Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (13 page)

Simon dropped his gun arm to his side, and the gun fell to the floor. Schenk inched one step into the room, and I could see him hesitating to put his own gun away.

Simon let out a sob and sank to his knees in defeat, a great blubbering child, pulling at the front of his t-shirt as though the
fabric touching him was adding to his agony in a way he could no longer abide. Father Scarrow bolted forward to kick the gun away, while Schenk rushed in from behind and scooped Simon’s arms in some funky, yanking submission hold. Schenk repeated over and over some commands that sounded super serious; I didn’t hear them, as I was still singing
pretty loud. Seemed wrong to stop before the chorus. Simon didn’t fight
Schenk. Simon’s fight had gone bye-bye. ABBA had been a better weapon than the deadly combination of booze and firearms.

“You knew all the words,” Schenk said, whipping out his handcuffs and snapping them on Simon’s waifish wrists.

“One of my lesser-known talents,” I said. “Figured it would save my life someday. Like if I got kidnapped by a backwoods Swedophile cult.”

“Yes. Then,” Father Scarrow deadpanned.

Suddenly aware that I was in only my tank top, I turned on the priest with a demanding scowl. “What I wanna know is, how come I’m the only one stripping to ABBA?”

“Hard to believe,” Father Scarrow said.

 “You sang both the male and female parts,” Schenk noted.

“Like a boss,” I added.

“Like a lunatic,” Schenk said, and offered me his leather jacket to temporarily cover up with. It fell to my knees and swaddled me in body-warmed leather-scented goodness that smelled faintly of beer and maple syrup, although that was probably my imagination. “Nicely done, Cinderblock. Next time, maybe don’t flail around directly in front of a disturbed gunman. Gonna get yourself killed.”

“You’d rather I let Skinny Jeans here get shot?” I challenged. “I
was covering his ass. If anyone’s going to hurt Ren Scarrow,
constable, it’s going to be me.”

“I’m right here, Ms. Yorsenflorgen,” Scarrow drawled. “I can hear you.”

“You okay?” Schenk frowned down at me. “When the
paramedics get here, I’d like to have them check you out.” His accent thickened as the tension of the standoff abated, and his out sounded like
oot
, though I doubted he noticed.

“They can diagnose mental illness, now?” Scarrow marveled, and went to check the dogs, which were still going ape-shit in their rooms. I gave his retreating back a sour look, and bent to fetch my sweater.

“I’m gonna deck a priest,” I told Schenk, returning his jacket by passing it over the sobbing lump on the floor that was Britney Wyatt’s boyfriend. I pulled my sweater back on. “Wanna watch?”

“Nah, I’ll read about it in the police report.” He hauled Simon to his feet and led him to the front door.

Out front an ambulance was pulling up with a patrol car right behind it. Dark Lady bless first responders. Schenk marched Simon out. A car that hadn’t been there when Schenk and I first arrived,
some silver sedan, was buried nose deep in a snow bank, and I
chalked a drunk driving violation up on Simon’s future rap sheet.

As the adrenalin began to drain from my system, the Blue Sense rode the fading waves to slap me in the face with Simon Hiscott’s agony. He didn’t care about being in cuffs, or being hauled out by his armpits, or going to jail. He didn’t care about anything, anymore. He could have killed us all and not blinked, could have blown up the entire world with the force of his anger and frustration. Simon had never been a violent man, but felt like he had nothing left to keep
him anchored, and the dark wolf that lives inside us all had
completely overrun him; black hatred and desperation surged through every
unexplored hallway in Simon’s mind, chewing open doorways to boiling rooms of rage and heartache. The love of his life had
disappeared into the cold, dark canal, and with her, everything he cared about.

Blocking that level of misery was a struggle for me, and for a moment I swayed back on my heels, physically repelled. Schenk glanced back at me, almost like he’d felt it, too.

The paramedics and the uniformed cops took over care of the sobbing mess in the sock feet and the ABBA shirt. Scarrow returned with my parka, and I took it from the priest’s outstretched hand.

“So,” Father Scarrow said companionably, “how long have you been rubbing shoulders with demons?”

“I do not,” I hissed, watching Schenk in the distance as he filled the uniforms in on the situation, “and I’ll thank you not to say that again.”

The priest’s dark eyebrow crooked up.

“I avoid demons,” I reaffirmed.
And I hardly ever summon them
.
And we totally never rub shoulders when I do, anyways.

Ren motioned to my wrist. “May I?”

Curious, I gave it to him. I shouldn’t have. With his left hand he took my gloved hand, turned it palm-up, pushed up the cuff of my coat to expose the skin of my inner wrist. With his right hand he made the sign of the cross in front of himself, and then waved that palm in front of my face before laying it on my inner wrist. I felt
nothing peculiar, only the mundane touch of soft, masculine hand, but when he removed it, my wrist was speckled with an unhappy rash.

“Thou shalt not lie, minion,” he said, but his lips curled into a frankly devious smirk. “I know demon bait when I see it.”

“Since when does the Church hire guys like you?”

“Guys like what?”

I whisked my wrist out of his grasp and he let go with an easy smile. “You’re a far cry from saintly.”

“I could say the same to you, Ms. Baranuik,” he said, and indicated with his left hand to where Schenk was waving me over. “Your ride is ready.”

I studied him for a long moment. “I’m going to want to talk to you again.”

“Of course you will.” The sardonic smile returned. “And I’ll even let you.”

Gee, thanks
. “What did Simon want from you? How did he know you?”

“I took his confession once.”

I didn’t believe that for a second. “I think you’re lying to me. What kind of priest lies?”

He just shrugged with that infuriating smile. The wind tousled
his hair back from his face, and he noticed me noticing, which
further irritated me.

“Had you met Simon before Britney went missing?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s it? Just yes? Would you care to expand on that?”

“You’re not a cop.”

“I’m not a cop,” I agreed. “I’m a paranormal investigator. And you’re an exorcist, apparently. Got your Red Flag?”

“Why?” His eyes gleamed, and the Blue Sense reported that he
liked me a whole lot more than I was comfortable with. “Are we
playing bullfighter and angry bull later?”

“Don’t flirt with me, priest.”

“I’m not flirting,” he said, “I’m suggesting we fuck.”

My mouth popped open in a perfect O. “Holy crap! What kind of priest--? Are you off your--?” I struggled for more words and the urge to giggle returned full force. I pinched my lips together hard until it settled enough to talk. “You know, life isn’t all about divin’ in the muff.”

His smile tilted toward lewd. “Oh, I beg to differ.”

“You might be the worst priest ever,” I told him.

“Is that why you’re laughing inside?”

“You don’t know what’s going on inside me.”

“Yet,” he said. “But I could certainly make some suggestions on what goes there.”

“Holy motherfluffer! You’re filthier than me.”

“And none of what you just said qualifies as a no, so I guess I’ll
be seeing you later,” he said. “Bring wine. We’ll get drunk and
naked and discuss the afterlife.”

I stammered around a million replies. “I can’t fuck a priest, I’ll go to hell! And if that trick with my wrist is any indication, I'd be arriving with the worst rash ever.”

“Without my help, sweetheart, you’re already going to hell,” he assured me, and dropped a wink before shutting the door in my face.

***

I stomped to Schenk's car, not bothering with anyone else’s foot tracks and leaving a fresh trail through new snow up to my shins. Just my luck; finally offered free, weird sex and it was by a freaky-
ass priest. Dude wanted to save me… with dick. Was this a joke? Was the Green Man enjoying Himself up there, having a good laugh
at my expense? I was stuck imagining the rash I’d get you-know-where if I
tried getting naked with him, which I totally wasn’t picturing.
Besides, how would I get him out of those skinny jeans? No, wait! I wouldn’t!
Would I?
No!
My instincts told me he was dangerous, my personal life told me he was absolutely off-limits, and everything else inside me said
Fiddle-dee-dee!
Apparently, everything else inside me had gone clownshit crazy. I gave the sky my serious-est stink-eye, hoping the Dark Lady and her oh-so-funny Consort were watching, and muttered at Them, “Hysterical. Soooooo funny.”

Still, I had to admit, I felt like I’d just gone for a vitamin B shot; lightened, refreshed, with a bounce in my grudging stomp. I should
have felt drained, what with the brush with death and all, and
reluctantly
equated my surge of stamina with the aftereffects of Father
Scarrow’s semi-holy presence. I snapped the elastic band around my wrist, brushed the snow off my calves, and stamped my feet before getting into the Sonata.

“Wait.” As I buckled up, Schenk held his fingertips to his
temple. “I must be getting psychic. I can read your mind.”

Fuck, I hope not.
“Dazzle me, copper.”

“You’re going to say ‘Time for a Timmy’s run.’”

“Fancy-brains detective.” I almost melted with relief, grateful that he was way off. “Think you’re so smart.”

Schenk had his casebook out and was scribbling notes. “I bet you also owe more money to the swear jar.”

I scowled and did some mental arithmetic, sighing inwardly.
“That guy’s a priest,” I said. “Did you know that?”

His reply was a grunt.

“That’s your ‘I’m not sharing
all
my info with you’ grunt.”

Grunt.

“No, I was wrong,” I said. “That’s your ‘I’m hungry’ grunt.”

Snort-laugh.

“And that’s your ‘stay out of my head, weirdo’ snort. See? I’ve got you all figured out, too, Longshanks.”

“Fancy-brains psychic, eh?”

While Schenk scribbled his notes, I took out my mini Moleskine diary and a golf pencil, and pretended to write while I read aloud, “Dear Diary: Constable Schenk is a big ol’ doody head. Also, I don’t like his tie. And his accent is starting to make me want to go
oot and aboot
for some poutine.”

“I’m not wearing a tie.”

“Dear Diary doesn’t know that.” I scribbled some more. “Dear Diary: Constable Schenk thinks it’s too soon for me to sass him like we’re old friends, but Constable Schenk is wrong. Sass, sass, sass.”

“Must you, while I’m trying to think?”

“I’m not going to comment about how hard it must be for you to think at the best of times, so you’re welcome.” I played with the aim of the heating vents. “Did you feel anything weird in that rectory?”

“Weird how?”

“You know when you’re at a funeral, or you’re sitting in church and the minister starts talking about something super serious, and you know it’s the worst time to laugh, and you’re not even thinking about anything funny, but it just bubbles up in your throat and you have to slap your hands over your mouth?”

“I thought you had to pee,” he said, shooting me a smirk.
“Wriggling and fidgeting the way you were.”

“Hey, I was subtle,” I said.

His lips did that
yeah, right
pucker. “You’re saying Father Scarrow gives you the giggles? Is this going to be a problem?”

“I’m sure it was the building, not the man,” I said, not entirely sure of that at all. I changed the subject, fiddling with the radio station and various dashboard buttons. “What’s going to happen to Simon Hiscott now?”

“Don’t push my buttons.”

“Your buttons or the car’s buttons?”

“Yes,” he said distractedly, and his pencil went
taptaptap
on the steering wheel as he paused to think. “Either. Both.”

His clock started flashing at me, blinking
12:00, 12:00, 12:00
, and a digital voice reported pleasantly, “Twelve.”

Schenk paused in his writing to sigh. “What did you just do?”

“Your clock tells you the time out loud?”

“Well,
now
it does,” he said, whacking my gloved hand away from the dash. “Don’t fiddle.”

“I wasn’t fiddling,” I said, “I was mucking about. There’s a difference.”

“Well, fix it.”

“Don’t harass me,” I grumbled, scratching at a spot on my wrist. “I just had a gun shoved in my face and I’m fairly certain the exorcist gave me a rash. Is that a bump? That looks like a bump.”

Schenk squinted at my wrist. “Nothing there.”

I pulled my wrist up to my face. The rash was already gone.

“Twelve,” the car said.

“Shit,” I said, punching random buttons. “How do you put it back to the way it was?”

“I don’t know,” Schenk said low, swatting me away again to stab at it randomly himself. “Do the opposite of what you did to fuck it up in the first place.”

“That almost never works,” I told him.

“Twelve.”

“Take your gloves off before you push my buttons. You
probably pushed a combination of things that we’ll never figure out without the manual.”

“I can’t take my gloves off! I’m a Groper, and this is a cop’s car.
Do you have any idea what images probably lurk on your
dashboard? It'll be all bad lies, alibis, and donuts.” I tried to open his glove box but it was locked. “Where’s your manual?”

“Twelve.”

“Bought the car used, the manual was long gone.”

I pinched my lips together and shot him a look to judge his level of irritation. It was hard to tell; maybe he wanted to toss me out of
his car on my ear, maybe he just wanted to clobber me. The Blue
Sense suggested it was a toss-up. “And you never bothered to look for a replacement. Typical caveman. Thag know car things.”