As I watch on my elaborate security camera display, an unmarked police car glides to a halt. I find myself contemplating how extensively my life has altered in but a few brief months. It began with a damsel, and has grown to include people I would otherwise have avoided at all cost, like a certain police detective who in years bygone would have been the mechanism of my undoing. Here he is, however, this tall, dark, and strapping man of virtue, sidling around my domain like he owns the place, giving me not the slightest qualm of anxiety.

Porter moves to the open trunk, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stacks several file boxes on the ground.

I have been wondering after him. We have crossed paths only half a dozen times since our wager ended so well for his career, and never once has he looked me full in the face. Then again, people respond differently to the vulgarity of truth.

When Porter’s partner unfolds from the passenger side and peers up at my camera, I know Porter has shouldered that immense burden by sharing it. I am both relieved and annoyed. Gray is another breed, and while I trust him to be honorable, I do not fully comprehend his character.

“The circle widens,” I say to my dog. When he hears Porter’s familiar tread, he begins to wag his tail. “Have I mentioned it is disheartening that you have taken a liking to him?”

Goody’s eyes swivel to mine. He is a far cry from the skeletal mutt I rescued from a drug den. Now he is happy, loved, and pushing the weight limit for his breed. This fills me with a deep happiness I cannot describe. I set him free as they come through the door, laden with their packages.

I lurk in the shadows of the library as my faithful hound distracts them. “What will it be, Gray? A spare arm, or a gander at something modern zoology has yet to classify?”

They start. Porter has the decency to look sheepish as he takes in my crossed arms and raised brow. Gray scours my face for a moment, looking every inch the thinker, then dons a well-worn mask of tottering pleasantry.

“I’m satisfied.”

This catches me by surprise, I must admit. Humans are curious to a fault, and even when they have had sufficient proof, still demand more. It is your chief flaw, in my estimation, but also, a powerful strength.

“What sort of man says such a thing?”

The creases around his eyes darken as he looks at anything but me. “The sort who knows when enough is enough.”

To trust his own intuition, his partner’s word, to place so much of his own reality on but a few interactions with me — he is indeed a rare man. I am not sure if I find it comforting or disconcerting, and this troubles me, but I will not buckle. I will not display weakness and do as I usually do — remove my teeth or somesuch. It would be disrespectful.

I pour three cups of black tar and lean against the oven, watching as they offload their burdens and collapse onto barstools. Theirs is a weary existence, spent in constant recognition of the fragility of bone and sinew, the delicacy of mortality. They are my opposites, and yet we have so much in common. My two warriors, exhausted before the day has even begun.

Porter removes his sidearm. “Sorry, Simon. I know you have rules, but I spend every day with him. If I suddenly dropped you like a bad habit, he would have been suspicious. Plus…I had to explain how I caught Evan.”

“Humans never drop bad habits. It’s biological fact. Your subconscious knows it, which is why they retain the name “habit” instead of some other term that means “that thing I used to do”.”

Gray chuckles. “Isn’t that the truth.”

I like the man more and more. He is comfortable here, in my company, more quickly even than Chef — a delightfully unforeseen eventuality.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Both men shift in their seats as if their reasons are ill-fitting in their brains. They exchange a look, and Porter bites the bullet.

“I felt bad…after Evan.”

I tilt my head. “I should think you would be pleased. What was it the papers said? ‘A stunning work of expert investigative technique’? Catching the perpetrator in the act, based solely upon a hunch derived from a few receipts for vitamins. They painted you a wizard!”

Porter blushes, and it is charming. He does not like taking credit for my handiwork. This proves his honor. “Come on…don’t.”

“The mayor gave you a medal, didn’t he?”

Gray’s slurp is a stuttering wet laugh.

“Seriously.” He frowns. “I feel bad you missed out on a meal.”

“It was rather unfortunate given how much effort I expended, it’s true.”

His face returns to its normal shade. He runs his strong hands over the stone surface. “So Pete and I got to talking. Seems a bit of a waste, you being here, hungry, having to chase down random convicts.”

“Especially since we have a warehouse of cold cases that need to be cleared.” Gray sets down his mug. “Some of which, only someone with your talents could manage.”

Ah, now the game becomes clearI I bow my head. “Thinkers. You never cease to amaze.”

Porter shoves a box into view with his toe. “So we’ve been sorting. Looking for a particular type.”

I bend down and open the box. It is full of manilla folders. I pluck one and lay it out upon the counter, sliding reports, scanning photographs.

Gray chews the inside of his lip as he watches me consider. “Every one is a violent offense. Every one had a jacket with the DA and was being assembled for trial, until someone said there wasn’t enough evidence. Every one of them struck us as being something you could put together fairly quickly.”

“TV dinners,” I whisper as I realize the sheer genius of the arrangement.

“Exactly.”

I leave the file there, a collage of sorrow, and try to imagine how such a bargain might play out. “This is treacherous ground, gentlemen. Have you really thought it through? Three centuries ago, the two of you would have kicked in my door with a crucifix in hand, but here you are, offering me several hundred lives.”

Porter’s gaze drops to his lap, but Gray is resolute. He nudges the empty mug toward me. I top it up, and with the squeak of a cork, make it a little Irish.

“I’ve been a cop for a long time. I have my pension. But I’ve been at it so long…I’m not sure what I’ll do with myself when I leave.”

“The soldier’s lament,” I whisper.

He looks up at the ceiling. “Eighties, we had a case. One of the first I caught. Young Jane Doe found by a park.”

The breath catches in my throat. I remember the dire news stories, the intervening reconstructions of her face, the somber little memorial of flowers left in her stead. That was another life, but I recall it as if it were yesterday.

“No DNA back then, and nothing when we ran it through again in the nineties. No serology. No hairs, fibers, nothing.” He runs a hand over his face, and for just an instant, I see the true depths of his fatigue. “She was small for her age. Every time I look at that field, I can see her.”

Porter’s eyes are shut. I know he has not been a detective long, but before this career, he was a military man. No doubt he saw his share of unforgettable carnage, but he says nothing. This moment is for Gray, and the formative event that minted him a hunter.

“We had our suspects, you know. Every month or so, we’d crack the file and have another go. Had a couple more show up, could never prove they were linked. Then Ridgeway dropped and they got forgotten. But the guy I liked best…well…he up and vanished not too long after.”

The eyes clamp onto my face mercilessly. I return the look. What he is thinking, I cannot guess. Is he angry that I did not help them when I could have? Is he implying that I have a chance to redeem myself for that oversight?

“Had a job, a life, a pretty long rap sheet, family in the area. Made all his parole visits. Then one day, poof. He’s gone. Still a warrant out on him for skipping, but no one has seen him since. Case is still unsolved.”

I comprehend then, and look down at the boxes. How many of these cases have already been unwittingly resolved by me? A small percentage surely, since I only take convicted offenders — or used to, until recently.

“Do you remember the taste of every person you’ve eaten?”

My memory is almost entirely based upon the olfactory sense, and only through centuries of training, have I even cared to retain the visual or auditory.

“With almost perfect clarity, Detective.”

Something about his face changes as he leans back and digs in his coat. The fortification that is his mask seems to dissolve, and he is a man again, holding out a plastic bag sealed with red tape.

I take it from him. Inside are some pieces of clothing graffitied and trimmed by science. One of my claws makes easy work of the tape. I lean in and fill my lungs with the stale smell. The grass, a cat, rubber gloves, the pollen, fetid water, decomposition, and then…there he is. Cigarettes smoked in binges, a fixation with baby lotion made less sweet by his stink.

I pull free from that mire, and cleanse away the memory with the alkaline perfection of my dark roast. After a long draught, I lick my lips and grant Gray his mea culpa.

He sags, features trembling, eyes misting over. Porter reaches out gently, and pats him on the shoulder. I hand the poor man a handkerchief and watch him bury his face in it. He grieves quietly, and when the shroud is lifted, he is one ghost lighter.

“Tell me what you made out of him.”

I turn back the pages of my cookbook to those years, when I lived in a house nestled in the trees. I was a woman then, and kept my distant neighbors happy with coffee cakes and casseroles.

“A meatloaf, two pot roasts, several mediterranean dishes. The variety wasn’t worth notice. I didn’t have the wondrous internet to feed my boredom with exotic dishes.”

He is chuckling and weeping at once. Goody, empathic as he is, puts his paws in the man’s lap and nuzzles his hand. Such wonderful symbiosis humanity has forged, despite the ravages of time and desperation. The man and the dog, they comfort one another, and soon both are satisfied.

“Now I just have to figure out who she is. If I do, can I tell the family that he’s dead?”

“At your own risk, but I do not mind.”

“Thank you.”

“We need to discuss terms,” his partner says. “This deal we’re making, it’s dangerous for all of us.”

“I have not agreed to it.”

They are taken aback. My ambivalence confounds them, and perhaps justifiably so, but these misgivings are sensible. I think upon my cousin Fred, and all that I have learned about our kind from him, or rather, from what I have done to him. I picture the ancient Legionnaire once again, with his cocksure smile and his bleeding heart. If there is anything I have realized, it is that this is a curse best borne alone. I cannot abide passing it on to yet another, least of all two men I admire.

Porter reads my withdrawn expression in a blink. “Fred taken to hunting yet?”

Another sore topic. My, how these busybodies pick at wounds when first they smell blood.

“No. I have been feeding him.”

He casts a knowing look to the file boxes. “Gotta be stretching your reserves a little thin.”

“You are a bastard,” I hiss, but he knows I mean no disgust.

“A clever, cheating bastard.”

I ruminate. It is a brilliant plan, a symbiosis unlike any other I have encountered, but they are men, and men are fickle things. I do not know how I lost my memories, what happened with those long dead Legionnaires, but I know that the answer has to do with warm blood and the conflicted human soul.

“You have no moral compunctions about this? Porter, you have a relationship. Gray, you’re an honorable man. This would undermine everything you’ve worked for.”

“For which we’ve worked,” Gray corrects with a smile.

I sigh. “Humor aside, sir.”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “We come into this world pretty selfish. We have to or we wouldn’t survive the early years, but what separates a man from a child is simple. It’s just one choice.”

“Made again and again,” Porter adds.

“You have to decide if you’re only ever going to be selfish, or if you’re going to coexist with the people around you.” Gray points at the box. “They made their choice. Jimmy and I made ours.”

I stare at my feet, a rueful smile in place. “And now it is my turn, I suppose?”

The old man shrugs, but his expression is keen. “I think you already have. You just have to live up to it.”

It is a persuasive argument. I chose to track down the Dinner-and-a-movie rapist. I chose to defend the women of my territory. I did it because I was able, and I could no longer tolerate his violence. To go back on that now would be a betrayal of what I am, whatever that is.

“Very well. I consent to a trial run, with the caveat that if circumstances change for any of us, the files will be returned and we go our separate ways.”

Our gazes meet at the crime scene photos.

“Sounds fine.”

“If we find it not to our liking, we shall pretend this never happened.”

Porter lets out a dark chuckle. “Never made a deal with a monster so easily. There’s usually lawyers involved.”

“Gotta pay your pound of flesh,” Gray mutters. “Which makes me wonder if we shouldn’t be sealing this with herbal tea and a dagger or something.”

“I have both if you’d feel more comfortable with the absurdity.”

They rise from their seats, all smiles, and instead clasp their hands to mine. As Gray makes his way upstairs to use the bathroom, Porter takes a look at the newest addition to my kitchen: a whiteboard calendar.

“Jury duty, huh? That’ll be interesting.”

“I have never once been accepted. There are ways.”

He chuckles. “Cooking lessons start soon?”

“Next week.” But this is obvious from the dry erase calendar. I take note of all his twitches. There is something else he wants to say, but cannot bring himself to.

He catches my eye and smiles uncomfortably.

“Spit it out, Detective.”

“Have you talked to Rebecca?”

I think back. The young lady has been somewhat flighty of late. We have been communicating in pictures — as she is aiding me in my quest to incorporate emojis. We speak on the phone, but she is always busy, and I have given her her space. I believed she was spending her time with him, but if he is wondering, that seems not the case.

“She comes home late. She’s gone when I wake up. Something’s bothering her, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Let it be. She will work through it.”

He nods. Gray reappears, and as they stand on the threshold of my lair, I recall how this parting so perfectly mirrors our first.

“Gentlemen.”

I watch them drive away, scratching behind Goody’s ears as he whimpers after them. I text Rebecca a confused face, an ice cream sundae, and a clock.

She sends me a face with a hospital mask and a thumbs down.

Meatloaf, a recipe

Given my sense of humor, you might anticipate a joke here regarding the pop musician and actor known as Meatloaf. I shall have to disappoint. However, should the opportunity arise, yes, I would make meatloaf out of Meatloaf. Despite his contributions to film — playing the undead biker lover of a transvestite transexual alien and a man with, what was the phrase — “bitch-tits”? I have been dying to shut him up.

But I like Meatloaf, you say, gentle reader.

And I say, so do I…with mashed potatoes, for preference. I would do anything for a good meal.

Ha!

Tools:

1. Baking sheet

1. Large and small metal bowls

1. Meat thermometer

Ingredients:

1. 2 lbs ground meat (You will use beef, or perhaps turkey. I use ground gluteus maximus, as it is one of the largest muscles of the human body and likely to be well-marbled with fat. If it is not, I lace it with subcutaneous fat found around the midsection.)

1. 1 small jar of sun dried tomatoes

1. 1 bunch of fresh basil

1. 2 large eggs

1. 2 Tbsp (from tube or can if you must) of tomato concentrate/paste

1. 3 Tbsp beef concentrate

1. 4 Tbsp red wine

1. 4 Tbsp water (possibly more, depending on your bread)

1. Olive oil

1. 1 small baguette (about 6 inches)

1. 1 small yellow onion

1. several cloves of garlic

1. Kosher salt and fresh black pepper

Instructions:

1. Preheat oven to 375

2. Line the baking sheet with foil and brush with oil

3. In the large bowl, mix the beef and tomato concentrate, wine, and water.

4. Tear the bread into chunks and soak them in the liquid mixture

5. Mince the garlic, onion, and basil, all to taste and desired texture

6. Chop up the sun dried tomatoes (I recommend doing about 1/3 - 1/2 of the jar, but this depends entirely upon how much tomato flavor you prefer, and how well the loaf holds together)

7. Scramble the egg in the small bowl and set aside

8. Mash the soaked bread until you have a paste. If your bread soaks up all the liquid and does not turn to paste, just add more water or wine until it is soft enough

9. Incorporate the egg into the paste with a fork

10. Dump in the herbs, tomato, and vegetables and give a good stir, salting and peppering to taste.

11. Incorporate the ground meat, smashing the whole lot together in the bowl with your hands until all elements are thoroughly mixed

12. Form into small individual loaves (about 4) and position on the tray

13. Bake for about 25-30 minutes. Juices should be running out and bubbling in the tray, a yellowish color. Once the surface has turned a nice dark brown, the loaves should be done, but check their internal temperature with a meat thermometer. They should reach 160 to be safe for human consumption (I prefer mine rare).

I usually serve these with buttered mashed potatoes and green beans that I toss in oil and the runoff from the baking sheet, cooked on the sheet at the same temperature for about 20 minutes. This recipe is so delicious and moist, it does not require the usual ketchup.

Which is good. I’ve rather lost my taste for it, I’m afraid.