"So.…" I began.
Hagen stepped from behind his sister. A few bandages covered cuts across his face and the majority of his features were swollen. The flesh around the stump of his broken horn looked red and tender, but he had his color back.
"Sam knows how to resuscitate someone if they aren't breathing."
I'd be lying if the thought of Samantha's mouth on mine didn't stir something inside me. I grinned. "Sorry I missed that."
It was probably the most honest I had been in a long time.
"Hey, she is my little sister," said Hagen with an annoyed smile.
Samantha interjected, "Before you get too excited, Waldo Bell, you should know it involves more than just breathing into your mouth. I had to press on your chest." She paused and watched me for a moment. "With the broken ribs."
I winced.
"Yeah," Samantha continued, "I'd imagine it's probably a good thing you missed it."
"Then I owe you twice," I said with a smile. "Once for the tunnel and once for bringing me back."
"You helped Hagen. You stopped Black and the Children. I don't think you owe me anything."
Footsteps in the hall interrupted our conversation. Detective Carl Bouchard came around the doorframe.
My heart skipped a beat. I instinctively tried to scurry backwards, but stopped myself as I saw Wensem and Kitasha—Little Waldo in her arms—trailing behind him.
"Wensem! Kit!" I rasped. "Little Wal!" And finally, with less gusto, "Detective...Bouchard."
"Probably not the person you want to see right now," said the detective.
I didn't say anything.
"Look, I spent a good six hours talking with your business partner here, not to mention the Dubois siblings. I got the details on the Children. Wensem filled me in on the circumstances and most, if not all, of what he said was corroborated by the cultists we pulled from the Sunk. Look...." He sighed, inhaling a deep breath and scratching behind one of his sweeping horns. I could tell this bothered him. "I was wrong. I saw it wrong and I called it wrong. On behalf of Lovat Central you have our utmost apologies...."
He didn't meet my eyes. Despite what he was saying, I was sure Bouchard couldn't get past what his cop's sense told him. He probably still thought of me as a killer.
In a lot of ways, Bouchard was right. I thought of the cultists I had killed in the tunnel, the looks on their faces. The light disappearing from their eyes. I was a killer, but I didn't have any other choice. It had been them or the city.
"...for everything," Bouchard continued, following my eyes. "Look, I'd say no hard feelings, but if the situation was reversed I'd have hard feelings, so I know that's bullshit. I'd say let bygones be bygones, but I almost threw you to the wolves based on circumstantial evidence. We probably won't ever be friends, Bell, and I understand. If you want to go after my badge I'd understand that as well, but please realize how sorry I am.
"I screwed up. It's hard to say, but I did. I screwed up, and I nearly threw an innocent man in prison because of my mistake."
We stared at one another for a long while but never met each other's eyes. I could tell the silence that hung between us was unnerving my friends.
When I held out my hand, it was like the dam broke. A palpable feeling of relief seemed to wash through my fancy hospital digs. Bouchard stepped forward and took my hand in a bone-crushing grip with a serious expression.
"I still think you're a bastard," I said with a forced smile.
"I do have a reputation to keep up," said Bouchard. "Look, Lovat Central is picking up the tab on your hospital stay; whatever happened down there—we've heard some wild tales from the Children—all is forgiven. We have a whole task force set up to figure out how much damage they have done. Our best guys.
"Get well, and next time you're in my city, keep your nose clean. I don't want to see you in my interrogation room again."
I nodded and turned my head to look out the window, seeing the sun low over the water in the distance. The lines of towers and the roads and streets that hung between them broke up my view of the sky. Thad would have loved this, Fran had probably seen this more times than she could count, August would have dreamed of it.
I would miss them, all of them.
Bouchard retreated from my room, shaking hands with Wensem, Kitasha, Hagen, and Samantha before disappearing with a nod.
Little Waldo was forced into my one good arm. His oddly proportioned maero features gave him an adorable, comical look, and he reached out with a pudgy seven-fingered hand and went to grab the bandage on my nose. Kitasha caught him before he could do any serious damage, which caused his features to screw up into a pre-wail. Wensem swooped him into his arms before Little Waldo could scream.
"He seems to be in fine spirits," I rasped.
"Thanks to you," said Kitasha, looking at Little Waldo with a motherly smile.
I waved a hand dismissively. "Wensem did all the hard work. I just made the noise."
"That's not what he tells me," said Kitasha, turning to me. "He said you were a proper hero."
"He said that?"
"Well, not in as many words," Wensem interrupted, giving me a crooked smile.
Kitasha bent down and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "We're going to get some dinner, you rest up."
"Can we get you anything?" asked Wensem.
"Vermouth?" I asked, which caused my business partner to chuckle and shake his head. "Rest well, my friend. We'll have plenty of work when you're healed up."
"Mind if I join you?" asked Hagen.
"Of course not."
He followed Wensem, Kitasha, and Little Waldo out my door, leaving me alone once again with Samantha.
I looked over at her and felt a lump grow in my throat. Bouchard's visit had hit me harder than I could have imagined. Relief seemed to fill every crevice inside me and it was all I could do to keep myself from shaking. The tension that had lodged itself in my muscles was washed away. I tried to think of the future, not to dwell on what had happened or on the people I had killed. Dead, by my hands. Fools, maybe, but they had been living and breathing people.
Samantha's warm hand slipped inside mine and I gave it a squeeze.
"You're going to be okay," she reassured me, and for whatever reason I knew she was right. I looked over at her, blinking rapidly.
Time passed.
I could dwell on the morality of my actions later.
I breathed.
I relaxed.
"I'm famished," I finally said, after waiting for the wave of emotion to pass. "I know a great pierogi place in Frink Park. Let me buy you breakfast. We got started off in all the wrong ways: violent cults, serial killers. Let's do this right. Breakfast. You and me."
I grinned.
Samantha responded with a smile of her own, a smile I could get lost in. "Wal, it's eight-thirty."
"So?" I said.
"At night," Samantha stated with a laugh. "eight-thirty at night."
I wasn't dissuaded.
"Dinner then?" I asked with a laugh, feeling better than I had in...well, forever.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing is a team effort and there are a few people in my own caravan company that need special recognition.
First and foremost my wife Kari-Lise. Thanks for dealing with me as I began to spin the tale of ol' Waldo Bell and badgered you with questions and demanded you read chapters in various states of completion. I love you so much. I couldn't ask for a better supporter and partner in this crazy journey.
My family also deserve huge thanks in constantly supporting, cheering and pushing me forward. Even at its best writing can be exhausting and without their support and love I don't know where I would be.
Special thanks to my editors Ben Vanik, Josh Montreuil, and Victoria Shockley for helping me write words that don't make me sound like an uneducated simpleton. I'll get better, I promise.
A huge thanks to Jon Contino (and his daughter Fiona). Without your offer of assistance the cover of "The
Stars Were Right" would have been seriously lacking in style and polish. I still grin every time I see it.
Special thanks in particular to my best pal Josh Montreuil who has constantly been a sounding board for all my crazy ideas and who first thought up a weird post-Aligning world with me.
Also a special thanks to Ana Lopez-O'Sullivan and Paul O'Sullivan, whom I badgered with medical questions at all hours of the night. Without you guys, Wal would have been a more whole man. I thank you. Wal probably doesn't.
And of course, I need to thank my extensive crew of beta-roaders who read, re-read, challenged, and gave me loads and loads and loads of notes: Alison Fisher, Andrew Wilson, Ben Vanik, Dawn Waswick, Jedediah Voltz, Kelcey Rushing, Kevin Mangan, Lauren Sapala, Sky Bintliff, Steve Leroux, and Sarah Stackhouse. Your input, encouragement, and advice helped me get here, so thanks for giving your time and effort.
Finally, the good people of B3S. Magna voce ridere æterna. You all know who you are. Your support means the world to me. Thanks.
K.M. ALEXANDER is a Pacific Northwest native and novelist living and working in Seattle, Washington with his wife and two dogs. He is an avid hiker, wannabe cyclist, and self-proclaimed beer snob. When not writing, he works as a user experience designer circulating through the Seattle startup scene. You can follow his exploits at his blog: kmalexander.me.
Waldo Bell and company will return.
The Stars Were Right Page 27
