Pogo and Spooky

The last call was brief. A familiar, but dusty voice giving cautious approval.

That was it.

I headed back to the house.

I paused at the top of the stairs. I could see her legs -- she'd managed to work her way out her bonds and climbed up and out of the grave, but was just sitting on the edge of it, legs dangling in. He was still lying in the bottom of his, still tied. Looking up at her in a mixture of anger, panic, and disbelief.

I walked on down, and she glanced up for a moment to see if it was me, then went back to staring into the dark hole.

She didn't even move as I yanked Duarte up and out onto the basement floor.

I left him there and dragged a cinderblock from its place under the stairs, then grabbed the worn ball peen hammer from the toolbox and dropped it by her feet.

"Now what?"

"Now you save Duarte's life."

She looked at me with a tiny shiver, catching, no doubt, that I hadn't mentioned anything about hers.

I pulled a cinderblock out and loosened one of his hands, leaving the other tied to his belt in back. He struggled, but that didn't really matter much.

"Pick up the hammer."

Two trigger fingers, two kneecaps, two ankles.

When I took the hammer from Spooky's hand, I was sure she understood. She really had saved him.

Duarte would do time in prison, but he'd be hard put to be dangerous when he got out. And when he stopped screaming into his gag, I made sure he understood.

Monsters are real.

He'd been a scavenger pretending to be a monster, but he'd never be one. Ever. He just didn't have it in him. And if he ever tried again, a real Monster would come for him. I'd make sure of it.

We waited for another six hours down there. Mostly staring at each other. Duarte was curled up on his side, refusing to look at Spooky or me.

I heard the door open upstairs and led Spooky slowly up. Still just in her sweatshirt.

Donna was standing in the center of the room, flanked by her human Dobermans.

She looked over Spooky, down at the discarded can of whipped cream and smiled humorlessly.

"You still know how to show a girl a good time, don't you?"

She didn't wait for my response and stepped toward the girl, unrolling the black, eyeless hood in her hands.

"Wait"

A small voice, more timid than she'd ever used, I think.

Donna cocked her head to one side slightly, eyebrow raised as Spooky turned toward me.

She cautiously reached up and pulled me down a bit to kiss her.

She let go slowly. And stepped toward Donna looking over her shoulder.

"I'm not too young for you, you know."

We looked into each other's eyes as Donna slid the hood over her head.

***

I'd dropped Duarte off in the park with the now-broken Kimber in his waistband.

He ended up doing four years. Eugene intervened on his behalf, got the charges reduced a bit, and even gave him a job at the sandwich shop when he got out of prison. Like I said, Eugene is one of the good guys. Duarte died of diabetes, of all things.

That's probably partly my fault. I suspect exercise was more difficult for him than most. Sorry, Eugene.

So that just left Spooky.

I didn't miss her this time. She walked in the front of The Shack like she owned the place, a single piece of airline luggage rolling behind her.

Monster actually actively tracked her -- recognizing another predator instantly.

She came straight to the bar and pulled herself up onto a stool.

There was a smile in her eyes -- more life than she'd had when we parted. More, maybe, than she had in her life up to that point. I recognized it. She had purpose; she had reasons to do what she did, real ones, with real meaning.

It's a hard life, but for some it's the best possible one.

"Took me eight years to get your name out of Donna. And four more to get your address."

"So what now?"

"I was wondering if we couldn't find a different use for the oil and whipped cream this time."

"Couldn't find a banana cream pie?"

Post Production Notes: A short one to ease some frustration. An acquaintance of mine was shot in a home invasion a couple weeks ago and I've been helping unfuck his life as much as I can. Like Eugene, he's a big guy and very capable, but fell for the B&B. Unlike the story, the cops have been on the ball and made his case a priority -- and have been very competent. But the damned mundanity of the situation is driving me up the wall. It's ops-normal these days. I almost took Monster out for a walk on this one, but that'd have been a one paragraph story.