Chapter 25: Hunting Season

"And then the silly boy chooses today – of all days! – to be 'off sick'. Off on a motorbike with his friends more like. I swear I've had it up to here. The next time he comes into this place it will be his last…"

Chuck nodded along enthusiastically as her hands warmed around a cup of lemon ginger tea (with a dash of whiskey). She had never met this silly employee who put Young Adult books in the children's section, and who ate biscuits in the storeroom, inviting ants, and who went AWOL during their busiest season. But hearing about him, Chuck felt as fed up as if she had been working with him all this time…

In reality it had been mere hours since she walked into Tome Voyage and found herself manning the cash register alongside a woman whose name she did not know.

Only when the last customer had left and the door had been locked firmly behind them did she look Chuck in the eye and smile…

"Bonjour! I'm Halima. And you are?"

"I'm Ch – um, Emily."

"Emily, I owe you my life. Or at least a drink…"

Now they sat at a reading nook, clutching their cups and watching through the window as people shuffled by with their shopping.

"And I have a sneaking suspicion that little shoplifting incident was an inside job," Halima mused, adjusting her glasses.

Chuck nodded as if she had always suspected the same.

The woman had a way about her that made every opinion seem like the right one, every idea seem like a good one. When she talked she waved her hands around like she was conducting an orchestra, and Chuck followed along with the attentiveness of a first chair violinist.

After a while Halima slumped back against the wall and huffed, tugging on the bundle of braids that poured over her shoulder. "Perhaps if I were a dusty old Frenchman he would at least pretend to respect me."

"Mm," Chuck murmured contemplatively. "He sounds like a turd."

Halima tilted her head back and laughed out loud at that, revealing two sharp canine teeth. As they sank into silence, enjoying the effects of the tea, it occurred to Chuck that she had not yet gotten directions to the library. But before she could say anything Halima sat up abruptly:

"Why don't you replace him?"

Chuck felt her eyes go wide. "Me? I don't have a work visa." She didn't even have a real passport.

"Pas de problème. I'll pay you under the table. It will only be part time while I look for a permanent replacement…"

Chuck was already starting to imagine herself flying around the place on a rolly ladder. But after a moment she corralled her thoughts; shook her head. She was not meant to be drawing attention to herself. And working in a busy bookshop every day seemed like the wrong way to stay incognito…

"I can't. I say a word and it's as good as an American flag popping out of my mouth like a cuckoo clock. People would notice."

Halima waved this away. "You think anyone will look at a beautiful, fashionable white woman and wonder about your immigration status?"

Chuck did not know what to say to that. And if she were being honest with herself, she loved the idea of getting paid to spend her days surrounded by literature. Besides, how likely was it that anybody was actually looking for her anymore? Dwight had two watches; he would now be after the one belonging to Eddie. So if anyone was in danger of another encounter with him it was her Papen County family.

But she promised Ned she would lay low…

"Come now," Halima coaxed. "You get an employee discount on books."

At that, a dry eraser swept over the chalkboard of Chuck's mind, wiping away all doubt.

"So, when did you say I could start…?"

XXX

Once upon a time, Olive tried to smuggle a gun into the Papen Country Prison via pie. Of course the incarcerated Ned had refused (in hindsight it really should have been something more discreet, like a shiv) but she held onto it. Never in a thousand years did she imagine she might actually use it…

To an implicit extent, they had always relied on Emerson to take care of any wetwork. But the PI was only one man. And if his recent behavior was anything to go by, it was well past time that they learned how to defend themselves…

"Olive, why are you rubbing that coffee pot like a genie might pop out of it?"

"…huh?" Olive blinked, realizing she been drying the same spot for a little too long now. With a frown she put the towel down.

"Emerson is being weird. Last night he spent about two hours here, but he was so busy watching the street outside he barely touched his pie. And I poached those pears to perfection. Which has me thinking he was too full up with worry about something to even pretend to have an appetite."

Ned furrowed his brow; it was his turn to stare off into space now. "That would have to be a pretty big something…"

"Something like Dwight."

At that, the color began to drain from his face, leaving him a shade not unlike curdled milk. "Why would he come back here? I mean…not to go all Criminal Minds but I feel like this is the last place he would look."

"Especially since Eddie has the whole disappearing act down pat. He wouldn't be found unless he wanted to be…"

Ned's wandering eyes suddenly snapped into focus as a wave of outrage flooded his face. "He's setting a trap. He's setting a trap and he's making us all bait."

Olive was equally galled. Papa Pie Maker clearly preferred to share information on a need-to-know basis but this was something they needed to know. Dwight was too smart to attack Eddie head on; surely he would go after the 'weaker' members of Team Pie Hole. The weakest. The one who did not have the power to kill him with a single touch. The one he had already manhandled, not once but twice…

"Ned," she said, trying very hard to keep her voice steady. "I know how you feel about–"

"Do you still have that gun?"

"…yeah?"

"Do you know how to use it?"

And here she was thinking he would need convincing. "Hell yeah…"

It was one of the few things her father – an avid collector of weapons – had taught her, some 13 years, 14 weeks, 8 days, 2 hours and 5 minutes ago. Or rather, he had paid someone to teach her, after a fair bit of nagging on her part, as she watched him shoot clay pigeons out of the sky.

Target practice was never a hobby she truly found interest in; she had only wanted his attention. So she became quite good at it. Not as good as him, but better than most of his (admittedly inebriated) friends.

Which hardly endeared her to them. Quite the opposite in fact…

Rather than let those hours of effort go to waste, Olive doubled down, coaxing her instructor into teaching her about all manner of guns, until she became the licensed owner of one. A revolver, small but powerful…

Now - in a patch of woods not far from where a masked 'horseman' once attacked – Olive showed Ned how to use it. Over and over and over again, until his anxiousness gave way to mild annoyance. Only then did she feel comfortable placing it in the palm of his hand.

She watched the Pie Maker stare at it for a minute, before a grim determination came over him. And in that moment she remembered how familiar he was with the weight of life and death.

"All right, gunslinger…"

Her hands cradled his significantly larger one, guiding it to the empty fruit cans she had lined up.

"You know what to do."

XXX

When Dwight Dixon absconded with his beloved Lincoln Continental, Emerson thought to file a stolen vehicle report. A moment later he realized that – as with Charles Charles – he could not call the police, lest they should actually find the culprit. While they were likely to come to a thousand conclusions before reaching 'dead man walking', the PI simply could not take that chance.

Instead, he decided to use a less legitimate route, reaching out to anyone and everyone he knew to be a purveyor of purloined cars, from here to Coeur d'Coeurs, to North Rush and beyond.

Emerson made it clear to his frienemies in the underworld that he was not just on the lookout for any old Lincoln Continental, but a mid-1960s Lincoln Continental with brand new suicide doors…

Knowing what he knew about the recent Dwight sighting, it came as no surprise then when he finally received a tip about one such vehicle, recently offloaded for only half its worth ("one might call it a steal," the fence had snickered).

"How far outta town was this?" he inquired. "Uh huh…well, hold onto it for me."

"Not like I have a choice…"

Emerson scoffed and hung up abruptly. Heaving a sigh, he settled back into the warm leathery embrace of his chair, and stared up at the ceiling. He had not liked the idea of keeping his friends in the dark, but he knew as well as Eddie that Ned would object; go out of his way to obstruct. Even if he could be convinced to bait the trap, to put Olive at risk, Emerson had little faith that he would be able to act cool under pressure. The Pie Maker was like a colt, skittish and sensitive. The fact that he could not stand to undead so much as a piece of fruit was a testament to that…

Meanwhile Dwight – despite his Bible salesman demeanor – was an adept predator. He would only attack if he thought he had the advantage.

So they had to proceed in secret, for now at least. If all went according to plan, no one would ever know how close they all had come to the edge...

A/N: Hi, Pie Hoes! x