I frowned. “What are you saying? That nothing is ever absolute? That nothing is ever really true?”
“Not exactly. What I’m saying is that truth is a fluid thing, Drex. Every individual has their own truth, and who’s to say whether it’s right or wrong?”
“That’s pretty deep down the rabbit hole for a vagabond ghost-chaser living in a ratty RV.”
Grayson’s chin lifted slightly. His eyebrows knitted together, giving him a look of mock pretentiousness. “I’m not a vagabond. I prefer the term ‘non-localized, alternative solutions investigator.’”
I smirked. “Well, I suppose you are entitled to your opinion of reality.”
Grayson grinned. “Touché.”
I refilled his coffee cup. “So tell me, no bull this time. What’s up with the red octopus thing?”
“Oculi rubere. It’s Latin for red eyes.”
“Okay. But why were you repeating it over and over in your sleep?”
Grayson glanced around, as if to ensure no one else was listening. He leaned in toward me. “Because I came out here on a case. I’m investigating rumors of a red-eyed creature that’s been roaming the pine forests and swamps around Waldo.”
I nearly dropped the coffee pot. “And I thought you were full of it before.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re chasing a monster? Gimme a break, Grayson!”
“My paranormal P.I. services happen to include the occasional tracking of cryptids,” he said defensively.
“Cryptids?”
“Yes. As yet undiscovered or unexplained creatures.”
“Like ghosts?”
“More substantial than that. Let’s call them ghosts who leave behind footprints.”
“And dead bodies?”
Grayson’s eyebrow shot up. “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged, uncertain of how much to tell. “Have you, you know, actually seen this red-eyed thing you’re chasing?”
“Yes. At least, I think so. On the road the night before last. Right after my RV broke down. The whole incident—or accident—whatever it was, was odd.”
“What do you mean?”
“The RV came slamming to a halt as if I’d hit something.” Grayson absently felt the tender knot on his forehead and smirked. “After getting an extreme close-up of the windshield, I looked over to my left. I would swear I saw a pair of red eyes staring at me from the woods.”
Ice spider made another beer run down my spine. “Maybe it was your own reflection in the window.”
“No. Couldn’t have been. The driver’s side window was down.”
I grimaced. “Did you get a picture of it or anything?”
“No. I remember reaching over to roll up the window and this stabbing pain suddenly shooting through my shoulder.”
“It bit you?”
“I don’t know.” Grayson touched his shoulder. “It could’ve been the seatbelt harness. I think I cracked my clavicle. Anyway, the next thing I knew, it was daybreak. I was still sitting upright in the driver’s seat. I remembered seeing the flashing yellow light up the road. I thought it was close, so I got out and walked it.”
“The flatlands around here can be deceiving.”
Grayson’s eyebrow shot up. “You’re telling me. I kept walking and walking, but the light wasn’t getting any closer—like it was a mirage. Then, finally, two and a half miles later, I ended up at your garage.”
I thought about the bite-shaped wound on Grayson’s left shoulder. What if it really was a bite? Should I tell him about the two glowing red spheres I’d seen atop the Stop & Shoppe drive-thru? Were those the red eyes he was chasing? They certainly couldn’t have belonged to deer—unless Rudolph was doing a pre-Christmas test flight.
No. Even after all the gobbledygook he’d spilled, I still wasn’t sure whether Grayson believed in ghosts or not. If he wasn’t going to give me any straight answers, then he wouldn’t get any from me, either.
But I really wanted some straight answers.
I chewed my lip. Maybe if I took Grayson to the place I’d seen the dead body, he’d stop this esoteric bullshit and give me some helpful information. According to my training course, I shouldn’t lead the witness. It would be better to take him there without telling him anything and let him conjure up his own version of reality. He seemed up to the task.
“I went back to the scene of your accident,” I said. “I don’t think what you hit was a deer.”
“No? What do you think it was, then?”
“Not sure. You up for a ride? I’ll show you.”
Grayson glanced quickly at his mug. “Can I take my coffee with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go.”
Chapter Seventeen
“IS THIS A SIXTY-FOUR?” Grayson asked as he climbed into the Mustang.
“Sixty-four and a half.”
“Candy-apple red. Goes well with your auburn hair.”
“Actually, it’s Rangoon Red. And this is a wig.”
Grayson cocked his head at me and smiled. “Really? Wh—”
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay.” He looked down at my boots. “So what’s with the clodhoppers, Red?”
“Don’t call me Red. They’re my father’s work boots.”
“He doesn’t need them?”
“Not where he is at the moment.”
“Where’s that?”
“You tell me, Mr. Philosopher. He’s dead.”
Grayson nodded. “Oh. The old Heaven-or-Hell paradox. If you’re into that sort of thing.”
“You’re not?”
“No. But I’m quite certain there’s an intelligence at work behind all that exists. Does that work for you?”
I shot him some side-eye. “Not really.”
Grayson glanced to his right for a moment, as if he were consulting someone sitting beside him. He turned to face me again. “That’s okay. The universal intelligence says you don’t actually work for it, either.”
Red flags began to wave as if I were at a NASCAR pileup. So I did what I usually did when that happened. I ignored them.
I shifted into first and headed out of the parking lot.
“Tell me something,” I said as we buzzed down Obsidian Road. “What’s with the fedora?”
Grayson touched the hat on his head. “This old thing? Keeps my head warm.”
“It’s a vintage Dobb’s Fifth Avenue from the 1950s.”
Grayson shot me an appreciative smile. “That it is. Impressive.”
“I worked in antiques after college.”
“Smart move. I worked in entomology.”
My foot nearly slipped off the accelerator. “Really? Can I ask you something? Can earwigs really drive a person crazy?”
Grayson laughed. “I have to hand it to you. You do pose some interesting topics of conversation.”
I winced. “Sorry. I’ve never been much for small talk.”
“Me neither. To answer your question, I suppose anything could drive a person crazy if they gave it enough power.”
I groaned. “Not philosophy again. Come on. I’m talking about real life. Like ... what if an earwig crawled inside somebody’s ear?”
“Ah. Anisolabis maritima. The poor, maligned little earwig. That’s an urban myth. Sure, once in a while one finds its way into someone’s ear. But it’s just looking for a dark, moist place to hide out. There’s never been a case of one damaging anyone’s brain or driving them crazy. In fact, they’re one of the few insects that display maternal instincts. But then again, they also eat guano. Why do you ask?”
I shrugged. “No particular reason. We’re here.”
I pulled the Mustang off the road where Grayson’s RV had come to a standstill yesterday. It wasn’t hard to find. A few straggling scavengers still circled in the sky above, marking the spot like Mother Nature’s own GPS drones.
“Buzzards,” I said, looking up as I climbed out of the car.
“Vultur
es,” Grayson corrected.
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” I said. “Follow me.”
Grayson kept close, just a step or two behind me as I searched for the trail I’d trampled into the sawgrass yesterday. The overnight rains had plumped the grass and washed the sand, making the trail barely discernable.
“Only Americans call members of the genus Cathartes buzzards,” Grayson said behind me as I fumbled my way through the thigh-high grass. “To everyone else on the planet, a buzzard is a hawk, a bird of prey.”
“Does it matter?” I asked, slightly annoyed.
“In detective work, getting the details correct is critical. Buzzards are actually turkey vultures.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “They’re vultures. But that over there is a dead dog.”
I pointed to the carcass lying about fifteen feet ahead in a clearing just beyond a stand of pines. The animal appeared to have lost its bloat and collapsed inward. It looked like a moth-eaten fur coat.
Grayson walked up to the carcass. He squatted down close enough to disturb a swarm of flies. “It’s a dog, all right. Gave somebody hell, too. The fur around its jaws is black with encrusted blood.”
“What do you mean somebody? Couldn’t another animal have attacked it?”
“Sure. As long as the other animal knew how to wield a knife. See those straight, inch-long wounds in its side?”
I stepped closer and tried not to breathe. Grayson took a stick and poked at a few holes, making my stomach twist. “Knife punctures,” he said, as matter-of-factly as if he were giving someone his lunch order.
I’ll have a homicidal stab wound and a side of fries.
I grimaced. “You sure you didn’t hit it with your RV?”
“Yes. I don’t see any crushing injuries. No broken bones.”
“Could the dog be the source of the red eyes you saw the other night?”
“Well, I think we can rule that out, too.”
“How?”
Grayson lifted the dog’s head up with a stick. The eye socket on the underside of its head had been sewn shut.
“That would be hard to pull off with only one eye,” Grayson said almost merrily. “Yes. Those are knife punctures, all right. This dog put up one hell of a fight. I’m surprised the guy who tangled with it made it out of here alive.”
“Uh ... maybe he didn’t.”
Grayson looked up at me. “Why do you say that?” He rose to his feet like a shot and glanced all around him. “Do you see a body?”
“No. But yesterday, I thought I did. I must’ve imagined it, because when I came back an hour later with Paulson, it wasn’t here.”
Grayson studied me. “Are you in the habit of seeing imaginary dead bodies?”
When I didn’t dignify his question with an answer, Grayson’s face softened. “Look. It may be important. What did this body you thought you saw look like? Was it male? Female?”
“I don’t know. The face was ... gone. Ripped off or something. Its head was a bloody pulp.”
Grayson nodded. I studied him for signs of skepticism, but couldn’t detect anything but earnest interest.
“What else?” he asked.
“It was wearing an orange jumpsuit.”
“Hmmm. Must have been an escaped convict.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why not?”
“Ever since I was a kid playing in the woods, I always worried I’d come across an escapee from Starke Prison. Maybe I really did just imagine it.”
“But you’re not a kid anymore,” Grayson said.
I looked away and studied the ground at his feet.
“Something tells me there’s more to this, Drex. Something you’re not telling me.”
Ahh crap. What the hell.
“This isn’t the first dead guy I’ve seen lately who turned out to be a mirage.”
Grayson took a step toward me. “What do you mean?”
I sighed. I was in this deep, might as well go all the way.
“The guy who shot me on Thursday? I saw him in the hospital as I was leaving. I’d swear it was him. But then Earl told me it couldn’t have been, because he was dead. Hit by a bus.”
Grayson nodded. “Time to cue the Twilight Zone music, huh?”
Dammit. I shouldn’t have told him.
“So where was this guy you saw yesterday?” Grayson asked.
I pointed to a stand of trees. “Up against that pine over there.”
I followed Grayson over to the tree. He examined the bed of rust-colored pine needles surrounding the trunk, then used a stick to clear a spot in the sand below. The normally light-gray sand was tinged pinkish-red.
“Could be your guy was no ghost.”
I peered at the pink sand. “Is that blood?”
“Possibly. Hard to be sure after all the rain last night.”
I glanced around the woods, suddenly horrified. “So what happened to the body? He was dead, I’m sure of it. He couldn’t have gotten up or crawled away.”
I wanted to ask Grayson if he believed in zombies, but then again, I didn’t want to know the answer.
“See these marks and scuffs in the sand?” Grayson pointed to a set of half washed away canine-looking tracks and slash lines in the sand. “He could’ve been dragged off by predators. Or eaten down to nothing by your friendly neighborhood vultures.”
I shook my head. “Not possible.”
“Why not?”
“After I saw the body ... or mirage, or whatever the hell it was, I ran back to my car and called Paulson. It took him about an hour to arrive. When we came back here, the dog was still over there, but the body was gone. I had to have imagined it. Vultures couldn’t have eaten it in an hour.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Grayson countered. “A few years ago, a woman fell to her death hiking in the French Pyrenees. Before the rescue helicopter could get there, she’d been totally devoured by vultures in under forty-five minutes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Nothing left but shoes and clothes and a few bones.”
“Gross! How do you know that?”
“A good private investigator keeps up with those kinds of things. That, and I happen to have a subscription to the Huffington Post.”
“Ugh! Even if you’re right, and I’m not saying you are, shouldn’t there be something left of the body? Or at least the orange jumpsuit? It should be easy to spot in the grass around here.”
Grayson smiled like a proud parent. “Now you’re thinking like a private investigator.”
“Save the praise, Professor Grayson. I’m not really a P.I. At least, not yet. I’ve only got my intern license.”
Grayson smiled. “I know.”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How?”
Grayson’s smirk evaporated. He cocked his head to one side. “I’m a private investigator. I thought I’d mentioned that.”
“Argh! You’re exasperating!”
“Okay, okay. Ever heard of a thing called Google?”
“Of course.”
“You should try it sometime.”
“Ha ha. I would, but I don’t have internet at home at the moment.”
“At home? Don’t you have a smartphone?”
“Yes.”
“Drex, if you’re serious about becoming a P.I., I suggest you learn how to use your phone. Now, let’s do a little beating around the bush and see if we can find some trace of this orange jumpsuit person, shall we? He might turn out to be our red-eyed monster after all.”
“Fine.”
“And while we’re at it, tell me all about this getting shot business. And the other dead guy you think you saw.”
Chapter Eighteen
DESPITE SEARCHING FOR nearly an hour, Grayson and I couldn’t find a trace of the dead person in the orange jumpsuit. Grayson thought the pinkish stain in the sand could’ve been blood or a layer of microbial fungus. He collected a sample for testing. If it was blood, it could�
�ve come from the dog. So the jury was still out on whether my concussion was causing hallucinations, or I’d simply lost my freaking mind.
“Well, that was fun,” Grayson said as we climbed back into the Mustang. “I thought we were going to see a dead deer, but we ended up with a one-eyed dog who, tragically, found himself on the wrong end of a knife.”
“I should call Detective Paulson. Let him know about the knife wounds and all.”
Grayson buckled his seatbelt, wincing at the effort. “Who is he again?”
“He’s the cop assigned to Point Paradise. We’re too small to have our own police department. So Paulson acts as kind of a liaison, covering our area from his office in Waldo.”
“Well, you picked an interesting first case, I’ll give you that. Sure beats tracking down deadbeat dads and cheating spouses.”
“This isn’t my case. I only told Paulson about it.”
“Sure,” Grayson said. “That’s right. You can’t work cases by yourself with an intern license.”
“Yeah, technically. But I am kind of working a case for Paulson anyway.”
Grayson shot me a devious grin. “Really?”
I shrugged. “It’s just a stupid little thing. He didn’t want to be bothered with it.”
Grayson wagged his eyebrows and spoke in faux Groucho Marx. “Tell me, Gracie. How stupid was it?”
I laughed. “Our village kook keeps getting weird phone calls. Beeping. Robot voices. Stuff like that. It’s nothing, really. But I guess, like you said, you’ve gotta start somewhere.”
“You’re kidding,” Grayson said.
“I wish.”
Grayson touched my arm. “You ever hear of a place called Point Pleasant, West Virginia?”
“No.”
“It was the site of some weird happenings back in the 1960s. People in that little town started getting weird phone calls.”
I shrugged. “Yeah? Well, who doesn’t every now and again?”
Grayson nodded. “Fair enough. But quite a few of them also reported being chased by a flying, red-eyed monster.”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled. I turned the key in the ignition and shook my head. Could that really have been what I saw—what I tried to chase down—at the Stop & Shoppe?
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