The Book of Death (Bourbon Kid 4)

bad news.’ He
lowered his voice slightly before adding, ‘She killed herown mother .’
    JD nodded. ‘I see what you’re
saying.’
    ‘Yeah, you can do a lot better,’
said James, patting him on the shoulder one more time. ‘Right, I’ve got other
places to be, see you later, man.’
    As James walked away, JD
followed after him. ‘Hold on a sec,’ he said catching up with the security
guard.
    ‘Whassup?’ James asked.
    JD pointed at James’s chest.
‘You’ve got something on your shirt.’
     

 
    Ten

 
    Sanchez wasn’t entirely sure how
it had happened, but somehow he’d ended up in a Volkswagen Beetle with Flake.
And he was on his way to the police station to enrol as a member of law
enforcement. Not a proper officer by any stretch, but if he couldn’t work out
an acceptable way to weasel out of it pretty soon, he was going to find himself
in a uniform as one of those useless part time cops with no authority.
    Flake babbled on at a hundred
miles an hour about how excited she was to be joining the force. She spoke so
bloody quickly that Sanchez couldn’t get a word in. He’d had to accept a ride
from her after discovering to his dismay that some local kids had vandalised
his car outside the Ole Au Lait. All four of his tyres had been slashed. “ No
doubt unprovoked,” he thought.
    Flake had promised she would
drop him off at the tyre repair place. But it now seemed that her plan was to
go there after they’d been to the police station. As a contingency plan to
avoid joining the police, Sanchez was fully prepared to pull out the old “bad
back” excuse.
    Flake drove like she spoke too.
This girl didn’t stop for anything. Red lights, stop signs, pedestrians,
snowmen, she just zipped through, over or around them. Her constant chatter
would have done Sanchez’s head in under any normal circumstance. At the moment
he was unable to concentrate on anything other than clenching his butt cheeks
and pressing both hands against the dashboard. As if to make travel that much
more terrifying, the passenger side of Flake’s old white Beetle wasn’t fitted
with a seat belt. So Sanchez actually felt somewhat relieved when they arrived
at the police station. Flake steered the car down the wrong side of the road
for a hundred yards or so, before pulling a completely unnecessary handbrake
turn which spun the car around and pulled it perfectly into a parking spot
directly out front of the station.
    Throughout the manoeuvre Sanchez
had gripped the dashboard so tight that his fingers had gone white. He was also
stuck with a wide-eyed look of terror imprinted on his face. It was a look that
would take a few seconds of deep breaths to shift.
    Flake switched off the engine.
‘Come on, Sanchez,’ she said. She gave him a gentle shove on the arm as if she
thought he was faking the look of terror.
    ‘I think we just travelled back
in time,’ Sanchez muttered.
    ‘You’re so funny,’ said Flake, slapping
his arm once more. ‘Come on. Stop joking around and let’s get in there before
it’s too late.’
    Sanchez definitely wanted to be
out of the car. He knew that much. But he didn’t particularly want to be
walking up the steps to the police station. As the blood began to flow back
into his fingers he peeled his hands back off the dashboard and reached over to
open the door. Flake was already up and out of the car by the time he had
hauled his ass up out of the seat. Closing the door behind him he took a deep
breath and with his left hand reached slowly around to his back. He started to
rub it slowly and pretended to wince in pain.
    Flake looked genuinely
concerned. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
    ‘Old war injury,’ said Sanchez
grimacing. ‘Not sure I’ll make it up them steps.’
    Flake’s face dropped. ‘Oh.’
    Before she could add anything
else, a police officer came rushing down the steps from the front of the
station. He was a rugged fellow in his mid-forties with a full head of neatly
combed brown hair. And he was dressed smartly for a cop too. He had on a pair
of black trousers and a white shirt with a black waistcoat over it. Sanchez was
surprised to see an officer in such good shape, considering the obligatory diet
of donuts that all the local boys in blue stuck to so rigidly.
    The officer yelled at Flake as
he approached her. ‘You got a license for that vehicle miss?’
    Sanchez recognised the officer.
It was Dan Harker, a fairly decent, hard-working detective who had never