Dying to Know

by TJ O'Connor

  “Oh, Tuck. I want to believe. I’m sorry this happened. I wish I could change it all.”

  “I know, Angel.” If only she could hear me. But, deep down, I knew she couldn’t.

  “Damn him.” She dug into her jeans pocket and withdrew her cell phone. She hit speed dial 2—Bear’s number—and sighed when it went right to voicemail. “Please, Bear. Try and understand …”

  A hungry rush of anxiety gripped me. It was …

  “No—get down. Down!”

  Hercule erupted into a deafening bark. He lunged across the room and drove Angel out of her chair just as two shots shattered the kitchen window. He pinned her to the floor, shielding her beneath him. A steady, deathly warning reverberated through his clinched teeth.

  “Stay boy,” I yelled.

  Several long, heavy moments passed.

  “Angela?” Bear crashed through the front door and down the hall. He burst into the kitchen with gun drawn. “You all right?”

  “I, I … yes.”

  “Stay here. Call 911.” He disappeared out the kitchen door into the backyard darkness.

  Without thinking, I was in the backyard, standing in the darkness, looking for Bear. I turned in circles and searched. I felt nothing—no presences, no fear, no danger.

  I caught up with him in front of the house. He was standing near a bush beside our front gate. He looked up the street where a streetlight bathed parked cars and the street disappeared over a knoll. Several times, he threw a look over his shoulder toward the house, then moved into the street and began a slow advance toward town. When he reached the cone of light arcing down from the streetlamp at the corner, he stopped crouching and stood upright, heaving a breath.

  No shots rang out. No shooter ran for an escape.

  A block ahead of us, I heard shuffling feet and the sound of a barking dog.

  “Easy, Bear. Take a breath. Someone’s up ahead but it could be anyone. Don’t drop your guard now.”

  He hesitated, looked back to the house, and then continued up the block. At the next corner, he stopped behind a parked pickup and rested. He started to move forward again, edging out from behind the truck.

  “Bear, wait. I’ll check ahead.”

  He stopped and backed into the shadows. I don’t know if he heard me, or that buzzing in his head made him think twice of the danger, but either way, he stayed put.

  I left him and ran up the street, dodging behind parked cars until I realized how silly it was. No bullet could hurt me nor could any shooter see me. I sprinted to the corner and was about to jog farther when a faint voice jingled in my head—not one, but two.

  What I saw across the street began a new chapter in my dead-detective saga.

  Two young girls stood beneath a tall, broad oak tree near the opposite corner. They were outside the cone of two streetlamps, on the hazy periphery of their light. I could see them—almost. They were out of focus and little more than silhouettes with vague hints of detail. And they were … they were waving to me. Me. I didn’t know what to do. So, like any warm-blooded man when pretty girls beckoned, I waved back.

  At least it wasn’t two guys digging holes in my foyer.

  The girls gained focus and coalesced into dim figures just light enough to see. They exchanged words, laughing and cajoling each other. One of them beckoned me to join them but I didn’t move—I couldn’t. My legs were frozen in place like a freshman at his first dance.

  One girl beckoned to me again. She was pretty—of that I was sure. She seemed young, not a teenager but not yet a woman. Her companion was pretty, too, and shared her youth. Their images were incomplete, unclear—photographs still developing.

  Who were they? What did they want with me?

  I managed to walk to the curb and stopped twenty feet away trying to see them clearer in the streetlight. Something was pulling me again, willing me to join them. I had to go—to talk to them. They were like me—bound here for some unknown reason. Yet every instinct said they had been here for much longer. They were in my world or I was in theirs.

  I had to talk to them.

  As I took that first step forward, they waved and faded. I heard the jingle of youthful giggles and they were gone.

  A shiver ran through me. Can a ghost be haunted?

  I returned my focus to Bear. He was behind me, somewhere back down the street in the dark. The girls sidetracked me, and now the shooter could be anywhere.

  I jogged down the block in time to see Bear walking down the middle of the street, gun holstered, strolling casually back toward my house. He seemed oblivious to the possible danger that could be waiting nearby. He was muttering to himself.

  His cavalier attitude made me mad as hell.

  Someone shot at Angel—tried to kill her. The shooter, unlike the two young wraiths, was bone and muscle, and very, very dangerous. For the second time, someone violated our home. And for the second time, I was helpless to stop them.

  A disturbing thought pushed through my emotions and settled into the detective part of my brain. There were three common elements each time someone came to my home to kill. The answer, I feared, was secreted among them.

  Angel, Bear, and me.

  I didn’t have any secrets—did they?

  fifteen

  The crime technicians finished their work just after midnight. Their hunt for bullet fragments and shell casings started at the house and finished in the yard. Much to my displeasure, Spence and Clemens arrived at ten. Of course, it took more than two hours to complete their endless and mindless questions.

  Most of Angel’s answers were, “I don’t know, I didn’t see anything,” and “How would I know, I didn’t see anything.”

  Bear’s answers were not as polite.

  When they left, I followed Clemens down the front sidewalk. Spence was there, talking with a uniformed cop assigned to guard the house for the night.

  Spence said, “Yeah, you have to stay the night. It’s all bullshit, ya’ know. My money says the only one shooting up the place was him.”

  Him? The little turd thought Bear shot at Angel.

  “Come on, Mike, what are you saying?” Clemens leaned on their car, eyeing the uniformed cop beside Spence. “You think Bear did this?”

  “Maybe,” Spence said. “Maybe he’s trying to make Tuck’s murder look more convincing. You know, get the heat off him and Angela.”

  “No way,” Clemens waved the uniformed cop away. “Bear’s straight—least I think so. What makes you think someone didn’t come back for something?”

  “What makes you think they did? Angela didn’t see anything—just the shots. Bear claims he only heard the shots. Neighbors saw him heading up the street with a gun. Maybe Bear did the shooting to make it look like a stalker.”

  “Oh, come on, Mikey. That’s a lot of maybes.” Clemens made some notes in his pad. “Why go through all that?”

  “Why do you think? Dr. Angela Tucker is smart, gorgeous, and has money. The oldest motive in the world. Sex and money.”

  “Bear?”

  “Bear.”

  “No way.” Clemens scribbled in his pad before he changed the topic. “He was pissed about her computer. Was it you? I never touched it, I swear.”

  “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “Nope.” Spence’s face lit up in a big smile. “But he sure is worried about it, isn’t he? Maybe we should take a look.”

  “Ah, shit. Come on, Mikey. Lighten up on them.”

  Clemens was a good guy, deep down, but handicapped by Spence. The problem was that Spence was the senior detective and that meant Cal Clemens had to follow his lead—even if that was over a cliff.

  “Cal,” I said. “Bear’s innocent. Angel is innocent. Spence is full of shit. Jesus, man, you have to know that.”

  Spence climbed into their cruiser and sta
rted the engine. Clemens stood there, leaning against the fender watching the house. The last thing he did before climbing in beside Spence was to rip the notes from his pad and shred them into confetti.

  “Not Bear,” he whispered and tossed the papers into the street.

  _____

  Angel watched from the front door as the detectives drove away. I followed her to the kitchen where Bear was pouring coffee. For a man who just survived a shooting, he didn’t look fazed. But then again, it took a lot to faze him.

  “I don’t like those two,” Angel said. “I don’t like their questions, either.”

  “Relax. They will never solve this. I’ll take care of it.”

  I slipped onto the chair next to Angel and touched her hand again. “Ask Bear about your computer. Ask him about the file in the den.”

  She sat very still, barely breathing, watching her coffee cup. “Bear, I hear him again.”

  “Don’t start that—Jesus.”

  I leaned over, whispered into Angel’s ear, and touched the side of her cheek. On cue, she said, “Oh, don’t forget that file Sutter wants. The one in the bookcase.”

  “What did you say?”

  “The file.”

  “Oh, shit, Angela.” Bear’s face twisted as if he bit into something sour. “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know, Bear. I don’t know … never mind, I’ll get it.” Angel disappeared down the hall. When she returned, she was carrying the file. “Here. I found it earlier in the bookshelf. You hid it there. Why?”

  “How’d you know?” He took the file in one hand and her shoulder with the other. “Shit, Angela, I just, well, I wanted to see it before anyone else.”

  She cocked her head. “But why?”

  “Just because. You know, in case there’s a good lead. I want it before Spence gets his paws on it.” Angel was thinking about that when Bear changed gears. “Do you have anything else of Tuck’s I should take?”

  She shook her head and when she took his hand, a twinge of jealousy stung me.

  Bear was somehow different from the man I’d known for years

  as my best friend and partner. He was hard—harder than I remembered—and suddenly detached from my murder. People react differently to pain and loss, but if it were the other way around, I’d be kicking in doors all over town hunting his killer. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was something else.

  Maybe.

  “You don’t need to watch over me tonight,” Angel said. “Captain Sutter has that deputy outside. I’ll be fine.”

  Bear looked at his watch. “Okay, I’m heading out. I’ll check in with the cap first.” He pulled out his cell phone and punched a key. “I have messages. Let me check.”

  “One’s from me …”

  “What the?” The phone skidded across the table as Bear shuffled back, colliding with the sink. “Jeez, no way. No …”

  “What is it?” Angel asked. “Who called?”

  He tapped the air with his finger and pointed at the phone. “Your voicemail.”

  “What about it?” Angel picked up the phone, hit the speaker button, and replayed the message. “… Please try and understand …” Angel’s voice was clear but it was not what made her replay the message three times. Then she cried—happy tears—as a smile blossomed on her face. Suddenly, without hesitation, she believed. Bear, however, shook his head and muttered guttural denials as he replayed the last words.

  It was all captured on the message. All of it. There were Hercule’s frantic bark and the two gunshots. Even before that—before Hercule knocked Angel to safety—were my muffled, near indistinguishable words recorded in the mayhem.

  “No … Get down … Down …”

  sixteen

  The University of the Shenandoah Valley is tucked into a small valley—a hollow as many locals call it—just outside Winchester where Frederick County begins its climb west toward the Appalachian Mountains. Just off State Highway 50, the university sprawls among rolling hills and picturesque farm country. The campus is right at home in the country setting. Its mixture of turn-of-the-century Americana and modern academia is captured in the campus’s brick, stone, and steel architecture. Despite its mid-twentieth-century construction, it still manages to exude old-school charm.

  The drive was relaxing and Angel seemed at peace with things now.

  Last night, it took Angel and Bear two hours to reach an agreement on the voicemail. They agreed to disagree. He decided my voice was a leftover message from an old call, somehow electronically merged with Angel’s message. She knew that was bunk. She went to bed with a smile; Bear went to his apartment and erased the message. I sat vigil beside Angel, watching her sleep. It seemed restful and undisturbed. I doubted Bear’s was the same.

  When we pulled into the campus drive, a very strange thought began to nag me. Angel was the brains in our family. I was, or had been, the other part. Now, that had changed. I was gone—at least, as far as everyone was concerned. I had to think about Angel in a different way—a less selfish and sentimental way. Sooner or later, I’d have to face the possibility of Angel moving on and finding some eager young historian or equally interchangeable brain to while away the years with her. She was young and had so much life left. Unlike me.

  The thought of someone else’s feet propped on my desk choked me. Perhaps I’d have to learn about good, old-fashioned haunting. Of course, when that time came, I might just go searching for the ghost of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Two could play that game.

  I followed Angel through the brick and glass entrance of the John S. Mosby Center for American Studies and up to the senior faculty offices on the third floor. A dozen or more professors and staff stopped to greet her, each passing along sympathies and all manners of condolences. It was a gauntlet of well-wishers, and after two floors, Angel lowered her head and dashed to her

  office.

  “Thank God,” she whispered and dug in her handbag for her key. But, the door was unlocked and she pushed it open. “Carmen?”

  Carmen Delgado was the department administrator and a longtime family friend. Angel and I both expected to find her inside, filing, checking budgets, or doing any number of tasks in Angel’s absence. It was not, however, the lovely Ms. Delgado rooting through Angel’s desk.

  “Ernie?” Angel’s voice was thick with irritation. “What are you doing?”

  Ernie looked up and dropped a stack of mail as if it were on fire. “Oh, my, Angela, you startled me.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Out with it,” I said. “What the hell are you doing in here, Ernie?”

  “I was handling your mail so you wouldn’t worry about work. I wanted to make sure nothing urgent went unattended.”

  “That’s very kind, Ernie,” Angel said, patting his shoulder. She walked around behind her desk and dropped her backpack onto it. “I already spoke with Carmen. She’ll take care of my mail. I came in to pick up some things.”

  “Of course,” he said. “We’ve covered your classes for two weeks; longer if you need it. I may take them myself.”

  “I appreciate it, Ernie.” She sat down in her chair and picked up a handful of mail. “Did you find the M.E.’s report you asked about?”

  “Well, no, now that you mention it.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll check at home, too. Maybe Tuck …”

  “Yes, maybe he did,” he said. “Have you decided on the arrangements?”

  “No, they’re still holding his body.” Angel’s faced paled. “I have to wait a couple more days. Bear is pushing to get him released, though.”

  “I see. Please let me know if I can help in any way.” Ernie went to the door, but stopped and turned around. “There is something else.”

  “What is it, Ernie?”

  He looked thoughtful, perhaps hesitant. “I noti
ced a note from Tyler Byrd—of course I didn’t open it. That disturbs me.”

  “Oh?” Angel asked, shuffling through the mail until she found the pre-printed address label that read, “Byrd Construction & Development.” She slipped it into her backpack. “I’ll see to it that my mail concerning Kelly’s Dig is delivered to my home.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose it should. But since it wasn’t, may I inquire about its contents?”

  “I’d prefer not.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m sorry, Ernie. It wouldn’t be appropriate. After all, it’s your historical foundation—not the university—opposing him. I’m impartial. I’m interested in history, not politics. That is, after all, why I’m a ‘friend of the court.’ ”

  “Well, perhaps.” Ernie’s pucker-factor hit nine. “But I do speak for the university.”

  “Forgive me, Ernie, but you don’t.”

  “Now see here …”

  “Please.” She smiled to soften the blow to his ego. “When the dean approved my assignment to the court, he was very clear. He pointed out you spoke for your foundation. Only the foundation. The university has no position on Kelly’s Dig. I’m an independent consultant with no ties back here.”

  Pucker-factor nine-point-five and climbing.

  I laughed. “You tell ’em, Angel.”

  “We all have a stake in this,” Ernie snapped. “Byrd is destroying this county. He’s a thug.”

  Tyler Byrd was perhaps the largest and most powerful of the local Virginia developers. He had been for as long as I could remember. Nevertheless, I’m not sure “thug” was fair. At present, he was hip-deep in the development of a highway bypass around northeastern Winchester. The project would take years to complete, and with the other projects around town, it would leave Tyler filthy rich. He was, after all, only dirty rich now.

  “Be reasonable, Ernie. After the human bones and artifacts were unearthed at Kelly’s Dig, all the rules on Byrd’s project changed. You were one of the first to see them. You know what this discovery might mean to his project.”