Evangelina

by MaryJanice Davidson

  Mercy gulped some ice from her glass and began chewing. "I suspect this won't be the last murder, Detective . . ."

  "Not if the Regiment has another Pamela Pride to spare."

  The ice crunched. "What are you implying?"

  "Nothing."

  She stiffened. "Seldom has nothing so clearly meant everything." She swirled the remaining ice in her mouth, swallowed, and tried to relax. "Okay, I'm going to try to stop channeling my mother here and approach this in a more friendly manner."

  "You could try showing him your underwear," Art suggested.

  "Brilliant. Thanks for that, Detective Vue. Lue. Have I done or said anything that makes you believe I am part of a murderous regime?"

  He raised his glass. "The week is young."

  "You can't be serious. If you have suspicions about me, you should report me to my superiors." She rifled through her purse. "I'll give you the direct line to Director Jorstad at the Minneapolis branch; he's my supervisor and would want to know if--"

  "Ah, but if the Regiment exists, then he would be part of it as well."

  "Detective, this is ridiculous. There is no defense against a speculative accusation regarding a supersecret organization of dragon killers. I could suddenly pronounce that you and your Chief Smiling Bear are the devious kingpins of a secret circle of vampires, and that Pamela Pride was your newest, slightly off-kilter recruit. You would have no way to defend yourself, since I have what you would consider overwhelming proof: guilt by association."

  "What association?"

  "According to Detective McMahon, you had a thing for her. Male fantasies being what they are, I'd guess today wouldn't be the first day you've thought about her in that unicorn underwear. Maybe you've even seen them before."

  Speechless, Lue glared at Art, who returned an apologetic look. "I never really said I had a thing for her . . ."

  "Look, you two: all three of us have trust issues. We're not being entirely forthcoming with each other. I can accept that if you can. Here's what I know: I'm your friend, here. And I think of you as my friends. I don't let friends down." She extended her hand. "Shake on it?"

  Lue cracked a grin as he took her hand. "Most murderers would not consider a handshake a binding contract."

  "I guess we're both screwed, then. Okay, where were we--we had two theories about Evangelina Scales. I'll respect yours if you respect mine."

  "Fair enough. We can agree, I think, that Evangelina is a suspect for today's murder. We can further agree that Pamela Pride is at least a suspected collaborator in the scenes prior to today."

  "Agreed."

  Art relaxed. It surprised him how much he wanted Lue and Mercy to get along. This is hard enough.

  "So, remaining questions," Lue continued. "First, what motive might Evangelina have had to kill Pamela today? Second and obviously related, what was their true relationship? Third, if we think the murders might continue, how can we stop them?"

  "Last question first," Art suggested. "We finish our work on social networks. Warn the rest."

  "If any are even left," Lue agreed. "Okay, we can get to work on that today. What about the Pamela-Evangelina relationship?"

  "It will help to learn what Pamela is. That is, dragon or not."

  "Yes. And today's scene will probably have more surprises for us, which may detail a motive. If she has always wanted to kill Pamela, we would have to figure out why she waited so long."

  "It could be she finally had her chance," Art suggested.

  "And if she finally decided to kill her today . . . well, same question, why the long wait?"

  "And it may have the same answer."

  "Fair enough."

  Their waitress sitting at another booth, tossed them a bored "you okay?" glance, and they all nodded. Her phone buzzed, and the willowy blonde nearly dropped it, clutched it, and breathed, "So did you like see a dead body over there or anything like really gross?" into it, in the same two seconds.

  They all rolled their eyes, and Mercy continued. "I already have the FBI checking records for a Pamela Pride. Of course, she could have changed her name: but if she doesn't come up FBI or dragon, then what?"

  "She could still be Regiment," Lue insisted.

  Mercy tried to laugh off the suggestion. "Right. The Regiment: we're here, we're there, we're everywhere." She pointed her finger at Lue and croaked, "We're you!"

  "Yes," Lue said. "I would love more chai."

  The waitress was standing over them, dark eyes sparkling, nervously wiping both hands on a towel, cell phone nowhere in sight. "You guys hear? Someone like got killed all over the place!"

  "We did hear." Mercy sighed.

  "All over the place," Lue said, nodding. "She sure did."

  CHAPTER 32

  Art approached his motel door. The small wooden (mostly) building was on the edge of the small town, which he appreciated for obvious reasons. The property manager, whom Lue had noticed when they had been here together to get the Bemidji files, generally made little noise and no demands. Better: he noticed everything, and never asked questions.

  It shouldn't have been so difficult to work the lock and open the door, recently painted lizard (ha) green. Art knew he lived in a world of miracles, many of them right under his nose. And today he was too damned tired to care about any of them.

  "Detective McMahon?"

  "Yes." A silly question, but the old man valued politeness.

  Pushing off the wall where he had been leaning, the manager pulled his cane out from behind his back with fingers so gnarled they were like bent old branches. Then he picked up a small backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and tapped the cane in front of him as he approached. Art never stopped being amazed the man could zip his fly, never mind tie flies for local anglers and pick up dimes in dark corners. "Careful. That lock still sticks a bit."

  As he said this, Art finally got it to turn and the door swung open. He squinted in the near gloom, fumbled for a light switch, then heard the click as the lamps went on.

  "I'll finally get to fixing that tomorrow, if you like."

  "Thanks."

  "You mind if I join you? I could use some company."

  "Come on in."

  The old man stretched out a hand, found the chair situated by the coffee table near the bed, slid it around, and eased into it. "Art. Take a close look around. Make sure you have everything you left here."

  "Why?"

  "I heard some odd noises close by your place while you were out."

  "Can you be more specific?"

  "Not much. I was in the bathroom by the office for a few minutes. When I came out, I heard people leaving, doors closing--a bit too much going on to be sure. I'm pretty sure they were leaving this room."

  Art took a few moments to walk around and scan the room, including the closets and bathroom. When he was done, he sat down in the other chair next to the coffee table. "Everything looks all right, Remy."

  Remy shrugged. "If you say so."

  The old man reached down into the backpack he had dropped by the chair, rummaged, then whipped out a gorgeous, intricate baby's blanket crocheted in cool blues and yellows. He produced a crochet hook, like a magician yanking a rabbit out of a hat, and went back to work as he talked.

  "Ms. Kennealy tells me the due date is upon us."

  "She and her daughter are lucky to know you. This will be her first grandchild, yes?" Ms. Kennealy, like many of the older women in town, adored Remy.

  "Indeed. They've already asked me to set aside time to babysit, for the occasional Sunday afternoon. I told them I thought I could do two or three Sundays if the kid comes right away . . . I'm glad the Anderson and Schultz kids are growing old enough not to need me much anymore."

  "Quite the double life," Art complimented. "A motel manager and a day care provider."

  Remy pursed his lips. "Sticking around that local cop has sharpened your sense of irony. Good for you." A few loops later, he continued. "I can't hang around this place and keep an eye out f
or everything and everybody, Art. My ma, please God she rests, had a saying: 'weave your own destiny.' Mine won't stay in Moorston for much longer, I'm afraid."

  "I understand."

  "I hope the Kennealys, Andersons, and Schultzes do as well. I love those babies. I think they love me, too. I can always tell when they're gonna cry, even before the baby does. There ain't a jar of baby food I can't sell to one of those kids, with enough time and patience. That reminds me, Ms. Anderson came by with a pumpkin pie. I can't stand pumpkin pies; you can come by the office if you want it for yourself."

  "Thanks. Perhaps tomorrow."

  Remy kept shaking his head. "Poor babies. Can't help but think of them as my own."

  "They will have to make their way without you."

  "Yup, I guess it's a lesson we all learn. Say, what do you make of that March girl?"

  The question caught Art by surprise, and Remy laughed. "Ah, you think I don't catch on to things like that. Mercy March is a name we are all getting to know, Art. I have to say I haven't yet come to a judgment on her, myself. I'd value your opinion."

  "She is what she is."

  Remy licked his lips, still smiling. "Ah, so she is. That's what has so many people worried. But then, you are what you are--and look at what you overcame. Look at the two of us, sitting here, talking to each other as if we're best friends. As if we're both people. That couldn't have happened, I'll guess, years ago."

  "You're probably right."

  "Of course I'm right. Right as I am when I claim this blanket I'm knitting is blue and yellow. Don't need to see in the conventional sense, to know that."

  Art cleared his throat. "Mercy March has sound principles."

  "Such as?"

  "Honesty. Patience. Humor."

  "That's a good start. Interesting, that those would be the qualities that attract you . . . now."

  That made Art frown. "What do you mean by that?" he growled.

  "You know what I mean. Now don't take offense. Young pups like you are always hot to argue, but I'm just an old man and I don't intend any harm. I think Mercy might make for a good chapter, in the story you weave. Maybe even play a role in your destiny."

  "We're a long way away from that."

  "Closer than you'll admit to me tonight, I'll bet."

  "I haven't known her a full week."

  "Love works in strange ways."

  The word love untwisted something inside Art, something that had felt twisted since the first moment he had spotted Special Agent March at the Moorston Police Station. What was it he had felt that morning--was it love?

  It had felt more like guilt.

  Maybe it shouldn't.

  "Remy," he said, and then he stopped.

  "Yes?"

  "Do you think she would be okay with it?"

  "She? You mean--"

  "You know who I mean."

  Remy's chuckle made the knitting needles dance up and down. Then he turned more serious. "Forgive me, Art. I don't mean to hurt you. The sad truth is, she's gone. It doesn't matter what she'd think."

  "Don't talk like that!"

  "You asked my opinion. I'm sorry for your loss, Art. It's time to move on."

  "You've said that before."

  "And I've asked you before: why are you even here? I figure the BCA doesn't even know you're here. This is about you, not her or Mercy or anyone else. So I ask again: why are you here, Arthur McMahon? Why do you hunt Evangelina Scales? Is it a search for closure? Some sort of hope to settle a score?"

  "I still don't have an answer."

  "Well, you should try to find one. You can't start a new chapter without finishing the old one."

  "You and your metaphors. You'd like Detective Vue."

  "I'm sure I would. Say, is that rain I hear outside? Heck, that's the fourth time this week . . ."

  They sat and talked like that, with Remy knitting away in his chair while Art sat across from him. He got up only to open the window and let the cool air and sounds of raindrops in. A healthy, meaty fragrance from the Happy Chef across the highway edged its way into the room, but Art remained patient.

  About an hour later, Remy finally sighed and put the knitting back in his backpack. "Well, it's good to see you again, Art. In a manner of speaking. Wake-up call same time tomorrow morning?"

  "Please." He didn't need it, but he knew Remy would call anyway.

  "All right then. No, don't get up. I can show myself out. Don't forget to bolt and chain the door, though. No telling what's creeping around out there." He chuckled at his own remark as he tapped his cane, pulled his pack on his shoulder, and shut the door behind him.

  Art listened to the cane and Remy's steps as they faded down the walk. Once the office door had opened and closed in the distance, he rose from his chair, walked across the room, and went back into the bathroom. Whoever had left the message had been clever enough to know that Remy might try to come in the room and find a paper or envelope; instead, they had written the message directly on the mirror. Art would have thought the move clever enough for Remy himself; but he didn't suppose the man carried lipstick in that backpack of his.

  The handwriting was vaguely familiar, in a bold script:

  She will need you, before the end.

  He stared at the words for some time, listening to the rain, feeling the autumn chill, and thinking of Mercy.

  If only the woman would admit she was Regiment!

  INTERLUDE

  Tonight

  The rain made very little difference to her, as she watched.

  In fact, Evangelina had learned long ago that she enjoyed inclement weather--and the more unusual, the better.

  Mom had told her she was born in a gentle snow under an aurora borealis. It was more complicated than that, of course: having a spider in your bloodline never made things easy. Her biological mother had died that night, and her mom had taken over from there. Elizabeth was a faithful parent, learning as much about arachnid heritage as she could, to stay true to what Evangelina was. That was hard, given how few arachnids there were left in the world.

  The dragon half--from her deceased father--well, that was easier to pick up. Dragons weren't numerous, to be sure: but there were enough of them to make a go of saving them from extinction.

  Extinction due to natural causes would be hard enough to avoid, for any species that didn't thrive on skyscrapers and automobiles and sewage.

  Extinction due to Regiment causes, was even harder. That's where Evangelina came in.

  She thought back to her teenaged years--if it seemed like yesterday, that's because it almost was. She had barely turned adult when her sister had turned to her for help.

  "I wanted you to have your childhood," her sister had told her. "I never really got to finish that, and I wish I had. I can't wait any longer, to ask you for your help."

  "What do you need?" Evangelina had asked eagerly. She would have done anything for her sister.

  "I can't be everywhere at once. Only I can do what I'm doing, to create and protect a new world for our people. I can't simultaneously stop the Regiment out in this world. They're murdering us, Vange. Soon there won't be enough of us left, to bother with a new home. We--you--have to save those who are left."

  "How?"

  "You will bring them to us, Vange. You will go out and find them--Mom and Susan have done lots of that work already, so they can point you in the right direction--and then when you have them, you'll tell them we're starting over. They'll come with you, Vange."

  "How do you know? What if they say no?"

  "They won't. When you come, they will follow you. You'll bring them to the entry point. Then you'll go find more. You'll be their angel, protecting them and delivering them. Only you can do it, Vange. Only you. Will you?"

  It had been such a thrill to hear those words. She had accepted.

  Evangelina tried to recapture that feeling, as she lay in the copse of maples with raindrops splattering off her wings and crest. It wasn't the rain that depressed her
. It was everything that had followed that single decisive moment. The years since had been few, but they felt horribly, painfully long. Saving their people had cost her innocence, youth, and even love. She had succeeded more than she had failed, but the failures hung heavy on her.

  Worst of all had been today, which she had thought would be her best day. Killing the Regiment assassin had been traumatic for her, far more than the horror at Saint George's. That had been bad enough, killing in the midst of a rescue mission where eliminating Collin Loxos had been a necessary evil, cleanly executed.

  This, however, had gone very differently. She had gorged herself on the violence, pummeled her opponent into submission, and could have left it at a single dismembered arm. Her enemy had clung to the stump, defenseless, sobbing, and begged for mercy.

  Instead, Evangelina had unleashed everything within her that hated the Regiment, that despised what they had done, and that resented the cost to herself. She had torn and slashed, and the more she had, the better she felt.

  She had been raised to learn that revenge never really made a person feel better. What then, did it say about herself, that she felt so good during and after? What did it say about her, that she was hoping the Regiment would send another assassin, before it was all over?

  "It will be over soon," her mother had told her about a month ago. "There are only a few left to save. We will keep the way open for you. When you return, it will all be over. No one will need to fight them ever again."

  It was a lovely thought. Evangelina hoped it was true. It still would not save her: what she had lost because she said "yes" to her sister, she would never get back.

  No love.

  She still would not have made any other decision.

  PART THREE

  Mercy

  CHAPTER 33

  When Mercy March woke up the next morning, her first act was to warm up the laptop. She pulled on her blouse, went into the bathroom to fix her hair, freshened her makeup, spotted the time, and hurriedly sat down at the small desk near the television to call up her videoconferencing application.