End of Days by Max Turner

reflection. A young kid with a stunned expression stared back. His face was bruised. His lip was split. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. I took a deep breath, locked it in my chest, tensed my muscles, and tried tobreak loose. Iron bit into my wrists. Three or four sets of manacles had to be in place. I held my breath and tried again, but nothing happened. I tested the air with my nose. Smelled coffee and gunpowder. The room was small, off-white, square, with plaster walls, cheap ceiling tiles, and a cement floor.
    My ears were still ringing from the officer’s gun. It was all I could hear until footfalls approached from the hall. The door opened and a man wearing street clothes and tiny, round-rimmed glasses walked in. He was squat, maybe a foot shorter than me, totally bald, with tree trunks for legs and skin that was well tanned. He might have been a professional wrestler at one time. For just an instant, I was reminded of the Nicholls Ward. I wondered if I’d ever seen him there, then I realized it was his scent. Something on his clothes, like antiseptic or some kind of cleanser, made him smell as if he’d just stepped out of a hospital waiting room. He had a folder in one hand. In the other was a Tim Hortons mug. He raised his index finger, which was easily worth two of mine, pushed the frames of his glasses farther up his nose, and took a cautious sip of coffee. Then he set his drink on the table, pulled out the chair, sat down opposite to me, spread the folder open, looked at it, took a deep breath, and waited. After a cold minute, he looked up at me.
    â€œYou’re Daniel Zachariah Thomson?”
    I nodded. “I go by Zack.”
    â€œI’ve been told that. I’m Detective Baddon.”
    Baddon. I’d heard that name at the zoo. But I’d never seen this man and didn’t know anything about him. He laced his fingers together and set them on the table. A wicked scar was on one of his wrists. I took a closer look at his face. He had to be in his forties. Tired, but alert. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling, then back to me.
    â€œYou know you were fingerprinted when you came in?”
    I didn’t know, but I said nothing. He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples, then slipped the glasses carefully back on. I noticed his eyes were watering. I couldn’t tell if he was upset, furious, or just plain exhausted. “You’re being charged with murder?”
    I nodded. And swallowed.
    â€œThe top of Johansson’s car was torn off. Like paper. Only a vampire is that strong, Zachary.”
    Vampire!
I heard that word and my heart started to throw two-punch combinations against my rib cage. He knew what I was! I could feel his eyes probing. They were intense and focused. Searching for clues. My mouth was open. It had dried up like the Sahara. I had to clear my throat before I could speak.
    â€œI didn’t do it.”
    He didn’t look convinced. “This is a complicated situation, Zachary. You’re going to have to give me a little more than that.” He flipped through the folder, then rubbed his hand over his head. “Why should I believe you?”
    Why would he think I was guilty? Moisture started beading on my forehead. Isn’t that just like the body? It takes all the water from your mouth and sends it to your sweat glands.
    â€œInspector Johansson is a friend.”
    I paused. He waited. His fingers were tapping on the plastic top of his coffee cup.
    â€œThat’s it?” He leaned forward on the table again. “You’ve been accused of murder. You’re not going to get a scolding and a slap on the wrist for this. . . . You have to give me more than that.”
    What else could I say? That the inspector was my supplier? Would that make sense?
    â€œHe dropped Charlie and me off at the house, then left. He was fine the last time I saw him. Well, tired. But he’s always tired. He was going to look for