Evangelina

by MaryJanice Davidson

  Art saw Lue smile for the first time in a few hours. "Special Agent, we are about to make your day."

  CHAPTER 21

  "You're sure this is her?" Mercy had barely moved during the replay of the convenience store video, and even now she could have been talking to the screen.

  "It's her," said Art.

  "How can you be sure?"

  "Try looking at her. Then look at your sketch. Rinse and repeat."

  Then, though he didn't know why, Art stuck his tongue out at her. Her reaction was a fabulous reward: a mixture of shock and humor.

  "We have a witness, Agent March," Lue confirmed, oblivious to Art's gesture. "The store clerk is a bit dim, but he was watching your sketch on the television while she was in the store. She practically gave him a confession before convincing him to give her a running start."

  "Gentlemen, this is huge." Mercy hit some keys on her laptop, and a few moments later the video was uploading to her regional office. Her fingers were almost a blur; speed and accuracy, not to mention all the resources of the FBI backing her up. "I think you just accelerated my inevitable promotion. Let me buy you lunch."

  "He only wants granola," Art pointed out.

  "Lies, scurrilous lies! I had granola for breakfast. I now require Tofurky."

  There was a distinct rattling bark as the chief cleared her throat. "Children. It's a little early for celebratory food . . . especially sins against nature like Tofurky."

  "It is never too early for--"

  "Perhaps we should find the suspect and bring her into custody before celebrating," she pointed out dryly. "You know. In case the FBI has maintained its high standards of case closure. Wouldn't you agree, Agent March?"

  "Agreed, Chief. Thanks for bringing us back down to earth." Mercy's grin was a winning expression, and Art found himself admiring how she related to the difficult personality Smiling Bear presented. He wondered how many others this woman had won over.

  "You think you can capture her?"

  "I don't see why not, Detective McMahon." The redhead puffed a curl out of her face with a quick breath. "Dragons are not invulnerable. They can be hurt, even killed."

  Art's eyebrows arched. "What are we talking about, exactly?"

  When Mercy responded, it was with an even tone and a level gaze. "We are talking about bringing her in, dead or alive, preferably alive. It would be best if she stood trial--in a confidential tribunal, of course--and I imagine she would serve out any sentence in a secure research facility."

  Art thought that over and opened his mouth, but Lue beat him to the punch. "So, Special Agent March. You and your FBI colleagues have never watched a movie or read a book, am I right? Either that, or the head of this research facility is a mortal enemy of yours."

  "I beg your--"

  "Because in the books and movies, the authorities always figure they can study the monster or harness its power for the betterment of science or society or whatever, and then whoever is in charge of the supposedly secure research facility where staff are studying that monster always dies. Always."

  "Detective Vue. Is that a threat?"

  "I thought it was a movie review. Or possibly a book review."

  She was giving him an odd look. "Is it your position, then, that we should kill Evangelina on sight, before giving her a fair trial?"

  Lue snorted. "Of course not."

  Abruptly, the chief spoke up. "Actually, I'd be okay with that."

  Three pairs of eyes widened slightly. Lue waved his hand in front of her face. "Chief Smiling Bear? Suddenly not feeling so smiley, are we?"

  "This thing . . . this 'Evangelina,' if she really has a name . . . has already killed at Saint George's. She has killed at multiple residences--"

  "Allegedly killed, Chief."

  "--at multiple residences in this town. More are sure to follow, based on the pattern we've seen from her. Just here, never mind what she's done other places.

  "I think it's adorable, Agent March, that you think you can put a bridle on this beast and ride her like a pretty pony into the nearest hair-braiding facility. What I expect you'll find, is that you'll have to empty that Beretta you're carrying into her eye clusters if you want to slow her down, much less stop her."

  Mercy rolled her fingertips over the table a few times. "You sound pretty sure of yourself, Chief."

  "I've been at this awhile."

  "Longer than me, of course."

  "I'd noticed."

  "You must think me to be some sort of young incompetent. Maybe I get assigned cases like this because I tested brilliantly at the academy, but I'm too book smart and know nothing about the street. Or maybe you think I get cases like this because I have political connections. Or maybe you're wondering if I slept my way into this high-profile assignment . . . and I need an older, less slutty woman to guide me along . . ."

  "Whoa, hey . . ." Lue stood up with arms raised. "We need to keep this civil, people . . ."

  Art leaned back and chuckled. Chief Smiling Bear looked like she had been poleaxed.

  "Let me assure you," Mercy finished, "that I am an experienced and capable operative, who can and will lead this investigation. Our entertaining theories on what it takes to stop her are irrelevant. If Evangelina Scales, whatever form she's in, presents a clear and mortal threat to my safety or the safety of other peace officers or civilians, I will be bringing her in dead. Otherwise, I will be bringing her in alive to stand trial. We call that due process." She looked around the room. "You do process due process here in northern Minnesota, don't you?"

  Art licked his lips. "We do."

  "Well, there you have it, then!" Mercy slapped the table and leaned back in her uncomfortable plastic chair. Her Midwestern accent thickened as her stress level rose. "I guess we won't sneak up on her, then, and empty a clip into her eye cluster with a Beretta after all. Chief Smiling Bear, if you want your Detective Vue or any other officer under your command to be on my team--"

  "Aw, man . . ." Lue thought about moving his arms, laced his fingers behind his head instead, and gave his boss a pleading look.

  "--then I'm gonna have to tell it straight. We're peace officers, not assassins. You see this? All this?" Mercy gestured to the chaotic conference room. Papers everywhere, cups and napkins everywhere, shocking, terrible pictures erected on boards, theories, scribbles; the working chaos that already seemed weeks old, even though they had erected it in a single afternoon. "Call it a war room if you want, but this isn't a battle plan. This is an investigation. Only a qualified judiciary can judge Evangelina Scales."

  "Oh," Chief Smiling Bear said pleasantly. "Thank you very, very, very, very much for setting me straight."

  Art's eyebrows climbed. The jovial atmosphere had vanished from the war room. He liked Chief Smiling Bear, but that voice hid knives, especially for the FBI agent. As for how he felt about Mercy, he wanted to get to know her better, immediately.

  Her philosophy, her passion, her mix of professional and profane . . . she was intoxicating. Art thought of himself as a leader, an alpha, a captain among men. Neither Lue Vue nor Chief Smiling Bear made him feel any different. But this woman . . .

  . . . well, he didn't know if he could follow her. He would certainly stick close to her. Because of all the things she was, there was also something she was not.

  She was not boring.

  Ten Years Ago

  Bored bored bored bored bored bored bored bored.

  Like this: bored.

  And this: BORED.

  And this: BORED.

  And these: bored bored bored. Bored! Bored! Bored! Bored! Bored!

  "Seriously with this?"

  Evangelina looked up. Aunt Susan had come from nowhere . . . it was so weird the way Susan could sneak up on her like that . . . even when she wasn't trying to do it, she did it. Susan claimed that because she'd grown up with Niffer, some sort of dragon camouflage power rubbed off on her. That was ridiculous. Right?

  "This is why your mother is home schooling you
?" Aunt Susan had picked up the notepad and was flipping through the last couple of pages. "At least you changed the font size a few times. Very creative for a fourth grader."

  "I'm waiting for--"

  "I know. She asked me instead."

  Evangelina's heart fell. "She canceled again. We were supposed to go into town for a movie."

  "I can take you."

  "It's not the same." She knew those words would sting, but she didn't care. "She never does anything with me anymore."

  "You know she's busy. Making a new home takes time. She's the leader."

  "I thought Mom was the leader."

  "Well, there are some things your mom can't do."

  "Like what?"

  "It's not my place to say. Hey--granola bar!" The woman pointed at the shiny packet lying near Evangelina's hip. "May I? I'm starved."

  Evangelina shrugged, so Susan plopped herself down on the ground and snagged the bars. They both stared down the wooded hill at the shimmering, hundred-acre lake. Loons called softly to each other. The wolves, they knew, were still about.

  What few remained.

  Evangelina finally spoke. "So, what, I'm not going to see her again for another two or three months?" She looked at her "bored" notebook, normally for science, and slapped it shut so hard and fast she ripped the cover in half. "There's nothing to do here!"

  "On the bright side, you get to do nothing with me and your mother. That's not so bad, is it? I'm like the substitute sister you never wanted."

  "You're more than that. But there's no one my age around."

  "What about Billy Brandfire--"

  "Billy's a dork! He stares at me and never says anything. He creeps me out."

  "You have the wolves."

  This provoked a thoughtful silence.

  Susan patted her shoulder. "Do you want to stay here?"

  They both took in the woods around them, and the dozen or so cabins behind them up the hill, barely visible through the maples and pines. This remote location, virtually on the edge of the Boundary Waters, had been home for the past two years. Winoka's survivors had scattered, some into small groups like this on the edges of Minnesota, others completely vanished.

  "No. I want to go. We never get to go anywhere."

  "You know how dangerous it is in town. That's why this is special, right?"

  Evangelina looked Susan up and down. "So what if someone recognizes us? Who'll protect me?"

  "Protect you?" Susan laughed as she rose and dusted off the buttocks of her jeans, and Evangelina couldn't help smiling. "Honey, you're supposed to protect me."

  I can do that.

  CHAPTER 22

  Art cleared his throat. "Detective Vue."

  He observed Vue swivel in his desk chair. Left, right. Stop-with-right-toe, left. Left again. Stop-with-right-toe. Left. Left.

  "Look!" he stage-whispered to Art while scribbling notes on the blotter (when he spun close enough to it), listening to the person on the other end of the telephone, and gulping seeds and dried grapes while occasionally tapping on the computer keyboard. Art had seen many amazing things in his life, and this one might have made the top ten. "I can keep the spin going three times, see?" Left. Left. Left.

  "Amazing." Art meant it, but not for the reason Lue thought, and not for cynical reasons either. He admired Lue's ability to multitask. This might be a silly example of it; but it was representative, and it reminded him of what he valued in the agent. Spin while you talk while you eat while you whisper. Investigate while you mock while you revisit while you learn. Interrogate while you smile while you trap while you listen.

  Yes, Art was glad that Chief Smiling Bear decided to back down in front of Mercy. The two had come to an arrangement: Mercy would take the afternoon off and settle in to the AmericInn about a mile away; and the chief wouldn't draw her piece and try to blow apart the young whippersnapper's freckles.

  It was nearly six o'clock now; Lue had stayed to write up a few reports, and was therefore at his desk when the call came.

  Lue whirled past his desk blotter, dashed another note in a language Art did not read (something arcane called quickhand or smallhand . . . the man had an odd fear of people stealing his notes), and said, "Yes, of course. I can understand that . . . sure . . ." Oh, Lue was quite good at this. Art knew he could learn from the talkative man, as much as extroverts could annoy him.

  He continued to study his new partner. He had spent some time the last couple of days chatting up Lue's colleagues, looking for insights on the unusual detective. Earfuls had resulted.

  Oh, hey, welcome aboard, what brings the BCA to . . . oh, that guy? He's a trip and a half, man. Scary smart, Art heard from a patrol officer so intense she was almost vibrating. Some of the guys, you know, they don't like him much--I don't think that's his fault, though. Vue doesn't want to play the game. Good for him.

  And from another: The V-man? Look, he's not the warmest guy in the world, okay? But he's aces with me, he's aces with my partner, and if you have a problem I'll crack your jaw. I've been in a jam or two with him--we've got a meth lab or two to bust in this town, and speed of all things is back, and even one or two gangs have tried to make inroads around here. None of it fazes him. He sticks at your side, he stays focused, he gets the job done. That's all I care about.

  And: He's a prick. And a show-off. And he never. Shuts. Up.

  And: Aw, he's okay, once you get past the ego problems. He's always running around correcting grammar and stuff, which he wouldn't need to do if he had any self-confidence. I think because of his family. You know about his family?

  And: Well, sure, his family! You probably already know, they're Hmong refugees. And they landed in not entirely friendly countryside when they got here. I wouldn't exactly run over to the chamber of commerce with this, but people think of Minnesota as this wonderful laid-back place where it snows half the year and everybody gets along, which it is. Mostly. But we got more Hmong than any other state except California. And a lot of people--it's tough to admit it in this day and age, but a lot of people would change that if they could. Lue's the kind of guy who's going to change that kinda thinking, someday.

  And: Well, he decided he had to take care of his family. And he was so young . . . I think it did something to him. Taught himself English, taught his folks, helped them acclimate, all that. Can you imagine doing all that, in goddamn second grade? I don't know that I'd have been as good at it. I think that's why he's so . . . um . . .

  He's an ass.

  He's a saint.

  He's brave.

  He's a genius.

  He's stuck up.

  He's okay. Once you get to know him, anyway.

  Art didn't quite know how to process all of this. It wasn't what he was raised to do. He was a hunter, pure and simple. That didn't mean he was stupid or even simple. It meant complexity made him uncomfortable.

  "No problem at all," Lue was saying. "It will take only a few minutes . . . stay in the condo, and open the door for no one until we get there." He hung up and practically leaped to his feet. "Pamela Pride wants to talk to us again, yesssss!"

  "Why so excited? She lied to us."

  Now he was scrabbling through paperwork and desk drawers. "Where is my lucky granola? I cannot fool and beguile anyone on a diet of hot tea and commercially made granola . . . what did you say? Oh, the lying. True. However, we cannot forget two simple facts: first, she is incredibly hot; and second, she still has information that may be helpful to us."

  "I don't know about the hotness."

  Lue froze, hand halfway into a desk drawer. "What did you say?"

  "I said, I don't agree that she's that attractive."

  "Oh." The hand withdrew, and Lue sat back in his chair. "I see. You are one of those guys."

  "What guys?"

  "I mean the kind of guy that can afford to be choosy, even to the point of ridiculousness. Your burly shoulders, your rugged stubble, your piercing eyes, your strong-but-silent attitude . . . you make the girls
swoon. They want to understand you, solve the mystery that is you, make you admit to them and them alone what a small and frightened child you are, deep under all those pectoral and other assorted muscles."

  "You're being foolish."

  "You prevent antilittering fines on the highway by catching the panties that these women throw at you from speeding automobiles. So you can have these stratospheric standards. A woman like Pamela Pride comes along, someone who may have a troubled past but could fry bacon on her own breasts, and you say, 'Meh.' 'Meh,' you say, and again I say that you say, 'Meh.' You throw off the curve, man. You throw off the whole freaking curve, and the rest of us have to live with the consequences."

  "And those consequences are . . . ?"

  "The more homely and wispy among us can hope for no more than 'good friend' status, where we listen to the woman we lust after pine after you as we shop for shoes together and drive them to the airport."

  This may be my favorite conversation with him so far.

  "Whatever. I can cry into my trail mix." Lue seized a large Baggie from the open desk drawer and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. "It is, you will be awed and impressed to hear, my own recipe. Granola, cranberries, banana chips. And my own secret ingredient, which I would not tell you even under hours of torture. Okay, I will give you a hint: cinnamon. And no, you may not have any."

  "I don't--"

  "I can see the urgent lust for a healthy snack in your eyes, Art; you are not fooling me. I bear witness here and now, to one of the secrets that the most special among your harem of jilted would-be lovers, whoever she may be, will come to learn once you stop keeping her at arm's length." He sighed. "Come on. I might even let you drive, if you promise to make a videotape of the eventual consummation."

  "I won't."

  "Drive, or consummate?"

  "Won't." Art figured that was safe enough.

  "There is something wrong with you," was the cheerful answer, and in that tone and expression Art thought he saw the Lue many other cops didn't: Lue liked the strange, the different, and the bizarre as long as he was in the driver's seat.

  It was a quality Art knew he could use . . . it was also a quality that might have let them eventually become friends.