"Kill, Ginger," said the man easily, grinning. Ginger turned in two more circles and sat before Kingsley again. The man reached down and gently patted its little head. "Good girl." He looked up at us. "Were you two at least a little afraid for your lives?"
"Terrified," said Kingsley.
"I might have wet myself a little," I said.
The man stood straight and I might have seen his six-pack through his wet tee shirt. Hubba, hubba.
"She doesn't usually come up to strangers," said the man. "In fact, I'm fairly certain she's terrified of her own shadow. Of course, it's a pretty fat shadow. Scares me a little, too."
Kingsley slipped off the wooden platform, landing softly in the sand, too softly for a man his size. Ginger didn't move, although her tail might have started wagging at close to the speed of light. The attorney reached down and scratched the little dog between turgid ears. Ginger, if anything, looked like a star-crossed teenager at a rock concert. Or me at a Stones concert.
"Okay, that's a first," said the man, looking genuinely surprised. "Took me three months before I was anywhere near those ears."
Kingsley, still petting the dog, said, "She probably had a bad experience when she was a pup. If I had to guess, I would say she was beaten and abused before she found her new home. Probably by a man about your size, and so she doesn't like men, but she does like you, even though you run too fast for her little legs, and you don't give her near enough treats." Kingsley gave Ginger a final pat and stood. "Like I said, it's just a guess."
"Good guess. And spot on. She had been abused before my girlfriend rescued her. Of course, there was no rescuing the man who abused her. Let's just say when I was done with him, he had a newfound respect for every living creature."
Kingsley and I grinned. I had no doubt that the man in front of us could have inflicted some serious damage on someone.
He went on, "And if I gave Ginger any more treats I would have to roll her on my runs."
I snickered and Kingsley laughed heartily. He reached out a hand. "I know you from somewhere."
"Not the first time I've heard that," said the man as he scooped up the little dog, who promptly disappeared behind a bulging bicep muscle that had my own eyes bulging.
Kingsley's eyes narrowed. His thinking face. "You used to play football for UCLA."
"Is there any other school?"
The attorney snapped his fingers. "You were on your way to the pros until your broke your leg."
"Don't you just hate when that happens?" said the man lightly. "And you are, of course, Kingsley Fulcrum, famed defense attorney and internet sensation."
Kingsley laughed; so did I. Indeed, a few months ago, someone had tried to kill the attorney outside of a local courthouse. It was a bizarre and humorous incident that had been captured on film and seen around the country, if not the world. Kingsley, the man who couldn't die. The world watched as his assailant shot him point-blank five times in the head and neck.
The two men chitchatted for a bit, and I realized, upon closer inspection, that both men were exactly the same height. Although the stranger was muscular and powerful-looking, Kingsley had a beefy savagery to him that no man could match. Even ex-football players.
After all the silly football talk, I soon learned that the tall stranger now worked as a private eye. I perked up. Kingsley mentioned I was one, too, and the man nodded and reached into his sweat pants pocket and pulled out a brass card holder. He opened it, gave me one of his cards.
He said, "You ever need any extra help or muscle, call me. I can provide both."
I looked at the card. Jim Knighthorse. I might have heard the name before, perhaps on some local newscast or something. On his card was a picture of him smiling, really cheesin' it up for the camera. I had a very strong sense that Mr. Knighthorse just might have been in love with himself.
"Helluva picture," he said, winking. "If I do say so myself."
I was right.
Chapter Seven
It was far too early in the morning for me, but I didn't care.
The sun was high and hot, and I was sitting in my minivan in the parking lot of my children's elementary school near downtown Fullerton, where I had parked under a pathetic jacaranda tree. The tree was mostly bare but offered some shade.
Beggars can't be choosers.
I was huddled in my front seat, away from any direct sunlight, the shades pulled down on both the driver's side and passenger's side windows. My face was caked with the heaviest sunblock available on the market. Thin leather gloves covered my hands, and I was wearing another cute wide-brimmed sunhat, which sometimes made driving difficult. I had many such hats - all purchased in the last six years, of course - and all a necessity to keep me alive.
And what happens if I'm ever exposed to any direct sunlight?
I didn't know, and I didn't want to find out, either. All I knew was that the sun physically hurts me, even when I'm properly protected. I suspected I would wither and die. Probably painfully, too.
So much for being immortal.
Immortality with conditions.
As I huddled in my seat, I thought about those words again: wither and die.
You know, I used to lead a normal life. I grew up here in Orange County, was a cheerleader and softball player, went to college in Fullerton, got a master's degree in criminal science, and then went on to work for the federal government. Lots of dreams and ambitions. One of them was to get married and start a family. I did that, and more.
Life was good. Life was fun. Life was easy.
If someone had told me that one day my daily To-Do List would consist of the words: 1) Buy extra-duty sunblock. 2) Oh, and see if Norco Slaughterhouse will set up a direct billing... well, I would have told them to go back to their Anne Rice novels.
I sat in my minivan, huddled in my seat, buried under my sunhat and sunblock, wary of any beam of sunlight, and shook my head and I kept shaking my head until I found myself crying softly in my hands. Smearing my sunscreen.
Damn.
I may not have known what lived in me, and I may not have known the dark lineage of my blood, but I knew one thing for fucking sure. No one was going to keep me from seeing my kids. Not Danny. And not the sun.
I opened my van door and got out.
Chapter Eight
I gasped and stumbled.
I reached a gloved hand out and braced myself on the hot fender of my minivan. Heat from the sheet metal immediately permeated the thin glove. Maybe Stephenie Meyer's vampires had it right. Maybe I should move up to Washington State, in the cold and rain, where gray clouds perpetually covered the skies.