Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  His eyes crinkle almost closed and he laughs. “Retwining. Or replaiting.”

  I giggle. “Like I said, mushing. See, I can do this.” I hold one hand up, palm out and…

  He enfolds my hand in his larger one.

  Warmth embraced me. And love. I didn’t know the man, but I knew I loved him.

  My chest ached.

  What was happening to me? My hands shook so hard I had to stop knitting.

  Forty-five minutes later, I tapped out a few desultory notes about Dave. My office computer read 9:00 p.m. I would just lay my head on the desk and rest. Lids heavy, I cradled my head on my hands. Just a few minutes. Lulu, Lulu, what to do about Lulu. I sank into a doze, deeper, deeper.

  Eyes that glowed amber stared into mine, impatient eyes, intelligent eyes, waiting eyes full of age and humor and sentience.

  Waiting for what? Me?

  I jerked awake.

  Was that magic? Was I magic? Absurd. So why did my gut say go with it? Okay—I definitely didn’t have glowing eyes. Like a vampire’s? Was I one? I almost laughed. No way. Maybe a fairy? Like Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo? Gods, no. A witch? A road trip to Salem might help. Not! Was this how Alice felt when she’d tumbled down that rabbit hole? Shit, was Alice real, too?

  “Cookie, get to it!”

  I hissed out a chuckle. Bernadette. It didn’t get realer than that. No member of our household went to bed disheveled and dirty. Ever. How had she known that’s exactly what I’d planned to do?

  Paranoid, I snatched my gun from the closet and dragged myself up the stairs followed by a sleepy Grace. I ran the tub in the main bathroom, preferring that to the shower in mine. The full bath experience was very, very much called for.

  As the tub filled, I worked some antihistamine cream across my itchy “magic” wrist, and it thankfully quieted.

  We had a deep drilled well that produced enough water for the whole Sahara. My years at Fort Huachuca, the U.S. Army Intelligence Center in Arizona, gave me an abiding lust for baths, and I loved to run the water endlessly. If awake, Bernadette would chide me, but I was confident she’d traipsed off to dreamland once I started the bath.

  I added a touch of eucalyptus oil and sank into wonderfulness. Water embraced me to my neck, the sound mesmerized me, and I closed my eyes.

  Cheers, no amber eyes appeared.

  Minutes later, Bernadette’s virtual tsk, tsk impelled me to twist off the tap. I stood, flicked off the bathroom lights, and submerged again. The darkness soothed me. Steam rose, brushing my senses, a moist cloud of down.

  I leaned back, closed my eyes, and sank deeper into the silence.

  If magic is real, Dave, why didn’t you tell me? Why?

  Caressed by darkness and water, I sank into a meditative state. Calm. Deep. Endless.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Great. Now I was reliving Poe’s “The Raven.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  I blinked my eyes open. Not a raven. Just an idiot tossing pebbles against the bathroom window. Anger and anxiety fizzed my brain. I rose from the tub. And here I’d thought the day couldn’t get any worse.

  Without turning on the light, I dried myself, slipped on my nightshirt, and groped for my Glock. I tiptoed to the window and peered into the night.

  Below stood a man. He leaned down, picked something off the ground, and tossed it up. Classy. Tall, big, the moonlight carving half his face into planes and angles, the other half shaded by a hat. I reached out sensory feelers, and failed to find his psychic signature. Dammit.

  Back flat to the wall by the window, I awkwardly slid it open. A frigid wind gusted inside.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I want to come into the house, obviously.” His voice was more growl than speech.

  “Who are you?”

  “Special Agent James Larrimer, and I’m fucking cold.”

  peered down. He peered up.

  “You’re the idiot standing outside in this freezing weather. Come to the side door.”

  I pulled on some jeans and shoes, then sped down to the mudroom. Flicking on the outside light, I eyeballed the peephole. A billfold showed a gold badge bearing the words “Special Agent” and “US” topped with an eagle. It also held a photo ID.

  It looked real. My gut said it was.

  He lowered the billfold. “Well?” Still pissed.

  “Who am I?” I asked, knowing he would have been briefed.

  “Special Agent Clea Reese. FBI interrogator. Former CI interrogator. Farmer.”

  “What’s my middle name?” It was in my files, but I never used it.

  “Artemis. For Christ’s sake, open the—”

  I unlocked the door and backed away, gun aimed at his heart.

  Hands raised, palms outward, a large man with unreadable shields stepped inside and kicked the door closed.

  The mudroom shrank. Gods, he was a mountain, maybe six-three or four. Not like Ronan. I mean, Ronan was big. This guy was big. That made no sense. Gurrrr.

  Was this the man from the Feed and Seed? My watcher? He felt different with those shields in place, the upper half of his face shadowed by the dim light and his battered Indiana Jones fedora.

  “Chill,” he said.

  Mr. Laconic. “You chill, asshole.”

  Even shaded, I caught his expressively raised eyebrow.

  I always wished I could do that. “Let me see your badge again.”

  He drew out a bi-fold, flipped it open one-handed. I reached for it, gun holding steady.

  Department of the Interior, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Special Agent. A duck and a fish stamped the center of the badge. I’d never seen one like it. To the right of the badge, his ID read James Larrimer, like he’d said. The picture sure didn’t capture that “Danger, Will Robinson!” vibe.

  I focused on him again. Shit. I hadn’t even seen him draw his 9mm.

  “Put that thing away,” he said.

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll do mine if you do yours.” Said with acerbic dryness; the whiff of laughter lurked underneath.

  Cocky bastard.

  I needed to see his face, his eyes. “Take off your hat.”

  He nodded, complied.

  I sucked in a breath. Eyes of blue Pacific waters blazed, only softened by their frame of laugh lines.

  “I know you.” My senses jacked up to high alert. “You were at Dave Cochran’s crime scene.”

  “Yes.”

  “Watching me.”

  “More,” he said, his tone honeyed granite and dark mystery.

  Yes, more. That song, the harmonic resonance we’d shared—I caught not a trace coming from him now. Could he possibly be that deft at shielding? And if so, why? Or was it even real? Whatever the case, I had no intention of bringing it up and sounding like some woo-woo weirdo.

  I waved my gun toward the kitchen door. “Go on in.”

  In the kitchen’s brighter light, I caught the worn-at-the-heel boots, the crisp jeans that defined massive thighs, the beautifully knit Aran sweater. I directed him to a kitchen chair. He dropped his backpack to the floor and hung his parka on the back of the Windsor.

  He slid his gun into his shoulder holster, then spread his arms, hands palms up. “See, trust.” He bent down to pet Grace, who offered him her belly for rubs.

  Traitorous dog. Was he early thirties? Older? Hard to tell. He sat, but I remained standing.

  Even seated, an imposing man, built like a boxer, a heavyweight, but minus the fat. He leaned back in the chair, relaxed, almost smiling, but not quite. Like I amused him. Smug. I felt like punching him.

  Raven hair cut raggedy several inches below his ears, tucked behind them. His face, all chiseled and tight and bronzed, but for a disfiguring crosshatch of scars on his cheekbones, and a sinuous scar that traced from his temple to the left side of his jaw. A bladed nose, squared chin. Somewhere along the line, American Indian had melded with Anglo. Not a handsome man, but an arresting one.

  A sharp twinge. My e
lectrocuted wrist ached from holding my gun. Not ready to put it down, I again focused my mind, and was finally able to sense hints of the man beneath the undoubtedly deadly exterior.

  Self-possessed, confident, intense, but quiet. Oh, so quiet. Like a still lake just before the monster bursts out and eats you.

  One scary dude.

  “Why were you there, at the Feed and Seed?” I asked.

  “Investigating.”

  “Why are you here now?”

  He cocked his head as if I’d just uttered a non sequitur. He sat there, calm, loose, but energy simmered beneath the surface.

  We’d segued into a staring contest. I was heart-bruised and exhausted and so frigging annoyed I could scream. A perfect competitor, in other words. Go me!

  I leaned back against the counter. “Let me repeat, what the hell are you doing here, Mr. Fish and Wildlife?”

  That’s when he arched that eyebrow again. “ASAC Balfour said you’d be expecting me.”

  Bob? How could he? And he hadn’t said a word. I hesitated, then lay my gun on the counter within easy reach. “Is that so?”

  “So,” he said.

  He eased the chair down, stretched out his long legs, and crossed them at the ankles.

  “How about I put on some coffee?” I sighed.

  “Tea, if you have it.”

  That voice shivered through me. I’m a sucker for voices.

  “Sure.” I reached for the upper cabinet, got out the Earl Grey, held it up.

  “Excellent,” he said.

  A ping inside me, of familiarity, or its illusion. But I wasn’t a dumbass, didn’t give him my back as I put on the water for tea, then did up Mr. Coffee for me. What I saw, what I felt, was a man riddled with contradictions, most of him hidden beneath strong shields. Fascinating. Bob, huh. Larrimer was so not Bob’s buttoned-down type.

  I reached for my iPhone that I’d left on the table at dinner. Gone. I’d swear, Bernadette spent her life tidying up.

  “Who comes to a person’s house at night like that?” I opened and closed drawers. Damn it, Bernadette.

  “My orders were to come now.”

  “So why didn’t you knock?” I asked.

  “I did. Nobody answered.”

  “And the dog didn’t bark? Really?”

  His eyes gleamed a challenge. “You tell me.” Again, he tipped the chair onto two legs. It creaked.

  “You’re going to break the chair,” I said, all snippy. “Believe me, you don’t want to tick Bernadette off.” Now that would be something to see.

  I was angry… that he’d interrupted my bath… that he’d drawn on me when I hadn’t seen him… that he’d… crap, just because.

  He lowered the chair. “Sorry.”

  He looked sincerely chagrinned, a choirboy caught stealing a smoke. Except his eyes laughed. Who was he?

  I kept him in focus while my hand crawled around the junk drawer hunting for the phone until I felt the smooth silicone of its case. Finally. I speed-dialed. “Hey, Bob.”

  “Christ, Clea, you okay?” Sleep scratched his voice, and worry.

  “I’m fine.” I lowered my voice and slid onto a stool. Larrimer’s eyes tracked me. “I’ve got a Fish and Wildlife Special Agent sitting my kitchen.”

  “Tarnation.”

  “You were supposed to tell me, correct.”

  He sighed. “Sorry, Young Pup, I forgot.”

  Bob never forgot. “What’s up with you lately, Old Man?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Have you met him?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Big. Black hair. Asshole.”

  Larrimer all right.

  “One more thing, Clea,” he said. “He’s investigating the Cochran homicide.”

  “What?” Dave was mine. Mine. “Dammit, Bob, you know I want that case. What makes Larrimer—”

  “He’s a pro.”

  “That’s obvious.” Phone white-knuckled in my hand, I left the kitchen to walk deep into the living room’s gloom. I lowered my voice. “The Cochran case? Fish and Wildlife?”

  “I don’t have details,” Bob said. “Just orders.” He coughed. “I’ve, uh, I’ve talked to Witzel.”

  “Who?”

  “He’s our new SAC.”

  Whoa—special agent in charge and head of the Boston bureau. So, there’d been a change of the guard, what do you know. “You’re still the assistant?” Bob desperately wanted the SAC post. And here he’d been passed over again. Damn them. He must be devastated, but he’d never show it. He was a good man. An ache bloomed in my throat.

  “Yes, I remain ASAC. Anyway, I felt bad, real bad about our conversation, so I went back to Witzel. Hell, I knew you’d investigate no matter on leave or not. The SAC approved you working in a limited capacity, as an adjunct under Larrimer on the Cochran case.”

  Under Larrimer! As an adjunct! What the hell did that mean? But still, I’d be official. My assent died on my lips. My gut, that ever-present nag, tightened like a Tupperware seal. I flopped into the red chair. Alarm bells clanged loud enough to still my knee-jerk reaction, to make me think.

  Something was hinky about this offer. Very hinky.

  Search for the mysteries beneath the surface, Dave always said. It felt like a set up. Why?

  I gnawed my lip.

  Gods. Working Dave’s case under Larrimer. But what choice did I have?

  Bob grunted. “If you don’t want—”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” I said. “And you’ll do your best to fast-track me off this leave crap, right?”

  “Good,” he said, his tone pleased. “Of course, I’ll get you back on board ASAP. You’re missed.”

  “Thanks, Old Man.”

  “Take care with Larrimer,” he said, a bite in his voice.

  He’d sounded almost jealous. “Will do.”

  “Now I’ll excuse myself to get back to business.”

  As if on cue, a background titter of high-pitched laughter.

  A ping of recognition, and as I disconnected, the ping solidified. Taka. That laugh was frickin’ Taka’s. Dear gods, was Bob doing friends with benefits?

  I raked a hand through my hair. Geesh. Nothing for it. Now I had a man to deal with who took up way too much space in my home.

  I walked back to the kitchen. “Sorry about the mix up.”

  “Point of fact,” he said. “Balfour’s an asshole, too.”

  He’d heard that? “Don’t go there. Period.” Shit. Had he heard the “under Larrimer” comment, too? One snarky comment, and he was dead meat.

  All he did was nod.

  I fixed his tea and my coffee and handed him his mug.

  “I hear you knit when you interrogate. Interesting. Clever.” His hands enveloped the mug, hands cut with those same faint crosshatched scars.

  A memory jogged my brain. Larrimer. Sure. Something about him leaving the Bureau under murky circumstances and Afghanistan. “You used to be with the FBI.”

  “I was.” He nodded. “How about you take a seat. Relax.”

  And that’s when I realized I wasn’t wearing a bra. Blood charged to my face. My boobs are ample, even if I could still pass the pencil test. I scooted into the mudroom, grabbed an old chamois shirt and slipped into it.

  My brain swirled around Larrimer’s FBI connection. He’d been legendary. A hunter. A man who cleaned up others’ messes. Was called a shooting star. Then he’d… What? Afghanistan. Something had happened there. Maybe five years ago, before I’d joined the bureau.

  When I returned to the kitchen, my face felt normal. His, on the other hand, looked impassive, except for those half-lidded eyes.

  “I could have lent you my coat if you were cold,” he said, voice flat, but underneath… the jerk thought I was a-laugh-a-minute.

  I speared him with a look. “What was with the stupid rocks at the window?”

  He frowned. “Who has all the lights off at nine-thirty?”

  “New Hampshire farmers,” I said.

  “It’s fr
eezing out there.”

  “Oh? You noticed? You could have waited until tomorrow. That would have been the genteel thing to do.”

  He grimaced. “Actually, I couldn’t.”

  “Sure you could.”

  “The Old Crows Motor Inn is full.”

  I saw the impending train wreck. Not happening. “Some B&B’s are—”

  “I tried several. Most are closed for the winter. I found one open in Shannon, but it’s full, too.”

  “Keene.”

  “Too far.”

  I mentally gnashed my teeth, did the verbal sweetness-and-light thing. “It’s not too far.”

  “It is for what I need to learn about Cochran’s operation.”

  “Operation? You mean the Feed and Seed?”

  “No.”

  I’d had it. “I am not a hotel.”

  He shook his head, an almost-smile toying with his lips. “I told Balfour you’d have none of it.”

  I’d kill Bob, and enjoy it. “You told… Damn him! He said you could stay here, right?”

  He tugged a finger down his scar. “He did.”

  “There’s always the barn,” I said.

  Those blue eyes glimmered. “Cold. Way too cold.”

  He was playing with me, and I was living The Man Who Came to Dinner, that old movie where the pain-in-the-ass guy breaks his leg and stays and stays. I chuffed out a breath. “Fine. You can take my office. There’s a daybed.”

  “Thank you.” He reached for his pack.

  “Not yet. Not by a long shot.”

  “But it’s bedtime, for you, at least.”

  “My ass. Dave Cochran is a friend.” My heart thumped. “Was a friend.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Startled by his sincerity, I waited for the bada-bum. Silence. “And…?”

  He leaned forward and crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “You’re not going to like it.”

  We moved to the living room. I took the red chair and reached for my knitting. He took the couch and stretched out his legs.

  I began to knit, my critters’ cashmere sliding through my fingers. I just knew what was coming. He’d yammer on about how I was his underling, had to obey his every word. Yada yada yada.

  Larrimer swiped a hand across his face, as if regretting the words to come. “Cochran was trafficking in animals, endangered ones. Importing them and selling them to the highest bidder.”