His Father's Eyes - eARC

by DAVID B. COE

  I’d been unsure yesterday about whether I ought to follow through on my plan to speak with Patty, and the intervening day had done little to convince me that this was a good idea. At this point, though, I figured it was too late to back out. I walked back to my car and drove the rest of the way to North Scottsdale.

  I had to remind myself that to the folks at the realty office, I was Mister Jay. And, I realized, that gave me an out: I didn’t have to tell her that I was Dara Fearsson’s son. I could ask her questions about Regina Witcombe and leave without her ever knowing the truth. Provided she didn’t examine my PI license too closely. I blew out a breath, my dread deepening by the moment.

  Before I knew it, I was parking the Z-Ster in front of the building, my hands sweating, my mouth dry. You’d have thought I was here for a first date rather than an interview with a potential lead. I wiped my hands on my jeans, got out, and walked to the door.

  The place exuded class, as you might expect from a realty company that routinely handled the sales of million-dollar homes. Glossy photos of enormous estates hung in the windows, along with fashion-model-quality portraits of the various agents who worked there. I recognized Patty’s photo right away. She was rather plain, as she had been in high school, with light brown hair, brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I took a breath and stepped inside.

  Predictably enough, the office had been decorated in the geometric patterns and earth tones associated with the Southwest—warm browns that shaded toward red, pale ochres and beiges, and the lapis-like blue of a high desert sky. A pretty blond receptionist sat at a large desk near the door, wearing a white blouse and tan jacket that blended perfectly with the office color scheme. She was on the phone, jotting down notes on a pad. I waited in front of the desk.

  After a few more minutes, she hung up, put the note she had written in one of several shallow boxes on her desk, and fixed her attention on me. Blue eyes raked over my bomber jacket, T-shirt, and jeans in a way that left me thinking I ought to go back home and change. I’m sure the bruise on my jaw didn’t help with this first impression. At last, her gaze met mine again and her features resolved into a thin smile that said, You can’t possibly afford anything we have listed. Why are you wasting my time?

  “Can I help you?”

  “I called yesterday morning to make an appointment with Miz Hesslan-Fine.”

  Her look of disdain gave way to one of disappointment. “Mister Jay?” No doubt she had hoped I would be wearing an Armani suit.

  I glanced at my watch. “I’m a few minutes early,” I said, still avoiding a direct lie about my name. “If she’s not ready for me, I can wait.” I waved a hand at the plush couch that sat near the desk, in between a matching pair of glass end tables. I should have known that would get me in faster; receptionist Barbie didn’t want me sitting out here, scaring away her rich clientele.

  “No, I believe she’s free right now.” She reached for the phone, punched in an extension number, and after waiting a few seconds said, “Patricia, your ten-thirty is here.” She hung up again and smiled up at me, lowering the temperature in the foyer. “She’ll be right out.” Which I took to mean, Don’t even think about sitting on that sofa.

  I remained where I was, standing in awkward silence, admiring the photographs that hung on the walls: the Grand Canyon, Lake Powell, Petrified Forest, and several desert scenes that could have been taken in the Superstition Wilderness or Sonoran Desert National Monument.

  The door along the back wall behind the receptionist’s desk opened. I turned, and felt the world drop away beneath my feet, making my stomach swoop.

  I was sure that the woman walking through the door was Patricia Hesslan-Fine. The receptionist wouldn’t have called for the wrong agent. But at first glance I could barely be certain. Because the woman’s face was obscured by a blur of magical power.

  I opened my mouth to say something, a thousand questions rushing into my mind. You’re a myste? Was your mother a myste? Or was it your father? Did my mother cheat on my dad with another weremyste? Is this why Regina Witcombe chose to work with you? But every one of those questions died on my lips. Some of them I couldn’t ask yet, not where anyone else could hear. Others . . . others I wasn’t sure I wanted to have answered.

  Upon spotting me, Patty slowed, no doubt seeing the same blur across my face, although obviously without understanding its implications for the history she didn’t yet know we shared. In the next instant she recovered, striding forward, a hand extended.

  “Mister Jay, how nice to meet you. I understand you were referred to us.”

  I shook her hand; she had a firm grip. “That’s right. A friend recommended your agency, and you in particular.”

  “Can you tell me who? I’d like to thank this person.”

  “Actually, it was another real estate agent who, for obvious reasons, would prefer to remain anonymous.”

  Patty’s smile tightened. “Well, there’s nothing more gratifying than the respect of a rival.” She gestured toward the door she’d come through. “Won’t you join me in my office?”

  I nodded to the receptionist, pulled open the door, and followed the corridor toward the back of the building. Patty walked behind me, her steps muffled by the thick carpeting, her blazer and skirt rustling softly. The décor remained much the same, but the photos of natural landscapes gave way to aerial photos of more huge estates and sprawling Spanish mission homes.

  “Second door on the left,” she said, her voice low.

  I entered her office and turned to face her as she came in behind me and shut the door.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing toward an armchair. She stepped around her desk, settled into her black leather desk chair. “Can I have April bring you anything? Coffee, tea, a soft drink?”

  I sat. “No, thank you.”

  “Well, then, why don’t you tell me what you’re after?”

  I couldn’t tell if she was talking about real estate or had assumed, because I was a myste, that I had come for a different purpose.

  “I understand that you handled the purchase of Regina Witcombe’s home in Paradise Valley,” I said, unsure of how else to break the ice.

  “That’s right. Is that your price range?”

  I laughed. “No. I don’t have that kind of money. She must have been pleased with the work you did for her.”

  Another tight smile settled on her face, though it failed to reach her eyes. “If you need further references, I can provide them, Mister Jay.”

  Yeah, this wasn’t working.

  “My name isn’t Jay,” I told her. “At least not my last name.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said, though clearly she did. “If you’re not—”

  “April misinterpreted something I said. My name is Jay. Jay Fearsson.”

  She couldn’t have looked more surprised if I had told her I was from Mars. But it didn’t take her long to recover.

  “You’re a private investigator. I read about you online a couple of months ago. And I assume you’re seeking information about Regina.”

  Fame wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, especially when exacerbated by my own overly aggressive questions.

  “Guilty as charged. But I’ll admit that I was curious about you as well. Your friendship with Missus Witcombe gave me an excuse to come here.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  I faltered. “My mistake. I didn’t know you were a weremyste. Do you take after your mother or your father?”

  Her gaze dropped. “I’m not sure I want to talk about that, either. I think you should go.”

  “Mine came from my father. That’s why I ask. I’m wondering if my mother left my father for another myste, or if she found in your father someone who was—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it!” She stood. “You should leave.”

  I didn’t flinch from what I saw in her eyes, nor did I move. “I’m curious: If you’re not friends with Regina Witcombe, why
were both of you on Flight 595 on Thursday? Did you go to Washington with her?”

  She stared back at me; after a few seconds she lowered herself into the chair once more, perching on the edge of it. “It was a coincidence,” she said. “She was as surprised to see me as I was to see her.”

  “You were in Washington on business?”

  “Yes. Is your father still alive, Jay?”

  I nodded. “Your mother?”

  “Yes. She lives in Tucson now.”

  “I was sorry to hear about your brother.”

  She toyed with her wedding ring. “Michael was always very . . . sensitive.”

  The way she said it made me think she meant to call him weak, but thought better of it.

  “You must have been surprised the first time you met Missus Witcombe. I can’t imagine that many of your clients are mystes.”

  “Yes, it was quite a coincidence—another one; both of us were surprised. Just as you and I were today.” Her voice had a hard edge to it. Despite the words, she assumed I hadn’t been surprised. I said nothing to convince her otherwise.

  I wanted to ask her if she had ever seen Regina Witcombe do any dark spells, but I couldn’t bring myself to pose the question, and I trusted the instinct that kept me from doing so. I didn’t believe for a moment that mere chance had put the two of them on that plane. If Regina was working with other dark sorcerers, so was Patty, and I didn’t want to draw any more attention from their kind. Not yet, at least. But I was there, and Patty would be wondering why. Fortunately, I had the perfect excuse.

  “On Thursday, after your aircraft rolled back to the gate and all of you were asked to deplane, where did you and Missus Witcombe go?”

  “Are you working with the police again?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like you did on the Blind Angel killings.”

  “That’s right.”

  She nodded. “We stayed in the gate area. That’s what the gate agents told us to do.”

  “Did either of you leave the area for any reason?”

  She shook her head. “Not until the police showed up. At that point, Regina took me to the airline’s club lounge. We knew it would be hours before we took off, so we asked the detectives. They had a few questions for us, but then they allowed us to go.”

  “So you didn’t even leave to use the rest room?”

  “No.”

  That didn’t mean one of them hadn’t killed James Howell, but it did make proving it more difficult.

  “Can you tell me why Regina Witcombe would fly on a commercial jetliner? I understand that she owns a jet of her own.”

  “She owns two. And her daughters currently have them both, one in Belize, where the Witcombe family has a second home, the other in Anchorage.”

  “Leaving poor Mom to fly with the masses.”

  Patty’s expression brightened. “Precisely.” She stood once more and smoothed her skirt with an open hand. “Now, I really do think you should go. I’m not going to answer any more questions about someone who was once a client, and may well be again. I’ve probably already said more than I should.”

  This time I stood as well. “Thank you for speaking to me. My apologies for surprising you the way I did. It wasn’t really fair of me.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But I understand why you did it. Our families . . . well, let’s just say that some bonds can’t be broken, no matter how much we want them to be.”

  I held out my hand, which she took. “Thank you,” I said. “Don’t be too hard on April. She made a simple mistake and I twisted it into a lie.”

  “You’re sweet to be concerned for her. Don’t worry. Our punishments here at Sonoran Winds aren’t too extravagant.” She said it with humor, but I had to resist the urge to shudder. I wondered how many more of the agents here were weremystes, and how many of them engaged in dark castings.

  She led me out to the reception area, shook my hand once more, and wished me a good day. I pushed through the entry and walked back to my car, trying to act casual, and all the while expecting to feel a fire spell hit me between the shoulder blades. I was sure Patty was watching me, and I was equally certain that she would be on the phone to Regina Witcombe as soon as I pulled away from the curb.

  That was fine. There was someone I needed to speak with as well: Amaya’s friend out in Buckeye.

  CHAPTER 13

  I first went to see Billie, stopping along the way to pick up an order of fajitas. She was better today, though it sounded as though she’d had a rough night.

  The last of the anesthetics from her surgery had worn off during the evening, leaving her in a good deal of pain. The doctors were still trying to figure out the right dosages, but already she said that she was more comfortable. And seeing that I had brought her food improved her mood significantly.

  She didn’t look happy when I told her that I couldn’t stay long, and she asked the nurses to leave us for a while. They obliged, closing the curtains and glass door as they left.

  “Where did you get that bruise?” she asked, once we were alone.

  “Lost a fight.”

  I expected some expression of concern, but it seemed her thoughts were taking her in another direction.

  “I don’t know if I imagined this or if it really happened.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “Did you tell me that the explosion at Solana’s was caused by magic?”

  I nodded.

  “And that’s why you weren’t hurt.”

  “Right.”

  “Damn. And so you’re leaving now because . . . ?”

  “Because I’m trying to find out who did it. I have a couple of leads. Nothing solid, and there’s a lot I can’t explain right now. But I’m working on it.”

  She took hold of my collar with her good hand, pulled me closer, and kissed me on the lips. “Well, be careful. If they can blow up a restaurant and keep you from getting hurt, they must be pretty good at this magic stuff.”

  Smart woman.

  “I was thinking the same thing last night. I’ll try not to do anything too stupid.”

  “Good.” She kissed me again, then smiled. “Thank you for my fajitas.”

  “Enjoy. I’ll be back later.”

  I took I-10 west through the Phoenix suburbs out to Buckeye, a middle-class town that had seen unbelievable growth in the past decade and a half as the city and its satellite towns continued to sprawl across the desert. It wasn’t the most scenic town in Arizona, and most of the land around it was pretty flat, some might even say desolate. The notable exception was Skyline Regional Park to the north of the city, which was a nice place to hike.

  Amaya’s friend, Gary Hacker, lived about as far from the park as a resident of Buckeye could manage, in a rundown single-wide on the southern fringe of the town. The land near his home made my father’s place seem lush by comparison. The wind had kicked up, blowing clouds of pale dust across the gravel road. Sun-bleached “no trespassing” signs were mounted on posts lining the drive, and the yard around the single-wide was littered with old tires, plumbing fixtures, empty jugs of motor oil and antifreeze, scraps of wood, and just about every other form of trash I could imagine. A beat up Dodge pick-up sat next to the single-wide.

  I pulled in behind the truck and climbed out of the car, squinting against the glare and the dust. An air conditioner mounted on one end of the single-wide rattled like an old train and dripped water on the dusty ground. Yellow jackets swarmed over the moistened dirt.

  I pulled off my sunglasses and glanced around, thinking—hoping—that maybe I was in the wrong place. Before I had time to do more, the door of the mobile home banged open, revealing a tall, rangy man who held what looked like a worn Savage 110 bolt rifle at shoulder level.

  “I think you’d better get back in your car, mister.”

  It was like I’d fallen into a bad Western.

  I put up my hands, playing my role. “I’m not looking for any trouble. Are you Gary Hacker?”

  “Who the hell are you?”
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  “My name’s Jay Fearsson. Jacinto Amaya suggested I come and talk to you.”

  He’d been squinting into the sights of his rifle, prepared, I was sure, to blow my head off. But upon hearing Amaya’s name, he straightened, his eyes narrowing. “Amaya sent you?”

  “Yeah. Would you mind lowering that rifle?”

  “Remains to be seen. Why would he send you out here?”

  “I’m a weremyste,” I said, assuming that explained everything.

  “I can see that. Why’d he send you?”

  I regarded the man, shading my eyes with one raised hand. Apparently Hacker could see the blur on my features, which was odd, because I saw none at all on his. Amaya had said he was a myste, too.

  Or had he? He’s a were, Jacinto told me. Not a myste, or a weremyste, but a were. I knew weres lived in the Phoenix area, as they did throughout the country, but weremystes usually had little use for them. Were magic was very specific. Just as weremystes went through the phasings, weres changed form on the full moon, and on the nights before and after. But that was all. Weres couldn’t cast spells; they weren’t runecrafters, as Namid would have put it.

  Hollywood portrayals notwithstanding, weres weren’t monsters; they didn’t go around biting people, infecting them with a taint that made the innocent into creatures like themselves. But they did have dual natures; they shared their bodies with a totem beast that took control during the nights of the phasing. A werewolf transformed into a wolf, a werelion turned into a mountain lion—or perhaps an African lion in that part of the world. And in their animal forms, they behaved as would any other creature of that species. If Hacker was a were, he would be able to see my magic, but since he possessed none himself, he didn’t appear to me to be anything more or less than a normal person.

  “I don’t know why he sent me,” I said after some time. “Maybe you can tell me that. But he did suggest that I come out here; you can call him to confirm that if you want. I have a cell . . .”