At that moment I wasn’t sure which scent I hated worse. Her’s or the hospital’s. Both, cloying and suffocating.
I looked at the clock for the millionth time and watched it click from 10:05 p.m. to 10:06 p.m..
Last time I’d looked it had been 10:03 p.m.. There had to be something wrong with the clock. Just like there was something wrong with the spitting window air-conditioning unit that did absolutely nothing to cool the small space. Kinda like mine at my apartment.
It stunk, too, come to think of it.
My gaze trailed the scuffed beige tiles on the floor. Half of which were from my own boots. Six mismatched chairs lined the walls, one with the outline of a stain that resembled a fist giving the middle finger. Someone had taken the time to scrub the stain, but given up somewhere around the knuckle. A stack of magazines sat on a coffee table in the center of the room, half of the covers ripped or colored on by undisciplined, stinky toddlers.
Kids stink. I don’t care what you say.
God, I hated hospitals. Especially waiting rooms. Waiting rooms were the worst. If you were actually inside a hospital room it meant that something had happened or was happening. In my case, mostly, it meant that I was getting to meet with a victim for the first time, to begin the long path of getting them justice. Not that night.
It had been exactly an hour and twelve minutes since I’d left the trailer park where Darby had taken three rounds to the chest, courtesy of Kenzo Rees.
He’d gone to the trailer park after my pep talk in the woods where I confronted him for following me.
“Do something to make them respect you.”…
The words slammed into my chest like a wrecking ball—for the hundredth time since I’d gotten the call. Darby had been shot because of me. Instead of going home and staying out of the case, like I’d told him to, he’d decided to man up right then. Followed up on a lead that I’d either missed, or hadn’t had the good sense to pull out of the kid.
Something else I fucking missed.
I dragged my hands through my hair, the guilt twisting in my gut. My hand lowered to the bottle of pills in my pocket. A second passed, another, and another, and with a guttural groan I pulled my hand back up, reining in every bit of restraint I had to not punch a hole in the sheetrock.
Who the hell was I? Who had I become?
Years ago, none of this would have happened.
Years ago, I hadn’t met Sunny Harper.
What the hell had she turned me into?
Do you want to know the most screwed up thing? After I left her there in the woods, half-naked, in nothing but my T-shirt—my T-shirt—I’d almost turned around and gone back to pick her up. While I knew Darby was bleeding to death from multiple gunshot wounds, I’d almost gone back to get the woman who’d lied to me and fucked me over like the chump I was. I contemplated going back the entire drive to the crime scene, jumbled thoughts paralyzing me from taking any action, to make a solid decision either way.
I wasn’t this guy.
An irrational, indecisive, loose cannon.
Colson had been right, and when I’d arrived to the trailer park, it was obvious he wasn’t the only one who’d thought so. I’d been cast out of most of the crime scene. Despite the fact the Moon Magic Festival was in full swing at Devil’s Cove, it seemed like the entire town had shown up to the trailer park, bystanders allowed closer than I was. But even though I was restricted to the sidelines, it wasn’t hard to miss the blue four-door sedan parked beside the shittiest trailer, or the excitement in Colson when he’d found Seagrave’s gun in Rees’s roach-infested hideout. Kenzo Rees had killed Seagrave for revenge, case closed. The credit fully owed to Officer Tommy Darby - the kid I’d sent into the mess in the first place.
According to a hyped-up medic, Rees’s trailer had been like a scene in Scarface, with blocks of cocaine stacked in the corners, half of which were labeled with the symbol of an infamous South American gang, where Julian Griggs had just returned from his “mission trip.” Yep, the kid had used the cover of God to monitor a drug-trafficking operation orchestrated by his new boss, Kenzo Rees, followed by an initiation that involved attacking Kenzo’s former girlfriend.
The scum of the earth unite.
According to pictures found in the cell phone hidden in the trailer, Rees had been following both Seagrave and Sunny since he’d been released from prison. The night Sunny stole the Cedonia Scroll from Magic Maven’s, Rees had been following her. The fact that Seagrave was the responding officer to the heist had been an opportunity too great for Rees to pass up. He’d shot Seagrave while Sunny escaped. Almost two birds with one stone.
Almost.
According to the first responder at the trailer park, someone had called nine-one-one after hearing gunshots. When the officer arrived at the scene, he found Darby surrounded by a pool of blood in the middle of the grass. The kid had been shot at close range, two in the shoulder, one dangerously close to the heart. He had a faint pulse when they strapped him onto the gurney, and that was literally all I knew at that moment, other than that it was all my fucking fault.
Rees had fled the scene moments before the cops arrived, by another car, or on foot, no one knew. The one place I knew he wouldn’t go was the bungalow, though, because no one knew we were there. That had given me some sort of solace as I’d navigated my own nightmare.
Darby had been rushed to the hospital and was taken into surgery immediately. When I learned Darby’s only next of kin lived across the country, I hauled ass up there. Someone needed to be there for the kid. Someone needed to be there if he pulled through.
It was the least I could do.
I looked at the clock again, then back to the tiles, then up at the clock one more time.
Sunny.
Over the last hour, I’d learned two things: There was nothing like total silence to force you to examine the thoughts in your own head, and two, not even Sunny’s betrayal could make me stop thinking about her. I was a fucking trainwreck of emotions ranging from extreme hatred for the woman, to extreme hatred for how I’d treated her after I found out she was the Bandit. I called her a bitch, spat at her face.
Spat. At her. Face.
I disgusted myself.
After I’d hung up the call with Colson, I’d taken one last look at Sunny and then left without another word, knowing I’d just destroyed everything between us.
Fucking par for the course.
A shadow on the wall caught my attention and I turned to see Dr. Buckley step into the room. He gave a quick glance around to ensure we were alone before refocusing on me.
“The surgeon is just finished up.”
“Is he alive?”
“Barely, Jagg, I’m not gonna lie. Barely.” Buckley’s eyes were puffy, shaded, stressed. Whatever happened in that surgery room hadn’t been good, or easy.
“How did it go?”
“As I’m sure you know, Darby was shot three times. Twice in the shoulder, and once in the chest. His shoulder is badly damaged and is going to need months of physical therapy, but the chest wound is what’s critical. The bullet missed his heart and aorta by a millimeter. His lung was punctured, but he’s lucky. Beyond lucky. He’s running on machines and will stay in ICU for the foreseeable future. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
I scrubbed my hand over my mouth.
“They catch the bastard?” Buckley asked.
“Not yet.”
“I hope you do. Poor kid. Too young to experience something like this.”
Too young.
“Y’all contact next of kin?”
I nodded. “It will be tomorrow until they get here. I’m it for now. Can I see him?”
“No, I’m sorry. They’re getting him situated now. No one will be allowed in the room for quite a while, and even then, he’ll be knocked out for hours.”
“I want you to call me with anything, any time. I want an update on his status every thirty minutes.”
Buckley nodded. “I’
ll tell the nurse.” His thick, calloused hand clamped over my shoulder. “You alright, Jagg?”
I stepped out of his hold. “Every thirty minutes. Got it?”
Buckley nodded, again, then glanced around the waiting room again. “I’ll be here. We’ve already got our first overdose from the damn Moon Magic Festival. It’s going to be a long night.”
My gaze flickered out the window.
“Thanks, Buck. I’ll talk to you in thirty minutes.”
I didn’t wait for a response as I strode out of the room. I might have been restricted from the crime scene, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t go hunting.
43
Jagg
The full moon was like a massive spotlight illuminating the town in silver glow almost as bright as day. A haunting purgatory, neither night or day, but somewhere in between. You could feel the electricity in the air. Although the festival was raging miles away at Devil’s Cove, the town was a buzz of activity. Cars filled the two-lane roads that were normally vacant past nine o’clock. Store fronts glowed with life, staying open late to capitalize on the influx of boozy tourists. Loud music and laughter rang through the humid summer air. I passed a trio of young women in flowing skirts and tie-dye shirts, wearing crowns on their heads made of twigs and twinkling lights. Giggling, grabbing onto each other as they stumbled down Main Street. A duo of cowboys followed a few feet behind. I passed a patrol car, and another. BSPD was out in full swing, and unless I’d missed something—which at that point wouldn’t surprise me—Darby’s incident had been the only life-or-death emergency so far. There’d be plenty of DWI’s, drunk and disorderly’s, a few public intoxes, and probably a few indecent exposures but nothing they couldn’t handle.
Little did I know what was coming.
I turned off Main Street onto “Tourist Road,” the same strip where Kenzo Rees had shot Seagrave and where Sunny Harper had pulled off a heist right under my damn nose.
The strip was lined with people of all ages, each store front lit and decorated with moons and stars, tinkling chimes and hanging trinkets. I noted a few pentagrams, a few other Wiccan symbols. A band played at each end of the street next to food vendors flanked by long lines.
I slowed as I neared the end of the row of shops, imagining Sunny slinking through the shadows on her way to steal the final Cedonia Scroll. Then, I imagined Seagrave responding to a “suspicious person” call minutes later. The man had probably just tossed the foil from the ham and cheese sandwich he ate every night while on duty and chugged a Dr. Pepper from the pack he’d always kept stocked in the community fridge before jogging to his car. He shouldn’t have died.
I slowed, visualizing where he’d parked, then, him getting out of the car, walking down the sidewalk, turning into the narrow alleyway that ran next to Mystic Maven’s Art Shop.
I honked at a pair of teens stumbling across the road, then whipped my Jeep into the only open spot. I cut the engine, hopped out, and ignoring a few whistles, I stepped into the alley. A shadow from the building next door stretched across the asphalt, making it difficult to see. I looked around.
There were still many questions about that night. Why had Sunny stolen the scrolls in the first place? Why hadn’t Briana Morgan given up Sunny’s name? What was the connection, or loyalty, there?
I was still missing something right under my nose. I felt it in my gut.
A wave of sparkles across the bricks pulled my attention. I watched Hazel De Ville flick her Open sign to Closed.
I crossed the alley and rapped on the door. Hazel turned, cocked her head, then padded back and pulled open the glass door.
“Hurry, hurry, son, I’m trying to get out of here for the night.”
She quickly closed the door behind me and turned off the lights to the main floor, leaving only a few dangling gold lights above the cash register in the back.
“Headed to the festival?” I followed her across the room.
“Every year. Good for business.” She slid behind the counter and began shutting down her computer. “I make almost half my revenue during the Magic Moon.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “But you’re not going only for business, Ms. De Ville.”
She glanced up and followed my gaze to the hemp bag sitting next to her purse, a wooden voodoo doll peeking out of the top. Her eyes narrowed as she looked back at me.
“You going to arrest me, Detective?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“How honest you are with the questions I’m about to ask you. One, how long have you been practicing witchcraft?”
“I don’t practice witchcraft.”
I nodded to the bag. “Your dolls say otherwise.”
She huffed out an annoyed breath, neither impressed nor intimidated by my presence.
“I am Wiccan, Max Jagger. I practice Wicca. Is this illegal?”
“No. But I want to know why you erected a Wiccan shrine on the tree outside Lieutenant Seagrave’s funeral.”
She glanced back at the woven dolls, hesitated a minute, then met my gaze with slitted eyes.
“Fine. You got me. It was me. But the question shouldn’t be why it was outside of the Lieutenant’s funeral, it should be why it was at that tree.”
“I’m not in the mood for riddles, Hazel.”
“Or, for seeing clearly, apparently. The altar—not a shrine—had nothing to do with the Lieutenant, or his death, and everything to do with Lammas, the celebration tonight. But you wouldn’t know that because you only saw what these small-town rednecks told you to see. Witches are evil. Therefore, the shrine must have to do with death. Right?” She pulled a doll from her bag. “This is not a voodoo doll, Jagg. It is not evil, or sinister, or black magic. Lammas is one of the four Greater Sabbats in the Wiccan religion. And this year, it just so happens to fall on a full moon. That’s the reason this year’s festival is so huge. Women and men who practice Wicca have flocked here to celebrate—not to curse.” She huffed out a breath. “Listen up, because I’m only going to educate you once and hopefully at least one thing I say will get through that dense brain of yours. Lammas is a celebration of the first harvest of the year, a time to give thanks for the past and celebrate the future. It’s the opposite of what you, and everyone else in this town has assumed, Jagg. These ‘voodoo dolls’ are actually called corn dollys and are used to honor the god Lugh, and in my case, those who have had a positive impact in my life over the last year. The altar in the park was a symbol of thanks and celebration, Jagg.”
“Okay, fine, but why the park? Why there? Why not in your backyard?”
“Good question. That tree is sacred to me. It’s where Earl asked me to marry him thirty-four years ago. It’s not the first altar I constructed there—and not the first you’ve missed.”
“Celebration aside, you’d be missing that tree if those candles you’d lit would have caught fire, Hazel. We’re in the middle of a burn ban and one of the hottest heatwaves in history. The damn grass is like a tinderbox. It wasn’t smart.”
“I was feet away when you walked up. I watched you and Darby the entire time. When he blew out the candles, I left. I wouldn’t have left them burning.” She paused, staring at me in a way that made me feel like an insolent school kid. “What other questions can I clear up for you so that you don’t arrest me?”
“The Black Bandit.”
Something in her eyes flickered.
“You know exactly who the Black Bandit is.”
“Do I?”
“Cut the bullshit, Hazel. You know Arlo and Sunny Harper better than I realized. Tell me why Sunny stole the Cedonia Scrolls.”
“Jagger, listen to me. Hear me. Not everything is evil and nefarious with bad intentions. Not everything is bad and the reasons behind things are not always what they seem.”
“Hazel, Sunny broke into your store and stole a very precious piece of art that could have made you a lot of money,” I said, feeling like I needed to drill home the point that she d
idn’t seem to care about.
“That she did.” A grin tugged at the woman’s lips. Not humor, but pride. “She’s a pistol, that one.”
I slid my palms onto the counter, leaned forward. “Why didn’t you call it in? Why let her get away with it?”
“Why do you assume she’s a thief, detective?”
I pushed off the counter, turned my back, my hands balling to fists. I sucked in a deep breath and spun back around. “Hazel, I don’t have time for this.”
“Yes, you do, Jagg. Yes you do. Look closer…”
Look closer. Those fucking words again.
Briana Morgan and now Hazel De Ville.
Look closer…
“Why do you assume she’s a thief?” Hazel repeated, emphasizing each word.
I suddenly stilled, my racing thoughts slamming into one seemingly-impossible concept like a brick wall.
No.
No fucking way.
A smile crossed Hazel’s lips. “There you go. See? Once you stop assuming the worst in people, you see them for what they truly are.”
I blinked, a solid ten seconds ticking by while I wrapped my mind around the earth-shattering thought.
“Say it out loud, Jagg. You know it now. Trust your gut. Say it.”
“Sunny Harper is an art investigator.” The words came out in a whisper, almost as if I was forcing it out.
“Good job, Detective. Damn, boy, thought I was going to have to spell it out for you. Took a while, but you got there and that’s what counts.”
My stomach rolled. “When? Why? … How?”
Hazel put her hands on the counter and leaned in. “Normally, I wouldn’t talk about someone else’s business, well, someone that I respected, anyway. But despite your narrow-minded, cynical view of the world, I like you. And I like Sunny and I don’t want you to screw this up. More than you have already, anyway, cause I’m guessin’ you have.” She pinned me with a disapproving look before continuing. “Yes, Sunny Harper is a fine art investigator. She works undercover. Undercover, Jagg. I didn’t even know it was her who took the scroll until she came clean earlier today. She didn’t want to involve me in the whole mess, bless her heart.”
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 29