The Resurrectionist. Sierra Woods
it. I know you can.” She held out a flier I had mistakenly made when I first started out. It was somewhat unclear, and I now regretted ever putting those pages together. One came back to haunt me now and then, and this was one of those times. Maybe this was where the spilled water came in. An omen. “It says so right here.” She shoved the thing across the desk to me.
“I know what it says, but this is old and the wording was poor. It doesn’t say that we life-swap animals.”
“It doesn’t say you don’t, either. I want my Fluffy back.” She was on the verge of tears, and I pushed a box of tissues toward her. Here we go again with the tears. “I’ll give you every last penny I have. My entire savings, if you’ll bring back my dog!”
“Please calm down, Mrs. Chapman, and take a few breaths.” I didn’t want to have her stroke out right in front of me, ’cause then I’d have to go back to nurse mode and do something heroic. I wasn’t in the mood. “Even though we know who killed your dog, in this case, Cesar, the Doberman next door, and you’ve kept Fluffy in your freezer, that doesn’t change anything. I simply don’t perform canine resurrections.” That was to the point and not quite as tactful as I could have made it, but the woman was wearing me down. I should have done it just to get her out of my office.
“It was my neighbor’s damned dog.” Her lips pressed tightly together. No love lost there. She’d run him down if she got the chance.
“Yes. Weren’t there numerous noise complaints made by that particular neighbor about Fluffy’s incessant barking?” I had the file in front of me and pushed that toward her, too. Not that she picked it up. She knew what was in it.
“It doesn’t justify murder. Fluffy was a terrier, and it’s part of the breed. Anyone who owns terriers accepts that.” She said it as if everyone in the world ought to know that terriers are barking maniacs. As everyone knows that fast food makes you fat. (Everyone knows that, right?)
“Yes, I know, but it doesn’t mean your neighbors do. And it still doesn’t give me the power to bring him back.” I stood. Fortunately, Mrs. Chapman took the hint. She gathered her tote bag against her middle as if it were a priceless object. The bag was about the right size for... Oh, gag. The smile on my face melted as another thought occurred to me. If she had Fluffy in there, I was gonna puke. After the last night I had, it wouldn’t take much. I was still trying to clean Filberto out of my brain. “If our conditions change, then I’ll be in touch.” I patted the file, indicating I had her contact information. I was going to shred it the second she left.
She nodded, didn’t say thank you, because she had nothing to thank me for. I wish she’d just go to the pound and get a replacement dog.
Kind of like boyfriends were for some women. When you lost one, you just went to the pound (the bar) and brought another one home. He could make you happy for a while, but may have a straying problem and some were better trained than others. There was just that pesky neutering issue...
I sat and dropped my head into my hands, closed my eyes and groaned.
“Tough day?” Sam asked from the doorway.
I didn’t even have to look up, but I did. “Understatement of the century.”
“Wanna go shoot something?” There was a grin hiding behind that well-controlled expression of his. There was a little secret behind his eyes, too, and I definitely wanted to know what it was. The temptation of having him around for so long was beginning to wear on my defenses.
“You got a new toy?” He’d mentioned something about it.
A twitch of the brows was all I got. Intriguing.
“Get me outta here before I shoot something I’m not supposed to.” I stood and grabbed my bag that was equally as large as Mrs. Chapman’s, but there was no frozen dog in it.
* * *
The firing range was a great place to let off some steam. It was a safe environment where no one was going to shoot back, and you could pound the hell out of a flimsy paper target. I love that.
Sam got out his new toy, and it was a doozy. A forty-five millimeter with a nice weight in the hand. I love a man with a smokin’-hot piece of...steel in his hands. Makes me shiver all over. Not that I’ll let Sam know that. Too many times in my past I let a man have control over me, and it is never, ever going to happen again. Control is something that is mine and mine alone. I don’t care how illusive it is. Denial has gotten me through many years of my life, so I don’t see a reason to stop using it now.
Now, I’ve gone through a number of weapons training courses, so I’ve shot many different kinds of weapons. Never stopped me from salivating over a new one, though. Kind of like some women are over shoes. It’s all about the accessories, right? Mine just happen to be loaded.
Sam looked at me through that sexy, protective eyewear in a bold, jaundiced color and raised his brows. He really didn’t even have to ask, but I so appreciated it.
“Hell, yeah, I want to shoot that thing.” He grinned and handed me the weapon.
“Give it a whirl.”
“Where’d you get this thing, some online shooting shop?”
“Yeah, right.”
He knows I want his contacts and insulting him is one of the ways I’m trying to pry the information out of him. Not subtle, but then, I’m really not known for it. I tried the direct route for a while by just asking politely, or as polite as I get, but he just dissed me, so I was reduced to insults.
He went over a few specifics before I loaded the thing, then leaned against the wall beside me. I think he likes watching me shoot. Probably gives him a hard-on. He didn’t stand behind me or try to put his hands around me or treat me like a girl, which I totally appreciated. I am so not a girl.
Without a word, I squinted through my equally sexy eyewear and popped off one shot, just to get a feel of it before I unloaded the clip. “Recoil’s a bitch.”
“Did I forget to mention that?” The man had wrists of steel, so recoil meant little to him.
“Uh, yeah.” Squinting my left eye, I focused on the target again and squeezed off five shots.
“Nice, Dani. Very nice,” he said, admiring the way I so sweetly took out the target.
I returned the gun to Sam and shook out my hands. “Gonna have to work up to that bad boy.” Not that I was weak, but my wrists were tiny compared with Sam’s. I had supernatural powers, but not supernatural strength. Maybe I could put an order in with Burton, but I doubted it. He’d just laugh.
We picked up our spent shell casings and cleared the way for someone else to shoot. There was never any shortage of cops, P.I.s or gun fanatics practicing at the range. After we left the shooting area, we removed our ear protection. He used an over-the-head earmuff type, and I used the squishy things in my ears. They were cheap and didn’t mess up my hair. A woman’s gotta watch out for these little issues in life.
“That’s a nice piece,” I said and meant it.
“Feel better now that you’ve shot something?”
Oh, the man knows me too well. “Yeah. Sometimes the grind of the job just gets to me, and I want to kill something. Better a target than a person, ya know?” Since I came back from the other side, controlling my anger has been an issue. Kickboxing and margaritas help keep it under control, depending on the situation. They are not interchangeable coping mechanisms.
“So, you want to tell me what’s really bugging you?”
We headed outside into the parking lot on the south side of the big square, cinder-block building out in the middle of nowhere. Guess the desert has its perks. There are a lot of open spaces that no one wants to build on, so this was perfect.
I told Sam about Mrs. Chapman and the stupid dog she wanted resurrected.
“My grandmother would have