Second Grave on the Left

by Darynda Jones

  “—like a well-trained private investigator?” Ubie offered.

  Dad blinked, tried to focus on something else, but his gaze kept coming back to mine, a million questions in his eyes.

  The EMTs were already pushing Fish Man out, their movements precise but quick—he must not have had much blood left—and a second team surrounded Dad and me. I realized when one of them started to poke around Danger and Will Robinson, I had a long gash in my chest from when I had ducked with a knife protruding from me. Next time, I would dislodge the knife before ducking.

  “That’s going to need stitches,” said the EMT.

  Fortunately, Cookie charged through the police barrier about that time and drove me to the hospital. What did Dad mean, he knew I would be okay? His frightened expression as I was being attacked would never have led me to believe such a thing. But it was the way he said it, like he’d been calculating the odds long before the actual event. And the look on his face. He’d never looked at me that way before. It was disturbingly similar to the way my stepmother looked at me every time we saw each other.

  Still, that wasn’t the only thing niggling at me. For the first time in my life, Reyes didn’t show up to save it. Which meant he was either really pissed or dead.

  * * *

  After a long wait, I sat in the ER with superglue holding me together, though the attending actually called it SurgiSeal. The cuts seemed to already be fusing, surprising more than one doctor and several nurses to boot. Thus, no stitches. Just superglue.

  “I smell supergluey,” I said to Cook as she waited beside me. The freaking paperwork took way longer than the two minutes it took for them to glue me back together.

  “I just can’t believe this,” she said, upset that Dad hadn’t told me about the parolee threatening his life. “If nothing else, he should have warned you for your own protection, instead of trying to keep you blissfully unaware that a madman was out to kill him and his entire family.”

  Uncle Bob walked over to us. “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, don’t even,” Cookie said, her mouth a thin line of disappointment. “You are just as much a part of this as that man.” She pointed to Dad, who lay asleep on the other side of the emergency room, his head bandaged. He had to stay the night for observation. Probably a good thing. Cookie was on a rampage.

  My stepmother looked up when Cookie started in on Uncle Bob. Really. The man didn’t stand a chance.

  “You of all people should have warned her.” Cookie poked him in the chest to emphasize her point, and I just knew Ubie would come unglued. I glanced around for the tube of superglue just in case.

  Instead, he bowed his head in regret. “We just didn’t think—”

  “Exactly,” she said and took off in search of coffee.

  “Dude, could you hold it down?” the man on the bed next to me asked. “I got me a nine in my head and it’s pounding like a son of a bitch.”

  I didn’t doubt it. I’d never had a nine-millimeter in my noggin, but it probably hurt. I looked back at Uncle Bob. “Is that why you had Garrett following me?”

  He pursed his mouth. “That was the number one reason.”

  “And the other was just in case Reyes Farrow happened to show up.”

  “That would be number two.”

  I stood, disgusted with men at the moment. “So, you could tell Swopes but not me?”

  “Charley, we didn’t know if this guy would ever show or if he was just full of shit. He blamed your dad for the death of his daughter. She died when Caruso crashed his car during a police chase. Your dad was the one doing the chasing. When he got out of prison, he started calling your dad, telling him he was going to kill his entire family, so we put tails on all of you. Your dad didn’t want you to worry.”

  He may as well have ended that statement with your pretty little head. That was the most chauvinistic thing I’d ever heard come out of Ubie’s mouth.

  I stood toe to toe with him, furious that every man I was even remotely close to had been lying to me for the past two weeks. I tiptoed and whispered, “Then fuck you all.”

  Paperwork or no paperwork, I left to look for Cookie, also known as my ride home. As I walked past the elevators, the doors opened, and there stood my sister. She sighed and stepped out. “So, are you going to live?” she asked.

  “As always.”

  “How’s Dad?”

  “The doctor said he’ll be fine. He has a concussion and a few bruised ribs, but nothing’s broken. He’s going to be out for a good while.”

  “Fine. I’ll come back in the morning.” She turned and strode down the hall slightly ahead of me, as if she didn’t want to be seen with me in public. In that case, I’d give her good reason.

  With a gasp, I grabbed my chest, collapsed against the wall, started hyperventilating. Trying to fake hyperventilation without actually hyperventilating was not as easy as one might think.

  Gemma turned back and glared. “What are you doing?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “It’s all coming back to me,” I said, throwing a hand over my head in agony. “When I was in the hospital getting my tonsils out, I tried to escape. The fluid leaking from my severed IV led them right to me and I was recaptured.”

  Worried someone might be watching, she did a quick perimeter check before refocusing on me. “You’ve never had your tonsils out. You’ve never even been in a hospital overnight.”

  “Oh.” I straightened. That was embarrassing. “Wait! Yes, I have, when Aunt Selena died. I stayed with her, held her hand all night.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Aunt Selena is a missionary in Guatemala.”

  “Seriously? Then who was that old lady?”

  After a loud and lengthy sigh, she started for the exit again and spoke over her shoulder. “Probably your real mother, because we cannot possibly be related.”

  I smiled and trotted after her. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  DON’T GO BUYING TROUBLE.

  IT’S FREE AND IT KNOWS WHERE YOU LIVE.

  —T-SHIRT

  The next morning, I slept until nine, which was understandable since I didn’t go to bed until well past five. My mental state was still leaning toward fluffy when I searched out the coffeepot.

  “Morning, Mr. Wong,” I said, my gravelly voice sounding as sleep-deprived as I felt. As I was reaching for the coffee can, I noticed a note lying on Mr. Coffee. He was so romantic. I paused to open the first fold.

  What do you call a PI who doesn’t give up?

  Hmmm. Several options came to mind. Aggressive. Dependable. Stalwart. Somehow I doubted any of those would be the answer they were looking for. I opened the last fold of the note.

  Dead.

  Dang. I should have stuck with monosyllabic guesses. Criminals weren’t keen on big words.

  As enlightening as that was, I had work to do—so many lives to destroy, so little time—and new locks to buy. Having approximately three minutes to spare after I turned the pot on to brew, I decided to pee. But as I walked past my front door, someone knocked. I stopped, looked around, waited. After a moment, another round of raps echoed in my apartment.

  I tiptoed toward the door, vowing that if they were already there to kill me, I was going to be really pissed. I peered out the peephole. Two women stood there, Bibles in hand. Please. That was such a bad disguise. They were probably expert assassins, sent to put two in my head before noon.

  But there was only one way to find out. I slid the chain on my door into place and cracked it open. The older woman smiled and started in right away. “Good morning, ma’am. Have you noticed how the world is plagued with bad health right now?”

  “Um—”

  “That disease and illness have spread to every corner of God’s green earth?”

  “Well—”

  “We’re here to tell you that it is not always going to be that way.” She opened her Bible and thumbed through it, giving me an opportunity
to speak.

  “So, you’re not here to kill me?”

  She paused, crinkled her thin brows at me, then glanced at her friend before saying, “Excuse me? I don’t think I understand.”

  “You know, to kill me. To assassinate me. To put a gun to my head—”

  “I think you have us confused with—”

  “Wait! Don’t leave.” I closed the door to unchain it. When I swung it open, they took a wary step back. “So, you’re not assassins?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “You’re Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

  They nodded.

  This could be a good thing. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. “Perfect. Let me ask you,” I said as the younger one in back let her gaze wander over my attire, which consisted of a Blue Oyster Cult T-shirt that advised people not to fear the reaper and a pair of plaid boxers, “as Jehovah’s Witnesses, what exactly have you witnessed?”

  “Well, if you’ll take a look…” The older one was rifling through her Bible again. “As a witness, it is our obligation to separate ourselves from wrongdoers, to purge evil persons from among us, and—”

  “Right, right, that’s great.” I interrupted her with a wave of my hand. “But what I really need to know is, can you see, or witness,” I said, adding air quotes for effect, “demons?”

  They glanced at each other. The younger one spoke this time, her shoulders straightening in confidence. “Well, demons are simply fallen angels who sided with Satan, the ruler of the world in these end times. It is our responsibility to remain chaste and faithful—”

  “But have you ever seen one?” I said, interrupting again. At this rate, I would never get invited to a service.

  “Seen one?” the older woman asked hesitantly.

  “Yes. You know, in person?”

  They shook their heads. “Not physically, no. But if you’ll look at this passage—”

  Man, she liked that Bible. I’d read it and could definitely understand its appeal, but I didn’t have time for this. My three minutes were probably up as it was. “No offense, but—and I mean this in the most respectful of ways—you’re not helping.” I closed the door, a little saddened by the confusion on their faces. I just thought that maybe they had happened upon a demon or two on their treks through the city. If I was alone in this, if Reyes was really gone, I needed a way to detect them. But surely Reyes wasn’t gone. He couldn’t be.

  I continued my trek to the outhouse and realized the old saying was right: Denial really wasn’t just a river in Egypt.

  * * *

  After dragging my boneless body into the office an hour later, I stood studying Cookie’s attire. She was wearing a purple sweater with a red scarf thrown around her neck. I tried not to worry.

  She looked up from her computer. “Okay, I got a hold of Janelle York’s sister. She was on her way home, but she was kind enough to answer a few of my questions.”

  Cool. “And?” I asked, pouring myself a cup. Because sometimes three just isn’t enough.

  “She said that Janelle got heavily into drugs after Mimi moved to Albuquerque. Her parents thought it was because they’d had a falling out, but when I asked about Hana Insinga, the sister said she’d tried to talk to Janelle about the disappearance when Hana went missing. Janelle, Mimi, and Hana were in the same grade. But Janelle was outraged when she asked, told her never to mention Hana’s name again.”

  “Wow, that’s a volatile response to such an innocent question.”

  “That’s what I thought. And Warren’s cousin Harry who always asks for money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dead end. He’s been in Vegas for over a month, working at a gambling casino.”

  “As opposed to a nongambling casino?”

  “I also spoke to our murdered car salesman’s wife,” she continued, ignoring me.

  “You’ve been busy.”

  “She had the exact same story as Warren. Her husband started to withdraw, to get depressed. She said he worried constantly and told her the oddest thing.”

  I raised my brows in question.

  “He told her that sometimes our sins are too great to be forgiven.”

  “What the hell did they do?” I asked, thinking aloud.

  Cookie shook her head. “Oh, and she thought the same thing that Warren did. She thought her husband was having an affair. She said large sums of money went missing from their savings. I assured her he wasn’t having an affair.”

  I cast her a teasing glance. “Just because he wasn’t having an affair with Mimi doesn’t mean he wasn’t having one at all.”

  “I know, but that woman was a wreck. No need to make her suffer more. He wasn’t having an affair. I’m sure of it. Speaking of wrecks, how are you doing?” she asked, concern drawing her brows together.

  “Wreck?” I balked, feigning offense. “I’m good. The sun is shining, the superglue is holding. What more could a girl ask for?”

  “World domination?” she offered.

  “Well, there is that. Have you talked to Amber today?”

  She sighed heavily. “It seems my daughter is going camping with her dad this weekend.”

  “That’s cool. Camping’s fun,” I said, careful to keep my tone light. I knew why the thought upset her, but chose not to mention it. When Amber stayed with her father, Cookie went into a kind of depressed state. Come Friday, that would have changed. Now her happy fix would have to wait until after the weekend. I felt for her.

  “I guess,” she said, her voice noncommittal. “You look tired.”

  I picked a couple of file folders off her desk. “So do you.”

  “Yeah, but you were almost murdered last night.”

  “Almost being the pertinent word in that independent clause. I’m going to do some research and then I’ll probably go talk to Kyle Kirsch’s parents in Taos. Can you call and make sure they’ll be home?”

  “Sure.” She dropped her gaze and started thumbing through some papers. “He lived,” she said as I turned to go to my office. “Your attacker. After five pints of blood.” I paused midstride, restrained the emotion that threatened to surface, then continued into my office. “Oh, and I’m going with you to Taos.”

  I figured she’d want to go. Just before I closed the door, I leaned out and asked, “You didn’t happen to leave me a note, did you? On Mr. Coffee?”

  Her brows furrowed. “No. What kind of note?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” I didn’t figure Cookie would threaten my life, but I had yet to find out if she was a black widow. She did have a dead guy in her trunk, and one could never be too certain these days.

  I sat down at my desk, my thoughts cloudy with a chance of rain. He lived. That was good, I supposed, but he would always be a threat. I almost wished Reyes had been there, had taken him out, or at least incapacitated him so he would never be able to hurt anyone again. An age-old question surfaced despite its uselessness. Why did monsters like that get to live when good people died every day?

  A soft knock brought me out of my musings as Cookie poked her head into my office. “Somebody’s here to see you,” she said, as though annoyed.

  “Male or female?”

  “Male. It’s—”

  “Does he look like a Jehovah’s Witness?”

  She blinked in surprise. “Um, no. Do we suddenly have a problem with Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I closed the door on a couple this morning. Thought they might send their homies after me.”

  She shook her head. “It’s your uncle Bob.”

  “Even worse. Tell him I’m out.”

  “And who do you suppose he’s going to think I’ve been talking to all this time?”

  “Besides,” Uncle Bob said, pushing past Cookie, “I heard your voice.” He leveled a chastising glare on me. “Shameful, asking Cookie to lie for you. What did you do to those Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

  “Nothing. They started it.”

  He sat across from me. “I need
your statement about last night.”

  “No worries. I typed it up.”

  “Oh.” He brightened and took the paper I handed him. His face fell as he read. “I heard a sound. A bad guy swung a knife at me. I ducked and cut his throat. The end.” He breathed in a heavy sigh. “Well, that needs some work.”

  “But I’m just a girl,” I said, a bitter edge to my voice. “It’s not like I’ve solved dozens of cases for you and my father both. It’s not like I should have to worry my pretty little head with nasty things like details. Right? God forbid I know anything about anything.”

  He worked his jaw a long moment, probably calculating his odds of getting out of my office unscathed. “How about we do this later?” he asked, tucking my statement into a folder.

  “How about?”

  Just as Uncle Bob stood, Cookie buzzed me on the speakerphone.

  “Yes?”

  “You have another visitor. It’s Garrett. I’m not sure if he’s a Jehovah’s Witness or not.”

  Oh, the other traitor. Perfect. “By all means, send him in.”

  As Garrett and Uncle Bob passed each other, Ubie must have tipped him off with a warning expression. His brows shot up in curiosity just before he strode over to pour himself a cup of java and folded himself into the chair across from me. I sat tapping my fingernails on my desk, waiting for the opportunity to tear into him.

  He took a long draw then asked, “What’d I do?”

  “You knew about the guy threatening my dad?”

  He paused, shifted in his chair, so freaking busted, it wasn’t funny. “They told you?”

  “Why, no, Swopes, they didn’t. Instead, they waited until the guy knocked the fuck out of my dad and readied him for spaceflight with duct tape then tried to kill me with a butcher’s knife.”

  He shot out of his chair, cursing when he spilled coffee in his lap. Apparently nobody had called him. “What?” he asked, swiping at his jeans. “When? What happened?”

  “I can print my statement out for you, if that would help.”

  He sat back down, eyeing me warily. “Sure.”

  I printed my statement, happy that all the work I’d put into it wouldn’t go unnoticed. He took it, read my four sentences for a really long time that had me wondering if he was dyslexic, then looked back at me. “Wow, that’s a lot to take in all at once.”