The Curse of Tenth Grave

by Darynda Jones

  “You’re not what I expected.”

  He chuckled and turned a stack of ribs on the grill. Smoke billowed around him, and my mouth watered. Just a little. Not enough to openly drool.

  “Are you going to check me for a wire?”

  He chuckled once more. “I think Umberto covered that. I hear you think I killed Adams’s daughter?”

  “I don’t anymore.”

  He eyed me from over his shoulder and then motioned for me to sit at a patio table. “Good, because I didn’t. I threatened, of course, but only because he doesn’t know me well enough to know I would never do something like that.”

  A group of kids ran out the door and past us, the girls screaming as the boys chased them with dirty hands.

  “Abuelo!” one of the girls shouted. “Save me!”

  “Ay, mi’jita. Stop that and get back inside.” They raced past us back in the house. “Sorry.”

  I shook my head. “No problem. They’re adorable.”

  “So,” he said, wiping his hands and sitting down next to me, “if you believe me, why are you here?”

  “I was wondering about your men. You questioned all of them?”

  “I did. None of my guys did it, and why would any other crew?”

  “Are they here? Your men?”

  He took a swig of beer. “My most trusted are here, but we have a very extensive network. To get all of them here would take a while. Umberto said you have a gift for extracting the truth out of people.”

  “I do. Kind of.”

  He leaned forward. “I do, too.”

  I bet he did. “Would you mind if I questioned them? Your men?”

  “All of them? Yes, actually. But only a handful knew what I’d said to Adams, and they would never speak of it outside the circle.”

  He motioned for his men to come outside. It was clearly a day off. They were dressed casual, and each had a beer or chips in his hands.

  “The Walking Dead,” he said.

  I glanced around at the group of about seven men. Most of them were Hispanic, apart from one. “They look okay to me. Are you planning on killing them later?”

  “The show. On TV. It’s a marathon. We’re celebrating.”

  “Oh.” That made so much more sense than the scenario in my head.

  “They’re all yours.” He said it with a smile that was about one-quarter smirk.

  “Um, okay.” I stood slowly and leveled a hard stare on them.

  Most of them tried not to laugh. One of them failed and got barked at. He straightened up immediately.

  “Did any of you kill Emery Adams?”

  Again, most of them just stood there, but one shook his head. Vigorously. Totally making fun of the whole situation.

  I walked from man to man, pausing in front of each for a second and asking the same question before continuing to the next. I was certain they thought I was crazy, but I was good with crazy. I’d been called worse.

  After getting nothing from any of the men that would suggest they’d done it, I said, “I assume you’re all captains.”

  The clown punched the guy next to him on the shoulder. “El Capitán,” he said, and Fernando glared at him. He shut up again, but I was surprised the guy was still alive.

  “My nephew. What can I do?” he said.

  “Ah. Can I ask, just to make sure, who of you heard the threat—”

  “Alleged threat,” Fernando said.

  “—that Fernando made to Mr. Adams?”

  After getting the okay from Fernando, two raised their hands. The other five had no clue. I dismissed them and then asked, “Are you sure you told no one? It’s just a very big coincidence that Fernando made the threat two weeks before Emery Adams was killed.”

  “I don’t think you understand how this works,” one said.

  He was the big one who’d shown me to the backyard. The other one was younger and had a humble and yet terribly handsome face. He probably grew into his looks and into his position with the family. He wasn’t nearly as cocky as the rest.

  “We don’t go home and tell our girlfriends what we did at work that day.”

  “Neither of you are married?”

  “Or our wives,” he added with a grin.

  The young one laughed softly, and I couldn’t quite figure him out. His emotions were different from the others’.

  “So, the only ones in the room when you made that threat—”

  “Alleged threat.”

  “—were these two men? And that was…”

  I trailed off as realization dawned. “Where did this conversation take place?”

  “At his house,” Fernando said. “We had to pay him a visit when Umberto told me he wanted to make such a large investment.”

  I sat down again, unable to believe what I knew had to be the truth. It was the only thing that fit.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Fernando. Your ribs are burning.”

  “Son of a bitch.” He jumped up and ran over to them.

  I started to walk myself out, but the big guy nodded to the younger one, and he escorted me all the way to Misery.

  I was going to say something to him. Something supportive and cheerleader-y, but I was never good at pep talks, and if I let him know that I knew, it would only stress him more than he already was.

  Instead, I thanked him and let him walk back. He glanced over his shoulder once, as though worried I knew, so I dropped my gaze to my phone.

  He was an undercover cop. And he was good. I would never have suspected him in a million years, but officers who work undercover had a level of stress that one rarely found anywhere else. And they stressed out about the wrong things. It was like giving a Rorschach to a hundred kids and getting similar answers from all but one. The kid who sees the world differently.

  Undercover cops see everything from about twelve angles more than the average Joe. They have to. Their lives depended on it. Never knowing whom to trust. If you’ll be made. If you’ll be joking with the guys one minute and then lying dead with a bullet in your head the next. I didn’t envy him his position.

  After he turned the corner, I called Parker. He was on the verge of exploding again, but I didn’t have time for his hissy fit.

  “Parker, did you get the footage of the surveillance cameras at the hospital?”

  “You tied him up.”

  “He was going to commit suicide.”

  “What if he presses charges?”

  “Pfft, he won’t. He’s got a lot more to worry about than my pointing a gun at him.”

  “So, you admit you did it.”

  “Parker, what the fuck? Do you have the footage or not?”

  “Yes. Why? There’s nothing on it.”

  “She was never attacked? Did she argue with anyone?”

  “No. We have her whole day. She seemed upset all day, and she’d actually left for a while to grab dinner.”

  “So, she left and came back?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did what?”

  “She went into her office. No cameras. And when she came out, she went straight to the lab. It looked like she’d been crying. She was wiping her face.”

  I rested my head on Misery’s steering wheel. “Parker, I’m so stupid.”

  He didn’t argue. Fucker.

  “I think I know what happened, but I need to check one more thing.”

  “What? Tell me now.”

  “I need to check something.” If I was wrong, I was going to look beyond stupid, so I opted not to voice my suspicions.

  “What if you die in a freak accident? Just fucking tell me.”

  “I will. Give me until tonight.”

  “Davidson—”

  I hung up before he could threaten me again and called Cookie.

  “You’re alive!” she said, relieved.

  “Yeah, Fernando and I totally hit it off. Did you look into Mr. Adams Sr.’s holdings?”

  “Oh yeah. It’s like he told you, he sold almost everything a cou
ple of years ago and liquidated all his stocks.”

  “Almost?” I asked, not knowing if my heart should fly or sink.

  This case was about to get very complicated.

  * * *

  Postponing my search for Osh again, I grabbed something that closely resembled chicken strips at a drive-through, hit another drive-through for a mocha latte, then headed for the great outdoors. My route would take a little over two hours, but if I was right, and I liked to think I was, it would be very, very worth the trip.

  I hadn’t even hit I-25, however, before I spotted a very familiar neon-green van behind me. I pulled into the parking lot of a truck stop and waited. Instead of pulling in, they pulled on to a side street.

  I got out of Misery and marched toward them.

  They panicked. The looks on their faces were worth the price of admission. When I was about ten feet away, they all stared straight ahead and tried to start the van. Like they didn’t see me coming. And I thought I was bad at acting.

  I knocked on the driver’s-side window. They stopped and looked at each other, wondering what to do.

  “Roll it down,” I suggested through the window.

  The van was old school, and Tristan, the only Ghostbuster without a brother in the gang, turned the handle. The window squeaked on its rollers. It was a long and awkward moment, and all I could do was stand there and fight a grin. I didn’t want to embarrass them. Well, any more than they already were.

  “Didn’t we talk about this?” I asked.

  Tristan had yet to look at me. When he did, my heart fell just a little more for him, his boyish face sweet and concerned.

  “We—we were worried about you,” he said. They all had the decency to look ashamed.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The French team. They aren’t very nice.”

  “And, no offense,” one of the brothers said, “but one kiss is not going to scare them away.”

  I laughed. “It may not have, but I can handle myself. I promise.”

  “We saw that entity throw you around like a rag doll. What you are messing with is dangerous.”

  “Is it? Can I ask you a question?”

  They all nodded in unison.

  “Have you been experiencing any unusual activity?”

  “All our lives,” Iago said. “But mostly Tristan.”

  “Oh yeah? Since when?”

  “Since I was about two. I can sense when the dead are near.”

  I fought another grin. “Can you?”

  The departed that had attached itself to him was practically sitting in his lap. Big guy with crazy hair and a straitjacket. It glared at him. Unblinking. Unmoving. Unwavering. Just nonstop glaring.

  I saw the departed all the time, and even I was a little creeped out.

  “Anything more recent? Maybe something since you visited an insane asylum? Or an old prison?”

  His face lit up as recognition hit him. “Yes. We had an assignment at an abandoned sanatorium in Kentucky.”

  “And ever since then,” another chimed in, “we’ve been having some really weird stuff happen.”

  “Weird like how?”

  “Mostly with Tristan. He feels cold spots and something brush up against him.”

  I leveled a hard gaze on him. “What did you take?”

  “We never take anything,” Isaac said.

  Iago chimed in. “We’re urban explorers. We leave everything the way we found it.”

  I raised a brow at the man closest to me. “Tristan, is there anything you’d like to share with the class?”

  “Me? No. Not that I can think of.”

  “You took something from a site?” Iago said, believing him no more than I did. “Dude, that is not cool.”

  “It was a toy soldier,” he said, defending his choice. “That was it.”

  “Let me see it.” I snapped my fingers when he didn’t get it immediately.

  Reluctantly, he pulled it out of a pocket in his jumper. A jumper. They were wearing jumpers. I totally wanted to adopt them. True, they had seen Ghostbusters one too many times, but seriously, one just doesn’t find that kind of dedication anymore.

  Iago studied his friend like he was seeing him with new eyes. “You keep a toy soldier in your pocket?”

  “That’s what she said,” Isaac said, then doubled over with laughter.

  As I thought, the departed tracked the soldier as he handed it to me, his eyes glistening. I placed it in my palm and let him see it.

  “Okay,” I said, “you have two choices. You can go to the asylum where you found this and put it back, or I can lure the departed that has been following you for God knows how long to cross. Your choice, but you have to put this back either way.”

  “You can what?” Isaac asked.

  Tristan shook his head. “The departed that has been doing what?”

  “You have a shadow. My term. A departed has attached himself to you because you took his tiny soldier.”

  “Please tell me that’s a metaphor for his virginity,” Isaac said.

  “You can see it?” Tristan’s eyes glistened with wonder. “And, for the record, I am not a virgin.”

  “He is a large childlike man with crazy blond hair and a lazy eye.”

  “And you can make him cross to the other side?”

  “Yes, I can. In fact, I probably should either way. He’s so lost.”

  Tristan put both hands on the steering wheel. “You should. If it’s better for him, then definitely. And can you tell him I’m sorry?”

  “You just did.”

  I leaned into the van and put my hand under the departed’s chin. I raised his face to mine, but his eyes were locked on the soldier. As carefully as I could, I pulled him forward and reached out with my energy. Right before he crossed, he looked into my eyes, his own eyes wide as though seeing for the first time in a long time.

  I let my lids drift shut and braced myself. His life couldn’t have been easy. But what I saw went beyond all expectations.

  He was as happy as any child, before he ate the paint. He got sick, and they said he wouldn’t live. He did, but he was never the same. The lead affected his brain and, like any disabled child, made him a target for abuse his whole life. An angry, domineering father. A timid, apprehensive mother who gave in to her husband’s every demand.

  From there all I saw was misunderstanding, frustration, and abuse. So much. So often. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand. He would try to tell them that he was hungry or thirsty or in pain, but they didn’t have the patience or the desire to deal with him.

  Eventually, he grew so big and uncontrollable they put him on high doses of lithium and silenced his desires once and for all. They controlled him better than any straitjacket could have. He tried so hard to get out of the forest, but it was so thick. So suffocating.

  He waited for his parents to come back for him. He never saw them again.

  I emerged struggling for air and for balance. Leaning against the van before I fell, I let the sorrow take over.

  The last thing I saw was him being loved by grandparents he’d never met. They’d been waiting for him. For such a very long time.

  Tears pushed past my lashes as I tried to catch my breath. I put my fists on the van and buried my face in the sleeves of my sweater. My chest kept hitching as I tamped down the sorrow.

  “Mrs. Davidson?”

  It was Tristan. He stood behind me and, I realized, was holding me upright.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice hoarse. “That doesn’t usually happen.” I turned around and saw the worry on all their faces. Mixed with heavy doses of amazement.

  “What happened?” Isaac asked.

  Iago hit him on the shoulder.

  Holding out the soldier to Tristan, I said, “He wants you to have this. He’s in a much better place than that hellhole they left of his mind.” I put both hands over my eyes and let the sorrow overtake me for one minute more. It was so overwhelming. “He’s in a better pla
ce.” Drawing in long, cool bouts of air, I pulled myself together and pushed off the van. Tristan held me, and Iago came around and took my other arm. “Note to self. Prepare better when letting a man in a straitjacket cross.”

  25

  If at first you don’t succeed,

  destroy all evidence that you tried.

  —STEPHEN WRIGHT

  I left them to their devices, realizing I’d just stoked a fire that was already blazing inside them. They walked me to Misery, tamping down the million and one questions they had burning inside them, and made sure I could drive before leaving me, but I had a feeling they’d be back.

  After putting the address Cookie sent me into my GPS, I headed that way once again. I hoped it would still be light when I got there, but I doubted GPS would help me much where we were going, Misery and I. Thank the gods she had all-wheel drive.

  The sun was just setting when I finally, after four passes, found the turnoff. Seven minutes and three miles of bumpy later, I spotted a small rustic cabin nestled at the base of the mountains. This was a favorite spot of hunters, so most of the cabins in this area had no electricity or running water, but knowing Mr. Adams Sr., this one did.

  Smoke piped into the air from a woodstove, but the occupant of the cabin was sitting on a lawn chair, taking in the very last rays of the day.

  Emery Adams rose up and cupped her hand over her eyes to try to see past my headlight. She must have had company now and then, because my arrival didn’t startle her. She seemed only mildly interested until she realized I wasn’t who she was expecting.

  She jumped to her feet and wrapped her thick jacket tighter around her shoulders. Shoulder-length hair the color of brown sugar flew about her face. Her features were soft and pretty but wary. Schooled.

  I stepped out and walked toward her. It made her nervous. She glanced around like she was going to bolt, but where could she go? She’d likely die of exposure if she ran into the forest. She’d definitely get turned around and have a hard time finding her way back.

  When I was close enough to be heard without raising my voice too much, I introduced myself.

  “Hi, Ms. Adams. My name is Charley Davidson. I’m here to tell you that your plan, while excellently executed, picked up a hitch along the way.”