by Nene Adams
A glimpse of flickering darkness among the shadows gathered at the edges of the brightly lit concourse made her decide what to do next. The book needed to be read and Veronica brought up to speed. After that, she’d deal with Erskine and Purvis.
She put the business card in her pocket and left the mall, resolving that as soon as she got home, she’d go online to order a gift card for Newberry’s Machine Gun Range as an apology gift for Veronica. Nothing said “Sorry, I screwed up” like the gift of blowing away targets with a Gatling gun. She smiled, her heart growing lighter as her steps quickened.
Chapter Eighteen
By slow degrees, Mackenzie became aware that the soft, delicious, cotton candy fluff satisfaction covering her body inside and out was part of a dream. She drifted upward, reluctant to open her eyes, but an annoying ache in her neck prodded her awake.
She reached for the alarm clock on her nightstand. Her hand closed over nothing. What? Squinting, she glanced to the side. No nightstand. No bed, for that matter. She lay on the sofa in her office, covered by the Star of Bethlehem quilt normally draped over the back. A potted Swiss cheese plant, a receptionist’s desk and a huge copper espresso machine swam into view. Light leaked around the wooden blinds covering the plate glass window.
“Oh, God,” she groaned. An unwelcome memory bloomed. She’d spent the night at her office rather than return to her apartment.
A glance at the clock hanging on the wall behind the receptionist’s desk confirmed the time as six o’clock in the morning. At home, she’d either close her eyes and drift a while longer or go back to sleep for an hour. However, her aching body had other ideas.
Sliding her bare feet to the floor, Mackenzie sat up. Her vertebrae crackled. Her neck muscles shrieked in protest. She glared at the rolled arm of the sofa which made a piss-poor pillow, pushed off the quilt and stood, uttering many muttered curses. Careful stretching eased some of her stiffness. Idly scratching her belly and hitching up the panties hanging off her nonexistent hips, she padded to her private office to use the bathroom.
After taking care of business, Mackenzie stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. A wild mess of black hair surrounded her face. She appeared pale and haunted. “Buck up,” she told her reflection. “Stop looking like your best friend died.”
Something moved behind her in the mirror.
She whirled around, her throat closing on a startled scream.
Her gaze moved over the blue tiled walls, past the small shower, the white porcelain toilet, the towel rack, the sink…the mirror…aha! A disturbance in the air behind her. She snatched up her toothbrush and held it poised in her hand like a dagger. A moment later, she realized the ridiculousness of her impromptu weapon and set the toothbrush on the counter. Her eyes remained fixed on the mirror as she backed out of the bathroom.
She froze when a hand touched her upper arm.
“Mac, are you okay?” Veronica asked.
Shuddering, Mackenzie turned and threw her arms around Veronica’s neck. Thank God the embrace was returned. She murmured, “What are you doing here?”
“I went by your house this morning and you weren’t there, so I figured you’d be here.” Veronica sounded far too chipper for such an early morning hour. “I have coffee.”
“Bless you,” Mackenzie replied, leaning back a little to see Veronica’s pink, well-scrubbed face. “For my favorite girlfriend, I have a gift card for Newberry’s.”
Veronica’s eyes widened. “Ooh, wow,” she breathed. “The sheriff was bragging yesterday about a Dillon Aero M134 mini-gun he just bought for the shooting range. It’s mounted on an SUV and fires up to six thousand rounds per minute.”
Mackenzie winced. The VIP Deluxe gift card allowed the recipient to fire up to a thousand rounds of ammunition before extra charges kicked in. However, the expense was for a good cause, namely making up for her acting like an ill-tempered asshole.
“While I was at your place, I picked up the box from Mr.—” Veronica went on, pronouncing a name composed mainly of the highest scoring consonants in Scrabble.
“Who?”
“Mr.—you know, Bakery Sam.”
“Oh!” Mackenzie exclaimed in relief. “For a second, I thought you might be speaking in tongues.” Bakery Sam, her landlord and owner of the bakery below her apartment, always left a box of goodies on her doorstep in the morning. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Doughnuts filled with his homemade wild huckleberry jam, but first, you’re going to eat the oatmeal I brought you. You do have to eat something healthy now and then.”
Mackenzie scowled. Oatmeal vs. doughnuts—she knew which one she’d pick, but Veronica’s palm gently stroking her hair away from her face effectively ended her protest before it began. “Oatmeal first,” she sighed.
“And while I appreciate the gift certificate to Newberry’s, it’s not my birthday or Christmas, so tell me what’s going on.” Veronica assumed an attitude of waiting.
Mackenzie felt a slithering sensation on her thighs. Realizing her panties with the fainting elastic were about to slide off entirely, she made a “one minute” gesture and dashed over to a small closet. Inside, she found a pair of jeans, a shirt the color of chestnuts, a bra and a clean pair of underwear. She shimmied out of the old and into the new while speaking to Veronica, who perched on the edge of the desk and watched her change.
“You know the Japanese angle that keeps popping up?” Mackenzie hoped to create sufficient distraction for Veronica to forget about yesterday’s argument. “Well, I went to Straightaway to check out Miles of Aisles and I saw the monk there, the one with the empty eyes…” She continued telling Veronica what she’d learned at the bookstore in the shopping center and about her visit to the Crone’s Abode.
“Okay.” Veronica glanced around. “Where’s the book?”
Mackenzie yanked the shirt over her head and pointed a thumb at her desk. “About three inches from your hip next to the keyboard. There’s more in there about the Furisode Fire, but I haven’t had time to really absorb the details.”
Veronica picked up the book and flipped through the pages. “Mac, I can tell you’re feeling guilty about something, What’s with the trip to Newberry’s?”
“I’m sorry about our fight yesterday,” Mackenzie confessed, feeling somewhat less vulnerable with her panties in their proper place instead of hanging around her knees.
“I’m sorry, too.” Veronica put her finger in the book to mark her place. “These fires have us on edge. But you know, I don’t need a bribe to forgive you, Mac.” The green gaze lifted, as clear as glass right down to the bottom of a beautiful soul. “I’ll always forgive you, no matter what you do.”
Veronica reached out with her free hand and reeled Mackenzie in.
The kiss wasn’t perfect, Mackenzie decided. Their mouths were squashed together at an awkward angle, straining her sore neck to the breaking point. She was horribly aware she hadn’t brushed her teeth and her breath could probably peel wallpaper. However, Veronica held her as if none of that mattered. Kissed her as if they were making love right now, right this second, with their hearts instead of their bodies. When Veronica finally broke the kiss and let her go, she felt drained and full to bursting at the same time.
“I’ll have to pick fights more often.” Mackenzie touched her tender bottom lip.
Veronica patted Mackenzie’s hip. “I’d rather you didn’t. But thank you for the trip to Newberry’s, Mac. It’ll be a lot of fun when we get a chance to go.”
“Next week, I hope, if we aren’t all burnt up by then. The Big Burn is getting pretty close.” The reminder brought Mackenzie back to earth. “Look, there’s a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it. First, we need to figure out this ghost’s story.”
“Which one? The monk or the burning spirit?”
“So far, the monk hasn’t done much except drop hints, so I’m not too worried about him. Let’s focus on the firebug, see if we can find a way to stop her.”
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“All right.” Veronica waved the book. “I’ll check into the Furisode Fire.”
“And I’ll run over to the old folks’ home today and visit Pharaoh DuPeret. He was the sheriff around the time of the Big Burn. Aunt Ida Love said her daddy thought Sheriff DuPeret knew a lot more than he let on back then. Maybe there’s a connection between the burning ghost and the detainment camp out at War Woman Springs.”
Veronica looked startled. “Detainment camp? I thought those were out west.”
“Apparently, this was more of a prison camp for law-breaking POWs and detainees,” Mackenzie explained. She paused, recalling her conversation with Ida Love. “I heard some witnesses saw a Japanese woman in the field where they think the Big Burn started.”
“I’d better get started reading.” But Veronica didn’t open the book. She continued speaking softly, almost apologetically, “If the pattern holds, the next fire will be at the roadhouse. I noticed the dates of the fires then and now aren’t exactly the same, but they aren’t that far apart, either. The roadhouse could be in danger as early as tonight.”
Mackenzie winced. “I guess you want to pay a visit to the Get-R-Done.”
“If you feel up to it. You don’t have to join me. I’ll go alone.”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Mackenzie latched hold of Veronica’s wrist. “Honey, that place ain’t nothing but a pit of consternation and vice that makes Sodom and Gomorrah look like Bible camp. I’d sooner throw you to a pack of horny, starving hyenas than let you go in there by yourself. No, ma’am. I’m going with you and that’s that.”
“Mac, I’ve been out there on calls before. It’s just a bar.”
“Hah! If you really believe that, Ronnie, your grasp on the difference between shit and Shinola is mighty damned shaky for a sheriff’s deputy.”
Chapter Nineteen
On the drive out to Copper Ridge later that morning, Mackenzie wondered what she’d find at the Renaissance Two senior assisted living facility. Specifically, she hoped Pharaoh DuPeret wasn’t suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s. She’d hate to disturb the old man. She dreaded the day when she might have to consider putting Sarah Grace in such a place. Her mother had the occasional lapses of forgetfulness, but nothing serious, thank God.
As her car crested the hill, she caught her first sight of Renaissance Two: a multistory gleaming white Beaux Arts extravaganza reminding her of the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Virginia. Not on the same scale, of course, but a similar air of gentility and perfect grace until she came close enough to see the security gate, a jarring reminder of modern fears.
Over to one side, she noticed a construction company from Laxahatchee City had broken ground on what a sign promised would be the “Renaissance Three Community, Five-Star Luxury Senior Living Offering a Worry-Free Lifestyle.”
Mackenzie stopped the car, rolled down the window and pressed the button on the intercom fastened to the gate pillar. “Hello? Mackenzie Cross for Mr. Pharaoh DuPeret.” She had called earlier and made an appointment with the man, who’d sounded old but lucid.
The intercom crackled. “Your identification, please.”
Reaching the back pocket of her tight jeans took considerable squirming and some whispered cussing—and banging her knee twice on the steering wheel, damn it to hell and gone—but finally, her groping fingers located her wallet. “Here you go.” She held up her driver’s license to the shiny camera lens.
A moment later, the gate slowly opened.
Mackenzie drove through, her vehicle’s tires crunching on gravel as she steered over the winding driveway to the facility. The grounds appeared landscaped, full of tidy flowerbeds and young trees, plus two tennis courts and a swimming pool. She found the visitors’ parking lot and slotted her ’72 Datsun 510 between an expensive silver Tesla Model S and a Lexus convertible. Somebody’s doing okay for themselves.
Inside the facility’s reception area, Mackenzie was greeted by a handsome, middle-aged black woman wearing an orange and blue floral dress and a dark navy jacket with a gold embroidered crest on the front pocket. The nametag read, “Jackie Shotpouch, Asst. Mgr.” Clearly some Cherokee in the woman’s family, she concluded. Probably the father, judging from the lack of a wedding ring.
“Hi, how are you today?” Jackie asked warmly.
“Fine, thanks.” Mackenzie shook the offered hand. “I’m here to see Mr. DuPeret.”
Jackie’s frown drew her plucked eyebrows together. “Mr. DuPeret told us he’s expecting you. May I ask, are you family?”
“No, but he knows my aunt, Ida Love Maynard.” Mackenzie crossed her fingers behind her back.
“I’ll call his suite and see if he’s ready. Just a moment. Please wait here.” Jackie flitted off through a doorway, leaving Mackenzie alone.
No, not alone, she discovered when she turned around. A uniformed security guard stood by the elevator doors. She smiled. The solidly built man gave her the stink-eye in return. Her gaze was drawn to the holstered stun gun on his duty belt. Was that meant for intruders or the tenants if they got too frisky? She might have asked him, but didn’t think twelve hundred volts of electricity would agree with her.
To her relief, Jackie returned quickly. “Mr. DuPeret will see you now,” she announced. “Second floor, suite two-oh-five. He’s waiting.”
Mackenzie thanked the woman. She resisted the temptation to stick out her tongue and mock the guard with, “Nanny, nanny, boo-boo,” as she passed him to the elevator.
The second-floor corridor had a hardwood floor, ivory painted walls and a curved desk at one end. A woman wearing blue scrubs sat behind the desk. Probably a nurse’s station. Mackenzie waved and flashed a friendly smile. The woman didn’t respond. Moving on, she found suite 205 and knocked on the door.
“Come in, damn it,” she heard faintly from the other side.
She entered the suite. Decent art on the walls, good carpet underfoot, not clinical or cold at all. Cozy and comfortable until the stink of iodoform—hospital disinfectant—reminded her of the real purpose of this place: a warehouse for the elderly, keeping them tucked away out of sight so no one younger might be reminded of their mortality. Although perhaps that wasn’t an entirely fair assessment.
Past the entryway, a bedroom and bathroom stood on the right, a small kitchenette on the left. The back of the suite opened into a living room, a large space with a recliner, straight-backed chair, bookshelves and a big screen television. Mounted deer heads hung on the walls, staring into eternity with their beady glass eyes.
Pharaoh DuPeret sat in the recliner in front of a television. He mashed an oversized button on the remote to mute the sound of a football game. “Sit down, girlie, and tell me why you’re here,” he barked. “I don’t know you and I never heard of your aunt.”
“No, sir, her being a law-abiding woman, I didn’t think you had.” Mackenzie took a seat in the chair, using the opportunity to examine him surreptitiously. DuPeret was as gnarled and wrinkled as the two-hundred-year-old oak tree on her mother’s property.
He let out a dry chuckle. “Not here to sell me something, are you? ’Cause my son Rayburn’s the one who holds the purse strings these days.”
“No, sir. I’ve got nothing to sell.”
“Polite little thing, ain’t you?”
“My mama taught me manners, sir.”
His sharp gaze took her in from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, visible in the yellow leather sandals she’d chosen to wear. He grunted softly. “In that case, Ms. Cross, how about you state your business and let’s get on with it. I may not have the busiest social calendar these days, but you’re cutting into my football time.”
Mackenzie nodded. “Yes, sir. I hope you might help me. I’m looking for more information about the Big Burn in 1945. And about the detainment camp over to War Woman Springs, if you don’t mind. I’m told there may be a connection.”
“That damned camp,” DuPeret muttered, grimacing. “Are you a reporter? Or one of them kids
from the college, thinks I have an ‘obligation’ to talk to them about the past?”
“No, sir.”
“Obligation, my ass,” he groused and peered at her, no longer hostile but suspicious. “Why the hell do you want to know about all that ancient history?”
She took a deep breath. “The fires from 1945 are happening again.”
He scoffed, “Pull the other one, girlie.”
“It’s true.” She listed the arsons in Antioch. The more she spoke, the grimmer his expression became. She finished with, “I thought you might remember something since you were the sheriff back then. Maybe a suspect you couldn’t arrest for lack of evidence.”
“Well, well, well…why am I not surprised.” DuPeret bared his false teeth in an awful grin. He shifted in his chair. “I told them sons of bitches it weren’t no good.”
“Who?”
“Oh, them federal boys from Washington. Know-it-alls with their Yankee airs, tryin’ to teach me my business in my own county, if you please. And sure enough, when the man and woman died and everything went to shit, who’d they come a-cryin’ to? Me.” He clamped his jaws closed for a few moments, his gaze focused inward. “Sons of bitches,” he repeated.
Mackenzie leaned forward. “What woman?”
Several moments passed before DuPeret snorted and shook his head. “Does it matter? Why drag up the past? Won’t do nobody no good, girlie. So much fuss over one woman and one man, and them just goddamn Nips to boot.”
His casual racism took her aback. She reminded herself of the man’s age. Pharaoh DuPeret had meted out law and order in Mitford County in a time before civil rights. “I’d still like to know, if you care to tell me.”
After more persuasion, he began to speak about events that had happened at the detainment camp. The story he told was halting, rambling, even disjointed in places, but Mackenzie paid attention to every detail, no matter how unimportant it seemed.
This was her chance to get the whole truth and she didn’t want to miss a thing.