Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 9

            

"Do you want a bulletproof vest?" Vince says in the jail lobby after Zandra arrives. He motions to one of the guards working a desk. "They say you can rent them from the county. It'd be on your dime, though. I'm a little light right now."

"Are they pitchfork- and torch-proof, too?" Zandra says. Standing mere feet from a set of double doors that lead outside the jail, she should feel better than the nervous itch scraping at the walls of her guts. But she knows better. She knows Gene. And she wonders what's waiting on the other side of those doors.

He's going to be pissed when he hears about this, if he hasn't already.

"They're not," Vince says, taking Zandra's sense of humor a little too seriously. "Bulletproof vests can't do much against edged weapons or extreme heat. But it's better than nothing."

"Duly noted, but I'll pass," Zandra says. She adjusts the blaze orange jumpsuit the guards gave her after the bail was arranged, seeing as how her purple gown is off in an evidence locker. They told her the blaze orange is standard, but Zandra's never heard of that before.

Vince starts to say something, but he's cut off by rushed footsteps entering the lobby.

Oh, good. My "lawyer" is here.

Clutching yet another loosely secured stack of paperwork, Darryl sucks at the jail musk to catch his breath. He balances himself with a hand on Zandra's shoulder.

"Why didn't you tell me you made bail?" Darryl says between breaths.

"I felt like making you jog," Zandra says and shrugs his hand from her shoulder.

The privacy bubble changes in jail, but I got bail, fucker. Hands off.

"Why didn't you consult with me first?" Darryl says.

"Because I consulted with the guy with a bead on $10 million, that's why," Zandra says and nods to Vince. The cash due on the $10 million bond actually came in around $1 million, not that Zandra cares one way or the other. Anything above the $100 in cash hidden in the soles of her shoes may as well be the moon. It'll be $10 million in full if Zandra doesn't show up for her next court hearing in 72 hours.

That's on Vince, not me. He's either stupid or desperate. Maybe both. My kind of people.

"OK, but you don't know what it's like out there," Darryl says and waves a sweaty palm toward the double doors. "I can't defend you in court if you're dead. People out there, they're not taking kindly to what you did to them."

Quite a statement for someone supposed to be in my corner. How much is Gene paying this guy to play lawyer for a few days?

"So? They weren't exactly friendly before, either," Zandra says.

"It's bigger than that. Just be careful. Please, for my sake, don't do anything stupid. This is all getting out of control so fast," Darryl says.

Something tells me they're not upset about Dvorak taking a knife to the chest. People don't like being humiliated. They'd much rather attack the messenger than face the music. They figure getting their secrets blown open in front of everyone at the showdown was penalty enough, and they're owed something for the trouble. And while they're at it, why not toss on anything else that's been bothering them? I'll be their human sewer.

This is how societies stay sane. They crave ritual sacrifice as a means to burn the crust off old shit. They wait until the pressure builds, then find a scapegoat. Thousands of years ago, it would've been sacrificing humans to gods. Hundreds of years ago, it was burning witches at the stake. Fifty years ago it was hunting communists. In November, the blood spilled like ink in the voting booth. Last Sunday, it was the bread and wine made flesh and blood.

Societies need corpses in order to focus their frustration and not tear apart at the seams. It's not that Stevens Point wants to kill me. It's that they need to. Gene will help them do it.

And I will help Gene to the tip of my blade. I will not give them the satisfaction of a corpse unless it's polishing my shoes with its own blood. Where's my knife?

Zandra looks to Vince for confirmation. He gives a condescending snort in response, having apparently seen worse. She thinks back to what happened at Soma Falls, and the hell it put her through.

You don't know what Gene does to inconvenient people.

To Darryl's credit, he doesn't talk like someone trying to put on a front. There's no telltale pause, often not more than a fraction of a second long to the trained ear, between sentences. No obscuring of his eyes or mouth with fidgeting hands, or even the lesser sin of running fingers through his hair.

"I'll take my chances," Zandra says and turns toward the double doors. "I'm a psychic. I'll know when to step to the side of any bullets headed my way."

"I really wish you'd stay here," Darryl says.

"Aren't you the one supposed to be working on getting me out of here in the first place?" Zandra says.

"Just, please, please, please, don't do anything stupid."

Are you asking me or warning me?

The obnoxious guard from her jail cell reappears for a final round of paperwork. He cuts Vince off at the double doors, saying, "I have to escort her to your vehicle. It's policy."

The doors swing open into the sunlight of a bright day. That's when Zandra hears the gunshot.