CHAPTER 12
"We're not at the station."
"No, we are not." Lue picked up a jar of raw oats and sniffed it. "Lunch time."
"We have work to do."
"The work will get done, Art. I stay late nearly every shift. Now try not to talk too much: my sense of smell requires a quiet aura."
Art looked around in despair. "My sense of smell requires bacon."
"Not bad, for your first real joke." Lue passed the rest of the grains and meandered into pastas and cereals.
"We were talking earlier. About monsters."
"Ah, I see you are finally ready to talk." Lue's chest swelled. Master interrogator, indeed.
"Have you ever seen a monster . . . with wings?"
Trying not to look excited at the veritable fire hose of information Art was pointing at his ear, Lue caressed a box of organic oat O's. "Once or twice. Have you ever had wheat germ? You should think about wheat germ."
"Have you ever seen a monster . . . with too many legs?"
That one made Lue think. "Nothing bigger than the size of a quarter. Maybe a dollar bill." He shivered. "Yuuuuggh. Squishy. Hey, that reminds me: I could have a tofu dog." He scanned the co-op, glancing over the rows of loose tea, stevia, honey, chai mixes, (real) ginger ale, handmade soap, organic lemon-scented toothpaste, to recall the refrigerated section. "You ever have a tofu dog, Art?"
"No. It sounds delicious."
"That is quite the ironic attitude emerging there, partner. If you would rather not have a tofu dog, you only have to . . ."
"I don't want a tofu dog."
"Your lips say no, but your cholesterol level says oui, oui."
Art whipped out his smart phone, checked something, and put it back in his pocket. "Lunch hour's almost over."
"We came into the store three minutes ago."
"It's twelve forty-nine."
"What, you can only eat at noon?"
"I like to eat at noon."
"No, you like to interrogate witnesses--badly--at noon. It was your choice to hit Pride's place, Art. Lie in the bed you have made."
Art observed the rows upon rows of hostile grains. "I would rather lay somewhere with real food."
"Lie somewhere with real food. You lay something down. Like a fork, or a gun, or meat, or your dignity."
"My point is, real food."
"You can even lay yourself down, on top of meat that you have laid down. Once you have lain down on the laid down meat, you can lie to a layperson and call it tofu."
"So you have seen monsters."
"Yes. In fact, I saw one at Webber's house."
Art paused. "Actually, you may have seen two."
Lue maneuvered between overstuffed endcaps of Odwalla bars and reached out to open a refrigerator door. "Two? No, there was only one . . ." He held the door open, thought about it, and closed the door without taking anything. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"It's time you looked at the Bemidji files."
Twelve Years Ago
The night Winoka died, its people were saved by the wolves.
Evangelina woke up right away, hearing a song she did not recognize. The howls were discordant and rushed. She rolled out of bed and went to the window. It opened to let the chill autumn inside. Far away, she heard the rumbling of an engine in the sky.
Moments later, her mother was in her bedroom. She was calm but tense, and her words came out as if she had practiced them for this moment. "Vange. Get away from the window. Change shape, right now."
"Why?"
"Something's coming. It might burn. You and your sister might need to protect me."
Evangelina was stunned into obedience. Did her mother actually need protection? She couldn't imagine a stronger force, with the possible exception of Niffer.
As if on cue, a bright blue set of scales wove into the room and encircled the older woman. "Mom. You and Vange should go to the basement. I need to find Susan."
"I know. Come on, honey."
Her mom grabbed her by the tarsus and pulled her along. In under a minute, they were in the finished basement. The wolves' howling was more fevered than ever.
"What's coming, Mom?"
"An airplane."
"That doesn't sound too scary."
"It's what it's carrying." Her mother seemed distracted by despair. "I guess the rumors were true. The Regiment has come to America. No other power could access the military necessary to pull this off, not with Mr. Elmsmith holding the position he has."
"Mr. Elmsmith is Susan's brother, right?"
"Father, honey. He runs the military. Or did. I'm worried for him."
"Where's Aunt Susan?"
"She's safe."
"Uncle Goat will keep her safe?"
"Gautierre. Yes, he'll keep her--"
Fury erupted everywhere. It felt to Evangelina as if a titan of flame had smashed into the house, blasting apart the tiny windows near the ceiling and tearing down everything it could reach. She saw her mother duck, and she reflexively spread her wings to cover the woman, clinging to her with an eight-legged hug. Debris and dust showered her tough, young back.
I'm saving her, she told herself with a thrill. I'm really saving her!
Evangelina found out later that many families across Winoka had perished in that single explosion. Whereas the Scales residence had been on the northern edge of town and therefore was merely leveled, hundreds of homes near the center of town had been consumed by a crater. Evangelina never forgot the sight of it, as the few hundred survivors took flight from the ruins of Winoka. Farther to the west, beyond the familiar old farm and silos that had miraculously remained standing, the wreckage of a bomber smoldered--Niffer had gotten to it a few seconds too late, but Evangelina still felt a swell of pride.
We can save ourselves. And we can fight back.
CHAPTER 13
At Art's insistence, they chose a bar and grill that would serve meat (and, Lue noted slyly, grains) all afternoon. On the way, they stopped by Art's motel, where the BCA agent slipped into his room to pick up a box.
While Lue waited in the car, he spotted something strange: an elderly man leaning against the frame of the office door.
The man pretended not to look at either detective, but it was obvious to Lue that there was nothing else around to provoke interest. He had a cane folded and tucked through the loops of his faded, worn jeans. He had a backpack slung over his other shoulder. The zipper had come a bit undone, and a sinister pastel flash of yarn was peeking out.
He looked run-down and helpless, a step from the gutter. But Lue knew the man could get that cane out and snapped to the pavement in less time than it took to blink. His clothes were old, yes, and meticulously cared for. Not like they were the best he could afford, but like he was fond of them and took care of them, wearing them almost literally off his skin.
But, though he looked interesting, he wasn't causing any trouble, and now here Art was back in the car, with a box crammed behind his seat. "We should go," he said, motioning to the man who had been watching Lue.
"Who is he?"
"Motel manager."
"You trust him?"
Art shrugged. "I know he hasn't been in the room."
"How?"
"I have people watching."
"Cute. You have someone watching me, too?"
"I am watching you."
"All right, well, watch me drive to the Suds Bucket and read these files."
They were at the modest downtown corner restaurant less than ten minutes later, in a back corner booth where the box fit next to Art on the seat. Lue ordered the Caesar chicken wrap and minestrone soup, while Art ordered a bacon cheeseburger and turkey chili.
Once the waiter had gone, Lue waited for his partner to say something. After waiting a full minute, he coughed and said something that had been on his mind for some time.
"There is this wonderful graphic novel--Japanese graphic novel, it is called Crossing Midnight."
Art grunted. Lu
e remained patient; now that the files were sitting next to him, he knew he'd get his chance to read them, once his partner was ready.
"One of the characters in it reminds me of you. Reminds . . . ha! Could be you." Lue leaned closer, examining the short-cropped hair and auburn bristles on the other man's cheek. "Are you Japanese?"
"No."
"And/or hundreds of years old?"
"No."
"Mmmmm. I will be watching you, pal," Lue said in a menacing yet tired tone. He leaned back. "Now is the time to tell me if you are an ancient Japanese sprung from a graphic novel like the goddess Athena from Zeus's head."
"No. Some call that Japanese graphic stuff porn."
"Yeah, well, some people consider the National Enquirer real news. But it is most emphatically not. And not all Japanese graphic novels are porn."
"I don't care."
"Well, try, okay? You sort of remind me of a character I was reading about last month."
Lue waited, and wasn't surprised when Art had zero to say on that subject. Not many people could resist the "I read a book that reminded me of you" or "I had a really weird dream about you" or "I met someone who reminded me of you," but Art could, and Lue knew why. For Art, there was nothing but the task at hand. No petty distractions. No worries about causing offense or getting off track or stepping on toes. No ego, no . . . self. It made him formidable, yet annoying.
"It was from this story, Crossing Midnight. One of the characters is a cop named Yamada, and in this story, his lord had been murdered years and years ago."
"Great story. You told it well."
"Pay attention! See, this Yamada, he was really taciturn and it drove people crazy. Taciturn, what am I saying . . . he made you look gabby, Art. Gabby!"
"This paperwork." Art was gingerly poking through the printouts Lue had grabbed (clutched, actually) as they sprinted from HQ. "It's disorganized."
"Anyway, Yamada's lord was roundly defeated in battle, but it was not his fault . . . he had been betrayed. And the guy who won, the traitor, he asked Yamada for his allegiance, right? And Yamada, the poor guy is grief-stricken because his lord is dead at the hand of a slimy asshole traitor. So he says, essentially, 'go blow, jerkoff,' or words to that effect."
"There is no Japanese word for 'jerkoff.' "
"How multilingual of you. Listen to the damned story. So the bad guy, the traitor, he says, 'You don't have anything to say? You will not pledge allegiance to me? Fine, from now on every word you speak will cost you a year of your life.' Boom. Curse is laid. Yamada is screwed."
"Unfortunate."
"Right! Because no matter how terse he is, no matter how carefully he chooses his words, no matter what he says he is costing himself years of life every single time he opens his mouth."
"Not what I meant."
"My point is . . ."
"I choose my words."
"Right. So . . . what do you think?"
Art glanced over at the other booths, which were empty, and back at Lue. "It's a story."
"You have no soul."
To his astonishment, Art smiled. Lue nearly fell backward off the chair. He didn't think Art's face worked like that. Amazing. The smile made the BCA agent look like a real person and everything.
Then, as if finally deciding, Art pulled out the first file. Before he handed over the thick package wrapped in pine green manila, he flapped it loosely in his hand.
"These are not BCA files."
"Of course they--what? What else would they be?"
"My files."
Lue squinted. "Is the suspect another BCA agent?"
"It's difficult to explain my concerns."
"I feel the same way, when I look at you."
"That was genuinely funny." The folder flopped onto the table. "Keep this to yourself. Anyone else finds out, I know you told them."
"Very gangster of you. I shall read the file now, if that suits you."
"Please do."
Hours later, as he began the sixth and last file of the box, Lue looked back at the avalanche of impossible papers and disturbing photographs he had seen, and wished he had never started.
CHAPTER 14
"You have family."
"Was that a question, or have you done research?"
It was late that evening. They were still at the Suds Bucket, though they had cleaned up the files and locked them in the trunk of the government-issued Chevrolet Caprice. Lue had called into the station and given Smiling Bear a vague report of progress; he could tell that she could tell he was holding something back. But what was he supposed to tell her?
Hey, Chief, just looked over six super files that contain evidence that dragons are real--and just like us, they apparently kill each other! Secretly, of course. They do everything secretly. Or else people will probably kill them. Which feels ironic.
Or:
Hey, Chief, just looked over six super files that our BCA agent friend refuses to show his colleagues, for fear that someone will kill him to silence him! And now they might kill me, and you, too! No, no need to thank me: you pay me a generous public servant's salary to be this good.
Or:
Hey, Chief, just looked over six super files that make me wonder if I have chosen the right path in life. Because when I look at what has happened here, and then think back to the life decisions I have made, I feel like I'm losing my mind. Hey, why are you calling Saint George's facility . . . oh. Right. Never mind.
He was nursing his fourth beer. Art had stopped at a couple of drinks, he noticed, and was sticking with juice and pop.
"A guess." Art motioned with his glass at Lue's left hand. There was a white mark on the ring finger.
The younger detective raised his hand, his own beer temporarily forgotten. "Ah, yeah. I finally took the ring off, about four weeks ago."
"Dead?"
"She left me."
Art took a careful sip of orange juice. "Why?"
Lue's drink waved back and forth a few times. "Zeet."
It was several more seconds before either spoke again--a contest of wills, Lue soon realized. He motioned the svelte bartender over, who drafted another beer for him. He sipped it. He examined the bottles of rum in the bottom row of the mirrored bar display. Finally, he gave in. "Zeet the Snoring Bee, that is."
"I see."
It was such an absurd claim, Lue almost knocked over his beer giggling. "All right, you win. I shall explain."
"There's no need--"
"Have you ever slept with a woman who snores?"
Art sighed. "No."
"It's a travesty. The smaller she is, the worse the spectacle. My wife was the shortest woman I ever slept with. It was like lying next to an M198 howitzer: quite a show, but don't expect much in the way of sleep." He could see that Art was forging an image in his mind and continued. "I asked her over and over to buy those sticky nose strips, or even get a doctor to prescribe some sort of sleep mask or mouthpiece, but she wasn't having any of it. Finally, after a few months of this, I realized she only snored when she was directly on her back. If she slept on her side, she was fine."
"So you rolled her off the bed, and she left you."
"That beer is sucking words out of you, dude."
"It isn't--"
"Careful, or you'll end up with a paragraph. No, I tried rolling her, but then her body would rebel."
"Rebel?"
"Yeah, her limbs would twitch for about two hours afterward. It was like she was allergic to me moving her, or something. I know: insert joke here. Anyway, I tried more subtle methods--poking and prodding, talking to her, blowing in her face."
"That all sounds annoying."
"So's not sleeping for five months straight when your day job involves firearms."
Art made an abrupt noise. It might have been a chuckle.
"Finally, I resorted to Zeet the Snoring Bee." Lue held up a fist, with the two front knuckles separated slightly. "I discovered that when I pinched her nose gently in midsnore, she would autom
atically roll over--but neither wake up nor twitch. It was like magic. Me and my fist."
"Ah, you and your fist."
"Do not be juvenile--I called it Zeet the Snoring Bee."
"It all makes sense now."
"Mock me if you will."
"All right."
"For three and a half weeks, I had bedroom bliss, not even talking about the sex. Which was also fine."
"I don't care."
"Sure you do. All men do."
Art sighed.
"She was a demon in bed, and you are thrilled to know it. Anyhow, just as I think I have the secret to marital success, resistance sets in: a light pinch no longer works. She stays flat on her back, buzzing away. So I pinch her nose harder to get it to work. This keeps up for a few more weeks: she gains immunity, I pinch harder, she relents. You can see where this is going."
Art lifted his empty juice glass at the svelte bartender, who scampered over to refill. "Let me guess. Zeet came to a bad end."
"Alas, he could only sting so hard, before she discovered him. Cue ugly scene. She completely freaks out: why am I trying to punch her in the nose? No, not trying to punch you, honey, this is Zeet the Snoring Bee. What the hell is a Zeet? Not a what, sweetheart, but rather a who . . . Zeet the Snoring Bee, my little antisnoring buddy, see? Then comes the look, and stop punching me in the nose, and now where am I? Stuck with my right fist and an angry woman."
"I've heard this story before."
"You have no idea. So I try to apologize the next morning, but still she decides not to talk to me. Zeet is some sort of interloper now. In his own home!
"So, I cannot give Zeet up, because I have to sleep. Meanwhile, she develops supersensitivity in the nasal area, so when Zeet comes within half a meter of her face, she wakes up and flips out. Now she says, I told you not to punch me in the nose. Again, not punching honey, I want you to stop snoring, go to the doctor or something and we can forget about Zeet, okay? Then we go to, you have to love me the way I am, and why does my snoring matter so much more than who I am, and maybe you think your wife is ugly or not good enough. Holy hamburger, honey, who said anything about ugly? Though I heard they did a study that people who lost weight, snored less."
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