform pants filthy and her elbows badly scraped. The shelf hadn’t fallen over her, Nicholas thought as he checked the toy pooch’s tag. She’d fled there.
Her mouth appeared to be trying to form words. Nicholas watched her sideways and waited.
“Who . . . ,” she managed finally, with a considerable effort, “. . . who . . . are you?”
Nicholas smiled. With a deflecting shake of his head he refused the question, dropped three bills on the counter and caught up the dog.
“Keep the change,” he told her, and left.
* * * * *
