American Monsters

“Which is so helpful, by the way.”

“I’m just saying, while you’re chasing them, you can be all gung-ho about it, but when you catch them … it suddenly becomes real.”

“I’m ready for real.”

“Just checking.”

“You think it’ll be too much for me? I confronted them in Desolation Hill and I was good. I’m not going to choke now, right when I can end it.”

“Can you, though?”

“Can I what?”

“End it?”

“Of course. You don’t think I’m going to have the biggest smile on my face when I deliver them to Astaroth?”

“Maybe you will,” said Milo, “but what happens after?”

She finished her lunch and pushed her plate to one side. “What happens, happens. That’s what happens. You ready to go?”

“Sure.”

Amber paid for lunch and they left. She spotted a convenience store across the street. “Be right back,” she said. “Just getting water.”

Milo gave her a half-wave and walked to the Charger as she crossed the road. As usual, he’d parked it out of sight – down a side alley this time, behind a dumpster. Always careful, that Milo.

The store’s small parking lot had one car in it – a rusty death trap with an I Brake For No One bumper sticker on the rear window. A bell tinkled above the door when Amber entered, but the middle-aged slob in the grubby T-shirt barely looked up from behind the counter. Amber went to the back of the store, grabbed two bottles of spring water and a Coke.

The bell tinkled again and a man and woman entered, both in their forties, both in suits. The woman was small and tidy, and carried herself with the air of someone who was used to people doing what she told them. The man was tall and languid, but Amber spotted a holstered gun beneath his jacket. She stayed where she was, hidden by the shelves.

“Hello, sir,” said the woman.

Amber peeked out as the slob behind the counter scratched his belly. “Don’t like cops,” he said.

“We’re not cops,” the woman replied.

“You look like cops.”

“But we’re not. We’re Federal Agents. I’m Agent Byrd. This is my partner, Agent Sutton.”

They showed him their IDs.

The slob was unimpressed. “Hate Feds more than I hate cops.”

“Do you like fire fighters?” the taller one, Sutton, said. “I have a friend who’s a fire fighter, maybe you’d like him.”

The slob shrugged. “Got no beef with fire fighters. They fight fires.”

“They do,” said Sutton. “It’s kinda their thing.”

“But I don’t like cops, and I certainly don’t like Feds.”

“This is fascinating,” said Byrd, “but we’re not actually here to talk about which branch of the Emergency or Law Enforcement Services are your least favourite. We’re looking for some people.”

“Don’t mind ambulance drivers, neither,” said the slob. “Paramedics and such. My brother was a paramedic.”

“Is that so?” Byrd asked, sounding bored.

“No,” said the slob. “He was a meth addict. I just tell people he was a paramedic because that’s an actual job and it’s a good one. Being a meth addict isn’t really a job.”

Sutton nodded. “More of a vocation.” He showed the slob a photograph. “We’re looking for two people, this girl and a man, driving a black 1970 Dodge Charger.”

Amber’s eyes widened.

“Yep,” said the slob.

“Have you seen them?” Byrd asked.

Amber got ready to bolt for the Fire Exit door behind her.

“Nope,” said the slob.

Byrd folded her arms. “Would you tell us if you had?”

“Well,” said the slob, “that depends now, doesn’t it?”

“It does?” Byrd said.

“On what?” Sutton asked.

“On what you can do for me,” the slob answered.

The agents looked at each other, then back at the slob.

“I’m sorry,” Byrd said. “What?”

“I know how these things work,” the slob informed them. “I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

Amber watched Sutton frown. “But yours is probably really hairy.”

“Sir,” Byrd said, “that’s actually not how things work. We are Federal Agents in pursuit of two suspects in a string of murders. If we ask you for information, you are obligated to tell us what you know. That’s how things work.”

The slob looked at her. “But I don’t know anything.”

She sighed. “Okay. Fine. Thank you.”

“But if I did …”