Stay Dead (Elise Sandburg series)

by Anne Frasier

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I’ll sleep in the office. I doubt Tremain will come looking for me at the Savannah PD. I should have gone there to begin with.”

  “You don’t need to leave. I’ll leave. I’ll sleep in the parking lot. In my car.”

  Dressed, she slipped on her shoulder holster, then let out a deep sigh, as if she’d come to a conclusion she didn’t care for. “You need to grow up.”

  “Me? I’m not the one flipping out about a bag of weeds.” He hated like hell to see this happen. Their relationship was being set back to zero, and now the old Elise was standing in front of him. The one who’d disapproved of him, the one who’d treated him like a giant pain in the ass. But over time, she’d softened. Over time, she’d come to trust him.

  All of that—blown to hell. All because of a stinky bag tucked under his pillow.

  “I’m a good cop,” he said.

  She tugged on her boots. “You weren’t good enough to find me.”

  Ouch.

  So there it was. Her resentment. His regret. I tried, but I was out of my mind. “Okay, go. But text me when you get to the office. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come looking.”

  “I will.”

  And then she left, messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

  Once Elise was gone, David was tempted to call Strata Luna to tell her just how well her little love charm had worked. But that would be childish of him.

  Elise had lied about going to the office. When people were hurting, they went home. Good people and bad people. They all went home. That’s what she did. It took ten minutes to get from Gould’s apartment to her house. She pulled up next to the curb and saw the machinery, piles of dirt, and no lights, said to hell with it, and drove back to the plantation. It was as close to a home as she was going to get right now.

  CHAPTER 21

  He stood outside windows edged in blue and watched her as he’d watched her so many times over the years. With distance. With control. With an obsession and a sense of guilt. He could no longer count the number of times he’d stood outside her place in the Garden District, watching her get in and out of her car with her daughter. Watching mother and daughter laughing together as they entered the house. The lights would come on, one room after the other. Was that her bedroom? Upstairs? Yes, he was sure of it, because the light often burned late into the night.

  Over the years, he’d collected newspaper clippings. He’d cut out photographs and articles, tucking them away in an envelope that grew fatter.

  And those times the two of them had come face-to-face? Hadn’t that been something? When she’d been so close he could have touched her? And one time he’d even nodded his head and said hello. Just to see what it felt like. Just to see if she’d notice him.

  But she never noticed him.

  He’d learned to blend. When he was younger, people said his mere proximity had been imposing. But he’d learned to disappear into shadows and into crowds. So why, after all these years, had he been unable to forget about her? Why couldn’t he simply move on?

  She haunted him.

  And the older he got, the more she haunted him.

  He wanted to know her. Everything. And when he saw her with other men, laughing and talking, he was jealous. Because he wanted to be the person she laughed with and shared stories with. He wanted her to see him. To acknowledge him.

  So now, as he stood on the porch of the decaying plantation house, his hand shook as he reached for the doorknob. Entering would mean stepping through the blue rectangle. Could he do it? Would the spirits allow him to pass? Or was he unworthy? What kind of spell had been cast by the owner? Something to keep out all of the bad, living and dead? Or just spirits? Because there was no doubt in his mind that he was a bad man. A very bad man. In his lifetime, he’d hurt many people, and he’d even killed a few. But they’d deserved it. Some people didn’t deserve to live, and he had no qualms about taking a life if it needed taking. And he had no qualms about torturing someone to get what he wanted out of them.

  But this woman . . .

  Elise.

  She was special to him. He couldn’t shake her. And when he thought about her, all resolve vanished and he became weak. He lost his self-control. Sometimes he could almost convince himself that he hated her simply because no matter how much he tried he couldn’t shake her. He couldn’t shake his obsession.

  Through the cloudy glass with its cobwebs that clung to corners and cobwebs that had long ago been abandoned, now just veins that crept across the surface of the window, he saw her sitting at the table, her shoulders shaking, a hand pressed to her mouth.

  In all the years he’d watched her he’d never seen her cry. He’d seen her horrified and worried and hurt, but he’d never seen her broken.

  And he wondered what had broken her. Who had broken her.

  The knob made a small click, but she was too wrapped up in her own grief to notice it. In the past, he’d turned a lot of doorknobs knowing she was on the other side. But in the past, all of the doors had remained locked. In the past it had always been the rush of anticipation and not the actual act that drove him.

  To his surprise, and maybe a little to his dismay, this door was different. Another click and it creaked open. There was a slight catch of his breath as he took in the surprise of the moment, and then he was following the swinging door; he was stepping through the rectangle of blue.

  Elise heard a sound and recognized it as the soft scrape of a shoe across a wooden floor. That was followed by the sounds of the night, and a slight breeze that brought with it the scent of the nearby marsh. A sob stuck in her throat, and through a glitter of tears, she looked up to see a man filling the doorway. Her mind, the mind of a detective, filed and calculated everything about him in barely more than a second. His canvas jacket, the creases that fanned out from intense eyes. Gray hair that was wild where it had escaped the band at the back of his neck. Skin that was tan and weathered, jeans that were faded and patched, boots that were leather, worn by the same feet for years and years. She pegged him as homeless. Not a victim of circumstance, but homeless by choice. There was a difference. This one gave off an aura of pride and independence, not shame and despondence.

  At first Elise thought maybe he was one of her aunt’s old friends. Someone who’d stayed at the plantation years ago. But then she noticed the way he was staring at her. As if he knew her. And she quickly understood that he had nothing to do with Anastasia.

  “Elise.”

  He spoke her name, and that sealed it. He seemed familiar, and yet not familiar. Was he someone she’d arrested at some point in her career? Was he someone she’d investigated?

  The door. In her rush to get away from Gould, she’d left the door unlocked. Foolish, foolish her. And now she would pay the price for that foolishness.

  “Who are you?” she asked, playing for time, hoping to engage him in any way she could.

  “Don’t you know me?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. Have we met?”

  “Not really.”

  “What are you doing here?” She wiped at her eyes, clearing her vision. “What do you want?”

  “I came to see you.”

  Moving quickly, she unsnapped her shoulder holster, pulled out her handgun, and pointed it at him. “Don’t step any closer.”

  He held up both hands.

  “Let’s start over. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Jackson Sweet.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The hell you are.” What was it about Jackson Sweet? Elise couldn’t get away from him.

  “I am.”

  How had he gotten there? She hadn’t heard a car. By boat? On foot?

  “And I’m Luke Skywalker,” she said. He didn’t get it. “Luke, I’m your father.” Still didn’t get it. “Never mind.” She didn’t
lower the gun.

  He glanced at the chair opposite hers, as if tempted to sit down, as if waiting for an invitation. Right. Like that was going to happen.

  “You don’t look anything like Jackson Sweet,” she said, “so you might as well drop that line. Who are you, and what are you doing here?” He was just another fruitcake or opportunist. It wasn’t the first time someone had claimed to be Jackson Sweet. The last one contacted the local news station, and they’d done a piece on him. There was never a good time to deal with a nut job, but this was particularly bad timing. And more disturbing, he’d figured out where she was staying.

  “I really am your father.”

  “My father. Wait. Correct that. The man who deserted my mother and me . . . that man is dead. And anyway, you look nothing like him.” And even if the guy standing in the kitchen was Jackson Sweet, which he wasn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.

  “What does Jackson Sweet look like?” he asked.

  “He’s taller, for one thing. And thinner. And . . . I never met him, but I always heard he filled a room with his presence. That he had this kind of . . . power. But you . . . you’re just a man. And like I said, Jackson Sweet is dead. You should have chosen someone else to impersonate. Someone alive.”

  “I always felt bad about it all. About leaving. I thought your mother would take care of you.”

  “We know how that turned out.” What was she doing? Talking to him as if he was Jackson Sweet.

  “I left because there was a price on my head. A lot of people wanted me dead. I thought the best thing to do was vanish. And the best way to vanish is to die.” His voice was deep, and his accent was indisputably Georgia Lowcountry. Tupelo honey, as Gould said.

  She decided to play along. “So why are you back?”

  “You’re in danger.”

  “I think that’s been pretty well established. Sitting in some dive watching the local news would tell you that.”

  “I left for you,” he said, steering the conversation back to his absence in her life.

  “Bullshit.” She lowered her weapon, but didn’t put it away.

  “It’s true.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Your father.”

  “DNA wouldn’t even convince me of that.”

  He shrugged. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Good idea.”

  He sat down and she stood up, giving her a physical advantage.

  He smiled and shook his head. That kid. That crazy kid.

  “What can you tell me about Atticus Tremain?” she asked, hoping to trip him up.

  “He’s a bad man.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “I’ve kept an eye on you for years.”

  “Like watching over me?” She blew out a breath and may have even rolled her eyes.

  “Something like that.”

  “You’ve done a damn poor job of it, if that’s what you’re claiming. Where were you when I was being tortured by Atticus Tremain? Where were you when I was being treated like a pariah by my adoptive family?”

  “I messed up.”

  He smelled like marsh and salt air, and a little like a campfire, leading her to believe her homeless theory was on target. Maybe she’d even passed him more than once in downtown Savannah. The thought was unnerving. “For the sake of argument, let’s say you are Jackson Sweet,” she said. “And you’re telling me you see yourself as some kind of superhero? Some noble guy who vanished in order to protect his daughter? I’m not buying it. You were nothing but a deadbeat dad.”

  “I made a lot of mistakes in my life.”

  “No kidding. And I’m not a forgiving person.”

  “I’m not looking for forgiveness.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Hesitation, then, “For one thing, I wanted to see you. I followed it all on the news. About you being captured. I know you almost died.” He looked down at his hands, then back up at her. “I wanted to see you.”

  “You can’t make up for a lifetime of absence.”

  “I know. Like I said, I’m not asking for forgiveness. But I could help.”

  “How?”

  “I could teach you things.”

  “Things? Like root work?” The last words were practically spit out.

  He blinked, taken aback by her response. “Yes.”

  “You think I would want to learn anything about root work? My whole life has been an attempt to get as far away from that as possible. Everything negative that’s happened to me has happened because of my connection to you, because of my connection to root work. Even now.”

  She slipped the gun back into the holster. “That crazy bastard who kidnapped me? You know why he held me and tortured me and cut me and raped me? Because of who I am. Because of you.” She gestured toward him, angry. “Because I’m the daughter of a conjurer. So no, you left me with all the negative but none of the positive. And if you’re a superhero, then so is he. So is that man who abducted me and held me prisoner.”

  “I’ll kill him for you.” His voice was monotone and icy and determined.

  “Oh, my God! Listen to yourself. I don’t want you to kill him. We’ll catch him, and he’ll stand trial. And I hope he’s put to death.”

  “I want to kill him. Because of what he did to you.”

  “It’s a little late to start feeling paternal concern. You should have threatened to kill Clyde Wilkinson when I was in third grade and he pulled down my pants in front of the whole class. You should have threatened to kill Curtis Fry in high school when he wrote voodoo queen on my locker in bloody-looking letters.”

  “I don’t think that’s a reason to kill someone, but I could have cast a good spell on him.”

  “I’m not serious! I’m just trying to point out the ludicrousness of this conversation! And the ludicrousness of what and who you are claiming to be.”

  “What about Strata Luna?”

  “What about her?”

  “She knew me. Years ago. She can vouch for me. She can tell you that I’m Jackson Sweet.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Let’s go see her. Let’s go see Strata Luna.”

  “If you were really Jackson Sweet you would have been gone for years. You wouldn’t look anything the same.”

  “Actually . . . it hasn’t been that long since I saw her.” In answer to the prodding in Elise’s eyes, he continued, “Do you still have the blue glasses she gave you last year? The ones that used to be mine?”

  Elise stared at him. The shabby man in front of her. Too short. Too stocky. Too old. Too nondescript. “She said Jackson Sweet left them with her years ago.”

  “I asked her to tell you that. But I brought those to her the day before she gave them to you. I was passing the mantle.”

  She experienced a cascading sensation, as if someone were running fingernails down her scalp. “Jackson Sweet is taller,” she said numbly, mouthing words that made no sense as her brain struggled to acknowledge that this man in front of her was truly Jackson Sweet. “And Jackson Sweet is better looking. And Jackson Sweet is a force of nature. You . . . you are none of those things.”

  “Death can make a person more than he really is. I’m just a man.”

  Elise had left her phone on the table, and now it buzzed and danced around a little, indicating a message.

  “You want to check that?” the man who claimed to be her father said.

  “No.” Now feeling annoyed by two men, she asked, “Does anybody else know about you?”

  “Strata Luna is the only person who knew I wasn’t really dead. She helped me disappear.”

  That part made sense. That part she could believe. Oh, my God. This was so confusing. Was this guy really Sweet? The one person she wanted to tell, to talk to about this whole craz
y thing, was Gould. And she was mad at him. He’d betrayed her. But now, in light of this new development, his level of betrayal seemed not so much a betrayal but just childish stupidity.

  And Audrey. This man sitting at the table might be Audrey’s grandfather. Would she tell Audrey about him? No. Not now. Maybe someday, but not now.

  Elise still didn’t fully understand what he was up to, and why he’d chosen this moment to make an appearance. His story kind of made sense, but she knew how messed up people could be.

  Her job hinged on just how well she knew and understood motivations. He was after something. What, she didn’t know. But there was more to it than what he’d told her. Of that she was certain. A guy didn’t vanish for decades and reappear because his daughter had almost died. She’d been in danger before. She’d been injured before.

  Her phone continued to buzz, indicating more messages, and she continued to ignore it. “So,” she said. “What now?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry,” he said. “How about I make us some pancakes?”

  “Shaped like Mickey Mouse?”

  He gave that some thought. “I guess I could try.”

  “I’m being sarcastic. You were never in my life, and now you want to suddenly make pancakes. And when Audrey—Audrey is my daughter, by the way—when she was little, I always made her pancakes that were shaped like Mickey Mouse.”

  “I know who Audrey is.”

  The sensation of fingers moving down her scalp increased. His eyes were a brittle gray, and she felt herself falling into them. A moment ago he’d seemed like just some nondescript man with not much personality. But with what seemed like a flip of a switch, she saw that wasn’t the case. She could see it was all a façade.

  She’d known murderers with the ability to camouflage themselves. They were adept at wearing a public mask so no one could see the monster underneath. Some of the biggest and most well-known serial killers in the world had been well liked and had seemed charming and maybe even a bit boring and often nondescript. Because from an early age they learned to hide their true identity from everyone they came across. Everyone, that is, other than the people they killed.