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

Chapter 35

The first thought on Zandra's mind isn't whether the shot hit her. It isn't even to check for the position of the knife so that she doesn't unintentionally drive the blade into her ribs. It's something else.

Did I drop that card with the blueberry muffin recipe? I want to try that when things settle down. Nothing beats blueberry muffins, fresh out of the oven. Maybe a little cold milk or some hot coffee to go with them, too? Delicious. Bonus points if it's morning time and there's a cool breeze coming through the window into the kitchen. Double points if there's a newspaper spread out on the kitchen table.

I really should try that some day. Just stop everything and do that. Catch a glimpse of that kind of life.

She remembers that the recipe is tucked safely into one of her deep pockets, allowing her focus to return to the feeling of the rocks, and perhaps to a gunshot wound. It's hard to tell the difference.

Is that a rock or a bullet?

"Seriously, Zandra, you're making this harder than it has to be. No need to lunge at me and trip yourself on the rocks. Gene doesn't want you dead. He wants to put you away with the court system. You know, like destroy you mentally instead of physically," Zandra hears the man with the scars on his face say.

Like a mental trick? What a funny thing to say.

Zandra cranks her sore neck upward to look his way. Her sprint barely covered three long footsteps.

He fired a warning shot. Only someone who knew the police would do nothing about firearms at Soma Falls would bother with a warning shot.

The crunch of approaching footsteps lets Zandra know her odds of escape are a hair below zero. She considers lashing out with the lawnmower knife, but she soon finds herself looking up at its mangled point.

"It's a hell of a blade, if you shop for your blades in hell. I'll make sure this gets back to the police," the man with the scars on his face says. He drops the lawnmower knife into his satchel before extending a hand. "Need some help getting up?"

Zandra doesn't resist the helping hand. The hand up turns into something else.

What's this? Handcuffs?

On a good day, Zandra's range of motion might allow for her wrists to join behind her back. Today is not a good day, but the man with the scars on his face doesn't see it that way. He hoists Zandra to her feet by pulling on the link between the 'cuffs.

Zandra uses the moment of physical proximity to study the scars on the man's face. It only takes a few seconds to get what she needs. Thin lines of red show where fresh blood cleaves each scar into two halves.

I love scars, those little tattletales.

"Where are we going?" Zandra says. She feels the tickle in her lungs that lets her know to hack into her sleeve. It's hard to do with her arms behind her back, so she turns and unloads a pad of lung butter at her captor.

The man with the scars on his face looks down at the goo on his shoe. "Lucky shot. You ever get that checked out?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm as good as dead anyway," Zandra says.

"You'll attract bad energy thinking like that. You ever read The Secret?" the man with the scars on his face says. He prods her away from Soma Falls and toward the parking lot where Charlie ate lead. Zandra sees the outline of a black Suburban.

"That book is for suckers."

"Really? Give it a read when you're in prison, I think you'll really enjoy it. It taught me the importance of keeping a positive mental attitude. Positive energy is like a magnet."

Did I miss something? Don't you kill people for a living?

Zandra digs her heels into the ground to halt their slow walk to the Suburban. She leans into the ear of her escort. He takes the bait and leans back.

Such a lonely bastard, isn't he? Can smell it on his neck. The aftershave is that cheap shit kids in high school will buy to drink because of alcohol content. He aged out of that a long time ago. Putting that one in the memory bank, too.

"What sort of energy do you suppose attracted you to me?" Zandra says with a hoarse whisper that ends in another splatter of shoeshine.

Thus ends the gentler phase of Zandra's interactions with the man. He opens the rear hatch of the Suburban and wipes the "shoe shine" clean with Zandra's purple gown.

"This could've been fun, you know. When you see the place Gene set up for us to wait for your court date, you're going to wish you weren't such a pain," he says as he shoves Zandra into the Suburban. "You've got a bad attitude, Zandra. A real bad attitude. That's most of your problem. Would it kill you to smile more?"

Have you been living under a rock, asshole? Of course I have a bad attitude.

"Better a bad attitude for good reasons than the other way around, like you," Zandra says. She doesn't let the man see how much it hurts to lay like a knot in back of the Suburban. The pain will make it challenging to focus on the turns and drive times for her mental map leading to their eventual destination.

"You and Gene could've been friends, you know. We could've been friends," the man with the scars on his face says.

Good lord, where does Gene find lumber like this one?

"Best friends," Zandra says with a smirk.

The man with the scars on his face slams the rear hatch. After a 15-minute drive, they arrive. Zandra is released from the Suburban, but not the handcuffs, and she takes a long look at the pristine starter mansion on the edge of a golf course in front of her. It's like something out of a TV show, and it could only be one of Gene's properties.

Naturally, Zandra denies any satisfaction in the ostentatious presentation.

"What a shithole," she says.

"Glad you like it. You were going to stay in the guest suite, but there's been a change of plans," the man with the scars on his face says. "You will be crawling up the ass of this here shithole."

I can't wait.