Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (6 page)

“Harry!”

“I cry you mercy, my love,” Harry said, working himself into a true drama king froth that really belonged on stage. “Oh, tell me that you did not allow him to press his poisonous lips to my pet’s sweet honey bud.”

“Whoa! That better mean ‘mouth’, buster.”

“My Own,” he said, clutching at his chest, where there was no beating heart to ache. “I could not bear the thought.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, letting my scowl answer for me. Through the Bond, I felt only Harry’s glee; confident in his role as my forever companion, he wasn’t the tiniest bit jealous, and was, in fact, delighted with the opportunity to tease me while baiting
Batten. My Cold Company knew the lawyer wouldn’t last. He was allowing what he no doubt considered a harmless, dead-end
dalliance until it was time to pounce and end it, like a tiger putting a gimpy antelope out of its misery with a final crunch.

“A dreadful man,” Harry continued, “with all the warmth and sensitivity of a crocodile. I swear he files his teeth to points.”

“He does not,” I cried. “Dick’s very clever. If not for him, I might have had to buy Le Pique Consolidated a brand new excavator.”

Batten’s upper lip curled. “Not
Binswanger
?”

“I do not question your need for good legal counsel on a continuous basis, my doe, no indeed,” Harry talked over him
vehemently, “but why you thought it necessary to share lunch with such a man is beyond me. Can you understand it, Mr. Batten, truly?”

Batten’s brow sank and he looked like he was lost in thought for a moment, staring directly at Harry. Harry looked back benignly, monitoring Batten’s shifting moods with an immortal’s experience and an empathic revenant’s effortless probing. I wished I could read Batten as easily as Harry did, but as always, Batten was a null for my psychic Talents. I wondered if Batten could feel the press of Harry’s mind upon his; if he could, he didn’t let it show.

Finally, Batten inquired, “How’s his wardrobe outside of court?”

“I prefer yours,” Harry replied, “and that includes today’s
vulgar approach to fashion.”

“That bad, huh?” Batten’s dark eyes glinted. “Good looking?”

Harry drew an unnecessary breath, held it while he examined the ceiling as though the answer was written there, and then puffed out. “Not especially, no.”

I stewed in my seat, wishing I could Stooge-clonk their heads together like Moe. “Looks aren’t everything,” I said, knowing it
would go unheard.

“Finances?” Batten asked.

“Not unhealthy,” Harry admitted. “Six figures.”

“Personality?”

“Perfectly appalling. Of course, we must allow that there is the
slimmest of possibilities that, being no jobbernowl, he is just the
draught-
horse capable of bearing this senticous burden,” Harry noted,
tipping his head toward me to indicate something.

 “Who’s a what, now?” I demanded.

Batten leaned his chair back and balanced it on two legs. “Full name?”

“Richard Alexander Binswanger,” Harry said with distaste. “
Dickie
.”

Batten met my gaze. “I’ll run him through the system.”

“No you won’t, chucklehead!” I said, slapping the table.

They did a fair job of keeping straight faces until the table slap. Their in-unison giggles at the apparently hilarious state of my dating
life were a vast improvement over their mutual animosity of the past, but it was still damn annoying, coming, as it was, at my expense.

The land line rang in the living room, and I swung out of my chair eager to be away from them, taking my hot espresso with me.

 Unfortunately, both chuckleheads followed.

I SNATCHED THE
phone up. “Marnie Baranuik, UnBio; you trap ‘em, we zap ‘em.”

The person on the other end of the line wasted no time reacting to what I had said. He began smoothly, “Sorry, I won’t take up much of your time, Ms. Baranuik. My name is Constable Patrick Schenk, and I’m calling from Niagara—”

“Home?” I nearly dropped my cup, but managed to set it on the coffee table before curling up on the couch. Then I pulled off my gloves and tossed them beside the cup. “You’re calling from home?
Wow, hi. How’s the weather? I hear it’s been brutal. Early blizzards?”

“I just have a few questions for you regarding Britney Wyatt.”

Right to business, not a small talk kind of guy.
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I know that name.”

“She had your business card in her wallet.”

“I have business cards?” I thought about it, glancing up at
Harry, who was settling his lithe form into his favorite chair beside the wood stove with a graceful sweep. Harry nodded. “Wait, I did have business cards about ten years ago, when I worked for myself, but I can’t imagine anyone would still have one.”

“She didn’t call you?”

“No, sorry. The number on it probably isn’t even in service.”

“It isn’t,” he confirmed.

“If you’re looking through her wallet, is it safe to assume she’s missing? Dead? Incarcerated?” I watched Batten crouch in front of
the wood stove to start building a fire. His ass looked absurdly delicious and I did my best to pretend not to see it. “Did she get
frustrated by an asshole and shoot him in his jerky jerkface?”

A throat-clear. “Erm, no.”

“How about his butt?” I asked. “Did she shoot him in the butt?”

“Sorry, Ms. Baranuik, I thought you were psychic.”

“I’m not the kind of psychic who can pull answers out of the
ether,” I said, and though I’d heard the skeptical tone slip into his voice, the Blue Sense did not report any malice. “Distant event
viewing is the
work of a clairvoyant, a Watcher. Unless they’re looking at the
future. That’s a precognitive, a Seer.”

“What kind of psychic are you?”

“The kind that
does not
mess up FBI investigations by blowing stuff up.” I shot Batten a look that he ignored; over the phone, I was
met with doubtful silence. “I’m dual-Talented. Firstly, I am a
clairempath, a Feeler. That means I can tell how people are feeling, even the stuff
they try to hide. I’m also psychometric, which is a fancy word for
someone capable of token-object reading, getting vibes and visions off inanimate objects.” A Groper, to those in the psychic circuit, but we Gropers didn’t like our slang to leave the office, for obvious
reasons.

I could hear a distant
taptaptap
, rhythmic, wood-on-metal.
Constable Schenk cleared his throat, and there was the sound of paper flipping. I felt the weight of Harry’s focus, and knew he was hearing every word with his preternaturally acute ears.

“Any idea why she’d want to consult you?” Schenk asked.
“What Ms. Wyatt might want to discuss with you?”

“No. I’d be useless long distance,” I admitted, noting Batten’s lip
twitch into a smirk; I glared at the side of his face, daring him to comment. “I’d have to see this person in the flesh to help her with anything.”

“I see. Not a 1-900 psychic help line, eh?”

I let that go because it lacked undertones of nastiness. “People used to get my help on missing persons cases, constable. Sometimes
they’d mail me objects to touch, and once in a while I’d get
impressions
off the items that would be helpful. Maybe she’s looking for someone?”

“Did you work independently for very long?”

“Not hardly. Long enough to get some cheap business cards,
register with the government for tax purposes, and set up a phone number. Then I closed up shop to go work for Gold-Drake & Cross,” I said, suspecting he already knew this. “So what happened with this Britney chick?”

Schenk hesitated, and I didn’t expect him to answer. In my experience when cops are focused on harvesting and filtering your
answers, they rarely share their own. I was accustomed to Mark “Info-Hoarding” Batten never sharing a thing with me that he didn’t have to.

Schenk surprised me. “You said you’re from the Niagara region, yes?” When I made an affirmative murmur, he said, “She went into the Welland Canal last night at Lock One and didn’t come up.”

The idea chilled me instantly. Harry looked up sharply with his
own immediate discomfort and pushed a dollop of reassurance through the Bond. “It’s November,” I said. “The canal would be freezing cold.”

I heard more tapping.
Taptaptap.

“The canal is dangerous,” I continued. “My mum always said that there were whirlpools near the bottom that would suck you down and hold you there while you drowned.”

Schenk made a non-committal noise. “Not the best place for a swim on a winter night, no.”

“That water is so… dark,” I said.

He murmured thoughtfully.

“My dad said there are eels,” I said. “Is that true? Are there eels? Or did he just say that to keep me out of the canal?”

“Britney Wyatt never made any attempt to contact you?”

I curled my feet up under me, half-noticing Harry rise from his chair and circle around the back of the couch. I felt the blanket drape my lap before I saw his pale hands tucking it around me. I flicked a glance at Batten, who watched us with an unreadable expression.

“No. I’m sorry,” I told Schenk, meaning it. “I hope you find her, though.”

“Anything else you can think of that might be helpful?”

There wasn’t, and I felt useless. “I wish I could be more help.”

“Thanks for your time, eh?” he said, and I heard the
disappointment,
felt it come across the line clearly. Before he hung up I distinctly heard that
taptaptap
again. I put the phone aside and slid my gloves
back on.

“Dearheart, if you’re going home you’ll need to pack your
boots,” Harry said. “Not the dress boots, mind. The lace-ups are far more practical for the snow and ice.”

Batten’s face was half lit by firelight. “You’re going home?”

“I’m not going home,” I said firmly, though certainly the urge to help was nagging in my belly. I had investigatory blue-balls because Hood yanked me unceremoniously away from the crime scene that afternoon, and they were churning for an outlet, making me antsy.

“What was that charming name you had for them?” Harry
drummed
his bottom lip with one pale forefinger, pacing back to his chair, then changing his mind and choosing to roam the room. “Your ‘shit-kickers?’”

He was talking about my indestructible Doc Martens; I’d had them forever, and they were still in excellent condition.

“‘Tis a perfect shame that I cannot accompany you,” Harry continued, “as an attempt to mend fences with your family is long overdue. Alas, your brother could not travel in the state he’s in; neither could our Mr. Duchoslav be left alone while he is in such a vulnerable state.”

When not lurking around and whining about how much he
missed pizza and cheeseburgers, my brother Wesley spent most of his days
as a bat, curled up in one of my bedroom slippers, which also
happened
to be how he conducted his sex life. Baranuiks: not lucky in love.
Yucky in love, maybe.

“I’m not going home, Harry.”

“Might as well,” Batten told me. “You’re on vacation.”

“I don’t
want
to be on vacation,” I reminded him. “Neither do you.”

“Don’t forget your passport,” Harry said, ignoring us. He left the
room, an elegant glide of immortal grace that demanded human attention. With a sigh I tossed aside my afghan and chased him into my room.

“Harry,” I repeated, “I am
not
going home. My
family
lives at
home.
Remember them? The people who don’t like me, but who would
never let me live it down if I didn’t visit while I was in town, but would also make such a visit impossible, what with them not letting me in the fucking house? I am
not
going to Canada.”

“Well, of course you are. I knew it the minute the nice policeman called. You cannot resist.”

“I can resist,” I lied. “Just because this Britney girl might have had a problem that I might have been able to help with and now she might be missing doesn’t mean I have to know what happened.”
But what happened? And what did she need me for? And where did she get my old business card?

“Good heavens, such a fuss you make.” Harry whisked open my bedroom closet and stood there contemplating my wardrobe with a discontented air, then fished out my go-bag. “Pack your vitamins.
Warm socks. Extra gloves. One never does know what sort of
calamity you’ll run into.”

Batten leaned a hip against the bedroom door. “Lot of snow this year,” he said. “Better wear your long underwear.”

I fired a pair of balled socks at his sassy mustache. “Who asked
you,
Smokey and the Bandit
? You shouldn't even be thinking about my
underwear.”

“Perhaps you should bring the ring our Infernal Master chose to give you,” Harry said, still off in his thoughts. His pale hand drifted to my jewelry box, which was really just a wicker bowl containing some costume beads and the ring of Asmodeus, wrapped in one of Harry’s monogrammed handkerchiefs.

“I highly doubt I’ll be tainting my soul by summoning a three-headed demon king to claim any stray spirits this week, dude.”

Batten made an unhappy noise. “You can still do that? Why don’t you get rid of that thing?”

“Because it would be a very bad thing if it fell into the wrong hands,” I said. Batten’s lips did a slow curl and I knew what he was thinking.
It’s already in the wrong hands.

“Very well, ducky,” Harry said. “At least pack some decent
clothing for a change.” He winced at my current fashion choices: grey track pants, a faded khaki
M*A*S*H
t-shirt, and slouchy wool socks.