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.“Falcone? Mexican?”“My great-grandfather was Cuban.”Humanize yourself.Make them connect to you.This was more advice from self-defense.I’m sure somewhere in those college classes that I probably spent the majority of texting my friends, was also a lesson about not sitting in a parked car with the door unlocked and the window open.But I guess that didn’t sink in.Human connection.I can do that.“Why? Are you Mexican?”“You think just because I’m a drug dealer, I must be Mexican? That’s racist.”So far so good.I’ll just shut the fuck up.It seems safer.“I’m Jewish,” Bone Hand says, after a moment.“I’m a Jewish queer and a drug dealer.How’s that for messing with your preconceived notions?”The car bumps over a pothole as we turn onto a narrow road.I never had any preconceived notions about Jews, or queers or drug dealers.Now I’m worried I’m going to be terrified of all three, which is awkward because my boss satisfies two of those criteria.And my landlord too, come to think of it, because I’m pretty sure he and his boyfriend sell their excess Vicodin on the side.Bone Hand taps his pistol on the steering wheel as he drives.Idly, rhythmically, as though he has a song playing in his head.I work up the courage to take a good look at him.Maybe if I get through this night, I’ll need to describe him to a sketch artist.I’m about five minutes into thinking of descriptive words for his eyes (sunken), nose (crooked), and lips (ringed with smoker’s wrinkles) before I remember I’m actually a trained artist and could easily render a good likeness of him in any number of media, including Manga-style cartoons.Heck, I could illustrate a whole graphic novel of this guy.Now that I’ve taken a good look at him, I’m not likely to ever forget.He’s not very tall, but heavy-set with dark hair and eyebrows.His clean-shaven face is marred only by what looks like a burn scar on his chin.The tattoos I can see, apart from the bones on his hands, include a skull on his neck and a spider behind his right ear.He’s wearing a bullet pendant on a leather strap around his neck.If he has hair, it’s concealed under a black knitted hat.In short, he really looks like a criminal.For some reason that makes me think of Charlie’s painfully pretty face, his tall lean body, tousled black hair and cheeky smile.A tear drips down my cheek that I don’t dare wipe away.Fuck the New Year’s gods to hell.I hate them so fucking much right now, I could murder anyone who so much as waves a sparkler in my face.My chest muscles squeeze on my heart, as I realize Bone Hand is pulling the car into a dark driveway.We bump over gravel for a few seconds before coming to a stop in front of a large, creepy-looking farm house.He pulls the key out of the ignition and pockets it as he gets out of the truck.“Well?” He bends back into the door to look at me.I don’t move, staring forward and hugging my arms over my chest to keep from falling apart.“Come on, sweetheart; don’t make me get all thuggy with you.”And that’s it.I can’t take it anymore.I start to cry, curling over and sobbing into my chest.I don’t even know how long it goes on before I hear the passenger side door open.A few seconds later, I feel his hand on my shoulder and flinch away.Bone Hand sighs.“Listen, I’m a deviant.But I’m not that kind of deviant.I just need to go deal with a few things in here, and I can’t leave you right now.But I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.Okay?”As I turn and look at him, I’m sure the incredulity on my face must be glowing like a neon sign reading, Are You Fucking Kidding Me? “Anything bad?” I gulp back a sob.“You kidnapped me and stole my boyfriend’s truck.”Bone Hand smiles slowly, revealing one canine tooth jutting out at an odd angle.Another detail filed away for my sketch.“Your boyfriend? I thought you didn’t know him.”I curl up into a ball with my face pressed onto my knees.Bone Hand grabs my arm and pulls me out before I have time to stand, sending me crashing into the gravel driveway.Pain lances through both knees as I land.When he hauls me to my feet, I see I’ve torn holes in my stockings.Bastard.These are my favorites.After unlocking about six bolts on the front door, Bone Hand shoves me into a very dark and dusty hallway, bolting the door behind us.As my eyes struggle to adjust to the dark, his hand slams onto my chest again.He presses me against a wall.“Are you a cop?”I shake my head.“Detective? DEA?”“No! I’m a graphic designer.”He releases the pressure on my chest.In the shadows, I can just barely see him step to the side and shuffle a few things around on a nearby table.There’s a flash of light and Bone Hand turns back to me, holding a candle in an old-fashioned candle holder, haloed in golden light like some demented Jack-Be-Nimble.He waves the pistol in his other hand.“Walk.”In the low light, I take careful steps along the long hallway, trying to note details for any police report I may or may not get to make.The house is derelict, I think.Debris is piled up in corners, wallpaper torn, light fittings missing their light bulbs.We pass three warped and peeling doors before Bone Hand instructs me to open the fourth.I smell that skunky scent of fresh weed again and see the dim blue glow of grow lights leaking under the door as I turn the knob.God.I’m going to die tonight.The door leads to a set of stairs.Going down.Chapter Eight – CharlieAs long as I keep peeling off twenties, the taxi driver keeps driving.“Rather be driving a frantic boyfriend after his runaway girl than ferrying frat boys from strip club to brothel,” he says.Gross.I peel off another twenty and ask him to be quiet as I dial Levi.He doesn’t even bother with hello.“They just turned off the five onto 531 about ten minutes ago.”“Levi! Why didn’t you call me earlier?”“The LoJack site went down, and then I tried to call you but you must have been in a dead spot.It went straight to voicemail.I left a message.”Next time I see Levi, I’m going to punch him in the head.“I haven’t activated voicemail! I only just got the phone an hour ago!”“Okay.Okay.They seem to have stopped.” He gives me an address in the middle of nowhere that I relay to the driver.“The police are probably already on their way.You should just wait, Charlie.It’s not safe.”I hang up on him again.Outside the cab, the giant Seattle Outlets sign flies by.A few minutes later, the cab exits the freeway onto a winding, narrow highway, then again onto an even narrower, windier road.Finally he pulls up at a dark driveway leading off into thick trees.The crooked and rusty mailbox seems to be riddled with bullet holes.“End of the road.That’ll be $275.80, thanks.”“You’re not taking me up to the house or whatever?”“That’s not my girl up there.And I’m not crazy.This is Methville, kid.No thanks.”Even though I’ve already given him at least two hundred I count out another handful of bills and pass it over the seat before climbing out.“Can you at least wait?”The driver just laughs and floors it, leaving me literally in his dust.I can’t really say that I blame him.In contrast to the buzzing New Year’s Eve hoopla I left in Seattle, the night around here is ominously quiet.Since it’s winter, there aren’t even any crickets to add atmosphere.And it’s dark.Though it’s mercifully a clear night, the moon has set, and looking up through the canopy of trees, I can see a million twinkling stars above me.Normally I love to look at stars, but now they just piss me off.I turn and run up the driveway.It seems to go on forever.Just as I start to think I’ve somehow fallen into some world-bending, time-stretching wormhole, a dark house appears through the trees
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