Free Off the Grid by P. J. Tracy Page A

shooting today or what?”

10
    H arley Davidson’s historic Summit Avenue mansion had been home to the Monkeewrench offices ever since they’d shuttered their Minneapolis loft space almost two years ago. There had been a lot of blood on their last day there, the dead bodies had been real, and none of them wanted to go back ever again.
    The mansion was an old, imposing structure, crafted from local red stone, encircled by a wickedly spiked wrought-iron fence. Even at the peak of summer, when the perennial flower gardens exploded into full color and the fountains burbled cheerfully, it still seemed menacing.
    But now, as Halloween approached, the menace of the place had entered an entirely new dimension, thanks to some overzealous decorating. The antique French gargoyles Harley had recently installed hadn’t helped matters, but the overblown Halloween decorations he was putting the finishing touches on now sent it straight over the top.
    In the front yard, there was a vintage Shelby Mustang convertible with two life-sized skeletons dressed as bride and groom, along with a makeshift cemetery with real granite headstones engraved with movie monsters’ names. The tableau was augmented by a choreographed light show of ghouls on remote-controlled zip lines, outdoor audio playing sound effects, and several fog machines strategically placed around the property.
    “What do you guys think?” Harley called down to Annie and Roadrunner, his massive body teetering on a ladder as his black ponytail whipped in a freshening breeze. He draped the last of the cobwebs over the portico. “More?”
    “Enough!” Annie snapped, steadying the ladder. “Now, get down off that thing before you fall and kill yourself. And by the way, who gets real granite tombstones for their front yard?”
    Harley chuckled and clambered down, his jackboots about five sizes too big to manage the ladder rungs with any kind of grace. “I do. And stop complaining. You love this, Annie, you know you do.”
    “I love this? Are you kidding me? I’ve got some really expensive white stiletto heels sinking down into your grass right now, trying to save your sorry and big behind. Roadrunner, give me a hand.”
    Roadrunner had been squatting like a praying mantis over one of the troublesome fog machines, but he quickly unfurled his six-foot-seven frame and helped steady the ladder. “Sorry, Annie.”
    “Don’t be sorry. Just help me get this idiot down alive.”
    Once Harley had landed safely, he folded his arms across his broad chest, the leather of his biker jacket creaking like a haunted house door. He looked around his elaborately dressed grounds, which were now wreathed in fog thanks to Roadrunner, then gave a satisfied nod. “Brilliant, if I do say so myself. Great test run, everybody.”
    Annie rolled her eyes. “No trick-or-treater in their right mind is going to knock on your door, Harley. Besides, you don’t even like kids.”
    “I do too like kids. But sometimes I think I intimidate them. I thought this might win them over.”
    Annie grunted. “Perfect reasoning. Kids afraid of you? Turn your front yard into a terror trip.”
    “Kids love this shit, the scarier the better.” He stroked his full black beard thoughtfully as he eyed the spikes on the top of the fence. “As a matter of fact, I think we should get some skulls and jam them up there, give the place a more Vlad the Impaler feel.”
    Roadrunner nodded. “Not a bad idea. I know where you can buy some good fake skulls.”
    Annie pulled her heels out of the grass and marched to the front door. “You two frat boys stay out here as long as you want. I’m going back to work.”
    Hours later, every light was still on in the third-floor loft, and the three of them were hunched over their computers, working in focused silence.
    Annie was having the most fun she’d had since Grace MacBride took off to sail the Caribbean with John Smith. Annie liked John—all of them did—but let’s face it.