few steps and leaned a hand on the hood of Gene’s cruiser, the metal still hot to the touch.
She looked up and saw Richie, made green by the fluorescents of the filling station, watching her as he took a rag to the windshield of a dusty Japanese car. He looked away, checking the spinning numbers on the pump, tucked the rag into the pocket of his jumpsuit, drew the nozzle of the hose from the side of the car and clicked it into its housing. The car bumped across the apron toward the road and Richie looked at Skye again, then he turned and disappeared into his hutch.
She’d hurt his feelings earlier and part of her wanted to go across and apologize. But she held back.
On the ride over Richie had spoken more than usual. “Hear about the business by the roadhouse?”
“Yes,” she’d said.
“Them guys in the Dodge that come by the diner got themselves dead.”
“Yes.”
“People sayin’ it’s them cartels.”
“Makes sense.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “Hear the wounds were something terrible.” She said nothing. “Spoke to some folk , today, down by the border post.”
He stopped talking, waiting for her to prompt him. “About what, Richie?”
“They sayin’ it weren’t no cartels. They sayin’ it were the work of a demon.”
“Aw, c’mon Richie, there’s no such thing. That’s old school superstition talking. You’re not silly enough to believe that, are you?”
Her scorn had shamed him into silence.
Skye turned back toward the diner, seeing her distorted reflection in the window glass, and the questions came again: What am I? What is this thing inside me?
She had always laughed off the woo-woo chatter of the babysitter Maria, who rolled her eyes and crossed herself as she told breathless tales of Satan’s spawn—shapeshifters and demons and half-men—running amok in the foothills across the border. But now these lurid tales seemed pretty good descriptions of the dark thing inside her.
She submerged these thoughts, her focus shifting to her brother and the giant still seated in the booth. Gene sat upright, his hands on the edge of the table as if he was about to push himself to standing. The huge s heriff was relaxed, arms resting on the back of his seat. Skye wondered why her brother was here with Drum. She’d overheard enough conversations between Gene and her uncle over the years to understand that Drum was offensive to all they stood for.
“Dellbert Drum makes me ashamed of this uniform,” she’d once heard Lavender say, hunched with Gene at the table in the kitchen of the house she’d been brought up in, the two men drinking coffee, discussing ways to unseat the corrupt lawman who ruled the neighboring county like a feudal lord, the cancer of his corruption eating its way across the county line.
Whatever business he had with Drum was over and Gene stood and took his hat and exited the diner. He stopped and stared at Skye, his face hollowed out.
“What’s wrong, Gene?”
Her brother shook his head. “I’ll talk to you at home.” He got into the patrol car and drove away.
Skye went into the diner as the massive lawmen levered himself upright, set his hat on his head, gave her a wink and strode to the door. There was no mention of payment for his drink.
As Skye cleared the table Minty came in, hurrying toward the locker room, her heels beating a little staccato tune.
“You done something to your hair?” she asked, as she passed in a cloud of scent.
“No,” Skye said, putting the dirty glass on the serving hatch, in time to catch Earl mooning over Minty’s retreating ass.
The night dragged. Earl stayed in the kitchen, nursing his lust and a bottle of whiskey, keeping a maudlin flow of old Willie Nelson ballads piping through the tinny speakers. Minty sat at a table reading a gossip magazine. Every few minutes she’d snap open the compact mirror she kept in her pocket and touch up her lipstick, looking hopefully toward the door. Skye hovered behind the
She looked up and saw Richie, made green by the fluorescents of the filling station, watching her as he took a rag to the windshield of a dusty Japanese car. He looked away, checking the spinning numbers on the pump, tucked the rag into the pocket of his jumpsuit, drew the nozzle of the hose from the side of the car and clicked it into its housing. The car bumped across the apron toward the road and Richie looked at Skye again, then he turned and disappeared into his hutch.
She’d hurt his feelings earlier and part of her wanted to go across and apologize. But she held back.
On the ride over Richie had spoken more than usual. “Hear about the business by the roadhouse?”
“Yes,” she’d said.
“Them guys in the Dodge that come by the diner got themselves dead.”
“Yes.”
“People sayin’ it’s them cartels.”
“Makes sense.”
He was quiet for a few seconds. “Hear the wounds were something terrible.” She said nothing. “Spoke to some folk , today, down by the border post.”
He stopped talking, waiting for her to prompt him. “About what, Richie?”
“They sayin’ it weren’t no cartels. They sayin’ it were the work of a demon.”
“Aw, c’mon Richie, there’s no such thing. That’s old school superstition talking. You’re not silly enough to believe that, are you?”
Her scorn had shamed him into silence.
Skye turned back toward the diner, seeing her distorted reflection in the window glass, and the questions came again: What am I? What is this thing inside me?
She had always laughed off the woo-woo chatter of the babysitter Maria, who rolled her eyes and crossed herself as she told breathless tales of Satan’s spawn—shapeshifters and demons and half-men—running amok in the foothills across the border. But now these lurid tales seemed pretty good descriptions of the dark thing inside her.
She submerged these thoughts, her focus shifting to her brother and the giant still seated in the booth. Gene sat upright, his hands on the edge of the table as if he was about to push himself to standing. The huge s heriff was relaxed, arms resting on the back of his seat. Skye wondered why her brother was here with Drum. She’d overheard enough conversations between Gene and her uncle over the years to understand that Drum was offensive to all they stood for.
“Dellbert Drum makes me ashamed of this uniform,” she’d once heard Lavender say, hunched with Gene at the table in the kitchen of the house she’d been brought up in, the two men drinking coffee, discussing ways to unseat the corrupt lawman who ruled the neighboring county like a feudal lord, the cancer of his corruption eating its way across the county line.
Whatever business he had with Drum was over and Gene stood and took his hat and exited the diner. He stopped and stared at Skye, his face hollowed out.
“What’s wrong, Gene?”
Her brother shook his head. “I’ll talk to you at home.” He got into the patrol car and drove away.
Skye went into the diner as the massive lawmen levered himself upright, set his hat on his head, gave her a wink and strode to the door. There was no mention of payment for his drink.
As Skye cleared the table Minty came in, hurrying toward the locker room, her heels beating a little staccato tune.
“You done something to your hair?” she asked, as she passed in a cloud of scent.
“No,” Skye said, putting the dirty glass on the serving hatch, in time to catch Earl mooning over Minty’s retreating ass.
The night dragged. Earl stayed in the kitchen, nursing his lust and a bottle of whiskey, keeping a maudlin flow of old Willie Nelson ballads piping through the tinny speakers. Minty sat at a table reading a gossip magazine. Every few minutes she’d snap open the compact mirror she kept in her pocket and touch up her lipstick, looking hopefully toward the door. Skye hovered behind the
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