right now,” she said, closing her eyes and resting her forearm across her face. “Are you nuts?”
“ That’s not what I mean,” he said, rolling onto his side and placing an arm around her. “I just need to be held.”
“ Yeah,” she said, relaxing.
They were asleep within ten minutes. Less than an hour later, they were both awake.
“ Jesus,” Misty said, sitting upright, her heart hammering. Crate stood in the bedroom doorway, rifle in hand. She blinked, realizing that the sound that had awakened her had been that of Crate hammering his fist against the bedroom door.
“ Damn, Crate,” Charlie said, rubbing his chest.
“ Sorry, you two,” Crate said, not looking particularly sorry about anything. “But you really need to wake up.”
“ What is it?” Misty asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
“ Officer Tasgal is here.”
“ He—who?” she said. Her mind felt like it was made of mud. She’d been dreaming, just seconds ago, though she could not remember of what. Images and sensations faded and were lost, and now there was only the bedroom and Crate and Charlie and dim evening light sifted through the curtains and the liquor on the nightstands. “Tasgal?”
“ Yeah,” Crate said, nodding, talking to her as if she were a child. “Officer Tasgal. From Beistle. The one who looks like he’s sixteen. Ringing any bells?”
“ Yeah,” she said, and of course she knew who he was talking about. She’d closed her eyes and thought of Eric Tasgal more than once while with Charlie. “I’m a little fuzzy. I was asleep.”
“ He’s in trouble,” Crate said.
“ Mnn?” she said, standing. Her head spun. The rum had put her down, and it wasn’t through with her.
“ I think he’s been bitten.”
“ Hey, Eric,” she said, stepping from the back and into her store. Eric sat at one of the tables, picking at the frayed and stained red and white checked tablecloth with his right hand. His left rested on his .357 Magnum, which lay on the table between the salt and the pepper.
“ Miss Misty,” he said, looking up at her. Crate was wrong. Tasgal didn’t look sixteen. Typically more like eighteen, she thought, but today he looked a hard thirty. His skin, usually a healthy pink, was pasty. The flesh around his eyes was dark and puffy. The gauze bandage around his right forearm oozed blood.
“ You okay?”
“ I need a drink,” he said.
“ Some coffee?”
“ A drink.”
“ Okay” she said. “Rum or gin?”
“ Rum,” he said. He picked at the blood-soaked bandage and winced.
“ Be right back,” she said.
She stepped past Crate, who stood watching Eric Tasgal with weary eyes. As she left the room, Tasgal said something to Crate. She wasn’t sure what it was.
In the bedroom, Charlie sat rooted to the edge of the bed with booze in his hand and fear in his eyes. She grabbed her rum from the nightstand.
“ What’s going on?” Charlie asked, his eyes wide beneath a creased brow.
“ He needs a drink,” she said, and left. As she walked down the hall, Charlie turned on the television. From the sound of it, the screaming lunatic with the giant glasses was no longer on. The bell above the door rocked back and forth. Crate was gone, no doubt hunkering down on the bench with Bilbo Baggins at his feet.
“ Thanks,” Tasgal said, grasping the bottle of rum by the neck with his left hand. His right hand rested on the table. Misty twisted off the bottle cap and set it on the table. “Double thanks.”
He took a hit from the bottle, just a little one. He made a hissing sound.
“ My pleasure, Eric,” she said, touching the back of the chair before her, steadying herself. She wondered if he could tell how drunk she was. “What happened?”
“ Beistle is a madhouse,” he said, looking up at her and shaking his head, slack-jawed. “It’s just… it’s just gone.” He extended his left hand toward the chair. “Sit down.”
She pulled out the chair, sat down,
“ That’s not what I mean,” he said, rolling onto his side and placing an arm around her. “I just need to be held.”
“ Yeah,” she said, relaxing.
They were asleep within ten minutes. Less than an hour later, they were both awake.
“ Jesus,” Misty said, sitting upright, her heart hammering. Crate stood in the bedroom doorway, rifle in hand. She blinked, realizing that the sound that had awakened her had been that of Crate hammering his fist against the bedroom door.
“ Damn, Crate,” Charlie said, rubbing his chest.
“ Sorry, you two,” Crate said, not looking particularly sorry about anything. “But you really need to wake up.”
“ What is it?” Misty asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
“ Officer Tasgal is here.”
“ He—who?” she said. Her mind felt like it was made of mud. She’d been dreaming, just seconds ago, though she could not remember of what. Images and sensations faded and were lost, and now there was only the bedroom and Crate and Charlie and dim evening light sifted through the curtains and the liquor on the nightstands. “Tasgal?”
“ Yeah,” Crate said, nodding, talking to her as if she were a child. “Officer Tasgal. From Beistle. The one who looks like he’s sixteen. Ringing any bells?”
“ Yeah,” she said, and of course she knew who he was talking about. She’d closed her eyes and thought of Eric Tasgal more than once while with Charlie. “I’m a little fuzzy. I was asleep.”
“ He’s in trouble,” Crate said.
“ Mnn?” she said, standing. Her head spun. The rum had put her down, and it wasn’t through with her.
“ I think he’s been bitten.”
“ Hey, Eric,” she said, stepping from the back and into her store. Eric sat at one of the tables, picking at the frayed and stained red and white checked tablecloth with his right hand. His left rested on his .357 Magnum, which lay on the table between the salt and the pepper.
“ Miss Misty,” he said, looking up at her. Crate was wrong. Tasgal didn’t look sixteen. Typically more like eighteen, she thought, but today he looked a hard thirty. His skin, usually a healthy pink, was pasty. The flesh around his eyes was dark and puffy. The gauze bandage around his right forearm oozed blood.
“ You okay?”
“ I need a drink,” he said.
“ Some coffee?”
“ A drink.”
“ Okay” she said. “Rum or gin?”
“ Rum,” he said. He picked at the blood-soaked bandage and winced.
“ Be right back,” she said.
She stepped past Crate, who stood watching Eric Tasgal with weary eyes. As she left the room, Tasgal said something to Crate. She wasn’t sure what it was.
In the bedroom, Charlie sat rooted to the edge of the bed with booze in his hand and fear in his eyes. She grabbed her rum from the nightstand.
“ What’s going on?” Charlie asked, his eyes wide beneath a creased brow.
“ He needs a drink,” she said, and left. As she walked down the hall, Charlie turned on the television. From the sound of it, the screaming lunatic with the giant glasses was no longer on. The bell above the door rocked back and forth. Crate was gone, no doubt hunkering down on the bench with Bilbo Baggins at his feet.
“ Thanks,” Tasgal said, grasping the bottle of rum by the neck with his left hand. His right hand rested on the table. Misty twisted off the bottle cap and set it on the table. “Double thanks.”
He took a hit from the bottle, just a little one. He made a hissing sound.
“ My pleasure, Eric,” she said, touching the back of the chair before her, steadying herself. She wondered if he could tell how drunk she was. “What happened?”
“ Beistle is a madhouse,” he said, looking up at her and shaking his head, slack-jawed. “It’s just… it’s just gone.” He extended his left hand toward the chair. “Sit down.”
She pulled out the chair, sat down,
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