Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1) Page 7

  The snapping of his fingers ruptured my reverie. “Oh, right. So I went to meet Lulu.” Yup, I spewed.

  He snagged me with those Pacific blues. “You don’t look… right.”

  “I’m right as rain.” I set my jaw. Yeah, my arm hurt, but I was fine. Well, sort of fine. Since the shootout, I’d danced around my feelings, a boxer too scared to take the first punch.

  I interrogated people. I understood the twitch of an eyebrow, the tap of a finger, the ooze of pain. I’d trained in the Army and at Quantico, studied Krav Maga. Knives. Guns. I’d even once fired a bazooka.

  But before today, I’d never shot a living thing.

  He tilted up my chin, forcing me to make eye contact. “That first gun battle with it all on the line, knowing death might be a kiss away? A truth better left unknown.”

  I steeled myself. “The guy I shot said it would be two days before the shit hit.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he punched his hands into his pockets. “What shit?”

  I gave him that cocky grin that drove Bernadette nuts. “We never got that far. Verbally, that is. But I’m good to go.”

  His lips quirked. “I just bet you are.” He paused, and thankfully I didn’t rise to that bait.

  “They went after the girl,” he continued. “Did she tell you anything? Give you any hints?”

  I shook my head.

  “So what does she know about her father’s operation?”

  “There wasn’t any ‘operation’ like you mean. And if it’s anything, Lulu doesn’t know that she knows. Dave would never involve her in something dangerous.”

  “You admit he had something illegal going.”

  “Of course he didn’t. How about I fix you a ham-salad sandwich?”

  His near-silent chuckle said we weren’t done with our tête-à-tête. “Sure. That would be great.”

  “Sit.” He sprawled at the table while I built his sandwich, then handed him a plate and a bottle of lager.

  He bit down on my creation, and his features stiffened. He swallowed. Hard.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Worcestershire sauce with ham?”

  “Sure. I love it.”

  He frowned. “Worcestershire sauce has anchovies in it.” Nostrils flared, I’d swear he exhaled smoke, just like a dragon.

  “So?”

  Then, he blew out a breath and said, “Thank you for making this.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Eyes steeled with determination, he took another bite.

  My cell bleeped, and I left an unhappy Larrimer to his ham salad, while I snatched up my phone in the living room.

  “Bob?”

  “Hey, Young Pup, are you okay?”

  “Apparently that’s tonight’s topic, and, yes, I’m fine. I emailed you about the incident. Didn’t you get it?”

  “I did. Word has it you’re looking for something.”

  “Whose word?” Shit, he couldn’t know about the Storybook and chest.

  “A missing body.”

  “Um. How did you—”

  “No need to prevaricate. I talked to Sue Parker at the New Hampshire medical examiner’s office. I’m cleared for convo.”

  My pressure-cooker tightness eased. “Oh, well, good. So where is Dave’s body?”

  He snorted. “Can’t you guess?”

  Why would no one ever give me a straight answer? “Stop with the games, huh? Just spill.”

  A feminine voice said, “Quack, quack, quack” and then Bob’s, “Dammit, Taka,” and he disconnected.

  I tossed the phone down on the table, livid. That dragon who stole the body sat smack in the middle of the room. Its name was Larrimer, with a frickin’ flying duck on its badge. Quack. Quack. Quack.

  I stormed back into the kitchen. The empty kitchen. When I peered down the hall toward my office, all was dark. Larrimer had gotten out of there fast.

  I wagged my finger. “Just wait until tomorrow, dude. Just wait.”

  Except I awakened in the morning, a silent scream on my lips.

  The hand I raked through my hair shook. I’d had Tommy’s Dream again. The copter tilting, plunging, me raising my right hand, the jagged boulder, the fragile metal. The explosion.

  I reach for him, and…

  The bite from my wounded arm dragged me back to the now.

  He’d been gone so long. His smell, his laugh, his scowl. The texture of his hair. The bristle of his beard. The warmth. A best friend’s love. Yet now, after four-plus years, time had stolen the innate sense of him that once was a part of me.

  If I was magic, shouldn’t I have been able to save him?

  4:00 a.m. was still too early for my barn chores, but I wouldn’t fall back to sleep, not after The Dream.

  I opened The Fellowship of the Ring and was transported until my phone’s alarm told me it was time to care for my critters. I pushed back the covers and sat up. Chill air feathered my skin, waking me further. Through the window’s sheer curtains, night still blanketed the farm. 5:30 a.m. was not when I loved farming. I crawled out of bed, toes scrunching on the cool floorboards. I retrieved the clothes I’d strewn across the floor, crept out of my room, and down the stairs, where Larrimer sat curled over his computer, brow furrowed, pounding keys.

  Grace trotted over to me, her exuberant barks destroying any hope of stealth.

  He looked up. No acknowledgement. Nothing. The machine’s glow sculpted his face like a mask.

  He looked otherworldly, possessed of an essence I didn’t understand. I itched to ask what he was.

  He resumed his tapping.

  A quiver inside me, a string that pulled me toward Larrimer.

  I shook myself. Tommy’s Dream always rattled my senses.

  “We need to talk.” About Dave’s body and that the facts about Dave were only part of the story.

  “Fine. Twenty minutes.”

  Could he be any more terse? “Sure.” See, I could be terse, too. Gods, I was reacting like a teenager.

  I bent and scratched Gracie’s chin. “Where were you last night?”

  “With me,” he said in that sorcerer’s voice, part stone, part honey. No innuendo, just alluring as hell.

  I gave Grace the long stare. Traitorous pup.

  In the kitchen, tongue aching for coffee, I lifted the pot. Damn. Last night, I’d polished it off. I’d wait.

  Grace at my heels, I tugged on my mitts, coat, and boots and opened the mudroom door to the proverbial winter wonderland. I pulled the snow shovel from its wall clip and dug a path to the barn.

  Dave, where are you?

  My chickens out in the pasture spotted me and in a cacophony of clucks, they rushed to their barn stall. Pandemonium from the rest of my beasts.

  “Hi, girls.” I grained up the chickens, tossed their old water, and added fresh to the waterer sitting above the heating stand.

  “This is pretty cute.”

  I whirled. “What happened to twenty minutes?” He wore his Aran sweater, ratty jeans, and no coat.

  “I finished.” He hitched a hip against a stall door. “Thought I’d meet the animals. And I brought you this.” He handed me my go-mug. I inhaled. Yum. Mixed with the coffee, hints of cinnamon and honey and a pleasing something I couldn’t identify. I sipped. I sighed.

  “What?” he asked as he raised his own mug to his lips.

  “Ambrosia.”

  “I made it for you.” No irony. Straight. Serious.

  “Thank you.” I sniffed at the steam coming from his mug. “What’s that?”

  “Tea.”

  “Nice,” I said. “Smells fancy.”

  He crooked an eyebrow. “That’s me.”

  His serene face fascinated—no, tempted—me. I would trace the scar on his jaw with my finger. Would it get a rise out of him? Or would he like it? Whoa.

  “C’mon.” I led him to Claudia’s stall. Her straw bedding looked good, but her small hayrack needed topping off, so I fetched her hay and added in some nuts and fresh ap
ples for my immense Pig of Substance. “Isn’t she majestic?”

  He crouched down and scratched behind her ears, which made her snuffle with pleasure. “They say pigs are more intelligent than dogs.”

  I grinned. “Don’t let Grace hear you say that.”

  Next, I led him to the stalls where I kept my ten cashmere goats.

  “These are Odin, Freyja.” They had ample grain and hay, but I topped them off. “And Nanna and Balder.” I freshened their hay and added some grain.

  He smoothed his hands down their long, silky coats. “Luxurious.”

  “I sell most of it, but some I spin and knit.”

  When I moved to the next stall I said, “Thor and Sif, Nott and Delling.”

  He took one of my grain buckets and started to fill it.

  “Just a little.” I peered into the adjoining stall and chuffed with annoyance at Loki and Lofn’s empty feeders. “We’ll need those next door.”

  He nodded, a lock of hair brushing his forehead.

  Delicious. Oh, hell. Focus, girl. “Loki, did you eat Lofn’s again, too?” Inside the stall, Loki butted my belly for head scratches. When I spotted Lofn chewing Larrimer’s sweater, I huffed, “Stop that, girl!” and grappled it from her teeth. “Sorry!” Utterly mortified, I fingered the ruined stitches. “I’ll fix it.”

  He examined the gnawed trim. “No. It adds character. Wabi-sabi.”

  I was charmed by his response. Yes, wabi-sabi—the beauty of imperfection.

  We proceeded to fill their feeders and freshen their water buckets.

  “Have you lived here long?” he asked.

  “Always.” I turned away and clicked the stall door closed behind us.

  As we moved down the aisle, I took pleasure in his warmth. He seemed comfortable in the barn, natural. He fit.

  We finally came to Clem, Bernadette’s old chestnut horse, and I fetched the hay for his feeder.

  “You don’t feel like New Hampshire,” Larrimer said.

  I never had. “And you’re from…?”

  “Montana. Bozeman.”

  Easy to picture him in a cowboy hat and boots, riding like the devil on a huge bay horse.

  “You’re smiling,” he said.

  “I imagine Montana to be wonderful.”

  “I haven’t been back for a long time,” he said. “So tell me, anyone in your life?”

  Was he asking me about men? “Not for a while.” Not since a guy I dated forget to mention he was married. I wouldn’t ask Larrimer. I wouldn’t. “You?”

  He looked at me with sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes that even in the dim light gleamed Pacific blue. “No.”

  The elastic moment stretched and stretched, until he finally said, “Why cashmere goats?”

  “Dave gave me my first pair. Hey, buddy.” I scratched Clem’s nose. “You want to feed him?”

  As he reached to take the hay with those big, scarred hands, Dave’s bloodied ones superimposed on his.

  “Are you aware of how he died?” I asked. “You have Dave’s… you have Dave, don’t you?”

  He took the bundle of hay from me. “We flew Cochran’s body to our Oregon lab.”

  So far away. “Why?”

  “Clues. A path to the traffickers.”

  He took his time with Clem, scratching beneath his muzzle as he spoke low and soft to the old horse. When he left the stall, I gave Clem a carrot. “I’m determined to prove to you that Dave wasn’t trafficking in endangered animals, but right now I’m thinking about Lulu, and how much she wants to bury her dad.”

  He chuffed out a breath. “His autopsy’s incomplete.”

  “And when it’s done, you’ll return his body?”

  “Perhaps. It’s hard for me to say.”

  I shot him a sharp look.

  He shrugged, his face bland. “Not my purview.”

  This was getting me nowhere. “I’ll see Dave’s autopsy report when it’s complete?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Our conversation was off. But it was subtle. So, what was he hiding from me? I found my center, let it warm me, opened myself to it. And almost exploded. “You’re not here for Dave, but for the girl. For Lulu!”

  He crossed his arms, eyes narrowed. “You see more than you should, Clea Reese. Thanks for the tour.”

  It took patience, a quality I was woefully short on, to watch him lope away and not tear after him. But I needed to calm down, to diffuse my pissyness. I performed the rest of the chores with determined deliberateness, said “Bye, kids,” as I closed the barn doors. Patience. At a slow simmer, I cleared the dooryard with the snow blower, then practiced throwing my knives.

  I finally boiled over. Screw this.

  hy in hells bells was he here for Lulu?

  As I stormed inside, I grabbed a couple pieces of wood from the porch’s tarped pile, joggling my now-empty go-mug. I ass-closed the door and said, “So what’s this evidence you have on Dave?”

  He moved from where he’d been working at the kitchen table and reached for the wood.

  I hugged it to my chest. “Answer my question.”

  “I’ll put the wood in the stove, and you can grab some more coffee.”

  It looks like you need it. Good thing he didn’t say it, or I’d explode. But, yeah, I did need more coffee. I released my death grip on the wood.

  While he replenished the stove, I washed my hands, snagged my knitting bag, and filled my mug from the penguin-shaped French press. He must have brought the fancy gadget with him, since we sure-as-heck didn’t have one.

  I sat at the table and knit a row, then another. My own personal valium. I began to weave patterns with my thoughts. Larrimer reappeared, stretched, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his tight black jeans.

  Bet he had a great package. Damn, a dropped stitch.

  “Come sit here.” He pointed to the chair he’d just vacated.

  He was relaxed, waiting, his stance commanding, like he owned the space, my space.

  He was so contained, so deadly, so… broken? Where had that come from?

  I didn’t know if I wanted to flee him, fix him, or fuck him.

  “You just emailed it to me?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I’ll read it on my tablet.”

  He shrugged, and before I could snag my iPad, he took took his computer into the living room, where he folded his large body into my red leather club chair.

  I tried not to be annoyed. Okay, so I’m territorial about some things. Childishly so. I swiped the iPad from the table and took the chair across from him, the ancient one covered in flowered chintz. An errant spring poked my butt. Damn.

  A floorboard creaked. Bernadette. Ohhh, this would be juicy. She’d fry him but good.

  She descended the stairs like a queen.

  He stood.

  “This is Special Agent Larrimer,” I said. “He’s investigating Dave’s death.”

  She iced Larrimer, giving him one of her long frosty stares, took his measure up, down, and back again. “You’ve invaded my home.”

  He took a step forward and offered a slight bow. “I have, Lady.”

  Bowing? Lady?

  Her eyes flew wide. Blue and hazel clashed in some silent dialogue that careened right over my head.

  After long moments, she nodded once, said, “Welcome,” and vanished into the kitchen.

  Well, holy shit.

  I moved to the couch, bent my legs into a half lotus, and sat the wafer-thin iPad on my lap. “What was that?” I asked.

  “It seems she likes me.” Larrimer’s lips twitched, an almost-smile.

  Damned dragon dude. And why the hell had I thought of him that way? I would not get annoyed. Would. Not. “Why are you really here? Why you?”

  “Because I was sent.”

  Had I imagined that friendly man in the barn? “What are you, Mr. Fricking Miyagi?”

  He nodded, all sage. “Karate Kid. Good movie. The first one.”

  Gurrrrr. I unlocked my
iPad and read the emailed files on Dave.

  My heart plummeted. I scanned the information, the photos, forced myself to look at the bloodied lynx, read on, my mouth desert-dry.

  Damning evidence. Dave looked like the top-dog choreographing a vicious illegal operation that took animals from the wild—tigers, bears, more—and sold them to…?

  “Who’s on the receiving end?” I asked.

  He wiped a hand across a face dark with stubble. “We don’t know the big player. Some recipients were individuals, the kind who get off on owning what no one is supposed to possess. But that’s just a trickle. A significant someone is buying these animals. We haven’t found who. But big money’s coming from somewhere. We’d targeted Cochran and set a sting into play.”

  “And then, he was murdered.”

  “Yes.”

  I poked the bear. “I called Bob Balfour. He confirmed he’d send me a copy of Dave’s autopsy report. So you needn’t bother.”

  His eyes, half-lidded, held secrets. He threaded his hands behind his head. Nodded.

  Round two. “So you’ve set your sights on Lulu.”

  A trickle of annoyance. A small leak in his stoic carapace. “I don’t intend to endanger the girl, but she knows something. Or has something.”

  “Lame.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Not lame. Your assailant said, two days before the shit hit. Makes sense they might try to take the girl with something big.”

  “You’re trying to wind me up. It won’t work.”

  He rotated his shoulders, stretching the muscles. “It’s worked so far. Entertaining.”

  I almost exploded out of the chair, which was exactly what he wanted.

  He brushed a finger down his temple. “You’re never easy, are you?”

  “Thank the gods.” I rubbed my wrist. “I know Lulu’s a target. And it sucks. The Gunfight at the OK Grain and Feed, the guy was a pro.”

  “With a sawed-off shotgun, I hear.”

  Whoa. I’d forgotten to tell the cops about the shotgun, hadn’t mentioned it except in the report I’d written up and copied to Bob. “You’re awfully cozy with Bob Balfour.”

  “We’re the opposite of cozy.” He threaded his hands behind his head. “You want my honest evaluation, here goes: You found Cochran’s body. You protected the girl yesterday. It’s simple. You’ve become the prime target. They don’t know about me, so take you out, get the girl.”