When she sees me she asks, “Did you do your job?” “I just got thrown out. That usually means I did.” “Good for you. I’m sure the marshal is grateful that you came through for him.” “Not really.” “Your car is gone.” “It wasn’t my car.” “That’s why it’s gone. Do you need a ride?” “Are you offering?” She gets quiet for a minute. Stares past me over my shoulder. “What’s going on back there? I know it’s a murder scene, but I’m supposed to stay up here and guard the doorknobs.” “You’re the new kid, right? They give you the worst hours, shit duty, and they short-sheet your halo?” She almost smiles. “Something like that.” “Yeah, it’s a murder scene. A rotten one, too. Dark magic gone bad. It even got your boss upset.” “Damn. I wish I could see that. You don’t know how much I want to be back there.” “Cool your jets, Honey West. Don’t be in such a rush to get what’s back there stuck in your head. It doesn’t come out again.” “I don’t care. I need to know what’s in rooms like that. I’ve prepared for it my whole life. Now I’m here, but I’m still missing out.” Scratch a cop, find a pervert. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “L.A.’s not going to run out of psychos anytime soon.” I go outside. The steps crack and crunch beneath my feet. Good special effects. Marshal Julie says, “You never told me if you wanted a ride.” “Mind if I steal one of your vans?” This time she does smile. “Yeah. I kind of do.” “Then I think I’ll walk awhile. I can use the air.” I get half a block down Sixth Street before I’m sure that someone is following me. Whoever it is isn’t very good at it. The heavy footfalls say it’s a he. And he’s dragging one of his feet. He kicks and steps on things. For a second I wonder if it’s Marshal Julie, but no one from the Vigil would be that amateur hour. I turn around twice, but the street is always empty. At the corner of South Broadway, I look again. A man stands half lit under a streetlight. His posture is funny, like he needs a back brace but forgot his on the bus. He just stands there. When he tries to turn around, he stumbles on the foot he’s been dragging. For a split second, his face is in the light. I swear it’s Mason. His face is dead white and gaunt, the skin torn. But then it isn’t him. It never was. I don’t recognize him. By the time I run over to where the stranger is standing, he’s moved back into the dark and disappeared. Hissing sounds of car tires rolling by on Broadway. Gurgle of water from the sewer at my feet. There’s nothing else. I’m the only thing alive on the street. Serves me right for turning down a ride home from a cannibal play party, even if it was with a cop.
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