"You really do have a higher wisdom score than I do."
"Which means you wouldn't have asked for help yet," he said.
"Well ... yeah."
"When would you have asked for help?"
"When I drove off the road and had to call a tow truck."
He laughed and took a sharp breath as if it hurt. "I'll be waiting for you."
"I'll be there."
"I know," he said. "Thanks for not saying you told me so."
"I wasn't even thinking it, Larry."
"Honest?"
"Cross my heart and ... "
"Don't say it."
"You getting superstitious on me, Larry?"
He was quiet for a space of heartbeats. "Maybe, or maybe it's just been a long day."
"It'll be a longer night," I said.
"Thanks," he said. "Just what I wanted to hear." He hung up then without saying goodbye.
Maybe I'd trained Dolph never to say goodbye. Maybe I was always the bearer of bad tidings, and everyone wanted to get off the phone with me as soon as possible. Naw.
40
I expected Larry to be sitting in his car. He wasn't. He was leaning against it. Even from a distance I could tell he was in pain, back stiff, trying not to move any more than necessary. I pulled in beside him. Up close he looked worse. His white dress shirt was smeared with black soot. His summer-weight dress pants were brown, so they'd survived a little better. A black smudge ran across his forehead to his chin. The blackness outlined one of his blue eyes so that it seemed darker, like a sapphire surrounded by onyx. The look in his eyes was dull, as if the pain had drained him.
"Jesus, you look like shit," I said.
He almost smiled. "Thanks, I needed that."
"Take a pill, get in the Jeep."
He started to shake his head, stopped in mid-motion and said, "No, if you can drive, I can go to the next disaster."
"You smell like someone set your clothes on fire."
"You look pristine," he said, and he sounded resentful.
"What's wrong, Larry?"
"Other than my back feels like a red-hot poker is being shoved up it?"
"Besides that," I said.
"I'll tell you in the car." Underneath the sulkiness, he sounded tired.
I didn't argue with him, just started walking for the Jeep. A few steps and I realized he wasn't keeping up. I turned and found him standing very still, eyes closed, hands in fists at his sides.
I walked back to him. "Need a hand?"
He opened his eyes, smiled, "A back, actually. Hands work fine."
I smiled and took his arm gently, half expecting him to tell me not to, but he didn't. He was hurting. He took a stiff step, and I steadied him. We made slow but sure progress to the Jeep. His breath was coming in small, shallow pants by the time I got him around to the passenger side door. I opened the door, wasn't sure how to get him inside. It was going to hurt any way I could do it.
"Just let me hold your arm. I can do it myself," he said.
I offered my arm. He got a death grip on it and sat down. He made a small hissing noise between his teeth. "You said it would hurt worse the second day. Why are you always right?"
"Hard to be perfect," I said, "but it's a burden I've learned to cope with." I gave him my best bland face.
He smiled, then started to laugh, then almost doubled over with pain, which hurt more. He ended up writhing on the seat for a few seconds. When he could sit still again, he grabbed the dashboard until his fingers turned colors. "God, don't make me laugh."
"Sorry," I said. I got the aloe-and-lanolin Baby Wipes from the trunk of my car. They were great for getting blood off. They'd probably work on soot. I handed him the wipes and helped him buckle his seat belt. Yes, his wounds would have hurt less if he hadn't had the belt, but no one rides with me without a seat belt. My mom would be alive today if she'd been wearing a belt.
"Take a pill, Larry. Sleep in the car. I'll take you home after this next scene."
"No," he said, and he sounded so stubborn, so determined, that I knew I couldn't talk him out of it. So why try?
"Have it your way," I said. "But what have you been doing that you look like you've been trying to hide your spots?"
He moved just his eyes to look at me, frowning.
"Rolling in soot," I said. "Don't you ever watch Disney movies or read children's books?"
He gave a small smile. "Not lately. I've had three fire scenes where I just had to confirm the vamps were dead. Two of the scenes I couldn't find anything, just ashes. The third one looked like black sticks. I didn't know what to do, Anita. I tried to check for a pulse. I know that was stupid. The skull just exploded into ashes all over me." He was sitting very stiff, very controlled, yet his body gave the impression of hunching from pain, avoiding the blow of what he'd seen today.
What I was about to say wouldn't help things. "Vamps burn to ashes, Larry. If there were skeletal remains left, it wasn't vampire."
He looked at me then, the sudden movement bringing tears to his eyes. "You mean that was human?"
"Probably -- I'm not sure, but probably."
"Thanks to me we'll never know for sure. Without the fangs in the skull you can't tell the difference."
"That's not entirely true. They can do DNA. Though truthfully I'm not sure what the fire does to DNA sampling. If they can gather it, they can at least know if it's human or vamp."
"If it's human, I've destroyed any chance they have of using dental records," he said.
"Larry, if the skull was that fragile, I don't think anything could have saved it. It certainly wouldn't have stood up to dental imprinting."
"Are you sure?" he asked.
I licked my lips and wanted to lie. "Not a hundred percent."
"You'd have known it was human. You wouldn't have touched it, thinking it was alive, would you?"
I let silence fill the car.
"Answer me," he said.
"No, I wouldn't have checked for a pulse. I would have assumed it was human remains."
"Dammit, Anita, I've been doing this for over a year, and I'm still making stupid mistakes."
"Not stupid, just mistakes."
"What's the difference?" he asked.
I was thinking that what he'd done to get his back ripped up was a stupid mistake, but decided not to say it out loud. "You know the difference, Larry. When you get over feeling sorry for yourself, you'll know the difference."
"Don't be condescending, Anita."
The anger in his voice stung more than the words. I didn't need this today. I really didn't. "Larry, I'd love to soothe your ego and make it all better, but I am all out of sugarplums and puppy-dog tails. My day hasn't been exactly a barrel of laughs either."
"What's wrong?" he asked.
I shook my head.
"Come on. I'm sorry. I'll listen."
I wasn't even sure where to start, and I wasn't ready to tell anybody about what had happened in the hospital room, least of all Larry.
"I don't even know where to start, Larry."
"Try," he said.
"Richard is being nasty."
"Boyfriend trouble," he said; he sounded almost amused.
I glanced at him. "Don't be condescending, Larry."
"Sorry."
"It's not just that. Before this emergency came up, they wanted me at the Church of Eternal Life. Malcolm is bedded in the basement. His followers want him to be rescued. The firemen want to know if they can leave him until nightfall when he'll rise on his own."
"So?" Larry asked.
"So, I don't have the faintest idea how to find out if Malcolm is alive or dead."