“We done?”
“Not yet. I want you to turn your head, look at the doorway. Imagine your enemy there, coming at you.”
“Can it be Darth Vader?”
“Not Kylo Ren? He killed Han Solo, and Vader never could.”
“It matters that you know that.” He handed her back the wineglass. “But nobody out-dark-Forces Vader.”
“Darth Vader it is.” She took the glass, set it down, went back to her chair. “I want you to take a couple breaths, then look toward the door. There’s Vader. Then keep your eye on him and swing the sword up, and hold that. Hold the look, the pose. I want you tensed, primed for the first blow. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Make it real. Believe it, and it’ll look real. When you’re ready.”
He tried to make himself hear that spooky Vader breathing, and when he had it in his head, looked, swung.
“Hold it, just hold that.”
Perfect, she thought. The angle, the muscles in his glutes, hamstrings, quads. The ripple along the shoulders and arms. The tension in the jaw, the back.
“I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” she muttered, bringing him onto the paper. “Just hold the pose.”
She grabbed her phone, took three quick photos to back up the sketch.
“That’s it. You’ve defeated the Empire. Relax.”
He lowered the sword, rolled his shoulders. “We’re done?”
“I’ve got what I need. You’re an excellent model.”
“Let’s see.”
“Uh-uh.” She slapped the sketchbook closed.
“Come on.”
“I want you to see the finished piece. Besides.” She rose, walked to him. “Now that we’re done with the session, I’m thinking I have a naked man all to myself.”
She took his mouth, gave his lower lip a teasing nip.
“Watch the sword,” he told her.
Trailing a hand down his chest, over his belly, she asked, “Which one?”
“Ha.”
“Put the metal one away. There’s a full moon tonight. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be howling at it.”
By the time she was done with him, he had decided that if this was the payment scale, he might make naked modeling a career.
*
He woke groggy, in desperate need of coffee, and remembered the dog when he tripped over him.
“Sorry. I got it,” he said when Simone murmured.
He yanked on clothes, took the dog out through the kitchen, grabbing a Coke on the way because it was faster than coffee.
He needn’t have bothered with speed, as the dog used the patio before he could lead him off and toward the woods.
After dealing with that, he went back in, fed the stupid dog, made coffee, drank it while the dog bolted down the food. He went through the medicine routine, headed back up for a shower.
Stopped halfway when he saw the dog had, once again, gotten his head stuck in the pickets.
“What is your deal? Are you just a fucking moron?” He did the angle/reangle shift, then herded the dog upstairs in time to see Simone getting out of bed. “I named the dog.”
“What’s his name?”
“Fucking Moron.”
“You’re not naming that sweet dog Fucking Moron.”
“It fits, and a name’s gotta fit. He can be FM for short.”
“Think again.”
“He crapped and peed all over the patio, and he got his head stuck in the railing again. How is that not Fucking Moron?”
As Reed spoke, the dog stared up at him with eyes full of love.
“At least he waited until he was outside,” Simone pointed out. “He should have a sweet name. Like Chauncy.”
“Chauncy’s a—” He stopped himself before he said pussy name. “I wouldn’t have a dog named Chauncy,” he amended. “I need more coffee. I need a shower. Shower. You’re coming with me.” He grabbed Simone’s hand. “You’re not,” he told the dog.
Sex in the shower put him in a better mood.
*
Dressed, with her first cup of coffee drained. Simone grabbed her jacket. “Bring Herman over to CiCi’s tonight.”
“I’m not naming him Herman. But I’ll bring him over.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.” She kissed Reed. “And you, too, Raphael.” Kissed the dog’s nose.
“He’s no Raphael, either.”
Reed gathered dog supplies—pills, pockets, food, the chewy things, a couple of biscuits.
“We’re going to work. It’s time you started earning your keep.” He led the dog out, stopped when he noted things starting to poke out of the ground. “How about that? Spring’s coming. You dig in all that, there’ll be no Milk-Bones for you. Get in.”
The dog happily obliged, immediately rapped his head against the closed window.
“See, Fucking Moron. You are what you are.” Despite the chill, Reed lowered the window. “I guess I’m going to have to deputize you, if I’m hauling your ass to work every day. That makes you Deputy Dog. Get it?”
The dog just stuck his head out the open window.
“Is that it? My amazing detective abilities lead me to conclude you think the damn pickets are a window, and the wind’s going to blow your ears back. Some dumbass deputy that makes you.”
Shaking his head, Reed backed out of the drive, turned toward the village. Inspiration struck. “Dumbass, yet loveable, deputy. Barney Fife, right? That’s it. You’re Barney. Deal is done.”
Barney seemed fine with it as his tongue lolled and his ears blew.
Reed unlocked the station, went to his office. He filled Barney’s water bowl, gave him one of the chew sticks. “Don’t make me regret this.”
He got a cup of coffee, and heard Donna come in—she almost always arrived first—as he went to his desk to boot up his computer.
“Are you going to bring that dog in every day?”
“Barney’s been deputized.”
“Barney?” She set her fists on her hips. “Like the purple dinosaur?”
“No. Like Barney Fife. Deputy Barney Fife.”
“Isn’t that show before your time?”
“It’s a classic.”
“I can’t argue there. You can just stop giving me the spook eye,” she said to Barney. “I picked up the mail on the way in.”
She walked over, dropped a short stack on his desk.
She and the dog exchanged another look before she went out.
As he started opening the mail, his phone rang. Suzanna Dorsey, doing a follow-up. He ran her through, then listened to her response when he asked about the dog’s insistence on using walkways and patios.
“Considering the rest of it? I’m going to say he was kept in a pen most of the time. Concrete floor. He only knows hard surfaces, poor thing. He’ll learn, Reed, but it may take a little time.”
“I’ll keep a shovel handy.”
After the call, he looked down at Barney. Barney looked back, bellied a little closer, gave him that look of trusting adoration.
“We’ll work on it,” Reed told him, giving his head a scratch before he went back to the mail.
The letter addressed to him at the station, postmarked Coral Gables, Florida, stopped him cold.
He pulled out a pair of crime scene gloves, took out his pocketknife to carefully unseal the flap. Drew out the greeting card.
CONGRATULATIONS!!!
The foil letters shined over colorful bursts of fireworks. He opened it with a gloved fingertip, read the printed sentiment inside.
LET’S PARTY!
She’d drawn skulls and crossbones around the words, then added a handwritten message.
You lived! Enjoy that while you can. We’re not finished, but you will be when I come for you.
XXOO, Patricia
P.S. Here’s a little souvenir from the great state of Florida.
He picked up the little sealed plastic bag, studied the lock of hair inside.
It would be, he had no doubt, Emily Devlon’s.
“Okay, bitch, it’s on. You let it get personal, and that’s a mistake.”
“Hey, Chief, you—” Cecil pulled up short at the cold glint in Reed’s eyes. “Ah, I can come back.”
“What do you need?”
“I thought I should tell you they were painting over at the Beach Shack, and knocked a whole gallon of paint off the ladder. It’s splattered over some of Jewels of the Sea, and on Cheryl Riggs as she was out there washing the display window. She’s pretty mad, Chief.”
“Can you handle it?”