Basilisk (The Korsak Brothers #2)(15)

Sheriff Simmons turned off the car and stepped out, giving that same automatic hitch to his belt that all lawgivers in every movie or every TV show did. He had the Stetson, the shades; it was like one of those hyperrealistic video games. Was the Law here to kick ass and take names? No. They didn’t need any names—just more ass to kick. I’d learned a lot of slang and cursing from certain games. But when I’d earned points from accidentally backing over a prostitute, I decided to take all of the experience with a grain of salt.

When we’d first come to town, Stefan had laid down certain rules and sayings for keeping me safe. One of them had been regarding the cops, two total, in Cascade Falls. He told me, “No matter what you do, Misha, no matter absolutely f*cking what. . . .” I’d waited for the epic brotherly promise, Dead or alive, I will come for you. I will save you. If I have to claw myself out of my own grave, I will save you. Something like that. I watched a lot of movies, owned a lot of movies. Hundreds. Maybe that was too many, but they did give me great expectations.

What Stefan had actually said had been, “No matter what you do, Misha, no matter absolutely f*cking what . . . we can always get bail in this podunk town. So don’t sweat it.”

It was good advice, straight from his mob days.

I’d been a little disappointed. There was a certain lack of No matter what, I will find you! or They can take our land, but they can never take our liberty! Movies do leave you with certain anticipations in some instances. He’d more than made up for it back in Bolivia when he’d told me that if anyone in a uniform grabbed me, I was to kill every last motherf*cker wearing one and run for my life. He’d been less concerned with the consequences to my morals than to the consequences to my physical body I carried them around in. And logically he’d been right.

But I wouldn’t have done it, and he knew that too. That was the reason it was a long time before I was able to go anywhere by myself. He’d been my shadow until Cascade Falls, which he eventually deemed safe enough for me.

My background checks on every citizen and the homeless man who lived down by the river with his dog helped. I also got a background on the dog, whom I took a can of Alpo to every day. He was a nice dog. His name was Ralphy, obtained at the pound two counties over—mixed breed, neutered, approximately five years old, and he smelled, but none of us are perfect. This was true of background checks too—they were effective when it came to dogs but useless when it came to tourists. There were too many, too little warning, and not enough time.

Now, here we were . . . about to find out if he’d been right about that bail.

Stefan stayed sitting, and I stood, looking innocent as a lamb—I knew I did as I’d practiced that expression in the mirror many times too. I’d had to. Innocence hadn’t come as easily as the coffeehouse employee-of-the-month expression. Innocence took a great deal of work; it was something no student from the Institute could ever claim. The tourist got out of the car behind the sheriff, his mouth moving. “It had to be that punk. He put something in my coffee. He’s been giving me attitude the whole week. Little bastard probably tried to poison me.”

People—always jumping to the wrong conclusions. Okay, jumping to the wrong methods. And I hadn’t hurt him. I hadn’t. I had inconvenienced him, but I hadn’t hurt him. It was an important distinction. I . . . had . . . not . . . hurt . . . him.

Whether he deserved it or not.

Sheriff Simmons hefted his belt again with one hand and rubbed his mustache with the other. He was young for a sheriff. The mustache, skimpy at best, was overcompensation. He didn’t appear that concerned, however, which was good. I could all but see the thought running through his mind: Of course mild-mannered, well-behaved Parker Alonzo hadn’t poisoned this whiny-ass tourist and if I had, maybe I deserved a medal. But he had a job to do or at least go through the motions of doing.

“This fella—excuse me, sir—Mr. Mitchell says he became violently ill after drinking the coffee you served him, Parker.” The sheriff yawned and continued to question me in a tone more bored than any that could be found in the world. “That’s not so, is it, Parker? You trying to poison this fella? Mr. Mitchell, I mean.”

“No, Sheriff, sir,” I said, shocked—terribly shocked. Goodhearted Parker whom every parent in town knew and wished their kids were like? Never. “I was walking down the sidewalk to take Stefan his lunch when this guy started yelling at me. I didn’t want to get into trouble, and I was kind of worried, you know. Sort of. He’s twice my size.” Three times was more like it, but I was playing nice, although too little, too late. That slippery slope had me now, but I kept the teenage talk flowing. “I kept going, but, like, I could smell the alcohol on him. I hate to say it . . . er . . . sir,” I added earnestly. Hand to God and light a candle for the tourist’s alcoholic soul, I was that earnest. “But I did. He smelled like Old Bob down at the river.”

“Bullshit.” Mitchell, the tourist—with vomit fumes instead of alcohol now, snarled. “I wasn’t drunk.” Which could be true. He could’ve only been buzzed? . . . Yes, buzzed was what they called it. “And I grabbed the spiteful little shit. Shook him good. You be rude to me, that’s what you get. And then he told me—”

Stefan cut him off. “You touched my brother?” The sheriff’s car hadn’t gotten him standing, but that did. “You grabbed him? You shook him?” I slanted a glance to see Stefan’s eyes go that wolf amber . . . slits of pale brutal brown. “You called him names that I’ll bet your mother should’ve put on your birth certificate? Is that what you did, shithead?” He seemed to get bigger somehow. “Well? Is it?”