Demon on a Distant Shore

by Linda Welch

  I clamped my upper lip between my teeth, considering, then said, “You didn’t know the Nortons were dead until their bodies were discovered in Scotland, but you suspected foul play, especially with what happened to Johnny.” And she didn’t know the Nortons died in the church, or no doubt she would have sent me here.

  “And Peter Cooper made enquiries about the Nortons. But what about his body? How did you know where to find it and why didn’t you tell anyone?” I continued.

  She looked over toward a stand of elms just inside the stone wall. “Oh, I did not know, dear. I had a sense you should go to Avebury Woods, but not what you would find there.”

  “A sense?” I remembered what Carrie had said. “Are you a witch, Sally?”

  She stared at me for an instant before a deep chuckle burst from her bosom. “A witch? No.”

  “Then what are you?”

  She smiled gently. “What do you think? Perhaps I am a guardian. You could say the bones of this land make use of me.”

  “But the bones of this land didn’t tell you the Nortons were under Saint Thomas until Fowler killed them there?”

  The smile froze on her face. I think she stopped breathing. Then tears welled in her eyes. “It is consecrated ground and as such hides its secrets from those who do not bow to the Church.”

  Her gaze drifted to the church. “The police do not know, else this place would be covered in yellow tape.”

  “I couldn’t tell them I spoke to two dead people.”

  She nodded; her voice became brisk as she turned to Greg. “We must be going. The Hart and Garter does not run itself.”

  But I had so many questions! “We deserve more than that. Perhaps - ”

  “No, dear.” Sally smiled again, but with steel in it. “You have questions, that is understandable, but we can tell you nothing more. You know all you need to. You must be on your way now.”

  She indicated the graveyard with a sweep of her arm. “But if you can spare a few minutes, you might take a look. Can you imagine the age of this place? And it was built on the ruins of something far older. Look at these gravestones. Why, the oldest date back to the twelfth century and there are resting places far older beneath those. Generations of Shorts lie here. They are over in the corner, near the elms.” She nodded in that direction. “You cannot miss them. Every one of them is a Short. We do not marry, you see; not the ladies, only the men. Greg will give me a granddaughter one of these days.”

  With another smile from each of them, they turned and walked to the gate. I watched them disappear, knowing I should go after them, ask my questions and demand answers. But my gut said I’d get nothing more from them and Sally Short was not a woman I should anger.

  I exhaled an almighty breath. Royal grabbed my hand. “Come on. She had a reason, telling us to look at her family’s burial plots.”

  I had a thought as he towed me over there. “The breakfasts, the laundry … she wanted to keep us happy, keep us here.”

  Gravestones in differing degrees of wear huddled close together beneath the elms and a little beyond. Some were so old, although they’d been kept free of lichen the inscriptions were indecipherable. We walked among them; not easy, as closely planted as they were.

  I squatted. “She said the bones of this land let their wishes be known. Look.”

  Royal squatted next to me as I ran the fingertips of one hand over a tiny etching on the top of the stone marker. We exchanged a look, then stood and carefully stepped between burial plots, finding the same engraving here and there. It presided over the resting place of every female Short.

  A crude, medieval depiction of a creature with huge round eyes and curling horns.

  Carrie sagged forlornly, dejection in every line of her body as Royal stowed our cases in the rental. “I can’t believe you’re leaving when I just found you,” she said with sincere misery.

  If I did have a therapist, who believed I see the dead, you know what she would say? That I am closer to them than to living people because they’re convenient. I can escape them when I want, dismiss them just like that, ignore them when I don’t like what they say. Because they can’t touch me, physically or emotionally.

  She would be wrong. I have always anguished over the dead who cannot go onward, who are stuck here, watching the living from the sidelines. And although, perhaps, the rest was true years ago, I would disagree with her diagnosis now. Jack and Mel touch me, deep in my heart and soul. Sure, they exasperate me at times, but that happens even between friends. You don’t unconditionally adore your friends every moment of every day. They can unintentionally hurt your feelings, or make you mad, or upset you by doing something you consider totally inappropriate. You take what they dish out because accepting they’re not perfect is part of a true friendship.

  Despite annoying me with her chatter, I couldn’t help liking Carrie. There was no artificiality to her. No pretense, no posturing, no self-pity or anger. Perhaps I would have grown as close to her as I was to Jack and Mel if I lived in Little Barrow. Shades are real to me, and right then I wanted nothing more than to give her a consoling pat on the shoulder.

  Her voice caught. “I wish I could come with you.”

  I envisioned a shade with Carrie’s talent, whom we could plant where we wanted a listening ear and nobody the wiser.

  “I can’t cry, but I feel the tears inside,” she added.

  I don’t know what made me blurt, “You’ll see me again.”

  “You’ll come back?”

  I took a moment to think it over. Yes, I would, on a real vacation in an England not discolored by death and deceit.

  “I’ll be back for Pickins’ trial, and I’d like a real vacation here one of these years. We’ll travel together, see the sights.”

  “Do you mean it? I don’t want lies. I don’t want to spend years thinking you’ll walk through the door of The Hart and Garter.”

  “I mean it. Goodbye for now, Carrie.”

  I tried not to make our parting worse by looking back as we got in the car, but I gave in to a compulsion to wave through the window as we drove away from the inn. She seemed so despondent, standing in the middle of the parking lot. I hoped someone would come by soon so she could go back inside.

  We pulled up at the side of The Hart and Garter and stopped to let a few cars by, then drove on. Early morning sunlight gleamed on the damp road and the old granite bollards fronting the inn. One of them unfolded, and the little Elemental straightened up. Perhaps wishful thinking got the better of me, but I swear I saw a creature with clear eyes and a glossy green pelt. It lifted one arm in a very human gesture of farewell.

  What had changed? The dead were still dead. Perhaps justice balanced the scales.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The airport shuttle let us off in the long-term parking lot at nine. We wearily trudged to Royal’s truck, or I should say I trudged, because Royal fairly strutted. Me? I didn’t sleep the entire flight. We didn’t fly first-class either, and the cramped conditions made the trip tedious in the extreme.

  For some, a honking great truck like Royal’s is a conceit; to tall people like us, it’s comfort. I sighed as I slid across the cool seat and inhaled the smell of leather and Gelpha. It is not a scent you know unless you’re near a Gelpha, and you’ll probably think he’s wearing a tantalizing aftershave. I know different. His scent makes me feel safe.

  We had not discussed our adventures after we left Heathrow. We were too tired and surrounded by people who could hear, and anyway, Royal went to sleep as soon as the plane took off and didn’t wake to eat. But I obsessed during the entire flight.

  “Will we ever know what really happened back there?”

  Royal shifted on the seat and put the key in the ignition. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I snapped in the seat belt. “You must have a theory, or several.”

  He stared through the windshield at the huge parking area filled with line after line of cars. “I thought the police would find an u
nwarranted amount of cash in Fowler’s and Pickins’ bank accounts.”

  We kept coming back to that, for no other reason than we both had a gut feeling the murders were not personal, and therefore had to be a business transaction of the nastiest kind.

  “Indicating they were paid to do the dirty deed. I mean deeds.”

  “Surely one of them paid Clarke and that must have cost. But as well as neither accumulating a large amount in the past year, nor did either pay out a large sum.”

  “So if they have money, it’s stashed someplace.”

  He nodded and turned the key in the ignition. The big red truck started to life with a rumble.

  We drove from the parking lot, stopped to pay our fee at the toll-booth, then went east on I-80 to merge with Northbound I-15. We would be home in an hour. I envisioned walking into my house. Hopefully Maryanne had read my text and got milk. I could pick up other fresh and dairy foods tomorrow.

  I spent the remainder of the ride jerking awake each time my head went back on the headrest. How come I can’t fall asleep on an airplane, but can’t anyplace else?

  We didn’t take the more scenic route past Peak City. Royal drove the I-15 to Exit 344 and turned east up Fork Canyon. I tried to be alert, peering at the road’s narrow verge for bright eyes reflected in the truck’s high beam. Too much wildlife dies on canyon roads.

  We passed the spillway at the top of the canyon. Long Meadow Lake, fed by the Snake and Black rivers, spread before us, the narrowest part before it widens and fills a quarter of the valley. The road loops around the lake’s south shore to South Clarion and heads north, where it becomes North Temple, the main route to Clarion and North Clarion. Twinkling lights in the distance made me think of Christmas.

  A vehicle came around a bend a mile ahead, then disappeared as the road curved.

  Royal said, “Pizza.”

  I perked up. “You have the best ideas.”

  “Canadian bacon.”

  “Italian sausage, pepperoni, red onion and extra cheese.”

  “It’s not that late, we can get it at Delfino’s.”

  I could almost taste it. I missed pizza when we were in England. I know Pizza Hut has franchises there, but we didn’t see any. We were not in London long enough to visit an Italian restaurant. The shop in Little Barrow carried frozen pizza, but I didn’t fancy tuna and anchovy. Looking at it in the freezer made my stomach flip.

  The road straightened. We passed the Moose Mountain condominiums, an expensive subdivision on the lake’s shore, the lake lapping a small private beach. Sandy beaches are one reason Long Meadow is so popular.

  The car coming from the other direction turned a bend. It was a dark pickup big as Royal’s. Royal dipped his lights, but the pickup didn’t.

  Dazzled, I lifted my splayed hand to block some of the glare.

  “Idiot.” Royal flashed his lights.

  The pickup sped along. Royal decelerated, driving with his hand shading his eyes.

  Almost upon us, the pickup swerved into our lane.

  I didn’t have time to think, anything. Royal jerked the wheel to the left, it was that or crash into the mountainside. He tried to straighten out in the left lane before we went over the road and into the lake. The pickup jogged over, the passenger side rammed us. The impact threw me into Royal. My front and side airbags exploded from the dashboard and door long enough to feel the pressure and a fleeting sensation of suffocation, and deflated just as quickly. Our rear wheels skidded left. Royal swung the steering wheel right, pushing the other truck toward the bank. As if glued together, both pickups spun across the road.

  So fast.

  We went over the embankment.

  We had two things on our side: the embankment sloped for twenty feet before it dropped off, and Royal is a demon. A sense of disorientation, and we lay on the dirt and grass slope, Royal holding me with one arm as he grabbed for a handhold with the other – he’s inhumanly strong, and fast, but he’s not Superman, he couldn’t fly us up to the road.

  His truck went over the embankment rear first, the other pickup cab first. Clinging to him, I watched his truck slew and crunch the other, then roll, the open driver-side door buckling. They plunged over the drop. I couldn’t see them hit the water thirty feet below, but the impact sounded like a collision. Water geysered and drops pelted us.

  We lay on our backs, flattened to the embankment. My chest hurt as if I’d been kicked between my breasts and my side ached.

  Royal helped me to my feet and we inched upward to the road. In the darkness, I had to feel my way and make sure my feet were firmly planted before I tried to take the next step.

  I staggered onto the gravel parking area. Beside me, Royal pulled his cell from his pocket and flipped it open.

  Lights flared below. A motor roared to life. Long Meadow is a playground for yachtsmen and one of them, moored near the embankment, saw the trucks go into the water.

  More than one. Another motor came to life, than another. We watched them speed toward us, inside lights bobbing and spotlights cutting yellow paths. They cut their engines and slowly drifted to where the pickups disappeared.

  “Someone already called emergency services,” Royal said. “They are on the way.”

  When you call Emergency in Utah, everyone turns up. Sirens screaming, paramedics arrived ten minutes later, followed by a fire truck. As they roared to a stop, flashing lights from local police and county sheriff vehicles came along the other road and across the spillway. Everyone parked with their headlamps aimed at the lake. Services that specialized in water rescue would arrive soon.

  The lake was coming alive, boat lights and house lights popping on, but only at this end.

  Someone used a bullhorn to order the yachters away from the area. Royal spoke with two Clarion PD officers. A paramedic headed my way.

  “I am sorry about the bruises,” Royal said as we left the emergency room, where they released us after finding our only injuries were severe bruising on my torso from where I was thrown into the seatbelt.

  “You couldn’t help it.”

  His arm wrapped my shoulders. “The belt jammed, I had to rip it out.”

  Ah, so not from being thrown into the seatbelt. “Better than going down with the truck.” I pushed into his side. “Your truck! Do you think it’s salvageable?”

  “I’ll get another, it was getting old anyway.”

  “Our bags, your laptop - everything’ll be ruined.”

  “They’re not important, Sweetheart.”

  “He tried to kill us.” I did not doubt it for a second. That was no drunk driver swerving into our path, it was deliberate.

  He gave my shoulders a little squeeze. “The question is, who and why?”

  “That’s two questions.”

  A black and white parked near the entrance turned headlights on and drew alongside us. Royal opened the rear door and we slid in.

  My mind went into overdrive as we were driven to Clarion PD. A number of people probably hated us, not only the perps we put behind bars, also their families or partners in crime. I mulled over our recent cases, because a recent connection seemed more probable than someone we put away years ago.

  But it could be anyone.

  The cruiser let us out at the court house’s rear entrance where two officers stood duty at a desk inside the door. I didn’t recognize them, but they gave Royal a cheerful hello. We took the stairwell to the second floor and walked into Homicide. Homicide deals with a wide range of crimes including attempted murder, although the attempt on our lives was unproven. Yet.

  And there we were again, in Mike Warren’s cluttered office facing the man himself across his desk. Mike’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, his collar unbuttoned. His thatch of wheat-colored hair looked ruffled and his face looked redder than usual, as if he’d caught the sun.

  He didn’t bother with the formalities. “Okay.” He eyed Royal. “Tell me what happened.”

  After Royal told him, Mike turned his gaze to me.
“Can you add anything, Tiff?”

  “Wish I could.” Tired, I passed my palm over my forehead. “Do you have anything yet?”

  “They retrieved the body and are hauling the trucks out now. The medical examiner was on the scene, he thinks the driver died on impact, but we’ll know more when we get the body here. No identification, but it could be in the lake. We’ll drag it, but it’s a long shot.”

  Yeah, undercurrents could have shifted any evidence and Mike’s people could not drag the entire lake.

  Mike cut to the chase. “Have you reason to think there is any connection between what happened tonight and your adventures in the United Kingdom?”

  “No,” Royal said. “We know who tried to kill Tiff. One is dead, the other behind bars.” He shifted in the chair. “There was another man, Clarke, but he is dead too.”

  “Yeah, anyone over there who wanted us dead is accounted for.”

  “Unless there was another player,” from Mike.

  “If there were, they have clout to put something into place this quickly. We only just got off the plane.”

  I blinked at the plate glass window behind Mike. Unless there were another player … one who arranged our assassination days ago.

  Royal and I were going to check recent cases, and I knew where I wanted to start.

  Chapter Seventeen

  We stood in the townhouse’s long, narrow hall. Sunlight from a window higher up swam down the stairwell, gilding the oak banister, touching one corner of an ornate gilt frame but leaving the rest of the oil painting in shadow. The light bathed lime-green walls, creating the illusion a subtle change in hue swept down them. A narrow strip of carpet patterned in forest green, cream and claret led from the front door with its mosaic glass window to the far end of the hall. Another large oil painting set in a heavy gilt frame identical to the one at the bottom of the staircase hung between two closed doors on our right.

  Footfalls on the uncarpeted stair above us, and Patty appeared on the landing with one hand on the banister. She smiled down at us. “Mr. Mortensen. Miss Banks. What a pleasure to see you.”