Blood in the Ozarks

9. Creature of Habit

"Shit," I said under my breath. Before I even knew what my fingers were doing, I'd hit Call and pressed the phone to my ear. The pending ring was deafening as my mind cycled through a flood of all the situations that would prompt an emergency message.

There was a small click and my breath hitched.

"I see you got my message," a low voice answered.

"What's wrong? Where are you? Did you locate the uck? Do you need backup?"

"Woah, woah. Calm down, Ross," he laughed breezily into the receiver.

An anxious hand ran through the strands making up my ponytail and I exhaled. "Sorry," I breathed. "What's wrong? What's the 911?"

"The 911 is I found a place for my victory dinner. I hope you like to see your steak alive before you eat it."

"Har, har." I relaxed in spite of the false alarm. If my options were to be annoyed with Ortega or afraid for our lives, I would always take the former. "What did you really need?"

"I needed to know what you were doing on a beautiful Sunday evening such as this one."

My voice hitched up. "I'm in bed."

"Oh really?" he challenged.

"Who gave you this number?" I never was much of a liar. But defense I could do.

He gave a deep chuckle. "Don't worry about it. And you're not in bed. You're at some diner off Hill Street."

The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I instantly sat up in the cracked vinyl booth.

He was parked outside. I could see that monstrosity of a bike through the slats of the dusty blinds.

"You're a creature of habit, Ross. One day it could get you killed."

I ended the call and slapped my laptop shut before climbing out of the booth in a rage and running for the door. Rounding the corner and out the glass doors of the restaurant, anger rose in my chest and fueled every step. I spotted Ortega leaning against the cracked brick exterior of Jerry's Diner. He was posted up against the wall like a rough around the edges, darker version of James Dean.

"Goddammit, Tommy. This is not an emergency," I shrieked.

"You don't even know what it is yet," he said defensively. He stepped away from the wall and into the pale light of the diner windows. "Besides, how am I going to win this bet if you're spending all night researching?"

I rubbed my temples. "You don't." I let my hand fall to my side, taking in a deep breath. "Is that why you're here? To prevent me from doing my job? Because if you think—"

"Will you chill out for one goddam second?" he interrupted, placing both hands on my shoulders. The slight weight pushed my shoulders down as he stared down at me.

I sealed my lips tight and stared back waiting.

"Now, the reason I came to get you," Ortega said. Though a calm as his voice was aiming to be, his eyes still lit up like a kindergartener you'd offered a popsicle. "Turns out Little Bluff has a serious problem with lost souls."

So nothing. My shoulders slumped under his hands. He'd found nothing. "Every town has a problem with lost souls."

"And this one is no different. This town has a church filled with them. Waiting for someone like us to come move them along."

"They're waiting for a reaper," I reminded him.

"Tomato. Potato." Tommy gave my shoulders a gentle squeeze and I gave a half smile in return.