by Linda Welch
“Is he feeling anything?” Jack asked.
“Are you feeling anything, Royal?”
“Come again?” Royal asked, still looking behind him.
“No cold zone?” from Jack.
“Cut it out!”
Royal turned back to me. “What is going on?”
I let my shoulders sag. “Jack was . . . oh, forget it.”
Royal was something of a mystery to me, and he still is. Sometimes I forget he’s not human, other times I see him as an exotic enigma. I don’t always understand him, but I thought he understood me; I thought he believed in me. He saw my one-sided conversations with my spectral informers. He acted on the information they gave me. Why this incredulity now? To say I felt disappointed is inadequate.
I went to a kitchen drawer next the pantry, rooted till I found the newspaper cuttings and threw them down on the table: Jackson Trewellyn, twenty-eight years old when he disappeared in the mountains above Clarion in 1986 while hiking alone, and Melissa Trent, who disappeared in 1990, her car found on the bottom of Long Meadow Lake.
Then Royal snorted. He met my eyes, looked away, but couldn’t hide his grin.
I looked daggers at him. “Is something funny,” I asked, still not catching on.
“You should see your face!”
Then it dawned on me - he was teasing me. Again.
For a moment, I didn’t know how to react, because Royal’s humor seemed cruel. But that was just me. He didn’t know his idea of fun cast me back into a world where nobody understood me, or ever would. We had never discussed my former boyfriends, so he didn’t know one dumped me because he couldn’t reconcile with my odd behavior and the other two dumped me because I kept them at an emotional distance, afraid to let them know my secret. Back then, I carried my ability like a burden, because I didn’t think I could share with anyone. Telling Royal was a relief, a kind of freedom. I didn’t have to watch what I said and did with him around.
I heard Colin’s voice in my head. “People who say they see ghosts are delusional.” And, “Don’t tell me you thought you saw a ghost, Tiff?”
Royal must have seen something in my face. “Tiff, are you mad at me? It’s just . . . I could not resist. . . .” And he chortled again.
I recalled the third time I saw him, when he came to my bedroom in the early hours of the morning. Having him so close did un-Tiff-like things to my body and when he noticed - he couldn’t help but notice - he deliberately laid on the sex appeal hot and heavy. Remembering made me smile and soothed the sting.
I should be happy he knew all about me, knew I wasn’t crazy. He didn’t see Jack and Mel or any other shade with whom I interacted, yet still believed. He could even kid me about it, not to be mean, but for fun. I should be able to live with that.
But I would not let him get away with it that easy. I went over there and swatted the air in front of his face, but he caught my wrist and pulled me between his knees. It’s kind of hard to pretend you’re mad at your boyfriend when he’s nuzzling between your breasts.
“For god’s sake, get a room!” Jack groaned.
Just so you don’t think Royal and my roommates became best buddies, one big happy family, he would rather I devote myself to him and not chat away at thin air when he’s at my house. Yeah, he believes they are here, but I can see how the one-sided conversations would make anyone uncomfortable. Kind of like when you have a couple of people in your gang who speak a different language, and chat away, knowing you don’t understand a word they’re saying. So I keep it to a minimum, and of course doing so irks Jack and Mel.
Lesson in life: you can’t make everyone happy.
***
Driving past the tall building which houses the Fifth District Court and Clarion City Police Department, I took my eyes off the road to glance up at the third floor, recalling the last time I walked in Lieutenant Mike Warren’s office. Mike heads up Clarion PD Homicide Division and I met with him to tell him I quit. I worked as a consultant for the division, until Mike and I had a misunderstanding. I miss Mike, sometimes, like when his help with a case could make life easier for me. But I don’t dare contact him, not since I accused one of his men of murder, and he ignored me, and I was wrong anyway. It was one of the rare times I got it all wrong, and boy am I glad I did, since Royal was the culprit in question.
Royal lives on Twenty-Second Street. To look at it now, you would not believe just fifteen years ago a decent woman - or for that matter, a decent man - avoided Twenty-Second after sunset. Hookers and pimps, drug dealers, panhandlers; Twenty-Second was their domain when night fell. Of those days, one decrepit old hotel which caters to the down and out, two pawn shops and two bars remain. The rest of the narrow buildings are a diversity of restaurants, coffee shops, microbreweries, antique shops, art galleries, gift shops, miscellaneous boutiques and three bakeries. Replica gas lamps and bronze statuettes line the street and it hums with activity during the day and evening.
Twenty-Second Street was notorious in northern Utah in the late 1800s. Famous for its bordellos, opium dens and saloons, not to mention assassinations, it was a totally lawless place. Troops disembarked at Clarion Station during World War II and whipped up the street for a “quickie” before catching the next train. Now it is the place to visit in downtown Clarion.
Like all those on Royal’s block, his building is twenty feet wide but stretches back fifty. He leases the first and top floors from an art gallery called Bailey and Cognac, which occupies the ground floor. Sometime in the past, those upper floors were made into two separate apartments. This means to get from his living space on the first floor to his bedroom, office and master-bathroom one floor up, you have to go outside and climb the enclosed staircase which joins Royal’s building to another, but this is no more inconvenient than me taking my stairs to my bedroom. It can be chilly in winter, but Royal doesn’t feel the cold.
The walls are of the brick you see in old buildings of that era, of different shades of brown, red, cream, black and yellow, and none of them uniform in size or shape. The polished oak board floors are dark with age. In his living space, a few truly huge pictures hang on the west wall, modern art in creams and pale pastels, blotches and squiggles and splashes of color. If art is supposed to reflect life, I would not want to live in that world.
Half a dozen light bulbs with white shades dangle on long copper chains from the ten-foot-high ceiling, marching along the length of the room. Two pale-blue leather couches face across a big wood and leather traveling case used for a table. You have to lift a flap in the circular black lacquer bar to get inside, and a gigantic lacquer Buddha crouches in the corner of the room facing the street. Then there are the five traditionally decorated Christmas trees in various sizes which line the east wall, the lights on them twinkling away year long. The décor is a little unusual, but surprisingly, it all comes together.
If you’re wondering what significance Christmas trees have for a demon, there isn’t one, arcane or otherwise. Royal thinks they make fine decorations. He likes the shapes of the trees, the gleaming glass ornaments and twinkling lights. That’s all there is to it.
The kitchen space is conventional and modern, with oak cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. The dining table is chrome and glass, the chairs chrome with blue thickly-padded cushions. But the room is so big and sparsely furnished, going from kitchen to living room areas feels like a trek, and it has an empty-room echo to it.
I walked in to see a man and woman standing at the window, from where they gazed down at the street. Royal sat on the couch facing away from the window. He had sounded fine on the phone, but now he sat erect and stiff, looking uncomfortable. What’s going on? I mouthed. He grimaced.
Although they must have heard me enter, the visitors did not turn to face us as I stood in front of Royal, then, becoming impatient, sat next to him. How rude. I looked the length of the room, drumming the fingertips of my right hand on the leather of the couch.
I didn’t hear movement, b
ut suddenly they stood side by side in front of us. I tensed; every muscle in my body wanted to lock.
Only demons moved that fast.
Chapter Four
They were abnormally fast, but they were not demons, although to say they were mere human beings belittles their appearance, for both were striking. Tall, my height and pale-skinned, the man’s brown hair, of one length brushed straight back from his forehead, barely touched the collar of a fine cream linen shirt. His hazel eyes seemed exceptionally clear beneath narrow arched eyebrows. With a slightly hooked nose, large moist lips and cleft chin, he had a Roman gladiator statue look to him. He wore moss-green pants, a matching jacket folded over one arm, a white silk polo shirt and leather shoes of a dark green. He held a woven straw Panama hat in the other hand and wore thin leather gloves of pale tan.
The woman? Nothing short of stunning. Not beautiful, not even pretty, yet totally arresting. She had on one of those dresses I’d never dare wear: a black strapless, skintight affair which covered her fanny and two inches of long shapely legs. I can’t help staring at those style dresses because I wonder why the hem doesn’t roll up. It also drew my attention to a bust to die for and a tiny waist. She carried something long, red and silky which matched her high-heeled red shoes and elbow-length red gloves. A coat, or cloak? She was all red and black, with her long red earrings glittering and the red jewel hanging between her breasts, her waving, lustrous black hair down past her shoulders, pale creamy skin, pouting red lips and black, black eyes.
She looked incredible and I absolutely could not suppress a twinge of envy.
Hat, gloves and, yeah, the long red thing was a hooded cloak. Strange clothing for a warm summer day, but I’d seen more eccentric attire.
They stared at me unblinkingly, and the sun blazing through the windows at my back was not the only thing making me sweat. My hair stuck to the back of my neck and I wanted to lift it away, but felt like prey must feel when confronted by a predator. I dared not move. My mind flip-flopped and my senses went haywire as I looked at them and thought, Gelpha. My eyes wanted to paint glittering metallic hair and glossy, glimmering eyes on them.
Royal took my hand. I slipped it free. I didn’t feel comfortable doing something remotely affectionate with our two visitors looking on.
“Tiff, meet Daven Clare and Gia Sabato.”
I knew the name. Gia Sabato, the author. She wrote hugely successful books about vampires. Bookstores couldn’t keep her novels on the shelves. I had never read any of her stuff, but hers was a name on every urban fantasy-lover’s lips.
I stared at her like an idiot as my brain somersaulted, trying to see something which was not there. She and Daven weren’t Gelpha, but I was sure of one thing: they were not human.
“Please. . . .” Royal said, gesturing at the couches.
They sat together on the opposite couch and I slowly released a breath.
But she turned her head in my direction, face expressionless, yet her eyes were cold, calculating. I felt as if someone very slowly doused me with ice-cold water from head to toe. Shock made my expression blank out. In an otherwise immobile face, a smile nudged the corner of her mouth, and I felt chilled all through.
Silence blanketed us. When someone down on the street yelled, and I twitched, I congratulated myself on not jumping out my skin. I silently chastised myself. Okay, Tiff, snap out of it. This is ridiculous. Say something intelligent. But I couldn’t form words while her eyes pinned me to the couch.
Gia looked away.
Whew. I cleared my throat and pasted a smile on my face. “So what can we do for you?”
Daven took one of Gia’s hands and gently squeezed. His voice resembled a demon’s: soft, musical, seductive, with a faint accent. French? “Miss Banks, we hope you and Royal can help us.”
My voice sounded overly chirpy. “That’s what we’re here for!”
Gia stared. What was wrong with the woman? Had she no expression other than blank? A sense of gut-deep uneasiness wiped the smile from my face.
I glanced at Royal and tried to clear my throat, worked up saliva to moisten my dry mouth, swallowed. I had to shake off the feelings our visitors aroused in me. Had to get down to business. “You already talked to Royal?”
“Briefly,” Royal said. “Gia’s companion disappeared and she suspects foul play.”
We were not the only private eyes in the area, so why come to us? And what about the cops? “Have you talked to the police?”
“We did, but we feel they are not giving Rio’s disappearance the priority it deserves,” said Daven.
Gia spoke in a low husky voice. I had to lean forward to hear her better. “Rio has a certain reputation in Clarion, a reputation long outdated. He also has a criminal record. The police are in no hurry to find him.”
I leaned back again and clasped my hands. “Before we go any further, why did you come to us?”
Gia looked my way. “Do you know who I am, Miss Banks?”
She said it like I should know her. I firmed my jaw and nodded once. “I haven’t I’ve read your books, but I know who you are.”
She smiled slightly, but it came and went in a flash. “We came to you for the reasons one normally uses a private agency, because you are private, and because you have an excellent reputation.”
Excellent reputation? Three cases in eight months? Or did she mean the cases I worked with Clarion PD? Why did I get the feeling she lied through her teeth?
But I couldn’t very well argue with her. “Why don’t you tell us what you know and we’ll decide if this is something we can help you with. Start with Rio’s full name and this reputation you mentioned just now.”
She gently disengaged her hand from Daven’s, leaned back and crossed those long, long legs. “Rio is of Puerto Rican descent. His full name is Alissario Arellano Borrego and he grew up on Eighteenth Street. We often visit Clarion because his family still live here. We keep a small apartment in Bayle Court for that purpose.”
Ah, now I understood why the police were not busting their asses to find Alissario Borrego.
Clarion is a small city by US standards, but has a relatively big gang problem, and it’s been a problem for a long time. Although they’ve only recently become of interest to the media, there have always been gangs in Clarion. You’ll find three-generational gangsta families on Eighteenth. Not just Eighteenth, either. They are found as far north as Second Street and west to Ward Avenue.
“He’s a gangsta,” I said.
“He was a known gang member, many years ago. He was arrested and jailed several times for possession of and dealing in illegal substances. He was involved in a number of public disturbances,” Gia said matter-of-factly. “But that was long ago. I met Rio in 2004. He severed his affiliation soon after that.”
Rare, very rare, unless death cut short the membership. To my knowledge, and I admit that’s not extensive, leaving a gang is all but impossible. “Not easy to do.”
“No, it was not.”
I waited, but she didn’t elaborate.
“Do you believe his personal history has bearing on his disappearance?” Royal asked.
Daven replied, “We don’t know. We have absolutely no idea what happened to Rio.”
“But you’re sure he disappeared? He didn’t take off?” I asked.
As Gia spoke, she clasped and unclasped her hands as if to stop herself from wringing them. “Although Rio was involved in the drug market in his youth, he was not a user. None of his family is. Eight days ago, he discovered his younger brother was addicted to crack cocaine. Rio took Rojero to a motel in Tremonton to help him over the initial days of withdrawal. He called me three days ago to tell me he and Rojero were returning to Clarion. When he didn’t come home, I telephoned his parents’ house. Rojero said Rio left him at the door two days ago. They have not seen him and neither have I.”
She reminded me of the shades I see and talk to, whose faces are frozen at their time of death and body language is the only mode
of expression left to them. Not that she was expressionless all the time, but every now and then her face went blank in an eerie kind of way, as if it seemed to . . . come to rest, the same for Daven.
They were not just odd, they were eerie. They gave me the creeps. They scared me. That tiny voice inside my head kept repeating, nonhuman. I wanted to get angry, because I’d rather be angry than scared, but just looking at the woman, I felt kind of drained, lethargic.
And something about the way Royal sat, his brief, stilted gestures; he appeared tense and nervous, which was unlike him.
I pushed it from my mind and tried to concentrate. I saw little to go on so far, but I recalled cases for Clarion PD where we initially had just as little to work with.
Royal leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped, but back still rigid. “You spoke to Rojero?”
“As far as he knew, Rio was heading home,” Daven said.
“And you didn’t speak to the parents?”
Gia looked down at her clasped hands. “We have an uneasy alliance where Rio is concerned. They don’t approve of me, an older gringo woman, but they tolerate me because Rio loves me and we don’t abuse each other. But they would not discuss Rio, whatever the circumstances.”
“Has he been threatened? Did he have reason to fear anyone?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
I gnawed on my lower lip. We were silent for a few minutes while traffic hummed outside the windows. The Borrego family would not talk to me, but I knew someone who would, if I felt desperate.
“And there’s nothing more you can tell us?” I asked.
The two looked at each other, looked back at us. “I think not,” Daven said.
I started to my feet. “If you’d give us a moment, my partner and I would like to confer.”
Royal’s hand on my wrist pulled me back down to the couch. He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other and put his arm across my shoulders. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Of course we will do all we can to help you.”