A crow swooped in front of the windshield, screeching and flapping its wings as if reprimanding us. It glided over to a smashed-in school bus and parked on the exposed engine, glaring at us. I sucked in my breath.
Derek let out a low whistle, turning his head for a last look at the yellow-and-black wreckage as we rolled by. “Did you see that? Looked like it was cut in half.”
“It was,” I told him.
“No way.”
I nodded. “Happened in the seventies. A train.”
He didn’t ask any more questions and I didn’t offer any answers.
Some stories were better left untold.
We saw a KEEP OUT! sign on the left, an old Roper stove and a tire-less Chevy pickup on the right, and just beyond that, another creature cackled.
And something thumped the hood.
I wondered briefly if it was the white tiger, but I had a feeling this was more of a flesh-and-blood animal than a spirit guide.
“Why do I have the urge to piss my pants?” Derek asked just as the scratches sounded on the roof. “Seriously, Justice, what is the freaking plan here?” He was white-knuckling the dashboard, trying to see around the visor. “Because I’m starting to get the feeling like I’m about to become the first victim of a serial killer who’s been writing his manifesto for years.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. Besides, why you? He could kill me first.”
“Bitch, please. You know the young, good-looking black dude always gets it first.”
I rolled my eyes. More wrecks appeared as we traveled down the road. We were getting close.
Then an enormous bird landed on the passenger-side windshield wiper, and Derek screamed like a little girl in a spook house.
He scrambled to lock his door and I stopped the car. “What is that—a pterodactyl? Jesus, lord!”
The aluminum motor home was about ten feet away from us looking like a traveling beer can. I couldn’t help but feel a little nervous at the bullet holes in the side, but the plastic begonias out front seemed to give the impression that Mr. Scoog had at least tried to soften up the place.
Derek saw the sign before I did. THE JUNKYARD GRAVEYARD. He looked at me, face deadpan. “I am not getting out of this car. You’re on your own.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I unlatched my seat belt. “You can’t possibly believe those stories.”
He crinkled his brow. “What stories?”
Oops. “Nothing.”
“What stories?” he repeated.
The bird pecked the windshield once and cocked its beak at Derek.
Derek shook his head, eyeing the bird. “Nuh-uh. No. Way. I am not getting out of this car. If you want to deliver yourself to some flesh-eating dragon, have at it. I can only imagine what the dude who lives in the Silver Bullet Mobile looks like.”
The dude who lived in the Silver Bullet Mobile stepped out the narrow doorway. If “beastly” could ever have accurately described him then it was a safe bet he had been locked in a dryer for twenty years.
He was wearing a grammatically incorrect “Bro’s Before Ho’s” T-shirt and jeans that were a challenge for his belt to hold on to. He looked about a hundred and fifty years old, and while there was a can of Old Style in his hand, it was held in place by four fingers and a thumb—not a hook.
I looked at Derek. “Happy? You going to tell me you’re afraid of a guy who’s older than Santa Claus and about as heavy as his sack on December twenty-sixth?”
“You going to tell me why we’re here?”
“I got a lead, okay? It may link to the body they pulled from the lake.”
The man waved enthusiastically from his porch.
“Fine,” Derek said.
He followed me out through the driver’s-side door since the bird was still perched near the passenger’s side.
The ground was dusty. Dry. As if it never rained in this part of town, despite all the vibrantly green foliage.
I pasted a smile on my face and waved to Mr. Scoog. Derek walked ever so slowly, the bird trailing him on foot, making little cawing sounds with each step.
We finally made it to the foot of the porch.
“Hello. Are you Mr. Scoog?” I asked.
Derek tried to shoo the bird away with his foot and I elbowed him.
“I sure am! And who might you be, good-lookin’?” He flashed his gums at me.
I reached in my bag for a card, slapping away a mosquito. “My name is Stacy Justice. I write for the Amethyst Globe.” Mr. Scoog reached across the railing for my business card with his free hand and set the beer down on a rickety metal table.
“Boy, I gotta tell you, little lady, my eyesight just ain’t what it used to be. ’Scuse me a second.”
I waited for Mr. Scoog to step inside to retrieve his glasses. He surprised me by yanking his eye right out of its socket.
Guess the rumor about the glass eye was true.
Derek yelped and the bird glided up to the porch railing.
Mr. Scoog slapped his knee, then pointed at Derek and me. “Gotcha!”
“Oh,” I said stupidly. “You sure did there, you…rascal.”
Derek gave me an eat-shit look and I mouthed sorry to him.
The bird was still studying my coworker.
“Hey there, young fella, no hard feelings.” Mr. Scoog extended his hand to Derek, still chuckling.
“Not at all.” Derek’s voice was strained until Mr. Scoog’s hand slipped off midshake. Then he yelled, “Agh!” clutching the prosthetic appendage.
Mr. Scoog’s face turned bright red, his mouth wide open.
Nothing came out.
“Is he laughing?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.
“How should I know?” Derek slapped a mosquito that could have landed at O’Hare.
The bird cocked his head toward Mr. Scoog. Suddenly a happy bellow exploded from the tiny man.
“Did you see the look on his face, Liberty?” Mr. Scoog asked the bird, nodding. The bird moved her body up and down. To us he said, “We don’t entertain much.”
Derek took a step away from the porch, eyes glued to the bird.
“Well, she won’t hurt you. Don’t worry about Liberty.” Mr. Scoog slipped a sleeve over his nub and Liberty climbed on his arm. “Yep, she only eats rodents and small animals. Squirrels, rabbits, fox, that sort of thing. Helps out a great deal scarin’ pests away.” Mr. Scoog tilted his beer can toward Liberty and she ripped it from his hands, shotgunned the thing like a frat boy, and tossed it over her head.
I wondered if Liberty could eat a Chihuahua.
“Kids, what brings ya by?”
I fished through my bag until I found the old newspaper clipping of my father’s accident. I’d attached an intact photo of the car to the article. “Do you recall this vehicle? It came through here about fourteen years ago.”
Mr. Scoog looked at the photo first, then the news piece. He scanned it, frowned, and said, “Sorry, can’t say as I do.” He handed the article back to me. “Memory ain’t what it used to be either.”
I looked around the property. There were acres and acres of crumpled vehicles as far as I could see. Some were intertwined with tree branches, most rusted out beyond repair; many were now home to stray animals.
All of them told a story. Now, I was interested in only one.
“I don’t suppose we could take a look around?” I said in the sweetest voice I could muster.
Derek looked at me as if I had lost my marbles.
Mr. Scoog wrinkled his nose. “Sorry, girlie, it’s too dangerous to just go traipsin’ through them wrecks without knowin’ where your aim is. Can’t have you kids gettin’ hurt.”
I thanked him for his time and we turned to go.
Damn! I really wanted to get a look at the car. Maybe there was something the police missed? Hell, maybe the files the caller mentioned were in the car.
“But you know…” Mr. Scoog said.
Derek was already opening the car door. He cracked a wi
ndow to release some steam.
I turned. “Yes?”
“This was a local wreck, right? I keep good records, and any local vehicles and whatnot I usually don’t scrap, outta respect an’ all.”
“So could you take me to it?”
Mr. Scoog shook his head. “Not me. That long ago, the car’d be way out on back lot number three and I don’t get ’round so good anymore.” He reached into a vintage 7-Up cooler, grabbed another beer, and swigged. “But Liberty here knows the way.” He lifted his arm and said, “She seems to have taken a liking to your friend there. She’d be glad to help.”
I grinned wide and slowly turned to give Derek, who was already belted in, two thumbs up.
He flipped me the bird.
Chapter 13
“You owe me big time for this one, Justice,” Derek said.
He was seething and I can’t say that I blamed him. Liberty, we discovered, was a golden eagle, one of the largest birds of prey in North America. Apparently Scoog had been into falconry for years and was well known in those circles. A sanctuary had found Liberty a few years before, lethargic and losing weight after the death of her life mate. Her depression was severe enough that they feared she was slowly committing suicide so they called Scoog. He nursed her back to health and now she looked upon him as a sort of father figure, resigned to being single forever.
Until today.
“This thing weighs a ton.” Derek wore a long glove that resembled a leather oven mitt, and Liberty cheerfully rode shotgun on his arm, cooing and occasionally rubbing Derek’s cheek with her feathered head.
It was quite a sight.
Scoog had drawn out a rough map, so we had a general idea of where my father’s car came to rest, but the terrain was too rugged to drive. We had to hoof it.
“I think it’s just past that willow tree,” I said.
I wasn’t sure what the purpose of the bird guide was until we were nearly swallowed by a sinkhole. From what I could gather by the way the eagle squawked and swooped down as we approached it, her main purpose was to divert us away from dangerous areas.
A little over twenty minutes later, we found lot number three and the car. My stomach did a somersault as soon as I laid eyes on my father’s death trap.
I must have looked shaken because Derek asked me, “You okay? You need some water? This heat is obnoxious.”
I ignored him and approached the blue sedan. I didn’t dare touch it—not yet. I needed to center and calm myself first. I could feel my eyes getting wet and a shiver tore through my body.
Memories flooded back and I was so overwhelmed, I had to sit for fear that I would faint.
Dad taking me to the movies. Mom making tacos for dinner. Dad giving me a tour of his office—the very office I worked in today—while Mom supplied homemade beauty products to an organic shop on Main Street. We lived in our own little house on a quiet dead-end street. We had a porch swing, a flower garden, and a one-car garage.
It was perfect.
And then…it wasn’t.
Finally Derek said, “This was your dad’s car, wasn’t it, Stacy?”
I have never been an emotional person. In my line of work, especially reporting on crime in the city of Chicago, you learn to train yourself to keep emotions in check. Rarely did I cry, and when I did, it certainly wasn’t in front of anyone. I kept my back to Derek as I nodded and quickly wiped my eyes dry.
“Okay, I know you didn’t drag me out here just to look at it. What’s going on?”
I told him about the phone call, the body from the lake, and my suspicions. Told him about everything except the watch I had retrieved from the water.
“I just had to come here and check it out for myself, you know? I can read the accident reports and Leo may let me view the photos, but…um…”
Geez, how else could I explain it? I couldn’t say, I’m a witch and the Seeker of Justice, so you know, maybe the answer will magically appear?
Thankfully, I didn’t have to.
“Hey, I get it. And if the accident connects to the guy from the lake, Parker might just give us both a raise.” He lifted his arm as Mr. Scoog taught him and released Liberty. She flew to a nearby tire stack.
Parker. Maybe he would know what the caller meant about the tapes. Heck, I had no idea what Dad was even working on when he died. There was never any reason to look into it, because there was never any doubt that his death was an accident. First thing tomorrow morning, I had to go through my father’s files.
Derek began snapping pictures while I made my way around the smashed car. I didn’t touch it yet; I was still absorbing the shape it was in from a small distance. It looked like it had been through a trash compactor, all jagged glass and crushed metal. No one could have survived a crash like this car had been through. As far as I knew, his was the only car the truck had hit. Which meant the brown splotches must have been his blood.
The realization of that caused me to double over into a fit of dry heaves. I kept repeating in my head what my mother had told me. He didn’t suffer, Stacy. They said his life left in an instant.
Dear Gods, please let that be true.
I took another deep breath to steady my heartbeat. I couldn’t get in the driver’s seat, which was where I thought I might have been able to conjure a vision, because it was gone.
I decided to crawl underneath the frame. Maybe the brake lines had been cut? The fuel line? There were any number of ways to tamper with a vehicle to cause a crash, but coupled with icy conditions and an eighteen-wheeler spinning out of control, who would have checked for foul play?
I thought about the driver of the truck. I never even asked about him in the midst of my self-centered teenage grief. Had he survived? And if so, would he remember anything?
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to me under the car that didn’t match the rest of the wreckage. No wires cut that I could tell, but then again, I wasn’t a mechanic. Cin or Tony might be able to verify that for sure.
I crawled back out and asked Derek to snap some shots of the undercarriage. I pulled my notebook from my bag and jotted down a to-do list.
Review accident report. Research truck driver, trucking company. What was he hauling? Dig up Dad’s old files. Ask Parker about tapes—
Something whizzed by my ear and I heard a loud clink.
“What was that?” Derek asked from under the car. He couldn’t see much thanks to the sunglasses camera.
Another clank, and then another exploded into the rear fender.
I dropped to the ground and crawled under the car with Derek, army style.
“What are you doing?”
“Someone’s shooting at us!” I looked around frantically from the space beneath the car. Saw no feet, no legs. Didn’t know where the shots were coming from. He or she could have been hiding in a tree, up on a hill, or behind the Magic Mystery Machine, which we also passed on our trek out here.
We were in a wide-open field, armed only with a pair of sunglasses and Big Bird.
Chapter 14
After two more dings, Derek said, “Dang, woman! Why are people always trying to kill you?”
“I don’t know. I’m a very likeable person.”
I crawled toward the back tire and peeked out into the landscape.
Lots of open space.
“What’s the plan?” Derek asked.
“I didn’t have a contingency plan for being shot at.”
“You should always have a plan for that. You’re like a psycho magnet. I’d be packing twenty-four seven if I had your track record.”
“I’ll put it on my to-do list, right after don’t get killed.”
The hubcap took a hit as Derek reached for his phone. “Shit, I left my phone in your car.”
“Mine’s in my bag.”
Derek fished my phone out from the bag slung across my back.
“No signal.”
The stack of tires Liberty had perched on was to my left. An antique washing machine sat a few yards
from that.
But where was the shooter?
“Derek, do you see anything on your side? Anything to take cover in?”
If it had been a pro—a sharpshooter—we most likely would have been dead already.
“I got a giant Big Boy head, a Coca-Cola sign, and a refrigerator door. There’s a tractor about fifty feet from that.”
I scooted over to see what he was looking at. The shots all seemed to come toward the front of the car. The far side would be our best chance. The refrigerator door was an old Westinghouse, not so different from what was in Birdie’s kitchen. Those things were built like tanks.
Another bullet hit the dirt near my hand.
“Count of three, run for that fridge door. We’ll use it like a shield. Ready?”
Derek nodded. Then he said, “Wait, is it one, two, three then go? Or one, two, then go?”
“One, two, then go.”
I grabbed the back tire with both hands for a second, hoping for a sign, a vision, anything that would penetrate my mind with the truth. I shut my eyes. Please, Daddy, talk to me!
Not my father, nor his killer, but I did get something.
The white tiger flashed in my mind and unleashed a deafening roar. I saw teeth dripping with saliva, muscles bulging from her throat like a road map, and in that split second, I knew two things.
One (and most urgent), we had to get the hell out of there. Fast.
The other (and most astonishing) was that my mother was somehow sending me her spirit guide.
Chapter 15
Tiger's Eye (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Three) Page 8