Crane, R [ Southern Watch 03] Corrupted (33 page)

“How long do you suppose it’s been here?” Duncan asked.

“Twenty years, maybe?” Alison said, not really sure. “Maybe more. It was here the last time I came. Looked a little weathered then.”

“You cross it that time?” Hendricks asked.

“Of course,” she replied, and took a step forward. She hesitated, staring at the barbed wire across the top. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the little wire cutter she’d carried, clicking it together experimentally.

“Let me handle it,” Duncan said, and extended his hand. She gave it to him and he was off, scaling the fence like it was no more difficult than the walk had been on Hendricks.

“You look nervous,” Hendricks said, sidling up to her as they watched the suit-clad demon pause at the top of the fence, the sound of the cutters being applied to the barbed wire filling the air with a hearty click that echoed in the early morning.

“I don’t have my rifle,” Alison replied. Carrying the obscenely heavy Barrett over uneven ground on her shoulder hadn’t been a proposition she’d been excited about. Then again, she wasn’t excited about facing whatever was waiting inside without it, either. “You probably don’t understand; you still have your sword and pistol, after all.” She had a pistol as well, a Glock she’d borrowed from her daddy at the same time she’d gotten the Barrett, but she was under no illusions about what it was: a holdout weapon, no more. It wouldn’t do much more than make a demon flinch back, if that.

“Believe me,” Hendricks said with a sly grin, “as a Marine I know how important a rifle can be to a person.”

“Okay, start climbing,” Duncan said, looking back down at them. He dropped the wire cutters to the ground and they bounced an inch or two before coming to rest in a patch of weathered, near-white grass.

Hendricks just stared at them, lost in thought, before shifting his gaze to the two-foot gap in the wire at the top of the ten-foot fence. “Why didn’t we just have him cut a couple foot square out of the middle of the fence?”

Arch was up early because sleep didn’t come. He’d waited for a while, hoping it would, but unlike last night when Hendricks and Alison had gone to the brothel, it hadn’t bothered to creep up on him. It hadn’t shown up at all, just stood him up and left him staring at the glowing red clock face, the puckered ceiling and the empty space in the bed next to him in turn. There was only so much of that he could take, so he rose at five-thirty and showered, dressing in his uniform. There was a peculiar certainty that clung to him, even after the confrontation he’d had with Reeve the night before, and it was centered on the idea that Erin would wake up and exonerate him. All the bad feelings and that cloud of suspicion that hovered over him in Reeve’s eyes would just be blown away like a cloud hanging over Mount Horeb on a windy day. That was the hope he labored under, anyhow.

And it lasted until he walked into the sheriff’s station that morning and talked to Ed Fries.

“Mornin’, Arch,” Fries called out as he entered the near-empty room. Fries sat behind the desk munching on a McMuffin. The portly deputy ate often, which was no surprise. Hash browns spilled out of his paper bag onto the desk next to him, leaving a greasy sheen on the dirty, nicked wood top.

“Mornin’, Ed,” Arch returned the salutation as he passed through the counter’s gate. The air conditioner was cranking full strength, blowing lukewarm air out of the vent above Arch as he crossed over to Fries. “What are you up to?”

“Holdin’ down the fort,” Fries said with a bite of his sandwich. His puffed cheeks moved in time like he was working on a full pack of bubble gum. “Took over for Mrs. Reeve a couple hours ago.”

“So, you’ll be the voice at the other end of the radio today,” Arch said as he punched his timecard.

“Didn’t know you were on duty,” Fries said with a frown.

“Figured y’all could use all the help you could get,” Arch said with a weak smile.

“I’d a thought so, too,” Fries said, pausing from his eating. “Especially with that fresh body that just turned up on Lincoln Avenue this morning.”

Arch felt the tingle before he’d finished processing the words. “Got another one?”

“Bloody smear on the pavement, yeah,” Fries said, and his stubby fingers snatched a greasy hashbrown the diameter of a nickel off the desk and popped it in his mouth. Arch could hear it crunch, and he didn’t know if it was Fries’s eating habits or the thought of another murder that he hadn’t even been called in on that caused his stomach to turn. He’d eaten lunch with Fries plenty of times before, though, and hadn’t felt like this, so he supposed he had his answer. “What do you reckon is doing this?”

“I don’t know.” Arch shook his head.

“Well, you saw it up on the mountain, didn’t you?” Fries pressed. Didn’t stop eating to press, but he pressed.

“I don’t know what I saw,” Arch said. He shook his head again, and pulled his time card out of the repository and punched out. “Guess I’ll head home.”

“But you just got here,” Fries said.

“Doesn’t sound like the sheriff wants me in on this,” Arch replied.

“Probably short on cash,” Fries said sympathetically. “You close to overtime?”

“Nope,” Arch said as he moved back through the swinging doors to the counter. “Pretty close to done, though, I think.” He kept that part back until he was safely in the entry hall, with a bulletproof door between him and Fries.

Lauren planned the conversation in her head before it was to happen. She’d been planning it all night, in fact, in lieu of sleeping. Fatigue edged around her, swooping in and pecking at her like a carrion bird, but it had stubbornly refused to send in a big-ass predator to just finish the job and drag her carcass away to dreamland, so she’d let her mind race as she plotted out everything she wanted to say.

She’d run the gamut in these conversations from the stereotypical angry mother—“I’m worried about your safety, you lying little liar!”—to the solicitous and friendly mom—“You know I’m just concerned about your well-being…”—to the grossly inappropriate girlfriend-instead-of-mom approach—“So, how was he in bed?” The last one nearly made her vomit to even consider, so she’d settled on something between the first two. Something self-aware, something cool, something that would not set off all of Molly’s parental proximity alarms, she hoped.

Also, something that would reassure her, as a mother, that the, “So, how was he in bed?” line was wholly unnecessary in this case. Because moms worry about that sort of thing, especially when their own experience has given them cause to worry.

Molly came down with slumped shoulders around the usual time. Lauren’s efforts had been directed toward the stove for most of the morning—or at least the last few minutes—and she did not say anything as Molly entered the kitchen, waiting as her daughter poured a cup of coffee and with the first sip seemed to realize that something was out of the ordinary.

“What … the hell?” Molly asked.

“I’ll take ‘Things I said last night for $1,000, Alex,’” Lauren tossed out, with as much good humor as she could muster on no sleep. And with shit on her mind that wouldn’t go away.

“What is this?” Molly asked, staring at her over the coffee mug, steam blurring her features slightly.

“It’s called ‘breakfast,’” Lauren said, stirring a skillet of eggs with a spatula while she took a quick glance at the timer. The toast was in the oven, and she figured another two minutes would see it done. “I don’t blame you for not recognizing it, though, since we haven’t really seen it ’round these here parts for a while.”

Molly did not look amused. “I’m not hungry.”

“Come on, kid,” Lauren said, putting a note of pleading into her voice. “I know you generally like the sort of morning meal that comes wrapped in an aluminum package and has more preservatives in it than a freshly embalmed corpse.” Molly blanched at that—maybe it was a little topical for the occasion. “But it’s Saturday, you’ve got no school to run off to in a rush with homework in tow. I made fresh eggs.”

“How fresh?” Molly asked, still looking either suspicious or put out. “Like … farm fresh?”

Lauren paused before answering. “Like … they might have been purchased at Rogerson’s sometime in the last few months.”

“I’ll stick with the Pop-Tarts, I think.”

“Oh, don’t go organic-superior on me now, missy,” Lauren said, pointing the spatula at her, “and especially not with your carb-infused, post-apocalyptic toaster pastry.”

“Whatever,” Molly said, nonplussed. She turned to leave.

“Who’s the guy?” Lauren called after her. She saw her daughter’s shoulders hunch just a little, and a slight slosh of coffee hit the linoleum.

Molly swore, quietly, mildly, under her breath but just loud enough that Lauren could hear it. She turned, and there was that look of half-guilt, half-wonderment. “You keep asking that. What guy?” Like she hadn’t just given herself away.

“Come on,” Lauren said, stepping away from the stove. “It’s me. You’re out of the house in the middle of the night, you think I don’t know there’s a guy involved somehow?”

Molly’s brow arched down. “Projecting much?”

“Probably,” Lauren said lightly, letting that one skate past. “I assume you’re at least a little like me.”

Molly’s forehead was home to its very own thunderclouds. “I’m not …” She sighed. “I’m not that much like you.”

“Just a little,” Lauren pressed. “So, what’s his name?” She could feel the hesitation. “Come on. You had to have been seen with him in town. You know by noon your grandmother is going to have enough information on him to put out an arrest warrant to all fifty states and Interpol.”

Molly made a disgusted noise, one that held just a hint of concession. She waited a minute then spoke. “Mick. His name is Mick.”

“Ugh.” Lauren did not even try to hide her distaste. “You cannot go out with a guy named Mick.”

“Why not?” Molly asked, more than a little umbrage cracking through. Her coffee had stopped steaming, but she had just started, Lauren figured.

“Because you’d be ‘Mick and Molly,’ and that’s just unacceptably cutesy.” Lauren waited, burying the unease, letting a little smile—maddening, infuriating, she knew, and just a little too close to the edge of ‘Mom trying too hard’—creep up. She just waited.

Molly’s face softened, her shoulders slumped, and her head pitched forward. “Yes. How could I not have seen it before now? ‘Mick and Molly.’ I’ll call the whole thing off immediately.”

“As well you should,” Lauren said with a smirk. “When are you seeing him again?” she asked, a hundred degrees cooler than she felt. If this Mick had been in front of her right now, she would have wedged the spatula firmly up his nose.

“I’m not,” Molly said, a little too coolly herself. “I’m grounded, remember?”

Lauren took a slow, painful breath. Her lungs felt leaden, like someone had filled them full of air already. “When were you supposed to see him?”

“Tonight,” Molly said. “At the Summer Lights Festival.”

“I trust I don’t know this Mick for a reason?” Lauren asked. “I mean, I don’t recognize the name, so I’m assuming it’s not just a nickname one of the boys at your school decided to adopt, like Razor, or Scooter, or—”

“Strangely, no one at my school goes by the name ‘Razor’ or ‘Scooter,’ though there is one who goes by the name ‘Razor Scooter.’ He’s about as cool as you’d expect someone with that nickname to be.” That was Molly back on her feet, the fun, the snark all flowing out.

“Sounds like the equivalent of a skater when I was growing up,” Lauren played along. “Totally gnarly dudes, those guys.” She consciously softened her approach as she pushed a little more. “So … Mick. I don’t know him?”

“He works for the carnival,” Molly said, just a little sheepish. “He’s a really nice guy. He’s leaving town after tonight.”

Lauren felt her face go ashen inside, that sense that she’d stood up entirely too fast after sitting for a long while, but she kept the smile in place from her last joke. “Your grounding can start tomorrow morning, I think.”

Molly took it without a sign, save for a little glint in her eyes and a little smile crawling up on her lips. She did walk with just a little more spring as she headed back toward the stairs. “Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome,” Lauren said, and then belatedly remembered the eggs on the stove. They were like pebbles in the pan. She sighed, then sighed again as she threw them into the garbage. The blackened toast followed a few minutes after.

Midmorning came and went without a sign of any sort of dwelling. Hendricks felt antsy, Alison looked just tired to his eyes, and Duncan walked on without a care in the world. Hendricks found himself envying the demon, even though he was hardly exhausted at this point. The drover coat was hot, though, with the summer weather in full effect. He could feel the sweat popping out everywhere, and his thighs were sticking together down below. A most uncomfortable sensation.

“How far?” he asked Alison. The smell of greenery in the air wasn’t too bad. Pine, he figured. It wasn’t as hot as Iraq, that was for damned sure. The humidity was a real bitch here, though.

“I don’t know,” Alison replied. She just looked worn down, and Hendricks found himself wondering how long it had been since she’d slept. He knew it’d been a while for him, too, but whether it was the waffle place’s coffee or the vial of whatever Spellman had given him, he felt no urge to sleep. “A couple miles, maybe?”

“Memory a little faded?” Duncan asked. He seemed a bit too chipper.

“Like I said,” Alison sniffed, her shoulders with a pronounced bow to them, “the last time I came here I was a kid. It was a long walk, I remember that much.”

“Your daddy brought you here?” Hendricks asked. “Not just a Sunday drive, I presume.”

“One of his friends had moved down here after medical school,” Alison said. “They were close, talked all the time on the phone. One day he called and got an ‘Out of Service’ signal. He tried a few more times over the course of a year and finally decided to take matters into his own hands.”

“Didn’t call the state police, I guess,” Hendricks said, taking an uneven step over a shrub that brushed his jeans. The cowboy boots were nice for a fight, but not particularly great for long walks. He could feel blisters forming. Ah, the sexy life of a demon hunter.