Evangelina

by MaryJanice Davidson

  LOXOS: Shit. Officers! Officers!

  [Shrieking, followed by gurgling, followed by crashing.]

  [Recording ends.]

  PART ONE

  Lue

  CHAPTER 1

  Lue was the first officer to David Webber's house. It was, as it seemed so often with him, serendipity.

  In this case he immediately felt both regret and a thrill. Regret, because this was definitely a crime scene that could have used a friendly "you'd better brace yourself, Detective" from a junior, sweat-soaked, pale officer who'd already have been there. Thrill, because getting here so quickly meant he almost caught . . . it.

  What was it? His first thought was a bear, partly due to its size and partly due to the amount of blood and wreckage it left behind. Bear sightings were not unheard of in northern Minnesota, even on the fringes of small cities like Moorston.

  But bear attacks were rare . . . and this "bear" was upright and moving through the backyard of the small house with furtive intelligence. Plus, a half-second glance at the corpse and blood patch visible on the twilit porch revealed a slit throat--not exactly ursine M.O., he realized.

  "Police!" He drew his gun. "Hold it!"

  It did not "hold it"--in fact, it spread two massive, batlike wings, hissed, and lurched toward him.

  Not human.

  He squeezed off three rounds, aiming for its leg. The thing shrieked, turned, and vaulted over the eight-foot cedar fence that lined the backyard.

  Adrenaline simultaneously quickened and slowed his senses, giving him time for three thoughts: first, he was sure he had hit the animal.

  Then: I have fired my weapon; they are going to take it when I get back to the station. Even if that was an animal. He thought glumly of his backup piece, the .40 cal Glock. Smaller and lighter than the Browning Hi-Power. And wimpier!

  And then: I should probably focus now and report this.

  Taking one hand off his soon-to-be-surrendered piece, he tapped the radio on his shoulder. "Requesting ambulance and backup at 2605 Snapdragon Avenue. Ten fifty-four D. Suspect has fled and is on . . . foot, heading south. He or she is large, over six feet tall, and dressed in . . . black." He winced at his own description. "Likely armed with a blade. May be injured. Officer in pursuit."

  That sounded fine. Not weird at all. Everything Under Control.

  As he slid behind the cedar fence and gave chase, he thought back to the blonde who had waved down his car half a block away with a report of commotion behind the modest ranch home with cheap tan siding. She had been wearing long-sleeved athletic gear suitable for autumn, her color-treated hair pulled back in a ponytail--office job, got home by six, changed clothes, routine jog, he had guessed as he instructed her to remain with his vehicle. That had not been all he had noticed. Late twenties. No ring. Light makeup. Expensive headphones and leather-lined water bottle. Name-brand jogging shoes from an upscale department store . . . Macy's or Nordstrom. Heading out from the new riverfront condos.

  A recent transplant from the Twin Cities, in all likelihood. She would stay safely by the car and give a statement to the other officers when they arrived. Hurrah for solid citizens.

  The light brush behind the fence hindered Lue as he navigated the property line. He picked up the trail quickly--bent and broken branches pointed down a straight path into the adjoining property. His mother had told him there was a Sioux somewhere back in the family woodpile, but he didn't need any special ancestry to follow this trail. The thing was the size of a small car. With wings!

  He pounded after it, reminding himself that this, this was why he forced himself into a four-mile jog three times a week. Sure, there were freezing dark mornings when his alarm went off and his first instinct was to burst into tears, but then there were times like this, when winded was a long way away, when he remembered he was a fellow in his prime, well armed and well shod (thank you, Kenneth Cole), when he could run down a killer on foot, have the cuffs on (it) him, and read Miranda without even being out of . . .

  Damn.

  He'd bolted around a corner and was startled and crushed to see nothing ahead of him but an orderly procession of cars filled with commuters headed home. There was no sign of any suspect, human or animal or otherwise. Just cars and traffic lights and street signs. No one had so much as hit their brakes. Peaceful commuters as far as the eye could see.

  Gone.

  He holstered his weapon, and one thought cheered him, like a shaft of sunshine through storm clouds: At least I can go back and interview that jogger.

  CHAPTER 2

  "His name was David Webber. He worked at Saint George's."

  "Was he a security guard?" Lue looked over David Webber's living room.

  The patrol officer cocked his head. "You knew him?"

  "No. But he had an athletic build, and the only furniture he kept in this room was the couch, the television, a coffee table, an end table, and that gun cabinet." He pointed to the pine structure with glass doors, which held an array of rifles, shotguns, and pistols. It was securely locked. "We will need to check all those, by the way."

  "You bet. I don't know that I'd jump to conclusions on this guy, though, Lue. Lots of guys in Moorston have full gun cabinets. Irregardless, it doesn't mean they're, you know, dangerous terrorists or anything. We hunt out here, y'know." The patrol officer's smile was a mixture of friendly and patronizing.

  Lue tried to swallow his irritation, and kept his words crisp and separate. "There is no such word as 'irregardless,' Mark. That word didn't even belong there. And I know about hunting in Minnesota; I have done it all my life."

  "Okay, but--"

  "If he was a hunter, where are the trophies? Where are the photos? Where is the room full of dead stuffed heads with shiny marble eyes?" Which, I swear, follow you as you walk across the room. He walked down the hallway, almost tracing the bare walls with his fingertips. "Maybe we can find a top-loading freezer full of venison in the garage, and a reloading bench, but I doubt it. This guy was not a hunter."

  The officer swallowed. "Didn't mean to offend you, Lieutenant. I just figured you're new around here."

  Lue didn't acknowledge the nonapology; it wasn't the first time he'd run across this prejudice since he came to this town. His head was already poking into the spare bedroom, which had nothing in it, and the master bedroom, which had very little beyond a bed. Nothing to leave behind. Did not expect to stay long . . . or needed to be ready to move instantly.

  "No signs of struggle anywhere inside," Mark offered. "Looks like everything happened out on the porch. Victim had this." He held out a plastic evidence bag, and his arm sunk a bit with the extended weight.

  Lue whistled. "That is a Grizzly Mark V."

  Mark nodded. He looked surprised Lue knew what it was, but didn't remark on it. "Hell of a thing to keep at your side while sipping lemonade and watching the sunset on the back porch. He discharged four rounds. That's probably what got the attention of our jogger." He gave Lue an expectant look: how about that woman, eh?

  "Did any of those shots hit anything?"

  "Nothing that bleeds. The only fresh blood that's not his, is a splatter by the fence, but we figure that's one of your shots. We'll get samples into the lab and see if it gets any hits."

  "Thanks. Please bring the results to me back at the station."

  Mark nodded again, though his look seemed sour. Lue tried to care, but found he could not. He left without another word.

  All he cared about was finding that thing that had flown over the wall and disappeared.

  Sixteen Years Ago

  They cannot find me!

  So thought Evangelina Scales, age four, a precocious child who was still at an age where if she hid her eyes, she knew they couldn't see her.

  Not ever!

  Sometimes it took her "Niffer," Jennifer, and her aunt Susan a long time to find her. Hours and days (though they told her it was only twenty minutes, but she knew that wasn't so . . . she had to wait for them and wait for them).r />
  But today, Evangelina was determined never to be found. They would look and look and look and then they would give up and then they would make supper and she would come strolling in because she would be hungry by then anyway and they would be soooo surprised!

  It would be a wonderful surprise.

  The wolves were far back, they were still running for the farm. She got there first! That was good because of the plan. She could hear the wolves crying their pretty howls; for some reason when wolves cried it sounded like music. She could always hear the music, no matter how far away the wolves were, so good! Good, she was the only one at the farm.

  She cast about for the perfect hiding place, the perfect . . . what was the word she learned? Yes! Lair. She would find the perfect lair, and lair there. She would be such a good lairer they would never find her lair.

  So she dove into the silo and instantly regretted it.

  Evangelina had been warned. The old farm on the edge of town had a working barn, and cats, too. And electricity and running water and bales of sweet-smelling hay. And a chicken coop and a place where sheep used to be. And a silo. It was all Not-a-Playground.

  She knew. She did so know! She did: the farm, this silo, was Not-a-Playground. But that didn't mean it wasn't a good lair--a lair so good, it made sense they wouldn't want her to go in there! Besides, the silo had a ladder on the outside, just like a playground. And some playgrounds had hatches and chutes. Anyway, the warnings were silly. Choking? Drowning? There was corn in there! She loved corn!

  And here had been an aluminum-encased pond of loose, scratchy kernels. No water at all! Just corn and corn dust--so much dust that she could see it now in the air, like stripes. This wasn't anything like a lake you could jump in and realize too late that it was deep . . .

  She clawed for the surface; she fought for air. And it seemed like every warning she'd been given was now being shouted through her poor thirsty brain.

  You can drown just like in a lake . . .

  . . . I know it sounds silly, but you could suffocate . . .

  . . . You have to stay out of there; if you fall in you could drown . . .

  . . . Where is that kid? She's such a crazy kid . . .

  . . . Aw, c'mon, Vange, let's get this done, show yourself, Mom wants me to pick up pasta for supper . . .

  And okay, that was proof she was lost, lost and drowning in the silo because she was thinking thoughts that weren't her thoughts. She was thinking thoughts that tasted like Aunt Susan and Niffer.

  So she tore and scrabbled and fought for the surface and now there was air now there was room and she could get all the corn out of her throat and the best way the best way the best way to do that was . . .

  Evangelina puked.

  She puked black.

  I'm scared this isn't right

  Was that Vange?

  Is that her? She sounds hurt. Where is she?

  She felt their panic and added her own.

  Here here HERE I'm in HERE

  Something flailed about her--legs like stalks, and at first she thought she was about to be devoured by an enormous spider, which was a shame because she loved spiders and the way they worked so hard on their webs and gobbled up bugs, and then she brought her hand to her mouth to wipe the puke away and the leg moved with her

  (oh . . . OOOHHH . . . !)

  and she was wriggling her legs and puking and climbing and

  (are those wings too?!)

  and she was so big and everywhere was corn, there were heaps of it and she'd thrown up black and had wings and lots of legs.

  The next thing she knew, there was someone next to her in the corn, helping her stay afloat.

  That was Evangelina's first memory--Aunt Susan diving directly next to her, uncaring of the mess or the monster in the corn.

  That, and looking up at her own sister's face against the sky beyond the hatch, seeing the shock in the young woman's face, and hearing her unfiltered thoughts.

  CHAPTER 3

  A man is what he thinks about all day long, it occurred to Lue. Thoreau. Wait, no. Emerson. Whoever it was, they would think Detective Lue Vue was insane.

  The Saint George's Secure Medical Facility, where the victim David Webber had worked, had been on his mind since he left the crime scene. Lue was learning from a latenight Internet search that Saint George's was a two hundred bed "purely forensic facility" that opened over a decade ago in Moorston. It did evaluations of competency to stand trial and mental state opinions, and also admitted criminal suspects judged not guilty for reasons of insanity.

  Here, they would be admitted for long-term treatment and, the website assured the reader, "eventual return to the community if possible . . . we are a Hospital, not a Prison."

  Perhaps capitalizing all those unnecessary words makes them feel more important. He smirked as he read on.

  Saint George's had won awards from something called NAMI for being "Best Hospital in Terms of Reducing Seclusions and Restraints." No doubt, Lue thought, their acceptance speech was a landmark event. If nothing else, they probably took ninety minutes to say "thanks."

  "Looking for a new wife already, Lue? Feels soon."

  He smiled as he turned. "When I want to marry another problem personality, Chief, I will start by looking around here."

  "Tsk-tsk. We frown on fraternization within the ranks, Lue. Best to stick to the asylums." Chief Linda Smiling Bear rubbed her nose with a stout thumb, leaned against his desk, and nodded toward the screen. "Related to earlier today?"

  He nodded. "David Webber worked at Saint George's for nearly eight years as a security guard. He had a Spartan lifestyle, and I doubt the crime scene will tell us much. I plan to go to Saint George's tomorrow and scan his personnel file."

  The chief hooked a nearby office chair with her toe, pulled it toward her, then sank into it. She wasn't what Lue would call beautiful, more cheerfully attractive. Her shining tan eyes were trained on him with almost unnerving intensity.

  "You see any possible connection between this guy and what happened at Saint George's a few months ago?"

  "You sure you want my opinion, Chief? I hear that Saint George's incident is a political hot potato."

  She laughed. "My favorite meal."

  Out of curiosity, he'd done some research when he first came to work for her, and found she was independently wealthy. She wasn't shy about that, either. "God bless gambling, Native Americans, and white guilt," she often said good-naturedly. Her financial independence and lack of family ties made her not only an incredibly eligible bachelorette, but also as close to politically invulnerable as a police chief could be. Her fellow officers, the elected leaders of the community, and everyone else knew why she came to work--to get things done, and only to get things done.

  "Okay, if you want to handle it, here it comes. I figure coincidence is not possible. This guy had a loaded Grizzly Mark V on him when he was off duty. He could have been upset by the idea that so many of his coworkers were killed. He could have been generally fearful, or the kind of guy who likes whipping out his pistol to show the ladies. He could have known more about what happened that day than most of us."

  "Knew more? You talking about that Regiment rumor?" She leaned back in her chair and chuckled. She was short, with the generous figure often referred to as zaftig. "That's awfully conspiratorial of you, Detective."

  "With all due respect, I think you mean 'paranoid,' Chief. Conspiratorial would suggest that I--"

  "Lue, it's me. I hired you, remember? You don't have to prove your superior grasp of English."

  "--would suggest that I am part of the Regiment, an entity that may or may not exist."

  "I should never have given you that Grammar Gecko book for Christmas. That was an ironic statement, you realize. Not a criticism."

  He blinked in genuine surprise. "I loved that book, Chief. The Grammar Gecko fine-tuned my usage."

  "You never needed to fine-tune your usage, Lue. You grew up in Brainerd. You taught your parents
English while you were in fourth grade. They probably owe their jobs to that. School's over, dude. You scored great. We, the good people of Moorston, are in awe. Ease up."

  "There can always be a higher score. And since when are you society's spokesperson?"

  She watched him return his attention to the computer screen and sighed. "I suppose this means you won't be taking your vacation days next week, as planned."

  "It depends on how quickly I can close this case."

  "Jeez, Lue." Chief Smiling Bear stifled a chuckle. "I almost feel sorry for the suspect."

  "That reminds me--if he is injured, he will be looking for medical attention."

  "Sure he's injured. You hit him."

  He finished his thought. "We should get an APB put out on him, and an advisory to the area hospitals and clinics."

  "We did that. You're not the only high performer here, you know."

  Her brusque tone recaptured his attention. "Sorry, Chief. Yeah, I will probably skip vacation. I had nowhere to go anyway, and no money to get there."

  "Oh, is that my cue to offer you a raise?"

  "That would be splendid, but I still plan to work next week."

  "I'd be more sympathetic if I thought you knew what to do with your hard-earned doubloons."

  "Doubloons?" he said, delighted. Great word. And even greater to hear it in a sentence in the middle of the Cop Shop.

  "Perhaps you shouldn't keep giving all of your pieces of eight to the former Ms. Vue."

  "It was always Sato, Chief. She was proud of her heritage, and so was I."

  "Again: being ironic. You're evading my point."

  "Nancy needs to go to community college. It's the only way she won't still be cleaning toilets ten years from now."

  "Nancy Sato is not your project. This was true even when you were married. She doesn't need improvement. Well, maybe she does. But that's up to her, not you."

  "Thanks, Doctor. Am I fit for duty now?"

  "Don't forget to turn in your gun."

  "I already did. Per department policy, I'm currently down to a Taser and a wad of spit."