It took the three of them a long time and a lot of booze to get around to talking about last night. They came at it from odd angles. Dianna asked Gayle why she had a gun.
“It’s one of the few things Scott and I do together,” said Gayle. “We’re both army brats, so we grew up with guns. We go about four times a year. Sometimes more often. He hunts, but I don’t. Not my thing. At the range we’re about the same in terms of target scores.” She faltered and dabbed at her eyes. “I … can’t believe I actually … shot someone.”
“If you hadn’t,” said Patty, “Crow, Monk, and I would all be dead. You, too.”
“I know, but … at the range it’s just paper. I don’t even use the targets that have the drawing of the robber on it. You know the one with the old-fashioned cap and Lone Ranger mask? Scott has some zombie targets, but that’s him. I only use regular bull’s-eyes, you know?” She shivered. “Shooting those men. Those poor men…”
“Those poor men were drug-running gangbangers,” said Patty. “So, okay, they were under some kind of spooky mind control thing, but on any other day they’d have done every bad thing to you in the book. I know that type, believe me.”
And later …
Dianna looked at Patty. “Did you really use blood for Monk’s tattoos?”
“Yes,” said Patty. “That’s the only way it works.”
“But how do you know that?” asked Gayle, sipping her second vodka and cranberry juice. Her words were already starting to slur. Not much, but enough that she had to make herself overpronounce to keep from being mush-mouthed.
Patty shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. My grandmother taught me the way, and her grandmother before her, going way, way back. It skips a generation.”
“Had you ever done it before Monk?”
“No,” laughed Patty. “Until him I don’t think I even believed it.”
“You used your daughter’s blood?” asked Dianna.
Patty nodded gravely. “Yes.” She reached into her blouse and pulled out a chain on which was a vial of pinkish liquid. Dianna recognized it from before, when Patty had showed her chest tattoo. The vial sparkled as if frequently polished.
“If he steals the rest of my memories,” said Patty, “this will be all I have of Tuyet.”
“Well,” said Gayle slowly, “couldn’t you use some of that to—I don’t know—redo the tattoo of her?”
“No, that wouldn’t work.”
“Why not?” asked Dianna.
Patty stared at her, then at Gayle, and then at the vial.
“I—” she began and the doorbell rang.
“Hold that thought,” said Dianna, springing up. “Actual food!” She grabbed her purse. “Can you guys get some plates and napkins? In the kitchen.”
She was smiling when she opened the door.
Owen Minor’s smile was even bigger.