Dead Demon Walking

by Linda Welch

  I put my head on Royal’s shoulder and we had a whispered conversation.

  “Tell me again why we came with them without a by-your-leave?”

  His breath wafted my hair. “Digging your feet in and arguing with the FBI is nothing more than a delaying tactic.”

  “Wish I knew what they want.”

  “Tiff, be careful what you say to them.”

  I mumphed in his neck. “You mean watch my smart mouth.”

  His lips quirked. “Be as honest as you can, but don’t volunteer information.”

  I felt Royal’s tension in the hard muscles of his arm as it pressed against mine during our boring flight. His air of casualness was an act. This mysterious summons worried him.

  How often I’d felt that, his arm against mine, his muscles like boulders when he worried but didn’t want me to. He didn’t know his body betrayed him.

  We lifted off, climbed, leveled out, and I saw nothing but clouds. We touched down at Washington Dulles International Airport one hour and forty-five minutes later.

  Chapter Eight

  I should get a T-shirt which says, I went to Washington DC and all I got was a lousy backdoor trip to the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

  Not only did two National Guard stand outside one of the rear entrances, two waited inside the door. They patted us down and gave us Visitor IDs. Royal grit his teeth as my guy ran his hands over me.

  We followed Martinez through a warren of brightly lit, blank-walled corridors. Strager came close behind us - as if we meant to shoot off and infiltrate a janitor’s closet, because that’s all I saw until we came to a square hall surrounded by anonymous doors. Martinez led us through a door to a stairwell. We went up, and stepped into a corridor lined with office doors and windows. We were still at the rear of the building.

  Doors at the end of the corridor slid apart as we neared them. We followed Martinez to a big office. Busy personnel filled the place, but they took the time to look us over as we passed their desks. Men and women wore dark suits and white or pale-blue shirts, with FBI badges either clipped to pockets or belts, or on chains around their necks. Apart from the uniformity of dress, it could be a police division bullpen: desks piled with untidy stacks of paperwork, fast-food containers, half-eaten food on paper plates, soda cans and coffee mugs, family photos, overflowing wastepaper baskets. One mug said My MOM loves me but she doesn’t know where I work, another declared World’s Hottest Special Agent.

  At the back of the room, a staircase went up to a railed balcony and three big offices with glass walls, as if the occupants needed to look down and keep tabs on the entire area. Martinez climbed the stairs, Royal, me and Strager following. We went in the middle office.

  The floor to ceiling windows in the outside wall looked over a huge concrete quad and rows of cars. Glass walls gave us an unobstructed view of the room below and into the other two offices. There were blinds, but they were pulled up to the ceiling. I felt exposed. I wanted to find something to hide behind.

  The room had a big glass-topped desk with a black leather office chair behind it and an even bigger glass-topped conference table. A rack of lateral filing cabinets lined one wall, a trolley with a coffee-maker, cups and all the fixings in a corner, and a fax machine on another trolley in the opposite corner. It had a sterile atmosphere. Not an office; they used it as a conference or interrogation room. At least the chairs at the desk and conference table weren’t glass.

  The rooms either side were functional offices, but empty at the moment.

  Martinez indicated two chairs at the conference table. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Someone will be with you shortly.” Then she shut the door behind her as she and Strager left, enclosing us in silence.

  I thought about our suitcases, which we left in another black SUV. Were agents going through them? Would they be able to get into Royal’s laptop? Were they fingering my lovely new underwear?

  We sat at the table side by side. I whispered to Royal, barely breathing out the words, knowing his super duper hearing would pick it up. “Can we talk?”

  He shook his head. “Best not.”

  I nodded back. The room could be bugged.

  We waited there fifteen minutes. Bored, I circled the table, then stood at the huge glass window to look down at the lower office. I drew back when I saw half the folk down there looking up at me.

  “I know it goes with the territory, but sometimes I get sick of folk looking at me like I flew down from another planet.” I dropped in the chair next Royal.

  His eyebrows drew together. “Look at you how?”

  I made a meaningless gesture. “I expect new clients to give me the once-over, clients who’ve heard what I can do. But . . . look at them, Royal! Do I have freak stenciled on my forehead?”

  He eyed me for a second, and then gave his head a little shake, smiling. “You have no idea, do you?”

  Huh? “Of what?”

  “Why they cannot take their eyes off you. Don’t you ever look in a mirror?”

  He had completely lost me. “Every day when I wash my face and brush my hair.”

  “Look again.”

  My voice pitched higher. “Look where?”

  “Down there.”

  Clearly, Royal had lost his mind. I rolled my eyes and twisted to pan my gaze over the inner office from my seated position. Sure enough, several guys still stared at me, though they lowered their eyes quickly. Not unusual - women who are six-four, pale-skinned with silver-white hair can attract attention. They probably thought I’m an albino.

  “Tiff, my wonderful Tiff, when Chris called you lovely he was not stroking your ego.”

  I swiveled to face him. “Er. . . .” What could I say to that? I put my hand to my head, grimacing. “Um . . . that’s sweet, Royal, but it’s the white hair, and I’m tall for a woman, and - ”

  “You are an adorable idiot.”

  He took my hands and kissed the backs, breath and lips a warm caress.

  I stared into the depths of his glowing copper eyes. “Why are you looking at me like you want to take me to bed?”

  “Bed? I’m not,” he said as he released my hands. “This big, sturdy table, though. . . .”

  “Royal!” I pulled my shoulders back. “You want to see me blush.”

  One hand swept over the table; his lashes dipped, making his expression lazy and suggestive. “I know better ways to make you red in the face.”

  I swallowed a snicker as I spied three men heading for the stairs. One looked in his forties, a beanpole with buzz-cut, light-brown hair dusted with gray. Another stood a few inches shorter, maybe late-thirties, well-built with blond hair cropped close to his skull. The third man could also be in his late thirties, a bit on the chubby side, his short sandy hair already thinning.

  “Here we go,” Royal murmured.

  We stood as they opened the door and came in. The older man swept his hand at the table. “Please don’t get up,” he said with a smile, so I sank back. Royal remained on his feet.

  Older guy sat opposite us, still smiling pleasantly. His blue eyes had a twinkle to them and his lips were soft, mobile, as if they often quirked. “I’m Pat Garrett.” He held up his hands palm out. “If you have anything to say about that, let’s get it out of the way now.”

  A small frown puckered my brow, then I got it. Pat Garrett, famous lawman. Right?

  When he got no response from us, he tilted one hand at the blond guy to his left. “Agent Solomon Gunn.”

  A small scar slashed Agent Gunn’s upper lip and another ran horizontally over his left cheek just below his cold, pale-blue eye. He nodded at Royal and eyed me with something between a smirk and a sneer.

  “Agent John Vanderkamp,” Garrett said, indicating the thickset guy.

  Vanderkamp had a broad smile, which he beamed over me and Royal, and wide brown eyes. A bump on his nose attested to a break he’d left to go its own way instead of getting fixed. Although his face was chubby, his body bulked with muscle. He came
around the table, offering his hand to first Royal, then me. Royal shook and I had to stand to do the same.

  With the formalities over, we sat at the table and got down to business.

  Garrett linked his hands on the tabletop and leaned on his elbows. “Mr. Mortensen, Miss Banks, thank you for coming.” He turned his face to me. “Miss Banks, the Federal Bureau of Investigation requests your help.”

  I swallowed nervously. “Me? How?”

  Vanderkamp passed a folder to Garrett, who opened it and withdrew a handful of eight by ten color photographs. He laid them face down on the table. “We know of your special . . . talent, Miss Banks. We’ve followed your career for some time now.”

  Gunn’s scar emphasized the sarcastic hitch of his lip.

  I couldn’t respond to Garrett as his words twisted in my head. Not only did the FBI know what I could do - or thought they did - they’d kept an eye on me, FBI style.

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt for Royal’s hand, then realized they would see me groping for a lifeline beneath the glass tabletop. I brought my hands up and clasped them on the table.

  My brain started gearing up, though I doubted it knew what it was doing. The dang fool thing made me say, “You have a case that with all the resources at your disposal, you can’t solve, so you want my help?”

  “Yes, Miss Banks, that’s it,” Garrett confirmed with a thin smile.

  “More than one?” I added, because the Bureau generally does not stick its nose in a single homicide unless it’s relevant to national security, but they do go after serial killers.

  He didn’t corroborate as he flipped a photo and slid it over the table to me. “A week ago. Brian Fensham, twenty-two.”

  A young man on a mortuary slab. Short red hair and a square face. His skin had that dead look I know all too well. His eyes were closed. I’m glad when their eyes are closed, not staring sightlessly. His arm had been removed from the shoulder blade and lay beside his chest. The condition of his arm and shoulder made me think the limb had been torn off.

  “Have you seen Braveheart?” Garrettt asked.

  Had I seen Braveheart? Only half a dozen times. Mel loved the movie, although she asked me to turn it off before Mel Gibson was hanged, drawn and quartered. “I’ve seen it.”

  “Then you know the medieval practice of quartering. Each of the victim’s arms and legs are tied to a horse and - ”

  “Yes, I know.”

  He laid his arm on the table so he could point at the photo. “We found bruising and abrasions on the wrist, here. And here on the shoulder. As if something took hold and pulled the arm from the torso.”

  Ginormous yuck! “Surely you don’t think a horse did this.”

  He leaned back. “We would see ligature abrasions, which these bruises are not. But the end result is similar.”

  Was this a first? With medical examiners’ expertise nowadays and the technology at their fingertips, I thought they always identified the murder weapon. Maybe I saw too much TV.

  Garrett shoved another photo at me.

  Brian lay on his stomach, a big ugly hole just below his left shoulder blade. My stomach curdled.

  Garrett shrugged and spread his hands. I didn’t ask if they knew what made that hole in young Brian; obviously they did not. Another photo came my way as Royal looked at the first.

  “Gregory Fensham, Brian’s father, retired software CEO. He, wife Daphne and Brian were found at their vacation home in Bella Vinca, Arkansas. Their neighbor went over when their dog kept barking.”

  “Poor neighbor,” I commented in a murmur as I perused the second photo. A chubby, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair. I held it closer to my eyes. His head seemed . . . peculiar, not properly . . . aligned on his neck.

  “Head taken clean off,” Garrett said. “Again, we can’t identify the weapon, but the neck was not cleanly severed, or sawn.”

  I gave my head a little shake as I blinked. Now Garrett pointed it out, I saw the ragged line where the head had been positioned on the neck.

  This was bizarre; cops and other law enforcement always identify the murder weapon. Or, in this case, as body parts may have been wrenched off, the murder gadget?

  Royal laid the first photo on the table. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “It seems as if something was clamped to the neck and. . . .” Garrett let the sentence hang.

  He had another photo. I held out my hand.

  A red-haired woman. “Daphne Fensham?”

  Garrett nodded.

  I hate mug shots of dead people. Mrs. Fensham was an attractive woman with perfectly plucked eyebrows and sculpted cheekbones. I expect she looked nice when wearing makeup, but medical examiners remove cosmetics. She had a messy hole in her neck, shredded flesh through which the vertebrae peeked. I couldn’t see any other damage. I laid the photo down with the others.

  “Okay?” Royal asked.

  I nodded, my lips tight. Sweat beaded along my hairline and nape. I’ve seen gruesome corpses, but not this ugly. I wanted to heave.

  I met Garrett’s steady gaze and had to lick my dry lips before I could speak. “What do you expect from me?”

  “My understanding is you communicate with the ghosts of homicide victims,” he said as if the statement were not totally outré.

  I could explain my shades were victims of violent deaths which did not always include murder, but I didn’t want to give the agents something they didn’t already know. They likely got their information from the police departments I’ve worked with, probably Clarion PD, and maybe from FBI Agent Matt Larsen of Salt Lake City. Garrett knew only what other law enforcement agencies thought they knew.

  I stroked my sweaty palms over the table top, smearing the glass. “Sometimes I can.” Not a lie. I can talk to any shade I see, but they don’t always talk back.

  I rubbed the glass with my sleeve, but that spread the smear. Gunn made a derogatory noise in his throat. Vanderkamp smiled at me.

  What was it with these guys? Good cop, bad cop? Believer and skeptic? Nice dude and pain in the ass?

  Garrett cleared his throat, said, “Could you with these vics?”

  “I don’t know. Some . . . communicate, some don’t.”

  “We’d like you to try.”

  I glanced at Royal, but he didn’t help me out. He’d barely said a word since we got here. I didn’t find that encouraging. I wanted some clue as to which way I should go with this.

  I focused on him until he realized I wanted his opinion. “It’s your call, Tiff,” he said.

  Gee, thanks! “Our fee is one hundred dollars an hour.” I didn’t even twitch as I lied.

  Garrett rolled his eyes up. “Your fee is fifty an hour, but I don’t think you’ll refuse to help your fellow Americans for want of a few dollars.”

  “Those few dollars pay my bills and keep a roof over my head, and while we help you we could be working for paying customers.”

  “Miss Banks, you’re on vacation,” Vanderkamp said with another smile - did he ever stop?

  “And that’s another thing. . . .”

  Royal softly cleared his throat. Right, Tiff, keep that mouth under control. But I wasn’t doing this for nothing.

  I folded my arms over my chest and gave Garrett a steely look. “Fifty dollars an hour then, and you pay all travel expenses.”

  He bent his head, turned his eyes up, smiling. “Agreed. I can get approval, but only for time spent at the crime scene.”

  I nodded briskly. “It’s a deal.”

  “Good.” He checked his wristwatch. “You’re booked on the five PM to Bentonville via Dallas. Sol and John will be with you. Mr. Mortensen will take the six-fifty back to Boston.”

  Whoa! “Mr. Mortensen comes with me.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Then why drag both of us here?”

  Royal cut in smoothly. “They did not want to leave me in Boston to cause a scene.”

  “Precisely,” Garrett agreed. “No
offense, Mortensen, but we don’t need you.” He switched his gaze to me. “Miss Banks, you accepted the assignment.”

  I stood and leaned so I could lay my hands flat on the table, which put me in a position to look down on Garrett. “We discussed our fee. Banks and Mortensen. I’m Banks.” I poked my clavicle with my index finger, then pointed it at Royal. “He’s Mortensen.”

  I glared at Royal, because he sat there with a hint of a smile teasing his lips, saying nothing, letting me handle it. He gave me an innocent look in return.

  I shifted the glare to Garrett, clenched my jaw and prepared to do battle.

  “Very well,” said Garrett.

  That deflated my indignation. I sat rather abruptly.

  Garrett grinned.

  Royal finally deigned to open his mouth. “What more can you tell us about the murders, or the family in general?”

  Garret put the fingertips of both hands together and looked my way. “Need to know basis.”

  In other words, I would go in cold.

  ***

  We drove back to Dulles in another black SUV, with Vanderkamp driving and Gunn riding shotgun. Forty-five minutes later we boarded our plane.

  The flight to Dallas/Fort Worth lasted three and a half hours, and then we had to wait two hours for our flight to NW Arkansas Regional Airport in Bentonville. We ate in a grill and bar, the name of which I don’t remember. The food tasted blah. It was expensive, like in all airports, but the Suits picked up the tab. I felt tired and irritable when we boarded for the last leg. Center seats with Gunn and Vanderkamp flanking for just over an hour didn’t cheer me. But when I reached the point where I wanted to hit something or someone, I remembered I had an appointment with three dead people who died in a particularly brutal manner, and I withdrew inside myself, not wanting to think about what lay ahead.

  Chapter Nine

  I thanked the Almighty the agents put us in a motel. I didn’t want to see the victims late at night, when everything seems worse than it is. The reality would be bad enough.