Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [19]
Peter said, “You remind me of the killer finally captured, whose defense at trial was, ‘Look at all the people I didn’t kill.’ Any number of good years doesn’t wipe out the bad ones, in my estimation.”
“Suit yourself,” Bigby growled. “I don’t insist anyone love me, but I do require a reasonable degree of respect, even in my retirement. In the future, if you can’t summon the real thing, it’s best you learn how to fake it. I set up this meeting as a courtesy. Way back when I was still sheriff, you made it clear to me that you wanted first crack at Max, if he ever surfaced again. And while I no longer have any official authority to give you that chance, I think that Fabletown’s new sheriff might take my advice in this instance, seeing as how I’m the one he just asked to track Max down and do him in. If we have nothing else in common, I understand the importance of settling family business inside the family. So, even if the bureaucrats down in Fabletown bitch and moan, I figure I can guarantee you at least a week’s head start. Hell, I can waste that much time just saying goodbye to my wife and cubs. But know this, Peter, in a week I will step in, and once that happens I won’t let anyone get in my way.”
“I understand,” Peter said. “I haven’t forgotten that you vowed to kill me once.”
“I vowed to kill a lot of folks back in the day,” Bigby said. “I was a kill-everyone sort of wolf back then. Being one of the good guys now puts quite a collar around my neck. Many oaths are of a necessity on hold, pending further developments. But chafe though it might, I think it’s a collar worth wearing — for now.”
“Do you know where Max is? More specifically, I mean?”
“I’ve told you all I know. If you need more information, ask the witch. I suspect she’ll be trying to pin down his location.”
“Any idea why he’s here? Why now?”
“Like I said, go ask the witch.”
It was cold and occasionally treacherous going back down the hill, which seemed on consideration much more mountain-like after all.
“I’LL HAVE TO GO to Fabletown first,” Peter said. “Then I could end up going anywhere from there. It all depends on Max.” Instead of returning the Range Rover to Rose Red, as he’d promised, Peter first drove directly home to his wife, to have the conversation he least wanted to have. Best to get it out of the way, he thought. The cottage was filled with the aroma of the coming dinner. Resisting the many and constantly changing influences of modern mundy culture, which had affected most Fables in more ways than they cared to admit, Peter and Bo Piper resolutely, some might say stubbornly, continued in as many of the old ways as they could, including the habit of eating their big meal in the afternoon, rather than evening. There was a fat roast, with carrots and onions, cooking in the wood-burning oven. They didn’t have electricity out here and didn’t particularly want it. Another pan of red potatoes, in a butter and tarragon sauce, bubbled and sizzled on the burner above. An unbaked apple pie sat on the butcher counter nearby, waiting to be popped into the oven as soon as the roast came out. Peter and Bo sat at the kitchen table, opposite each other. They’d pushed the two place settings out of the way, so they’d have room to lean on the table, or pound on it, as needs must, without fear of breaking anything. Bo always cooked a big dinner, full of his favorite dishes, when she knew they were going to fight. She also brought out the good china. It’s as if she calculated that it was something nice she could do to partially offset all of the horrible things she might end up saying. Of course, like most men, Peter didn’t care what quality of dinnerware he ate from, so that part of her gesture was always lost on him. The good dinners helped, though. He noticed those.
“One way or another I’ll be back in a week,” Peter said. “That’s as long as Bigby’s given me to settle the matter. I hate having