Under the Gun (18 page)

Humiliation crept up my neck. I wanted to interject something, to change the subject,
but all I could come up with was what I was sure was a look of complete dumbstruck
silence.

“But I still don’t get how you sleeping with Will is making people die,” Nina said,
popping a straw into her snack.

“We are not talking about sex,” I said finally, my teeth gritted. “Or Will.” I looked
from Nina to Vlad and back again. Nina was sucking her fresh-from-the-fridge bag of
O Negative, her cheeks hollowed with the effort. Vlad gave me one of those blank teenage
boy looks, then clicked on his game. I sighed, not entirely sure that I wanted to
restart a conversation about other mistakes I may have made.

I grabbed my jacket from the peg by the door and my shoulder bag. “I’ll see you guys
later,” I said, clicking the door shut behind me.

I stepped into the hallway and paused in front of Will’s door yet again, then pressed
my ear up against it. I could hear Mr. Sampson moving around inside, could hear the
muffled sound of people on television making mundane conversation. I closed my eyes.

“Please, Mr. Sampson,” I whispered to the closed door, “please don’t be the one responsible
for any of this.”

The movement on the other side of the door stopped abruptly and I stiffened, then
hurried down the hall. I snaked around the corner when Sampson yanked the door open
and stepped into the hallway. He had a dish towel thrown over one shoulder and one
of Will’s aprons tied around his waist, Charles and Camilla smiling smugly from their
spot just under his belt buckle.

“Sophie?” he said into the hall.

I straightened and took a tiny step from my hiding spot. “How’d you know it was me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I fetch, I roll over, and I have incredible hearing. What are
you doing lurking in the hallway?”

I blew out a defeated sigh. “I’m not sure.”

“Come in.”

I followed Sampson into Will’s apartment and leaned my hip against the counter as
he went to work poking at a steak crackling and caramelizing under the broiler.

“I didn’t know you cooked.”

“A man’s got to eat. So what’s going on with you?”

I closed my eyes and lobbed my head back against the microwave. “I want to help you,
Mr. Sampson, I really do. But I just don’t know where to start. You’ve got to give
me something to go on.”

Mr. Sampson swung his head. “I told you, Sophie, you don’t need to worry yourself
about me right now. Not with what’s going on over at Sutro Point. You have a job to
do.”

I swallowed, not feeling the least bit convinced.

“Like I said, I appreciate you wanting to help me, but you don’t need to. I’m going
to do what I can from here and if I can’t find what I need, I’ll move on.”

“You mean you’ll go back into hiding. To running.”

Sampson shrugged and began scrubbing potatoes in the sink. “You should be helping
Alex find this murderer.”

I gave him a closed lipped smile.
How am I supposed to tell him that so far, tracking down this murderer had only brought
me here?

“Sampson.” I worked the grout with the tip of my fingernail. “Look, I want to help
Alex and I want to help you. I can do both. But I need your help. What do you know?
Where do I go? How do I get my hands on this contract, or figure out who penned it?
Right now, I’m not just looking for a needle in a haystack, I’m looking for the actual
haystack.”

Sampson smiled softly and popped two freshly scrubbed potatoes into the oven with
the steak. The luscious smell of the meat wafted out and I felt my mouth water, despite
my growing desire to shove my head in the oven beside it.

“So about finding the contract. Maybe Alex and I can do a little double-detective
work.”

Sampson whirled to face me. “You didn’t tell Alex I was here, did you?”

“Of course not. Though—” I was going to say that Alex would be a bigger help than
just me. I was going to say that Alex would have better ideas and together, we’d have
a better chance of finding the holder of the contract. But I knew what Alex thought
now. And I knew that if Alex knew that Sampson had been hiding out in San Francisco,
Sampson would be suspect number one in the recent murders. Alex wouldn’t want to accuse,
wouldn’t want to believe it, but Alex was a detective above anything else. And right
now, all the evidence pointed in one direction.

Mr. Sampson eyed me. “You’re not going to listen to me, are you?”

I looked away. “I said I was going to help you and I am. I can solve both.”

Sampson smiled and shook his head. “I appreciate your faith, Sophie, I really do.”

Give me something,
I wanted to beg.
Give me something to go on.

“Is there anything you can think of that will help? Anything that I”—I pushed my hand
against my chest—“that I can do personally to help?”

I watched Sampson’s chest rise as he sucked in and let out a long breath. “Well, you
can get into the UDA.”

I shrugged. “Of course. Wait—you don’t think that someone at the Agency—”

Mr. Sampson held up a silencing hand. “It’s just a theory I’m working on. I’ll need
you to get me some files.”

I scanned the counter, yanking a sheet of paper out from Will’s stack of takeout menus
and expired delivery coupons. I glanced at the paper—some sort of handwritten litany—flipped
it over, and sat poised with my pen at the ready. “Whose files do you need?”

“I need you to get the file of every werewolf that has gone through the Underworld.
Past, present, and deceased.”

I wrote the word “werewolves” on the paper and Sampson glanced down on it with a slight
smile. “Really?”

I folded the paper and shoved it in my back pocket. “I like to be prepared. What else?”

Mr. Sampson paced, rubbing his chin with the palm of his hand. “Well.” He looked over
his shoulder as if he was appraising me. “I think that’s a good start.”

I rounded the counter so that I was nearly nose-to-nose with him. “This is a start,
but I’m going to need more than files to help you out of this mess.”

“I can handle Feng and Xian, if that’s what you’re inferring.”

“Please.”

Sampson’s eyes held mine for a beat before falling. “Well, there is one thing. A guy.
He’s—he’s kind of in between the two worlds—Underworld and regular. He’s a half-breed.
Mother was a demon, father was a regular guy.”

A little flicker of community struck up in my belly.
There are others like me?

“He’s like me?”

Sampson looked at me, his eyes kind. “No, Sophie. Mort is nothing like you. His father
killed his mother.”

“He vowed to kill Mort, too, so Mort’s pretty much gone into hiding, but he keeps
tabs on everything in the Underworld.”

“Why would he keep tabs on the Underworld if his dad was mortal? He was the one who
killed. Shouldn’t he be focusing his attentions elsewhere?”

“He does that, too. Mort’s problem is slight paranoia and that he is a recognizable
half-breed. There are people in the Underworld who don’t like that very much.” He
sucked in a breath. “People who want to kill people like him.”

“And like me.”

“They think that half-breeds are sullying the demon gene pool.”

I felt as though I had just been kicked in the stomach. I had never belonged anywhere—my
mother had killed herself, my father had left me, my high school life had been dominated
by bullies and jeers. The Underworld Detection Agency—and Sampson—had taken me in
and made me feel like I belonged. I knew people weren’t crazy about my being human—but
I never thought that I was in danger because of it.

“Why didn’t I know that people wanted to kill half-breeds?”

Sampson clapped a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Because at the Underworld Detection
Agency we’re family, and we always protect our own. We keep tight tabs on that kind
of people.”

I should have felt bolstered by Sampson’s protection, but I didn’t.

“So, Mort. He makes a living pitting demons against each other. Not exactly a stand-up
guy, but if there’s any information out there, Mort’s going to know about it.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling a twinge of angst. “How do I find this Mort guy?”

“We’re not going to go find him, Soph. I’ll go.”

“You can’t. If this guy is not very good and has a bone to pick with the Underworld—or
with everyone for that matter, you’re toast. I’m going.”

“It’s not safe,” Sampson said, carefully enunciating every word. “You’re not going
alone. Period. End of story.”

“So you’re going to stay here and rot until Will comes back, then you’re going to
run away like a pup with his tail between his legs.” I stopped, realizing what I’d
said. I chanced a glance at Sampson and I could see the fire in his eyes, see the
slight curl of his lip.

“Sorry, Sampson, but I’m going.”

“You’re not going alone.”

I put my hands on my hips, ready to make a deal. “I have an idea.”

“So, Dixon told you about this guy, huh?” Alex asked.

“Yeah,” I lied, nodding, keeping my eyes focused on the freeway as it whizzed by.
“Dixon said this guy might have some information that could be useful—um, for the
case. He might know what Feng was looking for, or if there is a new demon we should
be looking at.” I had fabricated the story and repeated it numerous times to my reflection
in the bathroom mirror, but I could still read suspicion in Alex’s questions. I tried
to play it as coolly as possible, but bat wings flapped in my stomach and my guilty
conscience was working overtime.

I could feel Alex’s icy blue eyes studying my profile, but I refused to look at him.
“And you trust Dixon? I mean, we’ve been driving for almost an hour now. Are you sure
he’s not leading us into some crazy vampire den?”

I gulped. “What do you mean, do I trust Dixon? Of course I do. We got over our whole
issue. Why? Don’t you trust Dixon?”

Alex shrugged, his eyebrows rising with his shoulders, “Hey, I’m just the arm candy,”
he said, switching lanes. “Is this where we exit?”

I squinted down at the map Sampson had drawn out for me. “Yeah, this is it.”

“Who is this guy again?”

“Dixon,” I said his name carefully, “said this guy is kind of—like, he kind of works
on both sides. Underworld and non-Underworld, I guess. He’s—he’s kind of like me.
Half-breed.”

Alex savored my last statement before replying. “Did Dixon tell you that, too?”

I wracked my brain for any additional crumb of information that Sampson may have offered
that I could attribute to my fake conversation with Dixon. All I could answer was
a piddly, “Yes.”

“So this guy might have information on who—or whatever—tore these people apart?”

I took a tiny sip of the latte I was holding. “Yep.”

“And you don’t know anything else about him?”

“Nope. Just that he’s, like, a super librarian. He knows something about everything.”

“Isn’t that called the Internet?”

I rolled my eyes and pointed. “There! Between the trees. That’s the road.”

Alex squinted. “It’s unpaved.”

“He warned me it was rural.”

“How does this guy know anything living this far out from society?” Alex asked as
branches flopped against the hood and windows of the SUV.

The dirt road wound another hundred feet through weeping trees and waist-high weeds,
then opened onto a clearing. Or what would have been a clearing if it hadn’t been
packed with discarded car parts, pieces of old furniture, and the remains of a VW
Bus.

“Are you sure this is it?”

I looked at Alex. “Do you see any other houses around here?”

“I’m not sure. There’s so much crap out here. Maybe the other houses exploded.”

I flashed an uncertain smile. “Vampire night clubs, bald-headed biker pixies, and
now”—I waved toward the remarkable graveyard of crap—“this.”

“Can’t say it’s never an adventure with you, Lawson.”

I undid my seat belt. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The car lurched to a stop between the remains of a bus and a selection of rusting
movie theatre chairs. “Do you think the car will be okay here?”

“Not sure. That bus will either eat or mate with the SUV.”

“Again, never a dull moment.”

I pushed open the car door and looked at the house skeptically. There were piles of
general crap all around it with weeds shooting out in the few bare spots in between.
The roof was puckered in places and set at a weird angle, and stacks of shingles not
yet tacked down were used to weight a cheery red checked tablecloth over what I surmised
were holes. I was fairly certain the mounds of crap were holding the whole place up
and as far as finding the secret to clearing Sampson here—well, let’s just say I didn’t
have much hope.

We made our way through the maze of dead car parts and thistle weeds to a porch equally
loaded with all manner of junk—most of it shoved into ancient Target bags and molding
cardboard boxes—and knocked on the front door.

“Who’s there?” came a gruff voice from the depths of the house.

“Um, my name is Sophie Lawson. Are you Mort Laney?”

“Who’s asking?”

I looked at Alex, who hid his obnoxious half smile behind his palm. “Still Sophie
Lawson.”

“Who sent you?”

I paused, feeling heat in my cheeks while Alex studied me. “Underworld Detection Agency.”

Silence.

“Mr. Laney?” I knocked again and the door creaked open a half-inch under my fist.
I poked my head into the house, then recoiled. “Holy crap,” I whispered to Alex.

Alex brushed up against me, his lips at my ear, his eyes wide as he stared over my
shoulder into the house. “Now we know how he knows everything,” he said. “He
has
everything.”

“Laney, we’re coming in.”

The door only opened about twelve inches and I had to suck in my stomach and shimmy
to get myself through it. When I did, I ended up at the bulbous end of a makeshift
walkway, lined with eyebrow-high stacks of newspapers, a mountain of dusty
National Geographic
s, and a precarious stack of water-less fish tanks filled with lightbulbs and naked
Barbie dolls.

I took a tentative step, my sneaker crashing down on an army of food wrappers. I leaned
back against Alex and dropped my voice to a low whisper. “Are you packing?”

“Packing?”

“Your gun!” I hissed.

“Yes, Cagney, I’m packing. But what the hell good is it going to do in here? One shot’ll
ricochet off the tower of 1970s Tupperware and get me straight between the eyes. Or
do you think his collection of Princess Diana commemorative plates will block a bullet?”

I thought back to my own apartment that was likely being swallowed by cardboard boxes,
packing peanuts, and whatever was on the QVC Power Hour as we spoke. “You don’t have
to be so snarky.”

“Don’t you touch my Princess Diana plates! You chip even one of them and I’m suing!”
Laney yelled.

“Because the only thing better than a hoarder is a litigious hoarder,” Alex whispered.

“Mr. Laney, we—we come in peace. We just want to ask you some questions,” I said,
doing my best to skirt a suitcase stuffed with dusty VHS tapes. “I’m from the Underworld
Detection Agency. You know, in San Francisco? I was told you might have some information
on Feng and Xian Du. Or on a murder.” My shoulder brushed against what was either
a wig or a dip-dyed possum. My skin started to crawl. I paused and tucked my hands
into my pockets, feeling Mort Laney’s National Park of Shit closing in on me. “A murderer.”

Alex and I paused when we heard the slight shuffle of movement coming from the back
end of the house. “What did you say your name was?”

I sighed. “Sophie Lawson.”

More shuffling. More crinkling. Then a bad, white-blond comb-over appeared between
twin towers of molding books.

Mort Laney.

He had the roundest head I’d ever seen, despite the oblong comb-over, and ears that
stuck out like doorknobs on either side of his skull. I felt my hand slyly smooth
my own hair, tug at my ears in an attempt to make certain I hadn’t sprouted what could
only be an unholy combination of demon and human. Mort pushed up a pair of heavy,
black-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses that immediately slid right back down his bulbous
red nose as he squinted at us. I saw his eyes flit to Alex, sweep over his mountain
of junk, and then come to rest on me.

He licked paper-thin lips and stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.

“You look just like him,” he whispered.

“Mr. Laney?” I asked.

“Mort. Please call me Mort.” Mort pushed a liver-spotted hand through a fort of floral
foam and pointed. “Come through there, please. And be careful! You break anything
and I’m—”

“Suing, right,” Alex finished.

I looked over my shoulder at Alex, who shrugged, then followed me along the narrow
pathway that Mort pointed to.

I paused when Mort’s wormhole of stuff opened up to a surprisingly pristine—and open—kitchen.

“Whoa,” Alex whispered, peering over my shoulder, then back over his at the army of
crap. “It’s like we hoarded our way back in time.”

Mort’s pristine kitchen may have been free of additional matter, but it was firmly
entrenched in 1973. I blinked at the avocado-colored appliances, at the chrome-and-Formica
dining table where Mort sat, fingers laced together, glasses pushed up high on his
nose.

“Hello, Mr.—Mort,” I said, when I was finally able to see the man. “My name is Sophie
and this is Alex.”

Mort stood, stepped forward, and shook my hand, nodding. The smile on his face was
serene, but his eyes were darting, carefully examining my face and hair. I felt the
immediate need to check myself for boogers or broccoli teeth—or to hide my private
bits behind the laundry basket filled with beheaded Cabbage Patch Kids.

“It’s uncanny, really.” Mort was still shaking my hand and I yanked it back, keeping
my smile kind and fixed.

“Thanks so much for seeing us,” I said, sitting down quickly.

“And you are?” Mort looked up at Alex as if seeing him for the first time.

“Just a friend,” Alex said, casting a sly glance at me, and pulling out a chair for
himself. “Just along for the ride.”

Note to self: Dismantle Alex, leave parts strewn about in hoarder’s graveyard
, I thought as he licked his lips, enjoying Mort’s ogling far too much.

“Ah, that’s better, isn’t it?” Mort said. “Please, sit. May I get you some tea?” He
jumped up before we had a chance to answer and clinked around the kitchen, gathering
mugs and tea bags, then finally sitting down again.

“Now, why did you say you came here? Not that I mind.” Again the darting eyes, then
the gaze that settled a bit too comfortably on me.

I cleared my throat. “Well, Mr.—Mort, I was wondering if you might have some information.
Uh, Dixon—Dixon Andrade—said you knew about all sorts of things.” I raised my eyebrows,
drew out the word “things.”

“Dixon?” Mort frowned, tapping one gnarled finger against his stubbled chin. “He’s
running the Underworld Detection Agency now, isn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“Look.” Alex leaned back in his chair. “There have been some murders in San Francisco—a
double homicide, and a single, two nights apart. It looks rather heinous and Ms. Lawson
here”—he eyed me, and his cool-cop routine was giving me a migraine—“thought that
maybe you’d have some information on the type of demon that could be responsible for
the kind of destruction that we saw with this case.”

Mort bobbed his head, seeming to consider. “You didn’t have anything listed at the
Agency?” he asked, slick little tongue pushing across his bottom lip.

I glanced at Alex. “We’re working on some things.”

“She also thought you might know if something new was in the area, or if the Du sisters
had a new contract.”

Mort’s eyebrows went up. “The Du sisters? Feng and Xian?”

Alex glanced at me, a smug look of satisfaction in his cobalt eyes that shot a cold
wave of nervousness through me.

“
Something new in the area”—Does Alex know about Sampson?

The look on Alex’s face—now one eyebrow cocked, lips pursed, just slightly upturned—told
me everything.

I shot him a silent death glare, then did my best to look at Mort, unaffected. “Right,”
I said simply.

“Now, why are you two together?” Mort asked.

I started. “Uh—excuse me?”

“You two.” Mort pointed. “Why are you together?” He blinked at Alex. “You don’t work
at the Underworld.” His eyes raked over Alex and I felt the urge to gloat now that
Alex had been eyeball-raped by Mort. “You can’t.”

I watched as Mort straightened his glasses, leaning toward Alex. He licked his lips
again and smiled. “I never seen one ’a you before.”

“One of who?”

Mort’s eyes slid between us, murky behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He drew
a circle an inch above his head and pantomimed the imaginary halo falling to the table
ground. “You know.”

I felt my eyes widen. Usually, I was the one the nutters could pick out at fifty paces.
They didn’t often know that I was the Vessel, but beginning in the second grade with
Nancy Nottingham’s relentless taunts, people were always able to zero in on my different-ness.
Not a single person—demon, dead, or dead again—had ever been able to pick up on Alex’s
angelic state, fallen or otherwise. It felt good to be the “other” for once.

Mort grinned again, this time showing a row of crooked, corn-yellow teeth. “Neat.”

We were silent for a moment before Mort repeated, “So why you two?”

“Carpool lane,” I said quickly, before Alex could shrug off the angel thing and scare
Mort off with his police department badge. “There was traffic and I wanted to use
the carpool lane so my friend Alex came along. So, you mentioned Feng and Xian?”

“You did,” Mort said, resting his hands on the tabletop.

“Right. I was hoping you could tell me something about their current contracts. Or
projects. Or”—I bit my lip—“conquests.” I looked around again and scooched to the
edge of my chair, unsure if Sampson’s written-on-wolf-hide contract was lurking somewhere
around here, somewhere between the crap and other crap. The idea grossed me out more
than the naked Barbies did.

Mort continued grinning at me with his weird, serene smile. “Is that all you want
to know about?”

My heart started to thud and I felt Alex’s eyes on me, challenging me. “For starters.”