Waking the Witch (Otherworld 11)

"Is he with you?" she asked, pointing. It was the guy from earlier, now standing in front of his BMW, hood open, scowling down as if he could shame the motor into turning over.

"Nope. Think I should offer to help?"

"You can fix cars?" Her look said she was mildly impressed.

"Cars, bikes ... That's my motorcycle over there." I hoped to win some cool points for the bike, too, but she only glanced at it, then back to the guy with the BMW.

"I bet he can't fix it," she said. "I bet he can't even pump his own gas."

"You're probably right."

"You should see if you can help."

"Nah, I'll walk you to--"

"I've got a few minutes."

She started across the road and I hurried to catch up.

"Hey, there," I called. "Having trouble getting her running?"

He turned. He blinked, as if seeing a mirage, then turned back to glare at the misbehaving engine again.

"Transmission, I think," he said, with the air of a man who couldn't find the transmission on a dare, but wants to sound like he could reassemble one with his eyes shut.

"You're in luck. Transmissions are my specialty."

He eyed me, clearly torn between not really wanting to tell an attractive young woman to get lost, but not wanting her mucking about with his luxury car either.

"I'm going to call for a tow," he said.

Kayla snorted. "From where? Nearest tow truck is in Battle Ground." She gave him that same critical look I'd gotten earlier. "You don't think she can do it because she's a girl."

"Of course not. I just don't want to bother--"

"No bother," I said.

I walked over to my s

addlebags and got out my tools. Then I set to work. It wasn't the transmission. I could have figured out what was wrong, but after a few minutes of hovering anxiously, the guy insisted I give up.

I wish I could say I was gracious about the blow-off. I wasn't. But he wasn't gracious either. All the more reason, I say, not to do favors, even for hot guys.

"Jerk," Kayla muttered as we walked away. "Real estate vulture, I bet. They've been hovering, picking at the corpse of this town."

A line obviously picked up from eavesdropping on an adult conversation. I had a feeling Kayla did a lot of that. An only child, homeschooled, mother dead, no father in the picture, an off-kilter personality that would make most other kids steer clear. She'd spend a lot of time around adults. Probably, in some ways, thought of herself as one. A feeling I remembered well.

AS I WALKED her to the library, there were a dozen questions I longed to ask--about her mother, about the investigation--but I suspected that if I started treating her as a witness, she'd shut down. Just another adult playing nice to get something in return. I'd see her around and maybe, if she decided I was up to the job, she'd share her thoughts on her own.

Before we parted, I asked where to find the police station and she directed me to a tiny house on Main Street, just past the downtown. When I walked in, two guys were standing in front of a huge desk, dwarfing an elderly receptionist. One man was in his early forties, his belly straining the buttons on his uniform. The other was in his twenties and would be a whole lot cuter if he cultivated a beard to hide a weak chin and golf-ball-size Adam's apple. The younger one was hamming it up for his fellow employees, telling them about a call from the night before.

"So Mel was cowering in the corner, Leslie waving around her big old frying pan, telling him if he's late again, she's gonna bash his damn brains in with it. He tried to explain--you know Mel, always got an excuse. So she swings that pan and he puts his arms up and, wham. He starts screaming about breaking his arm and you know what she says?"

The other officer answered in a falsetto. "Keep it up and I'll bust the other one."

The two guffawed, and the receptionist chimed in with creaky titters.

"You know what would make that story even funnier?" I said. "If it was the other way around, and ol' Mel was whaling on his wife with the frying pan."