Free Trial by Ice and Fire by Clinton McKinzie Page A

morning. This is almost like another woman.
    “Excuse me, ma'am,” I say, pretending to peer beyond her. “I'm here to pick up Cali Morrow.”
    She grins before stepping forward to punch me hard in the chest.
    “Don't give me a hard time, Anton.” She glances at my untucked shirt, tan jeans, and worn-out running shoes with their mismatched laces and duct-taped toes. “You look, uh, fine, too.”
    “I've got a coat in the car. Real cashmere. From Italy, I think.”
    “Don't worry about it. There's no one you need to impress unless you're thinking about taking up acting.”
    I laugh and touch the scar on my cheek. “Not with a face like this.”
    She looks at me speculatively. “You're not giving yourself enough credit. It gives you character.”
    A chubby orange cat slinks onto the porch between her boots. It starts to entwine itself between my legs. Even though I've never felt much of an affinity for cats, I politely bend to stroke it.
    “Who's this?”
    Before Cali can answer, the cat hisses then spits. The hair spikes all the way down its back. It leaps away from me as if I'd touched it with a hot wire and disappears into some bushes.
    “What happened? What did you do to him?” She looks as alarmed as the cat. She scans the yard and the bushes that wrap around it.
    I hold out my hands innocently. “I just petted him. He must have smelled my dog.”
    “But Lester
likes
dogs.”
    “Mine's sort of an unusual dog. She's actually a wolf.” Then I address the bushes. “Sorry, Lester.”
    Cali finally smiles again, unsure if I'm kidding and then seeing from my expression that I'm not. “A wolf? Wow. I want to meet her.”
    “I'll bring her around sometime,” I say without enthusiasm. Mungo is not the sort of pet I'm proud to own. Aside from smiling, wetting herself and cowering are not great dog tricks I'm anxious to show off. “Is it okay for Lester to be running around loose? With all the coyotes and big cats around town?”
    “Oh yeah. Lester can take care of himself. I've had him forever. He's been doing his own thing for nine years.”
    She closes and locks her door behind her. I note the gleaming dead bolt with professional approval. Like the bars, security lights, and alarm, it appears brand-new. “I hope you got some sleep today, Anton. This could go late.”
    I receive another punch when I grimace the way I had on the trail.
    “You're going to have fun, jerk.”

SEVEN
    T HE PARKING LOT at Molly's Steakhouse is overflowing with rented SUVs and Hummers, and even the street in front is loaded to capacity. We end up parking the Pig on a residential street almost two blocks away from the barn-shaped restaurant. Cali laughs when I press a button on my key chain to trigger the truck's alarm.
    “Who's going to steal that pile of rust?”
    “It's not as crappy as it looks. It's got a new engine and a CD player,” I tell her, not mentioning that there is also a small .22 Beretta hidden under the dashboard, and red and blue flashing lights concealed behind the front grill. “And I know you'll find this hard to believe, but there are a few people in this state who don't like me very much.”
    “I've heard that about you,” she teases.
    I try to enjoy the walk in the night air, which has finally begun to cool. The hours ahead, I expect, will be filled with too much noise and too many people. My vision scans the sidewalk ahead for any sign of a lurking psychopath. The eye in my head, though, is watching me. That trouble-waiting-to-happen feeling is still there. I could easily do something really dumb tonight.
    A warning flares in my mind when Cali's fingers brush against my wrist. The fluttering touch is repeated several times as we walk side by side on the narrow wooden sidewalk. Then her fingers lock around my wrist and slide down to my own fingers, where they entwine themselves. I don't have time to think about what to do or say—we're already there.
    People are standing in line to enter the