Third Grave Dead Ahead

by Darynda Jones

  He stilled. The easy smile disappeared, and a wall of distrust forced its way between us. His posture shifted ever so slightly, turned defensive, the set of his shoulders hostile, and a wary tension thickened the air.

  My fingers tightened around the file folder. I needed to know why he’d just sat back and let them send him to prison without so much as lifting a finger in his own defense, in defense of his actions. “They weren’t brought up at all,” I said after a quick gulp of air, charging forward.

  He glanced at the file, a malevolent glint in his eyes. “So you know everything about me now?” The idea alone seemed to chafe him.

  “Not hardly,” I assured.

  He thought a long moment before responding. “But everything you want to know is in that file. All neat. Orderly. Small.”

  The power of his gaze siphoned the breath from my lungs, and I had to fight for air under the weight of it. “I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

  “The only one in this room underestimating me is you.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up with that statement. “I don’t think so.”

  “Gossett didn’t want to leave you alone with me. At least he’s got the sense God gave a walnut.”

  I chose not to address his insult. He was angry and taking it out on me. Hadn’t my own father done that very thing only an hour earlier? Men and their inability to cope with their own emotions astounded me. My gaze dropped to his hands, fatigue and stress taking their toll.

  He planted an inquisitive stare on me. “You’re not sleeping.”

  I blinked in surprise. “I can’t. You’re … there.”

  The tension in his shoulders eased ever so slightly and his chin lowered as though ashamed. “I don’t mean to be.”

  “I can tell.” His confession stunned me. Though I hid the pain of that statement from my voice, he had to have felt the emotion churning inside me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re just … you’re angry.” I bit back a surge of humiliation and admitted, “You don’t want to be there, to be with me.”

  He looked to the side, annoyed. It gave me a chance to study his profile, fierce and noble at once. Even in a prison uniform, he was the most powerful being I’d ever seen, like a beast who lived on strength and instinct alone.

  “I’m not angry because I don’t want to be there, Dutch,” he said, his voice soft, hesitant. He pinned me to the spot with the seriousness of his gaze. “I’m angry because I do.”

  Before my heart could soar too high with that tidbit, I decided to address his earlier claims. “This morning when you came to me,” I began, my cheeks suddenly burning in embarrassment, “you said that it was all me. That I’m summoning you. That I’ve always summoned you, but that’s impossible.”

  After a long pause that had me almost squirming in my chair, he said, “Someday you’ll figure out what you’re capable of. We’ll talk about it then.” Before I could question him on that front, he spoke again. This time his voice was little more than a harsh whisper. “Unbind me.”

  I cringed in reaction. I knew it would come to this. I knew it was the reason he wanted to talk in the first place. Why else? Like he would actually just want to see me. I lowered my head. “I can’t unbind you. I don’t know how.”

  “Actually, you do,” he said, watching me with a practiced eye.

  I shook my head. “I’ve tried. I just don’t know how.”

  The chains rattled against the table as he leaned in. “I won’t—” He glanced at the camera self-consciously. “—I won’t try what I attempted to do the last time you saw me.” Meaning, he wouldn’t try to rid himself of his corporeal body by essentially committing suicide. “You need to know that. You can’t undo what you did unless you trust me.”

  “I told you, I tried. I don’t think trust has anything to do with it.”

  “Trust has everything to do with it.” He rose from the table, knocking his chair back, and fought visibly to control his emotions.

  I raised a hand toward the camera, letting Neil know it was okay; then I stood as well. “I’ll try again,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm.

  “You have to unbind me,” he whispered, his voice laced with desperation.

  It occurred to me that this was about more than his being set free. He had a goal, a purpose; I could see it shimmering in his eyes. “Why?”

  The heat that forever radiated off him seeped into my clothes and skin, causing a flush of unwanted desire to wash through me. Clearly Reyes had better things to contemplate than me and my pathetic crush.

  He stared hard and spoke through clenched teeth. “I have unfinished business. And if you think these chains will keep me from it, you’re gravely mistaken, Dutch.”

  Though the table was still between us, I stepped back warily. “Neil will be in here in two seconds.”

  He lowered his head, watched me from underneath his dark lashes as though I were a meal. “Do you have any idea what I can do in two seconds?”

  The door to the interview room burst open and three guards rushed in, batons in hand. Neil stepped past them and looked from me to Reyes, then back again. “This is over.”

  Reyes didn’t lift his head. He just turned it and offered Neil an incredulous stare. The blood drained from Neil’s face, but he stood his ground, impressing everyone in the room who knew what Reyes was. The guards stood oblivious, ready for a fight. They were clearly new.

  I’d barely taken a step when Reyes’s attention snapped toward me again. He stood there, so still, my mind conjured a cobra ready to strike.

  “I think we’re finished, Neil. Thank you.” My words were breathy with a combination of fear and adrenaline.

  Two of the guards stepped forward and took Reyes by the arms to lead him out. To my utter astonishment, he let them, but just before he crossed the threshold, he turned back to me and said, “You leave me no choice.” After a quick glance at Neil, he stepped out and let the men escort him down the hall.

  Neil turned an ashen expression on me. “So, it went well?”

  5

  I know karate, and like two other Japanese words.

  —T-SHIRT

  I careened onto the interstate and set Misery to medium-high, my head still reeling. Reyes was nothing short of an enigma. So primal and ethereal. So fierce and, well, pissed. But damn those biceps.

  My cell started singing out the chorus to “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” I flipped it open. “What’s up, Cookie?”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “Cookie, seriously.”

  “Charley Davidson,” she said in her best motherly voice, “don’t think for a minute you’re going to keep even the smallest details from me.”

  I cracked up, then thought about Reyes again and my breath hitched in my chest. “Oh, my god, Cook, he’s so … he’s just so…”

  “Stunning? Gorgeous? Magnetic?”

  “Add really, really angry to that, and you’ve nailed him with a sledgehammer.”

  She sucked in air through her teeth. “I was afraid of that. You have to tell me everything. Wait, where are you?”

  “On the interstate, heading out of Santa Fe.”

  “Well, stop.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, but if I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.” It was only fair. I took the next exit and headed back toward town.

  “Deal. From what I’ve found out, Dr. Feelgood has no priors, but he was arrested in college. A death threat, or something. The charges were dropped, so there’s nothing really juicy in the database.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I thought so. I’m working on the hows and whys. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to get ahold of our missing wife’s sister to no avail, but I did get ahold of her brother in Santa Fe.”

  “Ah, hence the near negligent homicide to get me back to town.”

  “Exactly. I take it you survived?”r />
  “As always.”

  “Her brother’s name is Luther Dean.”

  “I remember. Big, strong name.” It made me conjure a white supremacist. Or a sausage.

  “Yeah, he sounded big and strong over the phone.”

  “Wonderful.” This could be interesting. “Did he give you any info on the case?”

  “Nope. Won’t talk to me.”

  Uh-oh. “Will he talk to me?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, I’m going to see him because?”

  “You’re a charmer. If anyone can get him to talk, it’s you.”

  “Aw, thanks. And I repeat, if I die, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

  She thought about that a moment. “You do have a tendency to almost get murdered in the most unlikely places.”

  She was right. I did. I’d considered therapy, but the never-ending search for mental stability would cut into my couch potato time. That couch was not going to sprout roots itself.

  “Wait,” she said, excited. “You don’t have to worry. He’s a contractor. You’re going to a construction site. Getting killed at a construction site with all those tools and equipment about is very likely, so surely nothing will happen.”

  “Oh, good thinking.” She was so smart. “What’s the address?” I wrote down the address amidst honking horns and a couple of flying birds, then said, “And get me the name of the woman who pressed charges against the good doctor in college. I’d love to hear that one.”

  “You got it, boss. So, everything’s okay, right?”

  “Absolutely. The minute my knees stop shaking from being in the presence of God Reyes, I’ll be fine.”

  “Man,” she said, her tone more nasally than usual, “I want a god. Just one. I’m not selfish.”

  “Well, if mine kills me, he’s all yours.”

  “You’re so sweet.” I could hear her nails clicking on the keyboard in the background.

  “What are bestest friends for?”

  “Oh, and that Mistress Marigold keeps emailing. She’s practically begging you to email her back.”

  I pulled up to a stop sign and watched as a group of Deaf kids shuffled past, all of them laughing at a story one of the boys was telling. Something about a hearing counselor jumping on his desk to get away from a Chihuahua.

  “It’s a good thing you set up that fake email address,” I said, chuckling at the boy’s story. “She’s a nut.”

  Mistress Marigold hosted a website on angels and demons. I’d been doing research on it one night when Reyes was being tortured by the latter and I was trying to learn more about them. On a page buried deep within the site, I’d come across a peculiar line that read, If you’re the grim reaper, please contact me immediately.

  It was so strange and we were so curious, Cookie emailed her the next day, asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. She’d written back with That’s between me and the grim reaper. Which, naturally, sent Cookie on a mission. She had Garrett email her saying he was the grim reaper, and Mistress Marigold had written back; this time she said, If you’re the grim reaper, I’m the son of Satan. It was enough to stun me a good thirty seconds. How did she know about Reyes? It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Next, Cookie had set up an alternate email address for me to use. So, in the interest of all things scientific and creepy, I emailed her, again asking what she wanted with the grim reaper. I’d fully expected another brush off. Instead, she wrote back with, I’ve been waiting a long time to hear from you.

  I figured she was either clairvoyant or just a really good guesser. Either way, I decided to leave well enough alone.

  “I think you should email her back,” Cookie said. “I feel sorry for her now. She seems a little desperate.”

  “Really? What’d she say?”

  “‘I’m a little desperate.’”

  “Oh. Well, I don’t have time to play games at the moment. Speaking of which, we should play Scrabble tonight.”

  “I’m not going to play games with you all night so you won’t fall asleep.”

  “Chicken.”

  “I’m not chicken.”

  “Bock, bock.”

  “Charley—”

  “Bk, bk, bk—”

  “Charley, really—”

  “Bk-kaw!”

  “I’m not scared you’ll beat me at Scrabble. I just want you to get some shut-eye.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, chiquita.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the construction site of a sparkling new shopping center on the eastern outskirts of the city. Santa Fe was growing and had the traffic congestion to prove it. But it was still a pretty town, the only one in the country with a city ordinance requiring that all construction adhere to a Spanish Territorial or Pueblo style of architecture. As a result, the City Different was simply that, different, stunning, and one of my favorite places on earth.

  I stepped out of Misery to examine the half-finished shopping center. It had adobe walls with terra-cotta tile and thick wooden archways.

  “Can I help you?”

  I looked over as a kid carrying a two-by-four walked past, unadulterated interest glistening in his eyes. Damn Danger and Will’s perky disposition. “Absolutely, I’m looking for Luther Dean.”

  “Oh, sure.” He scanned the area, then pointed through the openings that would one day have glass panes. A man stood inside. “The duke’s in there.”

  “The duke?” Impressive title. And the owner of it was impressive as well. He looked part professional football player and part brick wall with crisp sable hair peeking out from underneath his hard hat. “Can I go in?”

  “Not without one of these.” He knocked on his hard hat while dropping his load, then jogged over to the portable office that sported a DEAN CONSTRUCTION sign. After rummaging through a plastic bin, he hurried back with a bright yellow hard hat. “Now you can,” he said, handing it over, a boyish grin flashing across his face.

  “Thank you.” Normally I would have offered a wink or something equally flirty, but he looked too young, even for me. I didn’t want to get his pubescent hopes up.

  “Not at all, ma’am.” He tipped his hard hat before hefting the board onto his shoulder again.

  I stepped carefully over castoffs and debris and walked through the opening where the doors would someday stand. “Mr. Dean?”

  A ginormous man stood studying a pile of architectural plans, his shoulders so wide, they actually looked uncomfortable. I knew bank vault doors less intimidating. He glanced up, his cerulean blue eyes only slightly curious. “Yes.”

  “Hi.” I walked toward him and held out my hand, hoping he wouldn’t crush it. “My name is Charlotte Davidson. I’m a private investigator working on your sister’s case.”

  His face darkened instantly, so I dropped my hand, my instincts for self-preservation being what they were.

  “I’ve already told your assistant, I have nothing to say to you.”

  The emotional weight behind his response—one full of anger, worry, and resentment—hit me head-on. The force of it stole the air from my lungs, and I had to take a moment to recover as he rolled up the plans and barked orders to a group of men in another room. They jumped to do his bidding. Literally.

  “Mr. Dean, I assure you, I’m on your sister’s side.”

  The scowl he hit me with could have convinced a seasoned assassin to empty his bladder. “What’s your name again?” The paper in his hand surrendered to the pressure he was placing on it and crumpled as he squeezed his fist closed.

  “Jane,” I said, swallowing hard. “Jane Smith.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said it was Charlotte or Sherry or something.”

  “It was. I very recently changed it.”

  “Do you know what I do to people who mess with my family?”

  “And I’m moving to South America.”

  “I hurt them.”

  “And possibly getting a sex-change operation. You’d never reco
gnize me, you know, if you ever came looking.”

  “Are we finished?”

  Damn. Trick question. He turned and headed toward his office. I should’ve said yes, I really should’ve, but I couldn’t leave him with such a bad impression of me. A shaking mass of spineless jellylike stuff. Cookie was wrong. I was going to die at a construction site. I was so coming back to haunt her.

  “Look, asshole,” I said. Out loud.

  He stopped short of his destination and turned to gape at me. So did pretty much everyone else, but this was between me and the duke.

  I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “I get it. You think I’m working for Dr. Feelgood, so you don’t trust me.”

  He tilted his head, suddenly interested.

  “I’m not. He hasn’t paid me a dime. I’m looking for your sister, and if you don’t want to help me, that’s on you. But if anyone can find her, it’s me.” I fished a card out of my jacket and pushed it inside his shirt pocket. The shirt pocket that covered a really fit pec. Amazed that I was still conscious, I added, “Call me if you’d like to know where she is.”

  Then I turned and walked back to Misery before I blacked out.

  * * *

  “You said what?” Cookie asked, her voice rising an octave in three words flat.

  I grinned and repositioned the phone as I downshifted, and said, “‘Look, asshole.’”

  “Oh, my goodness. Wait, you said that to Luther Dean or are you saying that to me right now?”

  She was funny. “I wanted to go to Rocket’s and check on Teresa Yost’s mortal status, but the Rottweiler was out.”

  Rocket was a departed savant who lived in an abandoned mental asylum I had to break into just to see him. He knew the names of every person who’d ever been born and their status in the grand scheme of things. He could tell me if Teresa Yost was alive or if the doctor had already done the deed, a bit of information that would really help about now. But the biker gang who now owned the mental asylum also owned a slew of Rottweilers, and I preferred my limbs attached, thank you very much.

  “Ugh, damn that Rottweiler. So do you think he’s married?”

  “Well, I don’t know, Cookie, but I’m sure he’d prefer something in four legs.”