Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  “I can find some of that information for you.”

  “But you can't guarantee you'll have the precise information I need.”

  I turned to the monitor displaying the security feed from the building where Durant and her partner killed a mutt this morning. I couldn't see inside the exact housing unit, but I watched the FBHS (flagrant, bigoted, humorless statists). Durant eased up the stairs like a good little soldier. I watched her viciously defend her partner and fire the shots that finally felled the beast.

  Could she kill Marc? Sure.

  She'd kill us all someday.

  “We need inside the bureau,” I said.

  “You've been soaring through their security for months.”

  “I mean physically. We need someone who can walk in and out without causing another Armageddon. Can you do that?”

  “No mutt can.”

  Marc sat, tossed me a protein bar, and opened one for himself.

  I watched her roll, the hair drifting away from her neck, her shirt sliding up. The odd whiteness of her skin on the monitor. Scarring so thick it looked like a scarf around her midsection. Proof of all the mutts she killed.

  “God, I hate her,” I said.

  “Hate her, yes, and leave her alone. No sane mutt can walk up to the Princess and introduce themselves. Not a chance. The stench of murder has probably saturated her skin. Quite possibly, she’s insane.”

  “Don't you handle violence at the club? You're probably better at dealing with aggression than most.”

  “No one at the club is a threat to me. A guy gets drunk and I toss him out, end of story. They don't pack silver heat and aim for the brain.”

  I sighed.

  “Have Erik meet your princess,” he said.

  I snickered, picturing the big, pale lug with too much muscle, a testosterone-squeezed brain, and no tact. Erik and Durant would not mix. The fact that Marc suggested him only emphasized how little my friend wanted to do this.

  “He's angry enough to kill her,” Marc said.

  “I said I needed her.”

  “No, you said you needed someone. Make it someone else. I have a bad feeling about this, Rainer.”

  I couldn't send Erik after Durant. They'd kill each other.

  I paused. Would that be best? Ending two rampant tempers in one fell swoop? Nah. We needed an insider. Plus, if Durant died, the press would make her a gilded martyr.

  “Go with her partner,” Marc said. “He's the safer bet.”

  “He's a boy scout. Not so much as a parking ticket the past six years. He tithes, for goodness sake.”

  “Lots of people do.”

  “But he doesn't go to church, and his profile says non-religious. Yet he tithes, meaning he's habitually loyal and would have zero interest in helping us. Plus, I don't have anything with which to blackmail him. Not even jaywalking. Durant is dirty. Our kind of dirty. C'mon, Marc. It's one little date. I have a hunch that you can do this. I know it. Besides, you owe me for the Manhattan Manuscript and the manifesto.”

  He growled. I had him.

  “Fine. But if she shoots me, I'm haunting you. And I plan on being a total bitch about it.”

  I touched the golden ring hanging from its chain around my neck. I was haunted enough already.

  “I'll make arrangements,” I said.

  Grim, Marc finished his protein bar and went to nap on one of the cots.

  Chapter 10

  Rookie-duty was punishment for something I'd done in a past life. Plus, I had to pick up the new guy, which was plain silly. I grumbled all the way to Rosco's doorstep. With a sigh, a huff, and a groan (almost simultaneously), I knocked. The pitter-patter of feet made me think Rosco was a daddy, which surprised me. Then the door opened and I wasn't surprised at all. I stood face to face with a scantily clad female. Transparent underwear.

  “One more?” She drew her hand up her thigh to rest on a curvy hip. “Do come in.”

  “I'm here for Gracie.”

  “Aren't we all?”

  “You could do better.”

  Deciding I was all business and no pleasure, she dropped the sex kitten act like a seasoned prostitute. Her sultry hips swayed habitually. Lucky Rosco.

  The party hadn't made it to the bedroom. Furniture lay overturned in the living room. A cocoon of sheets wriggled back and forth on the floor. A womanly thigh and buttock popped out of the sheet as they rolled around.

  Oh-kee-doe-key.

  “Got five minutes, rookie. I'm guessing that's three more than you need to finish up.”

  I went to his fridge to take inventory. Red wine, Chinese takeout, full selection of fruits and veggies and a few deli trays. I found a carton of leftover fried rice, sniffed to verify its safety, and dug in. Screw Rosco; he made me wait. Unfortunately, even standing at the fridge I could see the sex-bundle wiggling from the corner of my eye. I contemplated firing some warning shots.

  After a few forkfuls, I said, “Rosco, get moving or I'll call PD to see how legal your playmates are.”

  Two naked girls popped out of the sheets to rummage for underwear. Rosco's disheveled hair and shit-eating grin followed. A third girl, last out of the pile, took the sheet to cover herself.

  Leaving him naked.

  “Got any more augmented sex bunnies under there?” I said.

  “Why? Want one?” He peeled a wet condom off himself. Men are so charming. I gave him my Medusa glare from head to foot and completely discounted him in any sexual capacity. He withered a bit then stood and strutted for the other women.

  “That's Kaidlyn,” he told them. “My partner.”

  “He's got the clap,” I said.

  Giggling and sorting underwear, they went for the door. I finished the rice and pushed around for something else. Found a slice of chocolate cake, which I naturally devoured. Finally we made from the house to my truck. Before he got in, I gave him fair warning.

  “Dude, if you smear any herpes or cooties on that seat, I'll freaking skin you. Understand? If you have some disease, you put down plastic, hear?”

  “Acting like a jealous housewife.”

  “Keep up the chatter and I'll feed you to the next mutant Lassie we see.”

  “Who is Lassie?”

  “God. I forget how ignorant young people are these days.”

  “Oh, like you're so old,” he said.

  “What kind of gun do you carry?”

  “Glock 19.”

  “You have some decent scores.”

  “Yeah, the blond was smoking hot.”

  “I meant your shooting record, douche bag.”

  “True in both cases, isn't it?”

  “Hows-about you sit and be quiet.”

  “What's with the overdone truck? Compensating for something?”

  “Oh, no. Uh-uh. You can get away with being late and being a slut, but you mind the truck or you'll be riding under it until your ass is jelly. Which would be one way to get rid of herpes.”

  I made a dramatic entrance onto the busy street. He gave me an Oh-God-I'm-stuck-with-a-lunatic look. I barely resisted the urge to stomp on the gas. He straightened himself.

  “You've got intense scarring,” he said, staring at my neck and forearms.

  “You will, too, if you don't die first.”

  “Do you remember your first one?”

  I did, but it had since been overlaid with other scar tissue. I wasn't about to show him where.

  “Come on,” he said. “I know you remember. Who wouldn't? Let me see it. Don't be shy.”

  That was not going to happen ever. I aggressively careened into the center lane and whipped the truck around. Rosco sprawled against the door.

  “Jesus!”

  “Missed the turn,” I said lamely.

  He scowled and began criticizing my driving.

  “I love this song!” I cranked up a Slayer tune. Rosco cringed and jabbed at the buttons. I laughed and let him turn it down, otherwise there would be a lot of childish slapping and fighting over the dials. N
ot that I was beyond all that, but I figured he got the point. We received a call over the earpiece. PD found another body. Dead people were always a bummer, but it might be good for the rookie. Might wipe that grin off his face.

  The body was dumped in La Llorona Crater, named after the weeping woman. Not my favorite spot. It used to be a churchyard. Women came in the night with their children, some already dead, others left to die. Superstition perceived harmless birth defects as signs of demonic contamination. Infanticide was overlooked (or simply not prosecuted with vigilance) and the sacrificial plot stank of smoke, sulfur, and blood. Baby bodies surfaced from shallow graves.

  I nodded to a nearby uniform. Forensics took pictures of a lump in the rocky soil. The victim was naked, adult, and female. Curled into a ball, the ultimate look of victimization. Blood marked her wrists, throat, chest, and back.

  “Who's the vic?” Rosco said, playing it cool.

  “Like I would know.”

  We slipped into gloves.

  The corpse's wrists were cut down to broken bone. Her ankles were knobby with free-floating bones under the bruised, shimmery skin. Shiny wounds, as if she'd been bound with barbed silver chains. I blinked, thinking.

  She had struggled hard enough to break her own bones.

  Good girl.

  Instantly, she looked less of a victim. Her fetal position wasn't that of a cowering child; the woman needed rest after her battle.

  “Durant, are you smiling?” Rosco said.

  “No. Turn her over.”

  “Me?”

  “Have a problem with naked women?”

  He glared and turned the body tits up. Slash marks bisected her chest. The symmetrical grooves stacked on top of each other, revealing the killer took multiple swipes. Too neat.

  “Claws are the most frequently imitated bit of mutt anatomy, but people don’t understand them. Claws don’t slice cleanly. They are jagged and blunt, so wounds will be puckered and rough. Plus, mortal bits snag. The average mutt claw is the size of a banana, which makes huge marks. These are much too slender and precise. ”

  “Maybe she was attacked by a small mutt?”

  “Not even a large dog. A tool made these. Besides, the tracks cover sharper incisions.”

  “Mercy killing, probably,” he said. “Fear of contamination, social dishonor, and legal prosecution inspire citizens to shoot their loved ones and bury them deep. Leaving the body out in the open is weird. Public. Maybe the killer recreated a mutt injury to make a statement. This is how the killer explains himself to the world audience. He's saying the kill was justified because the victim was contaminated.”

  I glanced at Rosco. “Smart. Might even be true. Claw imitation can also mean the killer wanted to confuse the police or is suffering a lycanthrope neurosis.”

  “Like when a nutcase believes he's a mutt, but it's all in his head.”

  “Right. Except mutts don't use their claws this way. They don't swipe like a cat. Mostly, they use their paws to pin down whatever meat they're tearing into.”

  “If the perpetrator is not a real monster, does that make him a nutcase or concerned citizen?”

  “In this case, I'm guessing none of the above.” I turned to the nearest uniform. “Run a toxicology report and send the results to Detective Contrell.”

  Rosco gingerly removed his gloves and stared at me.

  “You think someone hacked into her because she was a druggie? Like when the FDA said mutts exhibit signs of extreme drug usage, and citizen crusaders rounded up a hundreds homeless and addicts?”

  The Pitchfork Massacre, a street cleansing, was a week-long riot. The average citizen joined a hoard of murderers bent on dragging undesirables into the street for gruesome deaths by stoning, gunfire, or sharp edges. Senseless violence spread among family, friends, and neighbors. I was eight. My father sat by the door with a shotgun over his knees while my mother took us into the pantry and showed me how to load a .38 revolver.

  Wasn't mutts we were worried about that night.

  I had a desperate urge to spit but didn't want to ruin the scene.

  “Whatever happened, a mutt didn't kill this person.”

  We left and drove around for a while. Dispatch was silent. Thankfully, so was Rosco. Since he was from out of town, I swept through a few neighborhoods, pointing out craters and the more sensitive gang neighborhoods. I showed him where Red Sector was, where graffiti artists took pride in their murals, drugs rained down like manna, and no one cared that prostitution was illegal. No surprise, Rosco already knew the place.

  Three hours later, I said, “Lunchtime,” and we proceeded to argue about where to get food. I wanted a burger. He wanted Korean. We settled on Italian. It was a complex negotiation. After a heavy carb lunch, I said, “Let's go to the range.”

  “I'd rather look at last month's numbers,” he said.

  I winced. “The range would be more fun.”

  “I'm in no mood to have you test my shooting skills in a pissing contest.”

  “Well, I never!” I exclaimed, but we both knew he was right. Paperwork it was. I drove back to the office, humming along to loud music.

  The good mood lasted until one of the New Catholic protesters started beating my glorious, brand new truck with his picket sign while shouting about what a horrible person I was. Clearly my priest-shoving antics did not endear me to their righteous cause.

  “Get off my truck!” I screeched.

  The assailant's wild swings struck nearby protestors, who turned their signs on him. An all-out slap fest started in front of my vehicle. Ting. Crunk. Security came to push the man back behind the line. The liberal side targeted the security guards and screamed about their right to assembly and speech, which apparently meant they could take their blasted signs and destroy my property. Thunk. Thunk. Each blow went to the heart of me. Security wasn't going to save my truck before the fanatics broke it.

  I unlocked the door. If there was so much as a scratch on my pretty vehicle, I would shoot someone. Not a fatal shot, just a foot or something. I stepped outside the truck and someone shoved a paper into my chest. I reflexively grabbed the sheet and looked at it.

  The anti-mutt propaganda was a colorful cartoon: the image of a young girl being violently sodomized by a mutt. Drool dripped onto her cute pigtails, claws dug into her school uniform. Caption said, Mutt Supporters Are Monsters. As if every sympathizer condoned bestial rape.

  My blood pressure exploded.

  The art was too well done, the girl's fearful face was too expressive, and the mutt's wet grin was too lecherous. My body filled with hot, white noise.

  The man who gave it to me was talking, mouth flopping, a sheen of spit on his lips.

  I tossed the flier over my shoulder and punched him in the face so hard his teeth split my knuckles. He went down. I stayed with him, punching the ever-loving shit out of his sleazy, porn-pushing face. He managed to shove and flail, but his efforts fueled my passion.

  Someone pulled me off. Rosco pushed me against the truck and held me back.

  Bleeding and cursing, the man on the ground talked about pressing charges.

  “The hell you will!” I shouted, trying to get at him again.

  Security reached us.

  “That man assaulted her,” Rosco said. “He inappropriately touched a federal agent and distributed pornography on federal property. Bestial porn. Arrest him and charge him with assault and public indecency.”

  Just then, I rather liked the new rookie. Took me a moment to catch my breath. Jittery with dissipating anger and adrenaline, I turned to get into my truck.

  Mullen blocked my way, and I nearly swallowed my tongue.

  He made Vincent look like a ballet-dancing pansy. Mullen was a Trigger, basically a brutal mercenary with no conscience whatsoever. FBHS drafted him to eliminate the high risk threats. Sometimes, one psycho could kill better than a whole team.

  Worse, Mullen had a thing for me. Not a good thing, but something that made me feel like an inse
ct under the magnifying glass of his fiery gaze. I wondered how much of the altercation he'd seen. He tucked the offensive flier into his pocket and eyed my bloody knuckles like he wanted to suck on them.

  “Your office. Fifteen minutes,” he said.

  I didn't like the sound of that.

  He slipped into his muscle car and drove through the gate. I couldn't fathom what he wanted. We certainly wouldn't be sharing recipes for banana bread.

  My knuckles ached and complained. Gross: a tooth stuck in my skin. I flicked it aside, shuddering. Definitely gonna rub some alcohol on my knuckles. I wrapped my hand with a bandage from the first aid kit. Rosco finished lying to security and returned to the truck.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Don't mention it.”

  Silently, I parked and we walked to the office. Mullen wasn't waiting. Vincent was cleaning out his desk. Andreas did paperwork while Keats loitered around Yvonne's desk. She had foregone her usual pantsuit for jeans and a blazer.

  Keats offered doughnuts and pointed at my wrapped hand. “Trouble?”

  Andreas' eyes shot up, pinning me. I shrugged.

  Santi stopped in the doorway. His expensive gray suit reflected light. A young male some twenty-odd years-old stood sheepishly at his side. A splattering of freckles crossed his nose and cheeks.

  “Guys, this is our newest cadet for your sister squad, team D,” Santi said, and introduced us with jabs of his finger.

  The newcomer waved. “Hi, I'm Wesley.”

  “Very promising.” Santi clapped him on the back. “Let's get you a vest.”

  We watched them go. As soon as they were out of earshot, Vincent said, “Three months.”

  “Three weeks,” I said.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Yvonne said.

  “They like to guess how long a new agent will last in the field,” Andreas said. “Just one of their many primitive, condescending habits.”

  She looked at me. “Why only three weeks?”

  “He only used his first name in introductions and waved like we’re all in grade school.”

  “I introduced myself by my first name,” she said. I had no recovery plan to fix my blunder.