Evangelina

by MaryJanice Davidson

  A little shocked at himself, Art shoved that last thought far, far away. He was here for a specific purpose. He was not here to find a new bar buddy, a police chum, and/or a fishing pal. When his work here was finished . . . well, then, so was Art.

  Anything else--even thinking about anything else--was worse than a distraction. It was a betrayal not only of his life's work, but everything he was, wanted to be, and would be.

  It was also very, very dangerous. Not just to his job. To . . . to everything. Art wasn't afraid to die, but he hated the thought of dying in disgrace.

  "Come, my taciturn pomegranate, and we shall save the maiden in distress. You will look upon her," Lue promised, jangling his keys as he led the way, "and you will declare her to be fair. Or I shall stuff your handsome, half-shaven face full of cinnamon-laced granola, and you will finally not look so hot to the fairer sex . . ."

  "Should we call Agent March to meet us there?"

  "Hell, no. Chief said she had the afternoon off. We act now, share later. Like the feds do."

  The thought of not seeing Mercy made him sulk, and the realization of why he was sulking made him sulk more. Lue, chattering about everything in the world on the way over, didn't notice.

  CHAPTER 23

  "I'm so sorry to bother you. It's just, you said if I needed anything . . . even if to talk . . ." She sniveled and wept into a dish towel.

  Art looked for the "gorgeous." He guessed he saw it--there was a lot about Pamela Pride that many men found conventionally attractive. There was too much about her, he felt, which was not genuine. Not necessarily dangerous--women in leggings and sweatshirts generally didn't come across as perilous--but disingenuous.

  She's trying to play him, Art observed. For pity, attention, protection, company, whatever it was, he didn't care. He was at least glad that Lue was not blind to her deceptions, and that the two detectives agreed that those deceptions were likely harmless.

  "We were so glad to hear from you," Lue was saying. "Right, Detective McMahon?"

  Art shrugged and nodded simultaneously. He began to examine the banal framed prints in the living room. Leaves, trees, forests. Original.

  "Okay, this will sound silly . . . but I think someone's following me." Before either of them could comment, Pamela rushed ahead: "I know, it's all in my head, right?"

  "Right," Art said, realizing too late that this was out loud.

  "Except I don't think it is. I can almost feel whoever it is. Behind me, you know, when I'm going to the store . . . or the gym . . . sometimes when I come home, I can tell someone's been in here. Like I barely missed them. Like if I got home five minutes earlier . . ." She shivered and rubbed her arms.

  Pamela took a shuddering breath. "And I think . . . I think . . ."

  Without saying a word, Lue invited her to continue. The expression on his face was rock-solid Please Tell Me Everything And Do Not Be Afraid. He should teach a class, Art thought sincerely.

  "Well, I think about what you and Detective McMahon said about an animal, except maybe one that's smarter than the average animal. Like a monster! You remember that?"

  "I remember that coming up," Lue said meticulously.

  "Well, I don't know if it's that, or if it's that sketch of that woman they're running on the news now, but whatever it is, I'm sure it's following me."

  "Have you ever seen it?"

  "No. I think whoever or whatever it is, is staying secret. Disappearing when I turn around, hovering near the windows . . ." She rubbed her arms again. "I think it may have even been in the condo last night."

  "What do you base that on?" Art asked, losing patience. This is a waste of time.

  He didn't really listen to the answer, and from Lue's expression he could tell he was missing nothing. The conversation continued between the two of them for a while longer. Everything about her annoyed Art--the fluttering eyelids, the damsel-on-stage routine, the breathless recounting of shadows on the second-floor balcony. Here was a woman who got her way in everything: good looks, a body that fit into any yoga shirt or bathing suit she desired, a career through lying about her school, and above all the attention of men.

  Not this man, he resolved as he walked through the living room into the hallway that led to bedrooms. She's not my type.

  He reflected on the type that did attract him. A few minutes later, he found himself frustrated: he kept thinking about Mercy March.

  That makes no sense. Think of the differences between you. Think of the challenges. Think of the way she tossed that disgusting spider leg across the table at you.

  Lue's patient voice overlay his efforts. "Try to go through each event of the last twenty-four hours," he was telling her . . .

  Try as he might, it kept coming back to this for Art: Mercy would not leave his mind. They were both leaders, both hunters, both focused minds.

  "Okay, good start, Pamela . . . what else?"

  He chided himself. Distractions! Perilous detours! This is not your mission! This is not your goal! This is not your promise!

  Perhaps not, another voice inside of him answered. But it could be my destiny.

  "Yeah, he creeps me out sometimes, too. The way he stares into space like that. A harmless tic. Detective McMahon cares as deeply about your protection as I do, Pamela. So, you were saying . . . ?"

  He took a few more steps down the hallway, out of their sight. Surely Ms. Pride would not mind if he looked around the place and made sure there were no stalkers hiding in the linen closets . . .

  "Hey! Where are you going?"

  She bolted across the living room and down the hall. Before Art realized it, she had grabbed him by the upper arm and was twisting him to face her.

  "Ms. Pride, I'm--"

  "You can't go down there! That's my bedroom!"

  He raised his hands in apology. "I meant no offense. I thought ensuring the security of these rooms . . ."

  "W-well, ensure it somewhere else!" Her face reddened, and she began to stammer. "I d-didn't call the cops so th-they could flip through my underwear drawers!"

  Uncertain of what to do next, Art looked at Lue. Lue, standing, shrugged back. "Um, Ms. Pride, we might feel better about leaving you here alone, and so might you, if we could take a glance in each room. Nothing invasive. You could be with us the entire time."

  Something must have occurred to Pamela, because she abruptly let go of Art's arm and looked down. "G-geez, I'm sorry. Th-that was stupid. You g-go ahead and look, Detective. I don't m-mind."

  "Sure. Thanks." Antennae perked, Art sidled down the hallway, keeping one eye on the first bedroom door and his other on Ms. Pride. Lue casually walked up behind her, and Art appreciated the subtle support. He pushed open the first door to find an empty bedroom. Behind him was the second door: a guest bathroom.

  The third door was at the end of the hall. No doubt this was the master suite, and the location Ms. Pride would be most sensitive about.

  Already ajar, the door beckoned to him. He stepped forward, pushed open the door with his left hand as his hand hovered over his holster . . .

  He had no time to flip on the light switch: the enormous shape was lurching toward him from the back of the bedroom. In an instant, his Beretta was in his hand and he had pumped three bullets into it.

  Then he froze. "In the name of the sacred . . ."

  "What?" Lue called from down the hallway, his own gun drawn now, still backing him up in case Pamela freaked out again. "What did you shoot? Is anyone hurt?"

  "I don't . . . this can't . . . how is this . . ."

  Finally, Lue pushed past Pamela and stepped up next to Art.

  "Wow. No kidding." He turned back to Pamela and pointed. "You did all this?"

  "Y-yes. First day I moved in. Ugh. I'm so embarrassed . . ."

  "No, no, you should be proud. This is . . . wow. Art, will you be okay?"

  Art could not look away. The entire room was a pastel nightmare--soft pinks and creamy yellows and foamy greens. Unlike the rest of the condo, which
was painted stark autumnal colors with sparse furnishings, in here there was barely room to move or see or think. Nearly every square inch of wall was covered in unicorn prints--framed, matte finish, ornate pastel frames. Pillows had stitched unicorns gracing their softness, laughing unicorns danced across the (pink) duvet cover, and the entire back corner of the room had been trampled over by a floor-to-ceiling herd of stuffed unicorns that remained hovering over the far side of the bed. No, it wasn't a herd: it was a unicorn mass, a pink and white tumor with poofy horns protecting all angles, an infinitesimally slowmoving invasion from a parallel universe where stuffed unicorns who ruled space and time had depleted all natural resources and were now invading this world for precious bedroom space.

  There were three holes drilled into the middle of this mass, each blowing apart the fabric of a different grinning unicorn and blasting its stuffing across the faces of the others, like blood splatter on innocent bystanders.

  The BCA agent slumped his shoulders and hung his head. "I deeply regret the property damage, ma'am. We can . . . we can reimburse you for any monetary loss."

  Lue put on a game smile. "See now, Pamela? You feel better, right? More secure?"

  Pamela choked back a sob, ran past them, and slammed the door shut. "My unicorns and I are very upset! I hope you're happy, Detectives! Good night!"

  "Wow, man." Lue clapped Art on the shoulder as they let themselves out. "This report is all yours, partner."

  CHAPTER 24

  "So, what do you think her upbringing was like?" Lue poured more sunflower seeds down his gullet. "By the way, nice grouping."

  Art, who was driving, grunted.

  "Maybe we should put a patrol car outside the building for a night or two."

  Art grunted again, and flipped on the radio.

  "Oh, come on. Have some compassion for her. She plainly has had a hard life. And now her unicorns are dead."

  "She doesn't need our help."

  "So the whole 'protect and serve' mission . . . feels voluntary to you, does it?"

  "I am protecting and serving, by solving this crime."

  "Well, the good news is: this is not really up to you. The chief will be happy to assign a patrol car."

  "Your chief is too busy mocking Agent March."

  Lue put down the granola packet and stared at his partner for a full two blocks.

  "You have a crush on her."

  "I have a what on who?"

  "A crush. On Special Agent March."

  Art brought the car to a screeching halt.

  "Hey, no offense intended . . ."

  Reaching out and grabbing Lue's collar, Art gritted his teeth. "I don't have a crush on her."

  "Geez, if you say so. Fine, she would be horrible for you. She comes across as way to bossy. She talks too much. And the chief hates her. There! She must be Queen of the Vampires, Evil Incarnate. Bring on the wooden stake and gigantic hammers."

  "The headache is returning."

  "Good! What, wait--you have a headache? You need an aspirin?"

  "The cure is less of you." And possibly, more of her.

  "Oh, nice. I offer you medicine, and you give me crap. See that? See that over there?" Lue pointed wildly.

  "Grass and benches?"

  "The park where I will kick the shit out of you if you don't take, oh my God I used a contraction." He pawed at his tongue as if there were a live cricket crawling in his mouth.

  Art winced; the headache was getting worse. "Special Agent March is in a difficult position. That's all."

  "Yes, Art, it is referred to as law enforcement. The same job, you may have noticed, that we have."

  Art flicked a sideways glance at him. "She faces some additional complexities within the FBI."

  "How do you know that? Are you a big FBI expert?"

  "I know the agency well enough. I know the culture."

  "Oh, Art McMahon is a big organizational culture expert, now? Did you write a paper on the topic, maybe? Was it longer than a sentence?"

  "You're annoyed because she embarrassed your chief. I understand."

  "You understand? Are you a psychiatrist now, McMahon? Is that what you are?"

  "You should talk to Agent March about it. Maybe the chief, too. They could help you with perspective."

  "Are you . . ." Lue nearly choked on the fresh outrage. "Are you patronizing me? You, the cedar block in brown corduroy and red hair . . . trying to patronize me? I do not need soothing!"

  The BCA agent shrugged. "Seems like you have a lot on your mind."

  "What do you think I have on my mind, Detective?"

  "An investigation that's been co-opted twice by higher authorities. A police department that's 92 percent white. A failed marriage you blame yourself for. A hot jogger that could've been your rebound girl. The number of contractions I've used in the last ten seconds. Perhaps more you're not telling me."

  Lue's mouth tightened in a tense frown. "You . . . you think you know me. You think you can drive around with me for a couple of days, talk to a few other Moorston cops, kill a couple of stuffed unicorns, and BAM be an expert on the life of Lue Vue."

  "I didn't say that."

  "You think you can make fun of people like me, because you have no trouble with women like Pamela or Agent March. They want to like you. Everyone wants to like you. You radiate control effortlessly. It was never a challenge for you . . ."

  "That's not true."

  ". . . you always had it easy . . ."

  "That's not true."

  ". . . you have everything you want . . ."

  "That's not true."

  ". . . and when you finish your work here, you can go and you will never have to deal with these people again!"

  "I admire what you do here."

  "You patronize me again, Art, I swear on all that is holy, I will knock you through that car window."

  "Okay." Art rubbed his beard and pointed in Lue's face. "Here's something less patronizing. I think you're an underachieving control freak who uses inappropriate humor to shield the fact that you think you've made one mistake too many in your life and career. You push people away who you think might exercise control, good or bad, over the decisions in your life. You won't let others lead. And you won't lead yourself. There. Was that patronizing? You want to take a swing? Fire it off."

  Lue blinked. "Good heavens, Art. That was amazing."

  "How so? You think I was accurate?"

  "No. Well, maybe. But that was like, what? Seventy, eighty words all at once? Are you going to be okay? Is the headache coming back? The offer of aspirin still stands."

  His creeping smile was contagious, and Art found himself chuckling.

  "Our first lovers' spat," Lue remarked as Art put the car back in drive and slammed the accelerator. "I hope Agent March is not the jealous type."

  "Stuff it, Lue."

  As they settled into comfortable silence for the rest of the drive, Art found himself wondering what Lue Vue was like as a child, and what kind of friends he had.

  Eight Years Ago

  Evangelina loved the pack.

  Still fewer than their last days in Winoka, the wolves who remained with the Scales family had replenished their numbers somewhat over the years. There were always some on patrol around the camp, but that still left a dozen at any time resting near the Scales cabin. On warm autumn afternoons, there was nothing Evangelina liked more than to lie near them.

  She usually did so in her dark form, to match their beast shapes with her own. It reminded her that they all had a different side, a different skin, something the world would accept more readily. That side was less necessary here, far away from towns and cities.

  Rolling over to let her other side absorb the rising sun, she sighed. Even the camp seemed empty. Niffer was here less than she was away now. Mom was preoccupied with efforts to locate other camps. And Aunt Susan . . . she hadn't been the same since her father died.

  Her thoughts drifted to her own father, a man who had died around the
time Evangelina was a newborn. Susan had told her he had been outgoing and humorous, a swirl of extroverted emotion who offset his more reserved, disciplined wife. "He was a dragon even when he wasn't," she had once said. Evangelina had liked that.

  One of the wolves began to snore, and she smiled. Did it matter what form any of them were in? They were dragons when they weren't, humans when they weren't, monsters when they weren't, strong when they weren't. Who was the rest of the world to tell them what they were, at all?

  CHAPTER 25

  The next morning, Art got to the station early. Mercy was already there, which gave them a great opportunity to sit next to each other and work awkwardly in close proximity for at least half an hour before Lue showed up.

  There were FBI files from crime scenes in other states to examine, witness testimony to interpret, undiscovered patterns to ascertain, and petty arguments over who would run out for coffee (or tea, or water).

  When Lue came in, the sounds of laughter followed, and he looked both amused and nervous.

  "What's up?" Art asked.

  The young detective wouldn't look directly at them. "Oh. Nothing. What are you guys working on?"

  Once he was caught up on their work thus far, Lue was a valuable contributor. Not only did he have insights into possible connections and clues, he also magnanimously provided to Mercy and Art, starts to at least three different conversations ("Would you like some frozen nondairy soy milk from the co-op, Art?" or "Guess what English homonym is the source of most usage mistakes?" or "Mercy, did you know that Art has no clothes that are not jeans, white shirts, and corduroy jackets?").

  Right about the time he began a fourth ("So do you like romance novels, Art?"), Mark burst open the door to the war room.

  "You gotta hear this," he said, motioning to all of them.

  They followed him to the dispatch office, where they were playing back a call.

  "This is less than five minutes ago," he explained, motioning to the dispatcher to play the 911 sequence again.

  "Police, may I help you?"

  "They're all dead."