by Linda Welch
I say something, because it wasn’t human. If the killer we chased was a creature of nightmares, the specter seen from the corner of the eye, then what had entered our room was the bogeyman, the monster under the bed.
“Hello, Miss Banks.”
My stomach flipped, but I refused to panic or let Gia see how shock, dread and distaste unbalanced me. I crossed my arms over my chest. “I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t want to know. Get out of our room.” I wiggled the fingers of one hand. “Bye!”
“I’m glad to see you have not changed one whit, Miss Banks,” she drawled coolly. “I believe I would become chagrined if you thought before you spoke.”
“Now isn’t that like you to cherish my most endearing quality. You are such a peach,” I deadpanned.
“Why are you here?” Royal asked.
She flowed nearer, as sleek and elegant as I recalled. The lamp light sheened her high-necked, ankle-length black dress and made her black high-heeled pumps glow as if spit-polished. Her voice was so cold, I’m surprised icicles didn’t drip from the ceiling. “You will forget this investigation. It never happened.”
I tucked in my chin. “We can’t do that. The FBI brought us here. They’re in the next room. And why should we, anyway?”
She didn’t answer that. “I will deal with the agents.”
We were naked, but Royal got out of bed anyway. The way she tweaked her eyebrows and ran the tip of her tongue over her upper lip made me madder than a wet hen.
“The Bureau has case files on the murders, not to mention assorted law enforcement agencies all over the nation.” He pulled on his Levi’s. Fastening the top two buttons, he turned to face her. “Interfering with two agents will do nothing more than set the cat among the pigeons.”
Royal didn’t know the meaning of idiom when I met him. Now they peppered his conversation, except with me it was second nature while he saw a whole new fun way to confuse people.
Gia’s eyes slit to an icy glare.
“He’s right,” I opined.
She folded her arms and looked away, then back. “Very well. But your involvement is over.”
Fine by me. After sweating over it for hours, I’d decided I didn’t want anything more to do with the FBI. I knew Royal and I couldn’t forget what we’d seen and what we knew and would pursue the investigation privately, our way, but I’d be happy to never see an FBI agent again.
“It may not be that easy,” Royal said.
Gia’s smile was gelid as her eyes. “I’m sure you will manage.” She rose to her feet and backed from the bed, deeper into the dimly lit room, shadows clinging to her like cobwebs. The door closed behind her and Rio.
One of these days I’ll know everything there is to know about you. It was on my to-do list, just below who my parents were, why they dumped me, and how come I see dead people.
Pulling the sheet up to my neck, I stared the door.
“Well. . . ,” Royal said.
“Yeah,” I agreed miserably. Gia Sabato just told us to back off. I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of a Dark Cousin, but we couldn’t quit this investigation.
He pulled on his T-shirt. “It’s six o’clock. Let’s talk about it over breakfast.
***
We checked out the breakfast room, but the continental breakfast - dry croissants, gummy-looking fruit pastries and overcooked French toast - did not appeal to us. We headed back to the foyer. A short, pear-shaped young man in a crumpled taupe suit leaned on the desk as he read a newspaper. He looked taupe all over, with his doughy face and dirty-blond hair.
I smiled. “Excuse me, could you - ”
He didn’t look up from the paper. “Someone will be along to help you in a minute.”
“Thanks, but could you - ”
He raised his head to peer at me with narrow brown eyes. “I’m sure I couldn’t. Not my job, you see.”
“But I only - ”
He huffed through his nose and gave me a disagreeable look. “As I said, Miss - ”
Royal’s turn to interrupt. He stepped up to the desk, saying, “Mr. McNugget, if you would be so kind as - ”
“MacNaggard!” The guy jabbed one finger at the nametag pinned to his lapel. “It’s MacNaggard!”
Royal half turned to look over his shoulder, to where a McDonald’s raised its golden arches across the street.
I had to duck my head and cover my mouth with my palm. The man did look remarkably like a chicken nugget on legs.
Royal turned back to him. “So it is. How rude of me. I do apologize. There is no excuse for bad manners.” He leaned on the desk on one elbow, bringing his face within inches of the clerk’s and spoke in a lower tone. “I strongly suggest you remember that when you politely tell my friend what she wants to know.”
The clerk saw something he didn’t like in Royal’s expression. His adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed. With a visible effort, he drew his gaze from Royal and regarded me anxiously.
Speaking was difficult with my mouth quivering and the guy couldn’t miss it. I struggled to get the words out. “Where is the nearest family-style restaurant?”
“That would be Edward’s on Second Street, this side of the tracks,” he said briskly, meaning our side of the rail road tracks. I imagine the tracks are often included in directions for North Platte, as the place grew up around them and the Railroad is the biggest employer. Union Pacific’s Bailey Yard covers 2850 acres. “I recommend it,” the guy added, summoning an insincere, wavering smile.
Royal and I hurried outside, where I had to collapse on a bench till I stopped giggling. “McNugget,” I gasped out. “You. . . .”
“Demon?” he asked with a grin and twinkling eyes.
“Devil!” I bent over my knees. Laughing felt good; it loosened some knots in my body and unclenched my belly.
Then the memory of Gia in our room crushed my mirth to cinders.
He took my hand and helped me up. “Are you hungry or not?”
Not with all that happened, but nothing much diminished Royal’s appetite.
We didn’t feel like traipsing all the way to Second Street or trying to find a cab, so went to McDonald’s. I slid into a booth. Royal ordered for us and joined me with a loaded tray a few minutes later.
I listlessly pushed my scrambled eggs around the plate with my fork. Sunlight burned through the window, haloing Royal’s bright head.
“The killer is a Dark Cousin and they don’t want us anywhere near him,” he mused as he reached for the ketchup bottle. “Despite my personal opinion of them, I don’t believe they approve of his atrocities. They want to apprehend him themselves.”
I nodded morosely. I had nothing to add or discuss. We’d already been over it. Apart from what he just reiterated, I couldn’t even hypothesize.
“I can ask the High House, but surely they would have told me if they knew about a Dark Cousin run amok.”
I nodded glumly again. “I don’t want to work with the Bureau anymore.”
He glanced up from dousing his breakfast with ketchup
I met his gaze earnestly. “I’ve seen more than my fair share of dead people, but not like these. I know we can’t pretend it hasn’t happened, we have to get to the bottom of these killings, but can’t we do it alone?”
“We can try.” He put the ketchup bottle aside. “I doubt we’ll learn anything more from the agents, even if they take us to the other murder scenes. We should withdraw from the case and pursue our own investigation. They’ll give us a hard time, and no doubt they will watch us, but we can get around that.”
I felt some of the weight lift off my shoulders. “Good, because I’m sick of seeing mutilated people. I want to go home.”
***
The sun was already gearing up to scorch Nebraska when we left McDonald’s at seven. Traffic had increased as we ate. I saw Vanderkamp near the large, white-stucco motel’s entrance as we waited to cross the road. The stocky agent had his jacket pushed back so he could shove his han
ds in his hip pockets, revealing the strap of his shoulder holster.
I sighed gustily. “Our very own babysitter. Do we tell him we quit now?”
“Why butt heads before we have to? They may not need you again anyway. If they do, then you tell them you resign.”
Sounded like a plan to me. My hand in the crook of Royal’s arm, we darted across the road. Vanderkamp watched our approach with hooded eyes.
Gunn came through the doors as we crossed the verge and stepped into the motel’s parking lot.
Vanderkamp checked his wristwatch and spoke when we got in range. “Your flight leaves in an hour. You should head out now.”
I freed my hand. “Our flight?”
“We fly out later. We haven’t finished at the farm yet.”
We would travel minus two annoying FBI agents? I could cope with that.
A black SUV pulled in the parking lot and stopped in front of the motel. Why was I not surprised?
Vanderkamp twitched one hand at the car. “Your ride.”
He shoved his hand back in his pocket. “Thank you, Miss Banks. We’ll be in touch.”
Leaving the deodorant and toothpaste the Bureau so thoughtfully provided in the motel, Royal and I climbed in the SUV.
***
The flight back to Denver took two hours and forty-five minutes because we stopped at five small airfields in between. We no sooner gained altitude than we started our descent. I felt dreadful. As we landed for the third time, I groped for a bag in the seat pocket, just in case, but no luck. I bet Great Lakes Airlines pays out a fortune for them and still can’t keep enough onboard for queasy commuters.
Royal was all sympathy. “I heard people can go green from motion sickness, but this is the first time I have seen it.” He considered me with mock gravity. “Not your color.”
I eyed him balefully. “If I throw up, you know where it’s going, Mr. Smart Aleck.”
He put his mouth near my ear and said in an undertone, “You so much as burp, I will be at the other end of the plane.”
Chapter Fourteen
September brought a sudden, drastic fall in temperature. I did not leave the windows open at night now, although I held off on lighting the furnace. The sun warmed the house during the day and lingering heat saw me through the night hours, with a little help from a nice fat duvet.
I lay in bed as the burgeoning light of a new day slowly revealed the fireplace I never use, the mantel, my desk and dresser, and riddles played tag with my brain. Maureen Owen.
I grabbed my cell phone off the nightstand and dialed Royal’s number.
***
Jack prowled the kitchen as I filled my bowl with cereal. I looked a question at Mel. She shook her head. I supposed I’d have to ask. “Jack, why are you circling?”
“I’m straining my senses to detect approaching danger.”
“You are, are you? And why might that be?”
“So you can run like hell.”
“Ah. Feeling protective, are we?” I gave him a considering frown. “And you’re worrying about this now because. . . ?”
“Self-preservation,” Mel said. “With what’s happened the last year, our Jack is worried someone will nail you and we’ll be left here alone.”
“So, I was thinking,” he mused, “we should get this thing with Dale settled.”
Shucks. I fell right into that one.
Before I could devise yet more excuses I shouldn’t play the medium for Jack and Jericho, I picked up the phone and speed-dialed Jericho’s number, which I’d programmed in at Jack’s insistence.
Mac eyed me hopefully, but slunk away to lie against the back door when he saw I was not going to the pantry.
Jericho picked up before the second ring. “Miss Banks?”
I swung so I could lean on the counter. “Mr. Jericho. I’m sorry it took me longer than I thought to get back to you. Can we set up an appointment?”
“You mean a meeting?”
No, an appointment to get my stupid sense of compassion realigned. “How does the weekend suit you?”
“I’m at home, Miss Banks. We’ll have to make that appointment later in the year.”
“No!” from Jack, who had his ear so close to the phone he could hear Jericho’s voice.
“I have information on Llewellyn, but I suppose it can wait.”
A silence followed that announcement as Jack - as if he dare not speak lest Jericho hear him - made wild, negative gestures with both hands.
I could hear Jericho breathing. When he spoke, his tone had turned from brisk to hesitant. “Can you tell me now?”
“No. This should be face-to-face.”
I thought I heard him swallow. “I have a heavy caseload, but I may be able to get away in . . . two weeks? September 18th? I could fly in that morning and take an evening flight home.”
I didn’t have to check the calendar which hangs on the wall next the fridge. “Morning will be fine. I’ll see you then.”
I hung up. There, done, committed.
“Tiff,” Jack said in a small whisper, “can I change my mind?”
“Too late, Jack.”
He whined some more, but I didn’t listen. I switched my thoughts to what I wanted Royal to do. With that in mind, I tipped my cereal back in the packet and replaced it in the pantry. I’d dosed myself with Dramamine fifteen minutes ago, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
I chewed on a thumbnail and paced to the window.
Down the street, before the road dropped over the brow of the hill, Daisy McClusky pulled mail from her box. Her husband Frank looked over their low hedge. The dog must be inside the house, else it would be barking at its old master’s shade. Two houses closer, I could just make out young Gillian in the bushes outside her yard. Jack and Mel harangued each other behind me.
Dead people all around me.
What would my life be like if I didn’t see the dead? Would I have friends, a regular, boring job? Hell, I’d probably enjoy it. I wouldn’t know any different.
Royal’s truck cruised over the brow of the hill, to my house and parked neatly at the curb.
I smiled a welcome as he walked in the kitchen, copper-gold hair flowing like liquid metal over the shoulders of a black leather biker jacket. The jacket, paired with faded blue jeans and a white tee, gave him a roguish look. We met near the table. He circled my shoulders with his arms and murmured in my hair, “I’m sure it is forever since I held you.”
He kissed me as if we had not seen each other forever. I snuggled in, savoring his scent, the demon warmth of his body, how his lips worked over mine.
“Lord, they’re at it again,” from Jack.
“Shush,” Mel whispered. She can happily watch Royal and me all day and night, which is why we have house rules. Mel and Jack can’t peek in the bedroom when Royal is there with me, but what goes on elsewhere in the house is open season.
I unglued our lips with a regretful sigh.
His mouth rested on my hair. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Maureen Owen. How does she fit into this?”
“She does not.” His hands slid down to my wrists. “I ran it through Snoopy. Nothing.”
He put his fingers under my chin and tipped my face up. “Why are we going over the conundrum of Maureen Owen again?”
“I’m getting there.” I hesitated over the reason I called him. After digging in my heels whenever he wanted to demon me from one location to another, I felt awkward asking him to do exactly that. But we couldn’t fly to where I wanted to go because nobody must see us leave and I didn’t want a paper trail of credit cards and airline tickets. Driving would take too long.
“Royal, why did Maureen call me? And how did she get my cell number?”
A tiny sigh lifted a wisp of my hair. “She asked for your help. Obviously, someone who knows you are an investigator gave her your number.”
“And think on this: The killer got Janine first, then went directly to Maureen’s family. Did Janine know
them? He was looking at papers - did he get their whereabouts from off something in her office?”
He eyed me contemplatively. “I found nothing to connect Janine Hulme to the Owens and neither did The Bureau.”
“They didn’t find anything to connect me to Janine. They’re not infallible.”
He went still. I could barely see his chest rise and fall. “Janine knew you as a private investigator.”
“Yep. I think we should go see her.”
***
The abrupt cessation of motion made me lose my balance. “Oof!” I rebounded hard off Royal’s chest. He wrapped me closer to him, but too late. I wouldn’t be surprised to find bruises from the impact.
Though I’m loath to travel via demon-speed, I asked Royal to zip us to Las Vegas. I’m growing accustomed to it now, but still, it’s a stomach-roiling experience.
“Back in a minute,” he said, and disappeared in a blur.
He was back before the minute passed. “No cameras on the outside of the house or in the yard.”
That made our breaking-and-entering easier. We walked alongside the house, through a wood gate and into Janine’s backyard.
“I have been thinking,” Royal said.
I still held my stomach. “You can think when we’re zooming along?”
“We should take another vacation when this is over, this time to a place far away where nobody can find us.”
“I’m all for that. What do you have in mind?”
“I know a small, deserted tropical island.”
“If it’s deserted, what about food and shelter etcetera? It’s a lovely suggestion, but cracking coconuts for supper is not my idea of an idyllic getaway.”
He grinned widely. “You are far too practical. I’ll take care of everything.”
I made a mental note to remind him about deserted tropical islands later.
He concentrated on the house before nodding his chin as if satisfied. “The place is empty.”