Deceptions

by Kelley Armstrong

  "Yep, that's going to hurt," I said. "You should have taken the longue."

  "It was occupied." He winced again as he pushed himself into a relatively upright position. "Even if it wasn't, I don't fit on it."

  Which was true. It looked as if it had never been used. He was too tall to sleep on it, but I'd bet he'd never even sat there. So why buy it? Another Gabriel mystery.

  "Coffee," I said, pushing it toward him. "Extra large."

  "Thank you."

  "And this." I fished a vial of Tylenol from my bag. "For your neck. But don't take it until you've eaten. Luckily, food is also provided." I set down a box of four still-warm muffins. "Blueberry, banana nut, lemon poppyseed, and double chocolate. Your pick."

  He took the banana nut and set the double chocolate down by my coffee cup. I smiled. "Thank you."

  He leaned back with the muffin and coffee as I settled into the other chair. He eyed the painkillers but didn't open them. I reached over, popped the lid, and shook out two.

  "Your neck is hurting from sleeping like that. It's only going to get worse. We may have a full day ahead. Take."

  He did.

  "Thank you," I said. "Now, when you're feeling better, Detective Pemberton got back to me with a name."

  He looked up so fast he winced, pulling his neck again.

  "Relax," I said. "Let the meds kick in. It can wait."

  "You realize, as your employer, I legally have access to your e-mail."

  "I didn't use my office one." I smiled and let him simmer for a minute, just for fun. Then I said, "Imogen Seale," and he was on his laptop in five seconds flat.

  I waited until he said, "All right. I have--" Then I passed over my notebook, with Imogen's current address and a page of notes.

  "Early bird gets the scoop," I said. "Eat, drink, let those pain meds do their work, and we'll get out of here."

  We were heading out as Lydia arrived. I left the two remaining muffins on her desk. She said, "Good morning," and refrained from comment on the early hour or the fact I wore an oversized Iron Maiden concert shirt, grabbed from the Saints clubhouse because mine had been stained with blood.

  "It's too early to buy a shirt, isn't it?" I said to Gabriel as we walked down the front steps.

  "At this hour, if you hope for business wear, yes. There are a few options, though. Nothing fashionable, but perhaps a little less . . ."

  "Like I slept with an aging roadie, and he ripped my shirt off?"

  A quirk of a smile. "Yes."

  "Lead on, then. I won't ask how you know where to buy clean clothes at eight in the morning."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The shirt came from a diner, a tee that advertised their business. Whch was better than what the other one seemed to "advertise."

  By ten, we were at Imogen's house. Or the house where she lived, which actually belonged to her mother. At twenty-four, I'd felt too old to still live at home. Imogen was forty-three.

  When we arrived, I was certain we'd made a mistake. We were looking for a house. This was a street of walk-ups and apartments. And, as it turned out, one house, wedged between two towering buildings, like a recalcitrant dwarf squatting between giants, refusing to give ground. Which is, I suspect, exactly what happened. Imogen's family had refused to sell, so they were left there, in the shade of those apartments, with only a house and a strip of grass.

  Gabriel knocked. When a stooped, elderly woman answered, he still did the "foot in the doorjamb" trick. Rightly, as it turned out. She took one look at me and tried to slam the door.

  "Get your damned foot out of there," she said. "Or I swear I'll crush it--" She yanked feebly on the door, her face reddening. Then she peered up at Gabriel. "I'll call the police."

  "We'd like to speak to Imogen Seale. She's your daughter, I presume?"

  "Get the hell off my property."

  "We believe Ms. Seale has information vital to a case--"

  "What case? Setting two psychos loose?"

  She turned on me, her wizened face threatening to fold into its own creases. Our research said she was in her early seventies, but she looked more like ninety, her wrinkled skin yellowed by tobacco, the stink of the cigarettes blasting on her breath.

  "I don't know why you're here to see my girl, but you're not going to. She's barely been out of her room since you turned up in the news, reminding her of all that mess. Do you know how long it took to get her right again? After what you people did?"

  "You people?" I said.

  "Your parents, murdering the man she loved. After that, she wasn't right for years. Years. And now you pop up in the news, upsetting her again. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?"

  I could have pointed out the logical inconsistencies in that. Sometimes, though, it's clear you aren't dealing with a logical person. Or even a particularly bright one. So I let her rant and nudged Gabriel to silence when he seemed ready to jump in.

  "She can speak to Mr. Walsh alone, then," I said when she paused for breath.

  "How's that supposed to help? It still dredges up . . ." She continued talking.

  I counted to three, then cut in with, "Gabriel? I'm going to let you handle this. I don't want to cause trouble. I'll wait in the car."

  As soon as I started down the stoop steps, he eased over, blocking Mrs. Seale's view of me before resuming his requests to speak to Imogen.

  I made certain the old woman's attention was on Gabriel. Then I scooted between the house and a neighboring apartment. Ahead, a shadow scurried behind that next-door building. Imogen, making her escape. I jogged along the wall until I could peek around it.

  A middle-aged, painfully thin woman with badly bleached hair stood midway between the apartment and the adjacent parking garage. Her gaze darted about, dark eyes too big for her gaunt face. She reminded me of a bird. Not a raven or an owl, but an undernourished sparrow that's had one too many run-ins with the big guys. She was breathing hard, fluttering in place as she watched for trouble.

  I evaluated my position. Five feet from a window in the Seale house. Ten from the back door. In other words, too close to where I could be spotted by a pissed-off momma bird. But Imogen just stood there, catching her breath after the short dash and watching her house, as if expecting us to come after her.

  I picked up a fist-sized rock and sent it rolling her way. Hardly a sign of descending enemies, but Imogen was skittish enough to flee. I followed. Again she didn't go far, stopping in the mouth of the parking garage.

  I texted instructions to Gabriel. Then I settled in to wait. A few times Imogen peeked from her shadowy spot, as if contemplating a return to the nest, only to decide it was too soon.

  When I got a text from Gabriel, I set out. I made it halfway to the garage before Imogen did one of her peek-checks. She saw me and retreated fast. I heard a shriek, and I burst into the garage as she was wheeling to run back out, a large shadow blocking her other escape options.

  I lifted my hands. "We just want to speak to you."

  "I don't have anything to say." Her voice was girlish. Everything about her was, now that I closed in and got a better look. A pink blouse, white jeans, bare feet with hot-pink nails. She even had pink barrettes in her hair. Cute on a seventeen-year-old. Sad at forty-three.

  "Your mother says you're having a rough time," I said. "With me popping up in the news. Bringing back memories, is it?"

  Her sharp chin bobbed.

  "Memories or guilt?" I asked.

  "Wh-what?" Then she glanced quickly at Gabriel, her look pleading. A woman accustomed to turning to men. When Gabriel only stood there, silent and impassive, she inched toward him and directed her answer his way. "I don't have anything to feel guilty for," she said.

  "No?" I stepped toward her. "That's not what I've heard."

  She flinched.

  I continued. "Marty knew the first victims: Amanda and Ken. Their connection is very intriguing. One that would be of great interest to others. The police, the press, my parents . . ."
>
  She dove to the side. I had no idea where she thought she was going. We were in an enclosed parking garage. Cars lined either side of the narrow lane. One exit was behind me, another behind Gabriel. But she chose to race sideways, smacking into the rear bumper of a pickup. Then she dropped and scuttled under it.

  I looked at Gabriel. He shook his head and took up position on the other side of the truck. It didn't seem as if she planned to escape that way--or any way at all. She was just hiding.

  "All right," I said. "I take it that means you'd rather speak to the police."

  "I'm not talking to anyone," her breathy voice whispered.

  "I don't think you'll have much choice in that. It's a murder investigation. You did hear that it's reopened, didn't you? I proved my parents didn't kill Jan Gunderson and Peter Evans. All the murders are being reexamined. As soon as I tell the police about that very interesting link I found--"

  "It was her fault."

  I paused. "Amanda's?"

  "No, Lisa. Marty's bitch wife. It was her fault. Her idea."

  I glanced at Gabriel. He was thinking fast, his gaze gone distant, but no answer seemed to be forthcoming quickly enough.

  "Is that what Marty told you?" I said.

  "It's the truth. He always told me the truth. She tricked him into marrying her, and then she threatened to hurt him if he left. She tricked him into the other thing, too, and threatened him if he told anyone."

  "He was ex-military and twice her size."

  "That doesn't matter. She knew stuff--satanic stuff. She was evil."

  Gabriel's eyes snapped wide, as close to a genuine Holy shit look as he could manage. Luckily, being under the truck, Imogen couldn't see us staring dumbfounded at each other.

  In fishing for a connection, I'd been throwing my hook wide and blind, having no idea what could connect the two couples. This hadn't occurred to me.

  "That's why they did it," I said. "Witchcraft."

  "Satanism," Imogen said. "It's not the same thing." A two-second pause. Then, belatedly, "I mean, that's what the bitch was into. I don't know what you mean about why they did it. Did what? I never said anything."

  "Um, yes, you said she made him do it. We both know what we're talking about, Imogen."

  "I never said--"

  "Marty and Lisa killed Amanda Mays and Ken Perkins."

  Another two seconds, during which I heard her breathing. Then a weak, "What? You're crazy. I never said that."

  "You didn't need to," I said, and walked away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Was it possible that the Tysons had killed the first two victims? While my gut embraced it, my brain threw up a stop sign. It was like saying . . . well, it was like saying Cainsville had been settled by fairies. Seemingly preposterous.

  "I don't know," Gabriel said as we slid into his car. I hadn't asked a question. I didn't have to. "We need to break it down."

  He started the car. When I said nothing by the first turn, he glanced at me and jerked his chin. I knew what he meant. Work this out aloud for him.

  "There are a bunch of questions we'd need answered before we could seriously consider it," I said. "Questions that we can't get answers to, because the suspects are dead. Long dead. Where were Lisa and Marty on the night of the Mays and Perkins murders? Do they have an alibi? Any chance we can put them in the vicinity? Any chance of finding the murder weapon? That's all gone, washed away by time. They were never suspects, so there's no way to answer those questions now."

  A quick look. I understood that one, too. Don't dwell on what we can't answer.

  "The big connection, then, is the so-called satanism," I said as I took out my notebook and started writing. "We might be able to dig up something. Getting details from Imogen would help. Once we've come up with a list of questions for her, we can use her mother to our advantage. The woman doesn't want anyone messing with her baby. We can convince her that there's no way to avoid that, and compared to the police, we're the lesser evil. Obviously, the police would still speak to her after we made our case, but I don't think Imogen or her momma are bright enough to realize that."

  "Agreed." Gabriel paused. "We can convince her to talk. The fact she withheld evidence and watched your parents be convicted of the murders would be important leverage."

  "Blackmail."

  "Persuasion. With an implied penalty for failure to be persuaded."

  "I'll let you handle that," I said. "Back to the witchcraft or whatever. That could explain why we never connected the ritual to anything else. There are elements of Druidism, but nothing that more strongly suggested an actual fae influence. If it was the Tysons who devised the ritual, it would be exactly what your experts concluded: a mishmash of elements taken from God-knows-where. If the Tysons killed the first victims, then they established the pattern, meaning the pattern itself would be meaningless. The ritual elements. The method. The locations. Even the day of the week." I stopped writing. "But that was significant. It was my parents' date night."

  "I would suspect Friday is a popular date night. Meaning a good time for the Tysons to find a couple."

  I nodded and made a note of that. "Wait--what about the eyewitness who ID'd my parents as the people fleeing the first crime scene? She picked them out of a lineup, right?"

  "Yes, but if I recall correctly, the Tysons were roughly the same age, body type, and coloring. They didn't resemble one another in any significant way, but if the witness spotted them from a distance, it would be close enough, particularly if the lineup was skewed. I'll look into that further."

  "If the Tysons killed Mays and Perkins, then my parents were following their pattern. Trying to hide the crime by emulating the victims' own crimes. Which would throw a serious wrench into any investigation."

  "It would have been an even bigger wrench if there had been any forensic evidence with the first couple. Fingerprints. DNA. I could have gotten your parents off with that. It's reasonable doubt."

  "Just their bad luck, then, that the Tysons were good. Or lucky. Which may also explain why the Cwn Annwn took an interest. If they needed my parents to commit murders and their purview is killing killers, the Tysons would have been an ideal case. They left no clues, so they stood little chance of being caught and convicted." I paused, thinking it through. "Chandler and Evans copycatted their murders with Jan and Pete--after my parents copied the Tysons. So the chances that someone else murdered the third pair, in yet another act of copying . . ."

  ". . . is infinitesimally small." He drove another half block before saying, "Still, does this help?"

  "Does it make it easier, you mean?" I closed the notebook, my forefinger still marking the page. "Little steps, you know? Along a continuum. At one end, my parents are sadistic monsters who deserve to rot in jail. At the other, they're innocent victims of a cruel miscarriage of justice. Finding out that they didn't kill Jan and Peter took them a step away from the monster end. Learning they killed only four people, who were likely murderers themselves? Short of innocence, it's the best I could have hoped for. The Huntsman was right--I wanted simple. Black or white. This isn't anywhere near either."

  "No, it isn't."

  I flipped open the notebook. "Still, it's only a theory. As you've told me many times, I can't get too attached to it. We have work to do."

  "True. But . . ." He idled at the light. "It's a solid theory. Very solid. I think you should prepare yourself to accept that this is the answer. Of all the ones you could find, there's only one better," he said. "And we knew innocence was unlikely. This is good."

  "I know."

  "If I can prove the Tysons killed the first victims, it will throw the case wide open. With that, I should be able to set your parents free." He met my gaze. "Is that what you want?"

  "It is."

  --

  We needed answers, and the quickest way to get them was to go straight to the source: my parents. Yes, that's what they were to me. My parents. They had been for a while, even if I hadn't realized the shi
ft. That didn't change what I felt for my adoptive parents. They were still Mum and Dad. But those were names for a child, and I was no longer a child. The Larsens were Todd and Pamela. My father and my mother.

  My first choice was Todd. It had been when I was a child, whether I'd skinned my knee or drawn a picture--he was the one I went to. Gabriel called the prison and bullied some poor desk clerk, but Todd was still off limits. That left Pamela. Which meant this would be tougher.

  I asked Gabriel to stay out this time. He agreed without hesitation. I needed to win her confidence, and I wouldn't do that with Gabriel in tow.

  In the past, when I've wanted something from Pamela--which is, admittedly, every time I've visited--I've gotten straight down to business. Stick before carrot. Be straight with me and then we can be mother and daughter for a while. Now I reversed the process. I talked about my life. I had a new job as a research assistant. A crappy but comfortable apartment. A cat. And a boyfriend. I was most honest about Ricky, because that's where I could light up, let her see how happy I was, and even if "biker MBA student" wasn't her idea of son-in-law material, she focused on the student part of that, proof that the biker half was a young man trapped in his family business, working his way out.

  In my openness, I manipulated her. I accept responsibility for that.

  "I know about the spina bifida," I said finally.

  She jerked back as if I'd slapped her, and I wish I could say I felt guilty. But I only leaned across the table and lowered my voice. "I know about the deal with the Cwn Annwn, and if you deny it, I'm going to walk out."

  She went very still.

  "I need to ask something I don't know. Something I only suspect. Please listen until I'm done, okay? I know this isn't easy for you." I locked gazes with her. "But it's not easy for me, either."

  She pressed her lips together, as if to ensure she wouldn't interrupt.

  "I think you didn't kill Amanda Mays and Ken Perkins. I think it was the Tysons. The Cwn Annwn needed lives as part of the deal they offered you. They chose the Tysons. They also chose Stacey Pasolini and Eddie Hilton--I don't know why, but I'm presuming it was a similar reason. The Cwn Annwn could justify their deaths, and so you could justify their deaths. Am I correct in those assumptions?"

  She said nothing. I inched forward, close enough to earn the attention of a guard before I eased back.