by Ty Griffin
I burst into the studio abruptly enough that the frizzy-dreadlocked artist sitting at an easel in the corner looked up in mild alarm. I waved apologetically and poked my head around to see if Kayla was hidden behind another easel or a stack of art supplies.
Genevieve stood up from a large, clear plastic container filled with paint brushes of various sizes and looked me over with a quizzical gaze. She was taller than average for a woman, maybe five-nine or five-ten, with sharp, angular features. Her unnaturally red hair had hints of graying roots and was cut short enough to be teased into a spiky mess. She wore a flowing beige skirt that reached the floor and an equally flowing flower-print shirt that precisely matched the multitude of clunky bracelets clattering around each wrist. The wispy, easy look of her clothing contrasted the worry lines around the corners of her eyes and mouth.
“May I help you?” she asked, eyes narrow and lips pinched.
I immediately got the impression she worked hard on her laid-back, freedom-loving ensemble in order to mask the tightly controlled, profit-driven expectations of a capitalist. Or maybe she just didn’t like me.
“Uh, hey. Is Kayla here?” I asked.
“May I inquire as to who is asking?” she said with all the propriety of a court herald.
“Oh, I’m Wesley. I work across the street at Gabe’s.”
“Oh, yes. The bartender,” she mused, and if a tone of voice could look down its nose at someone, hers would have. “No, she isn’t here.”
“Okay. You wouldn’t happen to be willing to give me her phone number or address, would you?”
She looked me up and down. “I should say not.”
“I should say not,” Veikr said in high-pitched, nasal mockery. “You are larger than her, Ambivalent One. Step closer to her with your chest out and show her how you tower over her. We can intimidate her into giving us what we want.”
A warm pressure filled the muscles of my legs, nearly propelling me forward to do just that. It would be so easy. Hell, I wanted to do it. I wanted to show her what I thought of her opinion of me. I wanted to scare her, just a little, so she wouldn’t look at me like that again. I wanted to talk to Kayla, and I had no idea of any other way to do it.
“No,” I made myself say. “No, I guess not. Will you tell her I stopped by when you see her?”
“Hmph. If I see her. She will be lucky to still have a job if I do. She did not show up today.”
“She didn’t?” I asked in surprise. “Does she do that a lot?”
“Not show up for work? I should say not. I would not keep her in my employ if she did. She may be late from time to time, but artists are not known for being the most punctual, you know?” She let out a soft chuckle at her own wit before finishing. “But she did not show at all today, leaving me to open the store by myself.”
I looked at her lone customer, painting quietly in the corner, and said, “Okay … Will you tell her I stopped by to talk to her?”
“Very well,” she huffed. “If I see her.”
“Thank you,” I said, and walked out.
“May I inquire as to who is asking?” I repeated once the door had closed behind me. “Who the hell talks like that? No, you may not ‘inquire,’ you can goddamn ask like a normal human being.”
“Why did you not say that inside, human?” Veikr asked. “That would have shut her up, the stuck-up bitch.”
“Eh, it wouldn’t have helped me get any information out of her if I had pissed her off,” I answered.
“You didn’t get anything out of her by being nice, either. It’s not too late, though. Let’s go back in there and set her straight. You don’t even have to hit her, just a tiny little shove will put her in her place.”
“What? I can’t go back in there and push her. She’d call the cops. And there was a witness.”
“Vessel,” Veikr said in admonishment, “she spoke down to us. I cannot ignore this disrespect of my power. She must be corrected.”
“Corrected? Disrespect? I am not going back in there to push around an old lady just because your feelings got hurt!” I said.
“Avenging Angel Petterson,” a voice said from just beyond my peripheral vision. “Did I hear you say something about pushing an old lady?”
I groaned as I turned to face the intrusive voice. “Officer Tilley, you should have your ears checked.”
“Maybe I should, Mr. Petterson,” the squat cop said. “I’d hate to have to take you in for making threats when it was all a misunderstanding.”
“Sure, would be an inconvenience,” added Lark.
“I haven’t done anything. I was just minding my own business. You can ask her,” I said, pointing my chin toward the art studio. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just looking for someone.”
“Were you now?” Tilley asked, her head tilting to one side. “Who were you looking for?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is this an official questioning? Do I need a lawyer here?”
“I’m sure you’ve got one on retainer, don’t you, Petterson?” Lark sneered, exaggeratedly evaluating my clothing.
The warm pressure began filling my hands, and little, irregular red streaks started spreading over my clenched fist. “Oh, this one should die,” sneered Veikr.
I took a deep, steadying breath and determinedly unclenched my hands. I tried to put on my most casual, disinterested face and looked Lark in the eyes. “Am I being detained, officer?”
“Oh god,” he drawled with an eye roll.
Tilley smiled. “You are free to go, Mr. Petterson.” She pulled a business card out of a shirt pocket and handed it to me. “If you find you need to get something off your chest, Avenging Angel Petterson, give me a call.”
I took the card from her hand after a slight hesitation. I didn’t mean to take it, it was just kind of instinct. If someone one is handing you something, you take it. It’s one of those subtle psychologically pushy things cops do, and I hated myself for falling for it. I stuffed the card in my pocket and turned to walk away.
I only got a step before I stopped and let out an exasperated sigh. Tilley must have heard me, because she stopped, too, her hand still on the handle of the art studio door. Not even wanting to turn to face her, I said, “Tilley, I do have something to say.”
“Oh?” she asked.
I turned and looked toward Lark. “Not to you, though.” And I looked around the streets, realizing Barnett’s goons could be hanging around anywhere—the last thing I needed was for him to suspect me of turning into an informant. “And not here.”
Tilley nodded. “Gabe’s, then?”
“No,” I said, a little too quickly. “No, not at Gabe’s.”
“Where, then? You can come meet me at the station.”
I thought about it for a minute. It certainly wouldn’t look good if Barnett found out I had gone to meet with the cops, but that was the original plan with Kayla, and I didn’t think I was important enough for Barnett to have me followed or anything. I nodded. “Yeah, when?”
She glanced back at Painted by Genevieve and said, “This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, then I’m headed back to the station to finish up some paperwork. We can meet there in about an hour?”
“Yeah, okay, an hour.”
I left the two cops and headed back to Gabe’s. Gabe must have been in the bathroom or something when I got back to the bar, because I didn’t see him on my way to the storage room. I was a bit relieved, though, because it meant I didn’t have to come up with a convincing lie as to where I was going. I knew I’d eventually need an explanation as to where I had been, but that was future-me’s problem, and now-me often isn’t too concerned with future-me.
I grabbed my bike from where it was leaning against the back wall and pushed it through the bump door to the alley. I hadn’t ridden my bike since the first time I was attacked by a dark spirit. Or was it the second time? Regardless, I was hoping my ribs were healed enough that I could handle peddling. The police station was farther than I cared to
walk, and I was filled with too much nervous energy to stand and wait for the bus.
Chapter 12
◆◆◆
I made it to the police station about twenty minutes late. The station wasn’t that far, and I could have been there thirty minutes early, but riding had gotten my heart pumping, and that along with the fresh air had me feeling like my mind was finally starting to settle. I was wary of my spirit companion and careful to not engage him in a conversation, but I was secretly grateful that he was able to hide the hangover and sore bones from my mind.
Unfortunately, when I set my bike into the rack outside the station, I felt Veikr say, “Vessel. I have interrupted your negative sensations as long as I can for now. I will need to rest.”
I felt him release his grip of something inside me, and instantly my head started throbbing. It hurt enough that I shut my eyes and took a few deep breaths to force enough resolve to continue living. I realized after a moment that my stomach had settled into an infrequent gurgle instead of the constant nausea of earlier. Gabe’s greasy food must have helped.
I half expected the pain in my ribs to send me to my knees, especially after being re-aggravated the night before, but was pleasantly surprised to find I barely noticed it. Occasionally particular movements would send a flash of pain, but I was learning how to avoid them for the most part.
I didn’t have a chain lock for my bike, so I had to place my faith in the integrity of humanity and hope no one was dumb enough to steal a bike from in front of a police station. I walked up the stone steps and opened an oversized door.
The front lobby was as depressingly drab and insipid as every other police station I had ever been in. Which I guess makes sense. They wouldn’t be designed to make criminals feel welcome and comfortable. Directly in front of the entrance doors was a large wooden counter with a thick piece of plexiglass separating the desk officer from the public. Or maybe it was bulletproof glass; I wouldn’t be the one to tell the difference.
On either side of the desk were metal security doors with thick, heavy-duty hinges and locks which apparently led to where the cops did their—work. Just past the doors were rows of metal folding chairs. On the left side an older couple huddled, whispering to each other. On the right side were two men and a woman sitting in different rows and columns, all showing different levels of frustration and impatience.
I stepped up to the counter and spoke through the softball-sized hole in the plexiglass to the lady clicking away at the keyboard in front of her. “Uh, hi,” I said. She looked up with a practiced expression of “why are you bothering me to make me do my job?” She didn’t need to say a word. She just stared at me, reflecting the room she sat in. After a moment, I realized she wasn’t planning on saying anything but was waiting for me to tell her what the hell I wanted. “I’m here to speak with Tilley, uh, Officer Tilley.”
She didn’t quite roll her eyes, but I could tell it was a tremendous act of will on her part. She slid a clipboard with a sign-in sheet attached through another hole where the plexiglass met the desk. I had to ask for a pen, which she handed me with a sigh. I signed and tried to hand her the clipboard, but she just nodded to the counter and continued punching away on her keyboard. I stood there for a moment, wondering if I should apologize for not having brought my own pen, or for asking something of her, or for existing in general. I decided the apology would likely be an inconvenience to her, so I turned to go sit in one of the seats near the couple on my left.
As I sat I realized I was a little surprised that Veikr had not tried to push me to confront the rude desk officer. Had he not realized how rude she was being? Did that not register to him as a slight worthy of his offense? Or maybe he could not see how she was reacting to me? But then I realized that I had felt a little of the heated pressure in my arms. Veikr had been trying to push me to do something. I wondered for a moment at how quickly I was getting used to the sensation, and his presence in general. I made a mental note to ask Veikr why he had not said anything and a second mental note of caution to not get too comfortable with the demon now living inside me.
After only a few minutes, Tilley popped her head out of one of the security doors and waved me over. I followed her through a short hallway lined with pictures of old cops with big, bushy mustaches and into a large, open room. The room was filled with simple metal desks sporting out-of-date computers, uncomfortable-looking chairs, and very self-important cops.
Tilley sat at a desk and pointed toward the chair beside it. I sat, noticing the chair was exactly as uncomfortable as it had looked. I felt my pulse quicken as soon as I sat, and I instinctually began looking around the room for a way to get out. I had been in rooms like this before, in chairs like this before, and it had never gone well for me.
“I can sense your agitation, Vessel,” Veikr said. “Should I prepare us to flee or fight?” I felt the pressure begin building again in my arms and legs. I shook my head slightly, hoping he would catch the hint without me having to speak out loud and reveal my insanity to the cop.
“You seem nervous, Mr. Petterson,” Tilley noted. “I think your foot might wear a hole in the floor.”
I looked down and saw that my leg was bouncing with nervous energy and the heel of my foot was tapping the ground with the fervor of a bunny on cocaine. I made my body relax and took a deep breath.
“Why don’t you tell me what I can do for you, Wesley,” Tilley said. She leaned forward in her seat. She seemed relaxed, but her hands rested on top of her desk, free from any possible entanglements. Her eyes were narrow and attentive, like a cat watching a bird, waiting for it to land just a little too close.
I took another breath and tried to get my thoughts in order. “I heard you arrested Paul,” I said.
“Paul who?”
“Uh …” I suddenly realized I did not know Paul’s last name. “Paul the pilot?” I said doubtfully.
“Paul the pilot?” Tilley repeated. She leaned back in her chair. “We’ve arrested a good many Pauls over the years, and I don’t know all of their occupations. What was he arrested for?” Her tone had just a hint of condescension, but carried a note of humor as well.
“Assault,” I said. “Sexual assault. You said he attacked a bunch of women.”
Tilley’s eyes narrowed and she leaned forward in her seat.
“Paul Sumter?” she asked. “Yes, I’m familiar with the case. What interest is it to you?”
“I just … I don’t think he did it.” She stared at me with one raised eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate, so I did. “Look, I don’t really know him. He came into Gabe’s a couple times and seemed nice enough. He was attacked the night before one of the assaults and was pretty shook up. I saw him a couple days later, the morning after the attack, and he was still pretty messed up. I just don’t think he could have done it.”
“You saw him attack someone?” Tilley asked.
“What? No. No. He was attacked.” I thought back to that night in the alley. The dark, faceless figure looming over Paul still made me shiver, even after having been nearly eaten by two monsters since. “Gabe said it was like a panic attack. He took him to the hospital. I don’t think he would have been capable of hurting someone after being messed up like that.”
Tilley leaned back in her chair again and looked at me skeptically. I got the distinct impression she had expected the conversation to go in a particular direction and was scrambling to get her mind moving along different lines.
“We are aware of his night in the hospital,” she said slowly. “And he has an alibi for at least one of the attacks. We are working to verify the possibility of an alibi for the others. The thing is, Mr. Petterson, we believe there is the possibility of Mr. Sumter having an accomplice. Maybe someone who picked up where he left off.” She eyed me suspiciously, and I quickly remembered how little I wanted to be talking to a cop.
“Careful, Vessel. This one does not seem to trust you,” Veikr said.
I set my hands on the arms of the cha
ir to push myself up but stopped when Tilley held up a hand. “Just a second, Mr. Petterson. You didn’t come all the way down here just for that. You wouldn’t come talk to me just to tell me you think Mr. Sumter was too ‘messed up’ to assault anyone. What else did you want to say?”
I had learned at an early age that the best thing to say to a cop, especially one that suspects you, is nothing. I just shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. Tilley sighed and put her hands out, palms up, in an “I have nothing to hide” kind of gesture.
“Look, Wesley,” she said. “If you know something, you need to tell me. I know you don’t care much for police officers, but things will go better for you if you’re honest with us.”
I rolled my eyes and continued getting to my feet.
“Please, Wesley,” Tilley said, “women are getting hurt.”
Tilley might have just been a cop, but she was good at her job. She had said the exact right thing, at the exact right time, with the exact right sense of desperation to trigger my macho hero complex.
“It’s just …” I hadn’t planned out how to implicate Gabe, and I suddenly realized I didn’t want to confess to breaking into Gabe’s garage and seeing his stalking files. “Gabe took Paul to the hospital. Then, apparently, you found Paul’s wallet with the next victim.” Tilley seemed surprised that I knew about the wallet, but she just raised an eyebrow and let me keep talking. “And then Paul comes back to the bar looking for his wallet.”
“Yeah?” she prodded.
“It’s just … I think you should look into Gabe some.”
Tilley blinked. “Gabe?” she asked. “You think Gabe is involved?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seemed weird to me.”
“Weird enough to make you want to come here and suggest looking into him? Because our suspect says he lost his wallet in Gabe’s bar? Is there something else that makes you think he might be involved?”