It was not the best of thoughts and I let it wash away under the bright chatter that flowed out of Fisher like an endless stream of sticky, sweet molasses. She talked about her worthless boyfriend, her cheerleading days, her plans to go to college after the baby was born, but mostly she talked about Blossom. Blossom this and Blossom that. The dog ignored it all, even the tale of her rescuing seven children from a burning building while still wearing the blue ribbon from her last dog show. I didn’t believe any of it for a second, but it made for a good story.
It wasn’t long before we had to stop for lunch. Waycross was only twenty or so miles, but it turned out a hungry pregnant woman could be a cranky one. The honey in her voice began to turn to vinegar after she finished off the last of her candy. We ended up at yet another barbecue joint. They sprinkle the landscape of the South like a savory-smelling, greasy-fingered Milky Way. This one was lacking a purple pig out front, which was probably for the best. A repeat of that scenario might have PETA all over my ass, and my ass was fairly well booked up for the moment, although we hadn’t seen any sign of Jericho in the past two days. Then again, I really hadn’t expected to. The fastest of supernatural healers wasn’t going to shake off a bullet to the gut and a shattered leg that quickly. And I doubted he would send a team after us that he couldn’t head himself. Jericho was the hands-on type.
“Here! Stop here.” A hand pounded the back of my headrest. “I’ve heard of this place. It’s supposed to be best round these parts.”
Best round these parts . . . who could argue with that? I pulled into the parking lot that was nothing more than a patch of bald, red ground. And there we were at Annie’s Big Fat Fannie. There was a blinking neon sign in the window that let us know just how fat that fanny was. It was a simple design: glass tubing twisted into two pinkish red curves that buzzed cheerfully as we walked to the door. If Annie’s fanny was indeed as large as indicated, the food they served must be good. Inside there were mostly booths with red and yellow plastic seats and a few scattered tables. We chose a table to accommodate Junior’s girth, but I did maintain enough control of the situation to choose one that gave me a clear view of both exits.
Fisher didn’t care one way or the other. She dived headfirst into the menu as she waved one frantic hand for immediate service. By the time the waitress—obviously not Annie as the fanny was flat as a pancake—arrived, Fisher had picked out three lunch specials. Two were for her and the other was for Blossom who was still snoozing along with Godzilla in the back of the car. Michael and I put in our own orders, unmanly single servings, and a few minutes later were provided with pint-sized jars full of iced tea garnished with a frozen peach slice. Fisher ignored hers and made her way through a basket full of fried biscuits slathered with apple butter.
“Someone who can out-eat you, kid.” I kicked Michael’s ankle lightly under the table and tipped the fruit into the tea before taking a swallow. Not too bad. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Even the best of us have off days.” Clearly challenged, Michael reached for a biscuit, only to have his hand swatted away.
“Sorry, sweetie,” Fisher apologized. “It’s you or Junior, and Junior always wins.”
“I see.” He shook his fingers as if they stung. Fisher must pack quite a punch, I thought with amusement. “It’s too bad Junior hasn’t learned about sharing yet.”
“Kids, kids, come on now,” I admonished. “Play nice. I’ll get another basket.” Rising, I went to the counter to ask for more biscuits. By the time I returned, the two had come to terms and they promptly divided the new basket between them. Licking a finger, I philosophically dabbed at the three or four remaining crumbs. “What was that you said about sharing?”
Michael didn’t blink an eye at his hypocrisy. “I don’t recall.”
“Yeah. Plead the Fifth. Toss me under the bus.” The gun in my back waistband dug into my flesh and I leaned a few inches forward away from the ladder-back chair. “You have family in Waycross, Fisher?”
“My great-gramma Lilly-Mae.” Biscuits gone, she rubbed the end of her braid across the curve of her cheek. “She’s amazing. Everything you can think of, she’s done. She ran moonshine with her brothers back when she was younger than me. She worked the farm all by herself when her first husband died. Then, when she lost it, she became a stripper. And not just to survive, but because she thought it sounded like fun.” The blue eyes glittered with laughter and pride. “And that was in the old days when they’d run you out of town for something like that. She remarried more times than I can remember and ran for mayor when she was fifty. She didn’t win, but they still talk about her campaign . . . even twenty years later. They say she threw the best ‘we lost’ celebration ever. There were buffets, clowns, belly dancers, and even an elephant. The guy who won left his own victory party to go to hers.”
“Sounds like quite a lady.”
“She is. She’ll take me in. I’ve always been her favorite.” She grinned cheekily. “I’m a troublemaker just like her.”
I had no problem believing that. Despite myself, I was actually coming to like . . . to tolerate Miss Fisher Lee. She was somewhat obnoxious and more than a little pushy, but she was entertaining. And despite my earlier reservations, I now thought she was good for Michael. I was more than willing to be everything and everyone I could for him, but realistically he was going to have to learn to accept other people in his life. It was the only healthy option. I didn’t break him out of the Institute only to let him enclose himself in walls that while different, were just as isolating.
The barbecue was excellent, in every way as good as the biscuit crumbs. I curved a protective arm around my plate to fend off the rampaging piranhas. Finishing every bite but the pickle, I slid the slice of dill onto Michael’s plate. He was developing a fondness for things sour that rivaled his love of sweets. See the human trash compactor, only fifty cents. Walk this way and don’t stick your fingers between the bars.
“I think I’ll have me a piece of apple pie.” With a hand resting on the swell of her stomach, Fisher looked up at the waitress and added, “And don’t be stingy with the à la mode, sugar. Give me a bowl on the side. I’m eating for two.”
“What’s your excuse?” I murmured to Michael as he ordered the same.
“Youth,” he retorted without hesitation. “When I’m old like you, I’m sure I’ll have to cut back.”
Twenty-four . . . old? Punk-ass kid. Unfortunately, I had to admit there were times I felt much older than my true age. A culture of violence and a past full of regret will do that to you. That aside, this was not one of the times I felt like reaching for a walker. This was a good time. I was enjoying myself as I watched the dessert duel, and with bemusement I saluted Fisher as she finally finished two spoonfuls ahead of my brother. “The king is dead. All hail the queen.”
The queen laughed and gathered up the sauce-stained doggy bag for Blossom. She then went to stand by the front door and plugged a quarter in a gumball machine. As she blew large purple bubbles and tapped her foot impatiently, I came to the conclusion I was picking up her and Junior’s tab. After I forked over the twenty-five bucks, grumbling under my breath that I wasn’t a goddamn charity, the three of us stepped out into the winter sunshine.
That was where I lost considerably more than lunch money.
She was walking, waddling really, ahead of us by ten or fifteen feet. The parking lot was empty except for a few parked cars. The white fur trim of her coat waved sea anemone tendrils in the brisk breeze and her hair was as bright as the smile she gave us when she turned around. The metal of the gun she pointed at us was bright too, like a mirror. It was a cute little chrome revolver held in a cute little hand. It was also a steady hand, I noticed—rock steady.