by Mae Clair
Clive wiped snot from his nose. “My brother’s dead.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” Gregg glanced aside. “Thorton. Anders. Get this crowd back and get more light up here.”
Someone pulled Clive away. He managed two steps before slumping to the curb. Gregg bent over Warren’s inert form, checking his pulse, pressing an ear to his chest. He looked up at a woman in a leather jacket and shook his head. She closed her eyes briefly then nodded. Turning away, she spoke into a handheld microphone. Two police cars rolled in from the opposite direction, the strobe of red-and-white lights making his head spin.
He pressed his hands to his temples. “It was meant for me.”
“Think you can tell me what happened here?”
He glanced up to find the woman in the leather jacket gazing down on him. She had dusky skin and a tiny mole like a beauty mark at the corner of her upper lip. He focused on the mole. “I heard the bell, not him.”
“What bell?”
“In Hickory Chapel Cemetery.” He rubbed his lizard tattoo. Why had it failed him? “I’m the one who should have died.”
“My name is Detective Lorquet. I want to help you.”
“Too late.” He swabbed away tears.
“Sherre?” The soft sound of a woman’s voice intruded. “Can I help?”
Clive glanced up, and there she was—standing like an avenging angel behind the detective—her white blouse spectral in the corona of emergency lights, long hair a waterfall of silver flame.
“Jillian, you shouldn’t be here.”
Clive scrambled to his feet. “It’s because of Mill Street.”
“What?” The woman’s face drained of color. Her gaze dropped to his hand. “A lizard tattoo. A black lizard.” She looked like she might throw up. “You were there.”
He tried to shake his head, but his neck tendons froze in place. Up close, he realized she wasn’t Hewitt’s wife, but looked similar enough to be family. The insight made him suppress a whimper. “You’re her sister. Like Warren was my brother.”
The woman shrieked. The sound cut him, banshee-swift and lethal. In the next second, she was in his face, pummeling him with her fists, spitting curses.
“Jillian!” A man in a ponytail snagged her waist and hauled her back.
“That’s enough!” Detective Lorquet stepped between them. “Stop it now, Jillian. Stop.” Her voice was ice and steel.
Chest heaving, tears glittering in her eyes, the blond-haired woman glared at Clive. “If you heard the bell, you’re dead. You know that, don’t you? You deserve death for what you did.”
Her hatred stung like acid. “It wasn’t me.” He wrung his hands, wishing he could talk to Warren. Hot tears streamed from his eyes. “Kirk was crazy that night. He told me we were going to look at a puppy. I wanted a pup, but when we got there…” He choked, remembering the smell of Boyd’s blood, the woman’s hysterical screams. “I held her back because I didn’t want her to get hurt. That’s all I did. I swear, I swear!” Folding in half, he bowed his face in his hands. Sobs bulleted from his gut like shockwaves.
“Kirk who?” Lorquet squatted in front of him.
“My…my brother, Kirk Porter.” The memories came back, scurrying rodent-swift through his skull. He clutched his head and rocked. “Make it stop, make it stop. I want Warren.”
The woman named Jillian made a sound of disgust. “I can’t believe after all this time…” She turned away, burying her face against the man with the ponytail. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
Clive burrowed into a tight ball, wishing he had someone to hold. He thought of Bodine, the soft press of fur against his cheek. Somewhere in the background, he heard David Gregg talking to Lorquet. The words were jumbled like pieces of a puzzle…something about an APB…about Kirk. He was still sniffling when a uniformed officer hauled him to his feet. Lorquet read him his rights as the clean-cut cop slapped cuffs on his wrists.
His heart triple-timed against his breastbone. “I want Warren.”
“Put him in a car.” Lorquet’s expression was stony.
The uniformed cop led him away, throngs on the sidewalk parting to let them pass. “I want Warren.” Why wouldn’t they listen to him? He craned his neck, twisting to gaze over his shoulder, but the crowds had closed behind him. “Why can’t I see Warren?”
The cop wrenched him to a halt at the rear of a police cruiser and reached for the door. His stomach catapulted into his throat. Bending double, he heaved beer and chunks of food onto the ground.
“Gah!” the cop backpedaled in disgust.
Clive inhaled snot. “I wanna die. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Neither did I.” The blond-haired woman stared at him across the roof of the car, the perfect lines of her face cold marble in the moonlight.
He wobbled upright. Hunched a shoulder against his cheek to sop up tears. Something in her eyes flayed him to the core. “I just wanted a dog.” Why didn’t anyone understand? “That’s why I helped Warren dig up the grave at Hickory Chapel. We gave the bones to Eli Yancy for money so I could have a dog like Bodine. That’s all I ever wanted.”
“You’re lying.”
“No. It’s the truth. I’d never hurt anyone intentionally.” They had to believe him. His whole world was falling apart. Warren was gone, and Kirk— “Ask my brother. Ask Kirk. Yancy called him because Warren and I wouldn’t take money to rough up a kid.” He was babbling and knew it, but didn’t care. “Something about a green stone, like an emerald. Kirk does shit like that, not me.” He might have said more if the cop hadn’t recovered and yanked open the door. A hand clamped on his head, forcing him down into the rear seat. Locked inside, he drew his knees to his chest and listened to the labored hitch of his breath.
“Stupid shit.” Warren’s reprimand echoed in his head. “You screwed up again.”
“I did. I’m sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. You heard the bell.”
He nodded, tears soaking into the collar of his coat. “Will you wait for me?”
“Don’t I always?” A slight chuckle. “Hurry up. I got you a dog.”
Clive grinned through his waterworks and sucked back a glob of snot. “Does he look like Bodine?”
“Hell, he is Bodine. Get your lazy ass in gear. We’re waiting.”
Clive tipped his head back, smiling up at the roof of the car. The cop spied him through the window and bent down to peer inside.
“Hey. What are you grinning at?”
“Warren and Bodine.” He welcomed the soft peal of a bell only he could hear—still smiling when his heart exploded.
* * * *
Kirk slipped inside the back door of the brownstone. The lock was easy to pick, the property mostly dark at twenty after twelve on Halloween night. He’d waited until the woman had fallen asleep watching TV in the living room, the two boys upstairs. The woman woke briefly when he clasped a hand over her mouth, her eyes popping at the sight of a leering devil staring down at her. The Fiend mask was perfect for Halloween, even better to conceal his features. He knocked her unconscious before she could scream.
Piece of cake.
Adrenaline ripped through his veins as he flexed the surgical gloves tight around his fingers and wrists. He’d been stupid when he’d killed Hewitt—left prints all over the place, but he’d been stoked on drugs. Tonight, his head was clear. Tonight was about fun.
Kirk crept toward the steps.
Oh, boys…
He’d thought to find the Camden kid alone, but the little shit had a friend staying over. Didn’t matter. He could scare the bejesus out of two as easily as one, make the little suckers piss themselves. He’d never roughed up a kid before, but there was always a first time.
At the top of the stairs, he spied a blue-gray sliver of light beneath a door to the left like a TV was play
ing. A soft murmur of voices made him prick his ears, but he couldn’t distinguish words. No matter. He slipped a butterfly knife from his back pocket and flicked it open. Sucking air through the holes in the Fiend mask, he crept down the hall until he was close enough to press his ear against the door.
Laughter. Something about a gym teacher with a face like a camel.
Kirk closed his hand around the doorknob. Adrenaline spiked to his brain. He kicked the door wide and burst into the room, flashing the knife in a showy arc. The boys were seated on the floor in front of a TV. Both scrambled to their feet when they saw him. Their screams bounced against his ears, but it was a woman’s high-pitched shriek that froze him in his tracks.
* * * *
Jillian dug through her purse for her keys.
“Do you want me to stay?” Dante closed his hands over hers, stilling her twitchy fingers as he stared down into her eyes. “I’m not sure you should be alone tonight. I can sleep on the couch.”
A sliver of warmth pierced the ice encasing her heart. “I’ll be all right. It’s just…a lot to absorb.” Tessa had already moved away, climbing the steps to the rear door of her brownstone. Jillian wanted to do the same. Wanted to forget the ugly events of the last half hour and crash into bed. Tomorrow, when she could think clearly, she’d dredge up Clive Porter’s face and the black lizard tattoo on his hand. He hadn’t seemed like a killer, and that confused her. If anything, he’d seemed as lost as she felt. She’d almost pitied him.
Then just like that he was gone—his heart giving way in the rear of the patrol car.
Because he’d heard the bell at Hickory Chapel Cemetery.
It was too much to process. Tomorrow, she’d think about Clive. About Madison and Mill Street and the search for Kirk Porter. At least Sherre had alerted the police in Palmer Point and placed a call to the rehab center where Madison was in recovery. If Jillian hadn’t been so exhausted, she might have driven there tonight. Sherre had promised to question Eli Yancy, too.
A triangle of light severed the darkness as Tessa opened the rear door and slipped inside. Jillian smiled at Dante. “Thanks for your concern. I’ll be okay. I—” The words were choked from her throat as a flood of emotion engulfed her—fear, shock, a torrent of anxiety. “Tessa!”
She bolted for the brownstone as Tessa’s screams pierced the night.
* * * *
“Damn.” Kirk slipped inside the bedroom door. The two boys had backed up against the far wall. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”
The one with the glasses bobbed his head, all wide eyes and white skin.
“Bullshit.” The dark-haired one was the problem. “He’s got a knife, not a gun.” He ripped a lamp from the dresser. Kirk was halfway across the room when the kid hurled it at his head.
“Run!” The boy was thoroughbred fast, bolting past while Kirk grasped at air. He flung the lamp aside with a wild sweep of his arm. The other kid scrambled after the first, thrown to his knees when his foot snagged the edge of a bunk bed.
“Elliott!” A woman’s scream rebounded up the steps, followed by the rapid thud of footfalls. He grabbed the smaller kid and dragged him backward toward the window. Yancy had said the Camden brat wore glasses.
“Where’s the stone? The emerald?”
The kid made a strangled sound, eyes boggling behind his glasses. His skin turned the color of wet flour, and he looked like he might pass out. Kirk shook him hard.
“I’m not going to ask you again, shithead.” He cast a glance out the window. The drop down was too far. “Give me the stone and I won’t hurt you.” He pressed the blade against the boy’s neck, felt his body stiffen like someone had wrenched his spine straight. The other boy grappled a cell phone off the dresser, frantically keyed in a security code.
“Drop it or I’ll slit his throat.”
His fingers froze on the phone. Eyes wide, he licked his lips. “Okay. Whatever you say.” Raising his hands in surrender, he dropped the cell like it was contaminated. Behind him, a woman in a witch’s costume rushed through the door.
“Elliott!” She would have lurched forward, but a guy with a ponytail grabbed her, holding her back. The two regarded him across the room.
Tightening his hand on his knife, Kirk smiled behind his Fiend mask. “Well…I sure as hell hope one of you has my stone.”
* * * *
Jillian took one look at Imelda, half-conscious on the living room sofa, and dashed from the room. If Tessa or Dante viewed her swift departure as cowardice, neither had a chance to voice an objection. She was out the front door and racing for her brownstone, the wind cold against her face. On the stoop, she fumbled for her keys, the deluge of emotion she’d felt in Tessa’s home pulsing through her veins. The boys were terrified, their fear tangled up with something dark and sinister.
Someone dark and sinister. Kirk Porter had taken money to “rough up a kid.” What were the odds he’d show tonight after his brother had branded him Boyd’s killer?
Blizzard nosed up against her the moment she stumbled inside. Racing past him, she flew up the steps to her bedroom. A flood of yellow blinded her as she flipped on the light switch. Frantic, she yanked open the top drawer of her dresser then rummaged inside until she found the emerald. The gem was exactly where she’d left it, tucked beneath a red silk scarf. Keyed to her hysteria, Blizzard barked and danced restlessly.
She had no time to calm him. No time to do anything but punch out Sherre’s number one-handed on her cell as she raced down the steps clutching the stone.
“Lorquet.”
“Something horrible is happening.” Jillian’s voice was urgent and shrill. “I’m at home.”
“Jillian?”
“Please send help. My neighbor’s house—Tessa Camden. Hurry!” She dashed outside. Blizzard’s frantic barking was muffled by the closed door.
Imelda wobbled up from the sofa as Jillian dashed inside Tessa’s living room.
“There was someone here.” Sobbing, Tessa’s mother pressed a shaky hand to her head. Fear puddled at her feet and spread outward to engulf Jillian. The quagmire of fright was nothing compared to the bombardment of raw emotion tumbling down the steps from the second floor. The combination of terror and dark insanity struck Jillian like a fist to the gut.
He’s up there.
Her brother-in-law’s killer. The man responsible for Madison’s psychosis.
“You’re safe now.” Jillian guided Imelda toward the front door. “My house is unlocked. I’ve already called the police. Stay there.”
“The boys—Tessa—”
“Please go.” Jillian bolted up the stairs. When she reached the hallway, it was like hitting a visceral wall of emotion. Tessa’s terror blasted through her like lightning. She sucked down a breath and clamped her mind shut, a steel trap to repel feeling. Anything less and she could end up like Madison.
Tessa and Dante stood in front of the door to Elliott’s room, blocking her view of the interior. Spying her over his shoulder, Dante gave a short shake of his head.
Stay away.
“I’m not going to ask again,” a gruff male voice said. “Where’s the fucking stone?”
“I have it.” Jillian thrust between them.
“Jillian!” Dante tried to grab her, but she wriggled past, into the room. The only light came from the TV, washed-out and grainy as it broadcast an old black-and-white version of the movie Frankenstein. Elliott’s friend, Finn, stood a few feet away, his face drawn and leached of color. Across the room, a man wearing a Fiend mask held Elliott with one arm wrapped around his chest, the edge of a knife angled to the boy’s throat. Elliott trembled visibly, white as a marble statue.
“Who are you?” The man raked her with a gaze. “Doesn’t matter. Give me the stone.”
“Let Elliott go, and I will.” Jillian’s knees felt like they might buckle, but th
ere was something hard and rigid in her, too. She extended her hand and uncurled her fingers to reveal the emerald.
The man snorted. “Fat chance, bitch. Set it over here—” Dragging Elliott backward, he bobbed his head to indicate the nightstand. “Then I’ll let the kid go.”
Jillian didn’t move. “I’ve already called the police.”
“Bullshit.”
“If I give you the stone, you’ll use Elliott as a shield. How else will you get past us?” She was surprised she could think so clearly when she felt like she moved through a bog. “You’re Kirk Porter, aren’t you?” Her voice was ice, every muscle in her body strung taut. “Where do you think you’re going to go?”
“Please, Jillian. Do what he wants.” Tessa’s plea was rough with tears. “Give him the stone.”
“Yeah, Jillian.” The man laughed, the sound muffled by red latex. “Give me the stone.”
She folded her fingers over the gem. The only way out was through the door—past her, Dante, and Tessa—the man knew it as well as she did. Why didn’t Tessa see? If Jillian stalled long enough, she could keep Elliott safe until the police arrived.
Hoping he understood she’d never let anything happen to him, she shot him a bolstering glance. During the séance, Gabriel’s spirit had told her the stone’s power could protect or destroy. It was time to see if it would protect Elliott.
“There’s nowhere for you to go. Your brother already told the police you killed Boyd Hewitt three years ago.”
“Jillian, don’t.” Dante’s tone carried warning.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”
Clutched in her palm, the emerald pulsed with sudden heat. “The hell I don’t. We just left your brother, Clive, in the back of a squad car. Before he died, he confessed what he did. What you did.” The balloon of heat grew, glittering like light in her veins, a sun going nova. The deluge was scorching, empowering. “That was my brother-in-law you killed, you bastard. My sister you put in a rest home.”
“What the hell?” The man ripped off his mask. The motion freed Elliott for the fraction he needed to break away. Ducking under Porter’s arm, he bolted for the bottom bunk. The man scrambled to catch him, but Elliot was too quick, popping out the other side. Finn flung a paperweight over his head, and the heavy chunk of glass struck Porter on the brow, dropping him with a grunt.