California Demon: The Secret Life of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom Page 2

  “You’re sure?” he asked, when I told him he was off the hook.

  “Totally. All you have to do is show up and you’ll be golden.”

  “No problem there,” he said. “Clark’s got a potential contributor waiting to meet me in his office, but that’s the only thing on my plate. After that, I’m heading to the school.”

  Clark Curtis is my husband’s boss. He’s also the lame-duck county attorney who favors my husband to step into his shoes. When I’d met Stuart, he’d been slaving away as an underpaid government attorney in the real-estate division with no political aspirations whatsoever.

  Clark, however, had seen some potential, and had plucked my husband from relative obscurity and thrust him into the political limelight. Great for Stuart, not so great for me. Selfish, maybe, but I’m not crazy about the trappings of political wife-dom. And I’m really not crazy about the sporadic hours that my newly politicized husband has been keeping.

  All of which meant that the mention of Clark didn’t exactly send ripples of warm, fuzzy confidence racing through my body. The opposite, in fact, and I kept my grip tight on the ladder as I closed my eyes and breathed deep, weighing what to say. Now wasn’t the time for a spousal tiff, but at the same time, a tiff would be small potatoes compared to Allie’s silent, sulky disappointment if Stuart didn’t show. Finally, I settled on diplomacy. “Just don’t lose track of time.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “I know my priorities.”

  “Okay,” I said, but not entirely comforted. I started to say more, but my attention was grabbed by a rousing chorus of “Na-KED baby! Na-KED baby! Naked baby! Naked baby! Na-ke-ed ba-A-A-A-BEEEEEEE,” screeched more or less to the tune of the “Hallelujah Chorus.” For this, I have no one to blame but myself, and I twisted around on the ladder with a sense of dread coupled with amusement. Sure enough, my kidlet had managed to strip off his shirt, his pants, and his Pull-Ups.

  I said a quick good-bye to my husband. He’d either make it or he wouldn’t; and if he didn’t, then he’d be getting the cold shoulder from both of the females in his life. In the meantime, I needed to focus on the younger male in my life.

  He was marching in a circle, not a care in the world, his little legs pumping in time with the song that was blaring out of his mouth. Mr. Montgomery and the others were laughing so hard that I was tempted to call the nurse; I really didn’t want my son to be the catalyst for a spate of coronaries.

  I watched for longer than I probably should have—What can I say? He was cute—then put on my stern face and said, “Timmy!”

  He clamped his mouth shut, but his eyes were wide and innocent. “I sing, Momma!”

  “You certainly do,” I said. I glanced over at Laura for support, but her entire face was flush with laughter, and the little Santa ornament that dangled between her fingers trembled with evil glee.

  So much for a little help from my friends.

  I focused on keeping a firm expression. “The singing is fine, sweetie. But we wear clothes when we’re in public.”

  “Not public. Inside!”

  I swear, the kid was going to grow up to be a lawyer. Like father, like son.

  “Yes,” I said, infinitely patient. “We are inside. But we wear clothes inside, too, don’t we? At home and at school and at mass.”

  “And the mall,” he said.

  “Exactly,” I said, completely proud. “And right now, you’re inside and have to put your clothes back on.”

  My little boy wasn’t listening though, too fascinated with his own nakedness. I sighed and moved farther down the ladder, leaving the last bit of garland hanging like a sad tail from the middle of the arch. Apparently, I’d been wrong about the demons having left Coastal Mists. My own little devil was prancing away right there in the media room.

  Before I reached the floor, Laura held up a hand, stopping me. “I’ll get Timmy dressed. You hurry.” She tapped her watch. “Cupcakes, remember?”

  Timmy, meanwhile, was racing around the area rug, launching himself at the residents, who were laughing and egging him on. I had a sneaking suspicion a few had given him some chocolate. They might as well have passed him crystal meth; the effect couldn’t have been any more pronounced.

  Laura saw where I was looking, and cut me off before I could protest. “He’s not even three, Kate. I can handle it. I have one of my own, remember?”

  Except hers was now fourteen and dressed herself. Even so, I nodded. I knew better than to argue with Laura; she’s the woman who’d successfully returned outfits to Nordstrom despite the huge 75-percent Off, No-Return, Clearance-Final-Sale signs plastered all over the store.

  I watched, impressed, as she gathered up Timmy’s clothes, then gathered up Timmy. He started to struggle, but then she flipped him over, holding tight around his waist, as his head bobbed somewhere around her knees. His protests morphed into squeals of delight, and she marched past me toward the ladies’ room, shooting me a look of smug triumph as she went.

  I turned back to the task at hand, hurrying since we still had to pick up the cupcakes on the way to school, and knowing the extreme wrath that awaited me if we showed up late.

  From my ladder-top vantage point, I could see through the wide windows to the cliffs in the distance. I could even see part of the ocean, billowing and churning, the sun’s rays sending miniature rainbows flying each time the froth burst against the beach.

  I love California. The weather. The beach. Pretty much everything. But as I stapled garland to the thickly painted wood, I realized that I was craving the white Christmas that Bing so convincingly crooned about. I made a mental note to buy hot chocolate, whipping cream, and some fluffy red-and-green throws. We might not be getting a blizzard this year, but at least I could crank up the air conditioner and wheedle Stuart into lighting a fire in our rarely to never used fireplace.

  I was trying to justify a crackling fire despite the seventy degree weather, when I noticed that some of the residents who’d been in the media room were heading down the hallway toward the glass doors, where a uniformed man stood with a cardboard sign, a red gimme cap slung low on his head. I couldn’t read the sign or hear what he was saying, but since the residents were queuing up, I assumed they were heading out.

  “Where are they going?” I asked.

  “Hmm? Who, dear?” Delia answered.

  I pointed down the hall, almost losing my balance in the process.

  “Ah, hmm. I think they’re going on that school field trip.”

  “Which school? The high school?”

  “Oh, yes, the high school.” Delia frowned. “I never did finish high school. Daddy didn’t think an education was fitting for a woman.”

  While I was pondering that little bit of insight into Delia, Jenny rounded the corner, clipboard in hand and a crease on her brow. Jenny’s a candy striper, a little ditzy, and almost as tuned-in to the Coastal Mists gossip as Delia.

  “Mrs. Connor!” she said, looking up at me waving wildly. “Wow. You’re doing a great job.”

  I inspected my work, and decided that Jenny’s standards were way too low.

  I was just about to ask Jenny if the bus really was going to the high school when Nurse Ratched stomped up, took Jenny by the elbow, and pulled her aside. I aimed a comforting smile in Jenny’s direction. I’d been on the receiving end of Nurse Ratched’s displeasure, and it really wasn’t pretty. (In fairness, I should add that Nurse Ratched is really Nurse Baker, and as far as I can tell, she’s not the demon-aiding sycophant I originally presumed. But I still don’t like her.)

  Nurse Ratched has one of those gravelly voices that’s almost impossible to ignore. I liked Jenny, though, and it didn’t seem polite to bear witness to her dressing-down. So I tried to keep my mind on other things, doing everything short of sticking my fingers in my ears and humming.

  Didn’t work. No matter how good my intentions, I couldn’t help but hear a few snippets. A good thing, too, considering the subject of their conversation. Good in that it clu
ed me in to the possible presence of demons. Bad for the exact same reason.

  The conversation I overheard went like this:

  “Jenny, I’m tired of having this same discussion with you. You have got to concentrate. I can’t have you mixing up the patients.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. There is absolutely no way Dermott Sinclair got on that bus. Which means your field trip list is wrong, and we have one resident unaccounted for!”

  “No, we don’t! It was Mr. Sinclair. He even told me to leave him alone!” Jenny’s chin quivered and her skin had turned all blotchy, but so far the tears weren’t rolling.

  Nurse Ratched sighed and put her arm around the girl. “Jenny, think. The man had a heart attack. He’s been in a coma for three months. He’s been conscious for less than two days. So how could he possibly have the strength to have gotten up and walked onto that bus?”

  That one seemed to stump Jenny, and I had to bite back the urge to raise my hand and shove it high into the sky. That’s me, the prize pupil. But what could I say? I knew the answer, or, at least, I knew an answer. And it wasn’t pretty.

  Dermott Sinclair was a demon—and he’d just climbed aboard a bus aimed straight toward my daughter’s high school.

  Two

  About two seconds later, my staunch position had withered. True, Dermott Sinclair was probably a demon, but he could also be one of the very fortunate few who really did come out of a coma without any side effects, then decided to head out on a field trip. Granted, the odds favored demon, but it’s incredibly bad form to go around killing old men.

  And I had another reason to hesitate: If Dermott Sinclair really was a demon, he was taking a hell of a chance making himself known while I was on the premises. Was he trying to bait me? Or was there a plot brewing in the demon world? Something big enough that justified the risk of discovery by the town’s only active Hunter?

  Obviously, I had some investigating to do.

  Except, of course, Sinclair was on the bus and I wasn’t. Plus, I had a toddler to deal with. Not to mention the promise I’d made to Allie to absolutely not be late for Family Day. (Technically, chasing Dermott Sinclair wouldn’t make me late, since the bus was heading for the high school. But I had a sneaking suspicion that any brownie points I’d earn by being punctual would be offset by the demerits I’d incur if I wrestled an old man to the gymnasium floor in front of the faculty, the students, and the PTA.)

  Which left me with only one workable plan of attack: foist my youngest child onto my best friend, and waylay the demon before the bus reached the high school.

  That, I could do.

  I snatched my purse from where I’d left it on the floor, then raced to the restroom near the front entrance. I could see the parking lot from there, and the bus was still sitting on the asphalt, blocking my car, actually. I didn’t see any exhaust, and a few of the residents milled around while Nurse Ratched and Jenny consulted a clipboard.

  I said a quick thank-you to Saint Peoni, the patron saint of fools and Demon Hunters. I still had time.

  The ladies’ room is just off the main lobby behind the reception desk, and I burst through the door, calling out for Timmy and Laura as I did so.

  “Mommy, Mommy! I going potty!” My little boy’s voice boomed out from one of the many handicapped stalls. (In my opinion, and in Laura’s, schlepping a toddler around in public is handicap enough to justify use of the reserved toilet stalls. At least until the powers that be fire the genius who designed the regular stalls to be too small to hold a mom, a kid, a diaper bag, a purse, and a stuffed animal.)

  “Great, sweetie,” I said automatically. Then, “Laura, emergency. Can you take care of the munchkin?”

  “Demons?” she asked.

  I winced, but a quick check under the doors of the other stalls revealed no other occupants.

  “Roger that.”

  “Go, then,” she said, almost offhandedly. A few months ago, the idea of a demon wandering loose in the world would have completely freaked her out. Now, it was just one of those things. I felt a twinge of guilt for tainting my friend’s view of the world, but moved quickly past it. If I didn’t get on that bus and head off Mr. Sinclair, Laura’s world might be tainted in more than theory.

  I tossed my keys onto the bathroom counter. In a perfect world, I’d find Sinclair and steer him back inside, but since the bus was about to leave—and since I didn’t know what Sinclair looked like—I figured the odds were good I’d be on that bus. Besides, I’d learned long ago that this wasn’t a perfect world. “For the Odyssey,” I said, referring to my minivan. “But, um, don’t rush getting to Family Day, okay?”

  At that, the rattle of the toilet paper dispenser stopped, and Laura’s head appeared over the stall door. “You want to explain that?”

  “Not really.”

  She took a deep breath, and I could see the worry in her eyes. “Keep my baby safe.”

  I nodded, then glanced at the stall door and the little boy chattering softly to himself behind it. “Ditto,” I said.

  Naturally, Timmy chose that moment to comprehend that Laura’s status had changed from temporary companion to full-fledged babysitter, and he announced his displeasure by screaming for me at the top of his lungs. My heart did another flip-flop, but I steeled myself and backed out of the room. He was safe with Laura, and he’d forgive me later. Now, though, my heart hurt. I told myself that saving the world from the forces of darkness benefits everyone, my children included. But damned if those maternal instincts don’t always listen to logic.

  Timmy’s squeals of displeasure were still ringing in my ears as I jogged across the parking lot to the bus. Everyone was onboard now, and the engine was running. Nurse Ratched had left, and only Jenny remained, clipboard in hand, a frown on her perky little face.

  “Jenny!” I called. “Hold the bus!”

  She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise and confusion. “Hey, Mrs. Connor! What’s up?”

  “I told Nurse Ra—Nurse Baker that I’d go along as a chaperone,” I lied. “Since I’m heading that way myself.”

  “Oh.” Her forehead creased. “She didn’t say anything to me . . .”

  “That’s because I just bumped into her.” I pointed to my van. “Timmy’s sick, so Laura’s taking him home, but that leaves me without a way to get to Allie’s school. And when I told Nurse Baker, she very kindly suggested that I go on the bus. As a chaperone, of course.” I smiled and waited. I was a little afraid that the “kindly” embellishment was going to reveal my story as pure fabrication.

  “But we’ve already got a chaperone,” she said. “Marissa Cartright. She’s already on the bus.”

  “Oh.” I considered heading back inside right then. Marissa Cartright is, to put not too fine a point on it, a pain in the ass. One of those mothers who lets her demon-child (and I mean that metaphorically, not literally) run wild to torment other children. Like, for example, my kid. Unfortunately, our youngest kids are in the same play group, and Timmy likes the other children. And I like the other moms. So I suck it up and put up with Marissa and little demon-Danielle every other week. That wouldn’t be so bad except that Marissa’s also a Coastal Mists volunteer and on the same PTA committees and the president of my Neighborhood Association and her daughter (a junior) is on Allie’s cheerleading squad.

  Honestly, sometimes I’d really rather just deal with the forces of evil.

  “Mrs. Connor?”

  I waved a hand, shooing away my thoughts. Marissa or not, I needed on that bus. “Nurse Baker thought Marissa might need help.”

  “Really? Even with Nurse Kelly along, too?”

  I just held out my arms and shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

  “Oh. Well, okay,” she said, not really caring.

  She signaled for the driver to open the door, and as the hydraulic mechanism hissed and moaned, I took the clipboard from her and scanned the names. If Dermott Sinclair wasn’t on there, my entire fabrication was for naugh
t. But there he was, a red check mark confirming his presence.

  “Dermott Sinclair,” I said, as if I had some vague memory of the name. “Hasn’t he been in a coma?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jenny said, then leaned closer, a conspiratorial gleam in her usually clueless eyes. “I told Nurse Baker that he’d joined the group, and she didn’t believe me. But then she saw him, and she said he couldn’t go, and he got all surly with her, but you know Nurse Baker, and she wasn’t about to give in.”

  She sucked in air. I did, too. “Anyway, she said that he wasn’t up for traveling, but he said he’d been cleared by his doctor, and she said he hadn’t, and he said he had, and—”

  “Jenny.”

  “Right. Anyway, that’s why we’re running late. She held up the bus while she went and got his chart. And sure enough, his doctor signed off. He’s allowed to go on field trips and participate in all activities. No restrictions, it says. Isn’t that wild? I mean, from a coma to walking around just like he’d never even been sick. It’s almost like a miracle.”

  “Almost,” I said, making a mental note to investigate his doctor.

  “Lady, are you getting on the bus or not?” That from the bus driver.

  I gave him a quick nod, thanked Jenny, and hopped into the coach’s stairwell. The hydraulics hissed again and the door slid shut.

  Since my seat was right behind the driver (Carl, I learned), I could see the fourteen or so passengers reflected in the oversize rearview mirror mounted over Carl’s seat. But I didn’t see any obvious demons. For that matter, I didn’t see any subtle ones. No leers. No slanty-eyed glances. No evil cackles.

  In fact, the passengers all looked pretty harmless. The men had tended to sit on the left of the bus, and the women on the right. Most were with a companion, looking at a catalog or doing needlepoint or arguing over some indiscretion. A few were sitting by themselves, focusing on cross-word puzzles or dozing.

  None looked intent upon foisting a reign of evil onto the world.

  And that, in a nutshell, is the problem when demons walk the earth. They blend in too damn well.