by Mark Henry
“Guck? I’m pretty sure that’s not a word. “
“Yeah it is. It means jizz.”
I frowned. “I have never heard that. Ever.”
“Oh come on. Everyone knows that word.”
“No they don’t.”
“Whatever. Bucky the Guck is wanted in three states for luring guys into the bushes and taking their spunk…by force. The cops have been after him for years.”
“Him? No way that’s a guy,” I said, squinting to get a better look. “That mustache has got to be fake. The features. Those lips. Buck’s a woman.”
Gil held up his finger. “Used to be a woman…now she’s a monster. Creeping in the shadows of the night, draining her victims of their life fluid. It’s disgusting.”
“You realize you just described a vampire, right?”
“I don’t creep, Amanda. I don’t have to crouch in bushes.”
“So you don’t swallow?”
“Shut up,” he said, jaw tense but quivering.
I busted up laughing and it wasn’t long after that he joined me. I slapped his thigh and that seemed to be enough. He cracked that wicked smile of his and I stepped out of the van. “Don’t leave the car, now.”
“Why?”
“There’s a pervert out there draining internet whores of their livelihood.”
“Good tip.”
I approached the girl cautiously. You never know about kids these days, Moonglow Featherberry included. She could be carrying a gun or something and they all know how to put down a zombie. There are fucking books about that shit.
“Are you Amanda?” Lizzy asked, squinting.
I nodded. “Sure am. Pleased to meet you. I was rooting for you to win the whole thing. I guess you have.”
The girl shrugged, looked me up and down and winced. “Wow. Look at you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone dressed like that around here. Are those clothes expensive?”
“Probably,” I said, shrugging.
The girl wore a knit cap perched atop her head for no good reason and a winter jacket two sizes two big. She crammed her hands in the pockets and fanned it out like a cape as she talked. “I didn’t really want to win, you know.” She grimaced. “I wouldn’t have even done the damn thing if my mom hadn’t badgered me into it. But, shit, what else was I going to do? There’s nothing for me here. I planned to come in second or even third so I didn’t have to be in the goddamn parade tomorrow.”
“Totally understandable.” I couldn’t actually remember ever seeing a parade outside of reenactments on movies and I always wondered what kind of people drag their asses out of bed at the butt crack of dawn to secure seating to watch a high school band hit every other note or a drill team grind in their hoochie skirts?
“I guess.” Lizzy shrugged. “Actually, I kind of like them.”
She paced a bit, dug in her pocket and pulled out a bent cigarette, straightened it between delicate fingers, nail polish chipped and gray. “I was planning on running away tonight and now I feel obligated to wave at tourists and toss sand flea beanies to the kids.”
“Bummer. Running away is always the best option. And it’s summer, so you won’t get cold when you crawl into your cardboard box.”
“Exactly!” She beamed stupidly. “I was thinking of going to Seattle and becoming a big star.”
I crinkled my forehead. “Star?”
“Roller Derby. I’m good at skating. You know how they say everyone has at least one thing they’re good at?”
I couldn’t name a single Roller Derby girl, period, let alone in Seattle, so I’m pretty sure you can’t be famous at it. This girl needed a clue, but for once, I didn’t pounce. Runaways are one of my chief food groups and this girl seemed to be teetering on the edge of the Styrofoam packing tray. If some trucker on her way to Seattle didn’t rape and murder Lizzy (or vice versa), she’d probably take her first meth hit with a toothless hobo and end up in some zombie or vampire’s sights. On the other hand, being food for the supernaturals sure beats blowing old men for twenties.
She seemed to be considering this. The perfect time to pull out my phone.
“Do you smell fish?” she sniffed the air, craning her neck slowly toward me.
“No. Now, at the theater, I saw this woman asking people questions.” I held the photo out for her to examine and wasn’t at all surprised when the girl nodded.
“Mmhm, ya. Mrs. Winterford.”
I knew it. That bitch could lie to everyone else, but not me. She hadn’t missed the pageant at all.
“What do you know about her?”
“Is this a quiz?” She took a long drag and blew it into the sky. “She writes books or something. I thought your text said I was going to be in the paper.”
“Oh you are.” Under: girl goes missing, I thought, but kept that tidbit to myself, for obvious reasons. “What do you know about Mrs. Winterford?”
“She’s a creeper. Always hanging around any time there’s an accident in Las Felicitas. Lurking around corners and shit. There’s a lot of accidents around here. It’s kind of ridiculous.”
“Do people think she’s involved in these accidents?”
“Some do. I dunno. But if there’s ever a particularly juicy one then she writes a book about it. You can see them all over at Mrs. Swinton’s store. She signs them and everything. Kind of our local celebrity.”
“She’s pretty mobile then?”
“What?” the girl’s face registered confusion—as it likely did hundreds of times a day.
“I saw her walking around not even trying to be paraplegic. What’s up with that?”
She shook her head, clearly not clicking with the lingo. “She’s not on crutches or anything.”
“Oh no?” The American school system at work, folks.
“Maybe a limp?” She shrugged, noncommittal.
I sighed. I knew Mrs. Winterford was faking. God, what kind of a person does that? It made my stomach turn—though the feeling could have been a result of the jostling Thad had just put my insides through.
Hard to say.
“Did anyone have reason to hurt Becky?”
“Hurt her? No. I don’t think so. Everyone loved her, obviously. She won and all despite being completely boring.”
“Right?” I nearly spat. “I was totally rooting for you, like I said.”
“Thanks.” She crushed the butt of her cigarette underfoot and backed away a step. “Anyways, I think I’m going to go. Have to get up early for the parade.”
“Good luck with the roller derby.”
Moonglow drifted into the darkness of the park and disappeared. I stood staring after her, amazed at myself. This detective stuff was actually kind of simple. I had no intention of actually investigating and here I was with the actual killer pinned down. All I needed to do was deliver her to Mrs. Swinton along with some key evidence.
And I knew just where to get it.
Chapter 9
By the time we made it back to Ocean Lane, the night sky was pink and Gil had taken on the edgy look vampires get when daylight presents itself like a prison, drumming his fingertips on the dash, eyes darting from mine to my foot, stopping short of screaming, “Step on it!”
When we pulled up to the Dunes of Hazard he darted, feet spinning on the damp patches of grass that sprouted here and there like stray hairs.
I stared after him as I backed out, wondering if it wasn’t so much the deadly sun, but his need to get back to his clientele. Also, sort of envious. Those guys sounded really disappointed that Gil hadn’t finished that whole bloody beat-off thing.
Must be nice to have people really invested in your sexual pleasure (footnote: I’m looking at you Scott). Though, Gil doesn’t have any coworkers. No one to bounce ideas off. No safety protocols. If there were some sort of filming accident and Gil misjudged his strength, ripping off his own penis and throwing it across the room, there wouldn’t be anyone there to catch it and pretend that Band-Aids would take care of that kind of an inju
ry. Just the guys on the computer screaming and reversing their credit card charges.
Sad.
I’ve never even had phone sex. I have masturbated while I was on hold with my internet provider. But I’m pretty sure I can’t get paid for that.
I slapped my jaw. Enough. I already had a pretend career as a smokin’ hot detective, why would I even consider exposing my undead lady business for money? Not that I was doing that. Oh fuck, keep it to yourselves.
I pulled back out and drove to Thad’s clothing shack. Leaving the van idling—if he were still there I’d probably have to thwart his advances and turning off the van was as good an excuse as any to bolt. If not, his clothes and the sketchy note he’d shown me at the bar would likely be folded neatly inside, along with everything else, while he slipped through the murky depths of the Pacific Ocean.
“Thad?” I called. “You around?”
I rapped on the door a couple of times, but it was obvious he’d retreated to the sea. The inside was as I’d left it, with the addition of his latest outfit folded on a stool in the corner. As I crouched next to it and drove my hand into the jeans pockets, the sound of feet scraping against shale caught my attention. The column of streetlight illuminating the hut through the open door was blocked entirely.
“Thad?” I said, preparing a lascivious grin for my oceanic lover.
But the figure that loomed before me, wet and ballooning and gray, probably didn’t belong to Thad—probably. But it’s hard to say, I only ever saw his transformative shape in shadow.
“It’s me Amanda!” I cried out, in case I was mistaken, or he was, or whatever.
But the thing’s shift continued, unimpressed with my credentials, filling the doorway in teeth, row upon row. A snapping, snarling food processor. I threw myself into a defensive position, hands outstretched, knees bent and inhaled to the best of my ability—zombie lungs have one purpose and it ain’t breathing.
“Down boy!”
I’d handled a few shapeshifters in the past—including Scott, who only dared shift into beast mode once and in his defense, he was really horny—but not into anything as large as a great white on two legs. Maybe-Thad’s arms receded into an elongating neck, gray and slick as neoprene. The whole thing was neck, as far as I could tell, but his legs were thick as tree trunks, its feet taloned, and the nails at the end of each of its three toes akin to shark teeth themselves.
Jagged. Busted. In tragic need of a Vietnamese nail lady.
Maybe-Thad snapped and lunged, catching his dorsal fin on the doorframe and shaking the hut violently, immaculately folded clothing tumbled onto the floor, hangers clanked. I slammed myself against the far wall and panted, heaving in deeper and deeper breaths until I could feel my chest wall ache with pleurisy, the virus peeling off my dead lungs and peppering the breaths of cold night air in a milky white mist.
“I didn’t want it to end like this, Thad,” I said and leaned forward as close as I dared to the snapping shark, wedged into the door and exhaled.
The breath poured out of me like a fog, billowing like a cream flap of velvet in the air between us before taking on a life of its own. Thin tendrils filigreed from the mass of virus, seeking life and lung. The fact that a shark didn’t have lungs didn’t occur to me until I’d expelled all the breath I could and clamped my hands against the clothing cubbies to steady my shaking legs. I was hoping that whatever had created such a freak show had seen fit to imbue it with at least that standard of human tissue.
I couldn’t be sure it would work as I’ve only ever destroyed a vampire in this manner before, never a shapeshifter. Though I was optimistic my dragon breath would have some effect. Shapeshifters, vampires, other supernaturals can’t normally survive the breath. It requires a human to turn and when it doesn’t find what it’s looking for it gets pissed. Like tiny little mafia enforcers without sexy British accents or tats.
The frame surrounding the door broke free and Not-Thad pushed in further—I decided Thad was too fastidious with his clothing to ever jeopardize his closet in this manner. His teeth snapped inches from my face. The wind from it’s clamping maw blowing my hair back.
And then, finally, the breath took hold.
The giant creature lurched, fell to its broad knees and seized like an epileptic. His giant mouth went slack, spittle dripping from the exposed teeth as more of the breath coiled between them and down his throat.
When uncertain of anatomy, the best sound a zombie can hope for is the shuddering wheeze of death.
He flopped a bit and then stilled completely. Dead. Before long the wereshark began to quiver, it’s flesh shimmering like salmon gone bad and then it merely shed its legs and a tail sprouted, fins unfurling flaccidly. Definitely-Not-Thad’s backbone arched and then fell on the floor. Back to life-less—apologies for the weak Soul II Soul reference.
“That did not go as I’d planned.” I double-checked to make sure I had the note in my purse and then sidestepping the fish corpse, I took my leave. Only to be confronted by a stunned and quite naked Thad.
“Who’s that?” He yelled, pivoting around me to look at the mess and body on his floor.
“Not you,” I said glancing at his lengthy but uninspired package. “Shrinkage doesn’t really apply to you, I see.”
“Stop.” He squeezed past and examined the dead shark, flipping him over on his back. “Oh man. It’s Chuck. He owed me money.” Thad turned hopefully. “Did he give it to you before he...”
“No such luck.”
Thad didn’t appear to mourn his friend’s passing, which went along with the shifter’s nature. Death is sort of natural to them, it doesn’t phase them. Whereas, you or I might be a little freaked out—let me rephrase that—you might be. I’m usually the cause of death. Though, for a change I’d like an invite to a funeral. If for no other reason than to wear my vintage Dior little black dress. It’s probably an inch or three too short to be appropriate but with a sad floppy hat, who’d notice that my panties show when I sit down?
“I actually came to grab the note you left. I’m going to match it up to Mrs. Winterford. I’m pretty sure she was the one that used you like her henchman.”
“Bitch.”
“For real.” I pressed my palm against his warm chest, feeling his nipple harden against the side of my palm. Cold hands and all. “Could you do me a favor?” I asked.
***
I palmed the folded note and pushed back into the Dunes of Hazard, hoping to avoid a confrontation with my prime suspect until I’d located her typewriter.
“You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops.” Mrs. Winterford sneered from her chaise lounge on wheels. She stole a disgusted glance at the van, clearly visible through the window.
“Oh my god,” I said, smiling as innocuously as I could manage. “I totally am. I’m indebted to you or something.”
“I’ll say.”
“I had a lady’s emergency. I’m sure you understand.”
The woman clutched her pearls and twisted them as she frowned. I kept nodding, held her eyes with mine and eventually through that simple silent exchange she bought the lie.
“Has Wendy or her associate been up and around?”
“The Mexican,” Mrs. Winterford spat the word—I was vaguely reminded of the way my mother would say it, jiggling her shoulders and pronouncing the ‘x’ as an ‘h.’ “She came up and ate every bit of the breakfast I’d allotted for the three of you and then disappeared back down the hall. She’s a strange one, ravenous, and I got the distinct impression that she might be a criminal, you know…” She whispered the next part, her palm directing the small hiss of sound away from the hall. “…From the barrio.”
I nodded. “You have no idea. I’ll be sure to have Wendy talk to her about her manners and I do apologize for not asking for the van.”
The woman squinted as I backed away into the hall, keeping her in my sights until I forced my way into Wendy’s room, stumbling into the traveling headquarters of her cloud syndicate. M
onitors sat atop nearly every surface, faces stared out blankly, trained on me. Wendy and Abuelita gawped.
Wendy’s mouth smacked open “Really?”
“Sorry?” I scanned the faces again. No one seemed genuinely pleased to see me. How could that be? “I just…how’s the hunt going?”
Wendy rushed across the room and pushed me back out into the hall, closing the door behind us and dropping into hushed tones. “I’ve got business to take care of here, Amanda. I can’t be playing games. There are vampires in need of a cuddly fix and you know what they’re like when they’re testy.”
“I’ve just made some progress on the case and—”
“On the what?” she cut me off. “You don’t have a case, Amanda. All you have to do is make sure we’re out of here in,” she glanced at her watch. “Six hours. On the road. No more hold ups. No wereshark lovers. I don’t have time for this.”
“Uh, no problem. Our murderer is right out there in the conversation pit.”
“You brought that fishy fucker here?”
“No. It’s Mrs. Winterford and get this…she’s pretending to be handicapped.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
I shrugged. “Also, she doused Becky Swinton in a bucket of chum.”
Wendy scowled, disgusted and then a quizzical look took over. “Where’d she get that much?”
“I dunno. It’s pretty easy. You just put the fish in a food processor or something.”
She slapped her leg, laughing. “Oh! Chum! Gotcha. Either way, that’s gross.” Wendy backed into the room, stony and stabbed her index finger in my direction. “Six hours.”
The door slammed in my face and it took everything I had not to throw it back open and give Wendy an ear full. I hated to admit it, but damn it if Gil wasn’t right. I was annoyed by the power shift. I’d never been subject to her barbs and bullshit before. She’d simply complimented my own horrible snarkiness, like the right wine with a meal.
Not so now.
And I certainly wasn’t capable of reciprocating, particularly when she wasn’t funny. At all. How had I not noticed? Then again, she was under a lot of stress. Whatever.
