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I heard my phone buzz with a text message, but I waited until I could pull into the parking lot of an XpressMart to read it. I wasn’t worried about dying in a car wreck, but I sure as hell didn’t want to do the same to anyone else.
In the past months I’d developed a much higher appreciation for the value of life.
It was from Derrel. No rest for the wicked. Just got a call re another death—accidental fall at NuQuesCor Lab. Meet me at front gate.
Well, it wasn’t the first time I’d gone from one death scene straight to another. I knew from experience that I could fit four bodies in the back of the van, though it wasn’t pretty. I texted back an “OK”, then pulled the GPS off the dash and stuck in the address he’d sent. Hunger nudged at me again, but I was pretty sure this was hunger for real food. At least part of it was, and satisfying that much would help keep the brain-hunger at bay—at least for a few hours.
This whole “controlling my urges” thing wasn’t as easy as it sounded.
I killed the engine of the van and hurried inside the convenience store. The girl behind the counter looked about my age, maybe twenty-three at the most, pale-skinned, with hair that looked like it suffered from a distinct lack of shampoo use. She lifted her head as I came in, gave me a vacant look before returning her attention to her phone. A brief wave of sympathy went through me. I’d done more than my share of shit jobs like that. And while there were lots of people who wouldn’t see my current job as a step up, I knew there was no comparison.
I quickly grabbed chips and a Coke, giving the clerk as friendly a smile as I could manage while I paid, silently urging her to hurry the hell up, and for chrissakes I’d seen roadkill move faster. She finally managed to fumble out something resembling the correct change, delivering it with the same glazed-eyed, slack-jawed look she’d worn the entire time I’d been in there.
Did I ever look like that? I wondered briefly. Probably so, I thought with mild amusement as I shoved my change into my pocket and hurried out. There’d been plenty of times I’d gone to work high as a kite.
My navel-gazing had me distracted enough that I nearly barreled right into someone about to come into the store.
“Oh, shit, sorry!” I exclaimed.
“Angel?”
As the door swung closed behind me I blinked and focused on who I’d run into. Hispanic, not much taller than me, and a little bit stocky. I didn’t recognize him at first, until I realized he was wearing a uniform. Khaki pants, black boots, navy shirt with an insignia shaped like the state of Louisiana with “Agent” and “Probation and Parole”…
Shit. This was my probation officer.
Almost two years ago, while I was deep in my “Angel is a moron with zero judgment” phase—a phase which had lasted for most of my life—I’d made the mistake of trusting my then-boyfriend and had believed that there was nothing shady about a nearly-new Prius that he could get for me for only five hundred dollars. A couple of weeks later I was pulled over and promptly arrested for possession of stolen property, and spent a terrifying three days in jail before making bail. Eventually I was sentenced to three years probation.
I managed an unsteady smile as I clutched the chips and Coke to my chest like a shield. “Um, yeah. Hi, Mr. Garza. How’s it going?”
“I’m doing fine,” he said. His gaze raked over me, pausing on the insignia on my own shirt. “Still with the Coroner’s Office, I see.”
For a second I couldn’t figure out how the hell he would have known I was working there. I was a low risk offender which meant that I only had to meet with him in person every six months. Yeah, but I have to turn in those stupid forms, I reminded myself. Every month, along with a check for sixty-five dollars, I had to give all sorts of details about my living conditions, work situation, and any possible incidents that might affect my probation.
“Yeah. Still with the C.O,” I replied. “Two months now.”
“That’s some sort of record for you, isn’t it,” he said, mouth curving in a humorless line.
I fought the urge to hunch my shoulders or shuffle my feet uncertainly. “I’m doing a lot better now,” I said, possibly a little defensively.
“I see that,” he said. “I’m real glad to see it.” He didn’t look very glad, but then again, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him smile.
I cast a longing glance at my van. I needed to get going, but I couldn’t exactly blow my probation officer off. “Yeah, thanks. I, um—”
“How’s the studying going?” he asked, cutting me off.
My response was to blink stupidly. “Hunh?”
“The GED,” he said. “It’s one of the conditions of your probation, remember?”
“Oh, right!” I said, plastering a smile onto my face. “Sure, it’s going just great. I, um, I’ll be taking it in just a coupla months. No problem.” I kept the smile frozen on my face while inside I cringed. God damn fucking shithole crapstains! I’d completely forgotten about that little detail. Since I was also a high school dropout, one of the conditions of my probation had been that I had to get my GED—the General Educational Development test which could serve as a substitute for a high school diploma.
He probably could tell I was handing him a line of complete bullshit. “Do you have a few minutes?” he asked. “There are a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I can’t,” I practically gasped. “Sorry. I’m on call, and I just got texted to go pick up a body.” I fumbled my phone off my hip and waved it for emphasis.
He pursed his lips, but nodded. “Sure thing. But don’t forget, we do have a scheduled meeting next week.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a couple of screens. “Wednesday. Nine a.m..”
“I’ll be there,” I assured him, smiling in what I hoped was a confident manner though I had a feeling I looked more manic.
