Read Online Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) by A.J. Aalto - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: A.J. Aalto
Ads: Link
heavier traffic. “How perfectly ambitious of you, madam. I’m certain that, were he listening, Lord Dreppenstedt would beam with pride.”
“Listen, you century-old bag of sass, do we have a deal or what?”
“If it amuses you, madam,” Mr. Merritt said, “we most certainly have a deal.”
“Okay, okay, but wait, hold on,” I said, panting, working myself up to it. “Cuntnugget! Douchetarp! Fucksack! Fanny-ramming, bitch-sucking, chunkass, jizz-flapping shitdong! There. No, wait!” I thought about it. “Twatwaffle! I love twatwaffle. And cocksplurt! Okay, I’ll be all right. Starting now! ”
Mr. Merritt’s eyes went back to their normal size eventually. He was quiet for quite some time, and we listened to talk radio all the way to the rusty shipwreck at Jordon Harbor. “Am I bringing you to North House with Lord Dreppenstedt after I drop Miss Ellie at work?”
“Nope. Drop me at the north end of St. Catharines. Port Weller. Lock One.” I rubbed my hands together. “I’ve got an officer to stalk.”
Ellie recovered from her mortification to whisper, “What’s a jizz-flap?”
“I have no idea,” I whispered back. Just another mystery I'd need to solve. Politely.
C HAPTER 5
MOST PEOPLE WOULD be alarmed if a stranger pounced into the passenger seat of their car without invitation and made themselves comfortable. Constable Schenk didn’t even blink… or at least that’s who I assumed he was when I climbed in. I could get used to being back in Canada if people weren't constantly going to be raising their eyebrows and wanting to point guns at me.
The traffic on the Queen Elizabeth Way had been slow because of a heavy snow dump; at a little after eight A.M., we’d dropped Ellie at the hospice where she was a palliative care nurse. Then Mr. Merritt took me all the way to the Lake Ontario end of the Welland Canal. There was one car, a midnight blue Sonata, parked in the weak morning sun at a perfect right angle to the dirty, pothole-ridden road at the end of Lock One. When I hopped out of the hearse and waved an uncertain Mr. Merritt away to take Harry to the house, the man in the Sonata noted my arrival with that I-see-everything-but-am-feigning- disinterest look that cops develop. He went back to his notes, pretending to ignore my approach. The car wasn’t running when I heaved open the passenger door and popped in, but the windows were faintly fogged by the residual warmth inside. About half a foot of snow tumbled off his roof and some of it accompanied me into the car in a swirling white puff.
He slid me an expectant look with slate-hard eyes that reminded me a lot of Rob Hood’s, a blend of grey and green, calculating, not missing a thing. He said nothing. There was a trim goatee softening a chin that might have been sharper in his youth, and the hard angle of his jaw reminded me a bit of Batten, though Schenk had at least five years on Kill-Notch. I doubted that they had been five years of killing monsters, not here in Southern Ontario, but they had been no less difficult, and had left their mark. This man was accustomed to shouldering the kind of human-on-human horrors that would make normal people run screaming in the opposite direction. The Blue Sense stirred to life to report his reaction to my sudden appearance: a calm curiosity, but oddly, no surprise, and certainly no anxiety.
I whipped off my froggy hat, ran a gloved hand over my blonde mop of static, and showed him a toothy grin. “Hey,” I exclaimed with a pleased sniff. “You smell just like I imagine Wayne Gretzky does. Expensive cologne and maple syrup and hockey pucks.”
He opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and then tried again. “It’s not that expensive.”
“Sure it is, you’re single,” I guessed, noting the chic hand-knitted scarf in various autumnal shades, the tasteful leather jacket, and the Italian leather shoes. In the decade I’d been with Harry I’d learned to recognize a man who chose to wear
“Listen, you century-old bag of sass, do we have a deal or what?”
“If it amuses you, madam,” Mr. Merritt said, “we most certainly have a deal.”
“Okay, okay, but wait, hold on,” I said, panting, working myself up to it. “Cuntnugget! Douchetarp! Fucksack! Fanny-ramming, bitch-sucking, chunkass, jizz-flapping shitdong! There. No, wait!” I thought about it. “Twatwaffle! I love twatwaffle. And cocksplurt! Okay, I’ll be all right. Starting now! ”
Mr. Merritt’s eyes went back to their normal size eventually. He was quiet for quite some time, and we listened to talk radio all the way to the rusty shipwreck at Jordon Harbor. “Am I bringing you to North House with Lord Dreppenstedt after I drop Miss Ellie at work?”
“Nope. Drop me at the north end of St. Catharines. Port Weller. Lock One.” I rubbed my hands together. “I’ve got an officer to stalk.”
Ellie recovered from her mortification to whisper, “What’s a jizz-flap?”
“I have no idea,” I whispered back. Just another mystery I'd need to solve. Politely.
C HAPTER 5
MOST PEOPLE WOULD be alarmed if a stranger pounced into the passenger seat of their car without invitation and made themselves comfortable. Constable Schenk didn’t even blink… or at least that’s who I assumed he was when I climbed in. I could get used to being back in Canada if people weren't constantly going to be raising their eyebrows and wanting to point guns at me.
The traffic on the Queen Elizabeth Way had been slow because of a heavy snow dump; at a little after eight A.M., we’d dropped Ellie at the hospice where she was a palliative care nurse. Then Mr. Merritt took me all the way to the Lake Ontario end of the Welland Canal. There was one car, a midnight blue Sonata, parked in the weak morning sun at a perfect right angle to the dirty, pothole-ridden road at the end of Lock One. When I hopped out of the hearse and waved an uncertain Mr. Merritt away to take Harry to the house, the man in the Sonata noted my arrival with that I-see-everything-but-am-feigning- disinterest look that cops develop. He went back to his notes, pretending to ignore my approach. The car wasn’t running when I heaved open the passenger door and popped in, but the windows were faintly fogged by the residual warmth inside. About half a foot of snow tumbled off his roof and some of it accompanied me into the car in a swirling white puff.
He slid me an expectant look with slate-hard eyes that reminded me a lot of Rob Hood’s, a blend of grey and green, calculating, not missing a thing. He said nothing. There was a trim goatee softening a chin that might have been sharper in his youth, and the hard angle of his jaw reminded me a bit of Batten, though Schenk had at least five years on Kill-Notch. I doubted that they had been five years of killing monsters, not here in Southern Ontario, but they had been no less difficult, and had left their mark. This man was accustomed to shouldering the kind of human-on-human horrors that would make normal people run screaming in the opposite direction. The Blue Sense stirred to life to report his reaction to my sudden appearance: a calm curiosity, but oddly, no surprise, and certainly no anxiety.
I whipped off my froggy hat, ran a gloved hand over my blonde mop of static, and showed him a toothy grin. “Hey,” I exclaimed with a pleased sniff. “You smell just like I imagine Wayne Gretzky does. Expensive cologne and maple syrup and hockey pucks.”
He opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and then tried again. “It’s not that expensive.”
“Sure it is, you’re single,” I guessed, noting the chic hand-knitted scarf in various autumnal shades, the tasteful leather jacket, and the Italian leather shoes. In the decade I’d been with Harry I’d learned to recognize a man who chose to wear
Similar Books
