Blood of Dawn

by Tami Dane

  I didn’t move away. I didn’t want to appear weak or afraid. Derik Sutton was a bully. I knew from personal experience that any show of fear would only spur him on more. Instead, I jerked up my chin and glared at him. “Back off, or I’ll humiliate you again.”

  He snorted, then placed a flattened hand on the window behind my head and angled in real close. “That was a lucky shot. I underestimated you. Won’t happen again.”

  The unlocked door swung open.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Derik backed up slightly, allowing me to see it was JT, who had opened the door.

  “What’s going on here?” JT asked.

  “Nothing.” Derik turned, but not before sending me a warning glare. “I’m a friend of Sloan’s. Just getting reacquainted.”

  “Reacquainted” was a slight misrepresentation.

  JT grunted, then jerked his head toward the door. “You need to leave.”

  The kid left.

  JT locked the door; then he turned to me. “Why were you just sitting there, letting that punk intimidate you? And how the hell did he get in here?”

  “First, I wasn’t just letting him do anything. I was waiting for the right moment to make my move. And second, as you may recall, I was disciplined for doing something about it the last time he did that.”

  “That’s the kid?”

  “Yes, that’s the kid. And third, I locked that door. I didn’t notice the other one.”

  JT’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll talk to the chief.” He stuffed his hand into his pants and pulled out a ring with four keys. He shook them. “Now let’s see what secrets Carl Hollerbach kept in his drawers.” Standing in front of the storage cabinet, he tried a key, a second, a third. “Damn it, I thought we had the right ring. Turns out Hollerbach had one hell of a collection of keys.” He pushed the last one into the lock and turned it. “Yes.” He pulled the door open, revealing shelves loaded with paper, books, stacks of ungraded student papers, and tests.

  JT and I both sighed. In unison.

  “If you were expecting the smoking gun here, like kiddie porn or letters to young, impressionable women, it’s not jumping out at me,” I said as I started pulling stacks of papers off one of the shelves.

  “If there is a smoking gun in here, it probably isn’t going to be front and center. It’ll be hidden way in the back. How about you step aside and let me clear that top shelf first?”

  “Sure, be my guest.” I moved out of the way, keeping busy by flipping through a set of tests. “Ah, stoichiometry, one of my favorite topics.”

  “Definitely not one of mine.” JT placed his loot on Hollerbach’s desk in a teetering pile. “This will keep me busy for a while, if you’d like to search the lower shelves.”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled out boxes of classroom supplies, lots of papers, but found nothing interesting. After an hour, I was convinced the smoking gun was not in that cabinet. I put everything back where I’d found it. As I was loading up a stack of graded tests, JT stood up suddenly. His shoulder slammed into my elbow. The papers sailed through the air.

  “Oh. Sorry.” JT stooped down to help me gather them back into a tidy pile.

  “Not a problem.” One test caught my eye. The name on it—Derik Sutton. His handwriting looked eerily familiar. “Look, here’s my good friend Derik’s test. Would it be petty of me to see how he did?”

  “It would.”

  The glaring, red-colored A surprised me. “I guess he’s a better student than I thought. Look at that.” I waved the test at JT. “Almost a perfect score. Huh.” I slapped it on the top of the pile and shoved the whole thing back into the cabinet. “Okay, so we found absolutely nothing in there. I’m guessing the desk will be clean too.”

  “I can’t leave without checking.” JT tried one of the keys. “Bingo.” He gave it a sharp turn and pulled. The drawer slid open.

  It was empty.

  “No smoking gun?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  The irrationality of a thing is not an argument of its existence, rather a condition of it.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  28

  “I didn’t expect this. It’s empty?” JT fingered the steel drawer bottom. “Damn it.”

  I bit back an I-told-you-so and asked, “Have you heard anything from Forrester?”

  “They hadn’t found anything yet when I went over there to get the keys. I’ll call him when we’re through here.” JT pulled the drawer back farther. He was looking for something hidden in the back, I suppose.

  “It’s empty.” I stated the obvious. “Let’s go.”

  “Why would he lock an empty drawer?”

  “Maybe out of habit? I don’t know.”

  JT fiddled with the drawer’s back and bottom a few seconds more before grunting, sliding it closed, and fisting the keys. “I guess we can give these back to Forrester. Hungry?”

  My stomach rumbled. I hadn’t grabbed anything before leaving the house this morning. I’d assumed I’d be getting something at the bagel shop. “Yes.”

  “Let’s get an early lunch. Then we can check in with Forrester, see how they’re doing at the Hollerbach house.” On his way out of the classroom, he glanced over his shoulder. “Damn it, I thought we’d find something here.”

  “He was cautious. What he was doing would cost him his job, probably his marriage.”

  “Yes, but . . . I had a feeling we’d find something here.”

  “Sorry.”

  We headed to the office to let the school staff know we were leaving. As we were strolling toward the door, a low rumble of thunder echoed overhead.

  “A thunderstorm.”

  We exchanged looks.

  A tiny shudder swept up my spine. “This job is getting to me. I’m visualizing giant man-birds every time I hear thunder.”

  We stepped outside and stood under the overhang protecting the front doors.

  JT said, “I can run out and get the car. Bring it up for you, if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m not made of sugar. I won’t melt.”

  A huge bolt of lightning sliced through the sky. An eardrum-shattering bang followed in less than a blink. I jerked backward at least five seconds too late.

  That was definitely too close for comfort.

  I stepped back another six inches or so. “On second thought, maybe we should wait for a few minutes. There’s no sense risking a lightning strike.”

  JT’s face paled. “Agreed.”

  We went back inside to wait out the storm. I sat on the bench just inside the doors. JT walked a few feet away, murmuring into his phone. A half hour later, a wicked storm had blown past. Knowing a stray bolt could come out of nowhere after a storm, I didn’t walk to the car—I jogged. JT did too. I drove him back to the bagel shop. His car was right where he’d left it, no longer blocked in by fire and police vehicles. My phone rang as I was heading inside to grab a quick something to eat. JT was outside, talking to the chief.

  My phone call was from Elmer—or rather, his phone.

  “Hello, Sloan. This is Olivia. Elmer suggested I call you.”

  Isn’t that something? The little rat fink was hiding behind his fiancée. “Thank you for calling, but I need to speak to him directly.”

  “Oh. He told me you’d be glad to hear from me. Something about if you returned the favor he paid you, maybe he might be compelled to return what you have so generously offered him. Those were his exact words.”

  I didn’t offer him anything. He tricked me. “Humpf. Maybe?” I echoed. “What do you want?”

  “I was hoping you could help me with the wedding plans. You know—go with me to try on dresses, pick china, plan the bachelorette party. That kind of thing.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you want?” Wedding planning was not my favorite thing in the world to do, especially not now. If anything, I wanted to avoid all thoughts about weddings. But if it got me back the memory he’d stolen, I had no problem volunteerin
g. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Good. I would like to go shopping for dresses this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “How about . . . one o’clock? I’ll meet you at your house.” She hung up before I’d responded.

  I glanced at the clock on my phone. It was noon. She didn’t expect much. Evidently, the world revolved around Olivia.

  Elmer deserved her.

  I headed outside, carrying my lunch in a bag. JT waved me over.

  “The chief called me in for a meeting. She wants you to stick with me.”

  Of course she did. “I have some personal business I need to take care of. Can I meet you later? In an hour or two? Or more?”

  His jaw tightened. “Are you telling the truth? It’s personal? You aren’t going to kick anyone in the nuts or break into anyone’s house?”

  I lifted my hand. “I promise. I’m heading back to Alexandria. I won’t be anywhere near Baltimore.”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you at your folks’ place later.”

  “Thanks.”

  He went west. I went north.

  “Thank you so much for agreeing to help me. A little bird told me you’re engaged too!” Olivia bounced like a preteen who’d just been told Taylor Lautner was on his way over to watch a private screening of Twilight with her. “Oh, my God! I’m so happy for you! When are you getting married?” Her gaze flicked to my left hand. Her brows scrunched. “Where is your ring?”

  “It’s . . . erm, getting sized.”

  “Ah. Say, here’s an idea, why don’t we get married together? Wouldn’t that be a riot?”

  Not.

  It was a little after one o’clock and we were on our way to Annie’s Bridal Boutique, located in Alexandria. I hated to burst Olivia’s sparkly bubble, but there was no way I was going to agree to a double wedding. Not on the next full moon. Not on the one after that. Not in a year. “Since we haven’t set a date yet, that probably won’t work. But thanks for the offer. That was very sweet of you.”

  “But if you haven’t set the date, what’s stopping you from getting married with us? Don’t feel you have to decline to be polite. It’s really okay. I don’t mind sharing the spotlight with another bride.”

  So much for me trying to let her down easy. “I’m not being polite. Honest. We’re not ready to start making plans yet. We have other issues to tackle first.”

  “Issues?”

  Really, how could I expect a woman who had met her undead husband-to-be on a reality dating show to understand where I was coming from? Not to be rude, but she couldn’t possibly relate. Clearly, she was far more adventurous than I was.

  “Yes, family stuff.”

  Her eyes widened with comprehension. “Ah. Yes. It can be tough if the families don’t get along.”

  “That it can.” Desperate to steer the conversation away from my upcoming nuptials and toward a safer topic, I asked, “How does your family feel about your appearance on the reality show?”

  “They were one hundred percent behind me. They just love Elmer.” She gave me a happy, sparkly-eyed look and sighed. I had to say, her bubbly, happy act made me feel better about dumping Elmer. I’d known from the get-go that he wasn’t for me, and I had worried he wouldn’t find a woman who would be over-the-moon crazy for him. How wrong I’d been. This girl practically had a spasm every time she spoke his name.

  “That’s wonderful.” We parked in the lot outside the boutique. “You know, isn’t this whole trying-on-dresses thing usually reserved for the bride and her mother?”

  “I suppose so, but Mom couldn’t make it. You don’t mind doing this with me, do you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Maybe you’d like to try on a dress or two also?” she threw over her shoulder as she gloalloped into the store.

  “No, I think I’ll hold off until we have a date set.”

  We stepped inside, and I nearly went blind: bridal-gown blindness. Too much white. I went mute.

  Olivia had quite another reaction. “Oh, my God, just look at all these dresses! How could you resist?”

  I mumbled, “It’ll be tough, but I think I’ll manage.”

  “I can’t.” She heaved a happy sigh. “I’m going to have to try on every dress in this store.”

  “Every one?” I almost whimpered. “Don’t you think you should narrow it down a little?”

  “Absolutely not! You never know. A dress that looks like crap on a hanger could end up looking absolutely delish on. I can’t risk missing the perfect dress.”

  A woman who looked very familiar glided up to us, saleslady game face on. She beamed at Olivia, who was “oohing” and “aahing” at the selection, before she flicked a glance at me. Her brows sank and that game face dimmed. “How may I help you ladies?”

  She recognized me.

  A little over two weeks ago, my mother had come here to shop for gowns when she was remarrying my father. As it turned out, Mom had a reaction to something, swelled up like a puffer fish, and ruined a designer wedding gown. As a result, our friendly saleslady passed out, and I had to drive both her and Mom to the emergency room for treatment. “Miss Saleslady” ended up with a concussion from slamming her head on the ground when she collapsed. But she was released within a few hours. After getting an injection of Benadryl, Mom deflated and was as good as new.

  But the dress, the poor dress—a lovely hand-beaded Mizelle worth a small fortune—didn’t make it.

  I pointed at Olivia, who was already pulling gowns off the racks. “My friend is getting married.”

  “It seems you know a lot of people getting married,” Miss Saleslady said.

  “It does.”

  The woman gave me a look, which I interpreted as a warning. “Very well.” She stepped up to Olivia and started the drill she’d gone through with Mom, asking her questions about her “dream” wedding gown.

  Meanwhile, I found a comfy place to sit, pulled out my phone, and started poking around on the Internet, looking for more information on the impundulu. My overall opinion of cell phone Web service has always been low. It became even lower after I’d been enduring the torturously slow loading of Web pages and a parade of one perfectly nice wedding gown after another for over three hours. Finally I heard the words I’d been longing to hear since we stepped foot in the store.

  “That’s it. I’m done.”

  The angels were singing.

  Olivia was back in her street clothes. Her hair was mussed. And she looked as beat as I felt.

  “Which one did you pick?” I asked.

  “The one you told me to.”

  I didn’t recall choosing one. “Ah. Excellent.” I dropped my phone into my purse. “Ready?”

  “I’m beat and hungry. Want to get something to eat?”

  I hadn’t eaten since lunch. “Sure.”

  We both climbed into the “Mom-mobile.” I buckled up and shoved the key into the ignition. Twisted. “Where to?”

  Click. Clickclickclick.

  I knew that sound. It was the unmistakable sound of a dead battery. “Well, damn.” Knowing it wouldn’t work, but figuring I’d lose nothing by trying, I turned the key again.

  Clickclickclick.

  “What’s wrong?” Olivia asked. Everyone knew what that sound meant. Obviously, Olivia knew nothing about cars. And she’d said she was an electrical engineer?

  Red flag. There was no way she was an electrical engineer.

  “We need a jump start. The battery’s dead.”

  “Oh. How do we do that?” she asked.

  Elmer, my friend, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.

  “We call the auto club and they send a truck. And then we get food in the drive-through, so we don’t have to get it jump-started a second time, and then drive to the closest mechanic.”

  Olivia wrinkled her nose. “That sounds very complicated. Can’t we just call someone to come pick us up and have the car towed?”

  “No.”

 
That wrinkle across the bridge of her nose got deeper.

  “I mean, you can do that. Me, I can’t.” I tried not to focus on the fact that she had expected me to sit for hours in a stupid bridal shop and wait for her to try on every dress they had in stock, and all without complaining. Yet, she couldn’t be bothered to sit for a half hour and wait for the auto club to send out a truck to start my car? Really?

  I was beginning to have some serious doubts about the future Mrs. Schmickle. She wasn’t only a diva, but a lying diva to boot.

  “I think I’ll call for a cab. I’m much too hungry to wait, and I do not eat anything that is served through a window. Period.”

  “Ah, is that a new diet plan?”

  “You could say that.” She dug in her purse, which I just noticed had a Gucci logo on the buckle, pulled out a cell phone—which was more bling than phone—and poked at the buttons with her manicured fingernail. I, on the other hand, extricated my well-used phone from my clearance-sale faux leather handbag with the paperclip-repaired strap and called the auto club to request a jump start. Her call ended before mine did. When I clicked off, she shoved open the door.

  “My ride will be here any minute.”

  The distant rumble of thunder echoed off the brick store.

  I shoved open my door—couldn’t open the power windows with no power. After taking an assessment of my lightning-strike risk, I poked my head out (as little as possible). “We’re about to get a storm. You may want to wait inside.”

  “I’ll be fine. How often do people get struck by lightning?” She tossed a dismissive hand.

  Another jagged bolt lit up the sky. I flinched. “About six hundred times a year.”

  “What?”

  “People get injured by lightning approximately six hundred times a year. That’s in the U.S. Worldwide, the figure is much higher, over two hundred thousand people are injured every year. About ten percent die. The odds of your being struck by lightning in your lifetime are roughly one in ten thousand.” And significantly higher, with an impundulu running amok in the area.