my lungs. My vision blurred again, and, looking at my fingers, I could see each layer of skin, the tendons and the bones, as clearly as I could see the coffee cup my hands were wrapped around. One more blink, and I would see the cells skimming against one another, bouncing off the surface tension that was skin. Instead I shivered and met Morrison’s eyes. “I decided this morning that I wasn’t going to die.”
Morrison’s shoulders were lifted, expression tense. “Your eyes are the wrong color.”
I blinked. “What?”
His shoulders went even tighter. “They’re—they were—gold.”
“Must’ve been the light,” I said in a very low voice. Morrison thrust his jaw out. Yeah, I didn’t believe me either. Great. Marie’s eye condition was catching. I hoped I didn’t start doing the pupil-less eye thing. “I decided I wasn’t going to die,” I repeated, hoping Morrison would let it go. I carefully looked at the table, rather than at my hands. I wasn’t that keen on seeing my own bones.
He was silent a few seconds before I heard him shift into a more relaxed position. “Nobody gets up in the morning planning to die, Walker. Well,” the cop in him amended, “hardly anybody.”
I swallowed. “No, I don’t think you understand.”
He spread his hands. “Enlighten me.”
“I can see my bones,” I said softly, and dared look at my hands again. They looked perfectly normal. “I don’t think anything short of brain death can kill me right now.”
“Are you telling me you’re immortal?”
“No,” I said irritably, “I’m telling you I can stay alive.”
“Why the hell didn’t you just say so?”
The wall was too far away to hit my head on. “Does that mean I’m no longer suspended?”
Morrison puckered up like he’d bitten into a lime. “Yeah.”
“Do I get my badge back?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” I said. “How about a raise?”
Morrison’s expression went tight.
“Hey,” I said, “I’ll be detecting. Detectives make more than mechanics, don’t they?”
Morrison stared at me. “I really don’t like you.”
I smiled brightly. “It’s good to be back. Boss.”
It took half an hour to get my badge back, and another forty minutes on the range blowing holes in distant targets to assure Morrison I wasn’t going to shoot myself or anyone else unless I intended to.
“That’s it?” I asked when Morrison pulled off his earmuffs.
“That’s it,” Morrison said, still scowling. “You shoot well.”
“Thank you. My dad taught me. I like rifles better, but I guess one wouldn’t fit in a shoulder holster.” I tucked the gun awkwardly into that self-same holster. Morrison looked like he felt better when I didn’t do it well, which made no sense. I would rather someone very competent was tucking and untucking guns from shoulder holsters, but Morrison was having a bad enough morning as it was. For once I let it go, asking, “That’s it?” again. “Now I get to go out and defend the innocent and protect the weak with my trusty sidearm and shiny star?”
“I can’t tell you how much I already regret this,” Morrison growled. I sighed happily.
“No, but you’ll probably try.”
“This isn’t a game, Walker.” Morrison was grim.
“No shit.”
“Walker.” There was a dangerous note in Morrison’s voice. I looked up from trying to arrange my pistol comfortably and rubbed the heel of my hand over my breastbone. It was getting to be a nervous habit, but I couldn’t get over the uncomfortable feeling of having a sword through my lung.
“I know, Morrison. Okay? I never planned to be a card-carrying member of any law enforcement agency. I really just wanted to be a mechanic. I’m not taking this lightly.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
I shrugged my jacket on over the shoulder holster to see how it fit. Not bad. Felt a little strange, but I’d adapt. “Did it ever occur to you that might be the point?”
He was quiet and I looked up again to see a faintly satisfied expression in his eyes. I wished he wouldn’t do that. Discomfited, I adjusted my jacket again and shifted my shoulders. “There anything else?” I asked my shoes. They were regular waterproof winter boots today. Morrison was wearing similar shoes. We were the same height. I smiled a little.
“Just try not to talk to the press, Walker.”
I dropped my voice half an octave. “This is Special Investigator Joanne Walker, reporting for
Morrison tried not to grin, producing a wicked sparkling smirk instead. It wasn’t James Dean, but it wasn’t half-bad. “None of that.”
“Who would believe me?”
“The kind of people who watch tabloid TV. Just spare the department the embarrassment. Spare
“Why, Morrison, are you asking me a favor?”
He glared at me. Funny how most of the time, Morrison’s glares made me feel better about the world. They were a kind of reliable continuity, and I could use all the continuity I could get right now. I held up a hand. “All right. Look, this will be over tonight, Captain. Anything else can be dealt with to—Monday.”
“To Monday,” Morrison echoed, eyebrows elevated.
“I promised myself I could sleep until Friday afternoon if I lived through this,” I explained, “and I’ve got a dinner date Friday night, so I’m not doing anything else until Monday at least. And right now I’m going up to see if Jen’s got anything on the missing persons report I filed.”
“Who’s the date with?”
I smiled brightly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” As I brushed by him, I had the distinct impression that he would. I took the stairs up into the station two at a time, grinning. Morrison followed me up and broke off at his office, muttering under his breath. I went back to the Missing Persons department and Jen lifted her voice as I came in the door.
“Got nothing.”
I puffed my cheeks out, closing the door behind me, mindful of the draft, as I went around the corner to her desk. “Too early?”
She nodded, waving a handful of papers at me. “Too early, or your girl isn’t missing. I did a sketch from the painting and sent it out around the city. Nobody’s reported back. You’re early, by the way.”
I glanced at a clock; it was five after ten. “Yeah, well, the world just came to an end.”
“Really?” Jen looked around. “I always thought all the paperwork would go up in flames when the world ended. One big poof of spontaneous combustion. I’m disappointed.” She sounded like she really was.
“Maybe it was just one of the seven signs of the Apocalypse, then.” I took out my badge and tossed it on her desk. I was going to have to get a flip-open wallet. All of a sudden, I understood their appeal: not only did they not require digging through pockets, they were terribly theatrical.
Jen put her papers down and picked up the badge. “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”
I cackled. “Nope.”
“This didn’t come out of a Cracker Jack box, did it.” The statement verged on a question, full of disbelief. I cackled again, unable to help myself.
“Nope. Straight from Morrison’s own delicate little hands, it is.”
Jen stuck a pen in her mouth and looked up at me. She quit smoking two years ago and still put things in her mouth. Around the pen, she asked, “What’d you do, bio—”
“He’s not my type,” I said hastily, and grinned. Jen grinned back.
“Nobody’s your type, Joanne. How’d you swing this?”
“His idea. Look, if nothing turned up yet, how about I swing by in a few hours just to see if I’ve gotten lucky? Maybe around two.”
“Sure. Hope I’ve got something for you.” She took the pen out of her mouth and grinned again, intoning,
