Contagious Page 31

“Okay, so you’ve got a point. But you know what? Your calm, doctory logic kind of gets on my nerves. Do you always have to be right?”

“Doctory? I rather like that word. I don’t have to always be right, Dew, that’s just how it works out.”

He took a big drink of coffee. It scalded his mouth a little, but he didn’t care—he felt the heat going into his chest.

“Well, Doc, I’m afraid you’re not always right. I tried it your way and got water thrown in my face.”

“So try again.”

“Why the h.e.l.l should I?”

“You mean besides the fact that we need a live host to figure out what the heck is going on?”

“Yeah,” Dew said. “Besides that.”

“How about having compa.s.sion, Dew? How about being understanding? Perry’s been through h.e.l.l. He lost his best friend.”

“Yeah? So what? So did I.”

“And did you beat your best friend to death? Did you nail his hands up with steak knives and write discipline on the wall in his blood?”

In his entire life, he’d never been around anyone who made him feel as stupid as Margaret Montoya did. At least not without punching them in the mouth.

Dew grabbed his shoes and started putting them on. “No,” he said. “I didn’t do any of that.”

“Right. So maybe, just maybe, Perry is trying to deal with some things that you can’t understand.”

“That s.h.i.t only floats for so long,” Dew said. “I’m starting to think he’s nothing more than a glorified bully, and the only way to get through to a bully is to give him a whuppin’.”

Margaret smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile that said, I bet you’d be a fun roll in the hay, because Dew knew what those smiles looked like on a woman. At least he used to know what those looked like. He didn’t get them anymore. This was another kind of smile, the kind a young woman gives to an old man when the old man says something silly.

“Dew, I know you’re very good at what you do, but just keep some perspective, okay?”

He grabbed his dry coat off the hanger and put it on. “Perspective? What the f.u.c.k is that supposed to mean?”

Margaret shrugged. Her smile grew a little wider, a little more condescending. “Well, look at you and . . . look at him. You’re not going to beat any sense into him, and shooting him won’t work. You already tried that.”

Dew quickly put the weapons in their various holsters and hiding spots. “Doc, you stick to the sciencey and doctory stuff and leave the rest to me, okay?”

She smiled that smile again, then shrugged. “Whatever you say. So what do we do next?”

“We have to finish up some things here. Then I think we’re heading closer to Chicago.”

So far there was no pattern to the location of the four gates. Chicago seemed as central as the next spot, within quick striking distance of Wisconsin, Michigan, Indiana and Ohio.

“How about you make sure the MargoMobile is battened down, Doc,” Dew said. “I want us out of here before the local media stops writing about a white supremacist group getting bombed in Marinesco and decides there might actually be another story afoot.”

He opened the door for her and gestured outside. Margaret walked out, and Dew followed.

DEEEEE-TROIT BASKET-BALLLL!

“Unkie Donny, you sit here,” Chelsea said. She patted the center cushion of the couch. It was Daddy’s spot, but Unkie Donny was a guest. She got to sit in Daddy’s lap all the time. She didn’t see Unkie Donny anymore, hardly ever. Not since he moved to Pittsburgh. She didn’t get to see Betty, either. That was worse.

Betty was so pretty. She had pierced ears. Daddy wouldn’t let Chelsea pierce her ears. Maybe in a few years, Daddy would say. A year was such a long time. A few years? Chelsea couldn’t imagine that a few years would ever come. She’d never get her ears pierced, never be as pretty as Betty.

Unkie Donny sat down on the middle cushion. “Right here, honey?”

“Yes,” Chelsea said. “Right here. And to sit here you have to pay the toll.”

“The toll? What’s this going to cost me?”

“Smoochies!” Chelsea said.

Unkie Donny lifted her clear up off the ground. “Ready?”

She nodded. They both puckered up and made a mmmmm noise as they slowly brought their lips together, then made an exaggerated kissing sound as the mmmmm turned into a loud ahhhh. Unkie Donnie sat her on the cushion to his left. Chelsea immediately crawled into his lap.

Betty smiled and sat down on the cushion to their right.

“O-M-G, that was so cute I could just keel over,” Betty said. She leaned toward Chelsea. “And where’s my smoochies?”

Mmmmm-ahhhh.

Daddy sat on the cushion to the left. He clicked the remote control. The TV changed from a cartoon to show men in white pajamas shooting the basketball.

Chelsea clapped, then leaned back on Unkie Donny’s chest.

He gave her shoulders a little shake. “Honey, do you know what time it is?”

She checked her Mickey Mouse watch. The big hand was on the eleven, the little hand was on the one, so that . . . was . . .

“Not that kind of time,” Unkie Donny said. “The game, Chelsea. It’s time for . . .”

Chelsea took a deep breath, sat up, then screamed in unison with Unkie Donny, “Deeeee-troit basket-ballll!”

She rested against his chest. “Unkie Donny, who is your favorite Piston of all time?”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Well, I’ve been watching them for a lotta years, honey. I’d have to say Bill Laimbeer or Chauncey Billups. Who’s yours?”

“I like Peyton Manning!”

“Wrong sport, baby-girl,” Unkie Donny said.

“Oh,” Chelsea said. “Then I like Chaunney Billups.”

“Chauncey, baby-girl,” Unkie Donny said.

“Chaun-see,” she said, trying the word on for size. “I was going to name my puppy Fluffy, but now I’ll name him Chauncey. Then you can come and play with Chauncey, Unkie Donny.”