by H. P. Bayne
But give him a couple more minutes and it was likely he’d be responsible for a murder nonetheless.
Kenton’s voice was hard as he answered the door. “What?”
Sully couldn’t turn his head to look, but he recognized Bulldog’s voice. “Uh, hey there. I’m looking for my dog.”
There was a smile in Kenton’s voice when it next came, but whatever he found amusing was known only to the man himself. “You’re in luck. I think I’ve got your puppy right here. Come on in and get him.”
Bulldog’s voice was closer when Sully next heard it. “What, that guy? I’m talking about a dog, man. A yapping little cocker spaniel named Jones. You see a dog like that anywhere?”
Bulldog’s voice was solid and unfazed, the tone of a man who’d seen it all, survived to tell the tale and had emerged all the more jaded for it. There was nothing to suggest he was troubled by the fact the man he was addressing had a guy up against the wall with a revolver jammed under his jaw.
“Look, I’ve got a photo in my pocket,” Bulldog said. “Let me get it.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Here’s the thing, man,” Bulldog said. “It was a rough night. I let the dog out for a piss, and the little bastard took off and didn’t come back. My old lady gets home later today, and if she finds out I’m back on the bottle and lost her dog, she’s gonna bust my balls.”
“That’s your problem, not mine.” Were he not so preoccupied by the handgun, Sully would have been amazed by Kenton’s response—an indication he’d bought into Bulldog’s story. “Get the hell out of here.”
But Bulldog didn’t move.
“You got a problem?” Kenton asked him.
“Maybe you should let the kid go.”
“The kid’s not your problem.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sully saw Bulldog shrug, noncommittal as ever. “Just looks to me like he’s been out of diapers all of three years. Bit young to have his face blown off.”
From somewhere in the distance came the sound of sirens, and Sully found himself wondering if Bulldog had failed to reach Dez—or worse, had been on the phone with him when Sully had been dragged inside the house.
Kenton looked from Bulldog to Sully and back again. “Look me in the eye and tell me this punk’s not your boy.”
Bulldog laughed. “Do I look like I’d be hanging with some dumb-ass white boy who looks like he’s probably trying to deal his way through college?”
“Are those cops coming here?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m looking for a damn dog. Maybe the kid’s a narc.”
“Fuck. I knew it. I fucking knew it!”
Bulldog took a step closer, allowing him to keep his voice low and conspiratorial as he addressed Kenton. “I were you, I’d let the kid go and start flushing whatever shit you’ve got here. If the cops are coming ‘cause of him, better for you he’s found intact. And if he’s just a punk, I’m thinking he’s not gonna want mommy and daddy knowing he was here, so he’ll keep the last few minutes to himself. Am I right, junior?”
Sully nodded.
“Fuck,” Kenton muttered. It took him a few more seconds’ thought before he decided Bulldog was making some sense, and he let Sully go with a solid glare. “I ever catch you here again, we won’t be having a conversation, you got me?”
Sully didn’t have a chance to reply, Kenton turning and rushing into the house as Bulldog tugged Sully toward the door.
“Let’s go,” Bulldog said.
Sully didn’t argue, saving his questions for the jog through the yard and down the alley.
“Thanks, man.”
“Forget it,” Bulldog said. “And take a note. Dog story worked.”
“Are those cars coming here?”
“Not that I know of. I think it must have been a fluke.”
“So Dez wasn’t going to call anyone in to check on us?”
“I managed to convince him we weren’t so stupid as to check out Barwell on our own. He wanted to talk to you, but I told him you had a sulk on and weren’t in the talkative mood. I doubt that’s going to hold him for long. If I were you, I’d give him a call.”
The sirens had stopped somewhere in the distance, proving Bulldog right. They had been lucky, that was all.
“Did we get anything out of this?” Bulldog asked.
“Did you see his arms?”
“Nope. As it happened, my eyes were kind of narrowed in on that .357.”
“Barwell doesn’t fit, Bulldog. His arms are covered in tattoos and the candle is in the wrong spot.”
“So all that, and this wasn’t even the right guy?”
“Yeah, looks that way.”
“Ordinarily, I’d be put out, but I have to say I’m thrilled Sparrow’s not in there with him.”
“Me too,” Sully said. “But he said something interesting, something about a ‘little whore’ having ripped him off.”
“Maybe he meant that Abby girl.”
“I don’t think so. The way he said it made it sound like the girl got what she wanted and got out. We were told he hurt Abby. Given what just happened, I’d say if he caught someone stealing, they wouldn’t get the chance ever again. Abby wouldn’t be hurt, she’d be dead.”
“So you think he meant Sparrow?” Bulldog asked. “If she ripped him off, that’s reason right there for him to want to find her and kill her. Rep like he’s got, he can’t afford to let word get around he’s soft on that sort of thing. Maybe he got to her already.”
“Maybe,” Sully said. “But that still leaves us with the guy Breanna’s been showing me, and it’s definitely not Barwell. Question is, if it wasn’t Kenton Barwell who Breanna showed me, then who was it?”
10
Sully had heard the expression about deafening silence before, but it wasn’t until this moment he really understood it.
Dez had picked them up a few minutes ago and had yet to say a word. The atmosphere thickened with all the things that hadn’t yet been spoken and some of the things that probably wouldn’t.
It wasn’t clear to Sully whether Dez was heading anywhere in particular, given he’d avoided the thoroughfare that would have led them over to Gladstone. And while they were still in the Riverview neighbourhood, Dez had taken them past the streets that led to the Black Fox, The Hub and to the place where Bulldog had stayed last night.
Sully pulled out his phone, meaning to check the time, but found his gaze diverted by the notification of missed calls from Dez. Seven in total.
Sully redirected his gaze from the phone’s screen to the side of his brother’s head, finding the jaw just as tension-set as it had been when Dez first picked them up a few blocks from Kenton Barwell’s.
“Dez—”
“Don’t talk to me.”
“Look, I’m—”
“Shut up, Sullivan.”
Sully faced the windshield, knowing better than to attempt further conversation. It wasn’t the “shut up” that had done it; it was the use of his entire first name, one Dez didn’t pronounce in full unless he was making a formal introduction or beyond pissed off. The use of the name Sullivan was just one step below a punch in the face as far as the two of them went.
And there was still a very real possibility that punch was on its way once Dez pulled the SUV over. Maybe Dez had come to the same realization and wanted to avoid it, because he chose that moment to break his silence.
“You can be a real selfish dick, you know that? You think I told you to stay away from Barwell’s because I was excited to drop in on the guy myself? And don’t try to lie to me and tell me you didn’t go there. The two of you weren’t just out for a leisurely stroll in a torrential downpour when you happened to end up a few blocks from his house. So?”
This sounded like a trick question. “So, what?”
“Tell me the truth. You went there, right?”
There was no right answer, except that Sully had never been able or willing to lie to Dez’s f
ace. There were some truths he just simply hadn’t spoken out loud, but always ones Dez hadn’t realized needed exploring. There was a difference between holding one’s tongue and using it to lie, and it was a line Sully had never wanted to cross with his family.
Sully risked a glance back at Bulldog, knowing the movement itself would give them away. Bulldog met him with a frown and a shrug, and Sully returned his attention to Dez.
Dez who was now steaming like the kitchen of an Italian restaurant at dinner hour.
“Yeah, we went there,” Sully said, the words emerging so quietly even he had trouble hearing them.
Dez slammed on the brakes, sending up a spray of water either side. For a moment, he didn’t speak, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel and clenched jaw doing all the talking for him.
It didn’t last long. The Braddocks weren’t naturally violent, but they could yell with the best of them, allowing Dez’s natural booming voice an outlet to exhibit itself to its fullest. And Sully sat through it as he was verbally pummelled, knowing his brother had been right to warn them against going to Kenton Barwell’s and right to worry. Had it not been for Bulldog, Sully fully expected he would be dead rather than sitting here, suffering through the impact of Dez’s explosion.
It had to happen eventually, that Dez would turn his attention to Bulldog. “And you. How the hell could you let him go to Barwell’s?”
“Let me?” Sully cut in. His head spun with all the things he wanted to say, but a sudden fury he barely recognized as his own prevented him from stringing together any one of those thoughts into an actual sentence. All he managed were three words. “Fuck you, Desmond.”
He supposed it was down to shock that Dez didn’t make a grab for him when Sully jumped out of the SUV and started toward Riverview Park, just a block or so back and to the north. He didn’t expect he’d get far, and he was right, Dez cutting him off before he’d even had a chance to make it much past the vehicle.
“Get back in the car,” Dez said.
“No.”
Sully expected a threat that failure to obey would result in Dez’s putting his younger brother bodily in the vehicle, so he was surprised by the response that followed hard on the heels of a deep breath.
“Please, Sully. Get back in the car.”
The plea was there, not just in words but in Dez’s eyes, and it occurred to Sully they had entered unfamiliar territory. They’d fought from time to time, of course, as all brothers did. But never about anything serious, and never in any way that threatened to upset the natural flow they’d established years ago. Dez was older and had a past and a personality that lent themselves to protecting others, especially his younger brother—a fact he’d been plenty prepared to prove over the years. Sully, on the other hand, had been small and shy as a kid—in many ways, still was—and he’d happily nestled in under Dez’s wing. Most of the time, he was still fine with it, was laid back enough and appreciative enough to allow his big brother’s mother-henning to go unchecked.
But they’d hit a roadblock here somewhere, one Sully expected neither of them had seen coming. And beyond that, a fork lay in the road. He knew a lot of siblings who’d separated at that fork, who’d taken different paths and only came together once in a while —usually at weddings, funerals and tension-filled Christmas dinners. For Sully—and for Dez, judging by that imploring expression lingering on his face—that wasn’t a route either of them wanted to take.
Sully returned to the car.
They ended up back at the Black Fox where Sully grabbed the three of them a beer.
Dez was still vibrating with tension, but he had bitten his tongue on the matter, so Sully breached the gap with the apology he knew he owed his brother.
“I’m sorry, Dez. You were right. We shouldn’t have gone to Barwell’s.”
“Did you get anything out of it?” Dez’s voice was tight, but the question in place of an “I told you so” was further proof he was trying hard.
Sully shook his head. “He’s got the candle, but it’s on the wrong arm. And he’s got a pile of others. The arms Breanna showed me were more or less bare of other tattoos.” He took a swig of his beer before daring to utter the next words. “I’ve been thinking. Maybe I need to go back to the house where she died, see if I can get a second vision of it.”
“No,” Dez said. “No way in hell.”
“Dez—”
“There are other ways. We can start checking tattoo parlours, see if anyone’s been doing tattoos like that. The ones you’ve seen, could you tell how old they were?”
“They’ve been there a while, I’d say. It was clear the colour was meant to be black, but it had faded out a bit and the edges weren’t crisp.”
“And were they identical, or just kind of similar?”
“I’d say identical,” Sully said. “The only difference that jumped out at me was the opposite arm thing, and the other tattoos Barwell has.”
“So that’s somewhere to start,” Dez said. He turned to Bulldog. “Any chance you could check out a few tattoo parlours for us, see if anyone’s done anything like that? It could be it’s just something in a book they’ve been doing for a bunch of people.”
“No offence to your theory, but Barwell doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who gets his tattoos out of a book,” Bulldog said. “And I don’t know a lot of tough guys who go running to get candle tats. Not quite butterflies and unicorns, but it’s sure as hell not a skull or a snake either.”
“Even so, hopefully given the candles looked identical, it’s the same artist. If we can find that person, we’ll be a hell of a lot closer to figuring out who they worked on.”
“So what about you two?” Bulldog asked.
“You’re right about the candle thing,” Dez said. “Not likely these two guys just pulled it out of the air. So it has to mean something. Fun part’s going to be figuring out what. Luckily, there’s someone I think we can ask.”
Marc Echoles had the look of an aging hipster.
The man who came to the door of his office in the university’s arts building had long, greyed hair tied back into a ponytail and was dressed head to toe in various shades of black.
Dez had provided a brief explanation to Sully on the way over. Marc—a professor of occult studies, among other courses—had been the complainant in a residential break-in approximately a year ago, had reported waking up to find a guy inside his house. It had been a fairly simple investigation requiring no more than a couple patrol units and a sharp eye to locate the college student dashing down the street with the intricate and expensive ceremonial dagger he’d stolen from Marc’s altar. Other officers had brushed Marc off as slightly crackers; Dez had left the guy’s house seriously spooked.
“I swear, he could see right into my brain,” Dez had told Sully with a shiver. Now that they were standing in front of him, Sully could see what his brother had been talking about.
Marc recognized Dez immediately, reaching out with a hand and shaking a friendly greeting. But he promptly turned eyes on Sully and his mouth dropped open about an inch as he peered at the younger man through a pair of round glasses.
Marc didn’t bother to wait on an introduction. “You’re a seer.”
Dez looked from Marc to Sully, as if trying to see what the other man had noticed. “Uh, Mr. Echoles, this is—”
“Marc, please.” Still focused unnervingly on Sully, his eyes fixed on him in a way that had Sully wanting to look away but unable to.
“Right. This is my brother, Sullivan Gray.”
“Different names,” Marc said. He didn’t wait for the usual explanation before coming up with one of his own. “Different histories. You aren’t blood brothers.”
“Foster,” Sully said. “Dez’s family took me in when I was a kid.”
“But not soon enough.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ve known trauma, but you’ve had the chance to heal. Desmond is a good and a kind man, and while he’s suffered th
rough tragedy, he’s lived a good life with a stable, loving family. As far as you’re concerned, they saved you. Not just from the outside world, but from the man you could have become.”
Sully didn’t have to see Dez’s expression to know just how uncomfortable his brother had to be right now. Sully was feeling plenty of his own discomfort at this inexplicable intrusion into his soul. But where the unease had bred something approaching fear in Dez, Sully found he was fascinated.
“How do you know all that?”
“I’m a seer too,” Marc said. “I’ll explain if you have the time, but I sense the two of you are on something of a mission.” He returned his gaze to Dez, a shift that appeared to take some effort as he broke the connection with Sully. “What is it you need to ask me?”
Dez’s eyes were still a little round, and he’d lost a shade of colour beneath the smattering of freckles, suggesting Sully would be taking pointe in this conversation.
“We’re looking for someone,”Sully said. “A man. I don’t have anything of a description other than that he’s a Caucasian and he’s got a tattoo on his inner right forearm. The tattoo is probably key to this, but we’re struggling to find someone with anything matching the description.”
“I take it there’s an occult connection or you wouldn’t be here,” Marc said.
“It’s a candle,” Sully said. “A black candle. Lit and dripping wax. We’re hoping you might be able to tell us something about the meaning.”
“I see,” Marc said. “And what is it this tattooed man has allegedly done?”
Dez finally found his tongue. “He killed a woman.”
This time, Marc’s eyes were the ones to widen, although he regained his composure quickly. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Yeah,” Dez said. “So could we ask about the symbology?”
“Of course I would be pleased to answer any questions you have,” Marc said. “But I feel I should tell you something first. Or, rather, show you.”
And he pulled up the sleeve of his black turtleneck to reveal on his right, inner forearm a dripping, lit black candle.