Evangelina

by MaryJanice Davidson

  "Ms. Georges Scales, you are assaulting an FBI agent. This is a--owww!"

  Five seconds later, she was restrained in the middle of the park with her own handcuffs, disarmed with her firearm tossed casually to one side, her two partners unconscious several feet away, while the elderly woman who had taken her down grabbed her chin and squeezed.

  "My elder daughter, her husband, and I are going to be a lot nicer to you than you or the Regiment would be in our place."

  Mercy had a brief vision of her own mother, which she quickly pushed away. What would she think of this? "Oh, Picklechip: you definitely don't want the suspect's relations to restrain you with your own cuffs. That's bad technique. You'll not get far, I fear . . ."

  "If you persist in your investigation of my younger daughter, I can't guarantee we'll be as considerate next time. Call it off, Agent. While you can."

  She let go of Mercy's chin, then grabbed her scalp and smashed her nose into the pavement. Through the subsequent pain, blurry spots, and taste of blood, it was difficult for Mercy to discern if there ever was a daughter or son-in-law on the scene, or what route Elizabeth Georges Scales took as she left. Just the thought

  . . . about this . . . she can never ever find out . . .

  kept cycling through her brain.

  A minute later, under the uncertain eyes of several civilian gawkers, Mercy saw Art come around. He hissed, sat up, dropped a needle from his hand, and assessed the scene.

  "She had backup."

  "Apparently. Find a girl a key?"

  "Sorry I called you foolish," he said as he groggily searched the pavement.

  "I'm sorry I was short with you. A few feet to the left . . . there, you see it."

  He uncuffed her, and she immediately picked up her piece. Doing her best to ignore the gathering crowd, feeling her face flush hot with anger and humiliation, she motioned to Lue. "Did he get shot, too?"

  "No. Something crept up on him." He pointed to the bruise on Lue's temple.

  "I've heard they can do that, sometimes. Camouflage. Must have been her daughter, or son-in-law. So one snuck up on him, while the other had a bead on you from a distance. I didn't see anyone else around, so the shooter must have had cover." The images flashed through her brain and the words poured out of her mouth, but she could not shake the anger she felt. She beat me. That old woman. And she never changed into anything else.

  Ow.

  Those stories about Winoka--are they true?

  Ow!

  Art was looking around, farther away. "Tree line's one hundred yards away."

  "Nice shot, to find your neck from there. Could have gone into your eye." Neither of them stated the other obvious fact: it could have been a bullet.

  She was brought back to reality by the slow stream of blood that had now reached her chin and was dripping onto her front and shoes. Art reached into his corduroy jacket and handed her a handkerchief for her face.

  "Thanks."

  "You're welcome. We should leave."

  Art scooped Lue into his arms, and they trotted toward the car.

  CHAPTER 36

  "Bad day yesterday, Picklechip?"

  "I guess." Mercy squirmed uncomfortably; how could her mother always spot that? The pavement face-smash had barely left a mark, and Mercy had gotten up early specifically to cover the small scrape with makeup. She resolved to pop open a self-reflecting window on the video application next time, so she could analyze what her parents were seeing.

  "Probably not much progress, then." Already, Val began to sound bored.

  "Investigations take time," Michael insisted congenially, smiling at his wife. "Give her more than a few days, Val. She'll win yet."

  "Dad, please." Mercy found his eternal optimism irritating. Why is he even on these calls? "I'm beginning to think there may be more than one explanation for these murders."

  "Is that so." It wasn't a question. Val set her tea down on the coffee table, hard enough that Mercy flinched at the sound. "What other explanation have you arrived at that ties Evangelina Scales to each of the murder scenes?"

  "That . . ." Mercy trailed off at the sight of the older woman's hard stare. "Never mind. You don't want to hear it."

  "No, but I do! You are the special agent in charge of this investigation. I am four thousand miles away, as the dragon flies: you are my eyes and ears. Tell me what you see and hear, please."

  Not entirely convinced of her mother's sincerity (a sad thing to ponder), Mercy continued. "I've considered that Evangelina may actually be trying to protect the victims from a third party."

  Valera March narrowed her eyes, picked up her tea, and glanced at her husband. "Well, if that's the case, she's certainly doing a substandard job, wouldn't you say? Tell me, Special Agent. What evidence have you procured, that is setting the investigation in this dazzling new direction?"

  "The murder of Pamela Pride--"

  "Is another murder that Evangelina Scales has committed."

  "Evidence at the scene included a potential murder weapon, which--"

  "Evangelina could have planted. Please, Special Agent. Tell me something I cannot tear apart from a distance."

  "I made contact with a woman who claims to be her mother. Name of Elizabeth--"

  "You saw Liz?! That's--"

  "Michael." Mercy's laptop nearly frosted over.

  Now that was interesting. She used the arctic silence to continue. "She told me to pass on a message to my superiors. I've already submitted my report to Director Jorstad." Of course, she had left out the details as to how the confrontation had ended. "Mrs. Georges Scales appears to believe that the people she represents are under attack. She'd like us to leave them alone, and 'let them leave.' She didn't specify where they'd be going."

  "I see. Michael, stay quiet for all of thirty seconds, will you?" Val rose, took her teacup and saucer into the kitchen, and brought back a full cup. The entire time, Michael kept his affable, silent grin plastered on his face. Like a marionette whose master has propped it up for a time, Mercy thought.

  His wife sat down again and fixed her eyes on her daughter.

  "Please tell me that you and those outstanding new partners of yours, Detectives McMahon and Vue, now have Elizabeth Georges Scales in custody."

  "That was impossible. She had backup. It ended in a standoff." Mercy found herself wringing her hands under the desk, and tried to stop. Hmm. First tell.

  "A standoff. Did you trail her afterward?"

  "That was also impossible. Detective Vue was wounded, we believe by a dragon in camouflage. He needed immediate medical assistance."

  "Listen carefully, Picklechip. In situations where you have to choose between hauling in the woman identified by Regiment leadership for years as No Higher Priority, and getting your new cop friend to a hospital to look after a flesh wound, you leave the backwater boob to bleed out and bring in the traitorous bitch!"

  Mercy bit her lip. "Abandon a partner in the field. Is that an order, Regiment Proctor?"

  "It's a priority, Special Agent. That's why we call her No Higher Priority. See how it's not just a clever title."

  Unfailing courage, everlasting honor, swift justice.

  "I'm sorry I let you down." Mercy turned to look out the hotel room window, which faced east. The sunrise was lovely, and huge V formations of ducks were migrating over the red-tinged oaks and maples. She thought of her early childhood, before they had packed up for England, when her father and she spent autumns in the Appalachians, hunting for fowl with a perky Irish setter she had been allowed to name Wolfman. When she would get upset at a day of bad luck and insist on going home early, her father would always have the same advice . . .

  Give yourself ten seconds. Ten seconds is not so long, but it gives your brain time to talk with your heart. Think about what you really want.

  She would always count all the way to ten, and then she would choose to stay hunting a little longer.

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

 
; "Picklechip. Are you still there? Is my voice coming through? Michael, I think the connection is . . ."

  "The connection is fine, Val," Michael interrupted with an easygoing enough tone. "You're just acting like a complete ass once again, and as a result she doesn't want to talk with us anymore."

  It might have made Mercy laugh, had she not been so consumed with finishing her countdown.

  . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . .

  "Well, if she's going to resort to childish silent treatments, I don't see the point of staying on. I've three more lectures this week, and field research notes to compile in between. Honestly, Picklechip, you know we love you. We'll chat tomorrow. You'll have better news then, I'm sure of it."

  . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .

  "Picklechip? Did you hear me?"

  Am I ready for the hunt to continue?

  She closed the laptop. Yes.

  CHAPTER 37

  Mercy had many talents, the ability to run in a pantsuit and government-approved low-heel pumps being merely one of them. So she was able to catch up with Art and Lue in the parking lot as they were on their way back from the coroner's office.

  "So that confirms it," Lue was saying as she closed in on them. "That diamond horn on Pamela Pride's brass unicorn is consistent with the slash wounds on the Moorston victims' necks. And I will buy you a whole-grain cookie if you can guess what they found in her backpack at her condo."

  "More unicorns," Art guessed.

  "More unicorns! You are good, Detective. She had two--two!--stuffed unicorns in her backpack. Also, printouts of the names and addresses of all the murder victims to date. And a couple more, whom we have visited and found empty houses for. Talk about a Backpack of Murder and Despair!"

  "You sound happier than usual," Mercy said, falling into step with them as they entered the station.

  "The evidence we found at Pamela's condo suggests strongly we were right about her. It also suggests there are no more targets. I consider that good news, Agent March."

  "As do I."

  "Diamond horn!" Lue shouted, clearly full of glee. He slapped a patrol officer--she was pretty sure this one's name was Mark, or Jim--on his way to the war room. Mark/Jim gave the detective a look behind the back. "A darned diamond-horned brass unicorn that she scratched marks into exterior siding with, while waiting to kill dragons! What a job!"

  They didn't even make it to the war room, when the next dispatch call came.

  "No!" Lue cried, and his despair was contagious. "We found them all! How can there be any left?"

  "Relax," Mercy said, trying a brave face. "They're calling it a fire. No one's saying anything about a murder."

  "So, no one wants to go to the scene with me?" Lue started back for the parking lot.

  "Well, I'm happy to drive out there . . ." Mercy started, and then they raced out together.

  They all ran to Mercy's car, Art scrambling into the passenger seat and Lue folding himself in the back. Mercy plopped into the driver's seat and gave them quizzical looks. "I meant, I'm happy for each of us to drive out there. But sure, I guess this'll work."

  "A fearless and royal operative of the majestic Federal Bureau of Investigation summons us with a nod of her head--"

  "Never mind, get the hell out." She sighed, slamming her door and starting the engine.

  "--and we, mere knights errant in the mysterious world that is joint powers law enforcement, leap to obey her slightest--"

  "Shut up shut up shut up," she chanted, pulling out of the police parking lot.

  "Doesn't work," Art said. He was settled comfortably beside her and seemed content to follow her lead.

  "I do not want to hear from you, Art." Lue's bitching from the back was muffled as he wriggled around, stretching his long legs across the backseat yet remaining safely (if not comfortably) belted. "You nearly broke my back in your scramble for the front seat; there was no need to slam me against the adjacent cruiser. Next time simply yell 'shotgun.' "

  "Hmph." Art peeked at her, smiling; she grinned back.

  The radio cut in: ". . . units please be advised, building is occupied; witnesses describe a large animal, perhaps a bear, prowling on property, exercise caution . . ."

  She felt her eyes nearly bulge from her head as she smashed her foot down on the accelerator. The car heaved over the curb, barely avoiding a stop sign.

  "Whoa, whoa, whoaaaauggghh!" She heard a thump and a crack as Lue wailed from behind her, but she didn't look back.

  "There," Art said. He was perfectly calm, seated beside her and bracing himself with both feet and an arm, while pointing toward a low brick wall off to their right with his other. "Past the tree line."

  She yanked the wheel again, and the car churned up perfectly manicured municipal lawn. At least it was fall, and she wasn't barreling over tender, sweet, newborn spring blossoms. She could see Evangelina racing along the wall Art had pointed out--wow, he was a cool one! She had barely seen the flash of black when they'd pulled onto the block before giving in to her sudden hunch.

  Siren blaring, they blasted past the flaming house where fire and rescue were already setting up. The wall Evangelina was racing atop ended; she leaped to the ground and veered away from the street as a wrought iron fence began. They were in the tonier residential neighborhood of Moorston, which was small but contained some serious money from executives who had made their mark in the Twin Cities and then retired up north in towns like this. Beyond the iron fence, the impressive lakeside estate was not nearly as eye-catching as the sight of this dragon, Evangelina, their first good look in unfiltered daylight, streaming shadowwisps off her black scaled wingtips and coiling tail, flexing her multiple jointed legs more like a galloping horse than anything else, her image interrupted like the frames of a movie reel by a rapid stream of elegantly wrought iron bars.

  A groan came from the backseat. "My spine has snapped, you unrepentant harpy!"

  "Sorry!" she sang, flushed with the heat and joy of pursuit. We're all hunters, her mother had told her once when she was little. That's why it feels so good always to get the right answer. "I'll buy you lunch!"

  "Yes, thank goodness, that will be more than enough compensation for my spine--aarrggh!"

  "Sorry!"

  "Turning," Art said.

  And so their prey was; she had darted right, farther away from the road, as the property changed hands again. The next estate was smaller but had more trees on it. This is where she would lose them.

  Mercy stood on the brakes, bending her neck so the top of her head didn't hit the car roof. "Let's go!" she wheezed. The car smoked to a stop and they flopped back into their seats.

  She and Art were out first and jumping past the iron fence to chase into the woods. Lue limped behind them, taking more mincing steps as the woods gave way to a small ravine.

  Evangelina was not hard to see: huge and black and winged and terrifying and wonderful and, most noticeably, uninjured. Her movements had an effortless flow devoid of any limping or favoring.

  Did Pamela Pride even get a lick in? Mercy wondered.

  Had it been spring or summer, they would have lost even this large, black shape quickly in the foliage. As it was, it was a good two or three minutes before they realized they had to give up. The stark tree trunks thickened, the footing loosened too much for anything on two legs, and Evangelina had the advantage of . . .

  "Wings." Art looked through the treetops as their quarry, at least two hundred yards distant, took to the air with a startling cry. "Fucking wings."

  Mercy pulled up next to him, drew her Beretta, and fired. BAM-BAM-BAM. BAM-BAM-BAM.

  Art didn't flinch. "Bullets won't stop her. At least, not the number you have in that clip."

  "Then I'll reload." BAM-BAM-BAM. BAM.

  "Mercy, it's okay . . ."

  "It's not okay!" She popped out her empty clip, scrambled for a new clip, and then instead flung her weapon into the woods and buried her head in her hands. Empty-handed again, Picklechi
p?! "You don't understand, it's not okay, I have to get her, I have to bring her in . . ."

  "Maybe she won't come back," Art told her in comforting tones. "Maybe it's done now. This house wasn't even on Pride's list."

  Lue caught up to them then, piece drawn and looking pale from pain. "Everyone okay?"

  "No one's hurt," Art told him. "Agent March is frustrated. So am I."

  "Evangelina escaped?"

  "Obviously."

  "Sounds like another day of dragon hunting." Lue holstered his gun and sat on a felled oak. "I am ready for this to be over. I thought it was over."

  "Not if Pamela's list was incomplete," Mercy said, trying to regain composure. She set about recovering the Beretta, which was lying in dried thorns several yards away. She winced as she reached through the sharp vegetation to pick it up. "We have to figure out who else is on the list."

  "Okay," Lue agreed. "But how can we do that?" Those social networking lists have hundreds of names on them. Even if you narrow it down to Moorston residents who have not left or been murdered, you have dozens of residences to consider. How can we possibly be in all places at once?"

  "We'll figure it out. There has to be a way." Mercy grimly holstered the Beretta. Her meltdown was over, and the FBI agent was back. "C'mon. Back to the car."

  Art began to follow her, and then looked back at Lue as the younger detective got up with a grimace. "You need a doctor?"

  "Yes, but not the kind you have in mind. Is it bad if everything hurts?"

  Back at the car, which Mercy restarted and put gently into drive, the questions began anew.

  "I cannot help but notice," Lue began as he winced, "that I am in the backseat again."

  Art ignored him. "Why was this residence not on Pamela's list?"

  "We'll have to go there to find out."

  Once they were there, they were surprised with the amount of damage the fire had done. Something--a boiler or kerosene tank--had exploded and blown a hole in the side of the three-story, which had lit a nearby oak on fire, which had fallen and set some nearby brush on fire. The structure itself was half-standing.