Day Shift

by Charlaine Harris

  “Who’s the guy?” Olivia said. “Anyone we know?” Manfred admired Olivia’s perfectly light tone.

  “You remember the bouncer at the Cartoon Saloon?”

  “From when we all went there? Sure. The good-looking guy?”

  “Yeah.” Fiji seemed a little proud of that. “So, I called him after a couple of weeks, because I was tired of staying at home.” That last was added a little defiantly. “And we’ve been going out from time to time.”

  “Bouncers get nights off?” Manfred had no idea what a professional bouncer could expect in the way of downtime, but he felt he had to say something.

  “He has a day job as an EMT during the week, and he’s a bouncer on weekends,” Fiji said. “We’re going to Little Fishes in Marthasville tomorrow night. And a movie.” She took a deep breath. “Back to the original problem. Sorry for the interruption.”

  “If I were in an action movie,” Manfred said, after a long pause, “I’d put some of that plastic explosive on the door of the Goldthorpe house, blow it up, race in dodging bullets, and sweep all of the books out of the shelves in the library, so the first thing the police saw when they came in would be all the missing stuff.”

  “I have no idea where to get plastique, I have no idea how to use it, I don’t know who would be shooting at you since no one’s living in the house, and we aren’t sure that the library is actually full of books, or that the jewelry is in one.” Olivia stood up. “If I had to check all the books, I’d pick an atlas first, because of the ‘world’ reference. This is getting us nowhere. I’m going to go walk and think.” She left.

  “Ahhhh . . . okay,” Manfred said. He stretched and rotated, feeling stiff physically and full of cobwebs mentally. “When I come up with a plan, I’ll get back with you, Fiji. Thanks for letting us brainstorm here, even if nothing came of it . . . yet.”

  Fiji, who had settled back into the office chair, didn’t budge. “All right. I’ll think about it, too. Maybe I’ll come up with something.”

  “That would be great,” Manfred said. “What’s bad for me turns out to be bad for Midnight, too. Have a good time on your date.”

  She nodded, and Mr. Snuggly appeared to jump into her lap and curl up in a contented golden ball. She scratched behind his ears. He began purring, loud enough for the sound to reach Manfred. For once, Mr. Snuggly sounded like an absolutely normal cat.

  Manfred crossed the porch and walked down the flagstone path to the sidewalk. He was glad to leave Fiji’s shop because he was disappointed they hadn’t made a plan. As he crossed Witch Light Road, he admitted to himself that he was also dismayed that Olivia was not acting like Olivia ought to act—tough, callous, decisive. Fiji was behaving in a confusing way, too; they all knew (except the man most concerned) that for years she had carried a huge flaming torch for Bobo Winthrop, who regarded the witch as his best buddy. Yet she was going out with the bouncer, whom Manfred remembered as a very tough guy.

  To cap off Manfred’s unsettled feeling, when he stopped at the end of his driveway to open his mailbox, he found a bill from Magdalena Orta Powell. He opened it and winced when he saw the bottom line. He sat down at his computer to work with renewed dedication. If I ever have to go to court over this, he thought, I might as well forget ever buying a new car. Or my own house. He wondered what Magdalena’s house looked like. Perhaps the plumbing was made of gold.

  Manfred reminded himself that while his car was humble, it was paid for, that he didn’t need a house, and that adding a room to the lawyer’s house was better than being in jail.

  Much better.

  17

  Joe went farther on his morning run than he’d ever gone. He enjoyed the quiet time for thinking, not that there was exactly a cacophony in Midnight or that Chuy’s conversation was not welcome. But sometimes the solitude of running was just what he needed. This morning, with the sun already blazing on his back, Joe was thinking of their little Peke, Rasta, and of all Rasta’s health problems. The dog was getting older, and Joe knew there would be hard times ahead. He and Chuy had not aged, or at least not that Joe could perceive, in many, many, years.

  That didn’t mean they were invulnerable. Just as Joe was thinking of the previous week when Chuy had cut himself with a kitchen knife, Joe looked down, saw a rattlesnake right in front of him, and tried to leap sideways in midstride.

  Joe realized three things as he lay by the side of the road. First, the snake had not been a diamondback at all, but a gopher snake. He still would not have wanted to tread on it, but it wouldn’t have injected him with poison. Second, he had landed poorly and his ankle was hurting like a bitch. And third, there was no one coming in any direction.

  “Okay,” Joe said out loud. “Okay. First, I have to sit up.” His palms and elbows were scraped and bleeding. That was minor but uncomfortable. Joe rolled onto his knees and pushed up. He glanced around for the snake, but it was gone.

  Sometimes Joe saw a rancher or a commuter to Magic Portal on his morning run, but today was not one of those days. He hobbled back into Midnight, struggling not to say any of the words that popped into his head. The pain tempted him to break a promise he and Chuy had made to each other long ago. Joe looked up at the blue sky, at a vulture floating on the thermals far above, his wings spread wide. He took a deep breath, restraining himself. A promise was a promise. He limped on.

  The first person to spot him was the boy Diederik, who was standing outside the Rev’s cottage. Diederik came running to Joe’s aid, seeming delighted to have something to do.

  “You need help, yes?” the boy said.

  “Yes,” Joe said. “I definitely need help.”

  He found it was very easy to put his arm around the boy’s offered shoulder. The boy was almost as tall as Joe now.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked Diederik, only realizing it was odd that he was the one asking the question as the words left his mouth.

  “Very strange,” the boy said. “I feel like there are two people in me.”

  Joe didn’t understand, but he didn’t have to, to see the boy’s distress. He said, “I know you miss your father.”

  “He hoped to be back by now,” Diederik said, trying to sound matter-of-fact, but failing. “I don’t think he will be back in time.” They were making progress on the sidewalk, and they crossed the road to the shop, Joe gasping with the effort. Diederik was feeling Joe’s weight after a few steps.

  “The Rev’s trying hard to take good care of you,” Joe said.

  “I miss my father and my mother,” Diederik said breathlessly. “But my father told me to be brave and he would return.”

  Joe had no reply to that.

  Chuy was reading a magazine at his workstation when Joe and Diederik made their awkward entrance, and his eyes widened as he looked from one to another.

  “Mr. Joe saw a snake,” Diederik said simply. “And he fell down.”

  “Pretty much in a nutshell,” Joe said, trying to smile.

  “Let me see,” Chuy said, kneeling at Joe’s feet. Joe, feeling a little ridiculous—but also ridiculously glad to see Chuy—held out the injured limb. Chuy got the running shoe off quickly and as gently as possible, but the pulling and tugging made Joe gasp. The ankle was already discolored and swollen.

  Chuy said, “I’ll run upstairs to get an ice pack.” His glance went over to Diederik. “And some clothes for the boy. For tomorrow.” He hurried out the front door to go up the outside stairs. Not for the first time, Joe reflected how nice it would be if their stairs were inside the building, like the ones in the pawnshop. He distracted himself by imagining the project. Maybe this winter . . . ?

  Diederik moved restlessly, and Joe realized it was past time to get his weight off the boy. “Help me over to the chair,” Joe said. “We’ll both feel better.”

  Diederik helped Joe into one of the manicure chairs. Joe didn’t want to collapse onto on
e of the antiques in his sweaty condition. And the plastic chair rolled, a huge plus. Following Joe’s directions, the boy wheeled the other manicure chair over to prop Joe’s foot on. Then Diederik regarded Joe with a fascinated gaze until Chuy returned, his arms full.

  First, Chuy wrapped the injured ankle in a washcloth, then put cold packs around it and secured them with an elastic bandage. He gave Joe a bottle of water, some ibuprofen, and a hug. Then he handed a pair of his own shorts and a T-shirt to Diederik. “For tomorrow,” he said.

  “I don’t think I can grow any more,” Diederik said. “I am almost as big as you gentlemen!” He smiled. “But I’m grateful for the clothes.”

  If anything could distract Joe from the pain in his ankle, this was it. “He looked about eleven the day after he got here,” he whispered. “Now he could be fifteen.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Chuy said, his voice low. “Diederik, where is the Rev?” he said, in a louder tone.

  “He is digging a grave,” the boy said. “I offered to do it for him, but he said I could take a walk, that it was his sacred duty. And Miss Fiji, she didn’t have anything for me to do this morning, and no more muffins or cookies.” He looked at Chuy hopefully.

  “Oh,” Chuy said. “Hmmm. I’ve got some English muffins. You could have them with butter and jelly.”

  “I’m always hungry,” Diederik said simply.

  “Then you watch Joe while I go fix them.” Chuy went out the front door to mount the stairs again.

  Joe’s ankle was subsiding to a dull throb now. He figured nothing was broken.

  “Is everyone in Midnight like me?” Diederik said suddenly.

  “No, only the Rev,” Joe said. He would have enjoyed some quiet, but the boy was too restless for that. “We’ve never seen anyone like you, either,” he added, his eyes closed while he shifted the chairs around in an attempt to be more comfortable. “You’re growing so fast. I’ve seen you look at Grady. Most kids grow like him, not like you.”

  “Am I very—peculiar?” Diederik had to grope for a word that would fit. His accent was not as pronounced as it had been when he’d first gotten to Midnight. In the few days he’d been in residence, his speech had grown, right along with everything else about him.

  “Peculiar?” Joe thought about it. “No. Not in the sense of weird or bizarre. But I don’t think there are many like you around.”

  Diederik fidgeted and finally went to seek out the broom and dustpan. He swept the already-clean area around Chuy’s workstation, and then the English muffins came downstairs borne by Chuy, along with a thermos of juice. Diederik fell on the muffins like he was starving, and he drank all the juice. He sat in one of the antique chairs very neatly and promptly fell asleep.

  “Where’s Rasta?” Joe asked abruptly. The men exchanged startled glances.

  “He was in here with me when you two came in!” Chuy leaped to his feet and began looking around. “You don’t think he got out when I went upstairs?”

  “Maybe Mr. Snuggly sneaked in,” Joe said. Rasta and Mr. Snuggly had a long-running feud, though more often than not Rasta barked and danced around when Mr. Snuggly came near. He’d never hidden before.

  Joe called, “Rasta! Here, boy!” with a kind of hushed urgency. He didn’t want to wake the boy.

  They heard a pitiful whine.

  “Look,” Chuy said, pointing to an old desk about ten feet away. A tiny face peered from behind the furniture, ears back.

  “He’s scared,” Joe said, recognizing the look and attitude.

  “Of what?”

  Joe reached out a hand to touch Chuy’s arm. When Chuy looked down at him, Joe nodded toward the sleeping boy. “Him.”

  They were thoughtful for a while. No one came into the store to disturb them, and the phone didn’t ring. None of the old people from the hotel stopped by, which was something of a relief. Visits from the newcomers formed an increasingly frequent (and not always welcome) part of the day. The boy slept on. From time to time, he twitched in his sleep or his hand went to his face as if something about it bothered him.

  “He’s like the Rev,” Joe said finally, so quietly Chuy had to strain to hear him.

  “But the Rev is the only one left.”

  “He thought so. What if he was wrong?”

  “So the boy is about to . . .” Chuy’s eyes widened.

  “Yes,” breathed Joe. “Go look on the computer.” Chuy left most of the electronic work to Joe, but he could search for a calendar as well as anyone.

  “Full moon in three nights,” he said. “What can we do to get ready?”

  Joe shrugged. “We can stay upstairs and bolt the door,” he said. They fell silent and looked at Diederik.

  18

  Olivia was in the chapel. She could count on one hand the times she’d entered the old building. She realized now that she hadn’t been missing anything. The chapel had been built from thick planks, perhaps hand-cut, she speculated, looking at them now. It was a very basic rectangular building with a pitched roof and a steeple slapped on top. It was painted white inside and out, but it was just about due another coat. Inside, the wood floors had been painted, too, a dark gray. The benches that served as the pews were sturdy but a bit splintery. There was electricity, of a very basic sort, though the Rev didn’t often turn the bare bulb on. There was an altar. There was no stained glass, no beautiful vestments or altar cloths, no candles or incense. But there were three paintings, the old one above the altar that had always been there, and two Grandma Moses–style oils depicting two stories from the Bible: Daniel in the lions’ den, and Noah and the ark. The new paintings were donations from Bobo. The owner, whom Bobo had told the Rev was the artist himself, had never redeemed the artworks, and Bobo had thought they would suit the Rev.

  Bobo had been right.

  The Rev had been gazing at them in a fascinated way when Olivia had entered.

  Now the Reverend Emilio Sheehan was sitting on a bench facing Olivia, and they were staring at each other. The Rev, small and dark and wiry, was as tough as shoe leather. Though Olivia considered herself just as formidable, she was a little anxious. She could not remember ever having a one-on-one conversation with the Rev.

  But she knew he didn’t do small talk, and she was not good at it, either, so she went straight to the point.

  “I know everyone likes Fiji better,” she said. “And I know she’s a better person than me.”

  The Rev cocked his head to one side and waited. His dark eyes were bright in the gloomy interior of the chapel.

  “But I have my own strengths and weaknesses,” she said.

  He nodded. “You’re a fighter,” he said.

  She took a deep breath. “My father is one of the richest men in America.”

  The Rev’s expression didn’t change. “And?” he said. The syllable came out cracked and harsh, like the croaking of raven.

  “And you know what this man did to me when I was a little girl?”

  The Rev seemed, almost undetectably, to brace himself to hear something distasteful. “Fucked you?”

  “Nope. That would have been straightforward. He let my mom do things with me. Rent me out to her little boyfriends. He pretended he didn’t know.” Her lips twisted in disgust. “She charged them to have sex with me. It was like Monopoly money to her. I was like the little shoe or the iron.” Her shoulders compacted, her body hunched in on itself. She appeared about half her size.

  The Monopoly references did not seem to register with the Rev. “She living? Able to pay?”

  “Now there’s a question that makes sense,” Olivia said. “No, she’s not. She was the first person I killed.”

  “What did you do with her?” The Rev asked this question with an almost professional interest.

  “I took her boat out,” she said. “I tossed her in the ocean. I hope the fishes ate her.�
��

  “Something surely did,” the Rev said. He approved of that.

  She said, greatly daring, “Is that what you do with the bodies?”

  “No,” the Rev said, after a laden pause. “Not unless it’s at the full moon, some instance of self-defense. I’m no cannibal.”

  “Gotcha,” she said, puzzled by his words, but getting that he was offended. “My point is—I kill people who need killing, and it doesn’t seem to bother me. I could say my parents made me that way, but that sounds like I think I need an excuse. I don’t.”

  “Dead insides,” the Rev said, by way of diagnosis.

  “Exactly.” She seemed relieved to find someone who understood. “I have to wonder how you can be a reverend, and yet you do these things?”

  “Hide the bodies of killers? Dispense justice to those who threaten the peace of this place?”

  In a nutshell, Olivia thought. She nodded.

  “Because that’s why I’m here,” he said. “I can’t say no different than that. The God of Moses and Abraham put me here to preserve and protect Midnight. That’s my job. And I’ll do it to the best of my ability.” He gave her a sharp nod in return, to tell her the subject was closed.

  “I’m trying to help Manfred solve his problem,” she said. “But so far, we haven’t gotten anywhere. Do you have any advice?”

  “Use every resource available,” he told her. “You haven’t done that yet. That’s quieter. But if that don’t work, go in strong and hard.” And the way he leaned back after he spoke, Olivia knew that was all he was going to say. She thought of a dozen other questions, but she’d reached his limit.

  “All right, then,” she said. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Then that’s all you need to worry about, Olivia.” The Rev extended his hand, holding it over her head but not touching it. In his creaking, cracking voice, he said, “God over the serpents and animals and creatures of the land and water, bless this thy servant, Olivia. Give her strength and courage to complete her purpose. Amen.”