by Sharon Joss
CHAPTER 3
Three days later, I fought back another wave of nausea as I stood next to my scooter in the parking lot in front of Picston City Hall. I clamped my jaws shut; determined to keep the Lucky Charms I’d eaten for breakfast where they belonged. I swear, the fetid stink was growing worse by the minute. If I didn’t get rid of this djemon soon, I’d go stark ravers for sure.
The nights were the worst. I couldn’t breathe through my nose, and if I tried to breathe through my mouth, I could taste it. I couldn’t sleep or keep food down. Olfactory hallucination or no, I imagined the toxic fumes were strong enough to melt my brain calls. I took a deep hit off the Springtime Fresh dryer sheet crumpled in my hand. The scented sheets offered only short-term relief.
I glared at the demonic illusion seated on the asphalt beside me. “This is all your fault.”
Blix replied with his one and only expression, a yellow-eyed stare.
“Same to you, buddy,” I sneered. In just a few short days, I’d come to hate him with everything in my sleep-deprived being. “Your remaining hours are now in single digits.” I glanced up at the clock face on City Hall, and checked my cell phone for the fourteenth time to make sure the darn thing was turned on.
By six o’clock this evening, my demon hallucination and the corresponding reek would be gone, and my little teratosis problem would be extinct, thanks to the capable folks at Merle Shine’s Pest Control. After three nights of misery, life would be sweet again, and I’d be back to my usual self with no one the wiser. If only they’d call to confirm.
“Come on guys, it’s after nine already.” I’d been counting the minutes. I’d waited in the parking lot at Merle Shines this morning, waiting for the first person to show up for work. Lucky for me, it was the receptionist. I’d told her I couldn’t wait until next week for my scheduled appointment, and begged her to squeeze me in today.
They were short-staffed and busy, she’d told me.
I lost it. Burst into tears like some blubbery six-year-old. I hated myself for being such a wuss, but I couldn’t help myself.
She reluctantly agreed to ask Merle to get me in as the last appointment of the day. No promises, but she could see my desperation.
I was still shaky from the experience. I flapped the front of my white uniform blouse, hoping for a cool breeze. My shirt was already sticking to me. Moisture from an early morning shower rose from the pavement in steamy waves; the mute air hovered, thick with tension. My tension. I hated waiting. I felt like Wile E. Coyote clinging desperately to the receiving end of an Acme rubber band, just before the anvil made the return trip.
The front glass doors of City Hall opened, and a dozen somber men and women in crisp blue uniforms approached. How I envied them. They strode as a unit down the steps and passed by me with neither a word nor glance in my direction, a first. The chief had been under a lot of pressure lately to solve the Night Shark murders, and after the most recent victim, his men had showed up today to support him at the press conference. It’s what cops do.
Picston’s finest climbed into their air-conditioned cruisers and leisurely circled the lot before heading out on patrol. Lou Scali gave me a grin and a mock salute as he drove by with his new rookie partner, Wesley Zigo. The kid looked like he didn’t even shave yet. The rookies were getting younger every year. That should be me riding with Scali. I was way better than that string bean Zigo any day.
I tucked a strand of limp hair back under my helmet, tightened the strap, and then swung my leg over the seat of my three-wheeler. I straddled the clammy pleather seat, and pulled down the legs of my culottes, hoping for some air movement, but no luck. Between the relentless weight of the stuffy air and the eerie silence of the men, I had that hinky feeling real cops sometimes get when all hell was about to break loose.
My gorge rose again, and I forced myself to swallow. The line of black and whites exited the lot as I fired up my scooter. Ten seconds later, all six patrol cars hit lights and sirens, and six powerful engines thrummed up Seneca Avenue. A silent alarm, or maybe another body. I hoped not. Things were bad enough with the FBI running the show now. Any other day, I might consider following them, but not today. Nothing was going to keep me from my teratosis extermination appointment with Merle.
Focus Mattie. I waited, tapping my fingers against the handle grips for a last tardy civilian to pass by, before I eased the trike out of my parking space. My route today covered the northeast part of the city, and the sooner I reached my quota, the sooner I’d be out of this heat. After my appointment, I might mosey over to McGill’s tonight for the Dart ‘N Drown tournament. Every cop in town, and most of Parking Control would be at the bar. I’d hang with the gang and get the four-one-one then.
I’d cruised to within twenty yards of the exit of the lot when I spotted a large brown toad emerge from the landscaped shrubbery and begin to crawl across the pockmarked asphalt. The kudzu summer weather brings them out. I did a double take when I caught sight of the three-inch fangs.
I shuddered. That was no toad, that was another stinkin’ djemon. What I was seeing was impossible. I already had a djemon. Once you had one, you couldn’t get another. I looked around, but there was no one else nearby. I shouldn’t be able to even see this guy.
Angry frustration tore through me in an instant, and raw adrenaline shot through my veins. White-hot fury surged, kicking me into action. I goosed the gas on the three-wheeled scooter and veered directly for it.
I knew it wouldn’t do any good, but the smug expression on the thing’s ugly face goaded me like the flag on an expired parking meter.
“Eat this, grease spot!”
My cell phone began to ring. I ignored it. My grip on the handlebars slipped, but didn’t deter my resolve to squash the disgusting creature flat. My chin dropped, my arms braced rigidly against the handles, the throttle wide open. The scooter whined in protest, but we were approaching warp speed now: nothing could stop me.
I didn’t see the pedestrian until almost too late. My life flashed before my eyes as I jerked on the handlebars to avoid him. Idiot! The front wheel hit a pothole and the steering wobbled. Queasy prickles of uncertainty stung my cheeks. The scooter wasn’t made for quick maneuvering. The left rear wheel achieved lift-off, and the machine started to tip. I slammed my weight back, but the momentum was too strong. Unable to let up on the throttle, I was no longer in control of the scooter. Images of bumpers, metal rims, and tires flew by as I careened unchecked across the parking lot, accompanied by the shrilling of the darn phone. This was not going to be good.
The trike smashed headlong into a fire hydrant. With a crunching jolt, I was airborne, and continued on my trajectory, weightless and screaming toward inevitable disaster. Instinctively, I put my hands up and braced for impact as I slid over the trunk of a parked car. I hit the street hard, rolled and tumbled to a stop in the westbound lane, the demon breath knocked clean out of me. My phone gave a final ring and was silent.
I crouched on hands and knees, gulping for air in the roadway, fighting like a landed eel, all my cocky bravado melted to a puddle of mortification on the asphalt. My heart raced with unspent adrenaline and I shook uncontrollably. The realization of my own idiocy descended with the weight of impending doom.
Cars swerved around me, honking. People came running from all directions. My instincts screamed to run and hide, but my body responded slowly, each vertebra in my neck answering to roll call individually, as my inner TIVO reran the highlights of my humiliating flight and four-point-landing over and over and over in my mind. Stand up, Mattie. Get out of the street.
“Miss, do you need help,” somebody asked me.
I choked on the foul stench that engulfed me, unable to answer. I rubbed my forehead; avoiding eye contact. I needed time to figure out how to deal with this. You’ve really done it this time, Mattie. What was I thinking? More than anything, I wanted to slink off without being noticed.
“Is anybody hurt? Call
nine-one-one.”
I looked around, but the crowd hemmed me in with their concern. I never liked being the center of attention. When you come from the wrong side of the tracks, you strive to keep a low profile.
“It’s one of the meter maids.”
Tendrils of shame curled around my neck. Parking Control Officer.
“I saw the whole thing.”
My cheeks burned in humiliation. I didn’t remember colliding with anything other than the hydrant. I was pretty sure I hadn’t hit anybody human. Wouldn’t I remember if I did?
“Check out the scooter.” I instantly recognized the nasal whine of Lacey Lippman, followed by the sound of sniggering laughter.
“Oh no, Mattie.” I cringed as the Honorable Sylvia Jefferson ran toward me, pearls askew, sensible pumps clacking authoritatively against the pavement. She waved her arm at the crowd. “Get back, give her some room! Are you okay?”
The whoop-whoop of an approaching ambulance added to the chaos. I gritted my resolve, pulled off my helmet, took a deep breath, and clambered to my feet unaided.
“I’m good, thanks.” Hands reached out to me, but I avoided them, and took a few stiff steps toward the curb. A headache pounded at the base of my skull. I brushed myself off, straightened my collar and tucked my shirt back in. I’d grown up a tomboy; raised mostly by an older brother who’d taught me to take my licks as they came. Besides, I’d already lost it once this morning. Walk it off. Mattie Blackman was nobody’s princess.
