Drop Dead (Tess Skye Book 1)

by D. N. Erikson

  “Seems aggressive.”

  “He’s got a punchable face.” Carter seems like he might be the only person on Earth capable of disrupting Javy’s calm. “Anyway, he told you to put something on the line. Make it a bet.” Javy shakes his head. “And you, you don’t back down, tell him to name it. He pointed at an all-leather suit that had been confiscated from some gentlemen’s club or something and tells you he wants to see you in that if he’s not in jail before you make detective. Every day he’s free, you gotta wear it.”

  “Sounds like that’s against dress code.”

  “Reynolds allowed it.” Javy shrugs. “Since you made detective, that’s what you’ve worn. And here we are, all the way down the line. Figured you’d stop wearing it after you got fired. But a bet’s a bet, I guess.”

  I look at the tattered suit. “Glad it’s not a fashion choice.”

  “Oh, I think you secretly like it.”

  “Whatever,” I say. “I’ll be taking this shit off by the end of the day.”

  “Like the optimism.” Javy grins and clears his throat. “If you have the serum in you already, then that’s half of what we need.”

  “Only half?” I let out a groan. “Come on, man. That should be enough to put Dom in jail.”

  “There’s nothing illegal about the Vitalysm itself,” Javy said. “That’s not why you stole it.”

  I stare at my bandaged shoulder and torn-up leather. Then through gritted teeth, I say, “So all this was for nothing?”

  “Not quite. It’s about how it was created.”

  “Explain.”

  Javy sighs. “I probably need to start from the beginning.”

  The town is approaching, and what passes for the Ragnarok skyline comes into view. I doubt the tallest building tops ten stories.

  Javy glances out the window as a truck whizzes by, like he’s unsure where the beginning actually is. Finally, he starts with, “It all begins a year ago, when Dom Rillo came to town.” His cool demeanor dissipates, and real concern glints through his steel-blue eyes. “That’s when things took a turn for the worse.”

  “Worse how?”

  “Reynolds, Carter, they were always crooked. Smaller stuff in comparison. On the take, missing evidence. But with Dom here, things escalated quickly.”

  “Define escalated,” I say.

  “He’ll kill everyone in Ragnarok if he doesn’t get what he wants.”

  Well, that’s heavier than expected, even given the circumstances. I finally reply, “Dom Rillo is going to kill everyone in town how?”

  “The river.”

  “The river?” I think hard. Ragnarok is in a valley—so named because it was carved out by a great flood long ago. In fact, it used to flood frequently, wiping out the town until a series of levies and a dam were built about a hundred years ago to prevent the Rok River from overflowing into the valley. “He’s going to flood the town?”

  “Yeah. He’s got bombs planted at the dam.”

  “I mean, if he has bombs planted, just go find them, right? That doesn’t take a year to figure out.”

  “It’s not that simple, Tess.”

  “Sounds simple to me.”

  “We tried it already. Right after the Groves. He blackmailed you, gave you two choices: work for him or watch everyone die.” Javy shakes his head at the recollection. “So you and me, we went out to the dam.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not just that he can destroy the dam. If the wards guarding the bombs are triggered, then they release neveria extract into the water within half an hour.”

  One of the most poisonous compounds in the world. It takes magic to extract from an ultra-rare shrub that only grows in arctic climates. Traditional attempts at refining or harvesting the root will kill the user.

  It’s serious stuff, suffice to say.

  “Then we find the extract.”

  “Could be anywhere.” He shakes his head. “Only Rillo knows the location. He called it off minutes before the powder was gonna be dumped, but you had to agree to work for him before he stopped the timer.”

  “Why not just evacuate the town?” I look up at the sprawling green landscape, now that we’re down in Ragnarok proper. It’s hard to imagine the whole place flooding.

  “Getting twenty-thousand people out on these roads before the town floods…” Javy looks out the window and grimaces. “Logistical nightmare. Basically impossible.”

  “What about these wards?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like them,” Javy says with a long sigh. “We’ve been working to crack them for the past year.” Then he taps the bubble mailer next to him—the little package he retrieved from the garage. “Hopefully this will help.”

  Javy doesn’t seem all that hopeful, though, judging from his tired expression.

  “So putting him in jail won’t help,” I say. “He’ll just kill everyone. What’s the point of stealing the Vitalysm, then?”

  “You discovered that he signs the final pre-production version of all his supplements and products. A little magical ledger, so to speak.”

  “A ledger?”

  “Keeps a record of all the people that he killed or stole from along the way.”

  “Why?” The hubris is staggering, even for someone like Dom Rillo.

  “It’s a literal tabulation of where the bodies are buried. So he knows where to dig and what to cover up if he has a problem.” Javy shakes his head. “And there’s a little narcissism involved, sure. Having evidence of his crimes written down somewhere only he can find.”

  “So tell me the point of stealing it.”

  “Once we solve the dam problem, then we can nail his ass.” We pull up to a stoplight. “And maybe there’s something in that ledger that will help with that, too.” Javy is about to say more, then looks across the street. A cruiser is sitting there. Its red and blues come on. “Shit.”

  “Guess Reynolds isn’t going to play nice and let you go,” I say. I don’t add shocker, even though I want to with every fiber of my being.

  The cruiser slinks toward us slowly, like a panther stalking its prey.

  Javy checks his sidearm. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “I got your back.”

  “If you get caught again, Dom, Reynolds, Carter—they’re not letting you out of their sight again. Ever.” Javy reaches over and opens the convertible door. “Head to the Big Zipper. You remember where that is?”

  I nod and step out of the convertible. I lean over the side after I slam the door. “And what about you?” I glance over at the cruiser. It’s fifteen yards away. Two cops are inside. One’s already on the radio, calling things in.

  Javy ignores the question and reaches beside his seat. “Take this and give it to the owner. She’ll know if they’re legit or not.” He tosses me the mailer he retrieved from Rillo’s garage.

  “And what about you?” I repeat. “What are you going to do?”

  “The same thing I’ve always done.” Javy revs the engine. “Survive.”

  I back away, uncertain what that means.

  Then, in a squeal of tires, the convertible shoots forward and slams into the cruiser.

  And I just start to run.

  Fifteen

  The Big Zipper isn’t too far—maybe half a mile. I feel guilty for leaving Javy behind after he saved me, but somewhere deep in my bones, I know he wasn’t gonna take no for an answer. Call it partner-to-partner intuition—or just being able to read the damn room.

  He was buying me time, and there was no way I could talk him out of it.

  The best way to help him now is to go to the Big Zipper and give the owner this bubble mailer. And maybe even get a few answers of my own.

  I catch a few odd glances as I race up the sidewalk. Running around bleeding and covered in torn up clothes will do that. The Big Zipper’s door chimes when I enter, and an older lady steps out from behind the counter to greet me. She’s unperturbed by my raggedy appearance.

  “Hello,” she sa
ys.

  “Hi.” I clutch the bubble mailer to my chest instinctively and scan the store. It’s a thrift shop, teeming with racks of worn t-shirts and jeans from seasonal styles long past.

  “Long night, was it?” She assesses my appearance over massive horn-rimmed glasses. “Been there back in the day.”

  “Feels like I died,” I say. “Are you the owner?”

  Her brow furrows slightly, but she maintains her friendly-ish expression. “Indeed I am.”

  I don’t know what Javy gave me in this mailer, but I want to feel the situation out before forking it over to this woman. Given the events of the past few hours and my failing memory, trust in new people is in short supply.

  So I say, “Got anything my size?”

  Leather catsuits make for a rather conspicuous calling card. Especially when they’re torn to shreds. Bets or no, pragmatism has to win out. And Carter doesn’t strike me as a man of his word, either.

  “You’d look great in anything, dear.”

  “Thanks. I’m trying my best.”

  “Aren’t we all?” The old lady nimbly weaves through the racks, rifling through the various clothing items. She returns in under a minute with a tank top and jeans. “This looks like something a hunter could wear.”

  “Hunter?” I take the clothes from her. “What makes you say that?”

  “No one walks around covered in blood if they’re not hunting for something, dear.”

  It’s deeper than she might realize. Since I’m hunting both my true self—and Dom Rillo.

  “Right.” I drape the clothes over my arm. “How much?”

  “Let me see.” The old woman retreats behind the counter. “I should have the price list here.”

  It strikes me as odd that she doesn’t have the prices on the items themselves. But I’m half-focused on how I might pay for the clothes without any cash—which is admittedly absurd given the circumstances, but it’s also nice to have a normal thought.

  That might be why it doesn’t worry me as she’s reaching beneath the register.

  Then the tenor of the room changes. A shotgun racking tends to have that effect. I raise my hands slow. I’m staring down the barrel of a 12-gauge. Even all the way from the cash register, it’ll turn me into a sieve.

  “Who the hell are you?” the old woman’s eyes narrow beneath the massive horn-rimmed frames.

  “Easy there,” I say.

  “You want me to go easy, you better start explaining who you are and why you’re stumbling into my store half-dead.”

  “Tess Skye.”

  Her finger drifts closer to the trigger. “What’s my name?”

  I bite my lip and briefly consider asking her if I can use my shattered phone to look it up. “Truth is, I don’t remember.”

  “That’s not good enough. I know a shortcut to the graveyard.”

  Sounds like a threat if I ever heard one.

  I try a different tact. “Javy Diaz sent me here.”

  “And why would Detective Diaz do that?”

  “Told me to bring you this.” I tap the bubble mailer with my finger.

  The old lady weighs this explanation, bouncing her head back and forth like a pendulum. Then she abruptly says, “Nah.”

  “What do you mean, nah?”

  “Bullshit. Malarkey. Lies. Clear enough, dear?”

  Yeah, that makes things pretty clear. “Look, it’s been a long day.”

  “Well, all I have is time.” She comes out from behind the counter and edges her way to the shop’s front door. Locks it, then comes and meets me in the middle of the racks, between the camo pants and hand-me-down flannels.

  The shotgun is trained directly at my heart.

  “You know your way around a gun,” I say.

  “Then you’re not a complete idiot,” she replies. “But I’m still not convinced you’re Tess.”

  That suggests this woman has at least met me.

  I can work with that.

  I hope.

  “Who else would I be?”

  “Could be a spell. Some sort of special shifting I’ve never seen before.” She shrugs. “Hell, maybe he even turned you to his side. I’d put nothing past that son of a bitch.”

  “Dom Rillo?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Now you’re starting to understand.”

  “I mean, this is all I have. Me.” I look down at my body as if to say isn’t this proof enough?

  Apparently not. Trust is a rare commodity.

  And right now, memory-less and covered in blood, sweat, and dirt, I’m not crossing that bar.

  “The graveyard awaits, dear.” She wags the shotgun at me. “Convince me that you’re really her. And that you’re not working for him.”

  “Look, why not just take the envelope—”

  “I don’t know if that’s a Trojan Horse.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re paranoid?”

  “You don’t live to my age knowing what I know without being paranoid, dear.” She takes one hand off the gun and outstretches it. “All right, hand it over.”

  She says it like she’s making a massive concession.

  I do as I’m told. She tucks the mailer beneath her arm, but doesn’t open it.

  “What else do you have for me?”

  A thought crystallizes. “I can call Javy.”

  “I’ll call him.”

  I watch as she reaches into her pocket—slowly, so she doesn’t drop the shotgun—and pulls out a phone. She thumbs through the screen, dials Javy’s number, and puts it on speaker.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Then…voicemail. My stomach turns for two reasons: one, that means he might be banged up—or worse—from his collision with the cruiser. Two, he can’t help me out of this jam by explaining why I’m here.

  Had I known things would go like this, I would’ve asked for more details on the owner.

  “Looks like Javy’s busy.” She’s not gloating—she’s just telling me that she still doesn’t trust me.

  “I can tell you what I know.”

  “Stories are not facts,” she says.

  “How about I tell you my story and then you can see if it aligns with your facts?”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  I sigh. It’s just that kind of day. “Can I at least wash up while I tell you?” If I’m going to die, one last splash of water on my sweat-streaked face doesn’t sound so bad before I go.

  “There’s a shower in the back if you’re not shy.”

  I shrug. “Don’t know if I am or not.”

  “Through there.” She points with the 12-gauge where some floor curtains section off the room. “And don’t try anything. I’m a pretty good hunter, myself.”

  I start navigating through the hand-me-downs and faded clothes with her a few paces behind. “I don’t doubt it for a second.”

  She’s the first person all day who’s seen through me from the jump. This woman might be more paranoid than a golden retriever in a thunderstorm, but the saying only the paranoid survive is a cliché for a reason.

  I sweep the curtains aside to find a small cot, hotplate, and mini fridge. Everything is plain, but neat and well-kept. In the far corner is a door that leads into a cramped bathroom.

  “Keep it open,” the old woman says. “And no sudden movements.”

  I enter the tight bathroom and peel off the sticky leather, paying no heed to her presence. Everything aches, but it feels good to shed the torn clothes, like I’m leaving some part of this wretched day behind. I wince as I pull the leather sleeve away from my bandaged shoulder.

  The dressing is soggy and covered in dirt. I gingerly remove it and blood trickles down my arm from the bullet hole.

  “How’d that happen?” She comes in and puts a towel down, shotgun still ready.

  “Dom Rillo’s vampires,” I say. “I stole his latest serum.”

  “That arm is going to get infected if you’re not
careful.”

  “Been nothing but careful today.” Then I step into the shower and turn it on. Silence settles beneath the pitter-patter of the water as steam rises from the hot spray.

  I glance out the corner of my eye to see if my watchdog is still keeping guard.

  Sure enough, the shotgun is still trained directly at me.

  I rub a bar of soap on my arms and the water immediately turns crimson. It’s just the cheap mega brand stuff you can buy at any pharmacy, but it feels positively luxurious against my skin.

  “So about this serum.” She pushes her horn-rimmed glasses up with the shotgun’s stock. “Let’s start there.”

  “One thing, first.” The water streams through my hair. “Two, actually.”

  A gray eyebrow arches, like she’s amused by the audacity of me having conditions. “On with them, then.”

  “What’s your name?” Maybe it’ll stir a memory that will make my story sound more like the truth to her.

  This prompts a bemused grin. “Miranda. And the second?”

  “Can you please open that package from Javy? I’m dying to know what’s inside.”

  She looks at the bubble mailer down on top of the mini fridge. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll open it myself if you’re so worried it’s some sort of bomb or magical trick.”

  We share a glance as she weighs my offer.

  Finally, she says, “Don’t try anything.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’m serious, dear.”

  “So am I.”

  “A shotgun blast will ruin that pretty face of yours.”

  I spit shower water out of my mouth and say, “I get it.”

  Satisfied that the gravity of the threat has been fully imparted, Miranda puts the shotgun down and extracts a long blade from her belt. This old woman is a walking armory, it would seem.

  With a deft, well-practiced motion, she slices the top off the mailer and dumps the contents into her palm. Through the fog, I can’t quite see what they are.

  There’s a long pause where all I hear is the ping of the water against the shower tile. Then she grabs something beneath the bed—so focused that she forgets to threaten me for the fourth time before taking her eyes off the shower—and takes out a battered cookie tin. The container rattles as she opens the lid and takes out what looks like a little eyeglass.