Trace (TraceWorld Book 1)

by Letitia L. Moffitt

  She did know, though she’d been to the city only a handful of times. It was less than four hours away, yet she seldom remembered this when faced with a planless weekend. Now she was nearly jumping out of her seat with excitement to get going. All that life, all that energy, and they could be right in the middle of it, together, in just a little while.

  A hazy memory came to her: spring break during her junior year of college, she and two friends going down to Manhattan for St. Patrick’s Day. They caught some of the parade and then headed downtown to hit the pubs. Nola wasn’t a big drinker (though she was proud to have inherited her father’s impressive tolerance for alcohol); she just wanted to wander around the city for a bit and enjoy the sights. After a lunch of fish-and-chips and a couple pints apiece, they left their first pub in search of another, preferably one with live music. They hadn’t gone halfway down the block when Nola teetered, wobbled, and fell to the sidewalk. She felt like she could barely catch her breath, like she’d been running for a long time very hard. People who saw her just thought she was stumbling drunk like every other kid on the street that afternoon. She wasn’t, and her worried friends knew it. Everything was OK, she assured them, just a little dizziness from some cold medicine, perhaps. She urged them to continue and not let this spoil the fun. But the fun had been spoiled for Nola, even if she didn’t show it. She knew what had happened. And sure enough, that night when she scoured the online news for crime reports, she found it. A man had been stabbed and killed at that very spot three nights before.

  The hazy memory was suddenly becoming sharp, and with it a sharp coldness ripped into her happy mood. Was it the life and the energy Grayson sought, or the fact that a city that densely populated teemed not only with life but also with death?

  Grayson continued to look at Nola, seeking her answer. They could get out of Redfort right then and there. She could leave behind frustration and futility for at least one night. She wasn’t bound to one location. She could be free, even if it was just a temporary freedom. “OK,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  He smiled, started the car, and pulled out of the parking lot. He drove at a leisurely speed, and Nola appreciated it. They could take their time. Time moved at an agonizing pace when you felt trapped, but now that she could escape the trap, there was no hurry.

  A few blocks later they stopped at an intersection and Grayson gestured at a teenage boy on a bike waiting to ride across the intersection. The boy nodded and proceeded. Grayson took the opportunity to turn to Nola again. She smiled. He leaned over and kissed her.

  Tires squealed next to them. Something thudded against pavement. It was the boy on the bike, now sprawled in the intersection. The Lexus that had suddenly appeared next to them had hit him.

  Nola leaped out of the car and was the first to reach him. “Oh shit, shit! Are you OK? Don’t get up just yet. Be careful.” Behind her the hazard lights of Grayson’s car flashed and he got out and knelt next to her.

  The boy sat up surprisingly quickly and grinned at Nola, though he did look a bit shaky. “Yeah, I’m good, no worries. I’ve taken worse spills than this.”

  The driver of the Lexus, a paunchy man in a dark suit, approached cautiously and stood several feet from them. When he saw that the boy seemed all right, he straightened up. “The hell you think you were doing, flying into the intersection like that?”

  Nola looked up in disbelief, as did the boy. “Hey, asshole, you almost fucking killed me! I could have died right here. Understand?” He looked back at Nola and exchanged disgusted looks with her.

  Next to her, Grayson was silent.

  When they determined that the boy was in fact fine, nothing broken or twisted, the Lexus driver got back in his car without another word and drove away, the boy flipping him off as he went. He thanked Nola and Grayson for stopping and then got on his bike and sailed off as if nothing had happened. There was nothing left for the two of them to do but leave as well.

  There could not have been a more awkward silence in the car. Several hour-long minutes passed before Grayson finally said in a quiet voice, “Say what you’re thinking.”

  She knew he already knew what she was thinking. There was no point in saying it, but no point in trying to conceal it either. “You wanted it to happen.”

  “Since you’ve already decided that’s true, there’s no reason for me to deny it.”

  “Since it doesn’t matter to you that I might think such a thing, you must not feel that it’s wrong.”

  “Let’s spell it out. You’re accusing me of wishing that boy had gotten killed so I could get my trace fix. Is it a slippery slope from there to doing my own killings?”

  “Grayson, I know you had nothing to do with Culver’s death. I just—”

  “How do you know that?”

  The question baffled her. “Culver killed himself at Greenbriar. No one else was involved. You weren’t even in the state when it happened. What are you . . .” She cut herself off. Something seemed to be stirring in her brain, as though through murky water.

  “Yes?” Grayson said mildly.

  “Maybe he didn’t die at Greenbriar,” she said slowly. Grayson did not respond. “Maybe he died somewhere else.”

  “And where might that be?”

  “Your house.”

  “And that being the case, why didn’t you pick up his trace when you came to my house with the police?”

  “If he had died in your house, I wouldn’t have known, because you would have absorbed the trace.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Someone would have moved his body to Greenbriar.”

  “Also correct.”

  She wasn’t sure which of two questions she should ask next. She feared the answers to both. “Did you move him?”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why anyone would move him if it wasn’t murder.”

  Then he answered the other question. “As far as I know, it wasn’t murder.” He locked his eyes on hers. “I didn’t kill Culver. I didn’t find his body. I didn’t move his body. But I know he died in my house, because I got his trace. I felt it the moment I entered the house. And somehow I knew it was him, even before I’d heard about his disappearance.”

  It was a lot to absorb, but Nola forced herself to keep a clear head and continue pressing him for answers. “So you didn’t move him. Then someone else did. Who? Grayson, don’t you want to know who and why?”

  “Culver is dead. He isn’t coming back. None of this mucking around with forensic reports and autopsies can change that essential fact. I don’t know who moved him, I don’t know why they moved him, and I don’t care. I haven’t cared to know the details of Culver’s death ever since I knew he died.”

  Now she had to ask a third question, for he had set her up for it, it seemed. “You knew he was dead. You knew he died in your house. You . . .” She swallowed even though her mouth was dry. “You got his trace.” He nodded. “Why didn’t you say anything to the police?”

  He looked as if he were trying not to laugh, though there was nothing lighthearted or comical in his eyes. “Did they listen to you when you tried to tell them? There wasn’t any other evidence. No blood. No weapon. The only ‘evidence’ was his trace, and only I could get it. Since I had nothing to do with his disappearance, I didn’t care if the cops suspected me, but no way in hell was I going to have them look at me like some kind of freak. You know that look, Nola. I know you know what I mean, even if you refuse to admit it.”

  Of course she knew that look, but not everyone was like that. Mutt and Jeff certainly weren’t. Neither was Dalton. Or was he? Dalton had hardly looked in her direction at all during the briefing. There was a time when he might have listened to her, but not anymore. And it wasn’t as though she had listened to Dalton, either. She was appalled at Grayson’s seeming indifference to the situation, but couldn’t she herself be accused of seeming too involved? She’d pursued this “case” even when she had no real reaso
n to do so.

  Nola realized abruptly that they had stopped, and she looked up. They were back in front of his house, her own car just ahead. Obviously, Manhattan was not going to happen.

  As she was reaching for the car-door handle to let herself out, Grayson spoke, sounding tired but steady. “Culver deserved a dignified death. At the very least, I could give him that. And corny as it sounds, in a way he’s still with me.”

  Nola wished she could believe that Grayson really meant those words. They were corny, yes, but they would give a real poignancy to the events, make them seem less sordid—and make him seem less solely self-interested. She was not convinced. Most of all, she felt as tired as he sounded. She let herself out without another word or look.

  14

  It was already past 10 p.m. Nola drove home slowly, this time with the slowness of weary resignation. The case was over, at least according to the police, her connection with Grayson probably over as well, her career as a tracist almost certainly over. She didn’t need to concern herself with Culver Bryant ever again, though she had no notion at all of what would concern her going forward. She couldn’t think about that. The future seemed like a big blank nothing.

  She vaguely recalled Grayson’s question to her about why she still lived in Redfort. She’d said it felt familiar and safe. She wanted to laugh. Familiar, certainly, but safe? The richest man in town was dead, his body moved for no apparent reason. It seemed like desecration. No one was safe. The real reason she’d come back here despite her loathing of the place was something she didn’t like to talk about. After college, at the moment when you were supposed to go forth into a world of possibilities, Nola was starting to see the world as full of death, quite literally. She thought about how it might be to go to a new city, excited and optimistic, only to have that same cold horror creep over her as she found yet another place on earth where a human life ended, and then another, and another. This was not the kind of thing you could tell your twenty-two-year-old peers, though, without being mocked. Her friends were all equally skeptical about the idea that a glorious world of opportunity lay ahead of them, and nobody seemed particularly critical of Nola when she returned to Redfort, but none of them would really, truly be able to understand why she did so. People died in Redfort, too, obviously, but the impact was blunted by the dull familiarity she felt every day of her life here.

  Into the dullness and blankness Culver Bryant intruded once more. She couldn’t help it; she’d focused her life entirely on his disappearance for the last week. And despite the main mystery’s being solved, she seemed to know less now than before. Why would anyone move Culver’s body? If Culver had been murdered, wouldn’t his killer try to dispose of the body? Perhaps the murderer would have thought that too risky. Better to have the authorities put the police case to rest entirely by having the death declared suicide. But again, unless the killer was incredibly naïve, they would have had to kill Culver the same way as his apparent method of suicide: carbon monoxide poisoning. There would be an autopsy, and any drugs would be found in his system. If they somehow threatened Culver—maybe telling him that if he didn’t do as they said, they’d go after Maureen—still that left unanswered the question of why they would move the body. No, it made no sense. Culver couldn’t have been murdered. But if he killed himself in Grayson’s garage, how did his body end up in a garage in Greenbriar?

  Ahead of her the lights and siren of an approaching ambulance took her momentarily out of her reverie, and she pulled to the curb. As she watched it pass, she thought, perhaps for the first time with any real depth, about what Culver Bryant had been like as a human being. She imagined the terrible sadness of the man who had died thinking himself a failure, whose last moments on earth were spent feeling bad about the suffering he caused rather than his success. When she considered him in this light, she felt alternately devastated and angry. Culver Bryant had arranged his death in a careful manner reflecting his caring nature. He wanted his brother to find him, probably because he wanted to spare his wife the agony, Nola guessed, and because he trusted his brother even if they had never been close. Culver was not murdered, no, but whoever moved his body had shown a callous disregard for the man that went beyond the mere technicality of committing a felony.

  Noting that she had pulled into a street-side parking space, Nola shut off the engine and reached for her phone. At least there was one other person in the world who could be counted on to feel some outrage. Perhaps Lynette had even done her a favor by making a scene in front of the detectives; it meant Nola could break cleanly away from them and do her own thing from now on.

  “Hi, Lynette. It’s Nola.”

  “Oh! Hi there!”

  Nola glanced at the screen to make sure she’d called the correct number. It was the correct number, all right, but this was not the mad-as-hell hissing-and-spitting Lynette who’d charged into the station that morning. This Lynette sounded almost chirpy. “Um, hi. I thought maybe we should talk about some of the things I found out about Culver.” Nola wondered fleetingly whether she was moving into business matters too quickly and should have prefaced with condolences, but Lynette’s upbeat tone had thrown her.

  There was a pause. “Oh, that.”

  That?

  “Look, thanks for your help and all, but . . . never mind.”

  Never mind?

  “I’ll still pay you, of course,” she added. “Is, like, five hundred OK?”

  For what? Nola hadn’t specified any “rate,” hadn’t promised any specific sort of information, and hadn’t delivered any information. Was Lynette drunk or high? She sounded lucid. Was someone in the room with her so she couldn’t speak freely? Possibly, but her tone suggested otherwise. Nola realized that what had started out as bubbly and upbeat was now turning into something else: dismissiveness. Lynette was bored with the conversation, with the topic in general. She had no use for Nola and, it would seem, no longer any use for Culver. She had moved on.

  Dismissive quickly became impatient in the face of Nola’s stunned silence. “Look, I’m kind of in a hurry here, so stop by Tryst when you get a chance and I’ll pay you.” When Nola still hadn’t responded, Lynette made a small sound of irritation and ended the call.

  For several minutes, Nola sat in the car, dimly aware of the sounds of the city around her but not quite registering any of it. She felt drained, empty. When thought returned to her, she wondered again what Culver Bryant’s last moments in his car had been like. It seemed impossible to imagine. And yet it was all too easy to understand. One had only to witness how those supposedly closest to him reacted after his death. His mistress had been more upset about being ignored than bereaved. His business partner seemed too slick to have any strong sense of grief. His widow was so stoical it was hard to know what she was feeling. And his brother, of course . . . his brother had used up the last living part of him.

  When Nola turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb, she turned left instead of right at the next intersection. Right would have taken her home; left would eventually bring her back to Greenbriar. She drove with a sense of purpose but not much conscious awareness. There was no reason for her to see where Culver Bryant’s body was found, nothing to be gained, especially since she knew he hadn’t actually died there. But something compelled her to go there. Someone needed to give Culver Bryant’s death the recognition he deserved.

  Though at some point in the future this would be a gated community, there was no gate at present, and Nola easily moved through the unfinished neighborhoods toward the area Vincent Kirke had prevented her from seeing. She supposed there would still be police tape around the particular house she was looking for, and even if it had been removed, it would probably still be easy to find. There would be telltale signs of people having walked around it and cars having parked nearby. Sure enough, a flutter of yellow at the end of the road caught her eye, and she headed toward it.

  A second later, someone ran out from behind a house into the road in fro
nt of her.

  If Nola had not just witnessed an accident only hours ago, she might not have been so careful, but as it was, she reacted instantly, slamming on the brakes and swerving away. Still it took her a moment to recover her faculties, and in that time the person she’d almost hit, who had much more presence of mind than she possessed, appeared at her door.

  “I had a feeling you’d be coming out here.”

  15

  It was Vincent Kirke.

  “I understand you worked out some kind of deal with Lynette. So have I. Now I need to work one out with you.”

  Nola stared at him, wondering just how crazy he was to jump out in front of a moving vehicle, albeit one moving very slowly. Then she wondered just how dangerous he was. Nothing he had said had suggested a threat, and his tone hadn’t been aggressive. There was urgency in his voice and in the expression on his face, but he wasn’t looming menacingly over her or reaching for the door handle to yank her out of the car.

  Her uncertainty must have been palpable, because Vincent stepped back and spoke more calmly. “I just want to talk to you, that’s all. I’m sorry for the business with the car, but I really need to talk to you before you report to the police again. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “What exactly is the right idea?”

  “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll tell you. You don’t have to get out of the car. Just shut the engine off so I know you won’t take off before you hear what I have to say.”

  Nola took stock of the situation as quickly as she could without breaking eye contact with Vincent. She was in a car, with her phone on the seat next to her. He, on the other hand, was out in the open, apparently unarmed, though Nola took note of a suspicious bulge in one of the pockets of his North Face jacket. It might be a cell phone or gloves, or it might be something else entirely. She made her decision. She locked her door, rolled down the window just enough so that she could hear him better but he still couldn’t get an arm through the opening, and put the car in “park” without shutting off the engine. Then she spoke.