“Holy smokes,” she whispered to herself.
According to the translation done on ancient writings found with the relic, it was believed that the die not only could be used for mathematical and game purposes, but it was also used for divination. In a way, it was similar to casting stones to call upon spirits. The Romans believed you could change your fate by playing games with such items.
Sonja was already aware that some of the earliest records of ghosts and spirits were from the Greeks and Romans, but she hadn’t ever considered that she would be dealing with those elements firsthand.
Glancing down at the die again, she wondered if this was a replica of the die in the museum. She supposed it was possible. With how many specialty and collectible dice she saw for sale online, it could easily be a gimmick by a company. Buy an exact copy of the same ancient D20 used by the Romans and add some extra flavor to your game.
Shaking her head, she proceeded to read.
It seemed the museum had catalogued the item away for some time before finally selling it to a collector. The collector was an American and had added it to his personal display on his estate, a sort of mini-museum that he left open for the public to come in and see.
However, about two years after the purchase, the die had disappeared from the display without a trace. The alarms hadn’t been tripped and there was no sign of break-in. A few kooks claimed that the die had supernatural power and had therefore vanished of its own accord. The owner, on the other hand, didn’t believe in all of that. He was adamant that it had been stolen by a master-thief.
Of course, if that was the case, why hadn’t the thief taken anything else?
The stolen item had never been located.
Looking down at the twenty-sided die sitting on the desk in front of her, Sonja felt sick to her stomach. Was this the stolen die? Was this really as old as the Romans?
Most important of all, did this little stone item truly have supernatural powers? Could it summon some sort of spirit or demon into reality?
The screen on the computer suddenly turned dark, leaving a strange static noise for a second before dying into silence. The room was plunged into thick darkness, her eyes blinded from the greenish outline of where the lighted screen had been. “What the heck?” Sonja muttered, reaching out and pushing the power button again. She’d had at least thirty or forty percent of her battery life left, why had it suddenly shut down?
She held her finger on the power and then let it go. Nothing happened. It was dead. “That’s weird,” she said out loud.
Slowly, her eyes began to adjust to the fresh darkness all around her. As the outline of the light faded from her eyes and shapes began to appear around her in the form of furniture, she glanced toward the window again.
Something was odd. The little house was surrounded by bushes and trees, but the window above the desk didn’t have anything directly in front of it. So, why did it look like there was the shadowy outline of something right there?
A flash of lightning filled the exterior of the building like daylight, revealing the hulking, seven-foot-tall woman standing right outside the window.
Sonja let out a scream, instinctively pushing herself back from the desk. The wheel of the desk chair caught on the carpet and she went tumbling backward, hitting the floor with a hard thud. The wind rushed from her body and the ache in her ribs was instantaneous.
The front door rattled in its frame with violent fervor, bursting from its frame, the jam splintering in an explosion of wood fragments. The towering figure stepped in, narrowing her gaze at the woman lying on her back on the floor.
“What do you want?” Sonja blurted.
The ghost’s eyes were a fiery red that matched her hair and she brandished the same mighty sword in one hand. During their previous encounter, it seemed that the spirit had been unable to touch Sonja—swinging its sword only to have it travel uselessly through her body.
This time, however, the specter had smashed right through the door like it was nothing. Did that mean it had gained enough ethereal energy to effect things in the plane of the living? Did it also mean she could attack, and potentially hurt and kill, Sonja this time?
The back of Sonja’s throat dried out with fear, feeling sore from her scream.
“What do you want? Why are you here?” she croaked.
The barbaric woman in ancient garb scowled, like a psychotic game-hunter stalking its prey. Sonja watched with shaky trepidation, wondering just what was going to happen next and what she should do.
She thought of how she should have lined the doors and windows with salt—a sure-fire deterrent to most evil entities. Too late now.
The towering spirit stepped forward, but much to Sonja’s surprise, moved past her without a hint of care. The demonic figure scooped up the die off the table and slipped it into a leather pouch hanging from her belt.
Without acknowledging Sonja still laying there on the floor, the barbarian stepped back out through the broken door into the night.
“Shoot,” Sonja whispered.
CHAPTER 10
* * *
A second later, Sonja’s cat came sauntering out from behind the bed, yawned, stretched, and acted as if it hadn’t heard anything strange going on. Misty was a ghost and could often be seen following Sonja around whenever it felt so inclined. The cat had the ability to change its shape if need be, and had scared off its fair share of people trying to attack Sonja.
It seemed that wasn’t the case when it came to other ghosts.
“And, where were you?” Sonja demanded.
Misty glanced up and then quietly walked over to the bed and laid down as if it hadn’t heard her.
* * *
The morning sunrise filtered in through the window in oranges and yellows. The storm had finally passed, leaving a peaceful morning in its place. Sonja climbed out of bed, feeling sore and achy from the night before, especially where she had fallen.
Despite having the door jamb busted open, the door opened and closed fine. The dead-bolt, which hadn’t been set when the barbarian broke it, still worked to keep the door locked and shut. Sonja wasn’t necessarily worried with getting the door fixed up right away.
She had other things on her mind.
Her first thought upon climbing out of bed was to call Frank and tell him about what happened. See? Do you believe me now? That ghost I told you about broke in and tried to attack me again. She’d thought over the words she would say to him in her head.
A moment later she’d thought better, though. Calling Frank wouldn’t solve anything. It would worry him unnecessarily and ultimately hinder Sonja in her efforts to figure out how the die, the ghost, and the murder were all connected.
Heading into the kitchenette, she started the water boiling for a fresh batch of coffee. She had a big day ahead of her and was going to need the extra energy boost.
* * *
It was around ten when Sonja pulled up into the dirt parking lot in front of the Macamery Pool Hall. Any sign of a crime-scene investigation from the day before was non-existent. If Sonja hadn’t heard it from Frank’s own mouth, she probably wouldn’t have had any idea that a murder had taken place.
The building was old with no windows, sitting near the side of the road headed out of town like a last beacon of civilization before venturing out into the mountain wilderness.
As she expected, the place was closed. It usually didn’t open until four in the afternoon, and even then, business didn’t really pick up until after dark. Instead, she knocked on the door. Moments later, the large paint peeled door opened a crack and a man’s face peeked out.
“Sonja,” Charles Flannery, the owner of the place, exclaimed, his eyes widening in delighted surprise.
“Hey, Charles.”
Charles Flannery was a large man with the body of a stereotypical nightclub bouncer, but his worn face—carved with smile wrinkles—made him look like a sweet old bulldog.
“What the devil are you doing out here
today?” He spoke with a slight accent that made him sound like an old tv cowboy.
“I heard about your little incident from the other night.”
Charles’ smile instantly dissolved. “Oh, you heard about that, huh?”
“It’s never good news when someone gets killed, even worse when it’s in your place of business,” Sonja comforted him.
“Yeah,” he sighed, blowing out air like a horse.
“Believe me, I’ve had some stuff like that at my diner. It isn’t fun.”
Charles opened the door wider. “Why don’t you come in? I could use a break from inventory anyway.”
“Great,” Sonja smiled, stepping in past him while he motioned for her to come into the darkness of the pool hall.
“Want a drink?” he asked, stepping behind the bar.
“It’s a little early, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “If you only have a light beer, it may not matter.”
Sonja thought about the night she’d had and nodded. “Sure, give me a blonde, but a small glass.”
“Coming up.” He slapped the counter and turned around to pick out a drink.
“So, I hope this isn’t bringing up any uncomfortable feelings, but did you find the body?” she asked.
“Unfortunately, I did. You see, I don’t allow any smoking in my building or near the front door, but I also knew that Rickerson was the kind of fellow to just stand right out there and smoke it up in spite of my clearly posted sign.”
“That’s rude.”
“He was here practically every night. Did he really think I wasn’t going to catch him every dang time?” He grabbed a small tumbler glass from the shelf and put it under a tap with a yellow and white handle. The label said, Honey Babe Blonde.
“Sounds like he wasn’t that pleasant to have around.”
“I’ll be honest with you, I didn’t care for the fellow. Believe me, I get my fair share of bums and thieves here in my place.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Sonja agreed.
“After all, what else can you expect when you run a bar like this? I’m basically the only nightlife here in town.” He set the full glass in front of her. The froth looked like something from an old cartoon western where the cowboys would blow the top off their beer.
“Thanks.” She lifted the tumbler and sipped the top. She usually preferred a good stout, but she had to admit that this was darn good too. She didn’t plan on drinking the whole thing, though, since she’d mostly accepted it to be polite and hopefully get Charles to talk more.
“But, no, I didn’t like the guy. He was a major gambler, and bad at it. I rarely saw him win a cent. To make matters worse, he was a sore loser.”
“Seriously?”
“Okay, he was a complete fool. Sometimes, he would hit up other customers for extra cash.”
“Wow, that’s not good for business, I bet.”
“The worst. Heck, he’s driven many a regular away just by being obnoxious. I mean, they all probably come back at some point, but he’s cost me a fair amount of business and money over the years.”
“So, what did you do?”
“Long story short, he was out there smoking again. Not only is the smell and haze a pain, he stood right in front of the door—blocking the way for people going in and out. He always did, and he never listened to me when I told him to move his butt out of the way.”
Sonja could feel herself getting irritated, angry even, just thinking about it.
“So, when he stepped out for a smoke that night, I wanted to make darn sure he wasn’t standing there. I stepped outside and . . .” his voice trailed off.
“You found him?”
He nodded, his lips tightening uncomfortably. “There was his body, all bloody and turning pale. It was disturbing.”
“I know how it is,” Sonja confided, having seen her fair share of dead bodies—and much worse.
“There was this big wound that passed right through his back and out the front, like he was run through with a big ol’ sword or something.”
“So, it was a sword!” she exclaimed.
“Seemed like it,” Charles confirmed.
“Frank refused to tell me about that part.”
“Hey, that’s another thing. That boyfriend of yours was questioning me like I had something to do with that whole mess. I mean, I’m sorry I own the place, but I didn’t touch the guy.”
Sonja reached out and patted his hand. “I’m sure Frank was just going through the usual procedure.”
“All I have to say is that I better not be one of his suspects.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” Sonja lied, knowing full well that the police had to consider all the options in a homicide case like this one. Charles’ distaste for Cooper was one factor on its own. Still, the clue about the sword had Sonja leaning more toward the strange barbarian ghost more than anyone else.
The only hole in that theory was that the ghost looked like Cass’s character. She hadn’t made that character until after the murder had taken place. Maybe Cass somehow knew, instinctively, how the ghost looked.
A worse thought was that perhaps this was a ghost from ancient times—from the Roman Empire—who was attached to the die somehow.
“Anyway, there are plenty of guys who would want him dead more than me,” Charles pointed out.
“Such as?” Sonja pressed, interested in any new information he could share.
“Like that pool hustler, Jack Peters.”
Sonja pursed her lips. “Never heard of him.”
“He doesn’t live here. He just always stops for a game when he’s on his way through to Salt Lake for business trips.”
“Ah, I see. Did Frank talk to him, too?”
“Sure did. Told him not to leave town too soon.”
Sonja chuckled quietly to herself. “What is this, the old west?”
“Feels like it sometimes.”
“So, he doesn’t care for Rickerson?”
Charles leaned in on the counter. “He’s a hustler, takes advantage of people. He always says he only plays for cold, hard, cash, but maybe he made an exception for Rickerson the other night. My thought is that he owed Jack some money, but refused to pay up, or wanted to play to get rid of his debt.”
“Gamble your debt to get rid of it?” Sonja asked, finding the whole idea ridiculous. “Why not just stop before things get worse?”
“Rickerson likes digging himself into a deeper hole. I’m sure he owed a number of other people money too. Sharks, ya’ know?”
“So, is he staying at the hotel here?” Sonja asked.
“Jack Peters?”
“Yeah.”
“Naw, he’s sort of cheap. He’s at that motel outside the city limits.”
“Which one?”
“It’s technically in Jordon, even though it’s off by itself.”
Sonja sipped the beer again while she thought. “I wonder if I could talk to him.”
“I don’t see why not. He’ll probably be back in tonight.”
“I meant driving out to the motel.”
Charles shrugged and stood up straight, no longer leaning on the counter. “You could. Just don’t gamble with him.”
“I’d just need to figure out which cabin he’s in.”
“Number Six.”
“Six?” Sonja asked.
“That’s the one. I overheard him tell Frank the room number.”
Sonja took another sip from the drink, making sure not to pass the halfway point. “Thanks, Charles. You’ve been a fantastic help.”
“Snooping around again, huh?”
“Yep. Someone’s got to solve these murders, right?” she joked.
Charles laughed out loud.
CHAPTER 11
* * *
The May Motel was a dirty little joint tucked away down a dirt road and near an outcropping of boulders. It only had a total of ten cabins all together, each one lined up all in a row. The paint, which had once been white, was now yellow and p
eeling.
Sonja felt a little out of place, and somewhat uncomfortable, being there. Even though it was almost twelve in the afternoon, the place still gave her the creeps.
As a spiritually sensitive woman, she understood that every motel, hotel, and apartment building held some residual energy—and oftentimes ghosts—from the varied tenants who passed through.
She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of person was willing to stay in such a place. After all, for only ten or fifteen dollars more you could likely get something far more comfortable and accommodating.
Parking in the cracked and uneven lot out front, she put her van into park and climbed out. Instinctively, she felt inside her purse for the miniature can of pepper spray she usually kept there. Then she remembered she’d lost it during a previous investigation and hadn’t gotten a replacement from Frank yet.
“Shoot,” she whispered, sliding her purse back onto her shoulder and heading for the door marked with a six. She’d have to do without it this time.
A relatively nice looking European car sat out front, looking completely out of place. While it wasn’t the fanciest car on the market, it still looked shiny against the landscape of peeling paint and dingy windows.
Gripping the purse’s straps nervously, she clenched her fist and knocked gently on the door.
“Come on in,” came the shout from inside.
Pressing on the knob, Sonja stepped into the stuffy cabin. Inside, all of the lights were on—adding an artificial yellow ambiance to the room. Old wooden bars separated the mini-bar from the bed
A man sat in rickety chair in front of a large tube television. The TV was screwed onto the dresser.
“Your money is on the table. Go ahead and just leave the pizza there,” he told her, not turning to look at her.
Sonja realized he’d only told her to come in because he thought she was a pizza delivery man. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat.
“Don’t worry, I left a good tip there for you too.”
“Mr. Peters?” Sonja asked.
Finally, the man turned around. He was completely bald on top with black hair on the sides. A matching furry mustache was like an underline for his glasses. “Hey, who the heck are you?” he asked.
Games, Ghouls, and Waffles (The Diner of the Dead Series Book 19) Page 5