Demon Walk (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Book 6)

by Melissa Bowersock

  She clicked back to the file on Humberto and brought up that older, cruder diagram. She sized the windows on her computer so she could look at both diagrams side by side.

  The rupture was the same. Both diagrams showed the aorta had been ripped completely in half.

  Jesus Christ, she thought.

  Her body turned cold.

  ~~~

  She wasn’t sure how long she stared at the screen, mindless, her eyes glazed over and unseeing. Her phone chimed at her, but she just shoved it aside. That broke the spell, though. She stood up and paced the room.

  This was… insane. No one could do this. Could they? How could a ghost, a spirit, reach into a living human’s body and rip their aorta apart?

  She pushed the idea aside angrily and went to the kitchen. Chugged OJ right from the bottle.

  No. It was impossible.

  She put the juice back in the fridge and shoved the door closed.

  She had to stop this, get away. Put her brain on hold for a while. She strode into her bedroom and changed quickly into sweats, then grabbed her keys and left the apartment. The exercise room was just down at the end of the building. She hadn’t worked out in a while. A hard, focused workout would do her good.

  She warmed up gradually on the treadmill, then did sit-ups, pull-ups, push-ups. On a Friday morning the place was deserted, so she had no qualms about throwing herself into the exercises with fierce intensity, grunting loudly as she pushed herself beyond her usual limits. Sweat streamed down the sides of her face as she did lat pulls and crunches on the weight machine. She kept at it until her muscles began to scream in protest, bunching and cramping in her calves and thighs. Only when a cramp lanced up her into her hip and paralyzed her entire leg did she drop to a mat on the floor and suck in deep drafts of air through her mouth.

  Her heart hammered in her chest.

  She thought again of those severed aortas.

  Jesus Christ.

  Back in her apartment, she peeled off the wet sweats and took a long shower. The stinging pulses of water massaged her aching muscles and felt heavenly.

  Heavenly?

  She twisted off the water, dried and dressed. Still combing her wet hair, she went to the kitchen and scanned the cupboard for lunch ideas.

  Soup. What was it about cool, crisp fall air that made soup sound good? She pulled out a can of chicken noodle. Like her mother used to fix when she was sick as a child.

  Yeah, she was sick, all right. Sick at heart.

  She forced herself to make a proper lunch setting at the table, not just eat standing up. She brought her bowl, set it on a placemat with spoon and napkin, flanked by a glass of iced tea. Anything to focus on, anything to keep her mind from gravitating back to the morning’s revelations.

  But once she sat down to eat, her mind took over.

  There was something here, though, something beyond the grisly images in her brain. She remembered hearing a long time ago about something called psychic surgery. When she was still with the LAPD, there’d been something about this weird practice being performed by Philippine immigrants—people with no formal medical training at all treating their poor countrymen.

  She pulled her laptop close and started a search.

  Yup; there it was. Psychic surgery. People who professed to be able to remove evil spirits, noxious tumors, even diseased organs without ever breaking the skin. There were even YouTube videos of some of the processes. Lacey noticed that the camera angles were usually very bad, often blocked by the “surgeon’s” activities, so very little contact was visible. The practitioners performed some sort of quick massage of the skin with their bare fingers, then miraculously produced blobs of dark, ugly tissue that they claimed was causing the illness. There was never an incision, never any blood. The patients were awake and aware, and of course reported feeling better instantly.

  So was this what Reyes was doing, albeit in a much less helpful way? Lacey noticed that some psychic surgeons professed to be guided by God, others by more obscure entities or powers, but all seemed to accord their ability to supernatural forces. White magic.

  But white magic could be turned to black.

  Lacey finished her soup and checked the time. Twelve-thirty. She wondered if she might be able to catch Sam on his lunch break. Working construction, he didn’t necessarily stop to eat at the same time every day. She took a chance and called him.

  “Hey,” he said upon answering.

  “Hey,” she replied. “Are you on lunch? Got some info for us.”

  “I am,” he said. “What did you find?”

  She swallowed. “It’s not good.”

  First she told him about the juxtaposition of Pilar’s house to her grandfather’s.

  “The old house absolutely sat over that place where you found the stairs. It’s very possible that after the first house burned down, the stairs got filled in with dirt and rubble. Maybe Pilar’s father wasn’t even aware of them when he built the second house.”

  “Possible,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Although I did get a sense that the second house was built as an attempt to… block the energy. Keep it contained. Like putting a lid on an oil well.”

  Lacey snorted. “Well, that didn’t work, did it?”

  “So what else?” Sam pressed.

  “It gets worse,” she said. “I received the detailed death records of both Pilar’s father and husband. Both died the same way. Something reached inside their chests and ripped their aortas in half.”

  Sam let out a low whistle. “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly,” Lacey said.

  “But, reached inside…” he started.

  “There were no wounds on the outside of the bodies. No incisions. Oh, Manuel’s records mention some bruising on the chest, but that’s all. No entry wounds.” She paused. “Have you ever heard of psychic surgery?”

  “Yes, I have,” he said. “You think it’s something like that?”

  “That’s the only thing I know of that sounds comparable. You know how it is; some people swear absolutely it’s true, but there’s no empirical proof. It’s never been studied by modern medicine.”

  “Right,” Sam said. “It’s considered folk medicine or outright chicanery.”

  “And I don’t care what people call this,” Lacey said, “I think it’s real. There’s no other explanation for it. People’s aortas don’t just rip apart.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “No. I would think not.”

  She let him absorb that for a bit, then addressed her real worry. “Sam, I—I don’t want you to go digging there tomorrow. I mean, Pilar said Reyes hates men. What if he—”

  “Lacey.” He stopped her, his voice firm but gentle. “We’ve been over this ground before. We can’t let the bad guys win. We can’t walk away. You know that.”

  “So get someone else to go dig it up,” she pleaded.

  “Oh, just send someone else in to get their aortas ripped in half? Come on, Lacey. Be smart. We can’t send someone else in to get killed.”

  Panic rose up in her chest. “But I don’t want you to get killed.” She could feel tears behind her eyes, hear them in her voice.

  “Lacey.” He breathed her name, half comforting, half admonition. “I have no intention of getting killed. I know what we’re up against. I’ll take every precaution. If I feel I’m in any danger—”

  “What precautions?” she demanded. “How can you guard against this? Wear a bullet-proof vest? A suit of armor?”

  She heard him blow out a long breath. “All right. Listen to me, Lacey. If you don’t want to go tomorrow, that’s okay. Ed and I can do this. He can talk to Pilar. If you want to sit this one out, I totally understand.”

  Sit it out? Sam could very literally be walking into his death, and he said she could sit it out? Not be there? Not watch? As if she could sit at home alone, waiting for a phone call?

  “Are you crazy? I can’t—”

  “Lacey.” He sighed. “I love you. You’re my partner. I’m not
going to do anything to mess us up. I mean it.” His voice dropped to a low tone. “Trust me on this?”

  “Uh—” She knew arguing was useless. She could never talk him out of this. She struggled to get her panic under control, to contain the feeling of dread that filled her. To feel instead the love and the confidence that was in his voice. She did trust him, to the ends of the earth and back.

  But she didn’t trust Reyes.

  “All right,” she barely whispered. “But you said every precaution. I’ll hold you to that. I want every defense you can think of, I don’t care if it’s witchcraft or voodoo or whatever the hell. We’ll sacrifice a chicken if we have to. We’ll—”

  He chuckled into the phone. “That won’t be necessary. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll pick you up a little early. We’ll go get some extra safeguards before we meet Ed at Pilar’s.”

  “Safeguards?”

  “Yeah. You’ll see.”

  Lacey still felt edgy, but Sam’s quiet confidence was soothing. So was hearing him say he loved her.

  “Okay,” she agreed in a small voice.

  “Great. Hey, I need to get back to work. I’ll see you first thing in the morning, okay?”

  “Yeah.” She paused and licked her lips. “Sam?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Lacey. Don’t worry. We’re going to be fine.”

  She could only pray that was true.

  ~~~

  THIRTEEN

  Lacey was ready when Sam pulled up outside her apartment in his battered blue truck. Instead of his soft moccasins, he wore his work boots; otherwise his uniform was the same as always: jeans and a t-shirt. His long hair, pulled back in a ponytail, gleamed blue-black in the sun.

  Lacey came out to meet him and glanced into the bed of the truck. “Got enough tools?” she asked.

  There were two round-point shovels and one square-point, plus a couple of heavy duty spades and a pickaxe. There was also a hard plastic cooler full of bottled water and ice.

  “I think so,” he said. She climbed into the cab beside him and he immediately pulled her into his arms. She settled gratefully against his chest, taking in the clean smell of his lean, muscular body.

  He squeezed her once for good measure and tipped her face up to his, brushing a kiss across her mouth.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  She nodded and pulled back so he could drive the truck, but she rested her hand on his thigh.

  She was surprised when he passed the offramp for Pilar’s. He continued south another couple of miles, then exited the freeway in the dodgy end of town. She glanced over and angled a questioning look at him.

  “Safeguards, remember?” he said.

  He pulled into the lot in front of the warehouse. Even this early, there were cars there.

  They strode inside with the confidence of knowing where they were going. Sam made a direct line to the chicken man down at the end of the row of stalls.

  The man looked up in surprise. He remembered them—how could anyone not recognize Sam, Lacey thought. But as before, he said nothing, just waited and watched.

  Sam perused the table. He bypassed the milagros, but picked up several tied bunches of herbs and set them in the center of the table. He pointed to the obsidian mirrors. “Give me four of those,” he said.

  The man’s eyebrows arched up, but he immediately pulled four stone slices off the display and laid them down next to the herbs.

  “One obsidian knife,” Sam said.

  The man produced an open cardboard box of knives. Sam pored through, checking the edges. Finally he chose one, set it with the other things and nodded.

  “How much?”

  The man put away the box and calculated in his head.

  “One hundred,” he said.

  Lacey gasped. “A hundred? For some herbs and pieces of stone? Sam—”

  “One hundred,” Sam said. He was already peeling off twenties from a wad of bills. He counted them off and handed them to the man. The vender checked them again and slid the bills into his own pocket.

  “Want a bag?”

  “Sure,” Sam said.

  The man scooped up the items and laid them carefully in a plain brown sack.

  “Thanks,” Sam said as the man handed him the bag. He turned to go.

  Lacey saw the hint of a smile on the man’s face.

  “Sam,” she hissed as they walked out. “That was way too much for that stuff. Did you see how many of those things he had? He probably gets them for pennies on the dollar.”

  Sam just smiled at her. “Safeguards, remember? You going to put a price on that?”

  She huffed out a breath. “No. But still, I—”

  “If I end up dead, you can go back and get a refund.” Sam fired up the truck. “Okay?”

  Lacey stuck her tongue out at him.

  When they pulled up to Pilar’s, Ed’s truck was not in evidence. Sam pulled close to the house, and Pilar came out the door to greet them. She hugged them each, and they were just walking toward the house when Ed drove up.

  Lacey did not know Ed LaRosa well, but liked what she had seen. He seemed to be an even-handed stepfather to Kenzie and Daniel, and harbored no jealousy of Sam. He was a couple inches shorter than Sam, and a few pounds overweight, but had a ready smile which he flashed at Lacey.

  Sam made the introductions and Ed and Pilar immediately got into a discussion in Spanish.

  “She wants to know what she can do,” Ed said.

  Sam grabbed some tools and started toward the digging site. “Tell her to pray,” he said.

  They took all the tools and the cooler around the side of the house. Ed had his own landscaping business and had brought more shovels, a caliche bar and another pickaxe. Lacey thought it looked like they were going to dig to China.

  “The steps start here,” Sam said, toeing the ground where he had dug before. “They seem to angle down parallel to the side of the house, so at least we shouldn’t have to dig around any foundations. The ground is dry, but not too hard.”

  Ed immediately hefted a pickaxe and used the point to scratch dirt away from the bit of exposed wood.

  “First,” Sam said, “a few precautions.” He held the paper bag. Reaching inside, he pulled out sprigs of herbs and passed one to each of them. “Put this in a pocket or somewhere,” he said. Lacey tucked hers in the watch pocket of her jeans. Sam stuck his in his hair just above his ponytail. Lacey stifled a laugh.

  “What?” he challenged.

  “Doesn’t quite have the same effect as an eagle feather,” she said.

  Sam gave her a lopsided grin. “And now these,” he said, passing an obsidian mirror to each. “Hang ’em around your necks.”

  “What do these do?” Lacey asked.

  “They reflect the evil back to its origin,” he said.

  They each slipped a string necklace over their head, the polished slice of stone hanging heavy below each throat. Lacey liked the fact that the obsidian rested just above her heart.

  She wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse that Pilar was adorning herself with the protections as well.

  “If anyone starts to feel anything unusual, any symptoms of sickness, shortness of breath—anything—stop and get away. Don’t ignore it.” Sam stared meaningfully at Ed and Lacey. “Got it?”

  They both nodded.

  “Okay.” Sam picked up a pickaxe. “Lace, why don’t you and Pilar stand back a bit while we break ground?”

  Lacey put a hand to Pilar’s back and guided the old woman into the shade against the wall of the house. She pulled the cooler over and patted the flat top of it.

  “Sit?” she asked Pilar, motioning to the cooler.

  “No,” Pilar said. Instead, she turned toward the front of the house and waved to Lacey to follow. The two of them went inside and Pilar pulled a folding chair from a corner of the kitchen. Lacey grabbed three more, and they brought them out and set them near the co
oler.

  She and Pilar took their seats as the men attacked the hard ground.

  They actually made good progress. The pickaxes split great chunks of earth away from the packed ground, and before long Sam grabbed a shovel and was heaving big pieces aside. They found the full width of the top stair, the wood dry and crumbling.

  Lacey had to remind herself to breathe. She alternated between holding her breath at every new impact of the pickaxe and monitoring her own body for any sensations of ghostly attack. She also kept a sharp eye on Sam and Ed, watching their faces, their demeanor and coloring. She stayed alert to anything that might indicate Reyes’ displeasure.

  “Got something,” Sam said suddenly. He brought out a shovelful of dirt for all to see. Stained the same color as the ground was a large round pod, its skin bristling with short pointed spikes. A split in the pod revealed small black seeds.

  “Datura,” Ed said. “It’s a hallucinogen.” He picked it up and held it for Pilar to see. “Brujo?” he asked.

  Pilar nodded. “Brujo, si.”

  “Witchcraft,” Ed told Sam and Lacey.

  Sam had an idea. “Would you ask Pilar if she’s got a small box, something we can put stuff like this in?”

  Ed did. Pilar disappeared back into the house and returned with an open cardboard box. Sam laid the datura pod inside, then continued digging.

  Lacey grabbed a shovel and began moving the mounting pile of dirt further from the hole. The obsidian mirror thudded against her chest with the repetitive motion, each contact providing some comfort.

  All of a sudden a dust devil whirled up from nowhere and spun wildly across the hole. The loose dirt spiraled up easily into a fierce funnel and pelted Sam, Ed and Lacey. They all dropped their tools and threw their arms up across their faces.

  “Ow!” Lacey said as the grit pelted her face. She was instantly sorry; dirt invaded her mouth, the earthy taste thick on her tongue. She dared not try to spit it out. Instead she clamped her mouth shut and tried not to swallow.

  The dust devil flailed at them mercilessly, small rocks and weeds pocking the wall of the house. The wind grabbed at any loose clothing, tugging on sleeves and pant legs. Sam’s ponytail fluttered like a flag in a gale, the black strands tangling around his face.