Harvest Of Evil

by William Lehman

  "Now, hold on for a second. My family didn't have anything to do with the wrongs done to your family. We were still in Norway, on my father's side. My mother's people were in this country from the 1700s, but none of them were involved in the Indian wars. Hel, one of them was Black and another Chinese. Both minorities that got screwed over almost as bad as yours." No, that sounded too defensive. "Look Mary, I'm sorry. My professional pride got in the way. I don't like to admit that there are such things as Bad Cops. I don't like to think that someone due protection under the law would be afraid to ask for it."

  "OK, John. Apology accepted. Here, let me give you a peace offering. This is the other thing I had to tell you." She handed over an ear cuff. Just the sort of ear cuff I had been looking for earlier today. In fact… How did she know I had experienced a run-in with Lucius LeRoux? I don't remember mentioning that to her…Wait a gods' Damned Minute. Mary Two ELKS?.. Shit.

  "OK, nice. Did you enjoy watching them rough me up a bit?" Shit, I hate being 'played'.

  "Hey, it was my bike they trashed. You should have known it was me."

  "Well, I have to admit the Elk bit is an obvious hint in retrospect. But, you don't smell the same shifted. And I ain't never heard of a magic using 'Thrope before, much less a non-predator magic using 'Thrope. And you smell different shifted."

  "John, I'm not a 'Thrope."

  "Huh?"

  "I'm a shape-shifter. There's a difference. I can put on any skin that I have the talent to control. I have none of your super-human strength, nor your resistances to damage and magic. When I shift, it's with benefit of an animal skin, and I have just the strength and power of the animal I put on. On the other hand, I can take it off just as fast as I put it on. And there was another clue that you missed. My bike."

  "OK, what clue was there in a Harley?" OK, I thought I knew what was going on there, for a minute. Guess not.

  She looked at me with a long-suffering smile, "You're not a biker, are you? That isn't a Harley, it's an…Indian."

  "Shit, I am a moron." I shook my head and grinned. "But damn it, you're still sticking your pretty little nose in a field investigation. That could get both of our butts in a sling. I got you in on the forensics side of the house, but that doesn't mean you can poke around in the field without some sort of cop around to give you authority and protection."

  Mary glared at me with blood in her eye. "Officer John Fisher, maybe you had better take me home. NOW."

  "What the Hel did I say? I was the one that got roughed up, you just had to pick up your stuff after the idiots pawed through it. I was the one that would be in the shits for letting a civilian into a crime scene."

  "What you said; was that you didn't think I could handle myself without a cop to protect me, and that I needed a man with a badge to leave the college and get out in the field. How dare you? If that's what you think of girls, this isn't going to work. Take me home or I'll call a cab."

  Oh, well even a stubborn dumb Norwegian ex-squid can realize what he's done when he gets his nose rubbed in it. "Now hold on, Mary. I'm guilty of stupidity, but not of sexism. I don't think you're less competent than me just because you don't pee standing up, or because you come in a far more attractive package than my partner. Hel, my boss is a female, and she's one of the finest cops I've ever worked for." The fact that she was the only cop I have ever worked for isn't something I wanted to mention right this second. "What I am guilty of is thinking that if you don't have a badge or a uniform, you 'ain't never seen the elephant' as they used to say. I should have known better, you impressed the Vampire council somehow, and they don't impress easy. I throw myself on the mercy of the court, and beg forgiveness." All of this delivered with my best hound dog look, sorrowful eyes, and little boy grin. I really liked this girl, and I didn't want to blow it over something like this. Evan if she had 'played me' out at the crime scene.

  She looked at me and giggled. "How in the hell can you look sorry, apologetic, cute, and roguish, all at the same time? Alright, you're forgiven. But we really should be getting ready to go, the place is going to close soon." I looked at my watch. Shit she was right. It's 01:30 real time, which means 02:00 bar time. We got up. I held her jacket for her to put on, grabbed my hat and we were out of there.

  We had gotten about a block and were walking together holding hands like school kids when I heard a whoosh behind me. As I started to turn I suddenly saw bright lights before my eyes and was staring at the concrete. Hands were in my jacket feeling around, and the horrible smell of carrion was in my nose. The last time I felt anything like this, my team had been ambushed at the DZ, and someone had shot me in the head. (Fortunately the bullet had just clipped me and not hit solid, even a 'Thrope can't survive getting his brain splattered all over the countryside.) I felt a little nauseated, like I was about to lose that really good steak I had had a few hours ago, and I could hear all of the sounds of a knife fight going on somewhere outside my vision. I could also feel that creeping coldness that tells me I'm about to go Baresark. I got to my knees, and one of the hands that was in my jacket pawing around, grabbed me by the lapels. I heard something in a language that I don't recognize, which is surprising considering my background, and the other hand pulled out of my pocket. I heard a scream and what sounded like a curse, and the sound of a stone falling on concrete. Then the whole world was a rush of wings. I looked around, fighting off the Baresark as I came to my feet. Mary was about five feet away with what looked like a Randal fighting knife in her hand. It had blood dripping from it, and at her feet was a black knife, a large pool of blood, and part of a hand that was rapidly turning to dust.

  I felt behind my head and my hand came away bloody, and it wasn't healing at my usual speed. "Shit, what the Hel was that? What did they hit me with?"

  Mary looked at me and smiled. "They made a mistake. Both of them hit you, neither of them attacked me until you were down. John, we just met our first Civatateo. It had to be them. They changed from the biggest damn birds I've ever seen, to the ugliest women I have seen in a long time. I felt you start to turn, so I turned too, just in time to see both of them in bird form stoop on the back of your head. You got hit with about 300 lbs of bird at full attack speed. If you were human, I'm sure it would have killed you. You want a knife?" She kicked the knife at her feet over to me. It was made of a black stone, I think it's obsidian. Great, Vampire wounds, I thought, they heal at normal speed. Then I puked on the sidewalk.

  When I was done, I spit out the residue and felt into my jacket. "I know why they hit me. I had the gold. Mary, they got the ear cuff." Shit this hurt, and they took my evidence. OK, now I am officially going to kick some Aztec ass. Then I looked down and wished I hadn't. First because I got nauseous all over again, second, because I saw my hat. "Sonovabitch, that's a hundred and fifty dollar Stetson that damn bird bitch ruined." There was no doubt that the hat was toast, it was in shreds. Which brought to my mind the condition of my good suit jacket. Oh, this was just getting better and better. As if to put a cap on the evening, I suddenly saw someone's disco lights come on. (You know, red and blue with white strobes?) And I heard a voice shouting.

  "Drop the knife, bitch."

  Mary dropped her knife. I heard it hit the ground as I turned slowly in the direction of the sound and lights. I could hear the guy on the radio calling for backup and an aid car. I looked through the curtain of light at the cop who was behind the door of his car with his weapon out and pointed at Mary, and said, "I'm going to reach into my pants for my wallet, nice and slow, OK?"

  "Sir, just sit down and wait. The aid car will be here in a couple of moments."

  "Damn it, I'm a cop! Just let me pull out my wallet."

  "OK sir, nice and easy."

  I pulled my wallet, and opened it facing it towards the officer, showing my badge. Then I identified myself. "Detective Corporal John Fisher, Federal Park Service. This woman is with me, she's not the assailant. Turn your damn lights off and get your watch captain out here." I wasn't
exactly the soul of consideration and political acclaim but, oh fucking well.

  *****

  Officer Mike Smith, which is who the guy behind the patrol car turned out to be, had his watch captain Leroy Johnson on site shortly after the aid car got there. I had to tell my story to Mike, again to Leroy, and again to the guys in the aid car. Then I had to refuse treatment, there are some doctors out there that know how to treat 'THROPE, but they are not thick upon the ground. We are still a damn small minority (less than one tenth of one percent at last count, and not counting those who are in the kennel), and not one prone to seeking medical attention. They ran Mary through the wringer too for about half an hour, until I had enough and put my foot down. About forty minutes later, we finally got out of there. They did say that they would enter the knife into evidence for me under my case file at the Federal building, damn nice of them. Eventually, we got to the Durango.

  As we walked up to the rig, I pulled out my keys, and handed them to Mary. "I don't think I can drive right now. I think I have a concussion." I sounded awfully matter of fact about the whole thing, even to my own ears. Mary looked at me, took the keys, helped me into the passenger seat, strapped me in and got around to the drivers side. She drove to her house while asking me questions about my life, how I became a cop, how I became a 'Thrope, which somehow got around to Uncle Lars. She got my home number off me and called my house, talked to Uncle Lars briefly, told him that I wasn't going to be home tonight, but that I would be all right, and then hung up. She then continued to talk to me until we got to her house.

  When we got to her house, Mary helped me inside, set me down on a couch, after spreading a towel to soak up any blood, and then went into the kitchen, still talking to me occasionally about nothing much. I could hear her banging around in there for some time, and I could smell something, I couldn't tell what. My sense of smell seemed to be buggered, I think it was part of the nausea. After a bit, Mary came back into the room with something in her hands, and said, "John, do you have any clothes in the truck?" I told her that yes, I always carry a day or two worth of stuff, for emergencies, and she said, "Great. let me help you out of these clothes while you drink this. Watch it, it's hot."

  Mary pulled off my boots as gently as she could, placing my hide-out gun on the table beside me. Then she reached around and removed my main pistol, and asked me to stand for a moment. When I did she took off my jacket, and then my shirt, and walked away saying "Drink the rest of that down while I go and do something about the blood on these." She disappeared into the back of the house somewhere, and I drank the rest of the stuff she gave me. I can't really describe the taste, for one thing I had never tasted anything like it, and for another, my taste buds seemed to be off along with my smeller. As I finished the drink I started to feel a whole lot better. Not a hundred percent, but lots better. In a bit, Mary came back into the room, and asked "How are you feeling?"

  I thought about it for a moment, and responded "All things considered, pretty good."

  She said "Great, there is only one more ingredient for the cure." Then she grabbed me by the hand, and led me to her bedroom, saying "Now, I want you to understand, I don't do this for just any cop."

  13

  I woke up the next morning with a start. I'm not sure what it was, smell, sound, or something less definable, but suddenly my eyes were open and I was rolling off the bed grabbing my gun. That was when I got my first surprise of the morning. Donner wasn't where she should be. (Yes, I have a nickname for my pistol, so what? Donner, meaning thunder, has been with me for twelve years through some of the most fucked up situations in this or any other world, and never let me down. I can't say that for anyone or anything else I know. I know a lot of operators. Almost to a man, they have named their primary and usually their secondary weapons. Maybe it's a form of sympathetic magic, I just know it works for me.) Then I got my second surprise of the day. The carpeting I was on wasn't the carpeting it should be. This stuff was a woven something or other, not my sheepskin. Surprise number three was that it was way past daybreak. So I have seriously overslept. And looking through the window at the sky involved looking through something I recognized as a dream catcher. I don't have one of those. That's when it all started to come back to me. That's also when Mary sat up in bed and looked at me, wearing a knowing smirk, and nothing else. Causing me to mentally reflect, 'nice tits'. Then I remembered that I had mentioned something to that effect last night as well.

  Mary smirked still wider and asked "Remember where you are now?"

  "Uh, yeah." Hey, I'm not much for witty repartee before coffee. "I don't suppose there might be any coffee in the house?" I asked with my most sheepish expression.

  "I set it up last night, it should be ready by now." She said. "I figured you would need some. Pea berry do?"

  Then it hit me, that was what had woke me up. The smell of coffee, and the sound of a different coffee pot than mine. Boy, I was really out of it this morning. More memories started to surface, and I reached back for the back of my head. It was perfectly healed. I remembered enough to realize that I had been given a major concussion last night. While I was used to healing really quickly, the damage from a Vampire attack should heal at normal human rates, not supernatural 'Thrope rates. Damn, Mary packed some serious mojo.

  "How do you take it?" I asked, heading toward the scent and sound of coffee brewing. "Oh, and where are my guns?" I continued, "It's not that I think I need them, it's just that I'm used to knowing where they are at all times."

  Mary smiled a true grin this time, and said, "Not to make a cliché of it, but… blond and sweet. And your pistols are over here on my side of the bed. I thought something like this might happen, and I didn't want to be a victim of PTSD. I figured if something bad happened in the night that I couldn't take care of, I could hand them to you quick enough. OK?"

  Well I couldn't argue with her plan, especially as I had woken reaching for a pistol. "Sure, it's good. I just wanted to know where you had put them." I guess that wasn't strictly true, I was just a little off balance that I hadn't known where my weapons were when I went to bed. But she had been right, and I was wise enough to not argue with what works.

  I followed my nose down the hall, and through the Great Room, and into the kitchen. There was the coffee pot, and next to it was all the fixings and a rack of real 'coffee lovers sized' cups. I made Mary's coffee and then mine, and started to walk back through the house to the master bed room. I hadn't looked around much last night, partially because I was too busy looking at Mary, partially because I had one hell of a head trauma for most of the time I was in the Great Room, and then I had other things on my mind. So I looked around on my way back through. The place was done in early eclectic. The walls were a sort of parchment color, the floors were hardwood with Indian rugs. The pictures on the wall went from Indian prints by an artist that I was sure I had seen before but couldn't name, you know, the guy that does appaloosas in the birch trees, through pictures of bikes and bikers including one of a damn near naked High Elf guy on a bitchin chopper (snap shot blown-up), to some limited edition works by Olivia. The lyrics of an old Prince tune started to run through my head. You know the one. Anyway. The couch was black leather, the arm chairs looked like they belonged in a English drawing room. The room was huge, about forty by fifty, and had a dining suite in a corner near the kitchen. It seemed to be almost an after thought though, most of the room was dedicated to conversation groups, and areas for quiet contemplation. There was a plasma screen in another corner, and a couple of two hundred DVD towers, as well as all of the rest of the videophile stuff. I didn't see a sound system, but there was a suspicious looking armoire in mission style, that could have very easily hidden a really first-rate system. The kitchen was all stainless steel and glazed terra cotta, real first class professional grade shit. As I walked into the hall I glanced through the doors on the left and right, one held a library bigger than mine. That's saying something, as mine goes somewhere around a thousand boo
ks. I have everything from early Asimov to the latest Honor Harrington, with texts on criminology, law enforcement tactics and medieval armor mixed in. I thought I was eclectic. No, strike that, I know I'm eclectic. I mean really, a historical re-enactment type, science fiction fan, retired squid, sailing, wood-working cop? But it seemed I had met my match. The other room was Mary's computer room, and she had a nice setup in there, too. It wasn't over-clocked or anything that dramatic, but it was a solid, two display screen system with all of the bells and whistles. I continued on to the master suite, not even bothering to look at the bathroom. After all, a head is a head, right? (Shut up, Mr. Rogers.) All in all, this was the sort of house that said, "I am what I am, I like what I like, and neither you, nor any other pinhead, gets to tell me what my taste should be." This philosophy worked for me, it looked a lot like my own. Martha Stewart would not have approved, but piss on her.

  When I entered the room, Mary was just putting something on that I have no clue what to call. I liked it, but it’s one and only purpose seemed to be to make men want to rip it off. Why is it that a little bit of lace and see-through is so much more enticing than naked? Oh well, who cares why, I'm just going to enjoy the view. I handed Mary the coffee with a low pitched purr/growl in my throat, and a leer. "Here lover. Damn, that's nice." I really wanted to explore the ramifications of Mary's wardrobe a bit more, but just then my stomach let out a growl of its own, about a five on the Richter scale. Mary's stomach answered with a growl of its own. This reminded me rather forcefully that I had used up a lot of energy last night, and lost supper to boot. If my healed state was any indication, Mary had burned through a few thousand calories too. It was time to do something about breakfast before my gut decided to try to digest my throat.