Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

“The hell you did,” Lula said. “Not often you see a man turn white like that.”

By the time I got to my seat my knees were knocking together, and my hands were shaking so bad I was having a hard time hanging onto my program.

“Jeez,” Lula said, “you aren't having a heart attack or anything, are you?”

“I'm okay,” I said. “It's the excitement of the horse racing.”

“Yeah, I figured that was it.”

A hysterical giggle escaped from my mouth. “It's not like Abruzzi scares me.”

“Sure, I know that,” Lula said. “Nothing scares you. You're a big badass bounty hunter.”

“Damn right,” I said. And then I concentrated on not hyperventilating.

“WE SHOULD DO this more often,” Lula said, getting out of my car, unlocking the Trans Am.

She was parked on the street in front of the office. The office was closed, but the new bookstore in the house next door was open. Lights were on, and I could see Maggie Mason unpacking boxes in the wi

ndow.

“I had a setback in the last race,” Lula said, “but aside from that I had a very good day. I just let it ride. Next time we could go to Freehold, and then we don't have to worry about running into you know who.”

Lula drove off, but I stayed. I was like Evelyn now. On the run. No place safe to settle. For lack of something better, I went to the movies. Halfway through the movie I got up and left. I got into my car, and I went home. I parked in the lot, and I didn't allow myself to hesitate behind the wheel. I got out of the CR-V, beeped it locked, and walked straight to the back door that led to the lobby. I took the elevator to the second floor, marched down the hall, and unlocked the door to my apartment. I took a deep breath and stepped inside. It was very quiet. And dark.

I flipped the lights on . . . every single light I owned. I walked room to room, avoiding the cootie couch. I went back to the kitchen, removed six cookies from the bag of frozen chocolate chip cookies, and put them on a cookie sheet. I popped them into the oven and stood there, waiting. Five minutes later, the house smelled like homemade cookies. Bolstered by cookie fumes, I marched into the living room and looked at the couch. The couch looked fine. No stains. No dead body imprint.

You see, Stephanie, I said to myself. The couch is okay. No reason to be creeped out by the couch.

Hah! An invisible Irma whispered in my ear. Everyone knows you can't see death cooties. Take my word for it, that couch has the biggest, fattest death cooties that ever existed. That couch has the mother of all death cooties.

I tried to sit on the couch but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Soder and the couch were fixed together in my mind. Sitting on the couch was like sitting on Soder's dead, sawed-in-half lap. The apartment was too small for both me and the couch. One of us was going to have to go.

“Sorry,” I said to the couch. “Nothing personal, but you're history.” I put my weight behind one end, and I pushed the couch across the living room, into the small entrance foyer in front of the kitchen, out the front door, and into the hall. I positioned it against the wall between my apartment and Mrs. Karwatt's apartment. Then I ran back into my apartment, closed my door, and did a sigh. I knew there were no such things as death cooties. Unfortunately, that's an intellectual fact. And death cooties are an emotional reality.

I took the cookies out of the oven, put them on a plate, and carted them off to the living room. I zapped the television on and found a movie. Irma hadn't said anything about death cooties on the remote, so I assumed death cooties didn't stick to electronic devices. I pulled a dining room chair over to the television, ate two of the cookies, and watched the movie.

Halfway through the movie, the doorbell rang. It was Ranger. Dressed in his usual black. Full utility belt, looking like Rambo. Hair tied back. He stood there in silence when I opened the door. The corners of his mouth tipped slightly into the promise of a smile.

“Babe, your couch is in the hall.”

“It has death cooties.”

“I knew there'd be a good explanation.”

I shook my head at him. “You're such a show-off.” Not only had he placed me at the track, his horse had paid off five to one.

“Even superheroes need to have fun once in a while,” he said, looking me over, brushing past me, walking into the living room. “It smells like you're marking your territory with chocolate chip cookies.”

“I needed something to chase away the demons.”

“Any problems?”

“Nope.” Not since I pushed the couch into the hall. “So what's up?” I said. “You look like you're dressed for work.”

“I had to secure a building earlier this evening.”

I'd once been with him when his team secured a building. It involved throwing a drug dealer out a third-story window.