Blind Shadows

by James A. Moore

  “Momma had a cousin named Frank, I think. He was Merle’s big brother. He was a big guy, I think.” She smiled brightly. “Come inside for minute!” Before he could respond she’d bolted back into the interior of the house. He had a brief moment of doubt—small towns have wagging tongues and he could just imagine what someone like Nadine Crabapple hearing about him sliding into a house with a little number like Jolene would start saying.

  Screw it. He was there to handle business. He started ducking the gossip hounds he might as well turn in his walking papers. Still, the last few days had gone badly enough that he rested his hand on the butt of his service piece before he entered the house.

  The inside was nice. Not extravagant, but nice. The furniture was relatively new, the hardwood floors were cleaned and well-waxed. Jolene flounced over to a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks and knick-knacks. She bent over and hunted on one of the lower shelves until she pulled out a photo album that looked older than she was.

  Then the girl walked back toward him, flipping pages and frowning in concentration. He looked down at the pages, which were upside down as he faced her, and saw that the pictures were all older, black and white mostly.

  Finally she smiled and pointed to a picture. To make sure he saw it properly she turned her back to him and practically nestled herself against his front side. He took a half step back to adjust. She pushed against him a second time and he let her, otherwise she was going to chase him clean out of the house. With a firm reminder to himself that he was damn near old enough to be her daddy, he looked at the picture she proffered.

  There were several members of the Blackbournes in the picture. He recognized Merle immediately. The man was older and heavier these days, but in the picture the family patriarch was still the weird kid Carl went to school with, thinner, with longish hair and a perpetual scowl on his face. Next to him stood a girl who looked enough like Jolene to be her twin. He didn’t have to work at it to figure out that was her mother at a younger age. And behind the both of them, looming over them, was the man sitting in his jail cell right now.

  He didn’t look to have changed at all. The same hair, the same face, with the same thick lips and mottled skin. Her finger tapped his face. “That’s Cousin Frank. I never met him though.”

  “Did he move away?” he had a powerful suspicion if the man had moved it was to a federal penitentiary. Maybe it was unkind, but not many of the Blackbournes ever seemed to move for any other reason.

  Jolene shook her head, which managed to make her entire body shake in very interesting ways. Carl stepped back again, and damned if she didn’t immediately nestle herself against him a second time. He could have called her on it, but she’d have probably gotten less communicative. Also, he didn’t feel like letting her know she was flustering him, not even a little.

  “Nope. Cousin Frank died before I was born.” Jolene looked up at him, her eyes completely serious. Not even a hint of her usual mischief was there to let him know she was deliberately being troublesome. “I think he got himself hit by a car. I heard he was a bit slow.”

  A high, fine note rang in Carl’s ears. It would have been a sweet sound, but he was too busy trying to absorb the fact that a dead man was sitting in his cell. A dead man he’d been talking with.

  There had to be a mistake, of course. He’d get to the bottom of it. Jolene was having a laugh at his expense, Halloween was right around the corner and the kid was having a laugh. That was all it was.

  He just had to convince himself, because there was definitely something off about Frank.

  Jolene turned to face him and let the picture album fall from her hand as if it mattered not in the least. Her fingers ran across his chest and she looked up at him, her body pressed far too close to his for comfort.

  That was the exact moment her mother chose to walk through the door.

  “Jolene, what have I told you about accosting gentleman callers?” Carl looked toward the woman, and watched the subtle smile that played across her perfect lips. The warning bells that told him Jolene was trouble should have been screaming their alarms at him, bellowing out that the woman he was looking at was danger, pure and simple, but they refused to go off.

  Jolene’s hand slapped at his chest just hard enough to sting and she stepped away, looking at her mother with a bright smile. “Oh please! You know I’d never date a policeman.” The girl moved away from him, heading toward the back of the house without so much as bothering to look back in his direction.

  Siobhan Blackbourne smiled in his direction. It was a questioning smile that said she wanted to know exactly what he was doing in her house, but it also had an edge that wondered if she should be worried about her daughter. Carl caught himself blushing and looked away from the woman.

  “You’re Siobhan Blackbourne?”

  “I was the last time I checked, and that was just this morning.” She moved into the room with that same nearly liquid grace and slipped the overcoat from her shoulders, sliding it onto the coat rack near the front door. “And unless I’m wrong in my guesses, you’re Sheriff Price.” Her tone made clear that she knew she wasn’t wrong.

  “I actually came by to see you.” The words sounded awkward coming from his mouth. His tongue felt thick and awkward and his pulse was racing a bit. Damned if it didn’t feel like he was back in the freshman grade and getting ready to ask Tammie Woods to the spring fling.

  “Well, here I am. What can I do for you Sheriff?” She moved past him, her eyes barely taking him in. He, in turn, drank in every detail he could. She was once again dressed in a simple long skirt and blouse. Somehow she made the casual outfit look elegant. Jolene was a lovely girl. Siobhan was a stunning woman. Up close the differences between them were monumental, though he had trouble believing the woman in front of him was old enough to have had a child, let along a child grown to adulthood.

  He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and the sharp pain helped him focus. Maybe it was a perfume or pheromones or something else, but whatever the hell the woman was doing to him went beyond simple attraction.

  “Ms. Blackbourne, I saw you the other day at your cousin’s house. You spoke to him as you were getting ready to leave.”

  “I have been known to speak to my cousin, yes.” She had that amused expression still, and he hated her a little for it. Most people never looked past the badge. It was a shield in more ways than one. She seemed utterly unimpressed by the badge, what it stood for, or the man wearing it.

  “My point being, he said you told him about a murder on the road.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Can you tell me how you heard about that murder?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, her eyes locked with his. “Earle Harper up on the ridge mentioned the police activity. His boy, Will, was one of the men who found the body.” She looked down for a brief moment and then back at him, her eyes suddenly sorrowful and empathetic. “I understand from Merle that you knew the man who was murdered. I’m sorry for your loss. Merle said you were quite close.”

  That should have made sense. It would have made sense, but he knew for a fact that the men who’d found the bodies hadn’t called anyone but the 911 dispatch office. It wasn’t hard to look at cell phone activity and he’d had that checked already. He did that anytime someone called in a crime, especially if that someone might or might not have reason for being at the scene. Technically he needed a warrant. Technically the man who could look up that information for him wasn’t a poker buddy. You work as sheriff you learn a few tricks to expedite matters. If the information ever needed to be documented, he’d go through the effort of getting a warrant and doing it the right way. Until then it was strictly under the radar. This time he might need a warrant.

  “Thank you for that.” He nodded his head and kept his face as impassive as he could manage. “Do you have a cousin named Frank?”

  Her eyes stayed on his. He resisted the very strong urge to shuffle from one foot to the other. Though she wasn’t quite c
lose enough to touch him, he could damn near feel the heat radiating from her. “I did. He died a long while back now. Must be twenty years or more.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might want to lie to me and tell me they were Frank Blackbourne?”

  She smiled again and let out a throaty chuckle. “Sheriff, I think you’ve met a good number of my cousins. I imagine you have your opinions about how they make their livings. What makes you think there’s a one of them you haven’t met that wouldn’t gladly lie about his name to you?”

  “This particular gentleman looks a lot like your actual cousin Frank. Do you know of any members of the family who are as large as he was?”

  “There’s more than one member of the family who said Frank got all the size and Merle got all the brains. Perhaps you should ask Merle. He’s a lot closer to most of the family than I am.”

  “Jolene pointed out Frank in the album.”

  “As I said, you should ask Merle.” She looked down at the album on the ground and knelt to pick it up. A moment later she was placing it back on the shelf where it belonged. Unlike her daughter, she took care of the matter with grace and with a proper sense of decorum.

  After that she turned back to face him again. “Was there anything else I could do for you, sheriff?”

  He could think of far too many things.

  He shook his head.

  “No, that’s about it for now.” He moved for the door, making himself break the eye contact. Stupid. The effect she was having on him was asinine. Her daughter, who nearly exuded sex appeal in a primal way, had made him fidget a bit when she was trying hard. This woman remained indifferent and left him nearly stuttering his answers to her. “Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

  “I’m always glad to accommodate, sheriff.” He left before he could make a worse fool of himself.

  He walked to his car as slowly as he could, making himself take his time. For some reason he felt a passionate need to run from the area. And though he did not look back, he could almost feel the eyes on him through the walls of the house he’d just left behind. He wondered if it was Siobhan or Jolene doing the staring. Much as he hated it, he had his preference as to who it might be.

  * * *

  Charon locked the door after Griffin stepped out of the store. She watched him walk through the twilight to his truck. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, with ice blue eyes and...and she had to stop thinking like that or she was going to need a cold shower. She couldn’t explain why she was so taken with the man. There was just something about him. She hoped it wasn’t just the bad boy thing so many women fell for. Griffin was dangerous. Not in the strutting, glowering way of some macho boneheads she knew. Charon knew enough about Griffin’s work to know that he truly was a scary man. But he was also funny and kind and here she was going all gooey like a schoolgirl.

  Not that her infatuation was getting her anywhere. She had worn this damn shirt with her boobs practically hanging out and her tightest black jeans. Didn’t seem to have fazed him. Then again she was pretty sure she had caught him checking her out. Hope springs eternal and all that. If Griffin would just get over his age difference hang-up, Charon had a feeling the two of them could be good together.

  She stepped into the back room again and prepared for a fresh assault on the glyphs. Before taking her chair again she lit a couple of candles. She didn’t need the light but she liked it. It was nice and witchy. Charon chuckled to herself. How many times had the kids back in school made fun of her during her Goth phase? Wouldn’t they be surprised to see her now, having made a success of her business? And it really was surprisingly successful. Like she had told Griffin, people came to her for all kinds of advice, charms, and knowledge. Plus she had transformed her love of books into an ability to track down and acquire rare volumes. She was becoming well known for her knowledge, and for her skill in tracing rare occult texts and that had proved quite lucrative.

  Charon picked up one of the printouts and stared at the glyphs again. The knowledge that they had been carved into a dead man’s torso seem to give them new weight and meaning. If only she could do more with the letters. She had quite a good working knowledge of ancient languages, gleaned through her studies of old grimoires, but she wasn’t a linguist. Might be time to call in a few favors from some of her Internet buddies. She would have to be careful who she showed the glyphs to though. Perhaps she could separate the letters from the pictographs, so that no one would see the entire thing. Then again that might make it harder for anyone to actually help her.

  One of the candles guttered suddenly and Charon felt a draft on the back of her neck. What the hell? The storefront didn’t have any windows that could be opened. Where the hell could a draft be coming from? Charon got up from the desk and turned toward the connecting door. The beaded curtain was moving just a bit, as if someone had been holding it slightly open but had just released it. Gooseflesh crawled on Charon’s arms and the nape of her neck.

  She walked slowly to the curtains and looked into the front room. No one was there. But the front door was open. She had locked it. She knew she had locked it and she had thrown the deadbolt. There was no way the door could be open and yet it was. Charon moved around the counter, her gaze searching the dark corners of the room. The store was too narrow to offer many hiding spaces. In fact the only place anyone could stand where she couldn’t see him or her from her present position was behind a tall bookcase that acted as a divider for the center of the store. Heart pounding, Charon stepped toward the front door. She wanted to move to where she could see behind the shelf and also to where she could run out the front door if she saw anyone. She made a final quick step around the shelf.

  No one there. Charon let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. A slight breeze came through the door and some stray leaves fluttered across the hardwood floor with a dry rattle. Charon looked down and her heart rate, which had just begun to settle, went back into overdrive. Dark had fallen but in the dim light from the street lamps she could see that there were symbols painted on the floor. They were the same symbols as the ones on Griffin’s printouts and in the same pattern.

  Charon hurried over to the front door and relocked it. Then she turned on the lights. The symbols had been painted in some dark viscous fluid. Oh no, Charon thought. Oh god, no. She crouched to get a better look at the glyphs. Unless she was mistaken, the symbols on the floor of her shop had been painted with blood.

  * * *

  “Can’t see where the locks have been tampered with,” Griffin said. “You’re sure you locked them?”

  Charon said, “I’m OCD about doors, Griffin. It was locked and dead bolted.”

  Griffin rose from his examination of the door. He had been about halfway home when Charon’s frantic phone call had come. He didn’t blame the girl for being freaked out. He couldn’t be sure that the substance the glyphs were painted in was blood but it certainly looked like it. Which left Griffin with a bit of a quandary. Should he call the Gatesville cops? Doing so would blow Carl’s investigation open and ultimately what good could the Gatesville PD do? They could take samples of the substance and get them analyzed, but Carl could get that done as well.

  Griffin said, “Here’s what I think we should do. We’ll pretend you went home before this was done. I’ll give my buddy, Sheriff Carl Price a call and he can get one of his people up here early tomorrow, before opening time. After they’re done you can call the local cops and tell them you discovered this when you opened up.”

  “If that’s what you think is best,” Charon said. “I’m a little out of my depth here.”

  “Aren’t we all? Thing is, Carl had a break-in like this at his home. Whoever it was came right in as if his locked doors weren’t even there, and Carl has some serious locks.”

  Charon said, “And you think whoever killed your friend is behind both break-ins?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And now he knows where to find me. Jesus, Griffin.”r />
  “I know, and I’m sorry. It never occurred to me I could be putting you in any sort of danger.”

  “I’m not blaming you. I’m just scared, okay?”

  Griffin nodded. “You’d be crazy if you weren’t. In any case, I think it would be better if you stayed at my place tonight.”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “You can take my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “Not exactly the arrangement I was hoping for, but it’s a start. Let me grab a few things and we’ll get out of here.”

  Griffin looked at the symbols on the floor again. How long would it have taken someone to paint them there? He had barely been gone from the store fifteen minutes before Charon had called. So someone had picked a good lock, somehow circumvented a deadbolt, and then carefully painted arcane symbols in what looked like blood in an amazingly short time. And through it all, Charon had heard nothing? As he had said to Carl earlier in the day, what the hell had they walked into?

  * * *

  Andy Hunter stared at the replacement table as if it might, possibly, be a snake. Then he turned his eyes to Carl and gave a sharp nod. “It’ll do.” He knew that was as close as he was going to get to full approval.

  “I really am sorry, Andy.” The man made him feel like he was ten. What the hell was it with people making him feel like he was a kid or an adolescent lately? Okay, the reaction he had to Siobhan Blackbourne was much different. But still, the same basic notion.

  “I don’t suppose it’s completely your fault. You find an old piece of metal in the ground and bring it to me and ask me to figure out what it means and in the process you manage to piss of a grizzly bear. These things happen all the time, right?”