"Well, now, this is advantageous. I need some strong young arms to carry that monstrous television up the stairs for me."
Richard smiled at her. "Happy to oblige." He walked around to the trunk and started trying to undo the knots.
"What'd you do with Custard while you shopped?" I asked.
"I carried him with me. I've spent a great deal of money at that store before. The salesmen fairly salivate when I come through the doors, so they indulge me."
I had to smile. There was a sharp twang as the ropes broke. "I'll help Richard." I walked back to the trunk. The rope was an inch thick and flopped, broken, onto the pavement. I raised eyebrows at him and whispered, "My, my, Grandma, what strong hands you have."
"I could carry the television up alone, but it might arouse suspicions."
It was a thirty-inch wide screen. "You could really carry it up the stairs by yourself?"
"Easily," he said.
I shook my head. "But you're not going to because you are a mild-mannered science teacher, not an alpha werewolf."
"Which is why you get to help me," he said.
"Are you having trouble undoing the rope?" Mrs. Pringle asked. She'd walked back to us with Custard in tow.
"No," I said, giving Richard a look. "We've got the rope." If people found out Richard was a lycanthrope, he'd lose his job. It was illegal to discriminate, but it happened all the time. Richard taught children. He'd be branded a monster, and most people didn't let monsters near their children.
Mrs. Pringle and Custard led the way. I went up backwards, sort of steadying the box, but Richard took all the weight. He walked up the stairs like the box weighed nothing, pushing with his legs, waiting for me to go up another step. He made a face at me, soundlessly humming under his breath as if he was bored. Lycanthropes are stronger than your run-of-the-mill human being. I knew that, but it was still a little unsettling to be reminded.
We made it to the hallway, and he let me have some of the weight. The thing was heavy, but I held on, and we kept moving towards Mrs. Pringle's apartment, which was right across the hall from mine.
"I've got the door opened," she called.
We were at the door, starting to maneuver through, when Custard darted between us, underneath the box, trailing his leash. Mrs. Pringle was trapped behind the television. "Custard, come back here."
Richard lifted with his forearms, taking the weight. "Get him. I can get inside."
I let him pretend to struggle inside the apartment and went for the dog. I expected to have to chase him down the hall, but he was sniffing at my door, whining. I knelt and grabbed the end of his leash, pulling him back towards me.
Mrs. Pringle was at her door, smiling. "I see you caught the little rascal."
I handed her the leash. "I've got to get something out of my apartment. I'm sure Richard can help you set up the TV."
"Thanks a lot," he called from inside the apartment.
Mrs. Pringle laughed. "I'll give you both some iced tea, unless you have better things to do." There was a knowing look in her blue eyes that made me blush. She winked at me, I kid you not. When the door was safely closed with her and Richard on the other side, I walked toward my apartment. Three doors down, I crossed the hallway. I took the Browning out and clicked the safety off. I eased back towards my door. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe Custard hadn't smelled anybody in my apartment. But he'd never whined at my door like that before. Maybe Edward's phone call was making me jumpy. But better jumpy than dead. Paranoid it was.
I knelt by the door and took a breath, letting it out slowly. I took my keys out of my jacket pocket left-handed. I scrunched down as low as I could get and still have a decent shooting stance. If there was a bad guy in there, he'd probably shoot at chest level. On my knees I was a lot shorter than chest level. I pushed the key in the lock. Nothing happened. The apartment was probably empty, except for my fish wondering what the hell I was doing. I turned the knob, pushed the door inward, and a hole exploded out through the door, thundering over my head like a cannon shot. There was no sound for a second. The door swung closed with the force of the shot, and through the hole in the door I saw a man with a shotgun raised to his shoulder. I fired once through the hole. The door bounced open, still reverberating from the shotgun blast. I threw myself onto one side, gun pointed through the open door.
The shotgun fired again, showering the hallway with bits of wood. I fired twice more, hitting the man in the chest both times. He staggered, blood blossoming on his coat, and fell straight back. The shotgun fell to the carpet near his feet.
I got to my knees, back pressed to the wall near my kitchenette. All I could hear was a roaring in my ears, then dimly my own blood rushing through my head.
Richard was suddenly there in the doorway, like a target. "Get down! He may not be alone!" I wasn't sure how loud I was yelling. My ears were still ringing.
Richard crouched beside me. I think he said my name, but I didn't have time for it. I pushed upward, my back to the wall, gun in a two-handed grip. He started to stand. I said, "Stay down." He did. Point for him.
I could see that there was no one in front of my apartment. Unless there was somebody hiding in the bedroom, the hit man had been alone. I approached him, slowly, gun pointed at him. If he'd twitched, I'd have shot again, but he didn't move. The shotgun was by his feet. I'd never seen anybody use a gun with their feet, so I left it where it was.
He lay on his back, one arm thrown up over his head, one down at his side. His face was slack with death, his eyes wide and unseeing. I didn't really need to check for a pulse, but I did it anyway. Nothing. There were three holes in his chest. I'd hit him with the first shot, but it hadn't been a killing blow. That had nearly cost me my life.
Richard came up behind me. "There's no one else in the apartment, Anita."
I didn't argue with him. I didn't ask if he knew this by smell or by hearing. I didn't bloody care. I checked the bedroom and bathroom just to be thorough and came back out to find Richard staring down at the dead man.
"Who is he?" Richard asked.
It occurred to me that I could hear again. Bully for me. I still had a faint ringing in my ears, but it would pass. "I don't know."
Richard looked at me. "Was he the . . . hitter?"
"I think so." There was a hole in the door big enough to crawl through. It was still open. Mrs. Pringle's door was closed, but the doorjamb was splintered like something had taken a big bite out of it. If she'd been standing there, she'd have been dead.
I heard the distant wail of police sirens. Couldn't blame the neighbors for calling them. "I'm going to make some phone calls before the cops get here."
"Then what?" he asked.
I looked at him. He was pale, the whites of his eyes showing just a little too much. "Then we go with the nice police officers down to the station to answer questions."
"It was self-defense."
"Yeah, but he's still dead on my carpet." I walked into the bedroom, searching for the phone. I was having a little trouble remembering where I'd left it, as if it ever moved from the nightstand. Shock is always fun.
Richard leaned in the doorway. "Who are you going to call?"
"Dolph, and maybe Catherine."
"A friendly policeman I understand, but why Catherine?"
"She's a lawyer."
"Oh," he said. He glanced back at the dead man, who was bleeding all over my white carpet. "Dating you is never boring, I'll give you that."
"And it's dangerous," I said, "Don't forget dangerous." I dialed Dolph's number from memory.
"I never forget you're dangerous, Anita," Richard said. He stared at me and his eyes were amber, the color of a wolf's eyes. His beast slid behind those eyes, peering out. Probably the smell of fresh blood. I stared into those alien eyes and knew I wasn't the only dangerous thing in the room. Of course, I was armed. The dead man could vouch for that. Laughter tickled the back of my throat. I tried to swallow it, but it spilled out, and I was giggling whe
n Dolph answered the phone. Laughing was better than crying, I guess. Though I'm not sure Dolph thought so.
4
I sat in a straight-backed chair at a small, scarred table in an interrogation room. Oh, sorry, interview room. That's what they were calling it now. Call it what you will, it still smelled like stale sweat and old cigarettes with an overlay of disinfectant. I was sipping my third cup of coffee, and my hands were still cold.
Detective Sergeant Rudolph Storr leaned against the far wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was trying to be unobtrusive, but when you're six foot eight and built like a pro wrestler, that's hard. He hadn't said a word during the interview. (Just here to observe.)
Catherine sat beside me. She'd thrown a black blazer over the green dress, brought her briefcase, and sat wearing her lawyer face.
Detective Branswell sat across from us. He was in his mid-thirties, black hair, dark complected, with eyes as black as his hair. His name was English, but he looked Mediterranean, like he'd just stepped off the olive boat. His accent was pure middle Missouri.
"Now, Ms. Blake, go over it just one more time for me. Please." He poised his pen over his notebook as if he'd write it all down again.
"We'd helped my neighbor carry up her new television."
"Mrs. Edith Pringle, yeah, she confirms all that. But why did you go to your apartment?"
"I was going to get a screwdriver to help install the television."
"You keep a lot of tools, Ms. Blake?" He wrote something on his notepad. I was betting it was a doodle.
"No, detective, but I've got a screwdriver."
"Did Mrs. Pringle ask you to go get this screwdriver?"
"No, but she'd used it when she bought her stereo system." Which was true. I was trying to keep the lies to an absolute minimum.
"So you assumed she'd need it."
"Yes."
"Then what?" He asked like he'd never heard the answer before. His black eyes were intense and empty, unreadable and eager at the same time. We were coming to the part that he didn't quite buy.
"I unlocked my door and dropped my keys. I squatted down to pick them up and the first shotgun blast roared over my head. I returned fire."
"How? The door was closed."
"I shot through the hole in the door that the shotgun had made."
"You shot a man through a hole in your door and hit him."
"It was a big hole, detective, and I wasn't sure I hit him."
"Why didn't the second shotgun blast take you out, Ms. Blake? There wasn't enough left of the door to hide behind. Where were you, Ms. Blake?"
"I told you, the blast rocked the door inward. I hit the floor, on my side. The second blast went over me."
"And you shot the man twice more in the chest," Detective Branswell said.
"Yes."
He looked at me for a long moment, studying my face. I met his eyes without flinching. It wasn't that hard. I was numb, empty, and distant. There was still a fine ringing in my ears from being so damn close to two shotgun blasts. The ringing would fade. It usually did.
"You know the man you killed?"
Catherine touched my arm. "Detective Branswell, my client has been more than helpful. She's told you several times that she did not recognize the deceased."
He flipped back through his notebook. "You're right, counselor. Ms. Blake has been helpful. The dead man was James Dugan, Jimmy the Shotgun. He's got a record longer than you are tall, Ms. Blake. He's local muscle. Someone you call when you want it cheap and quick and don't care how messy it is." He stared at me while he talked, studying my eyes.
I blinked at him.
"Do you know anyone who would want you dead, Ms. Blake?"
"Not right offhand," I said.
He closed his notebook and stood. "I'm going to recommend justifiable homicide to the DA. I doubt you'll see the inside of a courtroom."
"When do I get my gun back?" I asked.
Branswell stared at me. "When ballistics is done with it, Ms. Blake. And I'd be damn grateful that you're getting it back at all." He shook his head. "I've heard stories about you from some of the cops who answered the last call from your apartment. The one with the two killer zombies." He shook his head again. "Don't take this wrong, Ms. Blake, but have you considered moving to a new jurisdiction?"
"My landlord is probably going to suggest the same thing," I said.
"I'll just bet he is," Branswell said. "Counselor, Sergeant Storr."
"Thanks for letting me sit in on this, Branswell," Dolph said.
"You said she was one of yours. Besides, I know Gross and Brady. They were the first officers on scene for the zombies. They say good things about her. I've talked to half a dozen officers that say Ms. Blake saved their butt or stood shoulder to shoulder with them under fire and didn't blink. It cuts you a hell of a lot of slack, Blake, but that slack isn't unlimited. Watch your back, and try not to shoot up any innocent bystanders." With that, he left.
Dolph stared down at me. "I'll drive you back to your place."
"Richard's waiting for me," I said.
"What's going on, Anita?"
"I told Branswell everything I know."
Catherine stood up. "Anita has answered all the questions she's going to answer tonight."
"He's a friend," I said.
"He's also a cop," Catherine said. She smiled. "Isn't that right, Sergeant Storr?"
Dolph stared at her for a minute. "That is certainly true, Ms. Maison-Gillette." He pushed away from the wall. He looked at me. "I'll talk to you later, Anita."
"I know," I said.
"Come on," Catherine said. "Let's get out of here before they change their minds."
"Don't you believe me?" I asked.
"I'm your lawyer. Of course I believe you."
I looked at her. She looked at me. I got up. We left. I wondered if Richard would believe me. Probably not.
5
Richard and I walked toward his car, through the police station parking lot. He hadn't said a word to me. He'd shaken hands with Catherine and headed for the car. He got into his side. I slid into the passenger side. Richard started the engine and backed out of the parking slot.
"You're mad about something," I said.
He eased out onto the street. He always drove carefully when he was angry. "What could I possibly be mad about?" The sarcasm was thick enough to eat with a spoon.
"You think I knew there was a hit man in my apartment?"
He flashed me a look that was pure rage. "You knew, and you let me go inside and set that damned TV up. You got me out of harm's way."
"I wasn't sure, Richard."
"I bet you had your gun drawn before he fired."
I shrugged.
"Dammit, Anita, you could have been killed."
"But I wasn't."
"That's your answer to everything. If you survive, it's all right."
"It beats the alternative," I said.
"Don't make jokes," Richard said.
"Look, Richard, I didn't go out hunting this guy. He came to me."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"And you would have done what? Go through the door first? You'd have taken a chest full of buckshot and survived. How would you have explained that? You'd have been outed as a lycanthrope. You'd have lost your job, at the very least."
"We could have called the police."
"And told them what? That Custard sniffed at the door? If they had investigated, they'd have gotten shot. The guy was jumpy as hell. He shot through the door, remember? He didn't know who he was firing at."
He turned onto Olive, shaking his head. "You should have told me."
"What would it have changed, Richard? Except maybe you'd have tried to play hero, and if you survived, you'd have lost your career."
"Dammit, dammit." He smashed his hands into the steering wheel over and over. When he looked at me, his eyes had gone amber and alien. "I don't need you to protect me, Anita."
"Ditto," I sai
d.
Silence filled the car like ice water. Nobody but the bad guy had died. I'd done the right thing. But it was hard to explain.
"It wasn't that you risked your life," Richard said, "it was that you got rid of me before you did it. You didn't even give me a chance. I have never interfered with you doing your job."
"Would you have considered this part of my job?"
"Closer to your job description than mine," he said.
I thought about that for a minute. "You're right. One of the reasons we're still dating is you don't pull macho crap on me. I apologize. I should have warned you."
He glanced at me with eyes that were still pale and wolfish. "Did I just win an argument?"
I smiled. "I admitted I was wrong. Is that the same thing."
"Exactly the same thing."
"Then give yourself a point."
He grinned at me. "Why can't I stay mad at you, Anita?"
"You're a very forgiving person, Richard. One of us has to be."
He pulled into my parking lot for the third time that night. "You can't stay at your place tonight. The door is in pieces."
"I know." If I'd been kicked out of my apartment because it was being painted, I had friends I could stay with, or a hotel, but the bad guys had proven they didn't care who got hurt. I couldn't risk anybody, not even strangers in the next room at a hotel.
"Come home with me," he said. He parked in an empty space closest to the stairs.
"I don't think that's a good idea, Richard."
"The shotgun blast wouldn't have killed me. I'd have healed, because it wasn't silver shot. How many of your other friends can say that?"
"Not many," I said quietly.
"I've got a house set back in a yard. You won't be risking innocent bystanders."
"I know you have a yard, Richard. I've spent enough Sunday afternoons there."
"Then you know I'm right." He leaned towards me and his eyes had bled back to their normal brown. "I have a guest room, Anita. It doesn't have to be more than that."
I stared at him from inches away. I could feel his body like a force just out of reach. It wasn't his otherworldly wolf powers. It was simply sheer physical attraction. It was dangerous agreeing to go to Richard's house. Maybe not to my life, but to other things.
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