Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files) Page 5

  “That water is so… dark,” I said.

  He murmured thoughtfully.

  “My dad said there are eels,” I said. “Is that true? Are there eels? Or did he just say that to keep me out of the canal?”

  “Britney Wyatt never made any attempt to contact you?”

  I curled my feet up under me, half-noticing Harry rise from his chair and circle around the back of the couch. I felt the blanket drape my lap before I saw his pale hands tucking it around me. I flicked a glance at Batten, who watched us with an unreadable expression.

  “No. I’m sorry,” I told Schenk, meaning it. “I hope you find her, though.”

  “Anything else you can think of that might be helpful?”

  There wasn’t, and I felt useless. “I wish I could be more help.”

  “Thanks for your time, eh?” he said, and I heard the disappointment, felt it come across the line clearly. Before he hung up I distinctly heard that taptaptap again. I put the phone aside and slid my gloves back on.

  “Dearheart, if you’re going home you’ll need to pack your boots,” Harry said. “Not the dress boots, mind. The lace-ups are far more practical for the snow and ice.”

  Batten’s face was half lit by firelight. “You’re going home?”

  “I’m not going home,” I said firmly, though certainly the urge to help was nagging in my belly. I had investigatory blue-balls because Hood yanked me unceremoniously away from the crime scene that afternoon, and they were churning for an outlet, making me antsy.

  “What was that charming name you had for them?” Harry drummed his bottom lip with one pale forefinger, pacing back to his chair, then changing his mind and choosing to roam the room. “Your ‘shit-kickers?’”

  He was talking about my indestructible Doc Martens; I’d had them forever, and they were still in excellent condition.

  “‘Tis a perfect shame that I cannot accompany you,” Harry continued, “as an attempt to mend fences with your family is long overdue. Alas, your brother could not travel in the state he’s in; neither could our Mr. Duchoslav be left alone while he is in such a vulnerable state.”

  When not lurking around and whining about how much he missed pizza and cheeseburgers, my brother Wesley spent most of his days as a bat, curled up in one of my bedroom slippers, which also happened to be how he conducted his sex life. Baranuiks: not lucky in love. Yucky in love, maybe.

  “I’m not going home, Harry.”

  “Might as well,” Batten told me. “You’re on vacation.”

  “I don’t want to be on vacation,” I reminded him. “Neither do you.”

  “Don’t forget your passport,” Harry said, ignoring us. He left the room, an elegant glide of immortal grace that demanded human attention. With a sigh I tossed aside my afghan and chased him into my room.

  “Harry,” I repeated, “I am not going home. My family lives at home. Remember them? The people who don’t like me, but who would never let me live it down if I didn’t visit while I was in town, but would also make such a visit impossible, what with them not letting me in the fucking house? I am not going to Canada.”

  “Well, of course you are. I knew it the minute the nice policeman called. You cannot resist.”

  “I can resist,” I lied. “Just because this Britney girl might have had a problem that I might have been able to help with and now she might be missing doesn’t mean I have to know what happened.” But what happened? And what did she need me for? And where did she get my old business card?

  “Good heavens, such a fuss you make.” Harry whisked open my bedroom closet and stood there contemplating my wardrobe with a discontented air, then fished out my go-bag. “Pack your vitamins. Warm socks. Extra gloves. One never does know what sort of calamity you’ll run into.”

  Batten leaned a hip against the bedroom door. “Lot of snow this year,” he said. “Better wear your long underwear.”

  I fired a pair of balled socks at his sassy mustache. “Who asked you, Smokey and the Bandit? You shouldn't even be thinking about my underwear.”

  “Perhaps you should bring the ring our Infernal Master chose to give you,” Harry said, still off in his thoughts. His pale hand drifted to my jewelry box, which was really just a wicker bowl containing some costume beads and the ring of Asmodeus, wrapped in one of Harry’s monogrammed handkerchiefs.

  “I highly doubt I’ll be tainting my soul by summoning a three-headed demon king to claim any stray spirits this week, dude.”

  Batten made an unhappy noise. “You can still do that? Why don’t you get rid of that thing?”

  “Because it would be a very bad thing if it fell into the wrong hands,” I said. Batten’s lips did a slow curl and I knew what he was thinking. It’s already in the wrong hands.

  “Very well, ducky,” Harry said. “At least pack some decent clothing for a change.” He winced at my current fashion choices: grey track pants, a faded khaki M*A*S*H t-shirt, and slouchy wool socks.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “On second thought, gimme that ring. Gonna summon Him up to get you right now.”

  Harry made a stern cluck of his tongue and slipped the ring in his pocket, giving it a safety pat to reassure himself that it stayed put.

  “Go with her, Harry. I could babysit the dead guys,” Batten offered, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  My jaw dropped. I worked it, but nothing came out. I don't think I'd have been more surprised if he’d said he was proposing to Chapel.

  Harry stopped packing my socks with a wide smile, no hint of fang. “Why, Mark, you surprise me,” he said warmly.

  “Half-a-Vamp can’t be left alone,” Batten reasoned.

  “Don’t call him that,” I said, and it would have come out much sterner had I not noticed Harry calling Batten by his first name, a rare thing indeed.

  “But neither can she,” Batten finished, tossing a smirk in my direction. “You’d better go with her.”

  “I could not agree more,” Harry said, “and we thank you. This is a kind answer to a question I dared not ask.”

  I waved my gloved hands at them. “Where am I? What universe did I trip into? Am I even here? Can you see me?”

  Batten shrugged it off. “Watched revenants before, remember?”

  He had watched both Harry and my brother Wesley during the investigation following my being stabbed by psycho hose-beast Danika Sherlock, and he had managed not to stake either of them.

  “Besides,” Batten continued, “I’m on vacation but on call; I have to stay in town. Chapel’s off. You’re leaving.”

  “I’m not leaving!” I repeated, upping my volume in case they were both going deaf.

  Batten continued, “You’re uncomfortable using Viktor.”

  Viktor Moldovan Domitrovich was an eight-foot-tall, undead Chukotka ogre from the Zone of Absolute Discomfort in the far north of Russia, sent by the Association, a multipurpose service for revenants. He was an excellent — if completely creepy — guardian for the dead guys, but I didn’t like to have him in my home any more than necessary on account of his necrophilia. I didn't even want to think of him licking the open, abraded wreck of Duchoslav's torso, much less what else he might do to it. Entrail-humping was a bridge or three too far.

  “Harry, you don’t trust Batten to guard Wes, do you? I’m not even sure I trust him to feed the cat and water the orchids.”

  “I regret to say, last year I would not have trusted your carrion hunter in the smallest degree. However, he has proven himself a stalwart companion of late.” His smile broadened. “I daresay this impromptu arrangement with your agent sounds not entirely unsatisfactory.”

  “As a sentinel?” Batten suggested, their inside joke; last time he’d played bodyguard, Harry had tricked him into sitting by the casket for hours like a sentry.

  Harry had the grace to look sheepish. “Why, this feels like the beginning of a marvelous friendship, Mr. Batten.”

  “Wouldn’t go that far,” Batten said.

&nbs
p; Harry shrugged easily. “Who can say?”

  I struggled to compute. “Can it with the bromance, you two. It’s freaking me out. I can’t go to Canada, even if I do want to, which I am absolutely not admitting to.”

  They craned in unison to blink meaningfully at me. Since Harry did not require the act of blinking, I took it for the insult it was.

  “I haven’t been invited to help,” I said. “I don’t just barge into active criminal investigations and push my—”

  The rest of my argument was drowned out by another chorus of guffaws. I let my head fall back and stared at the ceiling as their shared humor washed over me. How I had gone from hermit slacker to pushy investigator, I’ll never know, but lying about my wants and needs to these two was pointless. I did need to know why Britney Wyatt had my decade-old business card, and what she needed me for, and where she’d gone, and why she’d taken a winter swan dive, and if I could help. I certainly wanted to solve those mysteries more than I wanted to sit here listening to these two numbskulls giggling like little boys who’ve traded potty talk. Harry’s elbow hit the dresser as he struggled to remain upright, doubled over by the force of his merriment. Batten fairly wheezed with laughter. That beautiful face I usually wanted to smooch all over was turning pink, and his hairy mocking grin made me itch to slap him.

  “Oh, fuck off into a basket of pig shit, the both of you.” I grabbed my favorite black cable-knit sweater off the hanger and chucked it at my go-bag. “I liked you guys a lot better when you hated each other. I'm going to my office to get Chapel off the dhaugir hook, now that I'm so pissed off I can't screw it up.”

  And, amazingly enough, that's exactly how it went. A candle, his picture, a pinch of this and a sprig of that, and Gary was free. Harry and I were in the car on the way to the airport less than an hour later.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE OVERNIGHT FLIGHT from Denver to Toronto’s Pearson International was uneventful, unless you counted the fact that Harry had replaced half the songs on my iPod with a subliminal recording entitled, “Self Restraint for Compulsives: Your Graceful Nature”. I spent the first chunk of the flight trying to figure out when the hell I’d put an hour of ocean sound effects in between Tom Waits and the Beatles. Sure, they were soothing, and I managed to pass on the cocktail service when the stewardess offered it, but I was left with the urge to thunder-punch a cheeky dead guy in the sockstuffer.

  Filling out the Customs forms had been an adventure, especially when Harry piped up from within his casket to complain that “undead English sassmouth” was both inaccurate and impertinent; one of the porters who had been carrying his casket let out an indelicate shriek and nearly dropped his end. I bit the bullet and put down “family visit”, as the reason for travel, but I sincerely hoped that if Harry chose to see them, he wouldn’t insist I join him.

  My best friend in the whole world, Ellie Meath, was due to meet me at the arrivals area. I had convinced Harry to pack relatively light, fitting everything I thought I needed for a short stay into a single, albeit lumpy and heavy, carry-on bag. For ease of travel I’d left both my gun and Mr. Buzz, my favorite vibrator, behind. I figured if I couldn’t live without either for a couple days, I had bigger problems than I thought.

  Harry, on the other hand, had packed for himself like he was Celine Dion on a cross-country tour. As the porters took his casket beyond customs, I tried not to think how much extra he’d paid for the luggage charges, not to mention the price of hauling his casket, with him in it. When we traveled, infrequently though it was, we usually did so in a private jet or chartered bus for exactly these reasons.

  I spotted Ellie’s chic, platinum-blonde pixie cut in the crowd, bobbing and weaving a good foot below everyone else’s heads; Ellie’s short like me, and kind of quirky in a dry, reserved way. I hadn’t seen her in four years, since the last time she’d popped out west to visit me when I'd still been with GD&C. When she found me she shot me a two fingered salute off her brow. There was no smile, but thanks to the Blue Sense, I knew she was glowing on the inside. Between us, I was the sunny one.

  I bounded over to her and tried to give her a hug. She sighed and tolerated it, arms limp at her sides. “Yes, yes, hi,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Must we be melodramatic?”

  I backed up and grinned at her chest. “What’s with the tits?” I jumped at my own loud voice, and looked around to see if I’d been overheard. Several curious passersby looked at Ellie’s chest. I whispered, “Hello, new boobs?”

  “Oh!” she said as though she’d completely forgotten. She passed a hand over her modest beige silk blouse. “They’re new. Like them?”

  “Expensive?”

  “What do I care?” she asked. “It’s Fred’s money.”

  “Do you like them?”

  She frowned at me like she didn’t understand the question. “Get real. They’re plastic toys for Freddie.” She left out that she’d do anything and everything for Fred, but I knew it to be true. He had been in and out of hospital as long as I’d known him, and needed full-time care at home. When Ellie wasn’t at work, she was caring for Freddie. The deadpan humor and flat stare didn’t fool me; Ellie was a total softy on the inside. Apparently, that softness extended to body reconstruction.

  She gave me a critical once-over. “You’re not getting laid.”

  “Hey, sometimes I—” I smiled again, noting the hint of teasing in her eye. “Maybe I should get a set.”

  “Would Harry like that?”

  I laughed. Unlike my sisters, Ellie didn’t say Harry in audible air quotes, like it maybe wasn’t his real name, or draw it out like it was a dirty word. She wasn’t thrilled with my living as a DaySitter, or pleased with the effect it had had on my relationship with my family and most of my old friends, but she wasn’t unhappy about Harry as a person; she didn’t like him being undead, but being a wealthy English gentleman scored him some major points. I think her family coming from a corner of the English aristocracy and being raised with the same sense of refinement and dignity had a lot to do with it. Harry’s disdain for most of my behavior tickled Ellie’s funny bone. On more than one occasion they had happily compared notes on my lack of poise for hours over tea and watercress sandwiches while I played video games and flipped them both off.

  I thought about her query and realized I had no idea what Harry would think about fake boobs. Probably something with way too many antiquated syllables, regardless of which way his needle pointed. Batten, for his part, was an avowed ass man. “I missed you,” I offered to change the subject.

  “You and your sloppy sentimentality,” she said, but the set of her shoulders softened. For a moment she looked like she wanted to tell me something important, but it disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. She zipped her coat up. “You must need caffeine. Come on. Your car is waiting out front and your man is fetching the luggage.”

  My car? My man? I allowed her to take my go-bag off my shoulder, because with Ellie, I pick my battles. If she wants to do something nice for you, Dark Lady help you if you try to resist. We hit the Tim Horton’s and scooped a couple of coffees. I boggled at the extra-large size but said nothing, as I was coming from America, land of super-size, high-test everything.

  “He’s a little stuffy,” Ellie was saying, giving me her humorless smile, like she hadn't expected “him,” whoever he was, to be any different. I didn’t have a clue which “him” she was talking about, as Harry was still in his casket. She nodded at my pink leather gloves approvingly. She’d seen me wear gloves for the last decade, quite accustomed to my habits as a Groper. “Got a hat?”

  “What car? I didn't book a rental,” I said, fishing my knit cap out of my pocket and plunking it on my head. The hat was Kelly green and shaped like a cartoon frog, with bulging white eyes on top and nifty kiddy-ties that I fastened under my chin. Ellie held my coffee for me while I zipped up my puffy pink parka, then I followed her toward the exit doors, sipping cautiously and blowing into the little hole in the brown plastic lid
. “And who’s stuffy? Harry? Constable Schenk?”

  She shook her head no. “Did this cop invite you to help on his case,” she asked, “or are you butting in like always?”

  “Since when do I butt-in without being invited? I usually try to butt out, but nobody lets me.”

  “You hate an unsolved mystery.” She had me there, but I was going to keep practicing my denial skills. Or maybe just reheat my sarcasm.

  “I absolutely, positively love not knowing what’s going on,” I scoffed. “I spend ninety percent of my day not knowing what the fuck is going on.”

  “That, I don’t doubt,” Ellie said. “You're going to see that horde you call family while you’re in town, aren’t you?”

  I snorted. “I’d rather freeze to death and be eaten by wolves, not necessarily in that order.”

  We pushed out of the airport doors. The blast of winter air hit me directly in the face, nearly freezing my eyeballs open on contact. They watered instantly. We both stopped with matching expressions of agony. My shoulders shot up to offer some protection to the nape of my neck. I made an involuntary little whooping noise and chased Ellie’s quick footfalls to the right, hugging my coffee cup to my chest, not that it offered any warmth through my parka, but at least it wasn't going to be blown clean out of my hands. The snow slanted nearly horizontally, slick white streaks in the near-light of the creeping dawn. There was a crowd of porters and curious travelers gathering at the curb. We lurched through the sea of gawkers, using them as a human wind break, and ran aground against a vintage Bentley hearse. A short, lean, white-haired man of indeterminate age who looked like he might have an iron rod in his spine directed the porters loading Harry’s casket. He wore a black suit under a long wool coat that swirled around his polished boots in a way that reminded me of Harry’s opera cloaks. The gentleman took my bag from Ellie swiftly to stow it.

  “I am Byron Merritt, madam,” he told me, bowing his head slightly into the fierce wind. “Everything is ready for you.”