Devil's Cape by Rob Rogers

Author:Rob Rogers [Rogers, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780786949014
Google: q78FGQAACAAJ
Amazon: B004H1U3G4
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Discoveries
Published: 2008-03-14T11:00:00+00:00

WTDC News: Covering the Cape, covering the world, covering your lives.

From a station ad

Chapter Twenty-Five

Devil’s Cape, Louisiana

Five days after the deaths of the Storm Raiders

4 p.m.

The WTDC station wasn’t much to look at. A ’70s-era building made of chunks of concrete stuck at odd angles, it jutted out from a strip of small buildings that included three low-rent law offices, two massage parlors, and a fried chicken restaurant, all clustered along the interstate. The transmission tower was surrounded by anemic banana trees that reached little more than a third of its height. The station’s large sign had been designed in fat, curvy letters and numbers considered “groovy” at the time. It was a bit of an embarrassment today, but no one ever budgeted the money to replace it.

Despite the cosmetics he’d caked onto his face, Jason Kale didn’t even make it out of the parking lot before hearing the first crack about his eye. “Trying to peep through the keyhole, Kale? Get the doorknob in your eye?” He deflected that one with a wave and a smile. But it wouldn’t be the last razzing he’d receive. While walking through the foyer—decorated with late-’80s photos of Devil’s Cape and its citizens—he encountered the makeup artist who usually worked on him before a broadcast.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asked with customary bluntness. A lean woman with a large nose and lined face, she rarely smiled, hiding cracked, tobacco-stained teeth behind pursed lips. Her makeup, though, was of course impeccable.

Jason shrugged, smiled, and pushed his glasses slightly up his nose. “I was investigating a lead and, well, someone wasn’t too happy about it.” He’d decided before heading into work that afternoon that a vague answer might serve him better than a specific one.

“Uh huh,” she said, voice disdainful. “You down talking to the strippers? That looks like a BRI.”

He sighed, but went for the bait. “BRI?” he asked.

“Brassiere removal injury.”

He forced a smile. “No, ma’am,” he said. He’d found that a well-placed “ma’am” would occasionally pacify her.

It didn’t work this time. She glared at him. “That’ll be almost impossible to cover up,” she said, unceremoniously pulling his face down toward hers and peering at the injury, pulling his glasses out of her way and scraping away some of the makeup with a sharp fingernail.

“I’m not on the air tonight,” he said. “I’m just here to work on one of my stories. Tomorrow, probably. It’ll have a day to heal.”

She clucked her tongue scornfully. “It will be worse tomorrow,” she said, releasing his face. She shook her head. “Tell you what,” she said. “Don’t put that junk on your face tomorrow and I won’t try to break any crime stories.”

He delivered what he hoped was a winning smile, though she was already walking away. “Deal,” he said.

It galled him that he’d fought and captured the Troll with little consequence, but had been laid low by a kid too young to drive. He was lucky, he realized, sitting down at his unadorned desk.

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