John Junior was a heavy-shouldered, round-faced young man in a crumpled basketball uniform under a red hoodie. The uniform, royal blue and violent yellow polyester, made him a bright blot against the beige walls and long swathes of glass overlooking a ruthlessly clean, winterized concrete patio. A shrouded patio table overlooked a forlorn strip of marshy lawn before a high board fence broke the view. “You didn’t say anything about guests,” he whisper-hissed at the thin woman, whose lipsticked mouth set bitterly.
“Be polite,” she whispered back, and he pulled out his chair, its high cushioned back driving into her hip. She grimaced and hurried towards the kitchen, separated from the dining room by a low island topped with heavy false marble.
“It smells good!” John rubbed his hands together, then lifted the lid on the massive earthenware pot. A ceramic trivet underneath all but groaned at the weight. “Junior, you’re gonna apologize to your mother when she comes back. There, and there.” He indicated two seats, and Evan pulled a chair out, waiting for Cara to settle in it. When she did, he leaned over her slightly, pushing it in, and a hot flush worked up her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and wished she hadn’t, because John’s gaze settled on her again, cold as leftover coffee.
“Shy, is she?” A hearty, hollow laugh. “I remember when May was like that.”
“What?” The thin woman turned away from her fierce, huddled conference with Conchita, whose head had pulled turtle-like between her shoulders. “Are you lying about me again?”
“Just saying I remembered when we were first dating.” John glanced at his son. “Sit up, please. Don’t slouch.”
“There won’t be enough left,” the child sulked. “Did Conchita make rice?”
“I’m sure she did. She knows how much you like it.”
May returned, sunflower-patterned oven mitts cradling a wide, steaming wooden bowl. “Rice. There’s the salad—John, will you…” The words died on her thin lips. “I’ll get it, never mind.”
Evan touched Cara’s shoulder. “Don’t,” he said, since she had tensed to rise again. “I’ll get it, sweetheart.”
Which left her at the table with John and John Junior, both of them staring. The boy fiddled with the stamped metal cutlery, and finally smiled. “She looks weird.”
“Junior.” His father’s hand landed on his wrist, and the boy winced. Dull brick-red crept up his cheeks. “Apologize.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Cara reached for her wineglass. It was empty.
John leapt to his feet to pour, his thighs hitting the edge of the table with a dangerous thunk. The centerpiece rattled. “He’s just not used to beautiful women.”
For the second time, Cara almost said something. What about your wife? The words trembled on the tip of her tongue, but instead, she glanced at Evan’s broad back. He hadn’t taken his jacket off, either. So she simply shook her head and dropped her gaze, watching as straw-yellow wine trickled into her glass.
It was probably cheap, but she knew she’d drink it anyway.
Chapter 13
Sliced pork with mushrooms on a bed of wild rice, salad with a plastic jar of vinaigrette. It could have fed twice their number, but Junior still whined that he didn’t get enough. Conchita glided through the dining room, her raven head down and a massive handmade leather purse tucked high up under her arm. Her ponytail longed to burst free of its confinement, her hair impossibly vital. “I go for dessert,” she said, softly, and May waved her away with a pained smile and a hand with a glittering engagement ring.
“That’s fine, Conchita.” After a long moment, she added a grudging thank-you, glancing at Cara.
May ate in slivers—a minuscule fragment of pork, a few grains of rice, and between each mouthful she cut Junior’s pork into bite-size pieces for him. John, with pained courtesy, handled his knife and fork Continental-style, and stared at Cara’s breasts while he attempted conversation with Evan.
“Most cases are simple,” Evan said, after a bite of rice. Gone was the mechanical shoveling of fuel into his mouth; instead, he took only morsels, and glanced at Cara every now and again as if for confirmation. “You just follow the dots.”
That perked Junior up. “You mean like murders? You solve murders?” He swung his legs,
His mother made a disapproving noise, but Evan smiled.
“Sometimes.” He took a sip of water, set the glass down with a small precise noise. “It’s pretty much just people fighting over money.”
“It’s a jungle out there, huh?” John stabbed at a slice of pork. “Dog eat dog.”
The rice was perfectly textured, the mushrooms still retaining some vigor. Still, it was flavorless, maybe because Cara avoided the meat. She pushed her portion around her bone-colored plate, spreading it to look consumed. The wine smelled harsh, almost vinegary, and its bite against her palate was something she remembered. Perhaps that was why she kept drinking, its faint alcoholic warmth simply vanishing behind her breastbone.
“Money or women.” Evan’s knee bumped Cara’s under the table. She moved away, crossing her ankles. Laid her fork down. It was useless, the food wasn’t even sawdust. It was simply…empty. Each time her bare skin touched the tablecloth, she had a dim sense of Conchita laying dishes down, her plump hands arranging each item carefully and a bright spear of hate revolving inside her softness. Or loud voices, fists pounding, glacial silences, a child’s sobbing. The fork only held a ghost of water and detergent; Cara wished she had gloves. Jeans. Bandages, to wrap herself like a mummy.
Lodi said it wouldn’t work, but it was worth a try. Anything was.
“One or the other.” John grinned. “Right, May? Every man’s downfall.”
The thin woman shook her head, her earrings swinging. “You’re vulgar, John.” Her next forkful was an almost-whole mushroom instead of one cut in half.
“Vulgar. That’s her way of saying something’s too expensive.” The tanned man brayed with laugher, took another bite, chewed thoroughly. A faint sheen glistened on his forehead.
Junior had other questions. His dark hair lay flat and lank, and he scratched at the back of one thick wrist. A small red arc preparing to sprout acne nestled in the crease under his lower lip. “What’s the worse murder you saw? I mean, bodies. Were there maggots?”
“Junior! We’re eating.” May’s distaste mounted; she forked another mushroom carefully up.
The boy pushed his lower lip out.“You hardly eat anyway.” He swung his legs again, vigorously, kicking the table’s central support. The centerpiece clattered, sunflower heads swaying.
“Got to keep a girlish figure.” John smacked his hand down on his son’s wrist again. “Stop that.”
May set her cutlery down. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at her plate. Her cheeks gleamed, not with a flush but with deadly paleness under a thick pall of foundation.
“Oh, now she’s going to sulk. Conchita will bring back dessert, but she won’t have any.” John grinned even wider. His nostrils flared. “Would you like to be excused, wife?”
She glanced at Cara, venomously. “We have guests,” she hissed, as if the other woman had somehow insulted her.
I’m sorry. Cara swallowed the words. She could say something to Evan, but what was the point?
“You want a drink, detective?” John rose, bumping the table again. He tossed his cotton napkin onto his ravaged plate. Steam still lifted form the earthenware pot. “I want a drink.”
“John…” May’s lips were bloodless now too. Her hands turned into fists in her lap, crumpling her own napkin. “John…”
Junior slumped against the back of his chair. He coughed, and bits of rice spattered against his plate. He blinked furiously, eyelashes fluttering.
Cara gasped. The spat rice was red.
May stiffened in her chair. Her eyes rolled up, only the whites showing as she turned into a single bone, scraped clean and bleached. A sudden bathroom stink roiled under the table and Junior pitch
ed sideways, kicking again as muscle spasms rolled through him. Dishes, silverware, glasses all danced.
“What…” John choked, bending over as if punched. “Fuuuuuuuuu…” The word trailed off on a long huff, and when the next cramp seized him he doubled even further, his forehead landing in the middle of his plate with a solid, shattering thud. Blood sprayed, rich crimson, and May’s head tipped back, her jaw working, teeth grinding and jaw popping as muscles locked down.
It was the mushrooms. Conchita was long gone.
Chapter 14
The fridge was a top-of-the-line silver monster, capable of dispensing water and ice, its sides and front innocent of any pictures, notes, or memorabilia. Evan dug in its glaring white innards, opening drawers. Bottles clinked, a half-full container of generic soymilk sloshed. “What a relief.”
Cara folded her arms across her belly. Her legs trembled, the big muscles in her thighs on the verge of rebellion. The kitchen island’s countertop pushed into her hip, holding her steady. “They’re dead,” she repeated, perhaps stupidly.
Evan’s hair glowed in the flood of harsh refrigerator light. “Probably.”
“Did you know that would happen?” That terrible sharp bathroom stink of failed sphincters mixed with chemical air freshener. Upstairs, a television muttered and babbled, speaking to itself in an empty room.
“She said after dinner the package would be in the fridge.” He found what he was looking for in one of the very bottom drawers. A bag of red and yellow peppers glowed, bottles of vile-green soda too. Packets of pressed lunchmeat and sliced soy cheese stood in neat stacks. Perhaps this was Conchita’s territory? The triple sinks, brushed and metallic, were ruthlessly clean as well, except for a single quarter-full water glass. The dishwasher hummed, clearly audible now in the stinging silence.
“The package.” Cara glanced over her shoulder, nervously, wished she hadn’t. May still sat bolt-upright, her helmet of carefully arranged hair glistening, her hands knotted in her lap and her head thrown back. Her lips were pulled back, exposing well maintained teeth, but tiny crimson threads ran between each ivory nugget. Junior had fallen sideways and sprawled on the laminate floor, his legs tangled with his chair and his father’s. John, bent over, his forehead grinding into the broken plate, was a rigid, balanced sculpture. A large wet brown stain blossomed at the seat of his khakis. “What is it?”
“Don’t know.” He held it up, a fist-sized chunk wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Feels squishy. You want to carry it?”
No. She did not. “Do I have to?”
“Look for something to put it in, then.”
A search in the well-ordered pantry behind a sliding plywood partition came up with a collection of reusable grocery bags, each with a high-end store’s name blazoned on the side. Cara chose a burlap one, the least decorated of the bunch, and Evan dropped the wrapped lump into it. The fridge door swung shut with a heavy sound.
“Should we call…” Call the cops? That was a normal thing to do in this situation, right? Normal did not apply anymore. Cara swallowed the last half of the sentence and shook her head.
“They might run the housekeeper down.” Evan shook his pale head. “I don’t blame her. Probably paying her under the table, and not enough either.”
The world greyed out. It came back with a rush, and Cara found her forehead against Evan’s chest, a high healthy vital heat spreading from his skin. A tang of leather, the slight musk of a clean male animal, and a faint throbbing sense of his heartbeat surrounded her.
“Shit,” he said, softly. “It’s okay. It’s all okay. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”
What a useless thing to say. It had already happened. Her heart beat, her breath came in and out, and she’d just eaten poison.
Magic. Bloody, murderous magic. May’s head, tilted back, and her crimson-threaded smile reminded Cara of a blonde woman with the same smile, a rattling and jolting, screaming, sky and earth changing places in quick succession.
We’re about to experience some turbulence, folks. A man’s voice crackling over an intercom, and the animal of fear inside every human stomach turned into a frightened, quivering rabbit.
“It’s all right.” Evan kept saying the same soothing, the same soothing, nonsensical words. “Nothing will hurt you. I promise.”
There was nothing more to fear; the hurt had already happened. Her shaking was not grief or terror, but something else entirely, something Cara—it was as good a name as any—was certain she had never felt before in her other life. Or if she had, she had buried it too far beneath her conscious mind to ever let it surface.
Because massive, white-hot rage was not what a good girl was raised to feel.
Chapter 15
“We’re gonna go to place,” Evan said, the car dropping into reverse. It had clouded over, the sky a flat iron pan. “Peachwood. Bad neighborhood.” He put his arm over the back of her seat, watching as he steered, and the heat of him was now familiar.
Cara settled the burlap bag between her ankles. The lump inside radiated cold knowledge, pressing against her ankles. At least it was wrapped. The seat was cold, too, plush nosing behind her bare knees.
The car shifted into drive, and he retreated to his own seat as metal, rubber, glass, and passengers slid out of the driveway. “Say something,” Evan said.
Where had Conchita gone? Did she have a car?
A pale blot tangled in a leafless sapling, and Cara blinked. It was cheap shiny cloth, dark under the armpits, a seam ripped along the back closure. The zipper’s fabric tape hung, a lolling tongue, and Cara saw Conchita stepping out of the hideous, cheap uniform, her undergarments melting into comfortable jeans and a brightly colored sweater, her beautiful raven hair bursting free of its tight ponytail, her earrings shining suns. A smile, a flash of rainbow brilliance and white teeth, and the woman was gone, running lightly as her arms lifted gracefully, and when she lifted free of the earth, Cara’s heart lifted too.
Maybe that was what had happened. If magic was real, if Cara was still dead-not-dead, then maybe the other woman was something strange and lovely, too. And flying, free.
Beauty everlasting.
“How did you meet Lodi?” she heard herself ask, and felt the small, internal click of a right question, finally. One, perhaps, she should have asked earlier.
Evan glanced at her as the car threaded through the subdivision, winter dusk gathering along cul-de-sacs and greenbelts, streetlamps shimmering into life. Tiny pinpricks of precipitation dotted the windshield. “Everyone knew about crazy old Lodi,” he said, finally. “At the precinct.”
More bare branches rattled, and the other subdivisions trotted past. Bell Ridge. Hathaway. Summer Glen. Smaller, shabbier homes under lamps of a different color squeezed onto narrow lots. Then they mushroomed, apartment complexes instead of single dwellings, but the names didn’t change much. A few lamps didn’t kindle, standing dark sentinel in winter dusk.
Finally, Evan spoke again. “The old cops said she could do things, Vice said she had a finger on the pulse.”
“What kinds of things?”
“You know. Things.” Magic, his tone said, bluntly. The ring’s stone glowed, a blue eye. “Anyway, she does all sorts of stuff. She’ll pass information, that gives you an edge. If you bring her something she wants, she’ll help you out. Like that.”
“What did you bring her?”
He glanced at her, a flash of pale irises. “You. But it wasn’t the first time.” The misting turned into sleet, each raindrop with a dot of ice at its heart.
“You brought her other people?”
“No. Just things. Information sometimes. Once or twice a gun, or something…” He paused. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“It’s not like it matters.” What was she going to do, report him?
His forehead wrinkled. “You shouldn’t have to hear about things like that.”
“She wants me to take over, right?” So that was Lodi’s business. Ma
gic for cops.
“I guess.” He tapped the brakes, turned the wipers on. Headlight glow splashed them both. Day died rapidly at this end of the year, especially when the buildings rose to absorb what little sun made it through cold, heavy clouds. “I always got the feeling she didn’t have to, she just…likes it.”
More apartment complexes. Forest Mill, though there was no forest and no mill. There were no ridges or glens, either. Just pavement and small dwellings, business zones prying with sharp fingers and “bargain” prices as rent grew more and more precarious. Traffic thickened, people coming home, and a spatter of thin, icy sleet touched the windshield.
He turned right on another street. Lights flashed—a fire truck, two police cars, an ambulance snarling traffic on the other side. Onlookers in heavy coats and hats gathered on the sidewalk, faces slack with awe or trepidation, pressing between parking meters and stoplights. A small storefront was shattered, glass twinkling under headlight splashes. The sleet intensified.
“Looks like a robbery.” Evan’s right hand twitched, probably itching for a nonexistent radio. “Shit.”
The engine had warmed again; Cara no longer shivered. “You could stop and help.”
“Not a cop anymore.” As soon as he said it, his face eased. “I never thought I’d say that.”
A few more turns and the car slowed. The paint job was no longer glossy. Great patches of primer bloomed on the Chevy’s sides and hood, and its engine noise had turned choppy, a growl instead of a purr.
Peachtree Apartments, a faded lightbox sign buzzed, whispering a phone number that was probably defunct. The tenement rose, tier upon tier, larger and rougher than Lodi’s, starred with rows of small, golden windows. It had once worn a brick facade on the lower levels, now cracked and discolored; higher up, the naked truth of concrete showed.
“This really is a bad neighborhood,” Evan muttered. Billowing black bags bulged, stacked along the sidewalks; no few of them had burst and spilled their contents. Pedestrians hurried along, shoulders hunched, quick furtive breaths turning to white clouds.