by C. J. Parker
Tabatha had no doubt he’d been the presence she sensed near the gravesite. She should have confronted him in the cemetery before she’d raised Dorothy McShayne. The heat of his fear had turned to cool astonishment. That alone confused her. She’d never been able to experience a living person’s emotions—or feel a man’s eyes warming her to her bones either. Who are you?
Derek Bainbridge, came his reply.
Her heart skipped a beat. Had she imagined that?
Rhonda hiccupped. “Will you go with me to find those things my mom was talking about?”
“Of course.” Tabatha forced herself to give Rhonda her full attention. “I want to see this list. Those behind this must be influential if the cops know about them and won’t do anything.” Tabatha’s thoughts returned to Derek, but she shrugged away the vision of male perfection. He’d been writing something on a pad. Her license plate? She had mixed emotions about this. In one stream of thought, she’d like to see him again. In another, she dreaded the thought of having to face his accusations. Was he repelled by what she’d done? Did he even believe it? What would he do? “What can he do? I didn’t break any law. I didn’t kill anyone.”
Rhonda’s hands stopped halfway to her nose with a tattered tissue. “What?”
“Never mind. It’s not important.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.
Rhonda stared at her for a moment, then leaned against the headrest. “Go to Esplanade and turn right. My house is only a few blocks.” She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes. “How did you make her look so perfect? When she was found, her face had been cut up real bad, and now her face is beautiful again.”
Tabatha didn’t know the answer but tried to give one. “When I tell them to live again, I think the body reforms itself into its living state. I guess that means before any damage has been done.”
“I’m glad.” Rhonda nodded, apparently satisfied. “You don’t think my mom killed herself?”
Tabatha snorted. “The dead don’t lie, Rhonda. She told me some guy named Phelps killed her, and I believe her.”
“I’ve never heard of Phelps. You know him?”
Tabatha shook her head.
“Turn left at the next corner.” Rhonda sighed heavily. “Why wouldn’t she answer my questions? She seemed to hear and see only you.”
“Whoever uses magic to raise the dead controls them. I can make them do anything. I don’t like that responsibility.” Tabatha squirmed in her seat, uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. She was relieved when Rhonda pointed at a one story, shotgun-style house. Tabatha remembered her grandfather explaining the old homes had been given the name because someone had once said you could open the front and back doors of the house, shoot a shotgun through the front door, and the buckshot would go straight through the house and out the back door. She’d always wondered if someone had ever tried to prove that theory.
Rhonda pointed again. “It’s that one.”
Light from the windows spilled out across the driveway, casting a glow into the darkness as they pulled up. Tabatha’s heart jumped to her throat. All moisture evaporated from her mouth. “Did you leave a lamp on?”
Rhonda nodded. “It makes me feel safer coming home at night.”
Tabatha stepped out of the car and searched the tree-lined avenue, trying to see who or what lurked in shadows. Not knowing the area, she wasn’t sure what to look for—who belonged, what was normal, what wasn’t. The sight of two men and an elderly woman sitting on the porch next-door, watching them unnerved her. “Do you see anyone who doesn’t fit, Rhonda? Someone you don’t know?”
Rhonda ran a wide-eyed glance around the neighborhood before shaking her head. “No. That’s just my neighbor. She lives in the big green house. The two men are her sons.” She raised her hand and waved. They returned the gesture.
The steps creaked with each step upward. If anyone were near, they’d just announced their arrival. The porch wasn’t in much better condition and groaned from Tabatha and Rhonda’s combined weight.
“Before you unlock the door, make sure no one has tampered with it,” Tabatha warned.
Rhonda pushed the door with her fingers and Tabatha jumped back at the sharp pop of the loose doorframe. Rhonda giggled nervously and tried the knob. “Yeah, it’s fine.” She thrust a key into the lock and opened the door.
Tabatha placed a hand on Rhonda’s shoulder. “Stay here until I check things out. Keep your eyes open.”
The all-encompassing musty smells of mold, day-old cooking oil and onions, made the house oppressive and airless. Suffocating heat tried to swallow Tabatha whole. Perspiration beaded on her brow, trickled between her shoulder blades and dampened the waist of her jeans. The sound of the refrigerator coming on caused Tabatha to jump and press her hand over her racing heart. “Shit.” She searched furtively, checking under and behind everything. Passing a mirror, her own reflection frightened her so badly she came just short of kicking out the glass. She opened closets, looked out windows, not sure what she’d do if she discovered someone hiding.
Satisfied, she signaled for Rhonda to come in. They rushed to the second bedroom, knelt on the rust and burgundy braided rug then folded back a section. Starting her count from the closet, Tabatha pointed out the seventh floorboard. “Want the honor? It’s your house.”
Rhonda ran her hand over the floorboard before pressing one edge then another. “Can you see a way to get it up?”
Tabatha leaned her elbows on the edge of the rug. Up close, the jimmied planks were easy to distinguish from the others. With the press of a finger the boards would move slightly, but not enough to lift them up. There were gouge marks and chips of old gray paint missing from the board’s edge. “Do you have a screwdriver?”
Rhonda’s brow furrowed as she stared at the section of flooring. With a brief nod, she jumped up, ran to the kitchen, and returned with a butter knife. “Closest thing I have.”
“Good enough.” Tabatha worked the knife into the already-chipped area. With a little force, two boards lifted leaving a narrow six-inch wide gap in the flooring. She leaned forward and peered into the darkened hole. The scents of musty old paper and mold drifted up. Several manila envelopes stood beside file folders. A camera, a micro recorder, four rolls of exposed film, a journal, and a small photo album filled the cramped area.
Tabatha reached in and handed the items to Rhonda.
Rhonda flipped through the photo album and started to sob all over again.
“What’s wrong now?” Tabatha had never known anyone who cried as much as this girl.
Rhonda handed the photo album to Tabatha and rested her head against the bed. “It’s pictures of me from when I was a baby until now. She had every school picture, birthday parties—she even has a snapshot of me in the hospital when I had my son. How did she get them?”
“I guess the woman who raised you sent them to her. You’re lucky, you had two mothers who loved you very much.”
“Yeah. Lucky.” Rhonda dabbed her eyes with an edge of the tattered ecru chenille bedspread and took a deep breath. “Can I ask a question?” “Depends. What’s the question?”
“Now what? How do I get this stuff to the Guardians?”
Tabatha leaned against the closet door while scanning the hit list. Her name stood out in bold black letters against the stark white paper. She glanced at the other names on the list, names of people these monsters considered beyond God’s forgiveness. Her blood grew hotter and rushed quicker with each name. Who were these people to judge who was beyond redemption? Religious zealots who thought it righteous to kill or threaten women and children to get what they wanted. “What is your guarantee these cretins will let you and your son live after you’ve handed over this stuff?”
A tremor ran over Rhonda’s body. “None.”
Tabatha drew a deep breath to calm herself. Getting rattled wouldn’t help them. “Look, why don’t we pick up your son? You can stay with me. Let me handle these anal sphincters.”
Rhonda’s eyebrows crinkled, her head tilted a bit to the left. “Anal what?”
“Assholes.”
Rhonda chuckled, then sobered. “Your mother would never let me stay there. She thinks I’m trash.”
“Hell, my mother thinks I’m trash. She’ll get over it. There are seven bedrooms in that house. We can put your son in one and you in another, or you can have my grandfather’s suite. It has two double beds, a sitting room and a private bath.”
“Find out how the upper crust lives, huh?” Rhonda laughed, but fear laced her voice.
“It will be safer for you and Shane. I’d feel better if we took some precautions until I can stop these fanatics.”
“You’re going to try to fight these people? They’ll kill you, Tabby.” Rhonda’s eyeballs bulged from their sockets.
Tabatha smiled. “No one but my daddy called me Tabby.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.” Rhonda turned her gaze away.
Tabatha’s attitude softened toward Rhonda. Her life had not been an easy one. She’d apparently not had a lot of money and no one to help her raise Shane. Tabatha reached out and touched Rhonda’s knee. “We had a rough beginning, but if we play this right, maybe we could become friends.”
Rhonda’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to be my friend?”
“Why not?”
Chapter Seven
Derek paced in front of his dresser, pausing to argue with his reflection in the mirror each time a new question surfaced. Who is she? What is she? Did she raise the dead or was it a ruse? How much did the other girl have to pay for that kind of information?
Who killed you, Dorothy McShayne? Tabatha’s question reverberated inside his mind.
John Phelps. He knew the name but couldn’t give it a face.
“Bainbridge, you’re losing your mind. You didn’t see what you think you saw. It’s impossible. No one can raise the dead,” he told the man staring back at him.
He turned away from his reflection at the sound of a knock. “Yeah. Who is it?”
“Come on, Derek, it’s me, Frank. Let me in.”
Derek paused, not sure if he should tell Frank what he’d seen tonight. He shook his head. No. He wouldn’t tell anyone, yet.
Frank slammed his fist against the door. “Dammit, Derek, let me in.” Derek opened the door, blocking the entrance. “I’m getting ready for bed. What do you want?”
A scowl twisted Frank’s expression. “What’s gotten into you? You don’t go anywhere. You don’t do anything. You shut yourself in here, ignoring your friends. The boss is worried about you.” He stood eye to eye with Derek.
“They’re going to force you to retire. Is that what you want?”
“I have to solve the kids’ murders first, then they can do whatever they want with me.” He stepped out of the doorway, allowing Frank to pass. “If I didn’t have other cases, maybe I could find Elizabeth’s murderer.”
“Man, give it up.” Muscles in Frank’s jaw tightened then released. “It’s been twenty years. The case is so cold it’s going to give you frostbite.” He dropped his gaze and rubbed his neck. “Derek, I didn’t come to fight with you. Mary said to come over this weekend. Melita won’t be there, but Mary’s friend, Carla, is coming over. Her daughter just arrived in town. Don’t worry. This isn’t a setup.”
Derek sat on his bed. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Mary isn’t going to take maybe for an answer. Be there around eleven. Bring some beer.” He paused before leaving. “Derek, let Elizabeth go. Find someone else. Life is too short, buddy.”
“You ever heard of John Phelps?”
Frank’s face paled, and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times. “Some big shot in New Orleans--old money. You met him at the Christmas party last year. Why?”
He barely remembered the Christmas party Frank and Mary had insisted he go to. He had no memory of meeting Phelps. “Heard his name mentioned and I couldn’t place it.”
Frank pulled in a deep breath and eyed him a beat or two longer, then nodded. “Get some rest, man, and I expect to see you at the house on Saturday. With beer.”
The door opened then closed, and silence once again ruled Derek’s world.
“Let her go, he says.” Derek closed his eyes as an image flitted across his mind of Elizabeth’s mutilated body exposed to the world, her bloody wedding dress, cut to shreds, surrounded her. “I can’t until I give her justice.”
The department had deemed it a robbery/homicide. He didn’t believe it. No one would mutilate a woman like that for a string of pearls and a half-karat diamond ring. This was personal. This was rage.
He stretched out across the bed. His gaze drifted to Elizabeth’s side of the bed searching for her ghost, but this time her face eluded him. Fatigue finally took its toll, dragging him into a fitful sleep.
~
Elizabeth’s back was to Derek as she busied herself with final preparations for the wedding. Derek called to her, begging her to stop, but she continued to walk away from him, vanishing into the food tent.
His muscles sagged with weariness, his feet refusing his demand to run. He crumpled to the ground and crawled, grabbing handfuls of grass to propel his fatigue-racked body forward. Entering the tent, he searched frantically for Elizabeth, calling out her name.
“Where are you, Derek?” Her voice drifted from the other side of the canvas tent.
He threw the tent’s canvas flap to the side. Derek shrank away from the sight before him. Blood flowed freely and surrounded her decimated body. A breeze stole its way under the slight gap between the ground the bottom edge of the tent and lifted her bridal veil revealing her face.
“No.” Derek shook his head and backed away. Elizabeth’s eyes opened and she looked up at him. Light, ice-blue eyes replaced her dark brown eyes. That couldn’t be. He searched her face but found Tabatha’s instead. His brain fought to right this confusing vision but his heart wanted to accept the face replacing Lizzy’s.
He whispered her name. “Tabatha.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Derek.”
He jerked awake, leaped from the bed and paced the distance of the small room. Blood roared inside his ears. “Tabatha?” He shook his head violently. “No. I can’t let you in. Elizabeth, where are you?”
He forced himself to remember her joy over finding their condo and how she planned to decorate it in shades of green—green refrigerator, green sink and green range. He hadn’t had the heart to tell her he hated green.
Shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, Derek discovered the
notepad. He pulled it out and ran his finger over his words he’d written. “Physician’s plate. New York.” He wanted to hate her. He wanted her out of his mind.
He rushed out the door. “I’ll find out who you are, Tabatha. You have to help me find who killed those kids. You have to tell me who murdered Elizabeth. You have to explain to me what the hell you are.”
Chapter Eight
Tabatha peered out the windshield and let her gaze roam over Gray Manor, checking shadows, trees and buildings for any movement.
Rhonda crouched in the passenger seat and hugged her son, Shane, closer. “Tabatha, I don’t know about this. Your mom isn’t going to be happy.”
Tabatha pulled in front of the garage and stepped out. The night smelled of distant rain and Jasmine in bloom. She looked up at the darkened windows of Carla’s room, and a pang of sadness twisted her heart. In Tabatha’s memories of her mother, she could never remember a time when Carla was happy. Her mouth always turned down in a frown and her eyes narrowed in anger—there had never been a kind word for Tabatha.
“She’s in bed by now and won’t know anything about it ‘til tomorrow morning. I’ll get up early to talk to her.” Confident they were alone she strolled to the rear of the car to open the trunk. “Maybe we should put Shane in bed and come back for the bags later. Or, if you think he’ll wake and be frightened in a new pla
ce, I’ll fetch them while you put him to bed.”
“Leave them. That way we won’t have to lug them back when your mom throws us out.”
“She won’t throw you out, Rhonda.” Tabatha reached for the kitchen door the same time it swung open abruptly. A small shriek of happiness rushed out of Tabatha’s mouth. Before her stood a plump, ebony skinned vision from her past. The old woman tapped her toe and crossed her arms over her abundant breasts.
“Where have you been, young lady? I’ve been here all night waiting for you.”
Tabatha rushed into the woman’s waiting arms. She drew in a deep breath savoring the smell of the old woman’s scent. She’d always smelled of vanilla. For the first time since she’d arrived, Tabatha knew she’d come home. “Bertha, I’m so glad to see you. Does Mom know you’re here?”
A sprinkling of gray dusted Bertha’s black hair, and her dark eyes sparkled with mirth. Ebony skin, still smooth and wrinkle-free, glistened in the kitchen light. Her grandfather had hired her when Bertha was thirty-seven and she’d become family in short order, ruling the house with a simple word and a nod of her head. Everyone learned quickly never to argue with her.
Tabatha stood back and appraised her old friend. “Good grief, I swear you look younger every time I see you. What’s your secret, old woman?”
“Old woman, is it?” Bertha swatted Tabatha on the bottom and shooed her toward the kitchen table. “One question at a time.” She turned and ambled toward the stove. “I’m here to take care of my baby girl. I’m glad to see you, too. My oldest son dropped me off. And, yes, the Queen knows I’m here.” She smiled and gestured with a large ladle toward Rhonda. “Who is this?”
Tabatha slapped herself on the forehead. “Oh, I’m sorry. Rhonda, this is Bertha.” Tabatha turned toward her childhood cook. “This is Rhonda and her son, Shane. They’ll be living with us for a while. You won’t mind a couple more mouths to feed, will you? You are back to stay, right?”
“Who’s gonna take care of you if I don’t?” Bertha stirred the contents in the pot sending the scents of herbs, vegetables and beef into the air. Tabatha’s stomach rumbled.