Insult to injury

The knock on the door bounced around painfully in the echo chamber that Fros’s head had become over the past three days. She and Tal had hardly slept since Tuesday, wandering around the city, looking for bodies with suspicious wounds and, by Thursday morning, any bodies. Fros hadn’t listened to Tal and hadn’t gone into hiding. Tal hadn’t listened to Fros and had not stayed put. That gave Fros a cosy sense of normalcy while she scoured the city for Peter and the trail of bodies Tal had predicted. McKinley had excused himself from joining them, too busy with his missing lady case.

As luck would have it, there were only a handful of unnatural deaths during those two days and all were explained and the perpetrators detained. Peter had disappeared and there was no trail of bodies to follow. Tal had moved on to missing person reports.

“Come in,” Fros said and smacked her dry lips. Her mouth tasted of old and dusty carpets. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten, any food.

The prospect of eating became even more distant when a wave of peppery outrage broke against her followed by Tom.

“They’re not charging Peterson,” he said and plopped on the chair in front of Fros’s desk. “Without the dog they can’t prove the bite marks on the bones are from it and they can’t link Jennifer to the murder.”

Fros’s head pulsed like a bad tooth.

“Murder weapon?” she managed and stifled a yawn, catching a whiff of almonds as she inhaled. At least Tom was eating, and eating healthy food. Good for him.

Tom shook his head and took a pack of Olips out of his pocket.

“They found nothing. There’s also nothing on the body so they’re not even sure about the cause of death. The skull is missing, so she probably hit him on the head or shot him, but they can’t prove it.” Tom sighed before he popped the candy in his mouth, saturating the air with synthetic lemon. “And now they’re letting her go.”

“Maybe it wasn’t her.” A quiet buzzing in the ears had joined the pulsing in Fros’s head and the spasms of her empty stomach in a chamber concert of suffering. “It could have been someone else.”

Tom leaned forward so suddenly Fros would have drawn back if she had the energy.

“There were bite marks and scrapes on the bones. A dog was at them. Jennifer Peterson had a dog. A large one. And she had the only thing that matters – motive. I checked her background. It’s poor and I mean this literally.”

Fros took a deep surreptitious breath while Tom spoke, the taste memory of the dog inviting nausea to the party.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Tom barked out a mirthless chuckle.

“She turned out to be smarter than us. The dog’s probably buried under another rose bush somewhere.”

“Probably,” Fros agreed, refusing to let the blush of guilt show on her face.

“Well,” Tom stood. “I just came to share the news before I broke them to Mrs. Hartwell. Now that’s one nice lady who doesn’t deserve what’s happened to her. How is it going with the murdered accountant?”

“Slowly,” Fros said and clicked the space bar to bring her laptop back to life. “But surely.”

Tom nodded.

“Watch out for missing dogs,” he said before leaving. “And let me know if you need any help.”

Fros’s head hit the desk with a thump the moment the door closed. If Tom knew it was her who had rendered the dog unusable in the case he would probably institute a special punishment. Or just fire her, had he been in a position to do so. She had destroyed vital evidence by eating it. But there was no time to dwell on that. There was work to do so Fros squinted at the columns of numbers on her screen.

Because Peter’s disappearance had incapacitated Tal of doing anything but looking for him, temporarily with any luck, Fros had been forced to step in and go over the documentation Tony had supplied. And she had not told the police about the pound of flesh. For once, Jules had not argued, possibly still shaken by the broken window in Tal’s flat.

When the landlord had come to check the origin of the broken glass on the ground Jules had proven herself the quicker thinker.

“I’m so very sorry,” she’d said, taking the man by the arm. “It’s really embarrassing and I realise it was also very, very dangerous but thankfully no one got hurt, right? So I was thinking if we could not make a big deal out of all this, it would be great. I mean, it’s not like everyone needs to know about other people’s private lives and any problems they might be having, do they?”

As she poured words over the poor man she gently dragged him back to the door. “I promise we will fix the window immediately and we’ll sweep all the glass right away. Mandy, would you please take care of that? Mandy and I will fix everything, I swear, just let’s not make a fuss. And it won’t happen again. Ever. I’ll make sure of that. Thank you. Have a great day!”

All the landlord had managed to get in through the flood were a couple of whats and buts. And what had shocked Fros even more was that she’d taken Tal’s dust pan – unsurprised he had one – and had gone out to sweep the glass while Jules called some repairs company to come and replace the window. She then stayed in the flat to wait for the repairmen while Fros rushed out to meet Tal and launch the search for Peter. Jules had asked a single question while they were there.

“How dangerous is he?”

Fros had shaken her head.

With a groan, she now tried to focus on the numbers. It was some sort of a balance sheet and it belonged to a nonprofit organisation dedicated to cancer research. Donations and expenses ran for hundreds and hundreds of spreadsheet rows. After staring at the numbers for a full minute and failing to comprehend anything at all about them Fros closed the document and opened another folder at random. Scott_Trust_Fund, the folder name said. Fros clicked on the 2010/2011 file. This one was much shorter, only one page, with things like Assets, Liabilities, and Total Investments on the left. Now this was a proper balance sheet. It said so on the top: Scott Trust Fund balance sheet FY 2010/2011.

The fund did well, based on the numbers – the ones for FY 2010/11 were higher in the asset row than the ones for FY 2009/10. The investments were higher, too. After a quick search of what exactly trust funds do, Fros called Tony.

“I have a question,” she said. “Is it possible to misuse money from a trust fund that you manage?” The pause that followed told her it might have been a good idea to say hello first but it was too late for that now. “This is Fros,” she said and rolled her eyes at herself. “From Fang in Fang.

“I know,” Tony said. “And yes, it’s possible,” he added slowly. “Do you mean Will was embezzling from the trust funds?”

“He could’ve,” Fros said. “It might be worth checking. Has the police released your company records and devices?”

“Oh, yes,” Tony said. “They held on to Will’s laptop until yesterday but returned it to Amanda. There was nothing of interest on it, apparently.”

“Well, maybe there’s something of interest to us on it. Could you get it from Amanda?”

“If I’m with you, maybe.”

Fros started to say that she was swamped with work and it would be a while before she was de-swamped. But that would be unfair to a paying client who also happened to carry the aura of a lost puppy in need of help.

“Tomorrow morning,” she said and yawned. “I’ll pick you up. Don’t call her before that.”

After she hung up Fros leaned back into her soft chair and closed her eyes. Tal would need to take a break soon. He knew better than to overexert himself, or so Fros hoped. If he didn’t, Fros would remind him and then she would take over the search. Until then, she could use a bit of a doze. She closed her eyes and shifted to settle herself better in the chair.

Five minutes later it turned out this wasn’t meant to be, when the door opened just as she was beginning to drift off amid the images of blood and gore that Peter was bound to have caused after his escape. They had to look harder.

“Are you awake?” McKinley asked quietly.

“Don’t tell me,” Fros murmured without opening her eyes. “The DNA test showed it wasn’t Sam who burned in that asylum.”

A faux leather squeak told her McKinley had sat down.

“You already knew it, didn’t you?” he said.

Fros opened her eyes.

“I had a feeling.”

McKinley slid a sheet of paper on the desk.

“I stopped by the lab and got a copy of the test results.”

Fros made no move to take the paper.

“I’ll file it under “Worst day ever” with the rest of the news from today.”

McKinley glanced at the door, which remained closed.

“Still no trace?”

Fros shook her head.

“He’s probably hiding.”

“Probably. But he’s definitely hungry and this has to mean dead bodies. We haven’t found a single one yet.”

“He could be hiding them, too.”

“Then we’ll have missing persons.”

“I checked with a few contacts in different stations. Nothing there. Which doesn’t mean there will be nothing everywhere,” McKinley said, a crease of concern digging between his eyebrows. “Meanwhile, you should get some proper sleep, not a nap at the desk. Go on, I’ll keep an ear out for missing persons.”

“I’m waiting for Tal to call with an update. He’s looking into missing person reports, too.”

McKinley took her phone before she could grab for it.

“Turn this off, go home and get some sleep. I guarantee you things won’t get worse until tomorrow.”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, I can’t go to sleep now.”

“You can and you will. Go on, turn this off and go.”

Fros took the phone he was holding and slid it into the pocket of the jacket that hung on the back of the chair.

“I distinctly remember telling you I was too old to be told what to do.”

“And I distinctly remember saying I could not care less about how old you are. You’re still my daughter and I will call you as I see you. Right now I see you exhausted. Exhaustion doesn’t help. And… how long since you’ve eaten?”

“Saturday before last,” she said, looking away. Fros still had trouble discussing her dietary needs with her father even though he hadn’t batted an eyelash when she had first mentioned them. He was, in fact, infuriatingly understanding and accommodating.

“Do you need to…?”

“No, I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” With the direction this conversation was taking it was probably a good idea for her to remove herself.

Fros hooked the jacket off the chair and slipped it on.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll go take a nap. If anything happens—”

“Nothing will happen,” McKinley said, cutting her off.

Fros begged to differ and she differed actively though silently while she drove Peter’s monstrosity back to her house, various scenarios of destruction and chaos running through her mind. Sam could decide to take revenge and set their offices on fire, for example. Or spray poison inside. That the building had security at all times and that ninety-nine percent of the detectives employed by Fang in Fang were former police did not matter in the least. Sam had faked her own death and the fact that Fros was not even a bit surprised by this meant she already knew her younger sister was a capable person.

Peter could decide to drop by, too, wild and ravenous. Security and former police officers, even that fitness maniac Debora, would have as much chance at overwhelming a vampire in this state as a candle would at overwhelming an industrial fan. Fros could see heads ripped off necks and hearts pulled out of chests, still beating.

With a toss of the head to settle her thoughts Fros turned on to her street, parked in her spot in front of the house and stepped out. Mid-afternoon was dead time in this part of town. Everyone was at work or school and the street was eerily quiet. Or it was simply quiet but in Fros’s state the quietness felt eerie.

She looked around without even trying to be surreptitious. Peter or Sam could be lurking somewhere nearby, waiting to pounce. No, Peter would pounce but Sam would be more careful unless she had truly lost her mind in the mental asylum. It often happened with healthy people placed in such an environment. Fros had read this somewhere, a long time ago, and had instantly believed it. It made sense.

There was nothing suspicious around her house, neither sight nor smell. But Sam had been drinking marigold tea to mask her smell for years while she pretended to be Fros’s friend in order to get close enough to hurt her. And hurt her Sam had – while beheading Peter had not killed him the state it had plunged him into was, from a certain perspective, worse than death. And now it was over and Peter had become a danger for everyone. The gift that kept on giving, that was Sam’s revenge for not being born a basilisk.

The house smelled its usual as well. Fros kicked off her boots, took off her jacket and dragged herself upstairs. McKinley had been right, again. She was so exhausted she could fall asleep on the stairs. On sheer stubbornness she made it to the bedroom where she fell on the bed without bothering to undress or pull the cover. Thirty seconds later Fros was sound asleep.

She was floating on a golden sea under a golden sky, so still she couldn’t feel where her body ended and the water began when a smell wrapped around her, filled her nose and her mouth, so strong she could taste the tangy flavour. She began struggling to get out of the water but this only plunged her deep under the surface. Still struggling, panting with the exertion of trying to swim back up, Fros opened her eyes.

It took her a while to find her legs and stand up but eventully she did. The smell was all around her, thick and clear. Tangerine and musk. The first reaction of her body, once it realised it was not drowning, was to become aroused and Fros felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment, even if she was alone in her own house. Or maybe she wasn’t alone, which only made her body more eager and her brain more alarmed.

“Stop it,” she growled at herself and slipped downstairs. The light was on in the hallway, which looked empty. A closer look confirmed that first impression. The dark kitchen was empty too, Fros established quietly without turning the light on. So far the house was devoid of Peter but he had to be very close for the smell to be so strong. He had to practically be behind her back at every step with a scent this potent.

The moment this thought surfaced from the emotional soup brewing in her mind Fros stopped and stood still, as still as she could. If he was behind her back he could attack at any moment. She waited. Nobody sank their teeth into her skin. Fros turned slowly, almost creaking with the effort of not swinging around. There was no one behind her back. The stairs were empty.

Now Fros swung back, certain that Peter’s face will flash in front of her as soon as she does, grinning with joy that he’d outsmarted her. There was nobody in front of her. There was only the door. Fros tossed her suddenly sweaty hair from her sweaty forehead, marched to the door, unlocked it with a hand that was only slightly trembling and pulled it open.

He stood at the end of the street, two houses down, a silhouette in the falling dusk, watching her. Fros’s body rushed forwards before her brain had made a decision on next steps but hesitated on the last step between her house and the pavement. Brain had caught up with body. Part of her was running to him. Another part, the one that had a self-preservation instinct, screamed for her to run back into the house, lock the door and call McKinley, call Tal, call the police and everyone else who could make a barrier between her and the monster that stood in the street.

“Shut up,” Fros snapped and walked down the step. Then she took another few steps until she stopped in the middle of the two-lane street.

Peter moved. He raised his head in a way too familiar to Fros. He was sniffing the air, sniffing her. Fros, already still, became stiller, disregarding that reckless part of her that still wanted to run to him instead of from him. He wouldn’t hurt her, that part said. He’s not hungry any more. If his scent was so strong how could he still be hungry? The last question, screamed at her by herself, made it all the way to the attention control room.

Since his beheading Peter’s smell had weakened and in a matter of weeks it was almost gone. It had stayed almost gone, so weak she had to strain to sense it, despite the regular feedings. Now, the smell was stronger than ever, which could only mean one thing – Peter was eating and he was eating well. It was only a matter of time before they started finding the bodies. He’d hardly had time to bury them all.

“Peter,” Fros heard herself say. “Come to me.”

Peter didn’t move.

“Come to me,” she repeated in a louder, more confident voice. “We’ll call Tal. He’s been worried sick.”

Peter was silent but the street was no longer quiet – a car was coming. A pair of lights flashed from around the corner behind Peter.

“No,” Fros started saying as her muscles braced for a short and fast run to push him away from the course of the car.

Peter’s lips moved and a moment later, as the driver of the coming car sounded his horn, he moved, too. He jumped out of the car’s way on the pavement, turned, glanced at Fros over his shoulder and started walking in the opposite direction, speeding up with every step.

Something was blaring, a siren or something like it, somewhere near.

“Hey! Are you having a stroke?”

Fros blinked. A hairy man with a monobrow and an angry expression was peering at her from the open window of his Peugeot.

“Are you all right?” he said.

“Fine,” she said and walked onto the pavement staring at her feet.

There was no way she could’ve heard what Peter said. He was too far and he was speaking too quietly. It was something short. A couple of words, no more. Fros couldn’t see his eyes but there was something about his posture that felt sad – his back wasn’t its usual straight and his shoulders looked saggy. For no logical reason at all Fros was sure she knew what Peter had said. I’m sorry.