Gunning For Angels (Fallen Angels Book 1) (8 page)

It is only for the sake of elegance, I try to remain morally pure.

–Marcel Proust

As Bud rang Eve’s doorbell, he eyed the massive oak door with distaste. He reached out, touching the fangs of a ferocious wolf that glared at anyone daring to enter.

He’d gotten out of the hospital that morning. Every test was negative. Bud got a clean bill of health and, after a particularly grueling “discussion” with Bunnie, he returned to work. The doctor warned him the episode was a warning shot across the bow and he needed to follow up with a cardiologist for further evaluation, as there might be a subtler problem at work in his heart.

Truer words were never spoken.

The door swung open.

Eve Hargrove greeted him with a knowing smile. “Who did I murder this time?”

“Since when do you open your own door? Fall on hard times?”

Eve turned and strolled deeper into the cavernous entranceway, her voice echoing off the marble flooring and domed ceiling where an elaborate chandelier hung. “Don’t tell me you’ve found another clue? And it only took you two years.”

Bud followed her into a luxurious sitting room with high ceilings and overstuffed furniture. The walls were hung with a series of rare tapestries that depicted medieval life. Bud stopped to gaze at a hunter with a strangely detached expression as he plunged a sword into a fallen stag.

“Ancestor?” Bud said.

Eve sat on a couch, gazed up at him with a pleasant smile. “Forgive me for not offering you refreshments, but I despise you.”

“And I’m so fond of you,” Bud said as he sat in a nearby chair. He found himself staring at her flawless beauty. She had the kind of beauty that gems have: frozen.

“Take
a picture, it might last longer,” Eve said, eyes glittering with disdain.

“We found your father.”

“Step-father,” she corrected, eyes flickering. She rang a small silver bell that sat on the table. “Perhaps I will order some refreshment. This conversation may prove vaguely interesting.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

A butler materialized. 

“One iced tea,” Eve said.

“What can I get for you, sir?” the butler asked Bud.

“He’s not staying long.” Eve waved the butler away.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Bud said. “Aren’t you curious as to how he met his end?”

Eve tilted her head thoughtfully as if divining his thoughts. “You don’t have a positive identification on the body. You’re fishing.”

Bud’s eyes narrowed. “It’s him.”

Eve made a tsk-tsk sound, “Fishing.”

“We’ve got the body. The rest will follow.”

“I’m not guilty.”

“You’re not innocent,” Bud snapped, surprised at his short temper and his new inability to control it. 

Eve paled, her eyes dark with anger.

“I know you did it and I’m going to prove it,” Bud said, voice tight with hate.

“Your slip is showing,” Eve sneered.

Bud stood up, strode to the door.

“Bud?” 

Bud turned, surprised to hear her call him by his first name. He was startled to find that she was within touching distance. He involuntarily stepped back.

She asked in a softly menacing voice, “How’s the ticker, Detective?”

Bud stared at her in astonishment.

How did she know?

Bud struggled to keep his cool. He turned and strode out, almost running down the butler.

Her laughter echoed behind him.

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,”  said Alice. “Oh, you can’t help that” said the cat. “We’re all mad here.”

–Lewis Carroll

“What did you say?” The policeman asked, staring at Enid in astonishment at hearing such a familiar name. 

Parked in front of Jeni’s apartment building, Enid sat in the back seat of the squad car. She was miserable and scared and trembling so hard that her teeth were chattering. The police had arrested Jeni’s stalker and, luckily, they hadn’t found the gun that Enid had hidden in Jeni’s freezer. A policeman with the nametag “Sam Waterstone” had put Enid in the back of a squad car while he filled out paperwork.

“What?” Enid asked through chattering teeth.

“
What did you just say?” he said in a voice edged with urgency. 

“I – uh, I’m here to find my dad – my real dad…”

“Jack Fox? The detective?”

“D
o – do you know him?” Enid said, fear curling in her stomach.

“Let me get this straight. Your mother is dead and you came to Phoenix to find your biological father who doesn’t know you exist?”

Enid gave a hesitant nod. 

“How do you know he’s your father?” 

“My mom told me.” Enid winced, recalling her drunken rant.

“What was your mother’s name?”

Enid bit her lip. 

“It’s easy enough to check all this out with a phone call.”

“Georgianna. My mom met him at some rodeo or bar or something to do with cowboys. That’s when they…” Enid’s voice trailed off. “I don’t think they dated for that long.”

“It’s a common name. There’s probably a hundred guys by the name of Jack Fox in the directory.”

“Seven.”

“How do you know? You hired a detective?”

“I’m not an idiot! All you need is Google, a cell phone and half a brain cell.”

“How do you
know?”
he pressed. 

“Ca
n I have my backpack?” Enid said, pointing to her backpack on the front seat.

He checked the contents and then handed it to her.

Enid pulled out her wallet and handed him a weathered driver’s license with a photograph of a young Jack Fox. “After she told me he was my real dad, I found this.”

“The Jack Fox in this picture – he’s got no idea about any of this?”

“I’ve seen him, but he doesn’t know about me. Being his daughter,
that is.”

The policeman studied her face.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Enid said.

“Did you break the law?”

Enid gulped, shook her head.

“Wait here.” He got out of the car and joined the other policeman. Enid watched them talk in low voices. They glanced back. He walked back, opened the door. “Come on.” He gestured for her to sit in the front seat, “You graduated to the front seat.”

“Where are we going?”

“To meet your relatives.”

Enid stared at him in astonishment.

Two hours later, Enid found herself sitting in a lime-green kitchen in Peoria, eating Kentucky Fried Chicken with Aunt Cheryl, Uncle Sam and two cousins, Ernie and Sharon.

On the drive over, the police officer told her to call him Uncle Sam and told her that Jack Fox was his stepbrother. He also tried to tell her how much Jack likes kids. 

“He likes kids?” Enid asked skeptically.

“Sure, ” Sam said, his face twitching.

They pulled up to a modest ranch-style house with desert landscaping. Two bikes lay in the driveway and Sam stopped the car in front of them and blew the horn.

Nothing.

With a scowl, Sam shut off the ignition and headed for the house.

Cheryl Waterstone, a plump woman in her thirties, looked as soft and comfortable as an easy chair. Enid was surprised when her generous hello hug didn’t smell of whiskey.

Her new Aunt Cheryl smelled like
cookies
.

From the moment her new cousin, Ernie, had set eyes on Enid, he was love-struck. He was a scrawny boy of twelve with sandy hair and looked like a normal kid, except he was wearing a blue tutu over his shorts. Enid stared at him in astonishment as he swept into a deep bow and intro
duced himself, “Ernie Waterstone at your service.”

Sharon was one year older than Ernie and wore a long brown ponytail to the side. She had the bad habit of staring at people like she was trying to read their minds. She gripped a detective novel to her chest as she examined Enid with suspicious eyes. 

After forty minutes of stilted conversation, the five of them sat in awkward silence at the kitchen table.

“Can c
ousins get married?” Ernie blurted out.

Enid blushed to her roots as everyone burst out laughing. Sam made a mock prayer motion to the heavens and then shot Cheryl a grateful look. 

Cheryl popped Ernie in the elbow. “No.”

“You wanna be my sidekick?” Ernie asked Enid.

“Do I have to wear a tutu?” Enid asked.

“Only if you want. I’ve got a couple others that might fit you.” Ernie leaned in, “What’s your story, morning glory?”

Enid shot a questioning look at her Aunt Cheryl, who smiled and said, “He’s harmless.”

“Says you,” Sam muttered.

“What’s up with the tutu?” Enid said.

“What do you mean?” Ernie said
, puzzled.

“How come you’re wearing a tutu?”

“How come
you’re not
?”

“What’s
your
story?” Enid said.

“Ernie Waterstone. Sixth grade. I tested at the ninth-grade level. I
opted to stay in sixth grade as a social experiment.
I
can wear a tutu because only a
real
man can wear a tutu.”

“Damn right, son!” Sam said
.

“He’s studying to be a man-ballerina,” Sharon said.

“A
real man
ballerina,” Ernie corrected.

Sharon nodded earnestly. “Uh-huh.”

“A
manarina
?” Enid asked, doubtfully.

A car pulled up in the driveway. Sam shot to the window, gesturing for them to remain seated, which none of them did. Everyone but Enid crowded behind him at the window. 

Enid heard Cheryl whisper, “Did you tell him?”

“He
never called back,” Sam said tensely.

Ernie pirouetted away from the window, “It’s Uncle Jack!”

Enid suddenly felt as sick as the time when she was really little and mistook a gallon of her mother’s whiskey screwdrivers for the best-tasting orange juice
ever
and drank enough to fill her gut and puke it back out.  

I choose a block of marble and chop off whatever I don’t need.

–
Auguste Rodin

Jack was surprised when Sam not only met him at the front door, but also pushed him onto the front lawn, away from the house.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, struck by the strange look on Sam’s face. “Are the kids okay?”

“Why didn’t you call? I told you it was urgent.”

“What’s going on?” Jack said
, alarmed. 

“Remember that time you lost your driver’s license – back in the nineties?”

Jack stared at him in astonishment.

“What was the name of that crazy woman you met at the Rodeo Bar?” Sam hissed.

“I can’t believe
you
remember that.
I
hardly remember that.”

“What was her name?”

Jack wrinkled his brow in thought. “Something to do with a state. Georgia? Georgianna? Something like that…”

“You had sex with her?”

“Why?” Jack said suspiciously.

“You talk to her since?”

“Stop being so cryptic. What the hell is going on?”

“What would you say if this Georgianna took your driver’s license and…”

“What?”

“Got pregnant.”

Jack stared at him blankly. After a moment, he busted out laughing. “Is this some sort of punked thing? Sam, she was a one-night stand! Not even a good one. We were both shitfaced drunk and I barely got it up before she puked on me. I was picking red wine barf-chunks out of the carpet for weeks.”

Jack heard a noise and glanced toward the house. Enid was standing in the doorway, staring at him in horror.

“That’s the girl that bit me!” Jack shoved up his sleeve and showed Sam a bandage. “That little punk took a chunk out of my arm – cost me a visit to Urgent Care for a tetanus shot! What the hell is she doing
here
?”

“She’s your daughter,” Sam hissed.

Jack stared at Sam in shock. His eyes were drawn back to the girl’s pallid face.

No!

Everything in Jack rebelled against the idea. Who the hell was that kid?

It’s a scam!

“Don’t be an asshole, man,” Sam murmured, pushing Jack toward the house. “I tried to give you a heads-up. You should return your calls.”  

Jack tried to speak but couldn’t. He looked at the girl and was startled to see something familiar in her eyes. His brain scrabbled around and, with a sudden shock, he realized that her eyes, her eyebrows – they reminded him of…

Mom.

It was the same look she used to give me –
when she was disappointed in me.

Jack stepped back, light-headed, like someone punched the air out of him. He looked up at the sky, at Sam – to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. When he looked back at the door – it was empty.

“You gotta talk to her.
She’s yours
. Anybody can see it. She’s got your eyes.”

Jack reeled away, angry. “What the hell are you talking about? She’s not…!”

“Her mother died. She took a bus from Florida to find
you
.”

Jack drew a shaky breath, shook his head.

“The kid has your driver’s license. Her mother’s name was Georgianna.”

“She heard what I said? About the one-night stand and – barf in the carpet?”

Sam grimly nodded, shoving Jack toward the house. “Go talk to her.”

Cheryl met him at the door, grabbed his hand and led him down the hallway. Behind a locked bathroom door, t
hey could hear Enid vomiting. Jack made a face and tried to retreat, but Cheryl shoved him toward the door.

“Talk to her,” Cheryl whispered.

Jack gave her a pathetically helpless look. 

“Say something!” Cheryl urged.

“Uh…”

The sound of vomiting intensified. Jack grimaced, stepping back.

Cheryl pushed him back, hissing, “Jack Fox, you
talk
to that girl! You’re her father. Don’t you dare do to
her
what your father did to
you
.”

Jack looked at her, startled.

Cheryl squeezed his shoulder. “Be the dad
you
should have had.”

Jack stared at her. After a long moment, he bent over and puked.