Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  “Yeah, right.” I sang: “Sarakas got laid.”

  “You and that guy gonna go steady?”

  “Certainly no.”

  “Sex was bad?”

  “Jeez-Louise, Andreas! Fine. Everything's fine. You gonna eat that bacon?” I reached across the table.

  He snatched the bacon and chomped into it with great relish. I was tempted to order more, but I had a sausage in my mouth when the waitress walked by.

  “No word on those vandals you reported,” he said. “Cross-burning is popular again. Religious Crimes Division had a file as tall as me.”

  “Figures.”

  “You could stop making inflammatory statements and shoving priests.”

  “Oh, I totally will. From here on out, mum's the word.” I gave my impression of a 'good girl' face. He snickered and threw a grape. It bounced off my chest.

  “Say something political or religious without being offensive.”

  “Oh, come on. A test?”

  “Yep. Go for it. Dig deep.”

  I thought and thought. Took a sip of coffee.

  “Don't shit yourself with the effort,” he said.

  I lifted both hands and offered my best neutral thought. “Different people believe different things.”

  “I'm impressed.” He clapped his hands.

  “You're also an ass.” I snatched the last slice of bacon off his plate. “My reward for passing the test.”

  “Laugh it up, knucklehead. You're buying me another round.”

  I flagged down the waitress and ordered two more sides of bacon.

  “One of these days, you'll believe ‘things’ too,” he said.

  “Sure,” I agreed as the waitress came back to fill our coffee mugs. I pointed to his neck. “In fact, I believe that's the biggest hickey I've ever seen. Isn't it enormous?”

  “You're a pig.” He reddened. The waitress smiled and swayed off.

  Bellies full, we sat in his Tahoe, cruising the avenues and putting in mileage. Not a lick of action all day. I was halfway through a raspberry-filled pastry and Sarakas was kicking the crap out of a sourdough cake doughnut when he got a text. His smile revealed it was from his lady.

  “Vanessa didn't strike me as the hickey type, being all sophisticated with clean language and such.” I licked red jam from my fingers. “You know what bothers me?”

  “Here we go. I knew it was a matter of time before you said something snarky about her.”

  “What? No. That's not it at all. Actually, I was going to complain that we never got Mason.”

  “Who?”

  “Mason, the guy who was supposedly at Kim's house. Remember, we knew of four men, and we identified a few bodies afterward, but none of them proved to be Mason.”

  “Maybe he was there but we didn't find enough remains to identify him.”

  “Maybe. Awfully neat, though.”

  “FBHS tagged all his relatives and friends. They're planning a memorial service for him on unconsecrated ground.”

  “Right.”

  “So what's the problem?”

  “Just bothers me. Mason was jailed for assaulting a preacher with pee, which says something about his political ideas. The Devoted think mutts have no right to life, that God's mercy is reserved for mankind and vamps. The direct opposite of them are PETA suckers who esteem mutts and would rather save animals than people. Then here's Mason, a missing mutt with a crap-load of PETA friends. Are any of his animal activist friends acting suspicious?”

  “Dunno.”

  “We should find out.”

  “All his associates have been tagged.”

  “Which will tell us if they personally are contaminated, not if they're harboring a mutt.”

  “This really clawed under your skin, huh?”

  “I want it wrapped up.” So I can put Yvonne to rest.

  Sarakas looked at me and licked the sugar glaze from his fingers. He probably knew every thought in my transparent head.

  “Have you been sleeping?”

  “What are you, my nanny?”

  He frowned, then he called Yoshino and repeated my suspicions. A little while later, we had a list of names. Turns out, Mason had a lot of sympathetic friends with criminal records. An unusual amount. Liberal agendas received too much press and skewed massacres into sob stories. Blaming victims. Glorifying the villains. Typical bullshit entertained by people who had never seen more than a cup of blood spilled at a time. Had never seen teeth snapping at the jugular of their utopian dream.

  “Kaid, you want to pay Mason's friends a visit?”

  “Why not? It's a slow day.”

  Famous last words.

  We introduced ourselves at each door and received an exceptional amount of propaganda, lectures, and obscene hand gestures. I tired of explaining how we didn't need a warrant, we protected the public, and we had a job to do. The visits wore down all my nerves and ultimately got us nowhere. No sign of Mason. No sign of a mutt, period. Just a lot of jibber-jabber and preaching.

  The last address was vacant.

  It looked like a flop house. Smelled of stale, unventilated rooms. No light. A lot of clothing and blankets but no bed. A full pantry. A handful of old pictures on the fridge. I squinted at those, but none of the smiling faces belonged to Mason.

  Then I stilled as if a spirit had breathed down my neck. Cropped out, on the edge of a picnic photo, was a spectral image: a hand so white it could belong to a powdered dead man. Wrist to fingertips, that's all I saw. A ghostly, muscled hand. It sat gently on a woman's shoulder in a confident gesture of friendship. The woman had a tattoo on her chest of a native woman lifting hands up to a full moon tattooed on her neck.

  “What?” Sarakas said.

  “I think I've seen this guy before.”

  “That's Hardy. We bagged him at Kim's house, remember?”

  “Yeah,” I said, but I was talking about the ghostly hand.

  “Satisfied now?”

  No. More curious than ever. Who was the woman? Who was the cropped man? Where the hell was Mason? I took the picture when Sarakas wasn't looking.

  “Want dinner?” he said. We strolled back out to the vehicle. The sun sat low on the horizon, the day's temperature faded to cool. My favorite time of day.

  “Indian food sounds good.”

  “You know I hate curry. How about a regular, old-fashioned steak?”

  “Brilliant.”

  “How are the meetings going?”

  “Great, I'm sure. Only I'm not going anymore, so you know, I don't actually have a reference point for that opinion.”

  He stopped in his tracks. “No more meetings?”

  I shook my head.

  “Are you drinking again?”

  “Not currently.”

  He inhaled and exhaled slowly. I felt a lecture coming on.

  “Dude, I'm sober!” I promised, a last-ditch effort to stem the tide.

  “Durant, you of all people know that risky behavior, when left unchecked, tends toward greater chaos. When people recognize a problem and don't take care of it, the problem only gets worse. Consistently, irrevocably worse. Bad to worse, that's the pattern. Get it? What we do, we see the problem and then we fix it. Then it can no longer be a problem. See how that works? I know you're smart. I know you see how this works, that you need to man-up and deal. Is there a problem? No, it doesn't exist. Why? Because it's been fixed.”

  “Jeez, Sarakas.”

  “That's it. I'll ask Vanessa to talk with you.”

  “What? Nope. Sorry, but no.”

  “She's a good person—”

  “Oh, I don't doubt it. Also, not the issue. She's a grief counselor. I'm not grieving.”

  “Ah!” He pointed at my nose. “Maybe you should be.”

  “Kee-rist!”

  The dispatcher tried to interrupt, and I walked away.

  Sarakas storming after me. “You didn't cry at Yvonne's funeral.”

  “I had my tear ducts removed.”

  “Re
ally?” He paused, then regained his stride. “The fact that I believed you for an instant proves you need to talk to someone.”

  “Do you talk to Vanessa?”

  “Sure.”

  “About work?”

  “Well, no...”

  “Ha! Hypocrite.”

  “Wanna know what your problem is?” he said.

  “No.”

  “You don't think of the future. You can't see past your next meal. You have no plans, no hopes, and no ideas. And you have absolutely no clue what that does to the people around you.”

  “Not true,” I grumbled. I have a getaway car parked in a junk yard. That qualifies as long-term planning.

  Dispatch squawked again.

  “What!” we said.

  “There's movement in the Faludi household,” Cindy said.

  “Why do I know that name?” I said.

  “We were just there,” Sarakas said.

  “The tag is showing disruption. Faludi is a little upset,” Cindy said.

  “He's a mutt?” I didn't get that vibe from anyone we visited.

  “His vitals read at pedestrian levels. Maybe not a big deal. I can call the cops.”

  “What if Mason visited Faludi, realized we'd been talking with his friends, and became ravenously angry?” I said.

  “I think that's exactly what happened,” Sarakas said.

  “Send any agents that are closer. We're on our way.”

  We ran to the Tahoe and sped back to Faludi’s house, but driving takes time. Traffic eats time. Slowing for corners kills time, something we didn't have much of.

  “We’re getting panic and bloodshed stats.” Cindy's bland voice narrated as if announcing bingo numbers. “Pulse is fading. Looks like cardiac arrest...yep. He's gone.”

  I finally remembered Faludi, a plump guy with a wool cap and meaningless tattoos. He had flung an orange at us, and I had informed him that he threw like a girl.

  We drove up to the house, scattering gravel across the lawn. Weapons hot, we advanced, and Sarakas kicked open the door. The kitchen looked like someone sent a demolition crew through it. Blood started in the dining room: splattered, not smeared. Mutt paw prints tracked over the tile, through the debris of crushed furniture and crumbling walls. A blotch of blood marked Faludi’s fall. He had dragged himself toward the stairs, leaving a smeared path. The staircase was too narrow to accommodate a full-size mutt, so the lump of human meat remained uneaten at the bottom of the steps.

  Faludi might be dead, but Mason remained at large.

  “He is still hungry,” I said.

  Screams carried on the wind. We sprinted outside. Two houses over, a balcony fell in shambles. White wooden rails crumpled onto the lawn, glass sprinkled down. Shrieks obscured sounds of the struggle.

  Terror can warp a scream to the point that I can't tell what it comes from. Male. Female. Child. Monster.

  All of the above.

  Two adults sprawled across the bed. Their bloodied hands lay close on the blood-wet mattress, as if they’d reached for each other in their final moments but died before clasping hands. She wore a pink blouse and crisp khakis. A growl cascaded through the house and we followed. When Sarakas and I arrived at the living room, we received a shock.

  The mutt snarled, thrashed his head, and fought for his lunch.

  His lunch fought back.

  A slender, naked teen scratched at Mason's skull, tearing at the mutt’s eye and cheek, trying to get inside the animal's head.

  Huh?

  No, Mason was devouring the boy's left arm up to the shoulder, and the kid fought to get free.

  That was wrong too. The victim was fighting to get inside Mason.

  Jesus.

  The mutt saw us and tried to scramble away, but the teenager clung to Mason's ocular cavity with a fierce grip.

  Sarakas and I fired without further hesitation and didn't stop. Our well-placed bullets peppered the mutt. Plumes of contaminated blood showered the beast and victim alike. Mason shuddered, fell atop the teen, and died with the human’s arm trapped in his maw. I dropped the empty mag, let it fall, and popped in a new one.

  The boy pawed at the dead animal. He couldn't budge the weight, but his fingers snagged flakes of tissue off the monster's skull. I rushed to lift the head and Sarakas helped. We pried the jaws apart to get his arm loose. Keening, gasping hysterically, the boy scarcely realized we were there. He clutched something in his hand and curled the ruined mess against his bare chest.

  His skinny limb was ravaged to the bone. Like someone threw it into a combine and then pinned it back on his shoulder.

  “Take it easy, kid,” Sarakas said. “We're here to help.”

  I pulled my belt to tourniquet the mess of the boy’s arm. The flesh was raw and wet against my fingers. He shook like a soaked kitten in a storm. His black hair was slimy with blood and mutt spittle. Just a kid, no older than I was when my brother turned feral and killed—

  “What's he got in his hand?” Sarakas said, handing me another bandage.

  “It looks like a hotdog.”

  “No kid would fight a mutt for lunchmeat.”

  The teen gasped. “I didn't…I didn't even hear—I…not until—Arthur! I didn't even hear it in the house.”

  “That's fine, that's okay. Nothing to worry about,” I said. “No biggie, hun. It will all be okay.”

  Was I full of shit or what?

  What else could I say?

  We heard sirens.

  “Hey, kid, what's your name?” I said.

  “Davey. David Aberdeen.”

  “Great name. There are a lot of good Davids out there. Like David Lee Roth. David Trimble. David M. Lee. David and Goliath.”

  “My name is Davey.”

  “Right. Nice to meet you, Davey.” I yelled at Sarakas: “Can I get a bandage here?” He was already halfway out the door, going for the first aid kit in the Tahoe.

  “David Anthony,” the kid said.

  “Huh?”

  “Another good David. An artist.”

  I laughed, not because it was funny, but because he carried the conversation. I patted his clammy chest. His skin throbbed with a finality that crept into me like a spirit, shivery and irreversible. His temperature sank, heart ticked faster and lighter.

  “No, no, sweetheart,” I said. The whites of his eyes flashed me. His chin thrust forward. His body twitched with pain. He wasn't going to make it.

  That kinda sucked.

  “Who is Arthur, Davey? Tell me about Arthur.”

  “My little...baby brother,” he muttered.

  I had an awful, desperately sick feeling about the 'hotdog' in his hand.

  “Why don't you drop what you're holding so I can bandage your arm?”

  “No, no!”

  “Okey-dokey. Not a problem. We'll just leave everything where it is. Tell me about yourself, kid.”

  “Ambulance arrived,” Sarakas said, dropping the kit beside me.

  “Tell them to get in here,” I hissed through my teeth.

  Liza charged through the door, her red halo of hair blazing a trail for three EMTs. My heart lifted.

  “This brave young man is Davey,” I said. He's messed up. She didn't need me to tell her. She went quickly into rescue mode.

  “Pleasure to meet you, young sir. Let's have a look at you.”

  She slid into red gloves to signify a mutt injury and double-gloved before touching him.

  I stood aside to give the medics room. Shoved messy hands in my pockets. Realized I hadn't holstered my weapon, which lay next to my boot. I snatched it up and put it away. Blood stained my sleeves.

  They secured Davey to a gurney, covered his body to keep him warm, and left the half-devoured arm out so they could staunch the blood. Provided he made it to the hospital, he’d need major surgery. We followed as they loaded him into the ambulance.

  “Well,” Sarakas said. “Get in.”

  “What?”

  “You promised, remember? The next minor w
as yours, no ifs, ands, or buts. Now hurry. I'll wait for Winters.”

  No time to argue. I hopped into the ambulance. The responders produced needles, pumps, and air, but none of it was for me. Odd, not to be the one who needed urgent care for a change.

  “Kid's got a death grip,” an EMT said, trying to free what Davey clutched in his hand.

  “Might wanna get a plastic baggie,” I warned.

  “What is it?” another said.

  Sickened, I looked away.

  “That's a baby's arm,” Liza said. Like, what do you know? She cleared her throat (or swallowed vomit, but who was I to judge) and grabbed a sack for the limb. The rest of the baby would be cut from the mutt's stomach or incinerated with the beast, based on its degree of digestion.

  The quick, hazy drive to the emergency room was followed by a chaotic, blustery swarm of personnel, authorities, paperwork, and a lot of me repeating: “I don't know.” Don't know his blood type. Don't know his age. Don't know if he's allergic to penicillin or peanuts or lactose. Don't know what his hopes and dreams were. Don't know if he would survive.

  Processing Davey involved one dead-end after another. Big Fed couldn't find his medical records, the bureau couldn't locate extended family, the hospital waiting list was so long he might not have a room when he finished with surgery, and then we couldn't find any insurance plans.

  While I learned what it was like to be an unprepared parent, the hospital commandeered my bloodstained clothing and sterilized me with enough alcohol wipes to make my skin burn. “Procedure,” they said, apologetically at first, then insistently. The staff had remembered what a pain in the ass I was and volunteered to torture me.

  Karma.

  I sat in the hallway wearing two hospital gowns, one forward, one backward so my ass didn't hang out, and the guns holstered atop it. I tried to brush my hair but there was no hope. I must have looked like a militant lunatic escaped from the ward. I didn't much care. My skin burned. My brain hurt.

  Davey was still in surgery. Forever-and-a-day worth of surgeries. Doctors argued about whether or not to take the arm. Ultimately, it wouldn't matter if he couldn't stabilize. I didn't know what time it was. There were no windows in q-ward.

  A gray pencil skirt came into view.

  Vanessa.

  She sat next to me, smelling of sunshine and sweet lotion.

  I pointed at her. “Don't try to psychoanalyze me. If you try any shrink crap, I'll punch you in the face, which would be a shame because Sarakas will be pissed, and then I'll lose a friend, which would really top off a rotten day, so don't you say anything shrinky. I realize that's a horrible adjective which possibly doesn't exist, but you are smart enough to get the point, aren't you, doc?”