Page 187 of American Hellhound
Roman jumped back, rattled. “Sorry. Shit. Yeah.” And he melted back out in the hall.
Leaving Kris alone with…well, she didn’t know who this was. She didn’t look like a groupie, in her jeans, sweater, and puffer coat, a grocery bag hanging off her arm. Her smile was open and kind as she approached.
“Hi, you must be Kristin. I’m Holly.”
Kris swallowed. Her voice came out small and shy. “Hi.”
Holly set her bag down on the counter and began pulling items from it: several different flavors of coffee creamer, a box of tea bags, a tin of hot chocolate mix. “I think it’s going to be a long day,” she said, pleasantly, “so I thought I’d make sure we were all stocked up on caffeination supplies.”
Kris watched her, unsure of what to do.
“I’m going to make the guys breakfast. Do you want to help?” It was asked with another smile, her voice bright, encouraging.
Considering that’s what she’d come in here to do, Kris said, “Okay.”
She had no idea what was going on, but it didn’t seem…bad. So there was that.
~*~
“How many more calls from the hotline?” Ghost asked, tapping ash off his cigarette.
Ratchet had a fat three-ring binder open on a table in front of his laptop, already twitchy with caffeine. “Seven.” He brought up a spreadsheet on his computer. “Most were just crap – one lady said she thought the Dark Saints stole her lawn gnome – but this one sounded legit.” He opened a new screen and clicked play on an audio file.
A woman’s voice, hushed and furtive, like the woman who owned the barn:“There’s been people moving in and out of the abandoned house next door. It might be nothing, but…I don’t think it is.”She listed off an address, rushing through it, like she regretted the call, then the line went dead.
Ratchet slid over a Post-It with the address scribbled on it before Ghost could ask.
“We’ll check it out.” Or, rather, he’d send someone to. He felt like he needed to be at command central today.
Roman walked toward them from the bar, a steaming mug in each hand. Holly had just filled the Keurig with water and Ghost had watched, amused, as she showed Roman how to use the thing.
He sat down across from Ghost and slid one of the coffees toward him. “You still take it black, one sugar?”
“Yeah.” Ghost peered suspiciously down into the dark liquid. “You spit in this?”
Roman made a face that launched him back in time, back to their old rivalry days. “Would I do something like that?”
In answer, Ghost pushed the coffee away.
Roman shrugged and took a sip of his. “Who’ve you got in there with Kris? One of your groupies?”
Ghost looked toward the bar, where Michael was waiting on his own coffee to brew, just to see the reaction: he stiffened, back drawing up tall and straight, hands curling into fists. He turned to glance toward their table, murder mask firmly in place.
Ghost almost shivered at the sight of it. “Yeah, call Michael’s old lady a groupie again, I dare ya.”
Roman sat up and slopped coffee into his lap. He hissed. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit.” Lowering his voice: “Look, she’s sweet and she’s got some…experience with bad shit. I thought she’d be good for Kris to spend time with.”
Roman’s face went through a strange sequence of frowns, like he couldn’t decide what to think. “Oh. Well…”
“Thank you, Ghost. You’re a good guy, Ghost.”
“Sure. That.”
“Boss,” Ratchet said, bringing him back to the task at hand. “I’ve got the security footage pulled up.”
“Show me.”
