First Grave on the Right cd-1

by Darynda Jones

  In one smooth move, I dumped my coat and bag on a chair, turned up the heat, then sashayed — somewhat rigidly — to the coffeepot for my morning fix. That’s when the world fell out from under me. Was it karma? Was my less-than-caring attitude toward Taft coming back to bite me on the ass, hot as it was? I checked and double-checked, searched and prayed, only to be left utterly and completely without a single coffee ground.

  How was this possible? How could the universe be so cruel?

  A knock on my door raised my hopes. It was the inside door to my office that Dad always used. He’d have coffee. If he knew what was good for him.

  I opened the door wide, only to be met by a tense Garrett Swopes. My lungs released a long breath as I scowled at him. “What do you want?”

  His expression softened. “I have coffee.”

  I eyed the coffee in his hands, tried to keep from drooling, wondered if the gods were toying with me, then gave in. Fine, I’d play along.

  Plastering a bright smile on my face, I began again. “Oh, hey there, Garrett. What’s up?” Good enough. I snatched the coffee from his hands and started back for the slippery comfort of my plastic wood-grained office furniture and faux-leather chair. “What do you want?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “I just want to talk.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You don’t look busy. What are you doing?”

  “Whatever the little voices tell me to do.”

  “Will you just give me a minute?”

  As if a delayed reaction had suddenly hit, Taft’s outburst was starting to gnaw. Another person angry with me for no reason. Eating away at me as well were the hostile, wary glances at the police station yesterday. In fact, men in general were pretty low on my list of priorities at the moment. Garrett could bite my ass.

  “I don’t feel particularly inclined to give you anything, Swopes. Not even a minute.”

  “How did you do it? Yesterday at the station. What did you say to him?”

  “Please. Like you’d believe me if I told you.”

  “Look,” he said, stalking forward, “you gotta admit, it’s all a little hard to swallow, but I’m trying.”

  I jumped out of my seat, suddenly angry at the world, and faced Garrett head-on. “You know what I’m tired of?”

  He thought a moment. “Unsightly cellulite?”

  “People like those assholes at the station yesterday. People like Taft with their sideways glances and hushed whispers who turn their backs on me every time I walk into a room. People like you who treat me like shit until they figure out I really can do what I say I can do. And then suddenly I’m their best friend.”

  “Taft? That cop?”

  “And, and them!”

  “Them?”

  “All of them! Wanting me to tie up all the loose ends they left hanging when they bit it.”

  “I would think your lawyers—”

  “Not the lawyers,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “They have every reason to want their loose ends tied up. It’s these people who come to me with, ‘I didn’t tell Stella I loved her before I got sucked into that jet engine.’ ”

  “Okay, slowly, and without making any sudden movements, hand over the coffee. I’ll go get you another cup, and we can start over.”

  “What’s wrong with this cup?” I asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

  “You need decaf.”

  I pulled in a long deep breath and sat back behind my desk. Tantrums never got me anywhere fast. “Sorry. I’m working on a deadline.”

  “This case?”

  “No,” I said, thinking about Reyes in that hospital bed, connected to machines just to keep him alive. After several soothing sips of java, I calmed down. Well, kind of. My insides were still seething a bit. Taft was a freak. “So, that’s why you’re here? To find out what I said?”

  “Pretty much. And to chew your ass out for being at the wrong place at the wrong time again.”

  “Pffft. Stand in line.”

  “That guy tackled you pretty hard. Do you look for ways to be maimed?”

  “Not daily. Have you heard anything about the warehouse?”

  “I’ve gotten just enough on it to make me think it’s not what we think it is.”

  “Oh, well, good thing I wasn’t married to my beliefs.”

  “I’ve heard talk that the good Father who owns it really is a good Father. He runs a mission for runaway kids downtown.”

  “Kids?” I asked.

  “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he asked, referring back to my deal with Julio Ontiveros.

  “Nope. Since we have two kids involved in Mark Weir’s case, I’d say there’s a connection somewhere.”

  “It’s possible. Can you give me a hint?”

  A knock at the door saved me from once again having to say no. What was it with men and the word no anyway?

  It was the side door Garrett came through. “Come on in, Dad,” I called. Then I turned to Garrett. “You know, we do have a front door.”

  He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug.

  When Dad didn’t come in, I stood and walked to the door. “Dad, you can come in,” I said as I opened it. A split second later, my life flashed before my eyes, and I came to one important conclusion about it.

  It was fun while it lasted.

  CHAPTER 14

  Well, this is awkward.

  — T-SHIRT

  Apparently, this really was Kill Charley Davidson Week. Or at least Horribly Maim Her. I considered the slick gun pointed at me from across the threshold confirmation. It would probably never get government recognition, though, destined to be underappreciated like Halloween or Thesaurus Day.

  When I opened the door, Zeke Herschel, Rosie’s abusive husband, stood across from me with vengeance in his eyes. I glanced at the nickel-plated pistol clenched in his hand and felt my heartbeat falter, hesitate, then stumble awkwardly forward, tripping on the next beat, then the next, faster and faster until each one tumbled into the other like the drumroll of dominoes crashing together. Funny how time stands still when death is imminent. While I watched Herschel’s muscles contract through my periphery, his finger squeeze the trigger, I focused on his face. A cocky arrogance glittered in his colorless eyes.

  I glanced down at the gun again, watched as the firing pin snapped forward; then my gaze traveled up and to my right … to him. Bad stood beside Zeke Herschel, glaring down at him, his hooded cloak mere inches from the man’s head, his silver blade glinting in the low light. Then he turned the full heat of his gaze on me. The effect was similar to the flash of a nuclear explosion. His anger, thick and palpable, hot and unforgiving, washed over me, stole my breath.

  In the time it took to split an atom, Bad severed Herschel’s spinal cord. I knew this because he’d done it before. But at the same time, the tip of his silver blade sliced into my side. The moment I realized I had been nicked by Bad’s blade, Herschel flew back and crashed against the gate of the elevator so hard it rattled the building.

  Then Bad turned to me, his robe and aura fusing together as one undulating mass, his blade tucked safely into the folds of the thick black matter. I realized then that I was falling. The world rushed to meet me at the exact moment arms locked around my waist, and I saw him for the first time beneath the hooded robe.

  Reyes Alexander Farrow.

  * * *

  Dad handed me a cup of hot chocolate as we stood together outside the bar, leaning against his SUV. He had wrapped his jacket around me, as mine was still part of a crime-scene investigation. The jacket swallowed me. I was surprised, considering how thin my dad was. The arms hung to my knees. With infinite care, Dad rolled up the sleeves one at a time, relocating the cup in the opposite hand when he switched.

  The elevator came to a creaking halt inside the bar, and I knew the EMTs were bringing Herschel out. I waited, my breaths shallow, as they wheeled him inside the ambulance and closed the doors. This was the same man who hit me in the bar. The sam
e man who beat his wife into submission on a regular basis. The same man who pulled a gun on me with pure hatred in his eyes and violence in his heart. He must have figured out his wife had left his sorry ass, put two and two together, and came after me wanting revenge. Possibly even information.

  And now he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life. I should’ve felt bad about that. What kind of person wouldn’t? What kind of monster relishes in the pain and suffering of others? Was I any different from Bad? From Reyes?

  My heart stopped a moment when I realized, once again, that Bad and Reyes were the same being. The same creature of destruction. In fact, he must have been the blur I’d been seeing as well, swooshing around like an evil Superman. So, blurry guy equaled Bad equaled Reyes. The unholy trinity. Why did he have to be so freaking hot?

  Placing a hand on my ribs where I’d felt the blade slice clean through, I marveled at the unmarred skin, the lack of blood staining my sweater. Bad had a way of slicing from the inside out. I’d been cut, but only slightly, and only an MRI could reveal the true extent of the damage.

  Since I didn’t feel like I was bleeding internally, I decided to postpone the emergency room visit that would more likely end in a trip to the nuthouse than a meeting with a surgeon.

  “Here’s the bullet,” a uniformed officer said to Uncle Bob. He held up a sealed plastic evidence bag for Ubie’s inspection. “It was in the west wall.”

  How did it end up there? The gun was directly in front of me.

  Cookie blew her nose again, unable to wrap her head around the fact that I’d almost been shot. I patted her shoulder. Her emotions drifted toward me like a tangible entity. She wanted to scold me, to tell me to be more careful, to hug me until my next birthday, but to her credit, she kept them controlled in the face of so many uniforms. Uncle Bob was talking to Garrett, who seemed in a state of shock if his pallor was any indication.

  He’d laid me on the ground. Reyes. When he caught me, he’d laid me back on the ground, looked me over, paying special attention to where the tip of his blade sliced, then dissolved into nothing before my eyes with a growl. My lashes fluttered; then Garrett was over me, speaking loudly, asking me questions I couldn’t comprehend. Reyes had left palpable traces of himself. His desperation settled in every molecule in my body and began flowing through my veins. I could smell him and taste him, and I craved him now more than ever.

  “This isn’t the first time this has happened, you know.”

  I glanced up at Dad. Earlier, I’d begged him not to call my stepmom. He acquiesced reluctantly, swearing he’d have hell to pay when he got home. Somehow I doubted it.

  “In the apartment building where you live now,” he said, standing beside me, “this exact same thing happened. You were little.”

  Dad was fishing for information. He’d long suspected something had happened to me that night. He was lead detective on the case of the paroled child molester’s bizarre attack. After more than twenty years, he was putting it all together. He was right. This wasn’t the first time, or the second. It would seem Reyes Farrow had been my guardian angel for quite some time.

  Unable to piece together the whys and wherefores, I decided not to think about it and focused on two things that were not Reyes related: drinking my hot chocolate and steadying my shaking hands.

  “A man’s spinal cord was severed in two with absolutely no external injury to the surrounding area. No extraneous bruising. No trauma whatsoever. And you were there both times.”

  He was fishing again, waiting for me to give up what I knew, what he suspected. I guess I’d changed that day, become a little withdrawn, even for a four-year-old. But why should I tell him now? It would only cause him pain. He didn’t need to know every detail of my life. And there were some things that, even at twenty-seven, were impossible to tell your father. I don’t think I could have gotten the words out if I’d tried.

  I placed a hand in his and squeezed. “I wasn’t there, Dad. Not that day,” I said, lying through my teeth.

  He turned away from me and closed his eyes. He wanted to know, but like I’d told Cookie, it wasn’t always better knowing.

  “That was the same guy from the other night? The one who hit you?” Uncle Bob asked.

  After lowering my cup, I answered, “Yes. He was trying to pick me up, I said no, he got hostile, and the rest is history.” I wasn’t about to tell them the truth. Doing so would risk Rosie’s freedom.

  “I say we all go to the station and talk about this,” Uncle Bob said.

  Dad flashed him a warning glare, and my muscles tensed. When those two fought, it wasn’t pretty. A little humorous, perhaps, but I doubted anyone was in the mood to laugh. Besides me. Laughing was like Jell-O. There was always room for Jell-O.

  “Great, I’d like to get out of the cold, anyway,” I said, narrowly averting World War III.

  “You can ride with me,” Uncle Bob said after a moment. What did Dad expect him to do? He knew the rules. We’d have to go to the station eventually anyway. May as well get it over with.

  Then Uncle Bob looked over at Garrett. “You can ride with me as well.”

  Dad looked at him in surprise then gratitude when Uncle Bob winked at him. As Dad walked me to Uncle Bob’s SUV, he leaned down and whispered, “You two have to get your stories straight on the way. In your statement, just say that when you opened the door, there were two men there. They were fighting, the gun went off, and the other guy fled down the fire escape.”

  He patted my back and offered me a reassuring smile before closing the door. A haze of worry surrounded him, and I suddenly felt guilty for all the things I’d put him through growing up. He’d carried a lot for me. Made up excuses, found ways to put men behind bars without involving me directly, and now he had to trust in Uncle Bob to do the same thing.

  “How did you do that?” Garrett asked before Ubie got into the car. “That guy must have weighed over two hundred pounds.”

  We were both sitting in the backseat. “I didn’t.”

  He stared at me hard, trying to understand. “One of your dead guys?”

  “No,” I said, watching Dad and Uncle Bob talk. They seemed okay. “No, this was something else.”

  I heard Garrett lean back in his seat, scrub his face with his fingers. “So, there’s more than just dead people walking around? Like what? Demons? Poltergeists?”

  “Poltergeists are just pissed-off dead people. It’s really not that mysterious,” I said. But I was lying. Reyes was about as mysterious as it got.

  It didn’t matter what I did, I could not stop thinking about him. I wondered about his tattoos, trying to unearth their meaning from the jumble of chaos in my mind. If only I didn’t have so many useless facts floating around in there. Damn my pursuit of trivia.

  I wondered other things as well. Was he carbon based? Was he really thirty years old or thirty billion? Was he an innie or an outie? I knew enough not to question his planetary origins. He wasn’t extraterrestrial. The fourth dimension, the other side, didn’t work that way. There were no planets or countries or landmarks to distinguish its borders. It spanned the universe and beyond. It simply was. Everywhere at once. Like God, I figured.

  “Okay,” Uncle Bob said after buckling his seat belt. “I have to think really hard on the way to the station. I probably won’t hear a thing you guys say to each other.” He glanced at me from the rearview mirror and winked again.

  By the time we arrived at the station, there had miraculously been two men in the hallway when I opened the door. The other man had dirty blond hair and a beard, nondescript dark clothes, and no distinguishing marks, making him almost impossible to identify. Darn it. Frankly, I was a little surprised Garrett was going along with it.

  “Like I want to be locked in a padded cell,” he said as we strolled inside the station. He was beginning to see my side of it, why I never told people what I was.

  The first pair of eyes I met in the station belonged to a still-seething Officer Taft. He stood rea
ding an open file at his desk and glared at me as we walked past. So did Strawberry Shortcake. At least she didn’t attack me. That was a plus.

  Still, I couldn’t stop myself. I whipped out my best smirk for Taft, and said while barely slowing my stride, “When you figure out what’s really going on and you need help, don’t come to me.”

  “I’m not the one who needs help,” he shot back.

  Uncle Bob quickened his step to catch up with me. “What was that about?” he asked, clearly intrigued.

  “The Hell Spawn of Satan, remember? She’s making her presence known, and he can’t deal — so he’s mad at me.”

  He turned back with a thoughtful expression. “I could send him on a doughnut run to cool his jets.”

  Sounded like a plan. After we finished giving our statements, which were remarkably similarly worded, we all grabbed a bite; then Uncle Bob and I dropped off Garrett and headed to Yucca High. Like a kid being left at home on a Saturday night, Garrett begged to go. Even whined a little.

  “Please,” he’d said.

  “No means no.” He had to learn that sometime.

  Yucca High sat deep in the southern heart of Albuquerque, an old school with a sordid past and an excellent reputation. We drove up during a late-afternoon class change. Kids were taking advantage of the five minutes they had by talking and flirting and roughhousing the freshmen. Before we arrived, I hadn’t particularly missed high school. When we got there, I still didn’t particularly miss it.

  The aftereffects of the morning still weighted down my limbs. Things weren’t moving at a normal speed. Everything felt slow, lethargic as I swam through the reality that the world did not come to a screeching halt after a near-death experience. It remained in motion, a never-ending cycle of those episodic adventures called life. The minutes pressed forward. The sun slid across the sky. The heel of my boot had a tack in it.