by Jamie Quaid
If he was a goner, I had a nagging suspicion I was the beast that had killed him. Milo could barely kill a mouse. I was still too stunned and appalled to fully grasp what had happened, but I recognized opportunity when it knocked. The beast theory might let me off Schwartz’s hook.
“A beast, like a wildcat or something? Or maybe something with a sword?” I suggested.
She nodded vigorously. “It had to be something awful. The bastard was bigger than both of us put together.”
Yeah, I agreed with that. “Like a swamp monster with an ax. Whatever it was, saved our lives.” I was going to hell for this, I knew it. But I was tired of people looking at me as if I’d killed Max and thrown reporters to the winds. I wasn’t taking the blame for this one.
Even though I was pretty damned certain that this time, I really was guilty. I just didn’t know how it was possible. I might have been able to break boards with my hands, but it took a lot more than a tire iron to sever spines and several hundreds pound of lard and muscle. And now I’d have to live with a man’s blood on my hands, and the fear of whoever had sent him—because I was rapidly concluding he was one of the goons Andre was trying to protect me from.
What the devil had he meant about boxes? Now I’d never know.
Schwartz reappeared with a paramedic, a uniformed cop, and aprons and towels to cover both victim and rapist. Chesty’s didn’t do tablecloths.
I let Ernesto identify the perp as the customer his bouncer had thrown out for drunken lewdness. Schwartz retrieved the corpse’s wallet and identified him as some minor bureaucrat in a quasi-governmental organization. Why would he be looking for me? I was starting to shiver with shock and wasn’t entirely certain I wanted to know.
It took two men to load the body parts onto a stretcher and haul the massive body away. The paramedics were trying to decide between ax wounds and machetes. They weren’t buying swords. Nothing explained the lack of blood splatter. No logic applied. Maybe the Zone was thirsty and took the blood itself.
No one considered either of us large enough to have done the damage, particularly since there was no weapon beyond the Miata’s feeble tire iron—which might have accounted for the corpse’s bruises but not the slicing in two.
I learned that the waitress’s name was Diane and that she’d gone outside for a smoke when she’d been attacked. She swore I’d saved her from certain death and that some avenging beast had leaped tall buildings to save us both.
Superstition and legend could easily grow out of the fires dancing along the dark harbor water beyond the pier. Schwartz scowled at the improbability of the swamp monster rumor Diane had repeated after my suggestion, but everyone cast wary glances over their shoulders at the shadows playing across chemical-laden ground zero nonetheless.
Ernesto tried to look down my shirt. The cop took notes, and the last paramedic eventually persuaded Diane into an ambulance.
I refused to do another emergency room. I’d spent nearly a year in hospitals with my splintered leg. Even if I’d had insurance, which I didn’t, I wasn’t entering one of those mausoleums again if I could prevent it. The ambulance attendants gave up arguing and painted my hands and knees with antibacterial ointments, clucking over my scars. And my tire iron got confiscated.
To top off the good time, Andre arrived just as Schwartz was grudgingly allowing me to go home. He spun his Mercedes into the alley, blocked my escape, and climbed out, still tucking his silk shirt into his creased trousers.
“I’m not going through it all again,” I said defensively. I jerked my head toward Schwartz. “Ask him. Now move your vehicle and let me go home.”
“That’s our delicate rose,” Andre said sardonically, glaring at me. “Have you patched up the thorn wounds yet, Schwartz?”
It was unfair. They were both wide-shouldered men, bigger than me, one dark, one light, both scowling as if I was no more than a fly in their soup. I was too tired to lash out at both of them. I probably had to face an angry Max in the mirror when I went home. Why didn’t I deserve a man who offered reassuring words and comforting hugs after I was nearly killed trying to help somebody?
“She saved Diane’s life tonight,” Schwartz said unexpectedly. “You need to have more security back here. I can’t be everywhere at once, and Ernesto keeps forgetting to fix the lights.”
“We could post an army and that wouldn’t keep Clancy out of trouble,” Andre growled. “If you have any influence, persuade her to stay home.”
“Me?” Schwartz asked in surprise. “What influence would I have?”
“I’m not a bone to pick over, you know,” I said, climbing into my car and gunning the engine. “So if you don’t get out of my way, I’ll have to run over you.”
So maybe I wasn’t the kind who needed hugs and sweet words.
Andre reached over the door and confiscated my keys, tossing them to Schwartz. When I jumped out of the Miata, ranting, the good detective threw me over his shoulder. I whacked his back with my fists for good measure, but I didn’t have much energy left.
Andre indicated the Mercedes and pulled a large bill out of his pocket, handing it to Schwartz in exchange for depositing me in the front seat of the expensive two-seater. I slumped down and sulked. “I want my cat,” I insisted before Andre sat down.
Milo was already half out of the Miata. Schwartz scooped him up and dropped him into my lap. I cuddled purring fur against my chest all the way home, refusing to listen to Andre’s ranting about getting help next time before I did anything foolish. My shirt had streaks of blood on it from Milo’s paws when I finally let myself into my apartment.
I’d killed a man. I’d taken a life. And I was pretty sure I’d damned him to hell.
But more important, I needed to know: what was I?
13
Thunder cracked overhead, jarring me out of my nightmares. I glanced at the clock and winced. I’d forgotten to set the alarm last night, and I was late for my first class.
Anticipating the usual morning pain of rearranging damaged leg muscles, I eased out of bed. I stumbled awkwardly and almost tripped over Milo, who had made a nest out of clothes I’d abandoned on the floor. While I grabbed the dresser to stay upright, he stretched and gave me an evil eye. I’d left a window open, and the air coming in was cool. Summer hadn’t quite reached Baltimore after all.
Grateful that my leg wasn’t cranky from the cold, I rushed to dress for class, not bothering to shower, since I didn’t need the steam to be functional this morning. I didn’t even stop to see if Max had left more messages in the medicine cabinet mirror.
I yanked on a pair of khakis . . . and stared when the hems rose three inches above my ankles. I yanked them back off again, cursing cheap laundry machines . . . and blinked in gut-wrenching disbelief.
My bad leg was whole.
No scars twisted my thigh into misshapen flesh. My leg hadn’t looked so good since before the cop had knocked me down the jail’s mile-high concrete steps.
I stomped my foot, hard. No pain. Real muscles. I squeezed them to be certain. Real flesh, solid muscle. Not a wrinkle or scar to be seen—on a leg that had undergone thirteen surgeries and countless pins.
I threw the khakis on the floor and went back to bed. Maybe I needed to wake up again.
Except as soon as my head hit the pillow, the mindless rush of I’m-late panic morphed into shocking comprehension—last night’s nightmare hadn’t been a figment of my overworked imagination.
I’d killed a man. Somehow. And my leg was healed? Like Sarah had grown boobs.
My stomach lurched, and I pulled the covers over my head to make the world go away.
My cell phone began ringing before I could settle all the ugliness scuttling around inside my skull. I pulled the pillow over my ears and debated moving to Seattle. Maybe I could steal an RV and hit the road.
Someone began pounding on my door—loudly. The neighbors got ticked if anyone got too rowdy. I was almost looking forward to being run out of the tenement on a rail
. But not this close to graduation.
“Go get ’em, Milo,” I muttered, dragging myself from my cozy cave into the chilly air.
Milo strutted off, stubby tail up, just as if he’d understood.
I slept nude and didn’t own a bathrobe. I got dressed, tugging on a tank top and broomstick skirt—which nearly met my kneecaps instead of hanging to my newly developed calves. I could wear high heels now. Max would have been thrilled.
I cast a snarly glance at the blanket-covered mirror and trudged to the front room.
I peered through the peephole and saw Jane, the reporter. With a sigh, I let her in and locked the door behind her. I headed for the kitchen without speaking. I needed caffeine before I could even begin to be coherent. Looked like I wouldn’t be making class today.
“You were there last night,” Jane said without preamble. “You must have seen the monster. I need this story. I get paid by the word and I need rent money. Tell me everything.”
I yawned and filled the yard sale coffeemaker I’d bought for a quarter. “Truth or a long story to fill the pages?” I asked.
She actually hesitated. I glared blearily at her and got down two mugs. I could reach the shelf without standing on my toes. Even with a straight leg, how could I be three inches taller? I wanted to pound my head against the cabinet to see if my brains were still inside my skull, but I resisted.
Jane shrugged and pulled out her tiny tape recorder. “Give me your version of the truth, and I’ll find the other witnesses and get theirs. That ought to make for lots of words.”
“The only witnesses were me and the victim. And the dead guy,” I amended. I wanted to be a lawyer, after all. I ought to be good at details. I didn’t think I’d give her all of them—like the perp wanting to talk to me about boxes. My fault warred with Why me? in my uncaffeinated brain. “There isn’t much to tell. Are your guys responsible for the suits hanging around the Zone these days?” I could at least attempt to make some sense of events.
“My guys?” she asked, startled. “I don’t have guys. I told my editor there was something freaky happening in the Zone and that I wanted to do a story, but he’s put me on human interest. Says I’m not tough enough to do investigative reporting. The only reason I’m here is because I’m the only one you’ll let in.”
“Well, tell him you’re the only one we’ll talk to in the Zone, and see how that flies. No one will talk to reporters down there, and we can spot them a mile off.” Another lie. I was going straight to hell.
I debated adding Splenda—lifted from IHOP—or real sugar to my coffee, wondering which added more chemicals to my chemically enhanced body, and decided to heck with it and added sugar. I had no milk. I handed a mug to Jane and sipped from mine. It didn’t improve my humor by much.
She poured two packets of Splenda into hers and stirred. “I could try that. We don’t have much money for real investigations.”
“Whatever. It’s not as if anyone can explain what goes on in the Zone. Last night I hit a rapist with a tire iron. He knocked me down. A howling cat leaped out of the darkness. Or maybe it was a panther. Next thing we knew, the guy was dead in pieces in the alley. I’m pretty sure even a panther can’t cause that kind of damage.” I refrained from mentioning my second tire iron blow. Maybe I wasn’t cut out to be a lawyer. Maybe I really was Satan’s daughter, even if the poor devil couldn’t have kids.
“And you didn’t see a raging monster?” she asked in disappointment.
“I’d have shit my pants if I had—the guy was up, then he was down. It was pretty anticlimactic after thinking I was going to be dead in a few minutes. Maybe we have ghosts. Maybe he was a robot.”
If I started enough rumors, the media would have something more fun to focus on than bothering someone as boring as me.
I didn’t know if it would be safe to mention that there hadn’t been as much blood as I’d expected. On film, there was blood spatter everywhere. This guy had been like a hot-air balloon, except for the blood on Milo’s paws.
Hot-air balloon. I’d called him a blowhard. Maybe he was one of Andre’s weirdnesses. I got thicker hair, Sarah got to be a chimp, and this guy turned into hot air. That totally worked for me.
The legs and new height . . . I didn’t know what to make of that just yet. Not after suffering painful treatments by teams of doctors over the years, all to no avail save for developing a resistance to most helpful drugs.
Jane nodded and took notes. “Can you introduce me to the waitress? And Detective Schwartz? Maybe more evidence has come to light.”
“I usually don’t head down there until after lunch.” I glanced at the rain sheeting the dirty windows. I couldn’t drive the Miata in rain without getting soaked. It would be a good study day. Or maybe I could start checking out those names Cora had given me.
I was trying very hard to pretend everything was normal, that I hadn’t grown three inches overnight. I kept swinging my leg, waiting for it to lock up and hurt. I wanted to try knee bends. I wanted to run, like I used to do. I’d been on the track team at one high school I attended.
At the same time, I was totally terrified of what was happening to me. But I’d spent a lifetime presenting a fearless attitude to the world. Couldn’t change now. In fact, I itched to stand up to Andre and verify I could almost look him in the eye.
Jane made a moue of dissatisfaction at my uselessness. “Would you happen to know Schwartz’s phone number? Or the waitress’s? I have to pick up my kid at day care at two, so now is the only time I can talk to them.”
“Nope, and you’re not going to find either of them at work in the mornings. You might find Schwartz at the precinct, but I’m betting he won’t talk while on duty. I don’t know Diane’s schedule, or if she’ll even come back to work. I wouldn’t, if I were her.”
“Dang, maybe I ought to just move down there. I’m supposed to be out of my apartment by Sunday unless I make my rent.” Looking as if someone had just run over her dog, Jane tucked her notebook away and blew on her coffee.
“The Zone’s not a good choice for a kid,” I warned, trying not to sympathize. “Why don’t you ask my landlord? This place is cheap, if you don’t mind students barfing in the parking lot after ball games.”
“I already checked. No vacancies. Student housing goes fast. It’s the Zone or the streets. I’m only kidding myself to believe I can blow a near-rape story into enough words to make the rent, even if Schwartz claims he tracked a monster into the harbor and sailed the seven seas in pursuit.”
“Andre’s been wanting me to move closer to work,” I told her, mentally rolling my eyes at myself.
Maybe instead of law, I should have taken astrology. Maybe then I’d have a better understanding of why I do what I do. The world was a lousy place, and I knew I couldn’t change it. And yet time after time, I kept trying.
Maybe it was all about Andre and my new horniness. That would make some tiny bit of sense, at least.
“He says he knows a place. Maybe if I move down there, you could sublet this place until my lease is up.” Given my test schedule, I really had only a week left of school. I could commute for finals.
I wasn’t entirely certain I wanted to leave my place behind, but I guess I just decided her kid having a roof over its head was more important than my neuroses.
She stared at me in astonishment. I understood the reaction. I was pretty astounded myself.
“You really mean that?” she asked. “You’re not just saying that because you feel sorry for me or you want to get rid of me or because there are monsters under the bed or something?”
She didn’t know how close she’d hit home. “Feel free to look under the bed. Check the mirrors, too,” I advised, figuring I’d play it safe before uprooting my life. “I’ll be taking the furniture if I can find a truck, but the dust bunnies are all yours.”
She glanced around my tiny kitchen/living room combo. “It’s bigger than my place,” she whispered uncertainly. “I can’t give you a deposit.”
“Go look at the bedroom. There’s only one,” I warned. “You got me out of bed, so the place is a mess. It’s not the Hilton.”
I finished my coffee while she was taking my advice and checking the bathroom and bedroom. I didn’t hear any shrieks at the mirrors. Milo sauntered out, looked at me cross-eyed, and checked his food bowl.
I had an uneasy feeling that I’d stopped keeping my head down and my mouth shut. Max’s death had shaken something loose inside me.
Or maybe now that I had hair and legs, I wanted to show off. Idly wondering how long I’d have to live in the Zone to add two or three sizes to my bust, I abruptly realized something terrible—I’d grown hair after Max died and legs after killing a rapist. Something similar had happened with Sarah, after she killed her abusive husband. . . .
That was just too creepy for words.
That Seattle idea was more attractive by the minute. Pity I had no money.
Moving to the Zone wasn’t any smarter, really, but I wanted to do it, which might have been even weirder than growing legs overnight.
Andre’s notion that only people who belonged in the Zone stayed in the Zone came back to bite me. After I’d found the job with Andre, I had never attempted to look for a better place to work. Even when I’d known working at Chesty’s was way below my skill level, I hadn’t asked elsewhere. I’d been in Baltimore for two years. I knew my way around now. I could find better. I just didn’t want to, it seemed.
After spending a lifetime traveling the country, I had found a home in an industrial waste zone. I was seriously damaged. Which was Andre’s point.
But now that the caffeine was kicking in, my mind was perking up. I checked out the front window. The Escalade was still out there.
Jane was looking considerably more chipper when she emerged from exploring my limited territory. Apparently Max hadn’t decided to leer at her.
“Your bathroom mirror is damaged,” she told me cheerfully. “But your plumbing is better than mine. If you’re really sure you want to do this, I have a friend with a truck who can help you move,” she said with the first excitement I’d seen her express. “Have you looked at the place you’re considering?”