The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl by Tim Pratt Page B

of her car, rotting in place. Jane might not notice it, but what if someone else did? Especially if the cops investigated, went to Jane’s apartment, became curious about her mud-covered car . . . He had to get rid of the body, and that meant Jane
couldn’t
leave and take her mud chariot away.
    Forcing himself not to hesitate, he put his hand on Jane’s knee. His fingers sank in slightly. She didn’t react, but she didn’t get out of the car, either, just sat, still, like an unfinished statue.
    “Janey, darling, I’m sorry. I’m a jerk. I am. I know how important this is to you.”
    “It’s important to the world, Denis. The world is filthy, it’s a wreck, and men made it that way.” She didn’t look at him, still gazed out the window, but Denis did his best to seem attentive. “I’m in a unique position to change things. You can’t imagine the forces moving through me. The goddess who gave me these powers . . . she can change the world. Remake it. Shape it like . . .”
    “Like clay?” he said.
    She nodded slowly. “Yes. She can give the world a better shape.”
    Jane took a breath—something she did quite irregularly, Denis had noticed; breathing seemed to have become optional for her. “You’ve been good about this, Denis, helping me through my transition, keeping me from panicking, showing me the benefits of my situation. But this is more important than
anything,
than the possibility of jail, than our relationship, more important than
art
. Do you get that?”
    “I’m beginning to understand,” he said. “Will you come inside with me? Get some sleep, and then we’ll figure out what to do next?”
    “Yes,” Jane said simply, and got out of the car.
    Denis sighed in relief. Now he had time to think. The police would almost certainly come sooner or later, but he was pretty sure he could talk his way out of
that
. He and Jane hadn’t really done anything, after all. Beej was the one who actually vandalized things. Denis could come up with a story for why he and Jane were out walking. . . .
    Denis went into his apartment, after Jane. She was sitting on his white couch, looking blankly at the wall, perhaps deep in thought, perhaps not thinking at all. “Sweetheart,” Denis said. “I’m, ah, going to move your car.”
    She turned her head and regarded him wordlessly.
    “You don’t have a visitor’s pass, and they’ll tow cars from this lot. There’s barely enough parking for all the tenants, you know that.”
    “Fine,” Jane said.
    “If anyone comes to the door . . . don’t answer it, okay?”
    “I will speak to no one but the goddess this day, Denis. I have much to think about.”
    “Right. Good.” He went out to Jane’s car, opened the filthy door, and slid inside. He shuddered. The smell of urine from the back, the coating of mud all over the car—it repulsed him, but this was necessary. He tried to decide what to do.
    It wasn’t as if he’d killed her. Her body would show no signs of foul play. She’d died of suffocation, he assumed—would they be able to tell that? Denis didn’t know much about forensic science, just that it could be incredibly revealing. Surely it would be obvious that she hadn’t been murdered? Not
exactly
murdered, anyway. But they would be able to estimate time of death, and Denis had been seen with Jane since her death, and other people had seen her—or the mud-her, anyway. What would the police make of that?
    Denis had to get rid of the body, and it wouldn’t hurt to get rid of the car. Getting rid of Mud-Jane would be nice, too, but he wasn’t sure how to do that, how something like her could be disposed of.
    Denis started the car and drove, hunched over the steering wheel, tense and wishing for invisibility. He took back streets, heading steadily up into the hills, until he reached the place where Jane’s car had been buried, where all this mess began. It was four in the morning and there was no traffic, no one up on these dark roads. He drove