Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(54)

The young mom’s husband exchanged can-you-believe-thisshit glances with Miles as the minutes ticked by, and then wandered off, clearly bored out of his mind, leaving Miles to his solitary fate. Thanks, dude. He appreciated the solidarity. Zia Rosa and the mom ranged over a broad array of baby-themed topics and had settled enthusiastically into the benefits of pure lanolin for cracked nipples, ooh, tasty, when the little girl started to squawk. Which necessitated pulling out yogurt, Goldfish crackers, a binkie, in their efforts to comfort her. Meanwhile, the other twin, released from his bonds, wandered off to wreak mayhem in the baby food aisle. After some ominous crashing, Zia Rosa fluttered her hand at him. “Miles, go watch over that bimbo,” she commanded.

So off he went, chasing the little monster through the formula aisle. Trying to explain that the lactose-free baby formula was not meant to be used for a soccer ball. The kid laughed in his face. A store employee came along just as the box burst open and released its cloud of white dust. The woman started shrilly lecturing Miles, like he was the dad, and where the f*ck had the kid’s real dad disappeared to? Hello? Anyone? In the meantime, Zia Rosa and the mom discovered that the little girl’s problem was a poopy diaper. Evidently a two-woman job.

Jesus, he was glad Cindy was in no rush to procreate. He loved the little McCloud hellions, every last one of them, but he also loved getting into his truck and driving away, stereo blasting. Free at last.

Finally the mom came to rescue her son. She turned to Zia Rosa to start the “great to chat with you” part of the conversation, and “thanks for the tip about the amazing flushable swippie wippie soggy-wipes for poopy butts,” or whatever they were gabbing on about. At last, they broke free and headed for the checkout line. Yes. Heavenly choruses swelled. Light broke through the cloud-choked sky.

Miles shoved the loaded cart doggedly through the parking lot. Zia Rosa was fiercely supervising the loading of her baby booty into the back when a shout rang out. “Hey! Excuse me!”

It was the dad of the twins, loping toward them, holding up a phone. “We found this in Hayden’s stroller,” the guy explained. “Must have rolled out when you were helping Kate change Hayden’s pants.”

Zia Rosa took her phone, smiling mistily as the man sprinted away. “Lovely family,” she said wistfully.

Miles opened her door, bracing for what he knew was next.

She was ready for him as soon as he got into the driver’s seat. “So when are you and Cindy having a little bambino?”

“Never.” Miles punctuated that statement by slamming his door.

“Never say never, giovanotto,” she intoned. “What’s written is written. You will have bambini. Soon. Very soon.”

Oh, man, she was hexing him. He made the sign with his hand against the evil eye, the one that she’d taught him herself, learned from her old grandma back in Brancaleone, in the old country.

She opened up her purse and fished out her wallet as he fired up the engine. She pulled out the photos she’d showed to the mom. “It gave me brividi,” she said. “Cold shivers. Just look. Exactly like my little Magda and my little Bruno. Look at them.”

What else could he do? He braked. Looked. And looked again.

Holy . . . f*cking . . . shit. They really did look like those kids.

And not just like. Exactly like. Weird. He was getting brividi himself. He’d had plenty of opportunities to observe the kids, especially the boy. He peered more closely. One was a black-andwhite, taken in the late fifties or early sixties, maybe. A formal portrait. The little girl was solemn, unsmiling. The boy was in an informal color photo, taken in the eighties by the looks of it, and exactly, in every detail, identical to the hellion from the pit, right down to the dimples in the fat cheeks and the f*ck-you-youpathetic-pencil-dick-chump gleam in the kid’s eyes.

It was completely creepy.

Miles glanced into the old lady’s triumphant face. She’d caught the shock-and-awe vibe and was very satisfied with herself.

He put the truck in gear. Babies, for the love of God. They all looked alike, right? Round heavy cheeks, bright sparkling eyes, pouty rosy lips, soft silky curls, cute button noses? The kids couldn’t have been that similar. Power of suggestion. He was spending too much time defending his childless state while shopping for swippie wippies soggy wipes. The constant, grating stress had softened his brain.

Into the approximate consistency of baby shit.





Petrie glanced at his watch as he got himself logged into the medical examiner’s office. Trish was waiting for him, tapping her foot. As if she were the one who’d dragged her ass all the way to Clackamas because of someone’s inexplicable whim.

“I’ll be late for lunch with my grandmother because of this,” he groused, with ill grace. “I was supposed to meet her at the London Grill at the Benson, and I’m not going to make it in time. Not even close. She’s going to make me pay for it. In blood.”

Trish clipped the visitor’s badge onto the lapel of his jacket and gazed at him, her big blue eyes limpid and absolutely pitiless. “Trust me,” she said. “It’s worth it. You have to see this, Sam.”

“Why not just tell me about it on the phone? Why the mysterious build up? Why make me schlep all the way over here from downtown?”

“It’s a visual thing,” she said, without turning. “You’ll see.”