Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  “Given your line of work and your, uh, cheerful personality? Could be any number of motivating factors.”

  “Thanks, asshole.”

  “Need an ambulance?”

  “Nope. A bandage would be nice, though. There's a first aid kit in the cab of the truck.”

  “Nice truck.”

  “I know!” I gushed.

  “I'll have to take your statement.”

  “I haven't had dinner yet,” I grumbled. A supper of scotch and whiskey soup sounded good. “About that doughnut?”

  “All yours, mooch.”

  “Rock on.”

  My hands shook. As if I didn't have enough to worry about, skinheads were trying to slice me open. Possibly rape me. Adrenaline dropped and left me numb, mellow. I needed sugar. Devoured the confection mechanically, quickly. Didn't remember how it tasted. Higgins, the sweetheart, gave me his coffee too. I would have married him then, if he'd asked.

  More police arrived with crime scene tape, a body bag, and questions. Higgins, nice guy that he was, told them to back off. Forensics took blood samples, picked pieces of skin and teeth from my tires.

  Yuck.

  “We'll have the vehicle washed,” Higgins said. I didn't want to leave my truck. She saved my life. I rode with Higgins down to the station and gave my statement.

  Or tried to.

  When Tad from PR arrived, he seemed to know more about what happened than I. “The assailant was clearly L-positive.”

  “Uh, nope. Not. No lycanthropy evident during the event.”

  “You shot him with silver bullets,” he said, a twinkle in his douche-bag eyeball. “Why would you shoot anyone with silver unless it was a mutt?

  “Because I was pissed.”

  “I want that stricken from the record.”

  Higgins looked back and forth between Tad and me. I used a coffee cup to warm my hands and sat barefoot while PD took samples from my footwear.

  “Listen,” I said. “The punk was a Nazi piece of junk who took offense to some of the offensive things I said.”

  Tad adjusted the grim cuff of his official gray suit. The priest collar suit was ideal for a mouthpiece. He also happened to be the Homeland Security liaison who paroled our offices on occasion. He was the devil sleeping incestuously with the enemy.

  “Ms. Durant, we can't assume he attacked you because of a few idle comments. Clearly, the assailant was under the influence of a rabid disease.”

  “A social disease called stupidity, maybe,” I snipped.

  “Why else would he claw your boot and try to eat you?”

  “The damage was clearly done by a blade.”

  “There was no blade. And your boots will reveal evidence of a lykos' claw.”

  “Tad, sweetheart, lemme tell ya something. This was not a mutt incident.”

  “Give us a moment, officer.”

  Higgins sighed, pushed himself away from the table, and lumbered out.

  Tad removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Convincing me to go with the program always took more effort than he thought it should. Not my fault his program was damn ludicrous.

  “You are an FBHS agent,” he said. Like I had the intellect of a child. “The Nazi, as you call him, belonged to the Neo-Nationalist Society of Mankind, which is a very popular party with viable candidates running in this election. The NNSM is also a significant contributor to FBHS fund-generating campaigns. Therefore, the unfortunate gentleman you ran over was a confirmed mutt. End of story.”

  “Do you ever tire of pretending your shit smells like roses?”

  “The whole world would rather smell roses than the shit they're offered, Durant. It's time you learned to get with the odoriferous program. I'm sure you've had a long day. This unfortunate event rattled you. Even old, weathered officers experience confusion when recalling traumatic events. Why don't you let me handle the report? In fact, why don't you go out for a drink? You look like you could use one.”

  “Cunt,” I spat. What was the point? He'd spin this seven ways to Sunday and I couldn't stop him.

  I wanted sleep more than I wanted to champion the truth. I hobbled up, the miserable result of sore muscles and a sliced ankle, and left the room. Someone had brought me sandals since my boots were confiscated. I looked at the flip flops and wanted to beat someone senseless.

  “We've got a rookie who can take you home,” Higgins said.

  “No need,” Sarakas said, arriving on the scene with a cup of noodles and a semi-successful smile.

  I deflated at the sight. He embodied relief. I wanted to collapse and let him carry me. Instead, I reached for the noodles. Salty, cheddar-flavored sauce and cheap carbs. Perfect. I hoisted the plastic spork.

  “My hero.” I meant it. “What about my truck?”

  “Pick it up tomorrow,” Higgins said. “And stop pissing off the freaks.”

  Sarakas chuckled. “Like that'll happen.”

  I punched his bicep. After pretending it hurt, he wrapped the arm around my shoulders. Tight. It compacted my painful ribs and he quickly let go.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “The incident strained my back and pulled the wounds on my midsection. It’s not so bad. I still have Gorgonblood.”

  Worse, I had major painkillers available to me. Happy, helpful drugs waiting to fulfill their destiny. The real trick would be not taking them.

  “Want me to carry you out?” Sarakas said.

  “Try it and you'll end up with a spork in your eye.” I stubbornly, gingerly waddled from the station to his Tahoe.

  “What a day,” he said.

  “Not kidding.”

  “I'm assuming you don't want to talk about it.”

  “Not a chance.” I turned on the heater. “How's Vanessa?”

  “Charming and wonderful and a little too perfect.”

  “And sexy.”

  “Damn right.” He stared straight ahead. “Does it bother you that she and I had dinner?”

  “Nah. She's cool. I'm glad you found someone who likes you.”

  “Thanks a lot, Durant. What, I'm so unlikeable?”

  “Didn't mean it like that. You know how my tongue is: not connected to my brain and stuff.”

  I ate my noodles. He drove quietly, slowly in my opinion, and brought me home without further incident.

  I considered the man who attacked me, and how it would not have been the end of the world if he killed me. Granted, it would have been the end of the world for me, but so what? We all have to stop sometime. Just stop. That's mortality, how life works.

  The incident reminded me I was never safe, but maybe safety wasn't the issue. Maybe the universe knew what I deserved. Bad crap happens to good people, sure. But when it happens over and over, and sometimes it's the person's fault, maybe that's cosmic justice.

  Taking a knife to the back would have been suitable for what I did to Juan. He hadn't done anything wrong, but his contagion endangered me, and I killed him. Never mind that I was on the right side of the law. Didn't make me much better than the skinhead, did it?

  Crap. There it was again, the itching and churning of my tummy. Guilt? Or undercooked, scalding noodles?

  “Sarakas, tell me again why we do what we do.”

  “The world needs protectors, Kaidlyn. Strong people must be willing to stand for something while the whole planet goes to shit. That's what we do. We protect others by killing what everyone fears. When the rest of the world shudders and dives under the bed, we stand between humanity and monsters. We keep the threat at bay.”

  True enough.

  “I'm tired,” I said. “Tomorrow will arrive in a few hours. Thanks for picking me up.”

  “No problem. Why don't you take a day off? There's not much to do. We're pulling in a new rookie and you know Santi will make you ride with him. Why not save yourself the misery and stay home? Catch up on some reading, eat nothing but junk food.”

  “Maybe.” Maybe not, but he had my best interest at heart.

 
“Want help getting inside?”

  “Nope.” Yes, carry me and tuck me in.

  “You're a stubborn little shit.”

  I chuckled and reached for the door handle. Looking at the dark house, I should have felt better. I didn't.

  Someone was watching me. Someone had rummaged inside my house. A stranger had tried to kill me. I didn't feel safe. What would happen to my house if I died? All my stuff? Who would give my guns a new home?

  “Andreas, have this,” I said, working a key around the ring. I dropped it into his palm where the heat grew thick and welcoming.

  “What is it?”

  “House key. For my house. Obviously. My lawyer nagged me about mailing it to my next of kin, but I never got around to it. Keep this in case something happens.”

  “Jesus, Durant. How many mutts have we bagged together? But one dude with a knife scares you so badly that you're improvising a last will and testament?”

  “You ever feel like the whole world is out to get you?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “Seems like everyone is the bad guy these days. Take the damned key. I've never given one out and you're making me as uncomfortable as shit.”

  “I'm touched.” He looped the key onto his key ring.

  “Whatever.” Hopefully he couldn't see me blush in the dark. “The security code is inscribed on the key, but you have to invert it and multiply by two.”

  “Dork.” He chuckled. “Thank you.”

  I pushed the door open, hopped onto one leg, and said, “Think they'll let me keep the knife?”

  “You're a loon, you know.”

  “Amen.” I paused. I knew what really bothered me. “Know the worst part? Tonight I remembered that 'evil is always unspectacular. It shares our bed and eats at our table.' I'm kinda quoting someone, but I don't remember whom.”

  “Everything will be fine. Get some sleep.”

  I made my way to the house. Sarakas watched until I was safely inside. Gentlemanly.

  I turned on lights because my brain thought it might be comforting. It wasn't. I cleared the house, going room to room with the safety off. Finally, I holstered the gun and went to bed. I removed the holster and the silly flip flops but didn't undress. With the blankets pulled around me, I fell asleep, but it was a tight, shallow rest.

  I woke feeling more tired than ever. Maybe I should call in sick and stay under the covers, warm inside a comfy cocoon of leave-me-the-hell-alone. But I had to pee. If I went to the bathroom, I'd be awake enough to go to work. Fresh out of excuses, I lumbered up to urinate, shower, and change my bandage. The cut wasn't so bad. The scare was worse. Time to get over it.

  The sky opened with cold drizzle and I slid into a jacket.

  Mullen waited for me in the parking lot, leaning against a van, smoking a cigarette. He wore a cotton shirt in army tan, new jeans, and a black baseball cap. His dead eyes considered my apparel.

  “Camouflage is an eyesore against an urban backdrop,” he said.

  Immediately I became the girl who, on prom night, realized her date was a douche and her dress was hideous.

  “I wear this jacket because it's comfortable, not to become invisible.”

  “Then you won't miss it.” His eyes hardened.

  I should learn not to back-talk career military guys.

  He wasted his cigarette in one breath.

  “Got into trouble last night,” he asked.

  “Blind date gone bad.”

  “The Bureau worries about backlash from the NNSM.” He lit another cigarette. “You can go home, or you can ride with me today.”

  I pivoted and marched back to my truck. One glance over my shoulder caught him smiling. Snakelike. Satisfied. Amused.

  I went entirely numb inside.

  At home, I plopped on the couch and slept for ten hours. The morphine chip spent itself too fast and abandoned me to the pain. My phone chirped with a text from Sarakas reminding me it was movie night and I needed to bring food.

  Sarakas lived in an apartment building with shoddy elevators but spacious rooms and a scenic view. His book collection contained Shakespeare and Louis L'Amour. He turned off his lights when he wasn't using them, recycled, utilized disinfectant wipes, never left laundry on the couch, and kept a hospitable bird feeder on the balcony.

  He had no bad habits.

  I plopped sub sandwiches on the counter. “Hope you have ranch dressing.”

  “Of course. I know you can't stand mayo.” He walked down the hall, completing a motion that dropped his shirt into place. Lakers shirt, numbers worn down to shadow. Barefoot, wearing running pants.

  “How was your day?”

  I groaned. “Mullen is scary.”

  “He didn't do anything...actionable?” Sarakas unwrapped his sandwich.

  “No.”

  “Do you think he's sane? I've always wondered, is he a bit crazy? Maybe heading to the lunatic side of the spectrum?”

  “Aren't we all?”

  “I don't think Mullen is nuts. He's saner than we are. Well, maybe not me but definitely you.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  His fridge was stuffed to the brim with food, most of it healthy. I dug for the ranch and grabbed a saucer. He pulled out two cherry sodas while I dumped ranch into the dish. We went to the living room and sat in front of the television. When he handed me a soda, I set the chilled can on the coffee table.

  “Use a coaster,” he chastised. “I just polished.”

  “Sure thing, mom.”

  He threw a banana pepper at me and it stuck to my shirt. I picked it off.

  “You always forget I don't like those,” he said. I shrugged and popped it in my mouth. I followed that classy move by dipping my sub into the ranch dressing. He gave me a look like I was about to drip all over, so I paused and made a show of laying napkins out over the entire table.

  “Cheeky bastard,” he said.

  “What are we watching?”

  “You have your choice of three movies, but all of them feature Chuck Norris.”

  “Rock on.”

  Exactly what I needed to feel normal again.

  * * *

  Tad from PR stuffed the Nazi incident under the rug. I didn't like it, but the Bureau finally allowed me back into the office. Gorgonblood cured most of what ailed me, and a normal work day felt like a vacation.

  Until big boss Santi strolled in.

  “Kaidlyn, come here,” Santi ordered. “Get that book from the top shelf.”

  “Excuse me?” I said. “We have rookies for that. Look, there's one right here.”

  Santi squinted. Fine. Go fetch. I can do that.

  I walked across the room and reached for the book. My ribs ached and muscles stretched, but the Crowley bite-wounds were healing. My ankle offered no more than the briefest annoyance. All manageable discomforts. I had worked in worse condition.

  “Looks like you're fit,” he said. “Put the damn book back.”

  Easy as that, Santi cleared me for duty. He had ulterior motives and a large blue folder. Blue meant we weren't going home anytime soon and we'd need a hell of a lot of ammo. He dropped the paperwork on Sarakas' desk.

  “We've got an Invasive Tagging Request for a flop house on Beverly.”

  “Who says flop house anymore?” I said.

  “Invasive tagging on what grounds?” Sarakas said.

  “Neighbors called in a noise complaint, saying they heard animal sounds. The residence is owned by Kim Chung-Ho, but he hasn't registered any pets with animal control. Turns out Kim has been purchasing an unusually high quantity of over-the-counter sedatives.”

  “Any sudden use of sick time? Pattern of missing work during full moons?” Sarakas said.

  “Works at home. His internet traffic reveals significant interest in werewolf legends. He has also researched countries that don't extricate to the United States.”

  “Maybe he's a horror movie fan who's afraid of a tax audit,” I said.

  “The mutt wants to skip th
e border,” Keats said. “With international travel so heavily monitored, how does he think to slip through security?”

  “Won't know until we know,” Santi said. “The four vehicles in the yard are registered to Kim, Mason, Hardy, and Padalin. Michael Padalin is a recently unemployed Public Safety monitor who was terminated when he didn't complete his psyche evaluation. Winston Hardy is an excommunicated priest whose reading list contains everything from neo-Nazi conservatism to hyper-liberal freedom poets. We suspect he's been living with Kim. Our next guy, Quentin Mason, is guilty of assault and public indecency. He's accused of pissing on one of those door-to-door Devoted recruiters.”

  I laughed and Santi gave me a look.

  “Satellite imagery puts four vehicles and six active persons at the scene. We are worried it could be the start of a kennel. The team will enter from the north side of the house. If they run, we want them to head south toward the canal. We'll post an agent on the southeast and southwest sides of the lot. Rosco, you'll commandeer a southwest apartment that will give you visual of the back yard. Yvonne, come over the east side of this duplex and find a full view of the back. Keats, Durant, and Sarakas will clear the house.”

  Santi distributed vouchers authorizing a trip to the gun cage.

  Wandering into a potential kennel was never much fun. At least the equipment improved with the risks. I selected thigh holsters for the Jericho 941s. I bit down on the bill of an FBHS cap so I could tie my hair into a ponytail while we walked to the elevator, sharply aware of the glances I earned. Even among my peers, the scars on my neck made people skittish. Probably because I shouldn't have survived them.

  Sarakas lagged behind when the others went to the cage. He stood stiffly, looking grumpy. “What did you do to Yvonne?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? She put in for a transfer.”

  “I was insensitive about a hospitalized rookie.”

  “Wesley?”

  “I forgot him, alright? Sheesh.”

  “They pulled his plug. Are you going to the funeral?”

  “The answer is distinctly no,” I said.

  “People will expect you.”

  “People can mind their own business.”

  “Can't you see how your absence would affect team morale? You want to encourage cohesion, not alienate people.”