Thinning the Herd (4 page)

6

A MOMENT OF PERFECT ACTION

Fighting for control, Hal wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right, swerving onto Howard Avenue. Tires screeched. Engines revved. Hal floored it. The car behind him, headlights still two blinding white-blue circles of light, followed.

The pickup flew past the tree-shaded homes lining Howard Avenue at warp speed, the tires barely touching the road. Adrenaline flooded Hal's system. He grinned.
The dam's done burst, ladies and gentlemen. Head for the hills!

“Playtime,” Hal said. And slammed on the brakes. The pickup stuttered to a gravel-flinging, smoking stop. A cloud of dust, thick with the smell of oil and burning rubber hung in the air as he threw open the driver's door and jumped out of the pickup.

The other car arrowed straight for him and he narrowed his eyes against the headlight glare. His fingers wrapped around the shaft of his catch pole. Lifted it. His senses, sharpened by danger, electrified by certain death, fed him information in nanoseconds: the car's angle, its speed, the rate it was gobbling up pavement, and how soon it would reach Hal.

Hal's heart triple-timed, but his vision remained crystal clear and his reflexes honed and coiled. He drew in a breath of air. His heart beat once. Then the car was on him. Hal listened to the steady rhythm of his heart as he stepped
into
the street, his back to the headlights, pivoting past, and swinging the catch pole around in his left hand and across the windshield.

And in that split second as he pirouetted past the car and the catch pole connected with the windshield, Hal heard only his heartbeat. Felt himself contained in a moment of perfect action. A moment of pure reflex. Then the car bulleted past.

Glass cracked. Tires screamed. The car careened out of control and smashed into a tree. The tree listed into power lines, snapping a line. The pungent smell of gasoline filled the air. A second later, fire crackled and spread to the car. The car exploded with a breath-stealing
whomp
. Lit up the night. The power line twisted like a snake, sparking fire into the sky, buzzing.

Hal shielded himself from the shower of debris with his arms. Parts and pieces
tink
ed,
tunk
ed, and clattered against the road. A few things sizzled and smoked but Hal didn't look at those too closely.

As people stared out their front windows or ran out of their houses, Hal returned the catch pole to the truck bed, then slid behind the wheel. He keyed on the stalled engine. Reversed. Swung a U-ey. And not-so-calmly drove away.

Flickering yellow-orange light filled Hal's rearview mirror. Sirens sounded in the distance for the second time that night. His hands trembled on the steering wheel. Dirk Pitt didn't suffer from the shakes after someone nearly whacked him. Dirk Pitt didn't even blink a freakin' eye when he took out nasty people.

Hal swung the pickup left onto River Road.

Yeah. But Dirk Pitt wasn't real.

*  *   *

Hal awoke just before the alarm went off. He switched the button to
OFF
, climbed out of his sleeping bag, and rolled it up. After showering and shaving, he dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and black tee. Then he walked next door to Della's and ordered the special: bacon, two eggs over easy, toast with raspberry jam, and coffee, black.

As Della poured coffee into his cup, she shook her head and tsked. “Why you carry that big-ass pole with you?”

“Never know when I'm gonna need it,” Hal replied. “Someone tried to kill me last night.”

“Again?” Della said, smiling. “Darlin', someone's
always
trying to kill your ass.”

“Don't I know it.” Hal shook his head.

“Why you suppose that is?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” Hal took a sip of his coffee. Fresh roasted, rich and dark. “Good coffee, Della. As always.”

“Don't I know it,” she said with a chuckle, then walked back to the kitchen.

Hal was halfway through his breakfast when the bell over the door chimed. He didn't bother to look up from his plate. He knew who'd just walked in.

“Why, Galahad Jones!” Della cried. “You scamp! Sit your butt down so I can put some meat on those fine bones of yours. You too, Nick, but you don't need no more muscles on those bones of yours.”

Galahad slid into the seat opposite Hal. A smile curved his lips. He loved it when Della fussed over him. He smoothed a hand over his orange-gold hair. “Morning, Hal,” he said, his voice smooth as cream.

“Morning yourself,” Hal replied, using a corner of his whole-wheat toast to mop up egg yolk.

Nick dropped into the seat beside Galahad and wide-shouldered his friend farther across the seat. Gally sighed and resettled himself.

“Hey, Hal,” Nick said. “Whatcha eating?”

“Morning, Nick. The usual. And no. Order your own.”

When Della came over with her order pad, Nick ordered his usual triple, and Galahad, after perusing a menu he couldn't read, drumming his fingers, listening to suggestions, and changing his mind several times, ordered scrambled eggs and cream with a dab of coffee. In other words, his usual.

Della shook her head. “Boy needs to eat,” she said as she walked away. “Eats like a bird.”

“I bet she has
no
idea how much birds eat,” Galahad murmured.

Hal pushed his empty plate aside. “Someone tried to kill me last night.”

“Again?” Nick asked. “Who was it this time? And did you whup their ass?”

“I don't know who it was,” Hal said. He took a sip of his coffee. “But, yeah, I whupped their ass. Permanently. They're dead.”

Nick stared at Hal for a long moment, then nodded. Galahad's eyes widened. “A one-lifer?” he asked, voice low.

“Yeah, unless cats learned how to drive cars, it was a one-lifer.”

“Don't take it so hard,” Nick said. “It's the cycle. Life. Death. All one big ol' wheel.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Galahad said, rolling his eyes. But he rested his hand over Nick's. Patted it. “What happened, Hal?”

In a quiet voice, Hal told them of last night's events—the chase, the moment of perfect action, the crash, and the fire. He still smelled the gasoline, still heard the snap of the power line, the horrible crushing sound of metal impacting against an immovable object; still felt that moment—clear as fresh ice, sharp as razor blades—the slow beat of his heart, the indrawn breath, the sudden uncoiling of muscles, the heart-stopping speed of action.

Hal lapsed into silence. Della delivered Nick's plate heaped with eggs, bacon, and pancakes, along with Galahad's dish of scrambled eggs. She poured coffee all around, splashing just a dollop into Gally's cream. Nick's eyes brightened. He dug in.

“Fork,” Galahad murmured. “Fork, Nick.”

“Oh, yeah.” Licking egg and maple syrup from his long fingers, Nick picked up his fork and dug in once again.

“They meant to kill you,” Galahad said, scooping eggs onto his fork with a graceful, delicate movement. His eyes met Hal's. “So don't feel bad. They wouldn't have felt bad if they'd succeeded in killing you.”

Hal rubbed his chin. “Damned good point.”

“Of course,” the tabby said, lapping the eggs off his fork with his tongue.

Hal relaxed as Nick wolfed down his food, barely taking time to chew it. Pleasure lit his face with each mouthful. He waited until the detective finished eating before saying, “The phone number? What'd you find out?”

Nick wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“Napkin,” Galahad whispered.

Dabbing at his face with the folded napkin, Nick said, “Turns out it was the number of a place called No Longer Jailbait. One of those twenty-four hour places for . . . uh . . . adults.”

“A sex shop?”

Galahad looked up. “Sex?” His eyes brightened.

“Yeah, but for people, Gally. I don't think they have any feline-related material.” Hal rubbed his chin, considering. He could actually be wrong about that. There was porn for just about anything a man or cat could imagine.

“Our lycan couldn't have worked there,” Hal said. “Because—”

“He wouldn't carry his work number on a torn piece of paper,” Nick interjected.

“And wrapped around a tarot card, no less,” Galahad finished.

“Exactly,” Hal said. “So he must've had a contact there. Probably an employee.”

“Where to first?” Nick asked. “Do we have time for more food?”

“No,” Hal said. He slid out of the booth and flipped a five onto the table as a tip. “And we're going to the Country Fair.”

“You boys are welcome anytime,” Della said. She gripped Galahad's chin and wiggled it back and forth. “Especially you, Mr. Galahad Jones.”

Galahad purred. Della laughed. “Go on, you scamp!”

Hal yanked open the door, ringing the overhead bell. He stood in the sunshine, breathing in the wet pulp and paper smell from the lumber mill on Twenty-Eighth Street. Ah, Springfield!

Galahad slipped on shades as he stepped outside. Hal looked him up and down. The
y
ō
kai
wore black leather pants and a black button-down shirt. Hal narrowed his eyes. Tapped Gally's chest with the catch pole. “Is that silk?”

Galahad smoothed a hand down his shirt and purred.

Hal stared at him for a long moment, wondering where the feline came by his wardrobe and how he paid for it. He wasn't sure he really wanted to know. That was Galahad's business, after all. Did he quiz Nick on his suits? No, he did not.

Catch pole in hand, Hal strode across the complex parking lot. “To the bus stop, gentleman,” he said as Nick and Galahad joined him. “We have a killer to catch and a beauty to guard.”

“In that order?” Nick asked, coming up alongside Hal.

“Nope. There's no order.”

“No order? What're you saying, Hal?”

“Nothing. What're
you
saying?”

“Let's not start that,” Galahad said. “We'll handle things as they come, Nick.” He slipped a hand into his pocket.

Hal lifted an eyebrow. The squirrel squeaka. He shook his head.
Not now
. Galahad shrugged, then pulled his hand free. When the bus pulled up to the curb, Hal climbed on board, showing his bus pass and dropping tokens for Nick and Galahad.

“Hey! Bruce Lee!” a voice called. “You be one bad motherfucker!”

Hal grinned, then held a finger to his lips. “Remember. Pretend you don't know me. My enemies and all.”

“Uh . . . yeah, man. Okay.”

The doors wheezed shut, then the bus lurched back out into traffic. Finding seats in the back, Hal slid into one while Nick wedged himself into another. Galahad perched on the seat beside Nick.

“We
will
go to the sex shop later, right?” Galahad whispered.

Hal nodded. “If we don't shut the killer down at the fair, yeah.”

Galahad licked the back of his hand and smoothed it through his hair. Purred.

Hal glanced out the window. Desdemona waited. An icy finger trailed his spine.

And so did a killer.

7

A LIFTED MIDDLE FINGER

A late-morning breeze smelling of fresh hay, frying sausage, and honey fluttered the pennants hanging from the poles bracketing the entrance to the Oregon Country Fair.

As Hal walked into the parking lot, the hair on the back of his neck lifted. His arms goosebumped. The sounds of the fair—tribal drumming, the beehive drone of countless overlapping voices, the silver plinking of fingers across guitar strings—faded, and the slow, measured beat of his heart pulsed through his consciousness. He slowed his stride. An ominous vibe thickened the air.

“On your left,” a voice intoned. A bell
ching-ching
ed.

Hal drew in a breath and straight-armed Galahad and Nick to safety against a van painted with green and pink-petaled flowers, then whirled, catch pole flashing up and out and whacking against the chest of a helmeted bicyclist. The blow knocked the rider off the bike and shuddered up the length of Hal's arm and into his shoulder. As if in slow motion, the rider hung in the air a moment, face contorted, then time snapped like a chewing-gum bubble and the rider slammed into the ground. Dirt puffed into the air.

Hal's heart resumed beating at a regular pace and the fair's noise filled the air again. Spinning his catch pole up and around, he straddled the groaning rider. A clatter from behind told Hal that the bike had taken a nosedive into the hard-packed dirt parking lot.

When the rider opened his eyes, Hal thumped one end of the catch pole beside his helmeted head. “Left?” Hal hissed, narrowing his eyes. “Left
what
? My left? Your left?” He pointed a finger at Nick and Galahad standing against the Day-Glo van. “
Their
left? Huh, punk?”

“Are you nuts?” the rider gasped, levering himself up onto one elbow.

Thock!
The pole tapped against the rider's helmet. “
I'm
asking the questions here,” Hal said. “Left
what
? Do I step to the left or to the
right
because
you're
on my freakin' left?”

The rider tugged a cellphone free from his fanny pack. “I'm calling the cops.”

THOCK! THOCK! THOCK!
Pole rapped helmet. The rider grimaced. “Good idea,” Hal said. “Tell them Hal Rupert wants to know.”

“Uh . . . know what?”

“Left
what
?”
THOCK!

Ching-ching
.

Hal glanced over his shoulder. Galahad crouched beside the fallen bicycle, shades pushed to the top of his tawny head, green eyes sunlit and shining as he rang the bell. Over and over.

Ching-ching. Ching-ching. Ching-ching.

“Can I keep it?” Galahad asked.

Hal shook his head. “No. It belongs to the punk here. The one who yells random words.”

“Oh.”
Ching-ching. Ching-ching.

Catching motion out of the corner of his eye, Hal thumped the end of the catch pole down. A muffled squeak told him he hadn't missed. He shifted his attention back to the rider pinned by the small of his back in the dirt like a squirming beetle.

“You still haven't answered me,” Hal said. “Left what?”

“Me! On your left!” the man screamed, his thumb jabbing random buttons on the cellphone clutched in his hand.

“Meaning?”

“DON'T MOVE TO YOUR LEFT! STEP TO YOUR RIGHT! OH, GOD!”

Hal lifted the catch pole. Swung it down to his side. “Then that's what you should say. Is that so hard?” he said, smiling and offering the rider a hand up. “But I think I'd leave God out of it, y'know, unless you're telling
Him
which way to step.”

The man's eyes widened. He recoiled from Hal's hand like it was a hood-flaring cobra. He scooted across the parking lot, dirt dusting his black and red spandex shorts. The cellphone tumbled from his fingers.

“You have a hearing problem, punk? Cuz I asked if that was so hard,” Hal said, voice low and Eastwood-tight.

Shrieking, the rider staggered to his feet and hurtled into the summer-clad bodies wedged in at the fair's wood-columned entrance, shoving people aside as he bulldozed his way to the front of the line. “Dude. Chill,” someone said. “Toke up.”

Hal shook his head. Some people thought only of themselves. No matter
how
many times you thumped their helmeted heads.

“Can it be mine now?” Galahad asked, picking up the bicycle. Dropping down the kickstand, he parked the bike in the dirt. His finger caressed the bell hooked to the handlebars.

Ching-ching.
A smile curved his lips.

“Sorry, Gally, no,” Hal said. “That'd be called stealing.” He hated telling Galahad no. Well,
usually
he hated telling Galahad no. Okay,
once in a while
he hated telling Galahad no. To hell with it. He told Gally no all the time with no regret. But this time it was necessary. The tabby needed to understand human laws.

Galahad crouched again, fingertips touching the ground in front of him, green eyes narrowed and very, very,
very
displeased. Hal could imagine the pointed ears angled to the sides and the tail lashing just above the dirt. Could feel the force of Galahad's feline will.

“No.”

A low growl rumbled up from Galahad's throat.

“Bad kitty,” Hal said. “No.”

Nick rushed over to stand beside Hal. “I've got just the thing,” he said. He pulled a piece of string from his suit's inner pocket and dangled it in front of Galahad.

“Look, Gally! Get it! Get the string!”

Galahad's icy glare never wavered from Hal, shredding him—Hal had no doubt—in a million different ways

“No,” Hal repeated.

Nick shook the string. “Gally, look! Look at what Nick's got!”

The low growl continued unabated, building in intensity and pitch.

“Maybe you should let him have it,” Nick said.

“No,” Hal said. “You can pout over that bike, Galahad Jones, or you can join us as we hunt a killer.” He squeezed Nick's arm and tilted his head toward the entrance. The people wedge had thinned. Nick met Hal's gaze, then reluctantly pocketed the string. Hal nodded. Good
y
ō
kai
. Damned fine wolf. And led the way across the parking lot to the fair entrance.

“You can play with that bell,” Hal called over his shoulder. “Or you can play with a killer. Up to you.”

Hal handed his ticket to a pretty gal with a golden butterfly painted across her face and a smile tucking up the corners of her mouth. She glanced at his catch pole and her smile tilted.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but what's that?”

“My equalizer in the fight against furred anarchy and human evil,” Hal replied.

Butterfly Girl blinked, her brown eyes puzzled, her smile fading. “Uh . . .”

Hal shook his head, grinning. Poor thing was obviously new to the whole identity-protecting thing. “Don't worry,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning in. “You're doing fine. Just keep pretending you don't know me.”

Her expression brightened and her smile returned klieg-light bright. “Ohhhh-kay,” she said. “I get it. You're off your meds, huh, sweetie? Well, you picked the right place to come. No one here will notice.”

Hal thumped the catch pole against the ground in approval. Turning to face the dreadlocked throng waiting their turn in line behind them, Hal proclaimed, “She is correct. I'm most definitely off my meds. Nothing to see here.” Facing Butterfly Girl once more, Hal winked.

Butterfly Girl flashed Nick a sympathetic smile as she tugged his ticket from between his fingers. Hal grinned. She learned like a champ.

Hal and Nick walked from the ticket booth and stepped into the Oregon Country Fair. The spicy smell of curry and teriyaki sizzled in the air, along with the smells of hemp and patchouli. Nick licked his lips. Hal edged his way into the crowd, scanning for Desdemona's booth.

Trees curved overhead, casting cool green shade over the dirt paths winding through the fair. Music spiraled through the air, clear and sharp and rhythmic, and underneath like a beating heart, drums pulsed.

People weaved past one another along the paths, ebbing and flowing from booth to booth. Slender girls in miniskirts and swirling paint on their bare breasts sauntered past, coy smiles on their lips as male gazes goggled their every bouncing step.

Nubile, Hal reckoned. The very epitome of nubile. But they had nothing on his sultry Desdemona.

Men in belled caps and shiny costumes strode the paths on stilts. Jugglers in court jester outfits pranced through the crowd, tossing balls and hammers and apples into the air in an ever-cycling wheel.

“Keep an eye open for shifters,” Hal said as Nick brushed up against him in the crowd tide.

“Gotcha,” Nick said. “I'll go check the food booths.”

“Talk to
people
. See if anyone knows about missing hippies and fortune-tellers.”

“There'll be people at the food booths,” Nick protested, hurrying away before Hal could say another word.

Hal's gaze skipped past the booths full of tie-dyed clothing and hand-carved walking sticks, past booths of crystal wonders, booths of flutes and new age music CDs, and jewelry booths, until one draped in black and purple velvet caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat. There. His beguiling and beautiful Desdemona.

Hal started forward when a hand to his shoulder stopped him. “I'll talk to the fortune-tellers,” a smooth voice said.

Hal patted the hand. “I thought you would,” he said, smiling over his shoulder at Galahad.

One corner of the
y
ō
kai
's mouth quirked up in an answering smile. Stepping back, he bowed, one arm across his stomach, then turned and slipped like a shadow into the crowd.

Hal rubbed his chin. Had that been a lump in Gally's pocket? A
bell
-shaped lump? Sighing, he pivoted and strode toward Desdemona's booth.

She stood behind a velvet-draped table, a smile on her crimson-painted lips and a black rose pinned into her purple tresses. A black parasol protected her creamy-white skin from the searing July sun. She spoke to a Goth dude whose café au lait complexion didn't require a parasol, her slender fingers tracing over a piece of jewelry on her table.

Goth Dude wore a black short-sleeved button-down shirt and purple pleather pants (say
that
three times fast), no doubt a Hot Topic frequent flier. Black welding goggles parked on top of his head kept his black, platinum, and blue dreads away from his face.

Goth Dude nodded at something Desdemona said, then tapped a finger against his pierced lip. Desdemona's smile widened and her hands floated through the air like doves as she spoke. Goth Dude nodded again, laughing. Desdemona lowered her head, color blossoming like roses on her pale cheeks.

Hal grinned. She must've spotted him, then—her catch-poling hero. He remembered their last conversation and her gentle good-bye—a lifted middle finger accompanied by her dulcet-toned
Guard this.
As Hal watched, Goth Dude leaned across the table and kissed her blushing cheek.

Hal's grin froze on his lips. Gay, surely. Not that there was anything wrong with that—he'd seen plenty of attractive men and had considered the possibilities—but Desdemona would only allow a gay friend or a male relative to kiss her. Especially in front of her one true love—Hal “Creep” Rupert.

True, she didn't know his name. Yet. But he was most definitely the only creep in her heart.

Goth Dude stepped back and Desdemona lifted her head, the imprint of his black-lipsticked kiss marring the fading color on her cheek. As she looked up, Hal lifted a hand, extending his middle finger to remind her of his promise:
I'll be guarding you.

Her purple-lidded eyes narrowed and her lips parted, but before she could greet him or offer any other tender words, someone tackled Hal, slamming him to the ground as though the bell had just rung on the first round of a WWE grudge match.

*  *   *

Hal's catch pole bounced away into the crowd. Someone was screaming and mewling—chittering almost as insanely as the damned squirrel from the night before. Feet in Birkenstocks and flip-flops filled Hal's vision as he rolled across the dirt and into flattened grass and weeds.

He became aware that the mewling sounds consisted of words: ONMYLEFTWHATONMYLEFTWHATASSHOLEASSHOLEONMYLEFTGOD!

And realized who'd taken him down—one helluva poor sport.

Hands latched onto Hal's ears, but before his head could be thumped against the ground, he cracked his forearm across the deranged bicyclist's face. Something crunched. Hal was pretty sure it was the guy's nose.

With a quick, deft movement, Hal unstrapped the bicyclist's helmet with one finger, then jarred it off the guy's head with a heel-of-the hand shove. As the helmet fell off, Hal's left fist crashed into the lunatic's temple.

The mewling-screaming-chittering stopped.

The guy dropped onto Hal like a one-hundred-and-fifty-pound blanket. Hal grunted. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the nutcase's limp body off and onto the Birkenstock-trampled grass.

Sucking in a breath of sandalwood-scented air, Hal rose to his knees. A black lace skirt over purple-striped tights—clinging to shapely legs—greeted his vision. His gaze traveled up from the skirt to a black corset, a purple-striped bodice, a black moth choker encircling a slender, pale throat, to rest upon Desdemona's luminous face.

Hal's heart
ker-thudd
ed hard, then pounded out a frantic rhythm to rival the tribal drumming echoing throughout the fair.

Desdemona's crimson lips parted. “You dropped this, creep.” In her right hand, held within her slender fingers, was Hal's catch pole.

Hal nearly swooned.