The Conch Shell of Doom (25 page)

“Mr. Mayor. Time to order the evacuation.”

“Y—yes sir.”

Mr. Lovell ended the call, and then tossed the phone to Percy. Trenton’s head rolled around in Mr. Lovell’s stomach, the only sort of dancing he could do. There was no stopping it now. The Awakening had begun.

Franklin spent most of the night struggling to get comfortable on Julie’s couch. It was old, the cushions worn thin in certain spots, and springs squeaked whenever he moved, but it beat sleeping in his car. Sort of. El Cid didn’t have a dusty, stale pizza and dried beer musk to it.

After Jackson and Portman busted in on his apartment, Julie insisted he spend the night at her place instead of his car. She never got over the sex and violence thing either, refusing to give up trying to talk him into sleeping with her in the bed, “Where it would be more comfortable,” she said, but he insisted on taking the couch. Sex was the last thing on his mind. Well, one of the last. More like middle of the pack. Much lower than it normally was.

No, Franklin’s thoughts were focused on taking another go at the Conch Shell of Doom, but between saving a girl’s life and getting the piss beat out of him by the cops, he was too tired to lift even a saltine cracker. A few hours had passed since the police station, yet his body still ached, especially the ribs. Usually, he’d be fully healed by now. That whipping must’ve been a lot worse than he thought. Next time, he wouldn’t roll over so easily.

Franklin twisted and turned, trying to get comfortable without anything sticking up from the cushions or squeaking. It took several minutes, but he got comfortable, and soon after fell into a deep sleep. He awoke to the sound of a faucet running. He sat up and peeked around the corner of the den into the kitchen. Julie wore a button-down shirt that stopped just past her rear, probably one a guy left behind after a one-night stand. Purple underwear peeked out from beyond the shirt’s bottom. Her legs were long, molded and toned by hours of working on her feet. Franklin wanted to eat them up. Women rarely captured his interest since his wife died, mostly by choice. It wasn’t worth the risk. He’d pretty much kept to prostitutes since Molly was murdered. But there was something about Julie.

Franklin coughed, subtly letting Julie know he was awake without scaring her. She turned the faucet off and then walked into the den with no regard for her appearance. He liked that kind of confidence in a woman.

Julie eyeballed his bare leg sticking out from under the blanket. “Don’t get dressed for my sake, please. I don’t mind.”

“Right back at you.” Franklin threw off the blanket, and noticed Julie’s eyes go wide for a moment. He grabbed his pants and slid them on.

“Ouch. Get stuck under a lawnmower?” Julie pointed at the large scar on his leg.

“Broken bottle.” Franklin vividly remembered the run-in with Deckland O’Halleran. Vancouver, 1853. Franklin had been waiting to take a boat up to Alaska when he’d crossed paths with O’Halleran, one of Mr. Lovell’s hired thugs. O’Halleran lost an ear in the fight, Vincent Van Gogh style. Franklin was stabbed in the leg with said broken bottle and then screamed as his adversary pulled it down several inches, creating a massive gash. He even felt the glass rub against bone. It was the closest he’d ever come to finding out whether or not an immortal could bleed out. The cut was so deep it never fully healed. “This brute tried to jump me, but that was a long time ago.”
 

Julie took that in with a
hm.
“So, what magical feats of strength do you have planned for today?”

Franklin flexed. “Nothing magical about my strength. I’m all natural.”
 

“Really.” Julie eyed him incredulously.

“Sadly, no.” Franklin zipped up, making an effort not to look at Julie’s exposed skin. “I’m going to see if Mr. Lovell and Percy are still in that condo. They’ve probably closed up shop, but I might get lucky. Want to check it out?”

“Can’t. I have stuff to do at the Gator. I’m free later, though.”

“Well, be careful. Keep that boom stick of yours close by.”

“Aye aye.” She saluted.

Bailey saw two cops with the nametags Portman and Jackson standing on the front porch of Alexis and Tim’s home, each resting a hand on their holsters. A pair of policemen looking for him was intimidating enough, but why were their hands like that? Did they think he was some kind of fugitive? It made Bailey’s arm twitch with anxiety. These guys had badges, nightsticks, Tasers, and, of course, guns. Bailey figured they were here to bury him alive at sea or pluck out his eyeballs with toothpicks. He turned to run out the back door but ran into Chuck.

“Don’t you run away from us,” the mustached cop said. “Get out here.”

Debbie stood by the front door, looking none too pleased. “You can tell the Southwicks this is beyond ridiculous.”

Jackson ran his fingers over his mustache. “We’ll get right on that.”

Debbie noticed Bailey and put a reassuring arm around him. “It’s okay. Your parents just have a burr up their ass about something.”

“Got a call you ran away from home,” Jackson said, giving Bailey a death stare. “You know they’re calling for an evacuation? Big storm’s coming.”

“Picked a pretty bad time to assault your mom and run away,” the other cop, Portman, said.

“Is this all really necessary?” Chuck asked. “We can call his parents, let them know he’s here. And what storm? The weather hasn’t said anything.”

“Just announced,” Portman said. “It’s all over the TV. Now sir, if you can’t tell, this is a police matter. The boy assaulted his mother.”
 

Debbie snorted. Literally. “Sure you’re lookin’ for the right kid?”

Jackson shook his head. “Your own mother. What kind of degenerate assaults their own mother?”

Chuck waved his hand in front of the cops. “You don’t have to ignore us. We’re standing right here. We’re not ghosts.” He frantically turned to his wife. “Aren’t we?”

Debbie elbowed him in the side. “Not the time.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Chuck straightened up.
 

Bailey was terrified. His parents accused him of assault? Worse, would he get shipped off to some juvenile detention center, forced to make friends with car thieves named Johnny Lee or budding drug dealers with names like Loco or Andrew? Bailey would be toast. Those delinquents would see him for the scared weenie he was and tear him to shreds. He looked back to make sure none of his friends saw what was going on. He’d explode from embarrassment if they were.
 

Sure enough, they were.
 

Portman snapped his fingers, getting Bailey’s attention. “Do you hear us? You’re in big trouble, boy.”

“She really said that?” Bailey’s voice cracked. Of all the crazy things that happened in the past two days, being accused of assaulting his mother, oddly enough, felt like the worst.

“This will got a lot easier if you shut up and get in the car,” Jackson said.

Chuck stepped in between Bailey and the two policemen. “Let’s not go overboard here. He’s just a—”

The cops shoved Chuck to the side. He tripped on a patio bench and fell down. The two grabbed Bailey by the arms and dragged him off the patio toward their cruiser. Alexis burst out of the house, mad as fire.

“What do you two think you’re doing?” she yelled. “I’ve watched more than one marathon of
Law & Order
, and you can’t just drag him off like this. He’s a minor!”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Portman joked.

He and Jackson ignored Alexis’ protests, shoving Bailey into the back seat of their car. He looked back at Alexis, eyes watering. Shame overflowed through his body. He felt very small, like an ant someone was about to step on.
 

Don’t you dare cry. Not here in front of everybody
.

If they’d handcuffed him, there wouldn’t be a question of whether he could hold back the tears. Thank goodness for little things, he figured. Portman and Jackson got into the front seats, and Jackson started the car.

“Your mom is pretty upset with you,” Portman said. “Dad too.”

“Hell, I’m pissed we had to deal with this.” Jackson fiddled with the rearview mirror. “On a Sunday, no less.”

“I hear that!” Portman high-fived his partner. “If this were the fall and I had to miss my Panthers, there’d be hell to pay.”

“You’re lucky charges aren’t being pressed,” Jackson chuckled. “That said, I bet you’re in for an epic spanking. Am I right?”

“I don’t know what you guys have heard, but I didn’t touch my mom.” Bailey’s fingers latched onto the gate separating him from the cops. “She’s crazy. She and Dad both. Please. You have to believe me.” If only he could tell them the
real
truth.

“We’ll be the judge of that.” Jackson turned the car onto Bailey’s street.

He ground his teeth together. The cops were escorting him to the one place he didn’t want to be. The belly of the beast. Wherever Percy and Mr. Lovell were ran a close second, but nothing scared him more than home. That used to be where the heart was, but now it’s where the heart stopped dead in its tracks.

The cruiser turned into his driveway and then came to a stop. Jackson opened Bailey’s door and then haphazardly pulled him out. Bailey banged his head on the roof. Even with an
ow
, Jackson didn’t apologize. Bailey stared at him, his mind screaming
asshole
.

“I want a lawyer.” Bailey made his legs go dead, like a dog that didn’t want to go inside a veterinarian’s office. “Take me downtown. I’m a bloodthirsty drug dealer. Come on, guys. What about a donut shop? My treat.”

“Give it a rest, kid.” Jackson tightened his grip on Bailey’s arm.

Bailey’s shoes scraped against the ground. Portman and Jackson groaned, each of them carrying Bailey’s body weight by his arms. His feet knocked against each step leading to the front door. Jackson took a second to catch his breath and rang the bell.

“I’ve got twenty dollars in my wallet.” Bailey’s instincts told him to run like a cheetah, or fly like an eagle, anything to get far, far away from here. “It’s yours. Just let me go.”

Portman snorted. “We could talk if you maybe added a few zeroes to the end of that.”

“That might be the worst bribe we’ve ever gotten,” Jackson said.

“Close. Don’t forget about that one hippie who offered us a half-smoked joint.”

Jackson nodded. “Oh, yeah. Forgot about him. Tree-huggin’ bitch. Knocked two of his teeth out with my night stick.”

Oh. Fantastic.
Bailey figured he could either go inside or get beaten by these cops.
Gee, which one to choose? They’re both so enticing.

Wanda opened the door. Bailey wondered how she’d look. Angry? Super angry? Furious? Nuclear war furious? There were too many options to choose from. Instead, she had a blank look on her face, one that unnerved Bailey more than anything. It was like the lights were on, but nobody was home.

“Where have you been?” She sounded lifeless. “We were worried sick.”

It didn’t sound like it. Based on her emotionless tone, Bailey figured they were more worried about trying to impersonate a Vulcan than finding him.
 

His mother had a hand-shaped bruise around her neck. Where did that come from, Bailey wondered. Did his parents stage that for use as evidence? He’d have never thought his dad would lay a hand on her. He wouldn’t. No way. So how did it get there? Maybe it was fake, like his mom used makeup for the bruise. That had to be it. Makeup. It was definitely a new low for Earl and Wanda.

“You sure you don’t want to press charges?” Portman squeezed Bailey’s arm until it hurt. “That’s a nasty bruise. If my son did that, I’d lock him up for the rest of his life.”

“Mine wouldn’t live long enough to think about getting locked up,” Jackson said.

Wanda’s blank look narrowed into a sharp gaze. “Well, fortunately for Bailey, he’s not yours to deal with.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jackson said.
 

Bailey gave in, standing on his own two feet. His mother only stared at the cops as he walked inside. Portman tipped his hat to her.

“Be sure to give Mr. Lovell our regards.”

Franklin parked El Cid across the street from Percy’s complex. Only a handful of cars were in the lot, none of them the
A-Team
van. Still, he needed to be ready if it showed up.

He made sure the small mirror was in his jacket. It was. He checked the Blade of Hugues de Payens. It was securely holstered to his belt. A knife and a mirror didn’t seem like a lot of firepower. If only Franklin had a gun. That would’ve been nice. He wondered why mystical weapons were knives or swords, never guns. Probably some stupid joke played on everyone by the powers that be. A mystical firearm would make things a little too convenient for fighting the supernatural. Swords, and especially knives like the de Payens Blade, were messy. They required getting close to an enemy, but that intimacy ran both ways. The enemy was close as well. Some people preferred the personal nature of killing the old-fashioned way. Not Franklin. All he wanted was to do what was necessary and move on, while staying on schedule.

Franklin briskly made his way across the parking lot and up the stairs to Percy’s condo. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself by running, though he didn’t want to waste any time either. Standing outside of Percy’s door, he unsheathed the knife. He couldn’t hear any movement inside, but that didn’t mean anything. He kicked the door in. Or at least tried to. The door didn’t budge an inch. His knee screamed in pain, the force ramming bone against bone. Franklin hopped around on one foot, as if that would do anything besides make him look like a chicken
.

The pain settled into a dull burning, low enough to where he could give the door another kick. Before doing so, Franklin checked the handle just to be safe.

Unbelievable
.

“Of course.” He pushed open the unlocked door. “Why wouldn’t you be unlocked?”

The condo was empty. It didn’t even look like someone stayed in it recently. No dirty dishes in the sink, no suitcases in the bedrooms, nothing. The place seemed ready to welcome whomever would be staying in it next. Franklin shook his head, frustrated. As much as his body hurt and needed sleep, he should’ve drunk a case of Red Bull and powered through like a champ last night. Now they were gone, off to who knew where, the Conch Shell of Doom in tow.