Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1) Page 5

  My released breath became a laugh. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

  He retrieved his pack, extracted a MacBook Air, and tapped a few keys. “I can email you some of the evidence. Enough to convince you. Some photos of our undercover man making a deal with a Cochran lackey and taking possession of an endangered Santa Catalina Island fox.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t care what you show me, tell me, Dave would never do something like that.”

  His face tightened. “Honestly? I don’t give a shit if you believe me or not. You’re my adjunct, and this is our trajectory. Remember that.”

  “Bite me.”

  He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. His words were clipped, his voice dark and low. “Believe this. Someone in his organization killed him. Tortured him.”

  My eyes lost focus, again saw Dave’s bloodied corpse. “I saw.”

  “Clea.” He infused my name with warmth. “I know you and he were close. And, again, I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it. Go on.”

  “We believe whoever killed him wanted something from him. Supply routes, money, sources. Maybe all three. Cochran’s setup was as elaborate as it was well orchestrated. It was only luck we chanced on it two months ago. One of the flunkies messed up. I’d been trailing him and found him badly injured with a dead Canada lynx on his hands. While they’re on the threatened, not endangered, list, it’s still illegal to hunt, capture, or sell them. He didn’t know the guy heading the organization, but he gave us a name, and from there…” He paused. “We followed the crumbs to your friend.”

  I stilled. “I’ll work with you. No problem. But Dave Cochran was a good, good man. Nothing you can ever say will convince me that he did this thing. Nothing.”

  His eyes deepened to a murky blue. Startling and strange. “That’s your choice. We will shut the organization down tight, lock the perpetrators away, keep the animals safe.”

  “What about Dave’s killers?” My voice spat only a fraction of my fury. “What about them?”

  “We want them, too.”

  hen my head hit the pillow, sleep plodded on leaden feet. I picked up my go-to “blankie,” a ratty copy of The Fellowship of the Ring, and started to read. My lids finally grew heavy when Merry and Pippin were trapped by Old Man Willow in Tom Bombadil’s wood.

  I put the book aside and turned out the light.

  The helicopter smells of leather and tobacco… excitement!… fear. I don’t want to do this! But, I do. I do.

  Glass curves in front of me and beneath my feet, and as the impossibly small machine rises, Tommy’s copter, the one in front of ours, lifts up, too.

  Dust whirls and soon the tips of conifers slide below us. And then, the canyon. Ohmygod, it’s beautiful. The earth vanishes, the canyon’s maw sucks us in. We dip! I clutch my thighs, sweat coats my body.

  His copter drops, too.

  In my mind, Tommy laughs, calls me a scaredy-cat.

  Our copters rise, and with the thud-thud-thudding of blades, we stream along the canyon, a river of glorious blue gliding below.

  Beautiful. So beautiful.

  But, wait…

  I lean forward, seatbelt tugging. Are the blades of Tommy’s copter slowing?

  Slowing and slowing…

  His copter tilts left, right… a drunken sailor just before…

  I lift my right hand, palm out, trying, trying…

  The tail flies up, nose plunging down and down.

  A jagged boulder… reaches up… stabs the fragile metal.

  Shards of silver exploding…

  I scream.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  “Tommy!”

  “It’s Larrimer, and you were screaming your brains out.”

  My fingers pressed against closed lids, expecting the greasy feel of blood. Except hands banded my upper arms. Large. Calloused. Alive.

  Not Tommy’s. Sticky tears pulled at my eyes as I blinked them open. I stared down at the quilt, waving a hand at the stranger holding me. “I’m fine. Let go.”

  An exhale. “You want some coffee?”

  “Yes, no, I’ll make it.” I pushed to a sitting position.

  “Already made. I’m going out. I’ll be gone all day.”

  The door groaned, then clicked closed. He’d slipped from the room on silent feet. Woozy as always after Tommy’s Dream, I pinched the bridge of my nose. My heart squeezed.

  The down comforter landed on the floor when I left the warmth of my bed. Cold pine boards slapped me further awake. I tugged on my cargo pants, pulled a sweater over my tank, slid on the socks I’d finished knitting last week for Bernadette, ones she’d rejected as too hot.

  The dream was the same as always. I paused. No, something was different. I’d held up my right hand, palm out. Tonight was the first time I’d ever recalled that. I’d done it right before Tommy crashed. Just like in the memory with the kind man. I’d been trying to do something. What?

  The sky still dark, I made my way to the barn. We’d had an overnight dusting of snow, and it flew every which way as I did my chores.

  Sorrow draped my shoulders, a sodden shroud. But the chores helped. There was order and peace to the routine of the farm. I loved the snuffles of the beasts, their sighs and chatters, the smells, too, of heat and mulch and fecundity.

  Tommy knew that, knew how I loved the place and its animals. Maybe that sense of life was why he’d gifted me his half of the farm.

  Or maybe it was to needle me with the responsibility of his grandmother. I smiled. Yeah, that would be typical Tommy.

  I might have grown up here, but I had never been a part of it. Now it was a part of me.

  Time for the tiny violin? Dave would say.

  Hell no, I’d answer.

  Young ladies don’t swear, he’d reply.

  This one does, I’d say.

  We’d both grin.

  Goddammit. Goddammit!

  This time yesterday, Dave was alive.

  Chores complete, I worked in my office gathering the elements of the case. If I was to be an adjunct, I’d be a damned fine one. So who wanted Dave Cochran dead? I Googled, and found stuff on Dave and Lulu on the Web. Not a single thing related to magic or murder, and zero on Dave’s wife. Curious. Like she’d been erased.

  I called a friend at the state lab. With Dave’s prints and DNA, a pal at the Bureau could run them through the law enforcement databases.

  “Marcia,” I said when the lab’s assistant administrator answered.

  Chitchat, then I gave her Dave’s name.

  “No got ‘em,” Marcia said.

  “How’s that possible? I understand his DNA might not be back, but his prints—”

  “I’ll look into it. Promise.”

  As we clicked off, a mosquito of unease buzzed me.

  I grabbed an early lunch at the computer, and while I ate, reviewed yesterday’s notes and photos and made two piles, one related to… can’t believe I’m thinking it with a straight face!… magic and the other, to practical.

  Dave: “I’m your guardian. A Guardian.”

  No, he wasn’t my guardian. But “A Guardian?” I added it to the “magic” pile.

  He’d held back death until I arrived. Could I have saved him if I’d gotten there earlier, driven faster?

  Stop!

  Dave: “Shield Lulu. Protect you.”

  So whoever had killed Dave would threaten Lulu and me, too. Craptastic. A major practical pile.

  Dave: “Take the chest.”

  No clue, so I tossed it into the “magic” pile. Why not? Oh Dave, you never said a word about things of power and guardians and magic. You were never a woo-woo guy. Just what gives?

  Dave: “The Storybook. Find. Green cover you bit. Take it. Read.”

  I’d bitten the cover. Yeah, I was a biter for a while there. Into the “practical” pile it went.

  Dave: “Spell.”

  I knew what pile that puppy was going in.

  Quick check of my
phone. Nope, couldn’t call Marcia back yet.

  Dave had no arterial bleeding, so I Googled Death by a Thousand Cuts. Huh. Slicing chunks of flesh off? That was so not what had happened to Dave. I enlarged his cuts. It was like his skin had ruptured from inside out.

  Here goes—I Googled “magic.” I didn’t need to look up The Tarot, divination, necromancy, or dowsing. I knew stuff about them. Sympathetic magic used an imitation of the environment or person being magicked. So you’d do the magic on the doll, and it would affect the real person. Creepy. Contagious magic, on the other hand, was when the magician used a person’s hair or clothing or fingernails as a conduit. Even creepier.

  The definition for psychic felt eerily familiar—perceives things, information hidden from the regular five senses. Gods, I didn’t want to be a psychic. I’d have to get a storefront. A neon sign. A crystal ball!

  Okay, so I sensed things, felt things from other humans beyond the normal ken. Animals, too. Objects? Not so much.

  At lightning speed, I was getting nowhere.

  I snapped my computer windows closed and paced, reached for my phone to call the lab again, except it chimed.

  Lulu. “Hey, hon,” I said.

  A voice muffled by tears, stuttering sobs.

  “Lulu, what’s wrong?”

  “They… they won’t let me have Daddy’s body.” More sobs.

  “Ssshh. I’m here. Please explain.”

  Gasps of breath, then, “I called Mr. Shatzkin. He’s the funeral guy. To find out when we could, you know, plan.”

  “Okay.”

  “He… said they didn’t know when… that… that…” She broke down.

  “How about I call one of the medical examiners? She’ll be able to tell me approximately when your dad’s body will be released. How does that sound?”

  “Oh.” A sniffle. Another. “Oh, all right. That would be good.”

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know. Would you like to come here maybe and—”

  “Ronan’s here. I’m fine.”

  Sigh. She sure didn’t sound it.

  As soon as we clicked off, I called Sue Parker, deeply pleased Lulu had turned to me.

  I waited through handoffs, aware that it was early days—they had to perform Dave’s autopsy, troll for clues, and determine the manner of death. But Sue could guesstimate the release date. When she picked up, I explained the problem. And met with silence. “Sue?”

  “He was a friend?” she asked.

  Warning bells. “Yes,” I said with caution. “A close one. What’s up?”

  “You always could read my pauses.” Her chuckle was bitter.

  “What’s going on, Sue?”

  “Nothing I can talk about.”

  “Hey, you’ve always been straight with me. I’ve got a girl here who’s frantic to bury her dad, a man who was horrifically murdered.”

  “I know. I saw him before…” Another pause.

  “Before what?”

  She sighed. “You still good at keeping stuff to yourself?”

  “As always. What’s the deal?”

  “The remains are gone. They—”

  “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

  “Two medical examiners showed up this morning. Yards of paperwork to shore them up, and off the body went.”

  I needed to ask the right questions, unsure of what they were. “What agency?”

  I could almost hear her shrug. “No idea. No one knows, except the chief. He okay’d it. And if you say a word to anyone, ask the chief anything, I’m toast.”

  “How about ASAC Balfour? Can I talk to him?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “I won’t. I’ll keep you out of it. Safe. What about Dave’s prints? DNA? The ME’s report.”

  She snorted, sounding pissed as hell. “They cleaned house.”

  Having reassured Lulu that we’d get her father’s remains back for burial—how, I hadn’t figured out yet—I itched for action.

  Fine. I’d search Dave’s home for “the chest” and the Storybook. Bernadette was out, as was our unwanted guest. I couldn’t wait to see my foster mother’s reaction to him. Whooeee.

  I changed into my black cargo pants, a black turtleneck, and my shitkickers, then armed up with my gun, a couple throwing knives, and reached for my small Bowie.

  Tires varoomed on our driveway. Crap. I slid the Bowie into its boot sheath, then accompanied a howling Grace to the mudroom door.

  With much revving and smoke, a Mercedes finally floundered its way into the dooryard and came to a halt. The door opened.

  Now what?

  Forty-five minutes later, I sat at the kitchen table, still punch-drunk, the Mercedes taillights disappearing down the drive. Guardian. I was Lulu’s legal guardian. I’d also signed the paperwork that made me the executor of her $12 million estate, and the inheritor of $3 million, all courtesy of Dave’s last will and testament.

  Still reeling from the profound trust Dave had placed in my shaking hands, I called Lulu on her cell, said that I’d be over in a bit, that we needed to talk. The unaccustomed weight of Dave’s bequests scared the shit out of me.

  Snap out of it!

  Ah, that line from Moonstruck… Wasn’t helping.

  I could do this. I could do this.

  Coffee.

  I glanced at the coffee pot, except a massive golden bird, head tilted, eyed me with impatience.

  What the hell!

  With deliberate care, I drew my gun from its holster.

  It stared at me with narrowed gold eyes, glowing ones. Mesmerizing, like the ticking of a clock before a bomb goes off.

  Tick tock, get going. Tick tock, get your ass in gear. Tick tock, hurry.

  I scrambled out of the chair. Blink. Gone.

  Of course there was no frickin’ bird.

  I zoomed for Ronan Miloszewski’s. And had a fender bender on Glade Street in Midborough.

  The car came out of nowhere. Well, actually, the street by Glorious Chocolates. Plowed right into Fern’s ass. Temptation said to just keep going, but too many years in law enforcement made that impossible.

  After a not-so-speedy exchange of info, not to mention a broken taillight, I drove on, thankful today’s predicted snowstorm had passed us by. By the time I pulled onto Ronan’s street, it was mid-morning, the air a damp chill that carried the fragrance of woodsmoke.

  Ants in my pants, I rang the bell. Three times. A physically small man, bowlegged, with a weathered face and gray-stubbled chin answered the door. Ronan’s dad, I presumed.

  “I’m here to see Lulu.”

  Although he tipped his John Deere cap at me, eyes the color of blackberries scrutinized me with suspicion. He smelled of English Leather, of all things, and with obvious reluctance, waved me inside.

  He scraped a hand across his stubble. “Not here.”

  Well hell, he could’ve told me that outside. Unease hammered me. “Oh.” I feigned a composure I wasn’t feeling. “Did she and Ronan go somewhere?”

  “Boy’s in school, where he should be. That Lulu girl left.”

  The hum became a shriek. I dug for casual. “Any idea where she went?”

  He crossed his arms and shoved his hands under his armpits. “I don’t keep tabs on the girl.”

  You should, you prick. I didn’t say it, but instead raced to my car.

  I kept it at thirty through town, then sped up Evergreen toward Lulu’s home. She had to be there. She just had to.

  She was fine. Of course she was fine. So why did I feel I was in the race of my life?

  I screeched to a halt before the red shed, forcing calm through my veins. She was probably here, getting some things. A wild woman tear-assing around would scare the hell out of her.

  White and black chickens clucked in the yard as I walked the path to the side door. And paused. A jumble of footprints churned up the snow, two pair—I walked closer—large, men’s, smooth-soled—they’d slogged around from the front door through the unshoveled pat
h. Most locals used their side doors and wore shoes with traction in winter.

  Whoever had been here was from away.

  I stood in the shade of the snow-laden hemlock and listened. The place was quiet. The wooden screen flapped in the breeze, every so often slapping the frame. An unwelcoming sound.

  With my leather jacket unzipped, cold slithered up my chest. But I had easy access to my shoulder holster.

  The air felt thick, ominous.

  The senses I’d expanded outward prickled me with goosebumps. Violence had happened in this house.

  Gun in hand, I used the corner of my jacket to turn the knob and pressed open the unlocked door. Emptiness, yes, coupled with that same sinister prickle.

  “Lulu?”

  The hall was trashed. Drops of what could be blood dappled the floor. Throat dry, I padded to the living room. Frigid air swirled through the room, now a chaos of books and cushions and a splintered flat screen. An explosion of some sort had left a jagged hole where a window had been. I took a step closer. My wrist throbbed.

  I quickly cleared the rest of the house. All trashed.

  Where was Lulu?

  The barn? Empty. Maybe the red shed. Someone had returned Dave’s old Subaru, but his black truck was MIA.

  Where had Lulu driven? Not to Ronan’s. The Feed and Seed. I holstered my gun, then reached for Fern’s door. A UPS truck pulled up behind the Tahoe. Crap.

  “Hey, Clea!” the driver said.

  “Hey, Todd. I didn’t realize you delivered here.”

  He shook his head. “Sometimes. The regular driver’s sick today. So, this package. Think I should leave it? You know, with Dave and all.”

  “I’ll take it. I’m meeting Lulu later.”

  He disappeared into the back of the truck, then handed me an eight-by-ten padded envelope. “You doing good? Car trouble?”

  I smiled. “No. Just stopped to see the chickens.” I turned toward my truck. I had to get out of there.

  “They’re different than yours. What kind?”

  “They’re Jersey Giants. Pretty cool. Mine are Rhode Island Reds. Sorry, have to run! I’ll make sure Lulu gets her package.”