J. Konrath - Fuzzy Navel

Mr. Friskers has latched on to Harry’s crotch. Harry is unsuccessfully trying to yank him off.

“Don’t pull,” I say, running past. “It just makes him dig in.”

“HE’S GOT THE TWINS!”

Harry tugs on the cat’s tail, which Mr. Friskers really hates. He becomes a blur of fur and claws, hissing and scratching as Harry screams.

I search the floor for my purse, find it, dump the contents.

My handcuff key. I snatch it up just as Alex appears in the kitchen.

Two more shots ping through the windows, both of them hitting the fridge. Rather than duck down, it looks like Harry is trying to stick his groin in front of the bullets.

Then Alex pounces, coming at me low, arms outstretched and eyes crazed.

I go at her even lower, aiming for her ankles. I hook my elbow around her foot, tripping her, then roll to the side, bumping up against the dishwasher. I still have the handcuff key. I fumble with it, trying to find the keyhole.

Another shot, very close to Harry. Mr. Friskers screeches, jumping high enough to hit the ceiling. He lands on the floor and streaks out of the kitchen, apparently having had enough. Harry, bleeding and pissed off, points a finger at me.

“Why would you have a cat like that? Why?”

I get the key in, turn it.

My hand pops free. I yank open the dishwasher, intent on grabbing a knife.

Alex kicks the dishwasher door closed, and I barely escape with my arm. I thrust the knife, stabbing at her leg, and realize I have a spoon instead. She hits me with a right cross that brings the stars out, but I’ve been hit harder and I gather up a handful of her shirt and deliver an uppercut that sends the bitch staggering.

Then I’m on my feet. On my feet, hands free, angry as hell. I swing lefty, not making a fist, catching her just above the eyes with the handcuffs hanging from my wrist. I open up a gash on her forehead, and the blood trickles into her eyes, making it hard for Alex to see.

I scan the countertop, see the apple pie. I pick it up, still steaming hot, and chuck it at Alex’s head.

She ducks. The pie hits Harry, in the groin.

“JESUS CHRIST, IT BURNS!”

He slaps at the apples, which must only add to his discomfort. I fly back to the counter, grab the coffeemaker, and bounce it off Alex’s chest. Then I tug the toaster from the wall and swing the appliance around my head like a lasso. I’m not aiming to knock her out. I’m aiming to knock off her fucking head.

I release the cord. Alex puts up her hand to protect her head, and both her hand and the toaster smash into her face. Somehow she stays on her feet. I charge at her, snarling, ready to tear her throat out with my bare hands.

But before I can get to her the kitchen becomes a firing range, bullets zinging into cabinets and countertops. Glasses and plates shatter, pots and pans ding-dong with ricochets. Alex and I kneel on the ground and cover our heads, and McGlade pulls food and drawers and shelves out of the refrigerator as fast as he can, trying to fit himself inside, which is like trying to stuff a pot roast into a tube sock.

“Jack!” Mom cries from the bathroom. It’s a cry of concern, not pain.

“Stay there, Mom!”

The shooting eases up again. I look around for something to hit Alex with, and then I glance up and she’s standing over me, holding up the tabletop micro wave oven, ready to cave my skull in.

“Hey, pork chop face!” Harry says.

Alex turns.

“Got milk?” Harry asks. Then he smacks her in the head with a full jug of moo juice, hitting her so hard that she spins 360 degrees before sprawling out onto her back.

Her eyes are closed. She’s out cold.

Harry points to the milk all over the floor.

“Now promise me you won’t be crying over this, Jack.”

I can’t help myself. I have to grin at that.

“I promise, Harry.”

“Good. Now bring me that goddamn cat. I want my foreskin back.”

“WHERE IN THE HELL is your partner?”

Herb stares at Blake Crouch, Chicago ’s deputy chief, and says, “I don’t know.”

Crouch resembles a mole, with a long, sharp nose and tiny black eyes. Came from out of state, so he didn’t rise up through the ranks like much of the brass. Because of this, Herb suspects, Crouch thought he had to be a hard-ass to gain respect. Hence his nickname, Deputy Grouch . Someone needed to lecture this man about flies and honey and vinegar. Someone other than Herb, who spent an hour getting stitches in his leg and then even longer tap dancing with the Grouch in the ER, waiting for Jack to return.

Herb had called Jack on her cell and at home, several times each. No answer. Which worries him. Jack is the poster girl for being responsible. Being incommunicado isn’t like her at all.

“I’m going to send a team to the lieutenant’s apartment,” the Grouch says. “If I find out she’s deliberately hiding something…”

Herb shakes his head, his jowls wiggling.

“She’s not hiding anything, sir. It went down like I said.”

“I still need her statement. There’s blood in the water, and the sharks are circling the wagons.”

Herb has no idea what that means, and he guesses the Grouch doesn’t either. But he can’t let the deputy chief find out that Jack lives outside the city.

“She’s not at her apartment,” Herb says. “She’s with her mother. Her elderly, sickly mother.”

“Her mother is sick?” the Grouch asks.

“Very sick.”

“Which hospital is she in? I can meet-”

“She’s sick in the head,” Herb says.

“Is it pyromania?” the Grouch asks.

“Huh?”

“I had an aunt with pyromania. She’d knit sweaters, then set them on fire.”

Herb tries to judge if the Grouch is being funny, but he sees a tear in the corner of the man’s eye.

“I think she’s just failing mentally,” Herb says. “Jack ran out to the suburbs to check on her.”

“Do you know where?”

Herb shakes his head. The Grouch gets in close, so close his pointy nose almost touches Herb’s. Herb rears back slightly, afraid he’ll lose an eye.

“I will bring your partner before a disciplinary committee if I don’t hear from her within the hour. So if you have any clue where she might be, Sergeant, I suggest you find her.”

“Jack saved lives today,” Herb says, his voice steady.

“I don’t care if she saved the mayor’s daughter from being eaten by sharks…”

What is with this guy and sharks?

“… I want her debriefed right now. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Herb says.

The Grouch backs off a few feet.

“Good. Now I’ve got to talk to the media. They’re having a field day with their cockamamie theories.”

“Are they jumping the shark?” Herb asks innocently.

The Grouch doesn’t respond, already walking away from Herb’s hospital bed. Herb looks for nurses, then discreetly picks up his cell phone, which isn’t allowed in the ER. He can’t reach Jack at either number.

Herb knows his partner well. If Jack’s phones are off, that means something really serious is happening, something so serious it is making Jack neglect her responsibility here. Though Herb made up the story about Jack’s mother failing mentally, he knows she has some health problems. Could that be what’s taking Jack so long?

Herb tries the two hospitals nearest to Jack’s suburban home. Neither has admitted Mary Streng, or any elderly Jane Doe. He calls Dispatch, has them check suburban 911 calls. While he’s on hold, he digs into his pocket stock and eats a power bar. For energy. He considers drinking the bag full of bran-fortified breakfast shake, but dismisses the idea. Dispatch comes back, informs Herb there haven’t been any calls from Jack’s house.