Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (14 page)

“Thag knows it's a long-ass walk to anywhere you want to go, unless it's back to quote-unquote talk to Scarrow.”

“Twelve.”

I ignored my instinct to defend my motives, and instead asked, “Does Bad Habits still have the best wings in the city?”

“Yup.”

“Let’s hit that sh—not.”

“Shnot?” Schenk shook his head. “You’re bad at not swearing, eh?”

“Twelve oh one,” the clock agreed.

BAD HABITS HAD
always been my favorite restaurant in St. Catharines; laid back atmosphere, cheap beer, fast lunches, dark
corners, clean bathrooms, and music that wasn’t too intrusive. A back booth was
open, and Schenk made sure I grabbed it before he headed off
through the crowd to the bathrooms.

I shoved my frog hat in the pocket of my parka, thinking it was
more a nuisance than anything, ordered a root beer from a cute
redhead, changed my order to include a shot of vanilla vodka, and tried to relax. It’s not every day I have a gun shoved in my face. It made me think of all the things I’d miss most, and maybe I was being stupid and proud and stubborn about most of those things, including the yummiest one.

There was only one picture of Mark Batten in my phone’s photo album and the urge to peek at it was too strong to resist; seeing his face was reassuring. I allowed myself a single soft sigh under cover of the noise of the lunch crowd, and tilted my phone close to my face so no one would see.

It was a quick shot, in profile, taken on impulse on a hot, sunny morning late in August, after our last big case. He’d been yelling at
some schmuck from the CDC about zombies and head shots, and I had thought, at the time, that the intensity in his face was so kneecappingly delicious that I had to capture it for later enjoyment.
The picture was fantastically crisp; I could see the gleam in his eye and some nifty
fury froth in the corner of his mouth. Fighting with Batten was
always
arousing. Probably, that made me a weirdo. The heat he stirred in
me
was a sick fever, but one I craved. One I was craving badly, now, in
the aftermath of a brush with death. Kill-Notch made me feel alive.

Unexpectedly, Simon Hiscott’s sad, desperate longing for Britney returned like a calving iceberg, weighing down my
shoulders. Life’s so short; Simon thought they had all the time in the world, and they
should have. Schenk’s grim concern for his missing person,
bordering on the hopelessness that came from experience, rushed in to join the
party. Father Scarrow’s desire to dominate me, whether it was to
swat or fuck me, came tumbling soon after to add some confusion. My coat seemed to suddenly weigh a hundred pounds and I shrugged out of it, letting it fall behind me on the seat like a blanket for my bum. The waitress brought my drink and I ordered another before she could escape into the push of bodies.

Fighting with Batten was always a great way to deflect and blow off steam. I really wished he was here. I wondered how he was, how Wes was, how Harry was faring at North House, though it was still
daylight and certainly he was at rest. I glanced again at Batten’s
picture and considered texting him.

Heavy boots thumped hardwood behind me, Schenk’s even stride. I put my phone face down on the table before he swooped into the bench opposite me, but not fast enough.

“Something you don’t want me to see?”

“I don’t like to get caught mooning over some jackass like a school girl with her first crush, is all,” I said. “I have my pride.”

He didn’t argue that, which I appreciated. “So who is he? She? It?”

“He’s nobody special,” I lied.

He flipped open a menu. “Love him, eh?”

“Nosy,” I said. He didn’t look up from the menu, giving me just enough freedom from his inspecting gaze to admit, “Trying real hard not to.”

He nodded like he completely understood. “Too scared?”

“Too smart.”

“What do you want?”

“Wings, nachos, and privacy. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Honey garlic?” When I nodded, he asked, “Nachos with the works?” After my second nod, he asked, “What do you want where
he’s
concerned?”

I thought about that. “The freedom to love him like he’s never hurt me. But I’m not that stupid.”

He looked up from his menu. “Maybe he won’t hurt you again.”

I showed him my
as-if
face. “He’s got all the emotional sensitivity of a pile of rocks.” That wasn’t entirely accurate, or
entirely fair, since I had the approximate emotional maturity of a three-year-old.

“If he’s a shit, why do you like him?”

I dropped my menu. “You know how when you pull out of the gas station on Glendale, and you pass the ice cream shop at the plaza, and the flutter in your belly goes ‘
gimme gimme gimme,
’ and your brain goes ‘we don’t need that, we came for gas,’ and then the flutter wins and you find yourself at the counter fogging up the glass in front of the cheesecake ice cream?”

“So he’s beefcake ice cream?”

I gave him a knowing chuckle of agreement. I steadfastly did
not
picture Batten's ass covered in hot fudge and sprinkles. Just a little whipped cream. “Sad, eh?”

“Sure that’s all he is?”

I wasn’t, but I nodded, and stabbed my ice cubes with my straw. “Of course.”

“Well,” he allowed, “we all have our weaknesses.”

I turned my head so I could give him a proper side-eye. “Big tough guy like you has a weakness?”

“Yup.” He looked up as the waitress approached, ordered
enough wings and nachos for two, and handed her the menus. “Golddiggers with pretty toes.”

I chuckled. “A foot fetish?”

“I don’t knit ladies’ socks for nothin’. But your weirdo psychic powers already told you that.”

What the—
a sock knitter?
I couldn’t keep my bemusement off my face. “Not even a little.”

“Damn, confessed for nothing.”

“This just became fun. Got anything else to confess?”

“Nothing at all,” he lied smoothly.

“Aw come on… I’ll be your best friend. I’ll let you make me socks.” I showed him my heavy Doc Martens.

“Fuckin’ boots.” He shook his head and looked out the window. “Winter’s a total cockblock.”

My jaw dropped and I erupted into a full belly laugh. Schenk seemed surprised at what had come out of his mouth and joined me
in the laugh. Heads turned. Apparently, something hilarious was happening at our table, and people always want to be a part of that if they can. The Blue Sense reported a polite, reserved brand of
curiosity that felt classically Canadian, and for a moment, I was very glad to be home.

“Golddiggers, eh?” I smirked. “Out of curiosity, do you carry your gold in ingots, or old-school nuggets like the panhandlers did?”

He dug in his jacket pocket and came up with a guitar pick, a handful of nickels, and a snack-sized Twix bar. “Neither.”

“Looks like you might need to revise your fetish downward to nickel-diggers.”

“Now that we have the future of my love life established,” he said, opening his folio and taking up his pencil, he slid out a
business card,
offering it to me. It was one of mine. It looked brand new, crisp, and hardly touched at all. “This was in Britney Wyatt’s wallet. She left her purse in the boyfriend’s car while they went for a walk along the
canal.”

“Why the hell would they be walking there at nine o’clock on such a horridly cold winter night?”

“Hiscott said it was a walk they did often. Gut feeling, though? I think there’s something else he’s not telling me. Once he dries out, he'll have a lot of questions to answer.”

I removed my gloves to take my business card in hand. It was
cool and smooth and gave me no flickers at all, not even a minor
impression from the big, troubled cop who handed it to me. “This card must have been in a box for the last ten years to still look so new. Maybe one of my sisters still had some?”
Or Ellie,
my brain piped up,
but how would Ellie know Britney Wyatt? And if she had, she’d have mentioned it
when she found out why I was here, right?
“Where did Britney get this card?”

“Hiscott didn’t say, but again, there’s a lot he’s not telling me.”

“You a mind reader, now?”

“I’ve been a cop for twenty years.”

“So, yes.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Hiscott says he doesn’t know why Britney would need a psychic, and that doesn’t sit right,
either.”

“She was obviously going to contact me,” I said, not really a question.

“Wanna hear the funny thing? Scarrow had your card, too.”

I felt my mouth drop open. “So, wait, Father Frisky already knew who I was?” That hurt my head. “He acted like he was just figuring me out, being all Mr. Mysterioso. Why would
he
need to talk to me? You know, I don’t think I trust him very much.”

“He’s an ex-priest, what’s not to trust?”

“Ex,” I repeated, leaning forward, ignoring the waitress as she brought our food. “Why ‘ex’? And
how '
ex,' exactly? Did he leave the church, or did they boot him?”

Schenk sat back and looked at the food. He settled on eating instead of talking for the moment. While he decided whether or not
to discuss Scarrow with me, I told him, “That guy thinks I’m
something that needs to be put in its place.”

Schenk sucked honey garlic wing sauce off his thumb. “What did he say to you before you left the rectory?”

I felt a guilty jolt and then remembered that, for a change,
I
hadn’t been the one to be inappropriate. I took a healthy pull of my drink, got a mouthful of ice, and crunched. “He made a sexual suggestion.”

“Want me to shoot him?” Schenk offered.

I choke-laughed on my ice chips. “That won’t be necessary, but can I borrow your handcuffs?”

“Gonna get kinky?”

“I just want to make sure I know where his hands are next time I
question him.” I tasted the nachos. They were even better than I remembered, and I was suddenly famished. “Make no mistake;
we’re not done with that priest. Ex-priest. Exorcist Ghost Hunting Dog Trainer Guy. Whatever he is. His bowling ball wasn’t in his bag.”

“Is that like ‘his cheese has slipped off his cracker?’”

“That, too. But literally, the ball was behind his desk on the floor. I stubbed my toe on it. That’s a clue.”

“It sure sounds like one, Velma. Try the wings,” Schenk said, pushing the platter closer to me.

“Wait, you agree with me?” I frowned. “Cops almost never agree with me. Agent Batten mocks ninety percent of what comes out of my face.”

 “Yeah, I could see that.” He shrugged out of his jacket and got more comfortable in his seat, letting one of his long legs stretch out under the table alongside my chair. “Bowling ball on the floor, bag on the table. What’s in the bag?”

“Maybe it was empty.”

Schenk’s lips did half of a pucker with a twist, this time; I
interpreted this as a firm
nope.

“Would you need a warrant to look at it if he didn’t wanna show you?”

His chin dipped and he grunted affirmative. “Get anything off
the business card?” He made epic magical finger motions at me. I followed his fingers in the air with a return of my bemused smile,
like
his fingertips had bewitched and befuddled me. He swooped and
swirled that hand and ended with his middle finger standing up. I shook my head at him.

“Nope, but Bad Habits is a lot louder and busier than the Oh Yeah! was. Can I keep it? I can Grope it later.”

“I probably shouldn’t let you molest the evidence out of my sight.”

I gave him a sour smile at “molest” and handed the card back to him. “Fine, we’ll do this when we get some space. You don’t think it’s weird that Scarrow didn’t bother to mention that he knew Simon and Britney, or that he knew who I was?”

“I think he’s as sketchy as Walt Disney's pocket protector,” Schenk said, “but that doesn’t always add up to guilt. He was
excommunicated from the church for challenging their beliefs about demons, ghosts, and poltergeists.”

I let that settle in. “But he still calls himself an exorcist.” I left my glove off so I could eat finger foods easier, and chewed some more nachos, stealing most of the hot peppers. Schenk took up a chip and battled me for the remaining pepper. I let him have it. “Why would Britney and Simon go see an ex-priest working with ghost hunting dogs who bills himself as an exorcist,
and
want to talk to me?”

“Maybe one or both of them felt they were being haunted?”

“Well, so what? I told you: ghosts cannot affect the physical realm. A sighting can be a little upsetting, but there’s no reason to panic.” We thought about that in silence. I said, “And even if they
were
being
haunted, why wouldn’t Simon just tell you that? Why pussyfoot around it? What’s the big deal? Scarrow says he believes a ghost
dragged Britney Wyatt into the canal somehow, and drowned her, yes? So why doesn’t Simon concur?”

Schenk shook his head. “Maybe Hiscott isn’t the one who believed in ghosts. Maybe he only went with Britney to talk to
Scarrow because he was humoring her.”

(“
You should have helped her
,” Simon had yelled. “
Fraud. Phony. Con artist
.”)

“Simon blames Scarrow,” I said, and picked up my phone. I texted Ellie about the business cards:
Is there something you need to tell me?
I knew I wouldn’t get a response while Ellie was at work. Ellie always put her phone in her purse and left it in her locker until the
end of her shift so she could focus on her patients. I texted Mr.
Merritt for directions to North House, and when I received them, I put my
phone away, and pulled my glove back on. “When will you get a
chance to speak to Simon?”