Dead Sexy

by Tate Hallaway

  The whole thing was a little too cheery for my taste, so I didn't linger. I caught sight of a stark, smudged-makeup face in the mirror. Izzy was right. I looked like hell.

  I ran some water and leaned over to splash my face. My body protested, but I gritted my teeth. I needed to feel a bit cleaner.

  When I looked at my face again, I saw less mess and more fear. I was so completely out of my league. I didn't do cops and robbers. In fact, I was kind of surprised I'd evaded arrest this long.

  I wandered back to the living room. The house was quiet. "Izzy?"

  After poking my head into the bedroom and a closet, I discovered a note on the whiteboard on the fridge. Apparently, Izzy had an afternoon shift, but I was supposed to help myself to the soup was simmering in the crockpot. A sticky note stuck to the pot declared in a very Alice-in-Wonderland way: "Eat me!"

  I rummaged around for a ladle and managed, despite my wounded shoulder, to fill a coffee mug full of vegetable noodle soup. Hobbling back to the living room, I carefully lowered myself back into the easy chair. I flipped through a hundred and sixty-seven channels only to discover that daytime television programming still sucked. At least the soup was good. I slurped down several cupfuls, while skimming through the rest of the space-adventure novel.

  I put the book down. I couldn't quite get into the story because I kept thinking the FBI should be kicking in the door at any minute. I mean, really, how hard could I be to find? Surely the guys in the van had recognized me and instantly ran Izzy's plates for her address. What were they waiting for? I really wished Izzy had a police procedural among all these novels. I couldn't remember if the FBI needed a warrant to arrest me or if they could just burst in and take me "downtown" for questioning. Did Dominguez have enough evidence to make his case after I/Lilith attacked him?

  Switching the TV back on, I tried to distract myself with something mindless, except everything that kept catching my interest involved hundred-year-old murder cases that brilliant forensic scientists solved in a half hour using only a microscopic fabric fiber and a single cat hair.

  Crap.

  I should just turn myself in.

  Right now, some lab rat in Minnesota was connecting the dots from some bit of dandruff I'd shed at the crime scene. There was no way on earth I was going to get away with this. Wasn't it smarter to confess? Wouldn't the law go easier on me if I cooperated?

  I fished my wallet out of my pocket and unearthed Dominguez's card. I found Izzy's phone and, with shaking fingers, I dialed the number.

  "Dominguez."

  I was kind of surprised to hear his voice, especially sounding so healthy. I thought maybe he'd be in the hospital or something. Plus, now that I had him on the phone I wasn't sure what to say. "Uh, hi."

  "Hi," he said back. His tone was neutral. I supposed if you hand your business card out to a lot of people who are either involved in crimes or have witnessed them, you don't expect a lot witty repartee.

  "It's Garnet," I said. "I think we need to talk."

  "Sounds good," he said. "Do you want to talk on the phone or should we meet somewhere?"

  Meeting somewhere sounded like a profoundly bad idea, given that an entire SWAT team could descend on me. Of course, if he was tracing this call, the same could be true the longer I chatted on the phone. Strike that, he already knew where I was. He had caller ID. He would, he's FBI.

  "I don't care," I said. I started to get up off the chair, but my shoulder twinged. "Are you okay? I mean, you're alive. Lilith didn't hurt you, did She?"

  "She snapped my wrist like a twig. I've got a lovely fuchsia cast." I noticed the correct use of pronoun. Either he was playing along with the crazy-murderer girl or maybe he did sense another presence. "How about you?"

  "You shot me."

  "Don't you mean I shot 'Lilith'?"

  Of course that's what I meant, but now anything I said to that effect would sound completely insane. So, instead, I pointed out, "I always have to deal with the aftermath of Her destruction."

  There was silence on the phone for a minute as Dominguez considered my words. "You know, I think I'd rather talk in person." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone, "I can get a better… uh, sense of things face-to-face."

  He wanted to be close enough to read me, psychically speaking. I don't know why, but this confession filled me with an unreasonable amount of hope. I figured that if he wanted to use his abilities to see into my mind, then maybe there was still some question in his about my guilt.

  "I don't want to get arrested," I said.

  "Clearly," he said dryly. "I think I'll leave my cuffs at home this time. Why don't we meet somewhere you feel safe?"

  Yeah, but where was that?

  "Your place?" he said.

  "You mean the one with the big blue van full of FBI agents parked out front?"

  "Okay. Somewhere public?"

  Where do I feel safe? Where's somewhere public that I feel safe? Where would the FBI be loath to burst in with guns blazing? Where? Where? "The library!" I blurted out. "Public library! Children's section."

  "O-kay." He sounded like he thought I was a total nut job. "Which one?"

  Well, I'd have to be able to walk to it, since I didn't have my bike or access to a car, so I gave him the name of the nearest branch. "I'll meet you at the Monroe Street library in forty-five minutes."

  I took a sponge bath, careful not to mess up Sebastian's precise bandaging. I struggled a bit with one-armed hair washing. Then I raided Izzy's medicine cabinet for makeup, only to find the foundation and powder several shades darker than my usual. I settled for a little eyeliner and mascara. My hair could really use some pomade, but Izzy's products were foreign to me. Besides, I felt guilty enough using her other stuff, especially considering my plan to borrow a few clothes from her closet.

  Except the most exciting thing Izzy had was some kind of crazy taffeta bridesmaid dress jammed in the back that I'd have to ask her about some time—the rest was boring button downs, sweaters, sweatshirts, and T-shirts.

  I borrowed a plain navy cotton oxford and shimmied back into my own black jeans. I looked at the flat-haired, conservatively dressed woman in the mirror and felt positively undercover.

  As I struggled into my coat, I called Izzy and left a message on her voice mail to let her know that I borrowed some of her stuff and would probably still be out when she came back. Then I called William to check on the store and to let him know that I was okay.

  "Hey," I said, when he picked up.

  "Okay, listen," William said without preamble. "I've got this friend whose mom works in the law department at UW, and she knows a great criminal lawyer. I think we can probably talk him into doing the thing pro bono. I figure it's going to be very high profile with the whole Witch possessed by a killer Goddess thing. Halloween murder."

  "Please tell me you have not told anyone else about Lilith."

  "Of course I did. How do you think I was going to get anyone interested in helping you?"

  "William," I said as patiently as I could. "Non-magical people don't understand things like Vatican Witch hunters and Goddess possessions. Your lawyer friend probably thinks I'm insane."

  There was a short pause on the other end. "I guess he did mention something about the insanity plea."

  "And being crazy doesn't get you off, it just keeps you out of jail," I pointed out. "I'd be locked in some mental institution instead."

  "Oh," William said, sounding defeated. "I still think you need a lawyer."

  "You're probably right about that," I agreed. "How's the store? Everything going okay? Did my orders come in?"

  "Jeez, Garnet, wouldn't you rather get all the lawyer information? How long do they give you on your one phone call anyway?"

  "You think I'm calling from jail? No, I haven't been arrested yet," I said. "Of course, I might be any minute now."

  "Where have you been? You want to hear something ironic? I've had to call in Marlena to cover for you."

  I actually
chuckled a little. "There's always Slow Bob too, you know?"

  "Yeah, but then I'd have to work with Slow Bob. All he does is go off and read in the corners. He's really way more work than help."

  I knew that, but Slow Bob did really know the stock. He could recommend any book to anyone based only on his encyclopedic memory. "I should be back soon," I said, but then paused. I was about to go confess. I might be headed for jail. "You should call Eugene"—Mercury Crossing's absentee owner who was currently in California communing with the Dalai Lama. "We might need to hire new staff. Have you ever thought about being store manager?"

  I tried to make it a joke, but William didn't laugh. "I thought you said you hadn't been arrested."

  "I'm off to the Monroe Street public library to confess my sins."

  "You're going to turn yourself in? At a library?"

  "Yeah," I said, feeling kind of foolish about it. "It just seemed safe, you know?"

  "Sure," he said, sounding distracted. "Nice and quiet."

  "I should get off the phone. I've got to get going."

  With that, we said our good-byes and I hung up. When I opened the side door to a gust of cold air, I almost reconsidered the whole thing. Then I remembered that intrepid forensic scientist who was probably right this instant parsing out my genetic signature, and decided my fate was already sealed. Time to get it over with.

  I trudged down the sidewalk, my teeth clamped against the chill. The sun had come out, and so, when the wind didn't blow, I could catch a hint of warmth. A crow glided overhead and disappeared into a tall evergreen.

  One of the houses on Izzy's block had gone all-out for Halloween. Orange plastic leaf bags with grinning jack-o'-lantern faces surrounded the foundation. Cardboard tombstones with names like "Frank N. Stein" staggered strategically across the lawn. Cotton-ball cobwebs and orange Christmas lights dripped with faux menace from the trees. I suspected that come the big night, this would be the house with the stereo speakers blasting haunted house noises, and somewhere on the premises would be a cauldron full of steaming dry ice.

  Halloween used to be my favorite holiday. Not only was it always the thinnest disguised pagan holiday, but also who didn't enjoy playing dress up and getting free chocolate?

  Now, of course, it was a time for mourning. I couldn't see carved pumpkins without remembering the last get-together at the covenstead where we had such fun making silly and scary faces from Junko's bumper crop. She'd been so pleased that her patch had produced precisely a dozen pumpkins that year—one for each of us, she'd said, it was like the Goddess had planned it, blessed us.

  Turns out it was a parting gift, some kind of booby, consolation prize. Personally, I'd have chosen the lifetime supply of Rice-A-Roni.

  I took in a deep breath and tried to think about something else. It was impossible. Signs of Halloween were everywhere. Even when I averted my eyes to all the haystacks and other decorations, the air smelled of rotting oak leaves and wood smoke.

  The Monroe Street branch was a little concrete box at the end of a street full of quirky little storefronts. Virginia creeper, its broad leaves now bronzed by autumn, twined in the seams. A couple of shrimpy, unhealthy-looking shrubs poked out from white quartz mulch. A sign set at an angle at the corner of the lot declared it to be a public library.

  I scanned the streets for signs that Dominguez had arrived first, but he hadn't been so obvious as to park his car anywhere I could easily spot it. Since there didn't appear to be a sniper on the nearby roofs either, I squared my aching shoulders and walked up the narrow sidewalk to the doors.

  A semicircle of children in costume sat in font of a library lady reading Boo, Peek-a-Boo—which appeared to be a story about mice having a masquerade party. Dominguez was perched at a nearby window ledge, flipping unconvincingly through One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. He gave me a wave that was more of a get-over-here than a greeting.

  Despite the fact that I'd convinced myself that this meeting was a good idea, I allowed myself to take my time stepping around the various pirates, clowns, Power Rangers, and hobos.

  It didn't help matters that the undersized furnishings made Dominguez look like some kind of well-dressed bruiser, especially given the cast and the scratch across his cheek. In his dark tie and darker expression, his lawman power suit definitely did not fit in with the benign casual wear of the various stay-at-home parents sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  I wedged myself up into the opposite corner of the window. My back pressed against the cool glass.

  The story-time lady started up a new book about a friendly Witch. I tried very hard not to cringe.

  Leaning in close enough to whisper, Dominguez asked, "Who's Lilith, exactly?"

  "A very powerful dark Goddess," I said. "Some people would say the Queen of Demons, the Mother of Evil."

  "Oh, yeah. Adam's first wife, who got exiled from Eden for wanting equality?" Before I could answer, he continued. "You mean all that shit is real? She really exists? Christ on a crutch, I've got to start going back to church."

  One of the parents glanced back disapprovingly at Dominguez's language.

  Relief flooded through me. "So, you believe me?"

  Dominguez gave me a sidelong squint. "I don't know what to think."

  I leaned my head back against the window. A draft cooled the skin of my neck. "You felt Her, though, didn't you? You knew it wasn't me."

  "Yes," he said. He hadn't shaved and he had a dark speckling of five o'clock shadow, which made him look even less reputable somehow. "But, I'm in a very serious bind here, Ms. Lacey—"

  "Garnet," I insisted.

  "—Previously, I'd eliminated you from the list of suspects because our profiler and our lab people agreed that there was no way you had the physical strength to murder six highly trained paramilitaries. Then, snap." He held up his broken wrist as emphasis.

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I hadn't been a suspect until I tried to convince Dominguez I wasn't one by revealing Lilith. Could I have screwed this up any more? Still, I was heartened to hear him call the Vatican assassins "highly trained paramilitaries." That meant the FBI did know something substantial about the Order of Eustace. Maybe he'd also understand that my magic had been in self-defense.

  "However," Dominguez continued. "It's shaping up that you had motive, opportunity, and capability—except now there's a third party, isn't there? How the fuck am I supposed to factor in a Goddess?"

  Two more parents gave Dominguez the evil eye. He mouthed an apology in their general direction.

  I didn't know what to say. I was too busy hiding my elation that Dominguez seemed to be admitting that he didn't have a solid case against me. I could have gotten up and done the Snoopy dance of joy, except for one thing. "Third party?" I asked, counting out Lilith and myself on my fingers. Then, it hit me. Parrish. All this time Dominguez had thought Parrish was the killer and I was the accomplice, not the other way around.

  Dominguez watched my expressions carefully. Even if I didn't know he was a psychic, I would have assumed he was trying to read my thoughts.

  Story time ended and the children were released in a noisy explosion. Some dashed over to the various book bins to start hunting up favorites; others struggled into coats and hats. Moms and dads chatted with each other, while giving the two of us a lot of unfriendly, yet curious glances.

  A boy no more than three stared up at Dominguez and announced, "I'm wearing Batman underwear."

  "Uh, great," Dominguez said.

  "Batman is one of my favorites too," I said with what I hoped was a maternal smile.

  "I can poop in the potty," the boy said happily. In a second, the boy was corralled by an apologetic parent and herded off toward the exit.

  "That reminds me," Dominguez said. Taking out his wallet, he handed me a cleaner version of the bill I'd given him when we first met. "Your counterfeit isn't. What you have is pre-Depression money."

  I wanted to hear more about that, but first I had to
ask, "What about pooping reminded you about the counterfeit bill?"

  Dominguez ducked his head and rubbed the tip of his nose in embarrassment. "Actually, it was Batman. 'World's Finest Detective?"

  I gave him a sorry-you-lost-me raise of my eyebrows.

  "On the banner of the comic books? Batman, World's Finest…" His blush deepened. "Forget it. The point is, the dollar is real, it's just old."

  It was endearing to see Dominguez so flustered over a superhero. I suspected some very important key to his character was wrapped up in this whole Batman thing.

  "What?" he barked at my grin.

  I decided to save my curiosity for a more appropriate time. "So, is the old money some kind of collector's item? It is worth something?"

  Dominguez nodded. "A little. I'd guess it's double the face value."

  Thinking out loud, I said, "So the sorcerer is a grave robber of another sort too?"

  "What about counterfeit money made you think about voodoo?"

  "A zombie gave me the money."

  He raised his eyebrows as if waiting for me to say something more, only I didn't know what he was looking for exactly. So I stared back with a little yes-and? smile.

  Dominguez sighed. "You were serious about zombies?"

  I nodded.

  Shaking his head slowly, he said, "I have to tell you that I'm having a little trouble buying the whole Goddess thing despite the empirical evidence." He indicated his cast again with a little lift. "Do me a favor and skip zombies. I'm not up for it."

  "Aren't you curious about who's passing around old money?"

  "It's not a crime to exchange a valuable antique for goods or services; it's just stupid. Stupid I can't prosecute."

  I should be so lucky.

  Most of the kids had been packed off to their next activity, and the library lady busily reordered the tables and chairs that had been moved out of the way for story time. She glanced at us from time to time. I was sure we seemed more than a little out of place—Dominguez with his scratches and cast and the Dr. Seuss book propped casually against his thigh, and me having the kind of bad hair day that permeates your entire body.