CHAPTER 6
I don’t wake up very easily. I envy those people who just snap awake and are ready for the day. It takes me a few minutes to motivate myself to even consider getting out of bed in the morning, even when I have to work the early shift. Since there are so few sorcerers on staff, the district attorney wants us available twenty-four seven, hence the work number added on to my cell phone and put on in a way that there was no way I could remove it, a special ring augmented by a spell. For the record, that spell held up just about ten minutes before I had it off and changed the ring to something I selected.
I wasn’t supposed to put a special ring on government issued equipment, but since they had seen fit to add the line to my personal cell phone, I didn’t see any problem. So, when I was yanked out of a sound sleep by the resounding tones of the Chicken Dance played on an accordion, I was groggy and not happy and felt no urgency to get there anytime soon.
“This better be at least a mass murder,” I muttered.
“Oh shit,” said a familiar voice. It was Carl Wilson. I knew Carl; he was a likeable fellow who had just come to work as a civilian employee in the police department. Given the fact that he was at the bottom of the seniority list, he became the dispatcher who had drawn the short straw of shifts and got stuck with weekends,
“What’s the problem?” I asked, slowly prying my eyes open.
“Megan, I’m sorry. I hit the wrong button; you’re not the one that was on the standby list. I was supposed to call Joe Carson. He’s the one that has the duty for the graveyard shifts.”
I looked over at the clock. It was 3:30 ayam. I considered the option of telling Carl that he had better not let me see him for the next week or I would lay a curse on him that would make the plagues of Egypt look like a walk in the park.
“That’s okay, Carl; mistakes happen. I have to get up in three hours, anyway,” I said softly. I hoped that making my voice so soft and un-angry would worry him more than if I had yelled at him. I long ago discovered that I could scare people even more when I’m quiet than when I yell at them.
I was almost back to sleep when I heard the cats at each other and running at break-neck speed all over the house. The problem with that scenario was, I only had one cat, a solid gray male named Gandalf. My other cat, Misha, stayed at my mother’s house where she had lived all her life and insisted on staying even beyond that.
I struggled up from the bed and didn’t bother with a robe. The shorts and tee shirt I sleep in would be adequate, since I had no intention of going out. If I had to, well, I had a duster hanging from the wall that would be warm and keep me covered. Just finding out what kind of mischief that Gandalf was getting into and getting me back to bed was my entire goal for the next few minutes.
He was a four-year-old Maine Coon mixed breed that Jordan had presented me when he was only a few months old. I had been really sick right then and Rascal, the cat I had gotten when I moved out on my own, had died. Both of us took to each other at first sight.
I snapped a small light ball into existence that worked as well as a flashlight. I had plenty of flashlights around the house, but I wasn’t in the mood to hunt one up in the dark. Once I was out in the hall, I didn’t hear anything except my furnace coming on. There was no sign of anything having been knocked over and certainly no charging cat getting tangled between my legs.
I found Gandalf curled up on the living room couch in the middle of his favorite red blanket. He appeared to be sound asleep, so I reached down and rubbed him between the ears, which got him to twist his head as if demanding further petting.
“What the hell are you up to, fur face?” I asked.
Naturally, the only answer I got was for him to roll to one side, pull his legs up and go into cute mode. He opened one eye and looked at me like he was waiting for an explanation of why I had disturbed him.
“Go back to sleep, your highness,” I said.
I walked through the house once, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Okay, I was enough in touch with my inner paranoid that I lay my wand, a sword and a gun next to the bed when I climbed back into it.
Why take chances?
✽✽✽
There is one thing that very few teachers at university or private magical mentors mention that will be part of sorcerer’s life if they go into law enforcement. Paperwork.
I don’t know if there are government offices that have gone completely paperless; I just know that there wasn’t a department in the city government of Tulsa, Oklahoma, that had gone that way.
One of the regulations requires that someone from my department go over all the DD-77s that come through to check for any possibility of sorcerous involvement. Normally this is something that we hand off to the interns. In other words, it’s scut work. Most of it consists of a quick read and shoving it back into the system for handling on the more mundane levels. Of course, every now and then one sticks out and someone has to follow through on it.
Since we are so shorthanded, currently and for the foreseeable future, George sent down a memo that journeyman and full accredited sorcerers have to take a turn going through the first round of reports, not just hand them all off to the apprentices. I thought that was what interns were for, to dump work on and see if they had the backbone to make it through. At least, that’s what it seemed like two years ago, before I got my journeyman certification.
Since I was sick of looking at the office, I dumped a bunch of them in my messenger back and brought them home. Who would have thunk it, homework at the age of twenty-six?
A glass of wine and some cheese while I was reading dull stuff might make things go faster, or it might just make me feel better, which would accomplish the same thing. Gandalf came walking in, sniffed at my bag and gave me one of his patented looks that, I think, translated into something like “What the hell are you bringing stuff like that into ‘my’ house for? You didn’t ask permission.”
So, after putting my glass down on the coffee table, I grabbed a handful of the reports and hit the remote to start some music. However, I quickly recalled that the last cd I had put in the changer was one by Enzo Marconi, the guy who did all those soundtracks for Italian spaghetti westerns. It was definitely not what I needed for this job. Thankfully, the next one up in rotation was a Jimmy Buffet, and I knew that would help my mood.
I was about halfway through, skimming mostly to check the circumstances; there were a couple that might merit further checking on. I figured to make some calls in the morning when I got back to the office. But I stopped dead still and went back to the beginning of one of the forms. The problem was that the officer who had filled out the DD-77 form was at best handwriting deficient; at worst, he didn’t know which end of the pen actually worked. I was willing to cut him some slack and say he was recovering from a hand injury.
It was the facts, not the handwriting, that interested me. Apparently, there had been an incident at a twenty-four-hour chain restaurant over on Harvard. A customer had become rowdy and belligerent to some of the employees, refusing to leave after the manager ordered him off the premises. When the officers arrived he had exhibited signs of sorcerous power, i.e. had zapped some of the tables with minor power bursts and changed the colors of the carpet from brownish to a rainbow configuration. He didn’t hurt anyone, other than changing a dog to a cat, which morphed back a few minutes later.
When the suspect would not comply with their orders to surrender and allow them to take him into custody, the officer on site was forced to taser him, not once, but twice, because he didn’t react to the first one. Apparently, after he was hit he stood there and started to tell a dirty joke about a penguin. The officer’s partner was able to bring the suspect down from behind with another taser shot. There was apparently a security camera video available should there be any reason to investigate the taser call.
It was that joke about the penguin and the fact that he resisted a taser shot that caught my attention.
The suspect didn’t have any identification on him, which didn’t surprise me at all. I flipped to the second page of the report and saw the addendum: a fingerprint search had not turned up any criminal record. But it had identified the suspect as Brandon Maddox.
“So you’re back, you crazy son-of-a-bitch. I wondered if you would ever show yourself in this part of the world again. The last time they almost carried us both out in body bags.” I reached back and rubbed the back of my left arm; the scar there was almost impossible to see unless you knew where to look. It only hurt occasionally, especially if there was going to be one hell of a storm in the offing.
According to the report, the whole incident with Maddox had actually happed Christmas Eve just before midnight. He’d been transported to a county emergency room where a doctor on duty had checked him over to make sure there were no obvious effects from the taser, then released him to the lockup. Once he was cleared by the doctor, the cops tossed him into the drunk tank to sleep it off, though the report, several times, specified that the sobriety test had not indicated him to be intoxicated.
Then, when they came to get him for court on the 26th, there was no trace of Brandon Maddox. When they questioned his fellow residents of the communal cell, every one of them were found to be totally sober and claimed to have no interest in another drink. One even vomited when he tried to say the word whiskey. The interesting thing was, none of them could quite manage to remember what exactly had happened to Maddox or even recall what he looked like. A few offered wildly diverse descriptions that could have matched anyone from the President of the United States to a little green man from Mars, or the winner of the wet tee-shirt contest at Sloppy Joe’s bar in Key West.
“I always said you had a sense of style, old friend, a real sense of style,” I said and laid the file down. “I’ll give you that; you’ve got a pair of brass ones.”
✽✽✽
“Why is it that, when we go shopping, you, who admits that she hates shopping, are the one who always gets the cutest stuff?” asked Jordan.
We had just left the new outlet mall on the west bank of the Arkansas River. I hadn’t intended to go shopping on my day off; Jordon, however, had other ideas. She may be only five feet four inches tall, and thin as a rail, but I will guarantee you one thing; when Jordon makes up her mind that she’s going to do something, and you’re included, it’s better to just give up and go along with it, because you are going to lose any argument. She should gripe about me finding the cute stuff; Jordan can wear just about anything, and it isn’t as if she starves herself. I’ve seen that girl go back for seconds and thirds when she’s hungry.
Just after noon there had been a pounding on my front door that sort of reminded me a little of the sound during a police raid when they’re about to batter the door down. It was just Jordan, as if I hadn’t been expecting her. She had plans for us.
“I am indulging in a little retail therapy and realized that you were in need of some, as well,” she told me.
“You knew this how? I suppose it was through some kind of a grave disturbance in the Shopping Force or something?” I asked.
“You got it, kiddo. I am a genuine Jedi shopping master and you are my Padawan apprentice, in case you didn’t know that. But you should, considering how much of my wisdom I intend to share with you,” she said. I gave up any thoughts I might have had of talking Jordan out of this; that would be like trying to convince a tornado to change direction. I couldn’t plead extra work because I’d finished most of what I’d brought home with me, not that there wasn’t a lot still back at the office, but luckily, I didn’t have to worry about that until Monday. Jordan has an uncanny knack for knowing when someone is lying, especially me.
I just laughed and got my purse. Unlike the huge piece of luggage that Jordan carried, I preferred a small bag with just the essentials, cash, credit card, makeup, gun and collapsible blasting wand. After all, a girl has to be ready for anything these days.
We’d spent two hours prowling the mall, and as a result, I had one bag in my hand. Okay, in the interest of full disclosure I will admit that there was a second, smaller one inside the first bag; it just made things easier to carry. Jordan, on the other hand, had six different bags, all of which she managed to hold and keep her fingers moving as if they were beating time to a tune that only she could hear.
I happen to know that this girl has an IQ up in the 130s or 40s, yet there are times she could easily pass for a total and complete ditz. I think that’s one of the things that helps make us such good friends. You never know who you’re going to get, the ditz or the brainy one.
“I think part of it is the fact that I know what I want and am picky about it, while your decisions come from the “ooh, shiny” school of shopping. Not that there aren’t things like that that catch my attention. I just try to keep them under control.” I said, and had to suppress a smile because I knew I was trying to lie to Jordan as well as myself.
“Ha! Yeah, right, like I really believe that one, sister. I’ve seen you at some sales, right in there with the rest of us in a definite take-no-prisoners attitude,” she said, pulling her key ring out of her purse and punching the trunk button. Which actually was a good thing, since she drove a white Taurus, because, frankly, I wasn’t all that sure where the car was. I could spot at least a half dozen of the same color and model in what I assumed was the row we parked in. Two remotely opened trunks of the same color and model car at the same time would have been stretching credibility, so I was reasonably certain that this was her car, especially since I recognized the dent in the left quarter panel and the bumper sticker that said “I am the center of the universe.”
With a skill that only comes from a lot of practice, Jordan reached into the trunk, grabbed the corner of a folded white object and flipped it open. It unfolded into a large white basket. She deposited her bags and stepped away.
I was able to find a place for my sack, not in the fold up box, but off to one side.
“By the way,” Jordan said. “You did notice that guy who’s been following us for the last hour?”
As a matter of fact, I hadn’t, since I had no real reason to be looking for someone other than doing some standard people watching, the kind that you do every day without really thinking about it.
“Who?”
“Medium height, brown hair, wearing a blue windbreaker, thick sort of Harry Potter-type glasses. Kind of geeky looking. I suppose he could clean up and look kind of good. I just keep seeing him at the oddest times. Think we picked up a stalker?” she said.
Jordon was right. I had noticed him, as well, in, of all places, Victoria’s Secret, then again at Fredrick’s of Hollywood. Not that seeing guys go in there is unusual, but they are usually accompanied by a woman or have the look of someone buying something for a special lady.
This one had seemed a little uncertain, like he was trying not to stare at the various clothes. I just figured he was somebody who was buying something he desperately hoped his wife or girlfriend would wear. Of course, I have to admit I wasn’t all that comfortable being in Frederick’s; there are some outfits in there that not only would I not wear, I wasn’t all that sure how a girl could get into them and still breathe. Forget about dignity and style, I’m just thinking survival.
I enjoy looking sexy and feeling that way, on those rare occasions when I have a reason to or someone to dress that way for. These just weren’t my style and there was no way I could see myself in them.
The fact that this guy kept turning up and I hadn’t really noticed him bothered me more than a little. I need to be a lot more alert than, apparently, I had been, because if I weren’t, it could get severely dangerous. Not just for me, but for people who happen to be around me.
In the course of my job I’ve made more than a few enemies who swore they would get back at me, some in ways that I don’t even want to think about. But that was part of the job, and I stopped letting it worry me a long time ago. I’d just learned to be a little more watchful than normal.
There was a guy in an OU jacket, looking more like a jock than a geek, that I noticed in several stores. There had also been a couple of people who seemed to be staring at us, but I figured it was just guys who were admiring the local scenery, i.e. Jordan and me.
“No, not him. I would have been willing to get his phone number if he’d come up and started talking,” she said. “No, the one I’m talking about was the geeky-looking guy in both Victoria’s and Fredrick’s, I couldn’t figure out if he gave me the creeps or I just wanted to feel sorry for him.”
I was right, which happens more often than I really admit.
I pushed the trunk lid closed and rested an elbow on it while I looked around. I also let my other senses reach out to see if I could find this guy, or else prove that Jordon was just getting a little antsy. I swept the parking lot twice and didn’t see anyone who even faintly resembled Jordan’s description. Of course, given the number of cars that had filled the lot, it didn’t surprise me. The merchants loved this time of year. Even in the middle of a recession they would be doing a lot of business right up until Twelfth Night. I did try to do my bit, but, but unlike Jordan, shopping just wasn’t my thing. I tend to know what I’m looking for, get in and get out. Well, every now and then I just let myself go and wander through different stores fantasizing about how I would look in some of the clothes. I’ve even broken down at times and bought something that was more than I thought I could afford just because I looked hot in it. There had been a couple of things today that I came very close to buying just for that reason.
It was during the third time when I just let my psychic senses go sweeping all around the sea of cars that I did notice something. Two rows over and a half dozen cars to the west of us I saw him. The thing was, I was fairly sure that I hadn’t seen anyone standing there only a couple of seconds before.
Whoever this guy was, he was exactly like I remembered; brown hair, blue jacket, thick glasses and looking fairly uncomfortable standing there. Yet there he was, just looking at us.
“Megan, tell me that’s one of your ex’s or maybe a refugee from your hometown who has wandered down to the big city,” Jordan said.
“I was hoping that he was your little brother that you’re having to baby sit and just sort of forgot to mention,” I said.
“Please, my family’s genes have better taste than that.”
Jordan had moved around to the driver’s side of the car. Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t making any effort to get any closer to us, or to get into his own car, for that matter. I wasn’t the most popular kid in Nowata High School, but there was something about this guy that reminded me of those kids back home that even gave the unpopular kids the creeps. I just wanted to get away from this guy. I waited until I heard her open the drivers’ side door before I turned and casually got into the car beside her.
“I think this is the part of the movie where the two good-looking women get the hell out of Dodge,” said Jordan in a whisper.
“You got that right.”
I already had mentally prepared several defensive spells that would just take a gesture and the blink of an eye to initiate. Figuring it never hurt to take an a-bomb to a knife fight, I reached out to the nearest lay line and tapped into the power it generated. The flow was a little less than I would have preferred, but nothing that I couldn’t make use of if the circumstances demanded it.
Thankfully, they didn’t. The only problem we had getting away from the mall was getting stuck behind a huge old land shark of a car that was being driven by a little old man who looked like he could barely see over the steering wheel.
“Sweetie, that was spooky,” Jordan said once we were cruising down the street and had put some distance between ourselves and the unwanted president of our fan club.
“Yeah, I think it meets the criteria to rate it spooky on the weird meter,” I said. “And before you ask, I have no idea who he was. I suppose he might have some sort of connection with one of the cases I’m working on right now.”
Unlike those shows on TV where the police sorcerer is hip deep in only one case, my unit usually had anywhere from six to a dozen different cases under investigation, and that was during a light week, which we hadn’t had for a while. Of course, considering some of Jordan’s luck when it came to the dating arena, I figured this guy could have something to do with one of her exes. But since she hadn’t mentioned that possibility, I figured it would be wiser to just not bring the subject up.
There is this rumor that days off from work are supposed to be things where the person taking them actually relaxes and gets extra rest. You couldn’t tell it by me. Jordan and I grabbed a late lunch and hit a couple of more stores that were supposed to be having sales. Truth told, I spent most of my time looking for our “friend,” but didn’t see him. I did find some cute things that I was sorely tempted to buy, and Jordon added several more bags to her trunk collection. I don’t know where she gets the closet space. I’ve wondered if parts of her townhouse might be dimensionally transcendental, bigger on the inside than on the outside.