by Tanya Huff
“There are none so blind as those who will not see. . . .” There would be no chance of a shot now.
“Thanks, Mr. Kleinbein.”
“Ach, why thank me? You do half of work. Truck did other half.” He leaned out of the window, mopping his brow with a snowy white handkerchief. “You and that overgrown puppy of yours get home now, eh? Tell your father some of the wood near top is still good to burn. If he doesn’t want, I do. And tell him that I return his sump pump before end of month.”
Rose stepped back as he put the truck into gear, then forward again as he added something over the sound of the engine that she didn’t catch. “What?”
But he only waved a beefy arm and was gone.
“He said,” Peter told her, once the red banner of taillights had disappeared and it was safe to change, “Give my regards to your brother. And then he laughed.”
“Do you think he saw you as he drove up?”
“Rose, it’s a perfectly normal thing for him to say. He might have meant me, he might have meant Colin. After all, Colin used to help him bring in hay. You worry too much.”
“Maybe,” she acknowledged but silently added as Storm’s head went out the window again, Maybe not.
He remained where he was, watching, until they drove away, then he slipped the silver bullet from the rifle and into his pocket. He would just have to use it another time.
“Are you sure of this?” The elder Mr. Glassman tapped a manicured nail against the report. “It will hold up in court?”
“No doubt about it. Everything you need is right there.” Behind her back the fingers of Vicki’s right hand beat a tattoo against her left palm. Every time she faced the elder Mr. Glassman, she found herself standing at parade rest for no reason she could discern. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, nor in any way military in bearing so she supposed it must be force of personality. Although he’d been hardly more than a child at the time, he’d managed to not only survive the death camps of the Holocaust but bring his younger brother Joseph safely through the horror as well.
He closed the report and sighed deeply. “Harris.” The name put an end to months of petty sabotage, although as he said it, he sounded more weary than angry. “Our thanks for your quick work, Ms. Nelson.” He stood and held out his hand.
Vicki took it, noting the strength beneath the soft surface.
“I see your bill is included with the report,” he continued. “We’ll issue a check at the end of the week. I assume you’ll be available for court appearances if necessary?”
“It’s part of the service,” she assured him. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”
“Yo, baby-doll!” Harris, spending the last of his lunch break outside in the sun with a couple of cronies, heaved himself to his feet as Vicki left the building. “Packin’ it in, eh? Couldn’t cut it.”
Vicki had every intention of ignoring him.
“Pity that your tight little ass is gonna be wiggling its way somewhere else.”
And then again. . . .
He laughed as he saw her reaction and continued to laugh as she crossed the parking lot to stand in front of him. A jock in his younger days, he had the heavy, bulgy build of a man who’d once been muscular, his Blue Jays T-shirt stretched tight over the beer belly he carried around instead of a waist. He was the kind of laughing bigot that everyone tends to excuse.
Don’t mind him, it’s just his way.
Vicki considered those the most dangerous kind but this time he’d gone beyond excuses. He could complain about people not being able to take a joke all the way to court.
“What’s the matter baby-doll, couldn’t leave without a good-bye kiss.” He turned to be sure the two men still sitting by the building appreciated the joke and so missed the expression on Vicki’s face.
She’d had a bad night. She was in a bad mood. And she was more than willing to take it out on this racist, sexist son-of-a-bitch. He had a good four inches on her and probably a hundred pounds but she figured she’d have little trouble dusting his ass. Tempting, but no. Although her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched, years of observing due process held her temper in check. He’s not worth the trouble.
As she turned to leave, Harris swung around and, grinning broadly, reached out and smacked her on the ass.
Vicki smiled. Oh what the hell. . . .
Pivoting, she kicked him less hard than she was able on the outside edge of his left knee. He toppled, bellowing with pain, as if both feet had been cut out from under him. A blow just below his ribs drove the air out of his lungs in an anguished gasp and given that she resisted stomping where it would hurt the most, she treated herself to slamming a well-placed foot into his butt as he drew his knees up to his chest. Then she grinned at his buddies and started home again.
He could press charges. But she didn’t think he would. He wasn’t hurt and she was willing to bet that by the time he got his breath back he’d already be warping the facts to fit his world view—a world view that would not include the possibility of his being taken down by a woman.
She also realized that this wouldn’t have been the case if she still carried a badge, police brutality being a rallying cry of his kind.
You know, she shoved her glasses up her nose and ran for the bus she could now see cresting the Eglington Avenue overpass, I think I could grow to like being a civilian.
The euphoria faded along with the adrenaline and the crisis of conscience set in barely two blocks from the bus stop. It wasn’t so much the violence itself that upset her as her reaction to it; try as she would, she simply couldn’t convince herself that Harris hadn’t got a small fraction of exactly what he had coming. By the time she was fighting her way to the back of the Dundas streetcar in an attempt to actually make it off at her stop, she was heartily sick of the whole argument.
Violence is never the answer but sometimes, like with cockroaches, it’s the only possible response. By physically moving two semi-comatose teenagers out of her way, she made it out the door at the last possible second. Harris is a cockroach. End of discussion. It was too damned hot to deal with personal ethics. She promised herself she’d take another crack at it when the weather cooled down.
She could feel the heat of the asphalt through the soles of her sneakers and, walking as quickly as the seething crowds allowed, she turned up Huron Street toward home. Dundas and Huron crossed in the center of Chinatown, surrounded by restaurants and tiny markets selling exotic vegetables and live fish. In hot weather, the metal bins of food garbage heated up and the stench that permeated the area was anything but appetizing. Breathing shallowly through her mouth, Vicki could completely understand why the wer had hurried out of the city.
As she passed, she checked the puddle. Tucked up against the curb in a spot where the asphalt had peeled off and a number of the original paving bricks were missing, the puddle collected local runoff as well as assorted organic flotsam. As the temperature rose, foul smelling bubbles occasionally broke through the scummy surface, adding their own bit of joy to the bouquet. Vicki had no idea how deep the puddle was. In five years, she’d never seen it dry. She had a theory that someday, something was going to crawl out of this little leftover bowl of primordial soup and terrorize the neighborhood, so she kept an eye on it. She wanted to be there when it happened.
By the time she reached her apartment, she was covered in a fine sheen of sweat and all she wanted was a cold shower and a colder drink. She suspected it’d be some time before she got either when she could smell the coffee brewing inside as she put her key in the lock.
“It’s a hundred and twelve degrees in the shade,” she muttered, swinging open the door, “how the hell can you drink hot coffee?”
It was a good thing she didn’t expect an answer, because she didn’t get one. Snapping the lock back on, she threw her bag down in the hall and went into the tiny living room.
“Nice of you to drop by, Celluci.” She frowned. “You look like shit.”
“Thank you,
Mother Theresa.” He raised his mug and drank deeply, barely lifting his head off the back of the recliner. When he finished swallowing, he met her eyes. “We got the son of a bitch.”
“Margot?”
Celluci nodded. “Got him cold. We picked the little bastard up at noon.”
At noon. While I was proving I was more macho than Billy Harris. For an instant Vicki was so blindly jealous she couldn’t speak. That was what she should be doing with her life, making a difference, not making a fool of herself in the parking lot of a coffee factory. Lower lip caught between her teeth, she managed to wrestle the monster back into its pit although she couldn’t quite manage the smile.
“Good work.” When she’d allowed Mike Celluci back into her life, she’d allowed police work back in. She’d just have to learn to deal with it.
He nodded, his expression showing exhaustion and not much more. Vicki felt some of the tension go out of her shoulders. Either he understood or he was too tired to make a scene. Either way, she could cope. She reached over and took the empty mug from his hand.
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Tuesday.”
“Ate?”
“Uh. . . .” He frowned and rubbed his free hand across his eyes.
“Real food,” Vicki prodded. “Not something out of a box, covered in powdered sugar.”
“I don’t remember.”
She shook her head and moved into the kitchen. “Sandwich first, then sleep. You’d better not mind cold roast beef, ’cause that’s all I’ve got.” As she piled the meat onto bread, she grinned. It was almost like old times. They’d made a pact, she and Celluci, years ago when they’d first gotten involved; if they couldn’t take care of themselves, they’d let the other one do it for them.
“This job has enough ways of eating at your soul,” she’d told him as he worked the knots out of her back. “It makes sense to build up a support structure.”
“You sure you just don’t want someone to brag to when the job is done?” he snorted.
Her elbow caught him in the solar plexus. She smiled sweetly as he gasped for breath. “That, too.”
And as important as someone who’d understood when it went right, was someone who understood when it went wrong. Who didn’t ask a lot of stupid questions there were no answers to or give sympathy that poured salt on the wound failure had left.
Someone who’d just make a sandwich and turn down the bed and then go away while the last set of clean sheets got wrinkled and sweaty.
Six hours later, Celluci stumbled out into the living room and stared blearily at the television. “What inning?”
“Top of the fourth.”
He collapsed into the only other chair in the room, Vicki being firmly entrenched in the recliner. “Goals scored?” he asked, scratching at the hair on his chest.
“It’s runs, asshole, as you very well know, and it’s a no-run game so far.”
His stomach rumbled audibly over the sounds of the crowd cheering an easy out at first. “Pizza?”
Vicki tossed him the phone. “It’s my place, you’re buying.”
One lone slice lay congealing in the box and the Jays had actually managed to acquire and hang on to a two-run lead when she told him she was heading for London.
“England?”
“No, Ontario.”
“New case?”
“Right first time.”
“What’s it about?”
I’m looking for the person, or people, involved in shooting a family of sheep-farming werewolves with silver bullets. At least it was real work. Important work. “Uh, I can’t tell you right now. Maybe later.” Maybe in a million years. . . .
Celluci frowned. She was hiding something. He could always tell. “How are you getting there? Train? Bus?” Stretching out his leg, he poked her in the side with a bare foot. “Jogging?”
Vicki snorted. “I’m not the one carrying the lovehandles.”
In spite of himself, he sucked in his gut.
Vicki grinned as he tried to pretend he hadn’t done it, visibly forcing himself to relax. Pity, Vicki mused, because he’s just going to get tense again. “Henry’s giving me a lift down tomorrow night.”
“Henry?” Celluci kept his voice carefully neutral. She had, of course, every right to spend time with whoever she wished but there was something about Henry Fitzroy that Celluci most definitely didn’t like. Casual inquiries had turned up nothing to make him change his mind—given that they’d turned up nothing at all. “He’s involved in this case, is he?” The last of Vicki’s cases Henry Fitzroy had been involved with had ended with her half dead at the feet of a grade B movie monster. Celluci had been unimpressed.
Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose. How much to tell him. . . . “He’s friends with the people I’m working for.”
“Will he be staying after he drops you off?” Correctly interpreting her lowering brows, he added, “Calm down. You know and I know how much trouble a civilian can be around a case. I just want to be sure that you’re not complicating things for yourself.” He could see that she wasn’t convinced of his purity of motive. Tough.
“First of all, Celluci, try to remember that I am now a civilian.” He snorted and she scowled. “Secondly, he’s just giving me a lift and filling me in on some of the background details. He won’t be interfering.” He’ll be helping. We’ll be working together. She had no intention of letting Mike Celluci know that, not when she didn’t know how she felt about it herself. Besides, it would involve an explanation it wasn’t her place to give. And if she wanted to work with Henry Fitzroy, it was none of Celluci’s damned business.
Celluci read the last thought off her expression and almost got it right. “I was thinking about your career, not your sex life,” he growled, tossing back the last inch of tepid beer remaining in the bottle. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Vicki.”
“My mind?” It was her turn to snort. She peeled herself out of the recliner, sweaty skin coming away from the vinyl with a painful tearing sound. “I didn’t bring it up. But seeing as you have. . . .”
He recognized her next move as a distraction, an attempt to pull his attention away from Henry Fitzroy. As distractions went, it wasn’t bad and he decided to cooperate. Time enough later to do a little investigating into the elusive Mr. Fitzroy’s background.
Halfway to the bedroom, he asked with mock seriousness—or as close as he could get given his current shortness of breath—“What about the game?”
“They’re two runs ahead with an inning an a half to play,” Vicki muttered. “Surely they can win this one without us.”
As Henry’s teeth opened the vein in Tony’s wrist he looked up to find the eyes of the younger man locked on him. The pupils dilated and orgasm weighted the lids, but through it all, Tony watched avidly as the vampire drank.
When it was over, and he was sure the coagulant in his saliva had stopped the bleeding, Henry raised himself up on one elbow. “Do you always watch?” he asked.
Tony nodded drowsily. “S’part of the turn on. Seeing you do it.”
Henry laughed and pushed a long lock of damp brown hair back off Tony’s forehead. He’d been feeding from Tony as often as had been safe for the last five months, ever since Vicki had convinced the young man to help save his life. “And do you watch while I do other things?”
Tony grinned. “I don’t remember. You mind?”
“No. It’s pleasant not to have to hide what I am.”
Letting his gaze drift down the length of Henry’s body, Tony yawned. “Not hiding much now,” he murmured. “You gonna be around on the weekend?”
“No,” Henry told him. “Vicki and I are going to London. Some friends of mine are in trouble.”
“More vampires?”
“Werewolves.”
“Awesome.” The word blurred, his voice barely audible. Then his eyes slid closed as he surrendered to sleep.
It was very pleasant not having to hide what he was, Henry ref
lected, watching the pulse slow in Tony’s throat. It had been a long time since he’d had the luxury of removing all masks, and now he had not one but two mortals who knew him for what he was.
He smiled and stroked the soft skin on the inside of Tony’s wrist with his thumb. As he couldn’t feed from the wer, this trip would finally see him and Vicki . . . better acquainted.
Three
‘JAYS LOSE IN NINTH’
“Damn!” Vicki squinted at the headline and decided it wasn’t worth thirty cents to discover how the Jays had blown it this time. With no streetcar in sight, she leaned against the newspaper box, immediately regretting it as the box had spent the day basking under an August sun and its metal surface was hot enough to grill steak.
“Well, that was just what I needed,” she growled, rubbing her reddened forearm. Her eyes itched and ached from a combination of the drops and the contortions her ophthalmologist had just put them through, and now she’d fried six square inches of skin. And the streetcar still wasn’t coming.
“Fuck it. Might as well walk while I can still see the sidewalk.” She kicked the newspaper box as she went by and stepped out onto the street, challenging a Camaro crossing Broadview on the yellow light. The driver hit the horn as she dodged the front fender, but the expression she turned toward him closed his teeth on the profane comment he’d been about to add. Obviously not all young men driving Camaros had a death wish.
She crossed the Gerrard Street Bridge in a fog, fighting to keep her emotions under control.
Until this morning she’d thought she’d come to grips with the eye disease that had forced her off the Metro Police. She hadn’t accepted it graciously, not by any means, but anger and self-pity had stopped being the motivating factors in her life. Many, many people with retinitis pigmentosa were in worse shape than she was but it was hard to keep sight of that when another two degrees of her peripheral vision had degenerated in the last month and what little night sight she had remaining had all but disappeared.