The cigar woman wasn’t alone. She had minions and the minions had dogs. The three of us were sprinting down the dark Frankfort streets, footfalls and barking at our heels, when we found a squat little police station. I think we all saw it at once because we simultaneously dove at the door, crashing against the glass. But when we spun around, there was no one following us. We sat against the door, panting until a copper opened the door and let us in. We all talked at once, babbling about a crazy redhead and her torture devices. I pointed at my ear, now crusted shut with blood. Burbank mimed his heroic rescue. Lenore waved her arms up and down. She still had no idea what was going on.
Eventually the copper got us to settle down, took our statements, and gave us some ice cream.
6/27/10
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