by Julie Kenner
“Have you ever—” I began, wondering if Laura had done the same with Paul. Her expression stopped me, though. She was staring at the patio, her mouth wide open, and her hand up, just a little, as if she wanted to point to something but couldn’t quite manage.
“Laura?” Alarmed, I took her arm and gave her a little shake. “Laura, what is it?”
“Paul,” she whispered. And then her hand did manage to point. A couple, off to one side and near the back, mostly hidden in the shadows. My heart stuttered in my chest, and even as I told myself that she had to be wrong, I knew that she wasn’t. Paul was there, with a woman. And this wasn’t a business dinner.
“It might not be him,” I said, lamely. “It’s really hard to see from here.”
“It’s him.” Her voice was flat, resigned.
“Maybe it’s innocent.”
She looked at me. Just looked.
“Or maybe it’s not. What do you want to do? I could slam an ice pick through his eye. Or we could try a calmer approach and just go talk to him.”
“Tempting,” she said. “The ice pick, I mean. Not the talking.”
She drew in a breath, then another. Then she closed her eyes and as she did that I counted to ten. Sure enough, right when I’d finished counting, she opened her eyes, squared her shoulders, and pointed toward the beach. “I’m not going to waste any of this evening on Paul Dupont,” she said. “I’m going to go see my daughter. I’ll ask him about it when he gets home. Maybe he does have an explanation for having dinner with a woman at San Diablo’s most romantic hotel when he told me he was out of town. I mean, I have to give him the benefit of the doubt, right?”
I doubted, all right. But in true best friend fashion, I just nodded. “Right. Absolutely right.”
“Okay then.” She started walking again. “We better hurry. I don’t want to miss out on the hot dogs.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence, Laura taking tense, careful steps, and me keeping an eye on her. She was doing okay, though, and by the time we reached the north end of the beach and the boardwalk fizzled out into sand over by where the cliffs started, we could hear music and see the smoke rising from a campfire just past the tide pools. Kids were scattered about in the inlet marked by the cliffs, some dancing, some running in the surf, some riding the waves.
“Smells good,” Laura said, her voice high pitched and overly chipper. “I’m starved.”
“Me, too.”
A few more minutes of walking in silence, then, “So what do you think they want it for?”
I didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. We were talking about the book now, both out of necessity, and to get our minds off Paul. “I wish I knew,” I said. “Maybe the local demons want to start scrapbooking.”
“ ‘The wheels are in motion,’ ” Laura whispered, pulling her sweater tighter around her shoulders.
“So I’ve been told,” I said. “We just have to figure out how to derail the damn thing.”
“You know I love you, so don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes I really miss the days when our most serious decisions turned on whether we should join World Gym or Curves, and the darkest secret I knew was that Jennifer Tate was taking her daughter’s Ritalin.”
I shot a sideways glance at Laura. “She was?”
Her cheeks immediately bloomed pink. “You didn’t know?”
“No, I didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She lifted a shoulder. “It was a secret. I’m good at keeping secrets. You know that.”
That I did. But still. “Her kid’s Ritalin?”
“Shhh!” Laura hissed, turning in a circle and scanning the area for prying ears. “Just drop it and tell me what I need to do about your secret.”
We didn’t have any more time to discuss it, though, because we’d climbed over the battered rock marking the tide pools, and David Long was waving at us from just a few yards away. He reached into an ice chest, grabbed two bottles that looked suspiciously like wine coolers, and started heading our way.
He didn’t have his cane, but he moved gracefully, albeit with a slight limp. By the time we met him somewhere in the middle, I was seething. This was a school-sponsored event! The faculty adviser was supposed to set a good example, not press alcohol onto every adult who wandered in. Was he letting the seniors have beer? The freshmen?
I was just about to give him a piece of my mind, when he pressed a bottle into my hand. “Here you go, Mrs. Connor.” I read the label and immediately deflated. Sparkling water.
I twisted the cap off the water and took a long swallow, feeling a little like an idiot. “Thanks,” I said. “And call me Kate.”
Allie brought Troy over about ten minutes later, and after much blushing and shuffling of feet, I got to say a few words to the boy. When she smiled and gave me a quick hug, I figured I’d passed. Dress, conversation, attitude. All appropriately appropriate for a mom attending a school function.
And, I have to admit, Troy acted appropriately, too. He introduced me to the other members of the surf team who’d come to the cookout, explaining that only about half had been able to make it since the pre-practice cookout was a last-minute thing. “I’m glad you could come, Mrs. Connor,” he said, then beamed at my daughter, who blushed down to her toes.
Although I watched like a hawk, I didn’t catch one ill-mannered move toward Allie. He brought her sodas and food, made her laugh, and went out of his way to clear a place on one of the oversized beach blankets for her to sit. All in all, I had to approve.
I wasn’t going to lift my no-dating rule, but maybe—just maybe—we could invite this kid over to watch a movie. With the lights on. And me and Stuart (and Eddie and Timmy) in the room, too.
By the time the sun was hovering just above the horizon, Laura and I were sitting with a few other parents, all of whom were also watching their kids. I watched as David circulated among the kids, pulling the surfers aside, and sending them off to gather at the water’s edge.
When he got to Allie and Troy, I saw Troy squeeze Allie’s hand before leaving. Then David said a few words to Allie, and a broad smile split her face. I had no idea what he’d said, but I had to admit that he was good with her. From what I’d seen, he was good with all the kids.
In fact, I couldn’t think of one thing that was wrong with David Long. So why did that little warning light go off in my head every time I was around him?
I leaned toward Laura. “Him,” I said, nodding toward David.
“Are we playing Twenty Questions?” she asked. “What about him?”
“You can start your research with David Long.”
She shifted on the blanket so she was facing me, then glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. No one was. The other parents were gathering up their things, anticipating moving closer to the water to watch the surf team do their thing.
“You really think he’s up to something?” Laura said. “He seems so nice.”
“That’s what I don’t like,” I said. I’d met David the same day all of this had started. He was either a demon, a mysterious key-leaver, or in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wanted to know which one.
“Honestly, Kate, you didn’t used to be this paranoid.”
I just stared at her.
“Right. Okay. Paranoia is good. I can see that. So what do you want to know about him?”
“Whatever you can dig up. How long has he been teaching? How long at Coronado. Where’s he from? Is he married? You know. The usual.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. She hauled herself up to her feet. “Meanwhile, I’m going to go watch the guys surf.”
We moved closer, and from our new vantage point, I could see the surfers standing with their boards, all lined up for a picture. The guy in the middle—tall and blond and definitely not high-school age—seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him.
“That’s Cool,” Laura said, when I asked if she knew. “You know, the surfer.”
/> “As a matter of fact, I didn’t know. And I’m amazed that you do. Do you know all the local basketball players, too?”
She made a face. “He’s been in the news, Kate. If you wrangled the remote away from Stuart and Eddie, maybe you’d see something more than political coverage or old Match Game reruns.”
“My repertoire’s broader than that,” I said. “I’m thoroughly versed in each and every episode of The Backyardigans. And I always know who the Sesame Street celebrity guest’s going to be.”
“Yeah? Well, Cool is the celebrity guest here. It says so on the sign by the hot-dog stand.”
I cocked my head, looking at him more closely. If he was that much of a local celebrity, I probably had seen him on the news or in a local commercial. I certainly couldn’t imagine where else I’d have seen a six-foot-something, tanned and oiled surfer dude. I mean, I haven’t watched an episode of Baywatch in years.
Laura lifted her bottle of sparkling water. “I’m switching to the hard stuff,” she said. “Diet Coke. Want one?”
I shook my head, realizing that I’d already finished off four bottles of water and was beginning to feel it. I hauled myself to my feet. “Be right back,” I said. I looked around, orienting myself, then pointed back toward the hotel. “The only bathroom’s that way, right?”
Laura nodded. “We passed one just after we got off the boardwalk. It’s pushed up against the base of the cliffs and there’s a little concrete path leading up to it. You can’t miss it.”
I set off that direction, still thinking about Cool. Yes, there were demons afoot. And yes, something was definitely brewing. But that didn’t mean I had to be suspicious about the surfer simply because he looked familiar. The low-budget commercials the local merchants aired on television were usually pretty bad, but they hardly crossed the line to demonic.
The public restroom was deserted and remarkably clean. I attributed that to the fact that it was December. Although you can go to the beach year-round in San Diablo, only the hardiest of souls actually brave the water during the winter months, and the tourists are conspicuously absent. The Pacific’s cold enough during the summer; drop the ambient temperature a few degrees and you have a situation more suitable for polar bears than people.
Not that the water temperature was slowing down the surfers. As I came out of the restroom, I could hear the laughter and applause from the students as they cheered the surfers on. From this vantage point, my view of the kids on the beach was blocked by an outcropping of rock. But I had a clear view of the ocean, and I could make out six surfers, bouncing on the waves, waving at the crowd, and generally having a good time.
As I hurried down the path, I passed a sanitation worker coming up, one of those broom/dustpan combinations in his hand. His familiar green coveralls caught my eye. For that matter, they probably saved my life.
Because if I hadn’t been eyeing him, I might not have seen the way he slowed. The way his hand tightened on the broom handle as he dropped the dustpan aside.
And I definitely would have missed the way he lashed out with the stick in a deadly maneuver aimed straight for my throat.
Ten
l thrust my right Arm up in a lightning-fast move designed to protect. At the same time, my left arm whipped across my body in a defensive motion. I snatched the handle, my fingers closing tight.
My attacker howled in frustration, his volume only increasing when I yanked the broom out of his grasp. I jammed it down hard on the concrete, using the heel of my foot to snap off the whisk part.
All that took less than a second, and I spun the staff, then jammed it out, catching him in the gut with the end of the stick. His breath escaped with a whoof, and he tumbled backwards, clutching at his middle.
I recognized him right away—the green overalls, the fleshy face. And, of course, the “Coronado High School, Ernesto Ruiz” monogram on the pocket was a dead give-away (no pun intended).
I’d been attacked by the high school janitor.
Since I doubted he’d jump me simply because I’d messed up his supply room, I was pretty certain that the janitor was a demon. “Why are you here?” I demanded, my voice low and deadly. “And who is your master?”
He tightened his hands around the staff, trying to release the pressure on his belly. “Fool,” he rasped. “You cannot win. Give us what we seek and we’ll let you live.”
“The book? I burned it.”
“You lie!” he hissed.
“You can look for it in Hell,” I said, lifting the staff just long enough to slam it down once again, this time through his eye.
I didn’t make it, though. I’d underestimated his strength, and as I released my hold, he reached out, managing to grab the long-handled dustpan. He swung it up and out, the metal scoop part slicing across my belly and ripping my shirt. I cried out against the sharp pain, withdrawing reflexively for the briefest of instants.
But that was enough. He was up and on his feet, snarling as he slammed the dustpan down hard on the pavement in a move that mirrored my own. The scoop part came off, leaving him with a stick the approximate length and weight of mine.
He held tight, lunging toward me and waving the stick in choppy but lethal motions. I hadn’t fought with staffs in over twenty years, and as I lunged and parried, I made a mental note to suggest a curriculum change to Cutter. I definitely needed a refresher course.
Not that my lack of training mattered much. Formal skills weren’t really on the agenda at the moment. This was street fighting. Down and dirty and no holds barred. Training would help and hone, but tonight it was my mood that would get me through.
Because, frankly, I was pissed.
Attack me in my house? Leave inexplicable demonic books lying around? Make me late for the only date my daughter will ever invite me on?
Oh yeah. I was ready to kick some demon butt, and this demon would do just fine.
We went at it like wild things, lost in a flurry of lunges and thrusts. My moves were primarily defensive, as I tried to stay alive while looking for an opening during which I could slam my staff through his eye.
My purse had tumbled free earlier, and now I saw it on the ground. I started to lunge that way, then remembered. I’d been interrupted switching purses. My holy water, knife, and other handy tidbits were still in my bag at home. Damn.
He rushed me, the end of his staff aimed for my face. It was a ridiculous move, and easily blocked by an upward thrust of my own staff. As I did that, though, I took a step backwards . . . and found myself sprawled on the ground, my foot in a tangle of metal and chain.
Frisbee golf! I’d tripped over a half-buried Frisbee golf goal.
As I tugged my foot free, the demon leaped on me, his knees tight around either side of my waist as he held me down with a hand to my throat.
My hands were pinned under me, and I struggled to move, but could manage little more than a squirm. His foul breath washed over me, and I sent up a silent prayer. This couldn’t be the end. Not now. Not when I had two kids to raise. Two kids to protect from the demons out there in the world.
His hand tightened around my throat, and I struggled uselessly, the world starting to turn gray.
“Where?” he whispered again, his voice as rough as gravel. He got right in my face, and I almost gagged from the stench. “Where is it?”
I opened my mouth and pretended to try to speak. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t loosen his grip. I wiggled my hand some more, twisting my body as I did in a mock struggle that I hoped camouflaged what I was really doing: digging deeper into the sand, trying to free just that one limb.
“Where?” he demanded again.
I forced out a sound. Just a gurgle really, then coughed. I tried again. Another sound. And this time, thank God, it actually worked. The demon loosened his grip on my neck. Not much, but enough. “The book,” I croaked. “Just go . . . go . . .”
“Yes?”
“Just go to Hell!”
His eyes went wide, as much from
my words as from my now-free hand that I’d shot up and out, catching him in the throat just about where he’d caught me. He reacted instinctively, pulling away and that gave me the opening I needed.
I thrust up with my knee and the heel of my hand, managing to knock him off me. Then I rocked back and up in a kip-up maneuver that got me to my feet.
Now I had the advantage, and intended to use it. “Are you trying to free the Tartarus demons? Why do you need the book? For instructions? A ritual? What?” I snapped out the questions as I circled him, waiting for the right moment to attack.
“You’ll learn soon enough, Hunter,” he said. He lunged for me, and I moved to defend. But instead of attacking, he reached down, scooped up a handful of sand, and before he was even fully upright again, he tossed it right into my face.
I howled in pain as the sand dug into my eyes. Only a split second passed before I remembered to react, but it was already too late. I braced for his attack, and then . . . nothing. I squinted through the pain, my eyes streaming tears. He was gone. Instead of attacking, he’d run, and I could see him sprinting down the beach away from me. And, more important, away from the students.
I considered going after him, but ruled it out. I’d need to find and eradicate him, no question about that. But I’d rather not do it now if I didn’t have to. For one thing, I didn’t have any decent weapons. For another, I’d have to hide the body.
I could drag him into the surf or dig a hole in the sand, but both of those things would take time, and weren’t very effective anyway. And if any of the students walked up while I was in the process of burying their janitor, what would I say? That he wasn’t keeping the cafeteria sanitary? Somehow, I didn’t think that would fly.
No, I knew about the janitor now. Best to let him go and follow up on that kill later.
I thought back to the time I’d seen him at school, standing in the background as the police had hauled Sinclair’s body away. Had he been a demon then? I didn’t think so. For one, it would have made a lot more sense to have a janitor-demon search for (or hide?) the book. Why send Sinclair when he might be detected by yours truly?
