“So let’s get our hands on it,” Felicity said. She seemed more gung-ho than usual and I wasn’t sure if that was because she was so eager to work the case or because she was in a “go get ‘em” mood.
“Make a call to the Bangor HQ tomorrow,” I said. “Tell someone there that I need them to send over a Crystal Reader. In the meantime, let’s go through all this stuff and see if we can piece together what Sherry was up to before the church massacre.”
Felicity held up a photo of a slender black woman in a leather jacket approaching a door that bore the words WESTLAKE P.I. in black lettering on frosted glass. I recognized the door. It was the one that now said HARBINGER P.I. and led to my office. “I assume this is Sherry,” Felicity said. “She’s in most of the photos and they look like they’ve been taken from a distance, probably with a zoom lens.”
I sat next to her on the floor and examined the other photos. Nearly all of them showed the same woman. In some, she was standing next to a blue Jeep. In others, she was simply walking along Main Street and I assumed Wesley had taken those pictures through his store window. There was one photo of Sherry standing at the edge of Dearmont Lake, looking out over the water toward Whitefish Island.
Felicity was poring over the handwritten and typed papers. “These are records of when and where Wesley saw Sherry.”
“Try to find any mention of the church or Clara,” I said. “And don’t forget the pizza.”
We each took a slice and began to eat while we went over Wesley’s notes. From what I read, it seemed like he’d decided to follow Sherry around every now and then to see if she would unknowingly lead him to material he could print in the Observer.
He wasn’t successful. Most of the time he followed Sherry, she managed to lose him. I wondered if she had known he was tailing her and had taken evasive action or if Wesley had just been bad at following her.
He did follow her to the lake a couple of times and on December 21st, he saw her hire a boat from the marina and sail out onto the lake. He did the same and followed her from a distance, watching through binoculars as she placed the Apollo Stone in the bushes on Whitefish Island. After she’d returned to the marina, he had gone to the island and found the stone but, not knowing what it was, had left it there after taking photos of it. Those photos were on the floor along with the ones of Sherry and a couple of snaps of the lake that included the island.
Wesley had also discovered that Sherry was visiting Clara but not through any detective skill of his own; someone in the grocery store had casually mentioned seeing Sherry’s Jeep heading to Clara and Wesley had overheard the conversation.
There was no mention of the church in his notes and no photographs of it, so I assumed he’d never made a connection between it and Sherry. Nor had he seemed to realize that Sherry was tailing Mary Cantrell for a while. But then Wesley’s own tailing skills were so bad that he probably hadn’t considered that the subject of his investigation was tailing someone herself.
The notes seemed to end on December 22nd, which must have been when Sherry warned Wesley off by threatening him.
By the time Felicity and I had read all of the material and studied the photos, the pizza was gone and we’d drunk a couple of beers each.
“Another beer?” I asked her as I put down the final piece of paper.
“Yes, please.” She was leaning back against the sofa surrounded by photos and papers.
I went to grab the beers from the fridge and realized how gloomy it was in the house. I opened the kitchen blinds to look outside. It was growing dark.
When I got back to the living room, Felicity had replaced everything except the Apollo Stone inside the cardboard box. She was still sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, so I handed her a beer and joined her.
“Well that wasn’t very illuminating,” she said.
“All I learned is that Wesley would make a terrible detective,” I said.
She laughed softly. “Yes, I got the same impression.”
“Maybe the Apollo Stone will tell us more.”
“I’ll call the Bangor headquarters tomorrow and get them to send us a Crystal Reader,” she said, as if reminding herself.
I took a swig of beer and leaned back heavily against the sofa. I was beat. “How many hours have we spent going over this stuff?”
“Too many,” she said.
“Welcome to the exciting world of preternatural investigation.” I raised my bottle and Felicity clinked hers against it.
We both drank. “You hungry?” I asked her.
“After that pizza? God, no. You aren’t still hungry, are you?”
“No, not really. I just wanted to make sure I was being a good host.”
“You are a good host, Alec. You’re perfect.”
“You think this is good, you should see how I treat my dates.”
“I’d like to,” she said, and then added quickly. “I mean, I imagine you treat them very well.” She looked away, embarrassed.
Well, this wasn’t awkward. How had the conversation gotten onto the subject of dating? Remember, she’s just broken up with her boyfriend, I reminded myself.
“How did you get involved with the Society?” I asked her, bringing the conversation into safer territory. “Usually it’s a family connection but your parents didn’t do any work for the Society, did they?”
“No, not that I know of. They’re Egyptologists but their work is strictly academic, not practical. I think they’d die of shock if they knew that the magic of ancient Egypt was being used today. They’d be shocked if they knew it worked at all.
“I didn’t really find the Society, they found me. I was approached by a team of people who knew I was studying occult languages and wanted some help deciphering an Enochian text. It was a test. They were recruiting for the Society. They introduced me to some more people and I had to take more tests before I was told about the Society and given a job.”
“And your first job was to come work for me.”
She nodded. “And spy on you, as you found out within the first five seconds of meeting me.”
“That wasn’t your fault,” I said. “I’m usually good at reading people.”
She looked at me and arched an eyebrow. It made her look cute and…and I had to stop thinking like that.
“Can you read everyone you meet?” she asked.
“Hell, no. Most of my ex-girlfriends are still a mystery to me.” There I went again, blundering into topics that might be best avoided.
But Felicity seemed intrigued. “Tell me about them.”
“Who?”
“Your ex-girlfriends.”
I shrugged. “What’s to tell? As I said, they were a mystery to me. Of course, most of them thought that being a P.I. was just a way to get money out of gullible people. They didn’t believe in the supernatural world.”
“You didn’t try to convince them otherwise?”
“No, I’d never take away anyone’s ignorance of the supernatural.”
“You make it sound like ignorance is bliss.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Have you ever dated someone who did believe? Another investigator or someone who worked for the Society?” She leaned in a little closer and I could smell the enticing lotus flower perfume again. I found myself wondering where she’d applied it before coming over. Her neck, of course, and maybe lower. My eyes followed the graceful line of her neck and traveled down to where the plunging neckline of her black blouse revealed a lot of cleavage.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I said, leaning my face closer to hers even as I said it.
“Perhaps not,” she whispered. I could feel her breath on my lips.
There was barely a fraction of an inch of space between our mouths and I took the plunge and crossed that gap, kissing Felicity softly. She returned the kiss, closing her eyes and murmuring a satisfied, “Mmm,” sound.
For a moment, I forgot everything—missing investigators, church massacre
s, and lake monsters. Kissing Felicity was the only thing that mattered.
Then she broke away and looked into my eyes, her own wide with surprise. “Oh, my God, that shouldn’t have happened.”
She was right, it shouldn’t. We were both emotionally raw right now: Felicity because of her recent breakup with Jason, and me because of Mallory’s sudden departure.
We shouldn’t have done it but that kiss had been amazing. It had felt so right even though it was wrong.
“I have to go,” she said, getting up off the floor.
“You don’t have to.” I clambered to my feet. “I mean, okay, we agree that we shouldn’t have kissed so let’s forget about it and not let it affect our friendship.”
She cringed when I said the word “kissed” and began toward the door. “I shouldn’t have come over tonight, Alec. I wanted…well, I don’t know what I wanted exactly but I should have stayed at home. I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault,” I said. “I’m the one who kissed you.”
She opened the front door. Outside, the night was cool and dry. “We’ll forget all about it,” she said. “It never happened. Oh, God, I’m terrible at these things. I’m sorry, Alec.” She went outside and crossed the lawn, heading for her own at a record pace, not exactly running but not quite walking either.
“Felicity,” I called after her.
“See you tomorrow,” she said before fumbling her house keys out of her pocket and disappearing inside.
I closed the front door and then kicked it with my heel in frustration. What the hell had I been thinking? I’d even been telling Felicity how I thought that relationships between colleagues weren’t a good idea when I’d moved in for the kiss. And now, I’d ruined a valuable friendship. I was a fucking idiot.
I went back to the living room and sank onto the sofa, lying down on it and facing the ceiling. Maybe I should call Felicity and apologize, but that might make things worse. She had said she was terrible at these sorts of things, and so was I. Calling her now wasn’t a good idea. Maybe tomorrow, everything would go back to normal.
Who was I kidding? Things weren’t going to just go back to how they were before. I’d fucked up again. What was wrong with me? First, I’d had a physical relationship with Mallory that had masqueraded as therapy and now I’d kissed Felicity. What a jerk.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table. I grabbed it and checked the screen. It was Mallory.
“Hey, Mallory,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. She had enough problems of her own to deal with and mine paled in comparison.
“Hi, Alec. I got your message.” She sounded the same as she had when she’d left, upset and depressed. I couldn’t even hold on to the hope that in time she’d feel better. Time was something Mallory didn’t have anymore.
“I was wondering how you are,” I said. “And I wanted to say that if you ever need to come back here, the door is always open for you. You know that.”
“Yes, I do. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
There was an awkward pause, something that rarely occurred between Mallory and me. Then she said, “Alec, something’s happened.”
I sat up, wondering how Mallory could get herself into even more trouble than she was already in. It seemed to follow her through life ever since the Bloody Summer Night Massacre. “What is it?” I asked.
There was an even longer pause and then she said quietly, “Mister Scary.”
“What? Have you found him?”
“I found his trail. Is your TV on?”
“No, I was working...” I found the remote trapped between the sofa cushions and pointed it at the TV.
“The news channel,” Mallory said when the TV blared to life, showing a rerun of Psych. I found the news channel and stared in shock at the screen.
A blond reporter was talking to the camera while, behind her, ambulances and police vehicles sat in front of a large old house, their lights painting the scene blue and red and illuminating the grounds around the house, which seemed to be enclosed by a large wrought iron fence.
Police officers swarmed over the area, flashlight beams cutting the darkness. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered on the iron fence behind the reporter.
On the bottom of the screen, a caption read Massacre in Abandoned House. Scrolling beneath that were the words: Killer attacks high school party. At least twenty dead. One female survivor.
The reporter was saying, “…much like the Bloody Summer Massacre five years ago, although police won’t confirm this. It is believed that the survivor managed to fend off the attacker and possibly kill him but when police arrived at the scene, he was gone.” She paused and put a finger to her earpiece as she was fed information. “I’m now being told that the survivor is believed to be Leah Carlyle, a fellow student of the people killed here tonight.”
A picture that looked like it had been taken from a high school yearbook appeared on the screen. It showed a dark-haired young woman smiling at the camera. The reporter’s voice said, “Leah Carlyle is already being dubbed a Final Girl by the media, just like Mallory Bronson, the only survivor of the Bloody Summer Night Massacre five years ago. Whether tonight’s atrocity was carried out by the same person, a man who referred to himself only as Mister Scary, remains to be seen.”
I hit the mute button and said to Mallory, “What the hell?”
“He’s done it again,” she said. “He’s created another final girl.”
CHAPTER 9
I woke up the following morning with a hangover. The brightness of the morning sun beating through the window made me squint and hold my hand up to shield my eyes. It was half past nine. Felicity would be at the office already but she hadn’t called me to wake me.
I sat up in bed and the movement sent spikes of pain through my skull. How the hell had I ended up with a hangover when I hadn’t had all that much to drink?
Walking groggily into the bathroom, I got Tylenol from the cabinet and washed down two pills with water from the sink tap. I caught a reflection of myself in the mirrored cabinet door. I looked like shit.
I took a hot shower while I waited for the Tylenol to kick in and then dressed slowly, trying not to move my throbbing head too much, in a black T-shirt and blue jeans. It wasn’t until I got downstairs that I remembered I was working with Sheriff Cantrell today. Great. That was all I needed.
When I got downstairs and threw out the pizza box and beer bottles, I realized that I’d had more to drink than I’d thought.
Mallory and I had watched the news for a while and tried to guess what it might mean that Mister Scary had duplicated the Bloody Summer Night Massacre and created a second final girl. We couldn’t come up with any answers that made sense but when Mallory hung up, she sounded a little brighter.
I think talking about it had been good for her and now she had picked up Mister Scary’s trail again. Maybe this new killing would give her a clue that would lead her to him. I’d told her to call or visit anytime and we’d ended the call with our friendship on a firmer footing than it had been when she’d left here the other night.
After the conversation with Mallory, I’d had a couple more beers and watched the news a while longer, then had a couple more beers and thought about the kiss I’d shared with Felicity, then finally watched old episodes of Castle and had a couple more beers until I was too tired to keep my eyes open and I staggered up to bed.
My hangover didn’t seem so implausible any longer.
I went up to the spare bedroom where I kept magical items and picked out the ones I might need today. A couple of faerie stones, an enchanted dagger, and a couple of potions that might help me find out exactly what happened to Deirdre Summers after she discarded her clothes on the shore of Dearmont Lake.
I stuffed everything into a black backpack and went downstairs, grabbing a pair of shades from the table by the front door before going out into the bright morning light. The Caprice roared to life when I turned the key and I winced when my head pounded in response.
&
nbsp; I got to the station at quarter past ten and climbed gingerly out of the Caprice. Before I had a chance to cross the parking lot and go inside, I heard the sheriff’s voice. “Harbinger, you’re late.”
I looked over to where he stood, leaning against his cruiser with a disgusted look on his face as he watched me approach. He was wearing shades too but I guessed it wasn’t because his head was about to explode like mine was.
“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, looking me up and down.
“Nothing,” I said. “Nice day, huh?”
He smiled humorlessly. “You’ve been drinking, Harbinger. Good thing I’m driving. Now get in.” He opened the door and somehow got his considerable bulk through the gap and into the car. It wasn’t that he was obese, although he certainly wasn’t slim, but he had a huge frame that was packed out with muscle and fat like a bear. His uniforms were definitely custom-made and the size on the labels probably said “Grizzly”.
I got into the passenger seat and put the backpack by my feet. There was a slight odor of sweat and corn chips in the car. Cantrell started the engine and the radio began playing country music. I cracked my window a little and he said, “Don’t do that, we have air.” He dialed it up and a cold blast blew into my face from the vent. At least I couldn’t smell the corn chips anymore; now I could just smell dust.
As Cantrell pulled out of the parking lot and joined the traffic heading south out of town, I glanced out of the window at the Caprice, wishing I’d agreed to meet the sheriff at the lake and taken my own car. June and Earl’s honeymoon car was way more preferable than being driven around in a police cruiser by a grizzly bear. That put a mental image in my head and I smiled.
“What are you grinning about?” Cantrell asked gruffly.
I looked over at him. “Are you the thought police now?”
Dark Magic (Harbinger P.I. Book 3) Page 7