“Now dig.”
Courtney shook her head, but faced the grave and waved her hand in the air in a quick windshield-wiper motion. It was a necessary skill—some Takes were buried alive—and the ground in front of her shifted like it was being raked to the side. “You know, if this works, I could get in trouble for helping you. They’ll send me back to the Tube and force me to forget shit, too.”
Grif considered the fights he’d overheard between Courtney and Sarge, booming from the Pure’s office like they were being blared on a blow horn. She thought she needed more time in incubation. He always countered that that was the easy way out, that a Centurion had to work for the most important life lessons, not simply be handed them. So Grif frowned at Courtney as she continued flicking her wrist, flinging dirt. “Haven’t you been trying to return to the Tube since you reached the Everlast?”
“Yeah.” She nodded, eyes wide. “This might actually do it!”
And with that, she leaned forward, took a deep breath, and blew away the last of the dirt. When the enormous burst of dust had settled, Grif looked down and found a still-gleaming mahogany casket.
“And this is where I bow out,” she said, leaning against the trunk of a nearby oak. “All yours, Shaw.”
Grimacing, but resolute, he leaped down onto the casket. There was no room to sidestep or straddle, and he struggled for a moment to figure out how to open the thing.
“Got it down to a science, don’t they? You can practically knock on the casket next door,” Courtney called, from above. “If they only knew, huh? They probably wouldn’t bother.”
No, thought Grif, tugging at the casket. They’d bother. People did crazy things for those they loved. As evidenced by Grif’s actions now. A quick tug and simultaneous hop, and he managed to get one foot wedged in the opening. A little more maneuvering and he finally wrestled the lid open.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. Like overcooked barbecue and soured sauce. Not decomposing exactly, but sickly sweet. In return—and defense—Grif blew the breath he’d been holding directly back at the corpse, visualizing the electric coil given to him by Anne going with it. She’d been right about one thing, at least. It was time to stop fighting his angelic nature . . . especially when the power rushed through him like a river. The power—even just two feathers’ worth—of a Pure.
There was a flash, then a whiff of smoke, and the corpse jumped. Then, for an even briefer moment, the face of the Pure flashed over the bones of the dead. Grif waited as the smoke dissipated, and silence suitable to a graveyard once again blanketed the ground.
Then, a twitch.
And Paul Raggio’s body rose from the grave.
“Jesus Christ, who the fuck put me in this get-up?”
“Yo mama,” Courtney called down.
Paul looked up, neck cracking unnaturally with the movement, before falling immediately to one side as he squinted. His eyes pulsed in their sockets twice, and then he grimaced. “Aw, man. Not you again. I thought I saw the last of your stuck-up, grungy ass when they stuck me in the Tube.”
Grif looked up at Courtney, sucking in a deep breath while his head was tilted that way. “You didn’t tell me you knew him.”
Courtney made a face. “Contact shame.”
Grif could only nod. Death tended to accentuate a person’s more distinct character traits, and since Raggio had been a total ass prior to death, all that getting whacked had done was remove his conversational filter.
“Shaw!” Raggio’s head swung sickly to the other side. “You got wings!”
“I know.” Grif dug around in his jacket pocket for a stick, trying to not be unnerved that all the dead people could still see them, while he could not. The cigarette smoke would also help with the smell.
“Holy shit. You’re a Centurion?” Paul propped his wrists on his hips, though with no life force, no mortal coil to hold them up, they immediately slid back to his sides. “Well, I’m not impressed. We’ve already covered what happens if I don’t get over my traumatic death before my time in the Tube is up. Believe me, I’ve got no problem putting my past behind me. I mean, beam me up, Scotty. Paradise is totally where I belong. I’m not going to let regret and sentimentality keep me from my rightful place.”
“No,” Grif said, blowing out a long stream of smoke. “Those particular emotions would be the least of your issues.”
“That’s an insult, right?” Paul laughed, spewing a fly, which surprised them all. Grif cringed, and Courtney groaned, while Paul wiped the side of his mouth before his arm fell again. “Well, I don’t fucking care. You and Kit can get your rocks off at my expense, but I . . . What’s that fucking smell?”
Courtney sat, legs hanging into the side of the grave. “Is it kinda like a jack-o’-lantern left on the stoop ’til December?”
“Yes.”
“Or a diaper that hasn’t been changed in a week?”
“Yes.”
“That’s you, dude.”
Head reeling all the way around on his neck, Paul’s panicked yelp trailed off into a gurgle. “What the hell? Get me out of here!”
Courtney rolled her eyes. “It’s your body.”
Paul scrambled, looking like he was literally trying to pull his head from his shoulders, but his arms kept slipping away. The energy Grif had given him was only enough to coil around his spine. He was upright, his body worked . . . but it didn’t work very well. “Get me. Out. Of. Here.”
“No.”
The dead eyes pulsed again with true terror as he looked at Grif. “Please, Shaw! I take it back. You and Kit are great, a perfect couple. Happily ever after, all that. Please!”
Grif lifted a shoulder. “Maybe.”
Paul stilled, head dropping to the right, eyes wide. “You want something. What do you want? Raven’s number? She’s hot, right? I only bagged her, like, half a dozen times, but those were all the freebies she had in her anyway. She dropped the B-bomb on me,” he said, and mouthed the word “boyfriend,” and then his jaw cracked. “Ouch. Why am I telling you this?”
“Because your mouth and your thoughts are like your body. Falling out all over the place. There’s no mortal coil to hold it in. So you’re going to tell me what I want to know about Chambers and his little cabal so that I can find Kit before it’s too late.”
“Kit?” His alarm quickly turned skeptical. “Chambers would never want her. She’s too old, too opinionated. Besides, he was furious with her for upsetting his wife at the gala. I told him I’d happily escort you two out, but he said he’d take care of it himself.” Paul frowned, and his brow stuck in that position. “Shit. Why did I say that?”
“Tell me what happened to you.”
“Now you’re talking! Solve a real mystery!” Paul lifted a fist in the air . . . and it dropped like a deflated balloon. “Um . . . I don’t know.”
“I know you don’t know,” Grif said impatiently. “What happened right before you don’t know?”
Paul’s furrowed brows unstuck. “Well, there was the gala . . . and Caleb was pissed at me for getting you and Kit in. How was I supposed to know you two were going to bring up murder in front of the missus? And then, after we came to an agreement on some things, Raven said she wanted to take me for a little ride. We ended up at some horse stables and . . . Shit, you think that bitch rolled me?”
“Guess she was done with you, too, Romeo,” Courtney called down.
Grif flicked ash on dust. “You never thought she might be one of Chambers’s girls?”
“Ravie? No way, man. She was good, but she wasn’t like, professional-good.”
“Couldn’t fake the O, huh?” Courtney shot from above. Grif and Paul both gave her a withering look.
“And you’d know the difference?” Grif prompted Paul. “Between a rookie and a pro?”
“Hell yeah! I was banging betties at thirteen. Why am I saying that?”
“Because you’re an asshole,” Grif reminded him. “What’s less obvious is why Chambers would
want to kill you for it.”
Paul grimaced, the rest of his face scrunching up as tightly as his brow had. Someone was going to have to smooth that down for him to get it back to normal. It wasn’t going to be Grif.
“Caleb Chambers didn’t kill me. No way, man. I was playing him tight! Everyone knows about the parties. But me? I got into his inner sanctum. Usually you need a whole lot of money to do that, but I bought my way in with knowledge. Figured it all out myself. He’s powerful, but he’s not God. As we all know.”
Grif ignored the arm Paul held out for a fist bump. It fell after another second anyway. “So how’d you play him?”
“I took the list Kit gave me the night Nicole was killed. I combined it with what I already knew of his predilections—the parties, the young girls. I went out on a limb and shot off an e-mail that said I knew what he was doing, where the girls were coming from and where they were going. That got his attention. It also got me the invitation to his Valentine’s gala. I think he wanted to see if I knew as much as I said I did.”
“And was he satisfied you did?”
“Satisfied?” Paul laughed, threw his head back, and gurgled. After he’d righted it, he said, “You mean scared. I scared the shit out of the Caleb Chambers, and that’s what got me an invite to the real auction.”
Grif stilled. “Real auction?”
“The new girl. Didn’t you see her?”
Grif flicked his cigarette away. “There were more than a few women there, Paul.”
Paul shook his head. “Everyone wants this one, man, and they’re willing to pay top dime for her. I figured, why them? Just because they’re rich? Just because they got connections? No, if she was going to be taken by someone, it might as well be me. It might as well be free . . . in exchange for keeping his little secret.”
Grif wasn’t getting anywhere with this. “Authorities have been covering up the Chambers parties for years, Paul. It’s not that great of a secret.”
“The parties, right. But not the auctions. Not the virgins.”
Grif’s blood iced over.
“You still have those down here?” Courtney asked.
“It’s not funny, Courtney,” Grif whispered.
“Hey, you all right, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Paul laughed at his own joke, unbalancing his head again.
Bridget’s words from earlier that evening came back like a gut punch. He’s a bishop in the twenty-ninth ward. He’s the head of his own congregation.
“You’re not talking about the women in the back room, are you? You’re talking about . . .” His mind raced, searching out the name. “Charlotte.”
One of my girls, Chambers had said.
“The galas are a way of showing off the new merch to interested buyers,” Paul said. “That’s when the bids come in. The auction, though, isn’t until the following week.”
Chambers wasn’t controlling powerful men using high-class professionals. He was luring them in using sex, yes, but used his position in the Mormon Church—an institution rife with a host of virginal girls—to do it. He was using the church as his cathouse.
He was turning babies into hookers.
“I feel sick,” Grif said, and began to climb out.
Courtney edged aside for him, calling down to Paul, “Told you you’re rank, dude.”
“Hey! Hey! What about me? You can’t just leave me . . .” He motioned down at his own body. “Here.”
Grif whirled, pointing at the man who’d been rotten even before death. “You know, it’s sad that you left a good woman to go running with hookers. It’s beyond pitiful that you then got turned by one of your playthings. But to sleep with a kid because you figure it’s going to happen anyway is so far past tragic . . .”
“Even the Germans don’t have a word for it,” Courtney finished for him.
“When is this auction?” Grif asked, glancing at his watch. Today was Saturday, a full week after the gala. Charlotte could already be gone. No, Grif thought. Taken.
But Paul said nothing.
Slowly, Grif lifted his gaze and pinned it on Paul. “I will keep you sentient inside that body long after your skull is hollowed out by parasites and your eye sockets squirm with maggots.”
Paul’s larynx dropped, and didn’t rise again. “It’s always midnight, a week after the showing,” he croaked.
The showing. A memory of Charlotte’s open, trusting face as she gazed up at Chambers flashed, striking Grif so squarely that he almost missed what Paul said next.
“. . . in the casino Chambers was building. His pet project—he’s gonna splay his name across that big tower. Or he was until the financing fell through. That’s why . . .”
“That’s why he runs women and blackmails men. It’s how he plans to raise enough capital to finish it. Bribing, selling, killing.” Grif swore. “You said midnight?”
Paul nodded as best he could, but the Pure energy was fading. He wouldn’t be of any use much longer. That’s okay. It was just after ten now. Grif still had time.
“But the pre-show starts an hour earlier.”
“Pre-show?”
Paul’s careless shrug had his shoulders drooping low. “Yeah, you know. Like a warm-up act. Girls who might be a little used up but have volunteered for kink—tie ’em up, tie ’em down. It lets the Richie Riches play out their S&M or rape fantasies, the girls get extra coin, and no one gets hurt.”
Unless they were being tied down against their will.
You should teach her a woman’s place . . . or someone else surely will.
“Where, Paul?” Something in Grif’s tone snagged Paul’s wandering attention.
“Wait a minute . . . you think Kit . . . ?” Paul tried to access more of his maggot-laced brain, but quickly gave up. “No way. Why would anybody want her . . .”
“Where, you rotting meat suit?” Grif’s breath was full in his chest now, heart throbbing so hard it felt like it’d rip right through the flesh. “Tell me now or I’ll slit you back open, pop that bag of organs sitting in your stomach, and let the coyotes feed while you watch.”
“Jay-sus, Grif,” Courtney whistled, but Grif’s sight was red. Red as the blood that had once spilled from his body. Red as his wife’s nails had been when he’d allowed her to die. He wasn’t going to allow it to happen again. He certainly wasn’t going to allow this dead guy to damn Kit to death.
“At the old white elephant sitting in the middle of the Strip, man. The lot where the Marquis used to be.”
Grif didn’t hesitate, just growled at Courtney as he whirled away. “Re-bury him. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
“Wait!” Courtney called after him. “You’ll need me to navigate. You don’t know where you’re going!”
But Grif just broke into a run. He knew exactly where Chambers’s pet project stood. After all, he’d died there once before.
Chapter Twenty-Six
How long had it been since she had been taken?
Kit turned her head from side to side, like that might help her see. Only hours. Not days. Not yet. But it was full dark now. She couldn’t see the sky, not inside what sounded like an empty warehouse, or from behind the folds of the sleek, thick blindfold, but she could sense the night lying atop the city like an opaque veil. Yet unlike her midnight drives along Vegas’s bowl-like rim, there was nothing comforting in this darkness. This was both an abyss and a dead end. It felt as if she didn’t get out of here soon, she’d be trapped in blackness forever.
Be positive, she told herself, lifting her chin and swallowing hard. It helped that they hadn’t hurt her. After she’d stopped shaking, after she’d muted the panic that threatened to crawl up her belly and through her throat in an inhuman scream, she’d heard Schmidt tell his partner that there wasn’t to be one mark on her. So maybe Chambers just wanted to scare her out of pursuing this story. To force her to back way off, and warn her of what would happen if she didn’t.
Yet when they were left alone, Schmidt’s anonymous partner h
ad run rough hands along her limbs, too intimate and too long, claiming with a smile in his voice that he was just making sure she was in good health. She knew then that this was the same man who’d accompanied Schmidt to her home and attacked her the first time, and she shivered with the memory, though she knew that it could have been worse.
It might be worse yet.
As if she’d voiced these worries aloud, the door to her prison opened, and he was suddenly there. She knew his boot steps already, the same way a trapped mouse might know the slithering sound of a snake’s belly. She sensed his movement like she sensed the night. The man approached, footsteps deliberate and heavy, and stopped too close, his hot breath and cool attention squarely on her. Kit felt that, too. But if she could just get him talking, it might buy her time. And if there was a person alive that Kit couldn’t get to talk to her . . . well, she hadn’t met him yet.
However, just in case this one had more on his mind than talking . . . “I have to pee.”
“I don’t care.”
Despite the ice in his voice, Kit rose from the chair she’d been ordered to sit in and said, “Seriously, I really have to go. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it.”
“Fine.”
An immediate shove, like he’d been planning to do it anyway, and she crashed into a wall, hunching there until she was sure that was all he was going to do. Silence met her attempts to right herself and she fought the urge to scream. Instead, she patted at the wall, looking for a door, yet rammed into a table, and elicited a curse from behind.
“No bruises, you idiot.” Another shove and her blindfold was lifted. She blinked, though the light was dim, and peered up into a hard, stubbled, and familiar face. “Hitchens.”
No wonder she hadn’t been able to get the police to help. No wonder even Dennis had seemed deaf and mute to her pleas for prompt assistance and investigation. Was he in on it? Had he been party to Nic’s death? “Where’s Dennis?”
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