by A. J. Aalto
He seemed strangely unaffected by the fact that last night I blew up the zombie that had once been his best friend and chief deputy. Surely, he should have some reaction? What I saw on his face, however, was the daily resolve to get me into shape and improve my fight. He seemed undaunted by the Matterhorn-like nature of this task.
Hood squinted at me in the early morning sun, pulling one of his elbows behind his head in some sort of fancy stretching move. I tried to copy it and nearly elbowed myself in the face.
“Don't like seeing my ass every morning?” he asked.
“It's a perfectly fine ass, but no, I don't,” I said, pulling up my big girl panties to say what needed to be said. “Do you want to talk about Dunnachie?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“You've been pulled off the case,” I guessed.
“Wasn't on it to begin with.”
“Lying to a psychic,” I said, shaking my head. “Seriously?”
“I'm too close to it to be of any use,” he said. “I'm trying to keep my distance.”
“Trying,” I repeated. “There's the truth.”
His chin did an alarming little warble and I thought, here it comes, but to my great relief, he pulled it together. “What I want to do is run, Mars.”
I thought that was fair. I blow up his zombie deputy and the sheriff tortures me with more slogging through the woods. We started in the direction of the fish camp, and I wondered how he'd like it if I pointed out the spot where Dunnachie's zombie had me pinned on the asphalt with his gaping, fetid maw descending at my face, complete with putrid fumes to rival the worst morning breath ever. It seemed only fair for him calling me “Mars”.
“Why do we have to focus on running every day?” I asked, not so much a complaint as genuine curiosity.
“Direct orders.”
“You take orders?”
His lips quirked up at one corner. “Believe it or not.”
“From whom?”
“Strictly confidential.”
“Tell me,” I said warningly, “or I'll pull your nutsack up to your chin and staple it there.”
“Gross. It was Batten.”
“Wow, you're easily intimidated,” I commented. “No wonder you take orders.”
He snort-laughed his agreement.
“Thought you'd at least put up a fight,” I offered.
“Not in the mood to fight with you. Besides, you're apparently dangerous.”
“So you're taking orders from Batten now?”
“More of a request, really.” He glanced down at me sidelong as he jogged. “Batten wanted you to be able to run from trouble.”
“Like a chicken?” I asked sourly.
“Like a survivor.”
“As if he cares.”
“Think he doesn't?”
“He shouldn't,” I said.
Hood was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Probably not. I can't see it ending well, if it ever got started.”
“Which it shouldn't.”
Hood bobbed another nod. “Again, probably not. But love doesn't always make good choices. The heart wants what the heart wants.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I objected, turning to run backwards in front of him to look him in the face. “Who said anything about love? Dude, yank your filthy fucking tongue out and huck it in the ditch.” The fact that we were not that far from the ditch where Dunnachie's tongue had fallen out was lost on Hood.
Hood smirked, and his charming red-head habit of turning pink in the throat made its first appearance of the day. “You think someone like Batten pursues anyone this determinedly just for sex? Look at him. A guy like him could get sex anywhere.”
That was not something I wanted to think about. “He pesters me because I'm convenient.” And I make him say “Oh God baby” when he comes.
“With a vampire roommate and that barbed wire personality of yours?”
“Okay, he pesters me because I'm pitifully easy.”
“No, Mars.” He picked up speed so that I had to turn back around and run properly. “You're special to him. God knows why.” I can get fucked through a bathroom door like nobody's business. Hey, Asmodeus, you getting the live feed of this, you demonic pervert?
I agreed with the last part with an affirmative harrumph. “Well, we've gotta nip that in the bud.”
“What do you mean we, woman?” He gave me a worried smile sidelong. “We ain't doing nothing.”
“I've got a plan, don't worry about it.”
“Whatever it is, I don't like the sound of it.”
“It's a two-fold plan.”
“I'm going to have to say ‘no’ twice, then.”
“How would you like to earn some extra money on the side, Prince of Thieves?”
Hood snorted. “So I can bribe you to stop calling me that?”
“I'll never stop, and you can't make me.”
“I could,” he said lightly, “but it's not worth losing my badge.”
I thought about that. “Fair enough. I'm talking about some serious cash. Also, a fairly awesome car.”
Sheriff Hood slowed his pace then came to a gravel-grinding halt. He propped his knuckles on his trim hips. I joined him where the sun strained through the generous, leafy canopy to warm the road, and fixed my ponytail with a sharp jerk.
“Well, since you trashed my truck,” he said in consideration, “you do owe me.”
“I told you, that was the monster's fault,” I said. “It's always the monster's fault. Also, it was just a busted window and a dent from my head and some zombie bits. A good pressure washer will take care of those. Now, do we have a deal?”
“Not until you tell me what you have in mind. And before you tell me, is it legal?”
“Not even a little.” I paused for dramatic effect. “I want you to teach me how to whoop Mark Batten's ass.”
He blinked. I waited for the gears to shift in his brain. “As in, hand-to-hand?” When I nodded, Hood tossed his head back and laughed heartily.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said.
“I'm sorry.” He wrangled his mirth into submission. “You wanna whoop Batten's ass. What for?”
“Pride.”
“Pride? You?”
I tried again. “Satisfaction? Bragging rights? Take him down a peg?”
“You don't want to actually hurt him.”
I see-sawed one gloved hand. He didn't buy it.
“What do you really want?” Hood asked.
“Here, I'll show you.” I took him by the elbow and maneuvered him first to his knees; he went willingly enough. I placed him on his back in the weeds on the side of the road, propped one dusty red Ked on his chest, and assumed the superhero pose: chest thrust forward, fists on hips, imaginary cape flapping in the breeze behind me, my big cheese-eating smile beaming down at him.
“This,” I said, with a flip of my ponytail. “I want this.”
“Complete with smug grin?”
“Especially the smug grin. Preferably with all my teeth.”
“You'd have to really knock him on his ass to get him to stay down for all that.” He wriggled a meaty forefinger to indicate my victory pose.
“But I'm motivated,” I promised. “I'll do whatever it takes.”
“Finally.” He hopped with surprising agility to his feet. “You good for some more running?”
His mouth said running, but his eyes said he was ready to talk, so I gave him a nod and we continued down the road, my feet hitting the gravel twice as often as his to keep pace. We made the curve toward the fish camp before he said it.
“Looked like foul play to me.”
“The making of zombies thing? Yeah, I would think so. Nobody makes zombies to fight for the right or the light.”
“Dunnachie was in your lake the whole time.”
“It's not my lake, and I didn't put him there.”
“Maybe you know who did.”
I bristled. “I didn't chew that hole in him. I've got soft mol
ars.” I pulled inside my cheek so he could see. “I would have snapped a tooth on his Adam's apple or something.”
Hood looked ill. “This isn't a joke.”
“Sounds like a joke to me, though I agree it's not much of a rib tickler. His ribs didn't tickle when he was trying to eat me, that's for fucking sure.”
“That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble. If you're not careful around the Feds, you could get charged with accessory after the fact.”
“For what?”
“You might think I'm just some backwoods Podunk sheriff, but—”
“Hey, whoa. That's not what I think at all.” Watching him side-ways as I ran wasn't easy, but I felt he deserved to see the seriousness in my face, so I risked taking my eyes off the road until he glanced over. “Rob, I haven't forgotten where you came from.”
“I've got good instincts, Miss Baranuik.”
Uh oh, back to Miss. “I know it. And what happened to Mars?”
“I know in my gut you're not telling me everything you know.”
“You want me to tell you everything I know?” I was starting to puff, and realized his speed had picked up, though I sensed a lot of his frustration was coming from concern. “I can start with preternatural biochemistry 101, and the history of crypt plague. In the year 1289 …”
“As your friend, I should advise you not to leave town. It wouldn't look good.”
I felt my eyebrows squinch, and I waved a hand ahead of us at the fish camp. Even at this early hour boats zoomed by on the lake, cops shouted over outboard motors into radios, a media helicopter made a pass overhead. No doubt my disheveled hair and grubby workout clothes would end up on the news tonight. Wayward psychic makes a run for it! or Mystery Man brings psychic into custody.
“Look at this mess,” I said. “Where do you think I'm going?”
“If you killed him, Miss Baranuik, and it was self-defense, I'm telling you as a friend, this might be your last chance to tell someone. You can trust me with it.”
“Giving me the Good Cop routine? Really?” I shifted focus back to the road. “The M.E. is going to give you guys a report on exploded, undead tissue? Good luck with that.”
“I'll make sure they're lenient, Marnie, but you gotta come clean with me.”
“Are you wearing a wire, Hood?”
His cheeks flushed, and I doubted it was the run. We reached the end of the road and he kept going, turning back only after I slowed to a stop. “If I have to come back here and wring the answers out of you, I will throw the entire weight of the law—”
I couldn't help but laugh, and hoped the cameramen overhead weren't getting it. I bent at the waist, pressing one hand to a stitch in my side.
“Wring the answers, eh? Come on, dude, you're not gonna do that.”
“I'm not?” He gave me a stern look that I didn't know he was capable of.
“Hey, good Cop Face, Hood.”
“Mars, come on.”
“Super-serious, dude. If it weren't for the cute freckles and the shabby track pants, you'd be totally intimidating.”
He sighed, his shoulders falling with his bowing head. “Woman…”
“Know why you're not gonna wring nothin’? One, you know I'm no killer; two, you adore me, and who wouldn't? And, three, you need me.” I glanced at the fish camp, its ominous yellow tape curling like streamers in the shadow of the Aspens. Cadaver dogs snapped and snarled and went in circles. “Oh boy, do you guys need me.”
I walked away, back toward home, shaking my head, leaving him on the road behind me. He let me walk alone for a full minute before catching up with me, his return announced by crunching gravel. I probably shouldn't have gotten as spooked by the echoes of yesterday's zombie pursuit, but I felt it was an entirely warranted case of the willies under the circumstances. Same road, same early morning dimness, same desire to get at my brains.
“Maybe it wasn't your fault. I can see how it might have happened. Dunnachie attacks the house, the vampires go nuts. Not your fault. Nobody expects you to control the monsters.”
“Revenants,” I reminded him. “It's not even six-thirty and you're busting my chops.”
He walked beside me in silence most of the way back to the cabin. As we passed the clump of asphalt where Zombie Dunnachie tried to maul me, he said, “You wanted to talk about Dunnachie, let's do that.”
“Changed my mind,” I said, “I want a do-over.”
“You're a smart woman. You get yourself into some pretty stupid situations. It's occurred to me that you're pulling a Matlock: feign bumpkin so your opponent dismisses your intellect.”
“Man, I wish that was true,” I said. “Can we pretend that's what I do? That's a lot cooler than me being a dolt.”
“Okay, how about this? You put yourself in dangerous situations so that a man will rescue you. Maybe you have daddy issues, a father who shunned or ignored you. This is your way of getting male attention.”
I squinted up at him. “Remind me why we're friends?”
He smiled. I thought it was smug this time. “Male attention.” Oh, snap, you ginger bastard. I'd been ginger-snapped…. Point: Hood. Et tu, internal scoreboard?
After a moment, we rounded the corner and I could see my driveway again, the late summer grass scorched by the propane explosion, the gravel still stinking of death, cheese, and charred meat. “You ran me past the location of the snowmobile the other morning.”
“‘Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move,’” he quoted.
“Sun Tzu.” I stopped in my tracks and put my gloved hands on my hips. “Are we at war, Rob?”
“Us?” He squinted at the rising sun coming off the lake and then cast his swampy green eyes at me. “Do we need to be?”
“Is that why you made sure Batten knew you'd been in my bedroom and in my shower?”
Hood faced me silently.
“That was no accident. Harry picked up on it when you came out for a cup of espresso. Which, by the way, you didn't even drink. You poured it down the bathroom sink; I saw the coffee film. So you came out to flash your half-naked bod at my revenant. Then you hung around because Batten was there, and waited for the perfect time to exit the cabin and make a pile of innuendos. What I can't figure out is why. Does that accomplish something for you? No, wait… you've got the hots for Hard-Ass Batten, so you were trying to make him dump me for your scrumptious, aw-shucks act. I think you're gonna need some more junk in your trunk to pull that one off, though.”
Hood attempted his serious Cop Face again and failed, half-smiling. “I like you, Mars. You'd be an excellent adversary. Very creative.”
“Adversary? I've never even been near Nottingham, and you're the Sheriff.” I gave up trying to be funny. “I thought we were on the same team here.”
“I hope so, I truly do.”
“You seriously think I had something to do with raising Dunnachie as a zombie?”
“You do have access to that kind of knowledge. First it was ghouls, and vampires, and witches, and now zombies. I don't pretend to understand any of it, but I know you do.”
“I don't claim to be a zombie expert, Rob. The only things I'm an expert in are dick jokes and cookie consumption.”
“We'll see,” he said. “As for your plan to wallop the federal agent?”
“Aw, crap. You're gonna tell on me, aren't you? You rat fink!” I pouted. “So much for your Good Cop routine.”
“No.” He nodded his approval. “You've got yourself a deal.”
“Boy, you're flip-flopping like a goldfish on a frat boy's tongue today.”
“I'll teach you what you want to know, because it's important for you to have some hand-to-hand fighting skills, and because I promised Batten and Chapel I'd toughen you up. But you'll owe me. What's it worth to you?”
“Do you like Hummers, Robin Hood?”
Hood's lips worked hard to squelch a grin, and I heard what I'd said.
“I meant the vehicle!
” I squawked, red in the cheeks, pointing to the H1 in the shadows. “The Incredible Hulkmobile over there. Not the BJ. Everyone likes BJs.”
“You just shouldn't talk,” he advised. “Maybe not ever.”
“Want my H1 or not?”
He considered this, before leading me to my back yard. “Let's get started.”
CHAPTER 37
TWO HOURS LATER, I strolled out of the bedroom, towel-drying my hair and adjusting to the fact that Rob Hood might be gunning for me and/or becoming my best mortal friend. It was easy to come to terms with, since it was pretty much the same deal with everyone I knew. There was a broom out of place, against the wall. I took it as a not-so-subtle hint: perhaps I should help Harry clean now and then. Harry was at the table with a newspaper — the Sunday Times from England — and wearing his pince nez, pinching the corners of the paper so as not to black his fingertips.
“My, but don't you fill a room with life.” Harry's eyebrow rings twitched up in appreciation.
I sniffed my armpit. “I showered!”
“I meant your heart, darling; it's chugging like an old Studebaker.”
“That's one of them old-timey cars, right?”
Harry's lips pursed into a little moue; likely his distress wasn't at my hinting at his advanced age, but my butchering of the language. “Your grandfather, Matts, owned a black Studebaker Commander in 1953. I do recall it had lovely lines.”
“Speaking of cars,” I continued, “Hood's teaching me to kick Batten's ass. Don't tell anyone, it's a secret.”
Harry struggled to tweak a laugh behind pale, wriggling lips. “Surely, you jest.”
“You don't think it's a good idea?”
“Au contraire, ma petite chou fleur, a more marvelous idea you have never had. Only, would you not be more comfortable if I took care of the matter for you?”
“You'd break Batten.”
“Yes,” he mused, pure, genial murder gleaming in his cashmere eyes, “I would.”
“Besides,” I said. “I want to do it myself.”
“To what end?”
“Pride.”
“Pride?” His surprise matched Hood's, though Harry's came with a teasing twinkle. “You, my angel?”
I puffed out my cheeks in exasperation. “Yes, me, pride. Why is that so hard for everyone to get? And it's not just mine; I think Jerkface needs to be taken down a peg.”