He stood still. Breathed in char scented air. His eyes darted about. The collapsed remains of the Stung Sparrow still smoldered. Two fire trucks squatted in the street. A dozen firemen in thick, soot-stained coats stood around. Most had their firefighter hats tucked under their arms. A couple sprayed water from hoses at the building.
Poop on a stick.
There was no way he was getting in there.
This was a bad idea.
“Freeze!”
Hilario did his best to look like a statue.
“Hands in the air, fatso! Slow!”
He couldn’t see the cop–what he assumed was a cop. Whoever it was had a vaguely familiar, deep male voice that reeked of authority.
Slowly, he raised his hands in the air.
This was bad. If he used his powers now to smooth over the cop’s mind, make him forget about the weirdo in the clown suit, that might attract the black angels.
They had to be close by still.
After all, there were several charred bodies in the wreck of the Stung Sparrow. But they were short at least one spirit. According to the fire rites, the other planes couldn’t claim the spirits until the black angels had taken them to be weighed.
Even now they would sniffing the psychic currents. If they hadn’t already, they would be matching spirits and bodies. They’d find the body of the missing spirit. Extract its signature from the marrow deep in the blackened bones. Start tasting the borders of the worlds. Track the spirit like bloodhounds from hell.
Why did it have to be fire?
Natural causes, even murder, the spirit could be given choices. Sometimes the black angels wouldn’t even show up for days–or even decades–after the spirit was cleaved from its body. The spirit often had time to wander and come to peace with the demise of its body.
But fire…
Why hadn’t he remembered that?
“Okay big boy, step away from the van. Get down on your knees. Slow,” the cop said.
Easier said than done. Especially in big, floppy clown shoes.
He took two (slow) sidesteps away from the van.
“Get down, fat boy,” the cop said, “No sudden moves, hear?”
He heard.
Hilario eased down into a squat. Dropped down to his knees. Pain shot up his legs. He made a mental note to sew some cushioned kneepads into his uniform.
“Okay, face down on the ground. Hands behind your head,” the cop said.
He’d have to do the closest approximation. With his enormous belly in the way, the chances of his face coming in contact with the ground was zero.
He did his best though. He still hadn’t seen the cop, but he assumed there was a weapon in the cop’s hands. Projectile weapons here in the normal world were quite nasty. Some of the bad places in the unseen world had adopted them as torture devices. He’d heard there was a bit of a black market for normal world weapons in the bad places.
He got down on his belly and put his hands behind his head. An instant later the cop had his knee pressed against Hilario’s back. Cold metal handcuffs clicked around his wrist. The cop grabbed the arm and yanked it down.
Hilario’s heart went into overdrive.
This couldn’t be happening.
“Officer,” Hilario said, “Why are you–”
The knee drove deeper into his back. The cop grabbed his other hand and yanked it down. Cuffed it. The cold metal circled his wrists. It found the bare skin between his gloves and the ruffled ends of his sleeves.
A jolt went through him as the cuff’s essence flashed through his mind. Along with a shadowy impression of the person who just held them. Wide shoulders. Thick arms with simian strength. An almost familiar blocky face that he couldn’t quite see. Scents of musky cologne and gun oil. Devotion to duty. Loyalty…
Got you, you stinking perp! the handcuffs said, Gonna throw you in the pokey. You’re going down. No one escapes the cold steel grasp of justice!
He should have expected a cop’s handcuffs would be full of attitude. The only other pair of handcuffs he’d ever encountered were fur-lined and had been much more authoritative. Though in an entirely different way.
“Shut up, fatso,” the cop said, “I saw you peel away in your piece of shit van earlier. Now you’re back. You know what that tells me?”
“Sir, I–”
The knee ground against Hilario’s spine. Pushed the air out of his lungs.
“Means you’re probably the fuckwit who set the fire,” the cop said, “Is that what gets your jollies off, creep? You know how many people died there?”
Yeah, you’re going to the big house, buster! the handcuffs said, They’re gonna warm up the electric chair for you. Make you sizzle like bacon.
Hilario’s stomach rumbled at the thought of bacon. Though there was still the faintest hint of barbecued human in the air.
His stomach decided it wasn’t interested in bacon after all.
“That place had great pizza,” the cop said, “I fuckin’ loved that place. Larry used to be a friend of mine, too, you bastard.”
Friend of Larry? Used to be?
He twisted his head just enough to see the van. There was still a faint blue glow in front. But where was Larry?
If he could get Larry to show himself…
“I should shoot you right now,” the cop said, “Save the taxpayers a bunch of money.”
Yeah! Street justice! the handcuffs said, Put one right between his eyes! Go Dirty Harry on his fat ass!
Where would handcuffs hear about Dirty Harry? Or were they just formed with that knowledge built in?
Hilario drew in enough air to gasp out a few words. “Sir, I didn’t start the fire.”
Something cold and hard pressed against the back of his neck.
“Don’t you fucking talk,” the cop said, “Or I will pull this trigger.”
Okay, then. Gun confirmed.
He’ll do
