The Dirt on Ninth Grave(48)

"I'll take care of your section," Cookie said. "I know how much that lamp means to you."



I could have kissed her, could've gone full girl-on-girl, I was so in love with her at that moment. But I held my desire in check. "Thanks, Cook. I won't be a minute."



After sliding into Reyes's jacket, I took the to-go order, then headed out, vowing to only look back once. I did. I glanced over my shoulder. Reyes was still watching me from beneath his lashes, all mysterious-like. A shudder of excitement rushed down my spine.



I hadn't walked halfway to Mr. V's store when I felt it. The stress. The anxiety. The unmitigated fear. This sucked, and I didn't know what to do.



I stood at the front entrance, working up the courage to follow through with my plan. After a moment, I pasted on my best smile, then stormed in as if I owned the place.



The man who'd sat watch on Mr. V yesterday was pulling the morning shift again today. He eyed me, and I could feel a wave of utter contempt radiate out of him. Either my hair was way worse than I'd thought or he considered me an infidel. Probably a little of both.



"Hey, Mr. V," I said, while beaming my best I-have-no-idea-that-you're-being-held-against-your-will smile.



He adjusted his glasses. "G'morning, Janey."



"Got your order. If you'll just sign this." I pushed the receipt over to him.

 

"Sign it?" he asked, seeming confused. Which was understandable, because he always paid in cash.



I was confused as well, because I heard a growl. A low, gravelly rumble coming from the other side of the desk.



Mr. V's hesitation drew the attention of the infidel hater. I was pretty sure he was president of the Infidel Haters and Knitting Club. He stood and walked over to us, feigning interest in the bag of food I'd brought to get a look at the receipt. Which was just a receipt. I wasn't a complete noob. My every move had to seem perfectly legit. People's lives were at stake.



But the minute he got close to Mr. V, the growling exploded into vicious barks and blood-curdling snarls. Yet both men seemed oblivious.



"Oh," I said, talking louder to be heard over the barks, "sorry, were you not going to charge today?"



When both men looked at me as if I had two heads, I became fascinated with a little antique inkwell that would look great on my mantel. If I had one.



Mr. V played along, probably to avoid any more unwanted attention. "Not today."



"Oh, alrighty then. It'll be twenty-four fifty."



As casually as I could, I let my gaze wander toward the back of the store. They must have had another man working. They'd ordered four meals this time, but none of them came to the front.



The dog calmed a bit when the president took the bag of food over to Mr. V's small desk and started going through it. I took the opportunity to do what I'd really come for.



I slipped a note from under my left palm  –  the one that read 'Is everything okay?'  –  while keeping my right one, complete with fingernails tapping in impatience, visible to the intruder.



Mr. V paused. Fear spiked within him so fast it made me dizzy. He spared a furtive glance over his shoulder, then refocused on counting out the money. After a moment, he gave me a beseeching look accompanied by a quick shake of his head. He wasn't saying no to my question. He was pleading with me to leave it alone.



But I couldn't. Not just yet. I flipped the note over and held my breath. I had to give Mr. V kudos on not losing his composure completely. And, in the process, possibly getting us both killed.



The second note asked him if they had his family. I thought he was going to break down, his emotions were so fragile. Like eggshells in an elephant's cage.



"Twenty-three, twenty-four, and fifty cents," he said. "Oh, and four dollars for you, hon."



When he looked back up at me, he nodded, the movement so quick and subtle, I almost missed it.



I stood crestfallen, even more unsure of what to do. How to help him. They had his family. If he had been the only one in danger, I felt for certain he'd allow me to call in the troops. Sadly, that was not the case. Keeping my movements out of his captor's sight, I gave his hand a quick squeeze. Before I could release him, he squeezed back to get my attention and then shook his head again, beseeching me, once more, not to do anything.



Pressing my lips together, I offered him the same quick, curt nod that he'd given me, telling him I understood. The dog whimpered behind the counter, and then I felt a cool, wet tongue test my fingers. I didn't respond. By that point, I realized the dog must've been departed like Artemis.



"Have a good day," I said, practically bouncing out of the shop. But I'd taken a peek at the dog, now sitting in front of the desk, and a sad sense of elation washed over me. It was the German shepherd. The one from last night. If all dogs, or all animals for that matter, had spirits that could stay behind when they died, why weren't the streets filled with the ghosts of animals? I saw at least five departed everyday, but besides Artemis, the German shepherd was the only other animal I'd seen. Maybe it was because the dog had died trying to protect his owners. Maybe he stayed behind of his own accord, unwilling to shirk his duty because of a little thing like death.