In the Air Tonight

by Lori Handeland

  “Not a scratch on me,” I said brightly. I did have a scratch, probably more than one, but I lifted my hand anyway. “I swear.”

  He didn’t believe me, but he didn’t say so. Instead he lifted his chin to indicate Jenn. “What’s wrong with her?”

  I’d always thought Jenn was making up the connection between hives and hysteria but apparently not. One look in her direction, and I steered her toward her car. “She needs calamine, Benadryl, Epsom salts—maybe all three.” I could probably do with some myself. “I’ll call you later.”

  I tried to put Jenn in the passenger seat. That woke her up pretty fast. “Are you nuts?”

  “She’s baaack,” I said as she tore free and got behind the wheel.

  We reached my apartment a few minutes later. “Oh,” she said. “Forgot. You’re staying at your father’s.”

  “No.” I laid my hand on hers. Her skin was like ice, or maybe mine was on fire. “I had an e-mail that my apartment was cleared for me to go back.”

  “Is it safe?”

  I knew there was another killer, but she didn’t, and considering her condition, I wasn’t going to tell her. She’d have hives on top of hives.

  I’d be safer here than in the forest at my father’s. He wouldn’t be back for a while anyway. Almost everyone in town was at the scene, and there was a lot to see. But mostly I didn’t want Jenn staying with me. Because there was another killer, and I did not plan to allow Jenn anywhere near her. Him.

  “It,” I said. In my book, murderers were definitely it.

  “What?”

  “It’s safe.” I’d always been good at making my often random statements less random, and lately I was getting even better at it.

  Bright red spots bloomed on Jenn’s cheeks; several bumps littered her neck and chest. I thought her lip might be starting to swell. “Are you gonna be okay?”

  She flicked a glance into the rearview mirror. “I gotta go.”

  “Jenn,” I started. Though I didn’t want her insisting on staying with me—too dangerous—I also didn’t want her alone if there was any chance her being alone was equally dangerous. What if her throat swelled up like a puffer fish and she couldn’t breathe?

  “I need to down some pills before I look like Angelina Jolie. So either get out, or come along. Your choice, but make it fast.”

  I hesitated, and she started to pull away. “Wait.” She’d had hives before; she had pills. My cursed presence was going to be more of a threat than bumps and splotches. There wasn’t a pill that could cure death by Venatores Mali.

  “Call me,” I said. “I can always—” She took off with the door still open. I managed to shut it before she flattened a mailbox.

  She raced down First Street far above the legal speed limit. What else was new? At least everyone was still at Mrs. Noita’s, so there was no one for her to run into or over, and no police presence to issue yet another ticket. She was getting close to losing her license.

  Again.

  I climbed the stairs to my apartment. Even though I’d only been gone a few days, the place smelled musty—closed in and old. I cracked a few windows.

  At first I thought the scent of smoke was coming through those windows, and I nearly closed them. Then I got a glimpse of my hands, my clothes. That smell was coming from me.

  I locked the doors—both outside and bathroom—then turned on the shower full blast, lost the clothes—I wasn’t even going to bother trying to wash them, they were toast—and stepped in. Dirty water swirled down the drain for quite a while. Eventually I pulled back the curtain, reached for a towel and managed—barely—not to scream when my hand went right through Henry.

  I had the presence of mind to grab that towel as I whirled, pulling it tightly around me. “Get out!”

  “We must talk.”

  “I wanted to talk this morning and no you.”

  “I had another … never mind.”

  “Get out,” I repeated. I should have bought rosemary before I came home. Did I have some in a jar? Would it work? I hoped so.

  “Raye, I’ve been with you since you were born.”

  “Point?” I climbed out of the tub and strode into my room, pulling clothes out of the drawers, uncaring what they were just that they were.

  “I’ve seen you naked.”

  I fumbled, and half the clothes hit the floor. “I didn’t need to know that.”

  “It means nothing to me.”

  “It does to me. Get out.”

  He sighed, turned his back. I figured it was the best I could hope for and got dressed. More slowly than I would have if I wasn’t required to hold on to the towel with one hand and yank on jeans and a T-shirt with the other, but I managed.

  “Done.”

  He faced me.

  “What do you want?”

  “All I’ve ever wanted was to keep you safe.”

  “How are you going to do that when you can’t even come when I call you?”

  “I am not a dog.”

  “Speaking of … where’s Pru?”

  “She’s not a dog either.”

  “Nor a ghost.”

  “I never said that she was.”

  “You said she was your wife.”

  “Aye. Always has been.”

  “You married a wolf?”

  “I know the world has come a long way since my passing, but one cannot yet marry a wolf.” He frowned. “Can they?”

  I ignored that, walking out of my bedroom and into the living room. I obsessive-compulsively checked the lock on the door—one maniac had been one too many—then moved into the kitchen where I palmed the jar of rosemary, tucking it into my pocket, just in case.

  “You’ve been dead over four hundred years.”

  Henry stood near the window, keeping watch. “And yet it seems like only three hundred.”

  “Ha,” I deadpanned. “You and Pru, who I assume was human at the time, were burned as witches.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, still staring at the window. “I have always had an affinity for ghosts, my wife had one for animals. She could not only talk to them, but understand them too.”

  “And they burned you for it?”

  He turned. “Among other things.”

  I opened my mouth to ask, What other things, and Henry waved a hand. “My past is not important except in how it shapes your present and your future.”

  “What does any of it have to do with me? What do you have to do with me?”

  Something flickered in his eyes—there and then gone—like a wisp of smoke. In fact, I smelled smoke. And I’d washed and rinsed twice. I sniffed my wrist. Wasn’t me. Which meant that lingering scent of smoke was him. I guess I’d always known that.

  “I am here to protect you.”

  And he had. I should be more grateful. “I appreciate that. I do.”

  He lowered his head then faced the window again.

  “Mrs. Noita said her attacker was a she. Then she told me he would burn us all.”

  Henry’s shoulders tensed.

  “Can you explain that?”

  “Not yet.” He tore his gaze from whatever was out there—hopefully not her. Or even him. Or it. “You need to discover what you can about the Venatores Mali.”

  “How?”

  He pointed to my laptop. I resisted the urge to smack myself in the head and mutter, Duh!

  I jiggled my mouse, and the computer awoke. A few strokes of the keys and information poured onto the screen. I became immersed.

  The backstory of the cult would have made a good HBO series. They’d have to sex it up—when didn’t they?—but the violence was there. Hell, it was everywhere.

  The Tudors had been a hit. I was surprised they hadn’t continued with the Stuarts. King James was a real hoot. Not only had he rewritten the Bible and gotten away with it, but he’d composed Daemonologie, a treatise detailing his beliefs on witchcraft.

  After his ascension to the English throne in 1603, he expanded previous legislation on witchcraft, m
aking the raising of, and communication with, spirits punishable by execution.

  As most of the English had seen enough burning, hanging, and beheading during the reign of Bloody Queen Mary, they had no desire to see any more. Add to that the prevalent English belief that the Scots were a backward, superstitious race and James found himself unable to enforce those laws without appearing ignorant.

  Not a fool by any means, His Majesty had commissioned a secret society, the Venatores Mali, to do his bidding. He’d put Roland McHugh at its helm.

  According to his Wikipedia entry Roland had burned more witches than anyone in history. Of course Wikipedia was often wrong, but even if I cut the number in half, he was still a peach.

  “Roland burned you and Pru?”

  “Yes. He hated witches.”

  “And here I thought he burned them for fun.”

  “That too,” Henry said dryly. “At least he is dead.”

  “So are you. Yet here you are.”

  “And I’m not exactly sure why.” He flicked a hand at the computer. “Does it say anything about his ring?”

  I clicked about a bit. While there were no drawings or photos of it, there was a bit of text about the brandings.

  “McHugh used his ring to brand suspected witches before their burning. The mark would cleanse their souls, banish their demons, and purify them for their imminent entry to heaven.” I lifted my gaze from the laptop. “I guess he was just trying to help.”

  “My soul was clean, and I’ve never met a demon. Except for McHugh.”

  “Got that right.” I lost myself in the process of surfing, reading, and surfing some more. Once in a while, I read parts of what I found to Henry. I thought he listened, but it was hard to tell as he kept staring out the window. This must have gone on a few hours, because eventually when I looked up, Henry was gone.

  I turned back to the computer just as someone tried to open the door.

  *

  Bobby finally got a chance to return Sullivan’s call several hours later. By then his partner had called a few more times.

  “Asshole,” Sullivan said by way of greeting.

  “I almost got incinerated today. Be nice.”

  Silence followed. “You what?”

  “I went to interview a witness, and her house exploded.”

  “Really?”

  “Do I often make things up?”

  “That’s usually me.”

  Conner Sullivan was the least likely person to make things up that Bobby had ever met. Which was why he’d always wondered about the whole loup-garou thing. Of course anyone could snap. He had. And while Bobby hadn’t seen werewolves, he had felt, seen, heard, smelled … something. Usually when he was tired, sad, alone.

  And drunk.

  He shook off those memories. He didn’t need to dwell on that time in his life. He had too many other things to dwell on.

  “You and the witness get out okay?”

  “I did. She was already dead when I got there.” Or close enough.

  “How many bodies does that make?”

  “Two. Well, three if you count the perp. The first perp. Not the second. Who’s still at large.”

  “And here I thought you were getting the sweet deal.”

  “I’d trade you but—” Bobby paused. He wouldn’t trade. He was staying until he solved this case and made sure Raye was safe.

  “No, thanks,” Sullivan said. “I don’t like big trees.”

  Which only made two of them.

  “You’d really have hated the wolf that came out of them last night.”

  “Wolf?” His partner cleared his throat. “What did it look like?”

  “Like a big dog with spindly legs. What was it supposed to look like?”

  “Was there something weird about its eyes?”

  Bobby’d been too far away to see much beyond the fact that it had eyes. “Weird how?”

  “Never mind. Just…” Sullivan took a breath, let it out. “You got any silver bullets?”

  “Funny guy.”

  “I’ve never been funny in my life.”

  “Except for your ties.”

  “What’s wrong with my ties?”

  “Besides that you’re always wearing them?” Bobby had tossed his ties after one summer as a New Orleans detective.

  “Bobby,” Conner said, so softly Bobby leaned forward, even though he wouldn’t be able to hear any better across the thousand-plus miles separating them if he leaned over so far he fell on his face. “Silver kills same as lead.”

  “Then why do I need it?”

  “Because lead doesn’t kill the same as silver.”

  “You’re starting to worry me.”

  “Only starting?”

  “I doubt there’s a silver bullet shop here anyway.” Although Bobby could easily see there being one in New Orleans.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Bobby let the subject drop. “Why did you call me…”—he glanced at his phone log—“four times?”

  “First because the boss wanted to know when you were coming back.”

  He should have known that question was coming. He’d only been authorized to stay for a day. “Not until things are settled here.”

  “He ain’t gonna like that.”

  “He doesn’t like much. I’ll take some of my vacation time if I need to, but I’m staying.”

  “All right,” Sullivan said. “Just … be careful.”

  “It’s a lot less dangerous here than it is there, pal.”

  Bobby wasn’t really so sure about that, and from the way Sullivan snorted, he wasn’t either, but his partner moved on. “I finally got a chance to go to the Hotel St. Germain.”

  It took a second for Bobby to place the name. Cold case. “What did you find?”

  “Like most hotels, every room on every floor has the same floor plan. Which means that if someone on the floor below goes into their closet and cuts a hole in the ceiling…”

  “They come out in the locker upstairs. How could no one see a hole in the floor?”

  “It was under the carpet.”

  “Then how could anyone get shot? Carpet would not only prevent the shooter from seeing, but leave a bullet hole.”

  “Not if the stuff lies loose and isn’t tacked or glued down. The rest of the room was, but not the closet, which is probably why no one thought of it. The shooter cut a hole—very well I might add, only cut through the ceiling and not the floor covering. He tosses it back, waits for victim to open the closet, bang, pulls the carpet in place and glues in the ceiling hole.”

  “Pretty smart.”

  “And he might have gotten away with it too—”

  “If not for those pesky kids,” Bobby finished.

  “Scooby-Doo,” Sullivan said. “Love that show. Bought the tie.”

  “Of course you did. Did you catch the guy?”

  “Yep. Typical perp. Smart about some things, not so much about most of them. He registered for the room under his own name.”

  Bobby was constantly amazed, and by now he really shouldn’t be, at how dumb some people were.

  “You wanna tell me why you had a hunch about a case that is so cold I got shivers just thinking about it?”

  Bobby had a shiver right now. He’d had a lot of them since coming to New Bergin. He blamed the autumn chill, which had settled over the crime scene like an icy fog as the sun fell toward the trees.

  “We solved the case. Does it matter why?”

  “Suppose not.”

  “Out of curiosity, why did he do it?”

  “A woman.”

  “Figures.” When a murder wasn’t about the opposite sex, it was about money. And a lot of times it was about both.

  Which made him wonder about his current murder. Sex or money? Both or neither? Bobby no longer thought these murders were random, but if not, then what were they about?

  His head ached again. Probably time for more aspirin. Or a new job.

  “I’ll be in touch.”<
br />
  “I can’t wait,” his partner replied.

  “Asshole,” Bobby said, which rounded the conversation nicely.

  The local police were still working the scene, because the scene was all over the place.

  “You need help?” he asked Johnson.

  “Not from you.” The chief rolled his eyes. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You look horrible. Go home.”

  “Happy to.” Bobby headed for his car.

  “Not home, home,” Johnson shouted. “Don’t leave town.”

  “Hadn’t planned to.” Bobby drove toward his current home away from home, which led him on the same path he’d taken the first night he’d come. And like that night, he stopped in front of Raye’s apartment. Not because she ran in front of his car, but because he happened to notice that the crime scene tape was gone. Raye hadn’t mentioned that her apartment had been cleared and neither had Johnson.

  Then he saw a flicker of yellow over the edge of the landing. As if someone had yanked off the tape and gone inside.

  The window was open. Flickers of light played on the ceiling. Not gold, like a lamp. Not blue, like a television. If Raye were there, wouldn’t she have turned on both?

  He got out of the car and climbed the stairs, hoping none of them creaked. To avoid an overworked area, he crept along the guardrail, careful not to jiggle it too. He made it to the landing without a sound—you’d think he’d done this before. Once there, he listened, thought he heard a voice inside, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Was Raye on the phone? Talking to herself? She seemed to make a habit of that, but really, who didn’t? He listened again, but he couldn’t tell if the voice was hers.

  He was tempted to call her name, but what if it wasn’t her? What if it was another maniac? Right now surprise was on his side.

  He drew his gun with one hand and turned the doorknob with the other.

  Chapter 14

  As I’d obsessively checked the lock on the door, it didn’t open. Still, I was stuck in here, with someone out there trying to get in. I could call a cop, but by the time any arrived I’d be dead. In that moment, I really wished I had my father’s gun.