Page 18 of Luna & Andres

"Less apologizing, remember?" I teased.

Vincent smiled. "I'll try to remember." He took hold of the wrappings and continued his work.

I looked up over the top of the culvert. The pipe stuck out of a forty-foot tall wall created from large white rocks. At the top was a guardrail that buffered the cars from the dank reality beneath the wheels. On the other side of the road and set back from the road by a wide sidewalk were rows of new townhouses. I wondered if the designer had a sense of humor when I noticed the mix of orange and brown-colored sidings matched the colors at my feet. At that late hour very few of the lights in the windows were on.

I winced when Vincent tied the last strip of cloth and stepped back. "There. All done. Though I think we'll have to watch them. They could get infected."

I flexed my fingers. The cloth kept them stiff and prevented the skin from moving. "Not bad. You sure you aren't a doctor?"

He sheepishly grinned at me and shrugged. "I might be."

I pulled my coat closer around me. "If werewolves have doctors, that is." His face fell and he turned away from me. I sighed. My eyes swept over the area. "I think the fire's dying. Is there any more wood?"

He shook himself from his pensive mood. "No, but I can find some more."

I stood. "Did you want any help?"

"No, it's fine. There's so much rotten wood around here that it won't take long to find some," he assured me. His eyes fell on my hands. "Besides, we don't want you to cut yourself. There's a lot of nails on these boards. I'll be right back."

He hurried off into the darkness, and I reluctantly sat back down. I watched his shadow walk along the bank and rock wall. He stumbled and fell face-first into the hard ground. I stifled my laugh, but I couldn't hide my smile. He sat up and rubbed his head.

In a short while he collected enough wood to last us the night. His arms held a mix of paper and wood. One of the papers was familiar.

I furrowed my brow and pointed at the paper. "Let me see that."

He glanced down at his arms and pulled out the paper. "This?"

I nodded, and he handed the paper to me. It was a copy of the newspaper I worked for, and was the edition dated yesterday evening when Red and I staked out the diner. The paper were damp and soiled, and most of the pages were missing, but the bundle held the front cover. I spread the paper over my lap and inspected the headlines.

"Shit."

CHAPTER 8

Vincent knelt in front of the fire. He paused in his feeding of the flames and looked up at me. "Is something wrong?" I turned the paper so the front page faced him. He leaned forward and squinted. His eyes widened. "But. . .but why?"

On the front page was a picture of Vincent. The headline read "Suspect Wanted In Murder of Five Gang Members." My eyes brushed over the lead paragraph.

The murder of five gang-related men has authorities scrambling to find a motive, but the hunt for a suspect is over. The police announced that they are looking for Vincent Mortale, a one-time resident of the city. Witnesses have testified to his being in the vicinity at the time of the murders. It is uncertain if he acted alone, but authorities are searching for him and have asked residents to keep an eye out for the suspect.

In the meantime, residents are advised not to approach the suspect, as he is considered dangerous.

Things had gone from bad to worse. I looked up from the paper. Vincent clutched his head between his hands. His wide eyes stared at the ground.

"What did I do?" he chanted. "Was it really me?"

"Vincent," I called to him.

He shut his eyes and shook his head. "It wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me!"

I bundled the paper into a wet wad and threw it at him. The ball hit him square in the face. He fell back onto his rear. The paper slid off his face and onto his lap to reveal his surprised expression.

"Snap out of it! We don't have time for whimpering!" I scolded him.

He winced. "But they think I'm a murderer."

"And the whole city is looking for you, but now is not the time to panic," I advised him. I looked down at the paper that lay between his legs. A corner of his picture stared back at me. I furrowed my brow. "I've seen that picture before."

Vincent followed my gaze to the picture. "Well, yeah, it's me."

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