box,” I said, getting up. “Oh, God, it’s a fucking lid—“
“Dakota,” Rand said, motioning to cadaver man. “You don’t need to stay any longer, Dakota, though our friend the Fed there may have more questions for you later—”
“Why did you bring me here?” I said, watching cadaver man slip… it… back into its opaque envelope. “Is this some kind of cruel joke, some kind of arrangement with my dad to get me to come home—”
“Dakota,” Rand said. “I didn’t lie. We did need to see you, and not just for your expertise—”
“Rand,” Balducci warned. “She’s just a civilian. And just a kid—”
“She’s got to know,” Rand said, staring up at me with the same sad eyes I remembered looking up to as a child. “Dakota, this just fell in our lap, but our ‘friends’ tell us they have had a dozen killings over the past five years where magical tattoos were taken, almost always on or near the full moon, moving from state to state each time. This last one was in Birmingham, and our ‘friends’ tell us all the signs point to an attack here in Georgia… soon.”
“And the full moon is next weekend,” I said. “Just after Halloween.”
“So you see, Dakota, I needed to talk to you,” Rand said. “We don’t think you’re a specific target but… Kotie, stay safe. Your Dad and I are very worried about you.”
My childhood nickname rang in my ears as I watched cadaver man carry ‘it’ back through the door of white light.
“That makes three of us,” I said.
I said my goodbyes to Rand and then got the hell out, escorted by the black-and white twin officers who’d picked me up. Tweedle-White and Tweedle-Black turned out to be Horscht and Gibbs, old buddies of Rand’s, who were doing him a favor by scooping me.
Gibbs was a sexy beast, like a younger version of Rand himself, but after staying for the show with the lid, Horscht turned from stony Aryan Nazi to protective den mother. After some arguing, they agreed to take me back to Mary’s to pick up my Vespa. But as we started to pull out of City Hall East’s garage the colorful lights across the street gave me a better idea.
“Wait,” I said. “Drop me at the Borders.”
“Are you sure?” Horscht said. “It’s a long way to East Atlanta.”
“It’s… nine fifty-five,” I said. “I can take care of myself in a brightly lit commercial fortress, and call on a fare-slave to cab me back to Mary’s for my Vespa. I never leave before midnight, anyway.”
“But after seeing that—”
“The full moon is like, ten days away,” I said, with false bravado. “I’m not worried.”
“The lady can take care of herself,” Gibbs said, smiling. “Anything else we can do?”
“Sure thing,” I said. “Next time you give me a ride, I want to do it in cuffs.”
Horscht was befuddled, but Gibbs whistled low. “Sure thing, girl.”
“But if she hasn’t done anything wrong—”
“Damn, Horscht, you never got a Sunday morning call?” Gibbs said, punching my raised fist gently. “I’ll explain it to you later. You’re all right, girl. Later.”
I started sniffing around the bookstore for something on Richard Sumners. It was hopeless—I hate bookstores and this one was a brightly lit warren. I ferreted around their computer kiosk for a minute, browsing for any of the books I knew: The Craft of Ink—no. Flash, Ink, Flash—out of print. Anything by Richard Sumners—yes! One, titled Richard Sumners, three in store, shelved improbably in Art & Architecture | Photography | Photography Monographs, where I had absolutely no luck. Finally I collared a pimply-faced teen manning the Customer Service kiosk, whose end-of-day funk brightened considerably as soon as he saw my breasts.
“Oh, yes, that,” he said, staring straight at the bulge in my top. In fairness, my breasts were about level with his head, and he seemed scared to make eye contact. “Right over here.”
In Bargain Books: Richard Sumners by TASCHEN - $7.99. Right between Sicily in Pictures and More Amazing Kittens! I wanted to pop a blood vessel, but just stood there, seeing Sumners’s life work end up in a bargain rack. Finally I picked it up, thick little brick, thumbing its thin but curiously heavy pages.
“At least it’s selling,” I said.
“Anything else?” he asked, eyeing my breasts again.
“You got an almanac for 2005?” I asked, but he shook his head.
As I turned to go, finally his eyes darted upward. “That,” he said, “is one cool-ass shirt.”
I looked down. Edgar Allen Poe stared upside-down at me