Evangelina

by MaryJanice Davidson

  Art lowered his glass and finally made eye contact with Lue. "A mistake."

  "A tactical error. No one can really pin that one on Zeet. But she had gained something like ten pounds in ten weeks, and we were barely married. I was thinking she could be pregnant."

  "You thought she was pregnant."

  "Yeah, maybe."

  "And you suggested weight loss."

  "What are you, some sort of marriage expert? What about your story, in five words or less?"

  "Fewer."

  "What?"

  "Not less. Fewer."

  Lue shook his head. "Did you correct my grammar? Because that is not done!"

  "Not your grammar. Your usage."

  Trying to kick back his barstool, which since he was in a booth was really a bench bolted to the floor, Lue regained his balance. "Hey, to hell with you, man. No one screws with my grammar. Or usage."

  The bartender sauntered over. Lue figured her for eighteen--old enough to work in a bar but not drink in one. If she wanted to enlist to defend this country, she'd be considered old enough to fight or kill or die. And yet couldn't be trusted with a White Russian. He was all ready with a rant when she distracted him by talking and being cute and stuff. "You boys ready to pay off the tab?" She made a gesture with her right shoulder. "The old man says you can stay, but he's hoping you pay up before you pass out."

  "Give us a second." Lue held his finger up for a long time, swallowing and thinking. "My partner here is telling me how bad my English is. I gotta figure out where we go from here. Also, I am not drunk. Right now. I think."

  He couldn't see very much anymore, and he realized how long it had been since he had drunk so many beers in one sitting. Since that night when I first met her. And a trip down memory lane is the last thing I need right now.

  "She left me, too."

  "What?"

  "You asked for my story. Five words or less."

  "Your story is that my wife left you, too?"

  "It's time to go." Art left some bills on the booth table, nodded at the bartender, and slid himself under Lue's arm so he was firmly pulling him along, and out of the Suds Bucket.

  CHAPTER 15

  This bed is the worst. Saggy in the middle, too firm on the edges. Like sleeping on a badly made omelet. And speaking of omelets, I am ravenous. But this bed! When is she going to--

  Wait.

  What?

  Lue opened his eyes. He was not in his bedroom. He was in another bedroom. From the look of the generic double bed with the generic bedclothes, bad carpeting, worse wall coverings, and poorly bolted door (a developmentally disabled Cub Scout could get through both locks in less than thirty seconds), he was in a motel.

  Except since the divorce, and the settlement, he didn't have to sleep in these things anymore. If anything--

  Art was in the room with him.

  Art was sitting cross-legged on the other bed, which appeared unslept in.

  Art was grinning at him.

  Lue groaned and slapped his hand over his eyes. "If this is the part where you explain we were meant to be, I will need to shoot you."

  "No worries."

  "Many times."

  "Gun's there," Art said, jerking his head toward the bedside table between the double beds. "I was smiling--"

  "Grinning. Leering. Practically slobbering at the prospect of once again getting your greasy hands on my dancer's body . . ."

  "--because you snore."

  "I do not!" Lue sat up in a rage, then groaned and clutched his head, and (carefully) lay back down. "Five beers? Ow. Five beers? Really? Embarrassing."

  "You tried to drink a glass of water," Art-the-heartless told him, "but quit halfway to fall on the bed and sleep. And you snore," he added happily.

  Lue turned his head slowly toward the nightstand. The digital clock read 6:45 A.M. At least no oversleeping. "It was those damn Bemidji files."

  "Investigative files made you snore?"

  "No, they made me drink too much and pass out in a shitty motel room. Freaking Bemidji, man. No wonder when you got the squeal about our scene you came on the run."

  "Fast as I could," Art agreed. "We have to talk about . . . we have to talk about something difficult."

  "Is this about your obsession with my long creamy thighs? Because I will try not to judge again and yet, must still disappoint you."

  "You wish."

  "I do wish." It was true. He did. Because, head pounding or no, he had the feeling Art was about to say something that was unforgettable in the literal sense: he would never, never be able to forget it.

  And Art, Lue was quite sure, didn't have a mendacious bone in his body. So what was coming was unforgettable and completely true.

  "They're here, Lue. In this town."

  "You mean those monster things. Or people who turn into those things, anyway. One of your files used the term 'dragon.' "

  "Yes, dragons, here. In your town. You saw it last night. You suspected before . . . and you saw it yourself."

  "What nonsense. I had no time for a thorough reading, you know that."

  "You read enough. You're smart."

  Lue cracked a modest grin and took a breath. "Well . . ."

  "Don't do that puff-up thing. I hate that and it slows us down."

  Lue exhaled and slumped. "I was not--"

  "Now I need your help. I've been on this path alone, for too long."

  "How long?"

  "A year." Art gave the foot of Lue's bed a pensive look. "It's not just Bemidji and Moorston. There are other sites, with fewer cases or less to go on."

  "Where?"

  Art waved vaguely. "Across northern Minnesota."

  "Huh. So, you've visited lots of towns?"

  "Almost two dozen. Sometimes, there's one murder. Sometimes, like Bemidji, it's several."

  "You got files for those, too?"

  "Nothing like these." Art tapped the box on the floor between the beds with his foot. "Most places don't want to hear about monsters. With no witnesses and less evidence, there's not much to do."

  Lue spoke carefully, not wanting to interrupt the veritable river of words that flowed from Art. "So when you heard a cop in Moorston had actually seen one . . ."

  "The transcript of your call-in was all I needed. And Moorston is big enough, that I suspect more murders could take place."

  "We have at least two," Lue admitted. "So if we go back to Meenay and have her do the right tests, you and I agree: Pohl and Webber are going to come up as dragon."

  "It's a good bet."

  "Is there a test for that sort of thing?"

  "Yes. That much, I can get the BCA to do. I could have Meenay work with our lab."

  "All right, we can do that: but the higher priority is stopping the next murder."

  "It may be over, in this town."

  "Do you think so?"

  "No."

  "So you plan to stay in this lovely motel room. Good for you."

  "I don't want to be here. I want to be not-here. And with . . . with someone else."

  To his surprise, Lue only nodded, and added nothing sarcastic.

  "I can't go be with her until this is all fixed. I can't. So I need you to fix it . . . to help me fix it . . . so everyone's safe."

  Lue sighed, carefully got off the bed, crossed to the tiny bathroom, and began to drink glass after glass of cool water. "You say . . . ggrrggll . . . the sweetest things, Art." Gulp, gulp, gargle, spit. Gulp, gulp. "If only so you and I . . . grrgglle . . . do not ever again . . . wake up in close proximity in a tired cheap motel room . . . grrrggllle . . . do I agree our team-up should continue." Another long swallow.

  He stepped around the short wall that afforded a smidgen of privacy, wiping his hands on a towel. "But the thing is . . . the DNA and stuff from Bemidji . . ."

  Art waited.

  "Well. It suggests that both victims and the murderer--or murderers--are . . . well, they're . . ."

  "All monsters?" Art prompted.

 
"Yeah. All monsters. It raises questions, Art."

  "You wonder why we should care."

  "Actually, I have no problem caring about it. My first question is why you care. Whom are you worried about, Art?" Then, as he flung the hand towel back toward the sink, he rephrased. "Whom did you lose?"

  "I believe we've shared enough information, for one morning after."

  Lue came back, sat on the bed, stuck his fist under his chin, and thought about this.

  "Well. As alcohol-tinged, quasi-homoerotic confession scenes between new partners go, this one went fluidly enough. I appreciate the additional information. Thank you for trusting me with what you have, so far."

  "We should hit an Embers, lovingly watch each other eat grains and meat respectively, and then head off to the station, where the chief will be thrilled to learn of this. I still have no idea how to tell her."

  "Maybe we shouldn't."

  "How conspiratorial of you." Lue slipped on his shoes. As he did, he noticed Art had changed clothes--slightly bluer jeans, slightly less off-white shirt--but had the same brown corduroy jacket. "You know, I should probably drop by my apartment and change clothes, too. The last thing you and I need is a 'walk of shame' joke at the station."

  "Don't forget we also need to get to Meenay."

  "Right. If she still has no autopsy results, I might dump that expensive coffee-smelling sludge all over her expensive forensic equipment. Now where are my . . ." He trailed off as he saw what Art was jingling at him. "Oh. Lay on, Macduff."

  "My name--"

  "Shut up, Macduff." A sudden urge took him, and he wondered how he had even lasted this long. "Before we go, I am going to urinate for a thousand years. And you are going to stand there and listen!"

  Bemused, Art obeyed.

  CHAPTER 16

  They were in and out of Lue's place in minutes, and in and out of Embers not much longer. On their way to the station, the dispatcher patched in the 911 call. Neighbors had heard screaming near a downtown residence.

  "Closest," Lue grunted, giving the accelerator an admirable stomp. Art braced himself as they took a corner fast enough to scatter a flock of preteen boys. Lue noticed and smiled. "That fried breakfast treating you okay?"

  "Just fine."

  Lue was disappointed to reach an empty site without anyone waiting for them, or running out of the house screaming for help, or making any sort of noise at all. Bad news. The small split-level house had the stale feeling of a home with something dead in it, but they drew their weapons and carefully went through the place anyway.

  They found the body first, in the living room between the large window and the almost-as-large television. The glassy gaze of the woman

  monster?

  and massive amount of blood already soaked into the carpet tested Lue's optimism, but he stooped and checked for a pulse anyway. Art hovered above him with piece held high.

  " 'Such a savage, vicious beast as man . . .'"

  "The Brothers Karamazov," Art replied.

  "Right on. What I loathe is, somewhere down the line when the villain has been revealed, this will all make sense. Right now, Art?"

  "It doesn't seem to make sense, does it?"

  "None. Zero. Zip. Though I think we can save Meenay the trouble of determining cause of death. Sharp edge to the neck, like Webber. Blade . . . or claw."

  Art stepped deliberately around the corpse and accompanying mess, crouched in a stance Lue had never seen before. He was almost . . . hunting?

  "Yes, it's likely one of those." A glance out the large dining room bay window showed the gawkers already lining up on the sidewalk. There were two or three heavyset women in their twenties, an accompanying male of the same age and body type, one preteens (school hours, so ill or playing hooky), one toddler. Within five minutes, he was sure, more adults and at least one infant would make an appearance. Given the parked police car and gathering sirens in the distance, they respected property lines, and everyone stayed off the grass.

  He looked back down at the corpse in time to hear Art's verdict. "Efficient. Vicious. Premeditated."

  "Planned or not, the victim still managed to get off a noise. Like Webber. You think the murderer"--the monster, he could have said now--"could still be here?"

  "Probably not. Let's finish the sweep."

  They cleared the floor quickly and then checked the basement. By the time they got back upstairs, the next wave of police cars was pulling up outside the living room window.

  "We missed her," Lue concluded. He stepped to the back of the house and looked out over the kitchen porch. Half expecting to see another cedar fence with another dark shape clambering over it, he still found the sight exhilarating.

  "Art. Keep the new officers away from the backyard!"

  After a curious glance, Art went out the front door as ordered to slow down their colleagues' approach. Lue opened the sliding door--plainly, the murderer had time to close it behind him (her? it?)--took one gentle step forward, and then crouched to examine the splatter of blood that lay at his feet.

  His eyes traced a path across the broken porch--more spatters of blood, broken pots of soil, a small piece of torn fabric, and dozens of long scrapes, and heaven knew what else was yet to be discovered in the torn turf beyond.

  A victim. A murderer. And someone else.

  CHAPTER 17

  It took the entire morning to poke through and document the crime scene at Amanda Coolidge's home--Ms. Coolidge was, naturally, the victim. Officer Mark Langenfeld was the first backup to show, as he had been at the Webber scene. This time, he was more helpful. So were some of the other officers who made Lue clench his teeth at times.

  Must be Art the BCA agent, keeping us all in line.

  Mark's report was focused and relevant. "One set of tracks--uneven pacing, possibly a limp, you might want to see if you agree, Detective--heads out through the brush there." The patrol officer pointed southeast, toward the river and center of town. "Then whatever that is"--he pointed at the enormous tangle of intersecting turf wounds and punctures--"well, I'm sure you can see where that heads in the opposite direction. Except the entire thing disappears once it hits the road a half block away. It's like the animal--it's gotta be a bear, right?--knew how to use the city sidewalks."

  "Maybe someone saw it using a crosswalk," Lue mused aloud. This got a genuine chuckle from Mark.

  Another officer came forward. "Detective. We've gotten blood samples off the porch and grass, and at least two fabric samples. We've also laid down markers and photographed most of the scene. I think you may see something that looks like the burn marks you told us to keep an eye out for."

  "Thanks, Dave. What about witnesses?"

  "Neighbors only heard screams. Nobody saw anything. Michelle and Jim are still with a couple of the chattier neighbors, but I don't think they'll learn much more. We'll see, I guess."

  "Thanks again. Detective McMahon may have specific instructions for those samples. Could you please check in with him?"

  "You bet."

  Mark and Dave trotted off toward Art, as if polite and professional compliance were their watchwords. That could be true, Lue realized. Maybe part of the problem with these guys is me instead.

  Art himself was crouched down by the siding near the porch. Lue knew what he was checking for, and he knew that he would find it: the short, parallel marks of a killer waiting for the right time to attack.

  Which one was waiting, and where, and for how long? Which one landed the killing blow on Coolidge? Were they both here to kill her and merely competing for the honor, or was one stalking the other, or were there completely different reasons?

  And how many more Pohls and Webbers and Coolidges are there in this town? What are their chances of survival? Do they see this pattern? Are they worried?

  They weren't going to find the answers here, Lue fretted. In fact, he was wondering if they were going to find the answers anywhere.

  At the station, Lue tried to maintain focus on the thing
s he could control. Mark, Dave, Michelle, and Jim all followed him dutifully as he walked down the hallway toward his desk. Art brought up the rear, in (to no one's surprise) thoughtful silence. He had caught Mark and Dave elbowing each other like kids in a candy store, but put it down to the thrill of the hunt. He doubted they were intelligent enough, or savage enough, to pull off a string of murders the likes of which they had all just seen.

  "Dr. Meenay, like every coroner in the country and possibly the world, will incessantly harp about being overworked, but I think if we--"

  "There they are!"

  Chief Smiling Bear emerged from her office with a stack of papers, jaws moving furiously as she chomped on grape bubble gum. "I was thinking about you guys," she called. "How's the crime scene?"

  "It has some interesting leads, but . . ."

  She checked his expression and guessed the rest. "You figure they might go nowhere. Well, consider this your first big break. FBI just released a composite sketch of a young woman they say is tied to several murders across the Midwest. You'll never guess what kind of wound she leaves."

  "Slicing, on or near the neck?"

  "Bingo."

  "The FBI?" Art pushed through the other cops and even nudged Lue aside. It didn't feel as subtle to the taller, thinner detective as the BCA agent might have intended. "How are they involved?"

  "Jealous, Art?"

  Chief Smiling Bear rolled her eyes. "It can't surprise you, Detective McMahon, that the FBI sometimes does things without local or state knowledge. In this case, the source of the information would be witnesses from the Saint George's incident. Here's what they came up with."

  Lue reached for the sheet. "Anyone else have this yet?"

  "They say it'll be on TV and the web by tonight."

  Lue looked. "This is . . . not great."

  The chief shrugged. "Grainy black-and-white footage plus bad camera angles divided by freaked-out witnesses equals sucky sketch resolution. Something's better than nothing, right?"

  "Ah, there you go, throwing advanced math in my face yet again. This plus this equals that, this is greater than that . . . thanks, Chief Calculus." The sketch actually wasn't too bad. It showed an attractive woman with dark hair and (probably) eyes; pale skin. A sharp nose, a small chin. Wide, clear forehead. More than attractive, he realized after a closer look. Beautiful. "As you said, better than nothing. Take a look, guys."