Fair Peril by Nancy Springer Page B

when she pushed it to sixty before the first traffic light. Goddamn car. But at least no cop saw her run the light. Buffy accomplished a one-car stampede to the edge of town, back Main Street to the commercial strip at the other end, and around the bypass before a cop stopped her. Speeding. Driving without a license. A ticket for $297. He did not ticket her for hysteria, driving barefoot and in a nightgown (cerulean-blue flannel with glow-in-the-dark stars, planets, and crescent moons), or asking goofy questions. No, he had not seen a metallic-mauve Probe with a teenage girl and a naked fetch in it.
    Forty-five minutes later, Buffy, still barefoot, flannel-gowned, and hysterical, stood at the door of the Prentis Sewell stately residence, pounding and leaning on the loathsome door chimes.
    After an inordinate interval, Prentis opened the door a crack and peered out with his cute little dresser-drawer weapon in hand. Prentis, in sweats, jaw set, trying to look tough on crime, as if there might be a TV crew on his doorstep at three in the morning. Turning his hair-implanted head slightly so that the light caught his best angle. Seeing his ex, he opened the door fully yet seemed not at all sure he might not need the gun. “Buffy, for God’s sake—”
    â€œEmily’s missing.”
    Prentis puffed his chest and scowled. “I hear you ruined her party.”
    â€œBetter than ruining her life.” Could he think of nothing but taking potshots in the post-marital war? At least she had been there for the party. “Suction the wax out of your ears, Prentis. Emily is missing. Gone. She’s run away.” Prentis belonged to the old boys’ network; he might be able to get the cops to do something.
    â€œShe’s got a right to run away after the trick you pulled.”
    Dear God, what was it going to take to make him get the picture? Buffy had thought he might be able to see past their personal differences long enough to focus on helping their youngest child. Silly thought.
    â€œPrentis,” she said between her teeth, “may I draw your attention to the fact that your garage door is hanging open and the Probe is gone.”
    His stare shifted and his scowl turned to a frown. “Hey.” He swiveled and bawled into the house, “Tempestt!” After waiting for a short while, he raised the volume. “Pestt!”
    It was a measure of Buffy’s agitation that learning in this way of Tempestt’s uncomplimentary nickname failed to cheer her.
    â€œPestt! What’s Emily gone and done with the Probe?”
    A sleepy soprano response wafted from upstairs.
    â€œShe’s not there? Did she wreck the car and not tell me?”
    â€œFor God’s sake,” Buffy exploded, “forget the damn car! We’ve got to find Emily!”
    He turned back to her and gave her his what’s-the-big-problem look. “Emily? Hell, she’s a kid, she’s probably out cruising with her friends. Snuck out without telling us. I’ll give her what for when she gets back.”
    Buffy said, “She’s out cruising with a—” How to explain this in terms even a politician like Prentis could understand? “She’s with a young man who is entirely too old for her.”
    â€œ Is she!” Prentis crinkled into his most charming running-for-office grin. “Well, she’s sixteen. She’s legal. That’s about the age I liked them when I started screwing them.”
    It knocked Buffy’s breath away. He might as well have punched her in the gut. She staggered back. It would not have hit her as hard if she had thought he was being boorish on purpose to hurt her—but she knew better. He was being Prentis.
    â€œJust joking,” he said.
    â€œYou are a toad,” Buffy managed to whisper. “A total, odious toad.” She turned her back on him and ran, her bare feet colder than the pavement, colder than the April night