The Dirt on Ninth Grave

by Darynda Jones

  “What’s up, chiquita?”

  I jumped at the sound of Angel’s voice behind me and considered exorcising him. But first I had to ask him about the conversation I overheard today.

  “This guy giving you a hard time?” he asked me.

  “What guy?” I turned to where he’d nodded. An elderly departed man stood not two feet from me, trying to poke me with a stick. An incorporeal one. Had he died with it in his hands? His hands were shaky, so he kept missing, which worked for me.

  “I’m kind of investigating something. Can you go into this house and see if anyone is inside?”

  “For you, mi amor, anything. And then we can make out.”

  “Dude, you are like twelve years old. Really?”

  He straightened his spine, rising to his full height. All five feet two of it. “First of all, I died when I was thirteen. But that was years ago. I’m really old now, like, I don’t know, forty or something.”

  “I think I’ll pass anyway.”

  He shook his head, then disappeared after tossing out a quick “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  A shudder ran through me. I didn’t care how many years he’d been dead. Kid was thirteen. Bottom line. I felt a soft poke at my rib cage and brushed the stick aside.

  About thirty seconds later, Angel popped back out again. “Not a warm body in sight. What’s going on?”

  I started to reply, then asked him, just in case, “By warm body, you aren’t insinuating that there are some cold ones in there, are you?”

  “Dead people?”

  I swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Nope. No dead ones either. But there is a really pissed-off cat.”

  “Oh, no!” I brushed off another poke and turned an exasperated glower on my attacker.

  He lifted the stick and tried to poke my eye. What the hell?

  After brushing him off again and stepping away from the elderly version of Charles Darwin as he attempted to identify a new species, I asked Angel, “Do you think it’s hungry?”

  “No idea,” he said, chuckling. “Want me to go ask?”

  My eyes widened in awe. “You can talk to cats?”

  “Fuck no, I can’t talk to cats. What the hell?” His brows crinkled just under the bandanna he wore, feigning insult if the laughter sparkling in his eyes was any indication. It made him look even cuter. Even younger.

  But he did dis me. No way was I taking attitude from a punkass kid with no skeletal system.

  “Look, half pint,” I said, curling my frozen fingers into his dirty T-shirt. I drew him closer until we stood nose to nose. “I don’t know how this shit works, so stop being a little bitch, go back in there, and find me a way inside so I can save the cat.” I shoved him. Admittedly, not very hard.

  A slow Cheshire grin slid across his handsome face. “Damn, girl. You got a set the size of a Cadillac. And here I thought you were all shy and sweet and helpless.”

  When I clenched my teeth and went for his shirt again, he held up his hands in surrender.

  “I’m going. I’m going.”

  He disappeared just as my fingertips touched his shirt. He was lucky. That time.

  While Angel searched for a way inside, I checked out the exterior, which was ridiculous in the dark. I could barely see beyond the otherworld enough to put two feet in front of me, much less find a way inside a locked mansion. Especially with Darwin poking me every five seconds.

  “Seriously, dude. You have to stop.”

  “Got it!”

  I jumped and whirled around. Angel stood behind me.

  “There’s a doggy door. A big one. You can squeeze in through there.” He fought another grin. A suspicious one.

  “All right, what’s the catch?”

  “No catch. It’s just, I don’t think you’ll fit with your clothes on. Probably best if you take them off.” When I deadpanned him, he added, “You wouldn’t want to get them dirty.”

  “Not. Happening.”

  We strolled around to the back of the house, and he showed me the doggy door. Thankfully, he was right. It was for a large-breed dog. I could actually fit if I wiggled a lot. That should make him happy.

  I took off Reyes’s jacket and regretted it instantly. The frigid air swallowed me like an ice-filled ocean, and I gulped a lungful of icy air. Which actually didn’t help. I got onto all fours and pushed the plastic door in. “I totally need a flashlight.”

  “No idea why. You’re like the freaking sun.”

  But I was busy trying to get my shoulders past the doorframe. It cut into them, then into my ribs, then into my ass. When I felt something in that general area, I said, “Angel, that had better be departed Darwin poking my ass.”

  “It is,” he said, stifling a chuckle. “I swear.”

  I rolled my eyes and heaved my ass through the suddenly tiny opening. It hurt. The frame scraped across my legs. I was totally going to bruise.

  “Okay,” I said, lying on my back to catch my breath. “Where’s the cat?”

  But he didn’t have to answer. The cat poked its head around the corner, then pawed at my hair.

  “Hey, kitty,” I said a microsecond before it took a swipe at me.

  Its needlelike claws took off half my face. I screamed and held on to the shredded remnants. The cat took the opportunity to purr and rub against me.

  “Are you kidding?” I asked it from between gritted teeth.

  It purred louder and threw in a hoarse meow every so often, twirling in dainty circles. It was fluffy. Gray. Deadly.

  I looked at my hand. It was covered in blood. Or, well, one finger had a little blood on the tip. Either way, my face stung like the dickens.

  I frowned at it. “All cats are evil. Just FYI.”

  “Are you going to play with the cat all night or help me look for food?”

  “I’m helping already.” I stood and brushed myself off, then started going through cabinets.

  We were in the kitchen. Since Angel couldn’t open cabinet doors, he just kind of walked through them, searching as he went. We decided to split up. Angel took the upstairs, and I took the bottom.

  I called out to him. “We should probably look for clues as to the Vandenbergs’ whereabouts while we’re here, too. Maybe they’re being held at a motel or something and the captors looked one up in the phone book. Do you see an open phone book?”

  “I don’t think other people process information the same way you do. Bad guys would not look in a phone book to find a motel.”

  I paused my search. “Why not?”

  “They had a plasma cutter. They clearly planned this shit out. They aren’t going to be looking up a motel at the last minute. A motel where a maid could walk in anytime or where the Vandenbergs could signal an SOS by tapping on the wall or something.”

  “You’re right. Too public. Any luck yet?”

  “Either they never fed their cat, or they are completely out of cat food.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll have to go get some.”

  “You know what I’m curious about?” he asked.

  “Why you can’t get a date?”

  He snorted. “No. Well, kind of, but aren’t you curious about the dog?”

  I rose onto my toes to see what the top row of cabinets in the laundry room had to offer. “What dog?”

  “The dog that goes with the door.”

  I stilled. Why didn’t I think of these things? I was so single-minded. I didn’t have the attention span to focus on anything but the here and now.

  “Did you see a dog?” I asked, glancing around warily.

  “No. Where’s this go?”

  He’d found a door in the back of a supply closet. I stepped inside the closet. “Odd place for a door.”

  “It’s a basement.”

  “Cool.”

  “Wait!” he yelled, but I’d already opened the door.

  The stench hit me first, the pungent scent almost knocking me to my knees. I covered my mouth and stumbled back before I realized w
hat I was smelling: death. It stung my nose, and I fought my gag reflex when a terrifying sense of dread washed over me.

  “No,” I whispered. My vision blurred instantly. “Please, no.”

  “Janey, wait!” Angel said, but I flew down the wooden stairs.

  A fluorescent light must’ve been connected to a motion sensor, because it flickered on automatically, and I saw a mass of beautiful black and tan fur. The Vandenbergs had a German shepherd, and their captors had killed it. He lay on a cement floor with only a tiny bit of blood on his side.

  I slammed my hands over my mouth. He was stunning. Magnificent. The ultimate protector. And he’d paid the ultimate price. I reached out a shaking hand to pet him. He was too still. Too quiet.

  I dropped to my knees and ran my fingers through his thick fur. Nuzzled his ears. Leaned over the gorgeous beast and whispered, “You tried, didn’t you, boy? I promise I’ll find them.”

  “Janey,” Angel said. He’d draped an arm over my shoulder and was tugging gently. “We have to go.”

  I nodded, gave the beautiful dog one last caress, then stood up. I knew now that the Vandenbergs’ captors meant business and that the family was in serious danger. I had no choice but to tell the police what I knew. But if they caught me at the house, the danger the Vandenbergs were in would get lost in the fact that I broke and entered.

  “Okay,” I said, wiping at my face, “I’m going to call 911, grab the cat, then run. The cops will show up and find the dog. They’ll know something is wrong.”

  “Good plan, but maybe you should grab the cat first.”

  True. I picked up the cat, took a few hits for the team, then asked Angel if he saw a phone.

  He looked around. “Nope.”

  “Wonderful.” We searched the house again, this time looking for a phone, with no luck. “They must not have a landline. I thought all mansions came with landlines.”

  The cat took another swipe as Angel said, “You’ll have to go to a pay phone or something and call in an anonymous tip.”

  “Good idea. I just have one problem.”

  “Just one?” he asked, brushing his finger through the cat’s nose.

  The cat swiped at him, and I was surprised. It actually saw him. Maybe I wasn’t crazy after all.

  “How am I going to get the cat through the doggy door?”

  He turned to assess the situation. “You’ll have to put the cat through first.”

  “What if it runs off?”

  “Dude, it’s a cat. It can hunt the shit out of this town.”

  “That doesn’t help. Oh, wait.” I grabbed a cookie out of a jar on the kitchen counter. “This’ll keep it busy.”

  After enticing the cat with it, I tossed the cookie out the doggy door, then shoved the cat through. I suffered a few near-fatal lacerations in the process—fucking cat—but it seemed to work. The cat stayed put as I started to shimmy through the door after it.

  “You know,” Angel said, standing over me, “you could just unlock the door.”

  “Fuck.” I shimmied back inside, unlocked the door, then ran for my life. Or, well, for Mable’s car. The cat was none too happy about being manhandled, but there was nothing I could do about it at the moment except do my darnedest to dodge its claws. We had to hurry. Mostly because the alarm went off the second I opened the door.

  We ran past departed Darwin, and I felt bad. Like I was abandoning him. So I grabbed his arm and tried to lead him to the car. When he refused to budge, I yanked at him.

  “Janey, seriously, we have to go.”

  “Charles!” I yelled in his face. He snapped to attention. It would be crazy if that was really his name. Or if he really was Charles Darwin. I pointed to the car. “Move it!”

  He loped after us. Angel helped with Charles while I tried to get into the car holding a volatile ball of fur with razors for claws.

  I finally got it inside and tossed it in the backseat. It hissed. Like literally. After Angel got Charles inside the car, I turned the ignition and sped down the street. About two more blocks away, I pulled a U-ey, then parked to watch the cops. Thankfully, we’d hightailed it out of there before they came.

  Angel tapped my shoulder and pointed.

  “Crap.” I’d taken off without Charles. “He must not know how this works. Can you go get him?”

  “What if the cops come?” he asked.

  “You’re invisible.”

  “Right.” He disappeared, then reappeared beside Charles and dragged him all the way back to the car. After wrestling him inside again, he asked, “Just what are you going to do with him?”

  “The cat?”

  “The dead guy.”

  “I’m not sure. I just feel, I don’t know, obligated somehow.”

  “Interesting,” he said, peering out the windshield.

  Charles, who was now in the backseat directly behind me, poked the back of my head.

  “What’s interesting?”

  “What?”

  “What’s interesting?”

  “You.”

  “How?”

  “What?”

  He was totally fucking with me. “How am I interesting?”

  “Well, right now, you’re not. But if we both got naked—”

  Charles poked me again. I turned around, and he went for the eyes again.

  I dodged his twig, then glared at him. “I will rip that ghost stick out of your hands, mister. Don’t make me come back there.”

  And when he poked me a third time, I did just that. I took it from him, broke it in half, and tossed it out the window.

  Charles gaped at me—for, like, ever—before he recovered and started poking me with his finger. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and prayed for patience. Angel was right. I had no idea what to do with him. With either of them. Thankfully, the cat was busy taking potshots at Charles’s wristwatch.

  “Shouldn’t they be here by now?” Angel asked.

  “Yes, they should.” I started to grow concerned. I grew even more concerned when, twenty minutes later, no cops.

  “Hold on,” Angel said. He disappeared, then reappeared. “The alarm is off.”

  “What the hell? Don’t they have to check it out?”

  “Not if they called him first.”

  I dropped my head back onto the headrest. “They did. They must’ve called his number. He had no choice but to tell the company it was an accident. But that means that Mr. V is probably still alive.”

  “You still gonna call the cops?”

  “No. The captors must be on edge now. Anything could set them off. Could convince them to cut their losses—and the Vandenbergs’ throats—and run.”

  Charles had finally stopped poking my head with his finger. He’d graduated to phrenology, examining every inch of my head by touch.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I turned to Angel, thankful that while the departed were solid to me, I could still see through them for the most part. Charles was now studying the shape of my eye sockets and the size of my nostrils.

  “We drive around.”

  “Oh, hell, yeah,” he said. “We’ll cruise. Chill out a little. Check out the babes.”

  “Do people still say babes?” I asked him, starting the car.

  “What? They don’t?”

  “I’m going to drive around town and, well, try to feel him. Is that dumb?”

  “Only because he’s married and he’s probably not in the mood to be fondled right now.”

  “His emotions. They were so powerful today, maybe I’ll be able to pick them up.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe to drive with Charles glued to your face?”

  “Probably not.”

  * * *

  We drove around for hours. After we stopped for cat food and a bottle of water, that is. By the time we pulled up to my apartment, the cat was snoring, we’d lost Charles somewhere around North Washington, and Angel was telling me about the time he almost got to third base with Lucinda Baca. And
while his stories were riveting, I was tired and disappointed and worried. I hadn’t felt anything. I’d taken every single street in both Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown to no avail.

  I parked the car in Mable’s backyard, curled the cat into my arms, and walked around to the front of my house.

  “I wanted to marry her,” Angel said, and I snapped back to his story. His statement brought into focus everything he’d lost.

  “I’m sorry, Angel. How did you die?”

  A sad smile slid across his face. “It’s a long story. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  He stepped back, and I’d learned that when he did that, he was about to vanish. I stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Thank you. For all your help tonight. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “You would have been just fine. You’re always fine.”

  “You clearly don’t know me well,” I said, with a soft laugh.

  I let go of him, but before he disappeared, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. Then he stepped back again, and right before he vanished, he said, “I know you better than anyone.”

  A soft gasp pulled cold air over my teeth and into my lungs. I lunged to grab him, but I missed. He’d said it with such confidence. Did he know me? Did he know who I was? If only I could somehow summon him back just by thinking about him. Lord knew when I’d see him again. He was as sporadic as psoriasis.

  I turned to unlock my door, but something seemed out of place. I glanced inside and spotted a light on in the bedroom. A light that I knew was not on when I left my apartment, because it had burned out two days ago.

  10

  Signs you drink too much coffee:

  You don’t sweat. You percolate.

  —INTERNET MEME

  After sleeping in Mable’s car—and longing for Denzel something fierce—I reported to work the next morning looking like something the cat dragged in, half eaten yet somehow still alive. Sadly, I didn’t care. I’d finally braved my apartment that morning wielding Satana, the Vandenbergs’ cat—I’d named her based on her personality—and a two-by-four named Leroy.

  Whoever had been in my apartment was long gone, but by the time I screwed up the courage to go in, it was too late for me to take a shower. Not that I’d actually slept in the car. I was shivering and worried and my mind wouldn’t stop, not even for a few seconds. If I couldn’t find Mr. Vandenberg and his family, I would have no choice but to go to the police. They had protocols that would put the family in danger, but there was nothing I could do about that. I had high hopes that Bobert would be able to help me.