by J. R. Rain
Easy, girl.
“That your stomach growling?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Haven’t noticed.”
He shook his head and slurped his Coke. The street was mostly empty. Occasionally a big car would splash past, and since tomorrow was trash day, most of the residents already had their trash cans out by the curb. Rick Horton’s trash cans were nowhere to be found.
“Maybe he forgot tomorrow was trash day,” said Sherbet.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe he’s one of those procrastinators who runs out just as the trash truck pulls up, dragging their trashcans behind them, beseeching the truck drivers to wait.”
“Beseeching?” I said.
“It’s a word.”
“Just not a word you often hear from a cop with a dollop of ketchup on his chin.”
He hastily swiped at the dollop, but missed some of it. He licked his finger. “You have good eyes,” he said.
“And you have a bad aim.” I used one of the napkins to clean his chin.
The rain picked up a little. The drops were now big enough to splatter. Overhead, the weeping willows wept, bent and shuddering under the weight of the rain.
“I could use some coffee,” the detective said. “No telling when this guy is coming out with his trash.”
So we got some coffee at a nearby Burger King. Or, rather, Sherbet did. He bought me a bottled water.
“You’re a cheap date,” he commented as he mercifully decided—at the last possible second—that an incoming bus was too close to dash in front of.
“And you’re the reason fast food establishments stay in business.”
“On second thought,” he said. “I would never date someone as grouchy as you.”
“It’s been a bad week.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
He didn’t push it. We pulled back up in front of Horton’s Gothic revival. Nothing much changed. Horton still hadn’t taken out his trash, which was, at least tonight, the object of our interest.
So we waited some more. Investigators are trained to wait. We’re supposed to be good at it. Waiting sucks. The interior of the truck was filled with the soothing sound of rain ticking on glass and sheet metal. I sipped some water. Sherbet was holding his coffee with both hands. Steam rose into his face. A light film of sweat collected on his upper lip. The coffee smelled heavenly. Coffee was not on my list. Rivulets of rain cascaded down the windshield. The shining street lamps, as seen through the splattered windshield, were living prisms of light. I watched the hypnotic light show.
“What’s it like working for the feds?” Sherbet suddenly asked.
“Safe, secure. Often boring, punctuated with the occasional thrill. My days were endlessly fascinating. I loved my job.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Hard to say. I miss the camaraderie of my partners. My job now is a lonely one. When I get the chance to work with someone else I often take it.”
“Even with an old dog like me?”
I looked at him. The truck was mostly silent. I heard him breathing calmly through his nose. Could smell his aftershave. He smelled like a guy should smell. Moving shadows from the rain dribbling down the windshield reached his face. The man seemed to like me, but he was suspicious of me. Or perhaps just curious. As a homicide investigator, he had his own highly-attuned intuition, which worried me because I was obviously causing it to jangle off the hook. But I had committed no crime, other than draining a corpse of blood, which I didn’t think was a crime, although I’d never perused the penal code for such an article.
“Sure,” I said. “Even an old dog like you.”
“How reassuring.”
Through Horton’s wrought iron fence I saw a figure struggling with something bulky. The fence swung open and Horton appeared in a yellow slicker, struggling to wheel a single green trash can. The can appeared awkward to maneuver. Or perhaps Horton was just clumsy. As he deposited the can near the curb, his foot slipped out from under him, sending him straight to his back. I voted for clumsy.
Sherbet shook his head. “Smooth,” he said.
48.
“Let’s wait a few minutes,” said Sherbet after Horton had dashed inside. Horton ran like a girl.
“Doesn’t look like much of a killer,” I said.
“No,” said Sherbet. “They never do.”
The rain came down harder, pummeling the truck, scourging what appeared to be a custom paint job. Sherbet seemed to wince with each drop.
“Aren’t you a little too old to be into cars?” I asked.
“You can never be too old.”
“I think you’re too old.”
“Yeah, well how old are you?”
“I’d rather not say. Not to mention you’ve looked at my police record and already know.”
“Thirty-seven, if I recall,” he said. “A very young thirty-seven. Hell, you don’t even have a wrinkle.”
“I’m sure it will catch up to me someday,” I said, and then thought: or not. But I played along. “And before I know it, I’ll look into the mirror one day and find a road atlas staring back at me.”
He snorted. “Welcome to my world.”
We waited some more. The rain continued to pound. Some of the water collected and sluiced along the windshield in shimmering silver streaks. Sherbet and I were warm and secure in our own little microcosm of leather, plastic, wood, and empty Wendy’s bags. Here in this mini-world, I was the vampire queen, and Sherbet was my noble knight. Or perhaps my blood slave, from whom I fed.
“Your name always reminds me of ice cream,” I said. “I like your name.”
“I hate it.”
“Why?”
“Reminds me of ice cream.”
A light in Horton’s upstairs window turned off. The house was dark and silent. So was the street.
“You stay here while I procure the target’s trash,” Sherbet said. “We’re going to have to adhere to some protocol if we hope to get a search warrant out of this.”
“Lot of fancy words to basically say you’ll be the one getting wet.”
“Oh, shut up,” he said.
I grinned. “Procure away, kind sir.”
“Okay,” he said, pulling on his hood. “Here goes.”
He threw open his door and dashed off through the rain. His nylon jacket was drenched within seconds. He moved surprisingly well for an older guy. He reached Horton’s trash can, pulled open the lid, and removed two very full plastic bags. I was suddenly very much not looking forward to digging through those. He shut the lid, grabbed a bag in each hand, and hustled back to the truck. He deposited both in the bed of his truck.
“You’re dripping on the leather,” I said when he slid into the driver’s seat.
“I know,” he said, starting the truck. “It saddens the heart.”
49.
We drove until we found an empty parking garage adjacent to an ophthalmologist college. The lights inside the garage were on full force and a white security pick-up truck was parked just inside the entrance.
We pulled up beside the truck. The guard was out cold, wrapped in his jacket, hugging himself for warmth, the windows cracked for air. Sherbet rolled down his window. The sound of thumping rain was louder and more intense with the window down. The guard still hadn’t moved.
“Hey,” said Sherbet.
The man bolted upright, accidentally slamming his hand against the steering wheel. The horn went off and he jumped again, now hitting his head on the cab’s ceiling.
Sherbet turned to me. “Night of Ten Thousand Fools.”
“An Arabian farce.”
The detective leaned out the window, producing his badge from his jacket pocket. “Detective Sherbet, Fullerton PD. We need to, um, commandeer your garage for a few minutes.”
“Of course, detective.” The guard’s voice was slightly high-pitched. He was fortyish and much too small to be taken seriously as a guard. His neck was also freakishly l
ong. “It’s the rain, you know. Knocks me out every time. My bosses found out I was sleeping again, they’d fire me.” He looked sheepish.
“Don’t worry about it, pal,” said Sherbet. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
He brightened, his job secure. “Is there maybe something I can do for you? You know, maybe help you out?”
“Sure,” said Sherbet. “Guard this entrance with your life. No one comes in.”
“You got it, detective!”
Sherbet rolled up his window and we eased into the parking structure and out of the rain.
“Commandeer the garage?” I said.
“Sounds important.”
I looked back. The guard had positioned his truck before the garage’s entrance. “Good of you to give him something to do,” I said. “But what happens if someone wants to come in?”
“Then they’ll have to deal with Flamingo Neck.”
I snorted. “Flamingo Neck? Thought he looked more like a stork.”
“Whatever.” Sherbet pulled into a slot. “You ready to dig in?”
“As ready as ever.”
The covered garage was mostly empty, save for a few desolate vehicles. These vehicles had the look of semi-permanence. Sherbet handed me a pair of latex gloves.
The bags were sodden. One of them stank of rotten dairy. I gave that one to the detective.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’m a lady,” I said. “Ladies don’t dig through smelly trash.”
“They do when they’re on my shift.”
“Yeah, well, luckily I don’t work for you.”
“Luckily.”
With legs crossed, I hunkered down on a parking rebar. I untied the my bag and was immediately greeted with what must have been last night’s chicken teriyaki. My stomach growled noisily. My stomach seemed to have missed the memo about my new diet. My new blood diet.
No chicken teriyaki for you, my friend. Ever.
I removed the big stuff first. An empty gallon of milk that, because it was sealed, had bloated to half again its normal size. Boxes of cereal, an empty jar of peanut butter, many cardboard cases of beer. Someone liked beer. A smattering of plastic Coca-Cola bottles. I sorted through it all, leaving a careful pile to my left.
At the bottom nook was a batch of papers which proved to be torn mail, the majority of which were credit card applications. Smart man. Debt, bad.
“Nothing over here,” I said.
I looked over at the detective who was squatting down on one knee. His hands were smeared with gelatinous muck. He looked a little green, and for a homicide detective, that’s saying a lot.
“More of the same,” he said. “Nothing.”
Beyond, the security guard was pacing in the rain before his truck. Occasionally he stole glances at us.
“Same time next week?” Sherbet asked.
“Yes,” I said. “More fun.”
“And Mrs. Moon?” he said, looking down at his rancid ichor-covered latex gloves. “Next time you get the smelly bag.”
50.
Sherbet dropped me off at the hotel and suggested that I take a shower because I smelled like trash. I told him thanks. At the hotel lobby, the doorman greeted me with a small bow. I could get used to that. Then he crinkled his nose. Maybe I did need to take a shower.
Conscious of my stench, I took the elevator to the ninth floor and inserted my keycard into the lock and pushed the door open and my warning bells went off instantly.
Someone was inside.
Movement down the hall. I turned my body, narrowing it as a target, just as an arrow bolt struck me in the shoulder, slamming me hard into the open door, which in turn slammed shut. I ducked and peered through the darkness and there, standing near my open balcony, was a man. A good-looking man. Tall and slender. Silhouetted in shadows. But I could see into shadows. His spiky blond hair looked like a frayed tennis ball. He was staring at me down the length of a cocked crossbow.
I knew him. It was the UPS man.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Simply stood there with his crossbow trained, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His hands were unwavering. A flask of clear liquid was at his hip. There was a cross around his neck and a strand of garlic. He adjusted his sights imperceptibly, and I realized he was searching for a clear shot at my heart. I was determined not to give him that clear shot. I looked at him from over my shoulder.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“You don’t need to know.”
“Then why are you doing this?” My breath came in short gasps. I needed to do something about the shaft in my shoulder, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off the man. The strand of garlic was bullcrap. Hell, I cooked with garlic all the time. But the water on his hip—holy water, no doubt—was troubling. I hadn’t dared experiment with holy water.
“It’s nothing personal,” he said.
“The bolt in my shoulder makes it personal.”
“It was meant for your heart.”
Behind me I heard voices. Someone was getting off the elevator. The voices were mixed with drunken laughter.
Although I hadn’t taken my eyes off the hunter, I had unwittingly shifted my weight to the sound of the voices. Apparently I had exposed my heart. He saw the opening he was looking for, and fired.
I heard the twang and snap of the bolt leaping from the crossbow. I saw it coming, too. Clearly. Rotating slightly in the air. My world slowed down. Much as it had when I leaped off the balcony.
As it rotated, its metal tip gleaming off of light unseen, my hand was coming up. And just before it buried itself into my heart, I caught the damn thing in the air, snagging it just inches from my chest.
The hunter gaped at me in disbelief, then flung himself backward through the open French doors and vaulted the railing. I pushed away from the doorway, stumbled through the suite and out onto the balcony. It was still raining. I peered down over the ledge and saw a man rappelling down the facade of the building. The rope was attached to the roof above. He dropped down into some foundation brush and unhooked himself. He looked up at me briefly and then dashed off. I watched him disappear around the corner of the hotel.
Back in my suite, out of the rain, I gripped the fletched end of the arrow shaft and winced. Okay, this is going to hurt. I inhaled deeply and pulled slowly. The pain was unbearable. I gasped and stumbled into the bathroom. The mirror revealed empty clothing, animated clothing, a miracle of special effects. An arrow protruded from the blouse’s shoulder area. A thick wash of blood was spreading down from the shoulder. The sight of the bloodied disembodied clothing was surreal.
I closed my eyes, continued pulling. White flashes appeared behind my eyelids. I pulled harder, screaming now. I looked down once and saw that the metal tip was almost out. I also saw that it was bringing with it a lot of meat from my arm.
Tears streamed from my eyes and I heard myself whimpering and still I continued to pull, and finally the bolt came free, followed immediately by a great eruption of blood.
It was then that I fainted.
51.
Sometime during the night I awoke in the bathroom to find myself in a pool of my own blood. I was cold and not very shocked to see that the wound in my shoulder had healed completely. I stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed into bed.
I slept through the day and awoke at dusk. I felt like hell, groggy, disoriented. I had to remind myself where I was. I bolted upright. Shit! I had forgotten to pick up the kids!
I was just about to hop out of bed until I remembered it wasn’t my job to do so anymore. Danny’s mother picked them up now. I slumped back into bed, immediately depressed.
My daytime obligations had vanished. Perhaps that was a good thing in away, since I did not operate well during the daylight hours. And, for the first time since the kids had been taken away from me, I felt—which was immediately accompanied by a lot of guilt—a sense of freedom. No kids to pick up. No dinners to cook, no husband to attend to or worry about.
Fr
eedom and guilt, in just that order.
I stretched languidly on the bed, reveling in the surprisingly soft mattress. Why had I not noticed how soft the mattress was? A moment passed, and then another, and then my heart sank.
I had no children to pick up from school and no one to cook for! I missed my kids—but not my husband. Knowing I repulsed him helped sever my emotional ties to him. Yes, I missed the good times with Danny. But I wouldn’t miss these past few years.
But I would see my children this weekend. It sucked, but there was nothing I could do about it now, although I vowed to get them back.
Somehow.
For now, though, there was nothing to do but lie here and hurt—and wait for true night to fall. The drapes were thick and heavy and kept out most of the setting sun. My window dressings at home were, in fact, the same heavy curtains found in hotels. Early on, right after my attack, I had wanted to board up the windows, but Danny resisted and we compromised with the heavy drapes.
I massaged my shoulder. Although it still ached, there was no evidence of a wound. Another few inches over and I would have been dead. My only saving grace had been a last-second alarm that went off in my head, a warning that told me to turn dammit.
I thought of the vampire hunter. I couldn’t have him taking potshots at me whenever he damned well felt like it. I had to do something about him, and short of killing him—which was a definite option—I just wasn’t sure what yet.
First things first. I needed to figure out how the hell he kept showing up without me spotting him. I always check for tails, a good habit for an investigator to have. So I was certain he wasn’t following me.
Of course, there are other ways to keep tabs on people, especially tabs on vehicles. In fact, at HUD, we had employed such techniques. Tracking devices.
As I waited for the sun to set, I turned on the boob tube and flipped through some news channels and a re-run or two until I came across an Angels game. I couldn’t recall the last time I watched an Angels game. I loved baseball, especially the leisurely pace of the game. I liked the quiet moments when the pitcher stepped off the mound and gathered his thoughts while the world waited. My father was a minor league pitcher in Rancho Cucamonga. He was good, but not great, which is why he never made it past single-A ball. Still, surrounded by my three older brothers, I learned to love the game at an early age.