The Curse of Tenth Grave

by Darynda Jones

  If the situation hadn’t been so dire, I would have laughed.

  “Can I get a soda?” Heather had searched us out and was standing in the door to the front room.

  “You absolutely can have a water. You know where they are.”

  “Okay,” she said, disappointment lining her fragile face.

  Well, either way, dealing with Nick the Prick Parker was going to have to wait until I could find out more about Heather and the home.

  “Heather,” I said before she went back to the tattoo room, “who told you that what you had was the curse? Anyone in particular or just a general consensus among the ranks?”

  She thought back. “Just the kids, I guess.” Her breath wheezed when she took a breath. I stepped over to her and felt her forehead and neck, just in case things were taking a turn for the worse. She let me, like it was an everyday act. Her temp seemed normal. “They were all talking about me like I was next. My friend Amelia freaked. She doesn’t want me to die.”

  “How odd,” I said, teasing her. “I don’t want you to die, either.”

  She ducked her head, hiding a shy smile, just as my phone rang.

  Cookie’s name flashed on my screen, along with my favorite picture of her. I took it after she’d accidentally put pure cinnamon oil on her face instead of frankincense. I had no idea why one would put frankincense on one’s face, but I did learn that pure cinnamon oil was like acid on the skin. It burned her face instantly, and before she could get it washed off, it turned the brightest red I’d ever seen on human skin.

  I snuck the shot as a memento so that I would never forget the lengths Cookie would go to for my entertainment. Or for flawless skin. Before I met her, I had no idea you could even put milk of magnesia on your face. Or why on earth you’d want to.

  Actually, I still didn’t know that last part.

  I answered with a “Charley’s House of Ill Repute.”

  Heather giggled and went in search of water as Cookie’s alarmingly sexy voice wafted toward me thanks to the miracles of technology.

  “When will you be back?”

  “I can be there in ten if you need me to make sweet love to you.”

  After a long—very long—pause, she said, “No. No, I’m good.”

  “Are you sure? I’m cheap and relatively easy.”

  “I’m pretty sure, but thanks. So, are you sitting down?”

  My butt immediately sought out a chair. “I am now.”

  Pari questioned me with her brows. I couldn’t actually see her eyes due to the ginormous shades, but lines appeared on her forehead over them. I shrugged.

  “I’m not sure if this is good news or not,” Cook said, “since I have yet to be able to explain it, but the child is the wrong age.”

  “Does the kid know that?”

  “The one Reyes is paying child support to. The one in Texas.”

  I bit down, hoping beyond hope that Cookie’s news was good. “What do you mean the wrong age?”

  “It’s a boy, and brace yourself for the name.”

  I tightened my muscles and clenched my butt cheeks. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Okay, hit me.”

  “Damien.” When I said nothing because I was a little more than surprised, she added, “Damien Ledger Clay.”

  “Could that name be any more appropriate?” I asked, heartbroken.

  “Clay is the mother’s maiden name. But the father’s name isn’t listed.”

  “If Texas is going to go after Reyes for child support, there has to be some kind of proof that he’s the father. What about on the kid’s birth certificate?”

  “Nope. It says ‘Unknown.’”

  “That’s a weird name.” I was trying to lighten the suddenly very heavy mood. “Why is he paying child support to a woman who didn’t even list him as the father?”

  “That’s just it. I’m not sure he could be the father. Charley, Damien is five years old.”

  I slumped back in my chair in relief. “Reyes was in prison five years and nine months ago.”

  “Exactly. I mean, I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it’s just very highly unlikely that he fathered a child while in prison. Do they even allow conjugal visits in Santa Fe? And don’t you have to be married to even be considered?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know who to call to find out. Then again, the rules of regular folk don’t always apply to my husband.”

  “That’s true, but I like to think of this as a ray of sunshine.” Her voice, filled with empathy, softened.

  “I’m all for sunrays,” I said, absently fondling the god glass in my pocket. “Give me permanent skin damage and a little radiation any day.”

  “I love how you see the bright side of everything.”

  “Right? Okay, I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “The second you find out,” she said.

  “The second I find out.”

  17

  The man who invented chocolate vodka

  more than makes up for the bastard who invented pantyhose.

  —KATIE GRAYKOWSKI

  I said my good-byes to Pari and Heather and headed to Misery to make a call. Neil Gossett would probably be off work already. The sky had darkened, and the clouds that still hung low had changed from a beautiful murky gray to an ominous, rich black. If only every day could be so serene. And the icing on the Playgirl centerfold? The roads were clear. I was worried with all the sleet we’d had I’d be driving on solid ice.

  Gotta love New Mexico.

  Grateful to have Neil’s cell number thanks to a resourceful Cookie who’d pretended she was a reporter wanting to do a story on him for Santa Fean, I let it ring until voice mail picked up. Then I disconnected and called again. And again. This went on for several minutes before Neil picked up, sounding annoyed as hell.

  “Yes,” he said, his tone ice-pick sharp.

  “Hey, Gossett!” I said as happily as I could. “How’s it hanging?”

  “Same as always.”

  “Ah, a little to the left?” I didn’t really know that, but how could I pass up such an opportunity?

  “Who is this?”

  I was hurt. I really was. Or I would’ve been if Neil and I had been friends. We were more like old high school acquaintances who had zero need to communicate except when we did. Like now.

  “It’s Charley … Davidson … We went to high—”

  “I know who you are, Charley. How’d you get this number?”

  “Oh, that. So my assistant called your assistant and pretended to be a reporter—”

  “Never mind. What’s up?”

  “Did Reyes have conjugal visits while he stayed at your establishment?”

  He cleared his throat and softened his voice. “How is he?”

  “Free.”

  I really did like Neil. Not in high school, but he’d grown up a lot. I had to give it to him. He’d always had a soft spot for my man while he was in prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He’d kind of had his back as much as a deputy warden could have an inmate’s back. But he knew Reyes was different. Special. Destined for bigger things.

  If he only knew the half of it.

  “May I ask why?”

  “He’s paying child support on a child who is five years old, so unless you released him for the occasional boys’ night on the town, he was having conjugals.”

  “He wasn’t,” he said to the sound of a sizzling grill in the background. “Not exactly.”

  I frowned, suddenly worried. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that he didn’t have any conjugal visits.”

  “So, he could have? New Mexico allows them?”

  “Not anymore. They were offered for about thirty years, but the state did away with them in 2014. And there were strict requirements. Most inmates had to be married before their conviction to even be considered, then there was a lengthy application process. So, I can assure you, Farrow didn’t have conjugal visits.”

  “But?” I really felt
a but coming on.

  “But … yeah, that doesn’t mean the child can’t be his. There was a situation with a female CO.”

  “What?” I asked, taken aback.

  “Three, actually, but this one in particular … oh, and a female former deputy warden, so four, I guess, and those are just the ones that I know of.”

  “This isn’t real.”

  “But from what I understand, he didn’t initiate contact. If that helps.”

  “Oh, my god,” I said. “My husband was a manwhore even in prison.”

  “In his defense—”

  “Gossett,” I said from between clenched teeth.

  “In his defense,” he continued, charging forward like he did in football, “I’m not sure there was ever any sexual contact. Relationships between COs and inmates were strictly prohibited, not that it didn’t happen, but Farrow kind of kept to himself. He got plenty of attention, from both sexes, but from what I could tell, he didn’t seem all that interested.”

  “Really?” I asked, that ray of sunshine hitting me in the gut.

  “Then again, it’s hard to keep an eye on them 24-7.”

  “Thanks.” Disappointment threatened to rip out my heart.

  “No problem.”

  “Okay, let me just ask, were there any situations where an inmate got a female CO pregnant?”

  He hesitated long enough that I knew the answer before he said anything. “Female COs got pregnant and took maternity leave all the time. Most of them were married. But there was one. We’d heard a rumor she’d been seeing an inmate. When we questioned her, she confessed that it was an inmate who’d knocked her up, but refused to give us a name.”

  “What was her name?” I asked, my heart sinking deeper by the second.

  “Davidson, I can’t give you that information. You know that.”

  Damn. I thought I had him.

  “My mushrooms are burning. Are we finished?”

  “I guess. Wait! Can you at least tell me when it happened?”

  “Davidson,” he said in warning.

  “Come on, Gossett. For old times’ sake.”

  “You hated me during those old times.”

  “I didn’t hate you. I just found you exceedingly annoying.”

  “I intimidated you, didn’t I?”

  I snorted. “Stop trying to change the subject.”

  “Oh, man,” he said, his voice whinier than usual. “I can’t remember exactly. I’d say maybe five, six years ago? They all blur together. There was this one time…”

  He started to tell me a story about an inmate who’d accidentally severed his own artery with a spoon, but he’d lost me at “five, six years ago.” My husband had another child.

  * * *

  I lay draped over a bar, my head resting on an arm thrown across it. It had been comfortable until the bar started spinning. I curled my fingers around its edges. I’d never been fond of merry-go-rounds.

  Caroline walked over to me with my next mixed drink. She announced last call and then started to set it down. She hesitated. I lifted my head, tried to focus on her face, but there were just so many of them.

  Caroline was an adorable redhead with a short bob and a button nose. Or at least she was adorable until she said, “I think you’ve had enough caffeine for one night,” and took my drink away.

  “What?” I asked, the depth of my outrage knowing no bounds. “I’ve only had five.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she said, taking the grande mocha latte, extra whipped cream, extra hot away.

  A male voice met my ears then. Bryan. That boy could brew like he’d been conceived and incubated in an espresso machine, and he was my second-favorite person on earth. Or he would’ve been if he’d given me my drink.

  “Tell her I’m okay, Bryan. I have a strong heart. I can take it.”

  He grinned. “I called her husband.”

  “You know Reyes?” I asked, my words slurring but just ever so slightly. “He’s the son of Satan.”

  “Oh no,” Caroline said as they cleaned up for the night. “Did you guys get into a fight?”

  “I bet they did. I’ve called my boyfriend worse,” Bryan said.

  “Just one more. I promise I’ll get help in the morning. I’ll go to counseling and support groups and—”

  “What stage is bargaining?” Bryan asked.

  “It’s somewhere in the middle,” Caroline said, and then straightened, her face brightening. Only one guy did that to every girl and every other guy I knew.

  It was him. He was here.

  “Thanks for calling,” Reyes said, his voice like smooth bourbon.

  I’d gone back to resting my head on the bar. It had gotten so heavy over the last couple of hours. So all I could see when the son of evil incarnate walked up was his crotch. The same crotch that got Miz Clay pregnant. The same crotch that I craved like a heroin addict craved, well, heroin.

  “You ready to come home?”

  “No.” I held up a finger. No idea why. “I’m hanging out with my friends Caroline and Bryan. And I have no idea who you are. I already told you that once today.”

  I heard the humor in Reyes’s voice when he said, “Dutch, do I need to bend you over my knee?”

  When he took my hand and started to drag me off my barstool, I yelled to no one in particular, “Stranger danger!”

  Sadly, both Caroline and Bryan were too busy passing flirtatious glances Reyes’s way to call the cops. Damn them. No, damn him!

  He stopped and lifted my face off the bar. “Are you actually drunk?”

  “I think she may have been doctoring her mocha latte,” Caroline said, her face all soft and sparkly. “We aren’t supposed to have alcohol on the premises.”

  He searched my pockets, causing a stir deep in my belly, and found my flask. “Sorry about this,” he said.

  Just kidding. I didn’t have a flask. Like a tiny flask would get me drunk. I’d had to stop by a package store and buy a fifth of Jack. I downed half before I even walked in, then I smuggled the pint that had come with it in my jacket.

  “Oh no. No problem,” Caroline said, waving off the very idea. “I think she’s had a hard day.”

  “You, my friend,” I said, pointing at her, “have no idea. First, I find this homeless girl who’s been cursed and is going to die soon. Then I find out not one, but two ghost-hunting teams are following me. Stalking me. EMFing me.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” Bryan asked Reyes.

  “I feel so violated.”

  Reyes didn’t respond to Bryan’s question. He was looking at me with his brows drawn, concern lining his face.

  “Then,” I continued since I still had the floor, “I find out the ADA has a secret file on me and my husband and my baby.” I stopped and looked at them, a sadness falling over me like a shadow that blocks the sun. “I had her at the bottom of a well.”

  I’d fallen down it. The well. And since I’d been close to popping, anyway, the fall sent me straight into labor.

  “It’s much trickier to have a baby at the bottom of a well than one might think. First, there’s all this dirt you gotta deal with. Then you gotta boil water. No idea why. Then—”

  Before I could even finish act 1 of my tirade, I was haphazardly tossed over a shoulder—admittedly a wide one—and carried out of Satellite Coffee like a sack of potatoes. Only I’d never actually seen anyone carry potatoes like that.

  Reyes strapped me into Misery, his movement sharp and aggressive and just plain sexy. I started to turn the key and floor it before he could get in the other side, but my steering wheel was gone. Someone stole it! How on earth was I supposed to drive home without my steering wheel? Then it hit me. Maybe that was part of my powers.

  I concentrated really hard, and Misery purred to life.

  Oh, hell, yeah.

  The only thing I remembered from that trip home was pretty lights reflecting off the windows, sliding past as we drove the streets of my hometown. They glittered in his eyes and reminded me of Ch
ristmas morning. He would be the present in this scenario.

  * * *

  I woke up days later on Fabio and wondered how I’d gotten there.

  “I take it you’re awake?” It was Cookie. She sat beside me on the sofa. “You were supposed to call me the second you found anything out.”

  “I know,” I said, turning away in shame. “I was so surprised and hurt and suicidal.”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, pulling me into a hug. Kind of. She’d actually pulled my face into her cleavage, and while it was great cleavage, I started having difficulty breathing.

  I patted her shoulder.

  “Now, now,” she said, rocking me.

  I patted again and tried to talk from between her breasts to no avail.

  “You just rest. It’ll be better tomorrow.” She tightened her hold. “If you live that long.”

  Okay, she was pissed. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice muffled. “I was upset.”

  “So, instead of calling me, you sit in a bar—”

  “In a coffee shop.”

  “—at a bar in a coffee shop and get wasted? Were you planning to drive home like that?”

  “Of course not!” I said, aghast. I shot up to look at her. “It just kind of happened.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t drive home, Charley. Reyes drove you home, and Robert drove Reyes’s Cuda.”

  I brightened. “I bet he enjoyed that.”

  She giggled. “Made his day. First thing he said when he walked in the door: ‘That thing has so much power.’”

  “Uh-oh. You don’t think he’ll get the bug, do you?”

  “I hope not. But you know what?” she said, changing her mind. “He deserves to have fun. Let him get a muscle car. Or a sports car.”

  “Or a Harley?” I asked, teasing.

  “No. No motorcycles.”

  Cookie’d had an aversion to motorcycles ever since she banged a biker on one in her younger days. She fell off and burned the shape of Indiana on her calf, the tailpipe was so hot. She’d been scared of them ever since.

  “I wouldn’t have driven home,” I told her. “Surely you know that much about me.” Driving drunk never ended well. “It’s just—it’s his. I think the boy is his.”