Violina gave a gracious smile and stepped up, disappointed that Steve had not propositioned her—yet. Any footage picked up by security cameras would show what could only be a trucker and his conquest leaving for a tryst. And though she didn’t plan to need the alibi, it was good to have a contingency plan.
“So much like his truck,” she said wistfully.
Steve maintained a respectful silence and distance. Violina realized she would have to work harder than usual to dissolve his gallantry.
“Oh!” Violina leaped off the running board with a faux clumsiness, widening her eyes exaggeratedly for Steve to see in the weak light of the streetlamp. “There’s…something…”
“What!?” Steve seemed excessively concerned about his traveling home.
Violina stammered “I—I…don’t know, maybe a mouse.” She took on a frightened expression. “No. A rat, as big as it was.”
“What!?” Steve was embarrassed.
“Dear God!” Making her hands tremble, Violina drew the little glass flask she had prepared and pretended to take a draw, very careful that she didn’t. “It dashed under the driver’s seat,” she said .
As Steve drew his flashlight keychain, Violina stepped toward and offered the flask. “You should have a sip. To calm your nerves.”
Steve looked at the flask, then at Violina’s crimson lips. “I’ll have a bit afterward.”
Steve leaped up on the running board, drawing his little keychain flashlight. “I’ll find you, you little vermin,” he threatened under his breath. “And I’ll squeeze you flat.”
Improvising, Violina went around to the passenger side and opened the door.
“Hold up, ma’ am,” Steve said. “Close that door so he don’t get away!”
She stepped up, dumping the flask contents into her mouth.
“Ma’am? Did you hear what I…?”
Violina blew the liquid into Steve’s face. He fell backward onto the pavement with a shocked cry.
Violina spat and coughed, miffed at having to engage in such low-class behavior. As she wiped her tongue and gums with a silk kerchief, she hurried to check on Steve.
“Stand up,” she ordered.
Steve complied, staring at her with frightened eyes, one of only two physical functions he could control.
“What…did…?”
“Good,” she said, checking the back of his head for damage. “There’s a lot I need you to do tonight.”
Steve shook with terror, fully understanding his body would not respond to his brain. “What did you…do to me!”
“Not what did I do, dear,” Violina said. “What will I do.”
She spat again, careful to flush out even the most minute remnants of the puffer-fish-poisoned whiskey. “And the answer is…use you up and throw you away.”
* * * *
Herve must have already been feeling bad; he didn’t come back to his seat for fifteen minutes. When he did, he looked like a wax figure.
“You okay?” asked Brinke. He nodded, wiping his brow with his tie, which he then loosened as he took a deep breath.
Well, she thought regretfully, here goes nothing.
She took out her notebook and a pencil and began to write, careful to obscure the words from Herve, though he was well occupied with his own internal turbulence.
Strange-sounding thunder rolled through the fuselage, underscored with a discomfiting low-frequency noise.
She scribbled quickly, raising a subtle chant that was meant to seem secret while calling attention to itself. Brinke hated to deceive. But she was willing to pay the price if her ploy succeeded.
“What are you…whispering about?” asked Herve between unsteady breaths.
“Just an old nursery rhyme,” Brinke said. Then she lightly placed her hand on his chest, allowing the journal to fall open at the right angle for him to see the runes, which his subconscious would then absorb.
“Is your heart all right?’ Brinke would have been horrified to know she had just employed the same spell Violina had, just the day before, on poor Officer Kebbler at the Cronus County Evidence Annex.
Herve put his hand on hers to push it away, and she felt how cold and clammy his palm was. “Please…don’t…”
The man who had so lasciviously ogled her not long ago now couldn’t stand her touch. Brinke’s plan was working.
Brinke stood and called to a stewardess.
“May I help you?” Her name badge read Helene.
“I’m afraid he’s having a heart attack.”
Helene went through the usual motions and queries to be sure the problem was beyond her limited training and finally whisked away to consult with her superior.
Brinke patted the man’s shoulder, regretfully restraining herself from projecting any healing intent into him. “You’ll be okay,” she told him.
Herve nodded minutely, clearly unconvinced. Brinke felt his terror and helplessness quickly becoming despair. Tears of shame and guilt came to Brinke as she withdrew her hand. Herve seemed baffled that a woman who barely knew him was practically mourning his imminent demise.
Captain Winchell, the practiced reserve of his voice beginning to falter, addressed the passengers. “Evening, fellow flyers. We have a possible medical emergency. If there’s a doctor or cardiologist on board, please contact a stewardess immediately. Thank you.”
“Oh, God…” Herve murmured. “I’m going to die up here.”
* * * *
Hudson had not been in Pedro’s apartment for more than five minutes when an urgent knock came at his door. It was Ophelia, his ten-year-old upstairs neighbor, wringing her hands. “Are you in trouble?”
“Huh?” Pedro saw her nervous glance at the lawmen. “Oh. Nah. Believe it or not, these doughnut addicts are my friends.”
Hudson and Yoshida smiled and waved.
“Are you sure?” asked the little girl. “I can give you my allowance…”
She was interrupted by the call of her name from upstairs—her mother, Camilla.
“Don’t she know you came down here?” Pedro asked.
“I snuck! She didn’t want me to…bother you…” Ophelia gave the deputies the same jittery look—and Pedro understood. Ophelia’s family either had questionable immigration statuses or feared that the deputies might make up some.
“I’m just signing autographs for these fanboys. Nothing to worry about.” He smiled, and she relaxed. “Go back to your ma, before you get us both tuned up.”
Ophelia waved and ran off.
“I help her with her music-class homework.”
“Dude, we could use you for immigrant relations,” noted
