Another One Bites the Dust (2 page)

“There’s a booth with an actual phone book inside,” I’d said as we’d exited the RV, pointing to the plastic-encased stall at the north corner of Moe’s lot. I’d headed toward it.

“Who’re we calling?” asked Cole.

“A cab. I assume the festival is too far from here for hiking.”

“Oh, we don’t need to walk,” he said. I stopped, turned, and followed him back to the trailer we’d towed all the way from Ohio. Though small, it still looked like it could hold everything I owned. Since he’d been the last one to drive, Cole had a set of keys in his pocket. He unlocked the doors and threw them open. I looked inside, and every one of my ribs knocked against its neighbor in a domino drop straight to my feet. No doubt they heard the
rattle, rattle, clunk
all the way to Amarillo.

“Oh my God, this can’t be happening!” I cried.

“What?”

“Mopeds? Those are the wheels Pete gives us? I
knew
he was pissed off at me! It was all that time I spent in the hospital, wasn’t it? Or was it the wrecks? But I only tore up one car last time! And that wasn’t my fault!” I wailed.

“Jaz, calm down!” Cole pleaded. “They don’t allow anything more powerful on the festival site. He thought it would give us the best mobility for what the rules permit.”

“Oh.” I watched mournfully as Cole backed the mopeds out of the trailer and relocked it. The manufacturer’s pallid color choice, white with pale blue gas tanks and tan seats, defeated even my Sensitivity-enhanced vision. These vehicles blew. Worst of all, their top speed would probably only finish middle of the pack in the Boston Marathon.

But they did get us to the festival, where we put-putted past the mass of tents housing a national flower show, the future site of a hamburger-eating contest, the rides.
Seedy
, I thought when I caught a good look at the old equipment, peeling paint, and dripping oil, looking as sorely used as the people forcing it all back into action.

“Get a load of that,” I told Cole, nodding at the multiarmed monster that would soon be twirling people around like plates at the top of a circus performer’s pole. “Next time we need to interrogate somebody, what do you say we stick them on that puppy for about twenty minutes first?”

“Think how much money we’d save on truth serum.”

“Pete would probably promote us.”

“Is it just me or is this crowd thicker than burnt oatmeal?”

“It is getting kinda tough to avoid the rug rats. Let’s park these wagons and walk.”

We headed north of the crush to a Four Seasons parking lot, ditched the mopeds, and took the helmets with us. Hopefully someone would steal the ridiculous little bikes while our backs were turned. If not, I would seriously consider dropping my keys into some wild-eyed teenager’s lap.

For the next half hour we strolled the wide, mulched walkway that ran the length of the festival site. It wound around and between attractions like a long piece of dark red licorice. Besides all the sales booths and rides, we passed eight separate stages where singers, dancers, comedians, mediums, and magicians would enthrall the masses for the next seven days. But not us. Cole told me we had our own tent, the better to control those random happenings that can, if left unchecked, slam an operation right against the wall.

We found Chien-Lung’s Chinese acrobats setting up their performance space in an enormous clearing toward the northwest corner of the festival site. At the moment a seemingly infinite series of air pumps the size of Cassandra’s makeup case lined up next to neat tunnels of plastic. Eventually these would inflate the mass of red, yellow, and purple material the acrobats were still unfolding into an actual building. Since Vayl and I had tailed a guy through a similar structure in France four months earlier, I knew it could be done. But from this point of view, it seemed unlikely.

“Wow,” said Cole. “They look so organized.”

“And clean-cut,” I added. “Apparently you’re only allowed to let yourself go if you’re a U.S. citizen.”

A squeal and a giggle followed my comment. I looked around to see who found me so amusing, so naturally it had nothing to do with me. A young Chinese woman wearing red capris and a plain green T-shirt had set up a checkered picnic blanket where she sat with her legs folded underneath her hips while she threw her baby up in the air and caught him. And when I say up, I don’t mean up like a preservice tennis ball. I mean like an NFL kickoff. And he
loved
it. Every time he flew he laughed uproariously, and every time his mom caught him he wiggled madly, clearly encouraging her to toss him even higher the next time around.

I nudged Cole, whose grin told me he also thought Flying Baby rocked. “You know,” I said, “if I tried to do that with my niece she’d puke in my face.”

“Sensitive stomach, huh?”

“Let’s put it this way. I helped take care of the kid for three weeks, and every day by noon I had so much spit-up on my shirt I could’ve squeezed it into a trough for the neighborhood cats.”

Not that I was complaining. After spending a month in the hospital recovering from the punctured side, broken ribs, and collapsed lung I’d suffered during our final showdown with the Tor-al-Degan on our last mission, I couldn’t wait to fly to Evie’s and help out after the birth of her daughter, E.J. It should’ve been fun. The new parents were like kids at Christmas when I talked to them the day E.J. was born. But when I arrived she was five days old. They hadn’t slept more than four hours a night total, and she’d been howling like a coyote pretty much ever since they’d brought her home.

“Colic,” the pediatrician had said at her first checkup, when Evie asked frantically why E.J. cried so much. “She’ll outgrow it,” he told us absently, as I struggled not to charge him and shake him until his stethoscope fell off and, if there was a God, whacked him right in the cojones. I’m sure Tim would’ve done the same, but he’d taken his chance to catch forty winks in the rocking chair in the corner of the room.

That was the day I discovered a new way to vent my frustrations.

After driving the exhausted family home and leaving Evie to tuck Tim into bed and then watch E.J. go another round in the living room with her swing, I grabbed a six-pack of Pepsi and retreated to the backyard.

It had snowed the night before, covering the frozen ground with a fine white powder that sparkled with vivid, spirit-boosting colors. Tim’s maul leaned against the redwood deck where he’d left it after splitting some logs. I straightened the handle and twirled it absently. Then I got an idea.

“You know what?” I murmured, releasing a can from the pack and setting it on the ground. “This could be a good thing.” I took a moment to measure the distance, swung the maul high over my head, and brought it down hard. The can crushed with a lovely, metallic
crack
and pop flew everywhere. I couldn’t help it. I had to smile.

Eventually I introduced my little sanity saver to Evie and Tim. But I didn’t think Chinese Mom would have need for it. Not with such a cooperative boy in hand. She finally got tired and grounded her little astronaut, tucking him into a sit-and-stroll contraption whose wheels she seemed to have locked. With his own personal joyride closing without warning, and his new one temporarily on blocks, I expected him to throw a massive tantrum. But he just grinned, his four teeth twinkling like little pearls in the dying light. I caught his mom’s eye as she gave him a handful of hot dog wedges and a sippy cup full of milk.

“He’s adorable,” I said, smiling.

She smiled back. “Thank you.” From her accent I suspected she didn’t know a heck of a lot of English. Still, I had to ask. “Is he always this happy?”

She nodded proudly. “He only cry when he hungry or tired.”

“Wow, that’s great. So, you’re with the acrobat troupe?”

“Yes, my husband and I both perform. But I am having slight injury”—she pointed to her ankle, which was wrapped and taped in the classic “badly sprained” style—“so I sitting out this week.”

Suddenly Cole lunged forward, startling us both. “Something’s wrong with the baby,” he explained as he knelt in front of the new-age walker, his face very close to the boy’s. “He’s not getting any air.”

Chinese Mom and I exchanged horrified looks as we both realized the baby’s lips had begun to turn blue.

Cole tried to clear his throat. “It’s not coming out.” He pulled the boy out of his seat and laid him on his back. Then, gently but firmly, he performed the Heimlich maneuver on him, using just two fingers from each hand to force air out his lungs and back up his throat. After four fruitless tries it worked. The baby spit out a chunk of hot dog that looked big enough to choke an elephant.

He took a deep breath. Looked at his mother in surprise. And burst into tears. That worked for her. Within seconds she was crying too, holding out her arms so Cole could transfer him for some dual boohooing and a comforting rock while we watched.

“Should we leave?” Cole finally asked.

“I’m not really sure about Heimlich etiquette,” I replied. “But it is getting kind of late.” I patted Chinese Mom on the arm. “We’re so glad he’s okay,” I said. “You’re okay too, right?” She nodded. “Great. Well, we have to go.”

“Oh, no, but I must thank you properly! And my husband! He will want to thank you also!” She looked so horrified at the thought of us leaving that Cole quickly reassured her.

“We’re not leaving for good. We’re performers too. Tell you what, why don’t you come by our tent tomorrow? We’ll give you tickets to our show and we’ll have a chance to meet your husband then.”

“Oh, yes, that will be fine. And then you will come to our show as well. Yes?”

“Of course,” Cole agreed, before I could throw an elbow to remind him we’d come to kill a vampire, not make friends with his employees. We all smiled and bobbed our heads at each other. Then Cole and I said our goodbyes to Flying Baby, who’d already dried his tears and moved on to more interesting diversions, like trying to snag his mom’s earrings while she thanked us about three dozen more times.

As we moved on I said, “Wow. I think you get gold stars in heaven for stuff like that.”

Cole shrugged. “I dated a nurse for a while. And an EMT.” When I glanced at him he gave me a wink. “I went through this whole women-in-uniform phase.”

“Which is my cue to change the subject. That kid is amazing. Don’t tell my sister some babies hardly ever cry. As freaked as she is about motherhood right now she’ll probably leap to some bizarre conclusion about the colic being her fault, and next thing you know she’ll be in a convent somewhere, reciting her sins into some poor priest’s ear between her hourly lashings.”

“I didn’t know you were Catholic.”

“We’re not.”

It didn’t take long to cruise the rest of the site. Past the Chinese acrobats’ building, a cheap orange fence manned by two security guards cordoned off the northwest border. The guards, big-bellied men with self-important attitudes, stood with their backs to the building and the scattering of booths here at the end of the path, watching a group of nine picketers who’d commandeered the last twenty-five yards of a narrow access road for their demonstration.

Four women and five men circled a group of kids who sat in lawn chairs, pretending to be homeschooled when, in fact, they were carefully studying the festival setup. I picked out two teenage boys in particular who could probably be counted on to sneak off and hop a ride or two later in the week. But for now they continued the charade as their parents lugged gigantic billboards around their perimeter. These signs had apparently ground the grown-ups down so far all they could manage was a weary staggered chant: “
Others
are
not
our brothers.” The sign slogans delivered their messages with a lot more punch.SUPERNATURAL IS UNNATURAL. TO BE HUMAN IS DIVINE! GOD HATES OTHERS. UP WITH HUMANS! And, oddly,VOTE FOR PURE WATER!

“Who
are
these people?” murmured Cole.

“Well, I’m ninety percent sure this is about half the congregation of the Church Sanctified in Christ the Crucified.”

Cole laughed.

“That is not a name I could make up that fast.”

“How do you even know about them?”

“One of their members sent a letter to the president threatening to kill him if he agreed to give
others
the right to vote, so Pete sent out a memo.”

“The president doesn’t even have that power.”

“I don’t think that question came up during the sermon.” I looked for the group’s van. According to Pete, its slogans were so offensive that even
others
trying to blend might be tempted to roll it over a cliff. Yup, there it was, parked just up the road. I couldn’t see much from this angle, just a cracked front window, two American flags flying off the corners of the front bumper and a white banner someone had tied across the grill that screamed,GOD IS ON OUR SIDE!

Cole said, “Do you think they ever stop and walk the other direction?”

“I imagine that’s a sin.”

Cole threw me a look I couldn’t interpret. “What?” I asked.

“Don’t these idiots make you mad?”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Vayl’s an
other
. Plus, considering what happened in Miami, technically
you
may be one. Dude, they’re putting your peeps down.”

“You worry too much about what other people think of you. Plus, they have a right to their opinions. For that matter, so do I. The problem isn’t that we disagree.”