by Jane Kindred
* * *
It wasn’t until Rafe was halfway down the highway that he remembered why he’d gone there in the first place. He’d blown any chance of finding out what his father knew about the family legacy.
His eyes were heavy as he drove the back way toward home and he had to shake his head to clear it more than once. Driving over the dark hills was hypnotic. No news vans waited for him at the more private rear gate at Stone Canyon and Rafe headed in, grateful for the reprieve. He couldn’t put them off for long, but at least he could have some peace tonight. He fixed himself another Scotch—hold the ginger ale—and proceeded to pass out on the couch.
* * *
His phone woke him in the morning out of a deep, lethargic sleep. Somehow, the ringtone sounded ominous.
Rafe fumbled the device out of his pocket and put it to his ear, eyes still closed. “This is Rafe.”
“Rafael Diamante Junior?” The voice was clinically professional and hesitant at the same time.
“Yes?”
“I’m calling from the Verde Valley Medical Center, Sedona Campus. Your father was admitted early this morning, suffering from chest pains and shortness of breath. We think you’ll want to get here right away.”
* * *
Rafe ignored the reporters who’d apparently camped there all night as he blazed through the gates and drove for the hospital. He should have seen this coming, the way his father was worked up when he left. He should have kept his mouth shut. What did any of that matter now? It was all in the past, where Rafe should have left it.
When he arrived at the cardiac wing, the faces of the staff told him he was too late. But they weren’t going to be the ones to tell him. Hospital protocol, he supposed. A solemn “the doctor will be right out to speak with you” was the most he would get. As he waited, Carter Hamilton stepped out of the elevator looking unusually harried, tie loose and jacket wrinkled over his arm, with a large coffee in his hand.
He stopped short as he saw Rafe. “Thank goodness you’re here. I’ve been calling you all morning.”
Rafe glanced down at the phone he was still holding. He hadn’t even noticed the missed calls, but there they were. “I must have been sleeping pretty hard. They called you?” Maybe they’d found Hamilton’s card in his father’s wallet.
“No, I brought him in. I had a meeting with him this morning, and when I got to the house, he was in bad shape. I called an ambulance and rode in with him.”
Rafe opened his mouth but the doctor approached before he even knew what he’d meant to say.
The look on the man’s face confirmed his fear. “Mr. Diamante?”
“Yes. How’s my father? Can I see him?”
The doctor took off his wire frames and rubbed the lenses against his lab coat, perhaps making it easier to say what he had to say without being able to focus on Rafe’s face. “Your father was in cardiac arrest when he arrived at the hospital. We were able to revive him briefly, but he never regained consciousness. I’m sorry.”
Rafe nodded stupidly.
Hamilton put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure they did everything they could.”
The doctor put his glasses back on. “There was some irregularity I wanted to discuss with you.”
The lawyer gave Rafe’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be in the waiting area if you need me.”
Rafe felt like he was moving in slow motion, out of sync with the people around him. “What sort of irregularity?”
“Your father’s symptoms indicate that he may have been suffering from ingestion of batrachotoxin. We believe it’s what caused his heart to stop.”
“Batrachotoxin?”
“It’s a neurotoxin produced by the Dendrobates species. A species of Central American poison dart frog, to be exact.” The doctor held his gaze. “To be perfectly blunt, we believe your father was poisoned.”
Chapter 12
Puddleglum’s bowl hadn’t been touched since yesterday afternoon. Phoebe frowned as she scanned the backyard for any sign of the cat. She’d called him repeatedly, but he hadn’t appeared. It wasn’t like him to forgo both dinner and breakfast.
Listening to the morning news as she finished getting ready, she paused with her toothbrush halfway to her mouth, arrested by the name the hostess had mentioned. Phoebe peered down the hallway at the television screen. Rafe walked with his head lowered, wearing dark glasses, as Carter Hamilton led him out of a hospital entrance.
A reporter in front of the hospital faced the camera. “More trouble follows Sedona businessman Rafe Diamante this morning as questions arise about the sudden death of his father earlier today. A source at Verde Valley Medical Center in Sedona, who spoke with me a few moments ago, says Rafael Diamante Senior was—get this—poisoned by this adorable tree frog.” An image of a slippery, bright red frog perched on a tropical leaf appeared on the screen. “This cute little guy, known as the strawberry poison dart frog, produces a neurotoxin once used by Aztec warriors to ambush their enemies.”
Phoebe nearly swallowed her toothpaste.
“Diamante Junior hasn’t been charged with the crime, but it doesn’t look good for him. By his own admission, Diamante and his father argued late last night.”
After spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing, Phoebe grabbed her phone and tried to reach Rafe, but the call went straight to voice mail. She’d have to try to him later. If she didn’t leave now, she’d be late for her court date.
After a last glance around the yard to call for Puddleglum, she headed out. The cat would probably be taking ownership of her papasan chair by the time she came home.
* * *
The bottle of Scotch his father had been drinking had tested positive for batrachotoxin. Hamilton gave Rafe the news when he stopped by to deliver a strongbox full of papers from his trunk—the contents of a safe-deposit box Rafael and Hamilton had planned to go over at their meeting.
Rafe shifted the box to one side, hooked under his arm. “But I drank some of that Scotch.”
“How much?”
“An ounce—maybe two.”
“The poison was in pretty low concentration, but your dad drank a significant amount. Probably started long before you got there last night and continued afterward. He finished off the bottle.” Hamilton studied him. “Did you feel at all ill?”
Rafe nodded, recalling how hard it been to stay awake on the drive back. “Kind of woozy. I was surprised such a small amount of alcohol had hit me so hard.”
“And then you slept through my calls in the morning.” Hamilton rubbed at his blond stubble. He looked like a hipster Ken doll. “Just like what you described at Barbara Fisher’s place.”
The connection was too obvious to ignore. “You think whoever killed Fisher poisoned my father.”
Hamilton shrugged. “Makes sense. Seems like too much of a coincidence otherwise.”
“But why? My father didn’t have anything to do with the shades I was communicating with.”
“As far as you know.” That was a sobering thought. “I had the opportunity to talk with the DA Off the record, they don’t have enough evidence to charge you, but they aren’t ready to write you off, either. In light of the Fisher murder, and the circumstances, you’re the unofficial prime suspect.”
Rafe sighed. “I suppose I should have seen that coming.”
“I wouldn’t fret about it too much. They’re going to have a hard time coming up with anything to tie you to it since there’s no way you could have tampered with the Scotch when he’d been drinking it before you got there.”
* * *
Rafe went through the box after Hamilton had gone. He set a pile of paperwork for the business aside after finding a series of Covent journals, going back decades, buried underneath. Holed up inside, away from the media encampment at the gate, Raf
e spent the afternoon poring over them. Rafael Sr. had never specifically mentioned the quetzal but “the family legacy” featured prominently in the journals, mostly in the context of the importance of its continuance within the Covent.
“The Diamantes,” his father had written, “have passed this torch from generation to generation, have bequeathed this responsibility to our offspring as the legacy of our Aztec ancestors, scions of the divine blood.” The claims of Aztec blood were nothing new, but it was the first time he’d heard mention of divine origins.
The Covent kept a compendium of pagan archetypes among its library. Maybe he’d find something there. Rafe logged on to the Covent’s network—at least they hadn’t revoked his access—and pulled up the compendium. There it was: quetzal.
Rafe read aloud. “‘An embodied avatar of Quetzalcoatl. Believed to be a conduit for the god’s energy, the quetzal may have the ability to transform into nagual form while possessed by the power of Quetzalcoatl. Mesoamerican dragon archetype.’”
In archetypal terms, the dragon and the serpent were synonymous as images of primal, seductive power that appeared across cultures. The quetzal, then, was primal power embodied in human form, with the attributes of the god.
If it were those attributes the necromancer sought to acquire—wisdom, knowledge, fertility—Rafe still had no clear picture of what he wanted them for. Quetzalcoatl was also associated with wind and light, and, in some myths, the creation of the current world of man through the mixing of the god’s own blood with the bones of the dead in Mictlan. Whatever the necromancer was after, Rafe couldn’t see how the power of the “quetzal” was uniquely desirable.
* * *
The case Phoebe had been assigned today turned out to be far more complicated than a simple possession charge. Her client was a sex worker who claimed to have been hired by the cop who’d arrested her—after having sex with her first, and, in lieu of paying her with money as agreed, giving her the meth he’d then charged her with possessing. Throw in a little police brutality that had left her with a badly bruised face and a broken clavicle, and the fact that the young woman was four months pregnant, and both the state and Phoebe had a giant mess on their hands.
The upside was finally having a case she was confident she could win in court—if the prosecutor let it go that far. Public sentiment would be in her favor, and there were witnesses who could corroborate the woman’s story if Phoebe could get them to testify. There were a lot of “ifs” in this scenario.
But the bail hearing and subsequent consultation with the client took most of the day and Phoebe had nearly forgotten what Rafe had been dealing with—until Monique, her client, mentioned Barbara Fisher.
Phoebe played back the video of the session on her tablet as she drove home.
“Maybe I should just plead guilty and get it over with,” Monique had said for the dozenth time, followed by Phoebe’s audible sigh.
“What you should be doing is countersuing. You have an excellent case.”
“I don’t want to end up like Barbie.”
“Who’s Barbie?”
“Barbie Fisher. The one that senator’s son killed.”
Phoebe’s stunned pause was notable. “Barbara Fisher? Why would you end up like her?”
“We got our clients from the same place. Bunch of power-tripping dicks like that Diamante. They act like they’re respectable. Make it seem safer meeting up with them than taking a risk on letting some random psycho into your house. They are the psychos.”
Phoebe couldn’t help glancing at the video while she waited at a stoplight, watching Monique press her fingers gingerly to the side of her swollen eye.
“I thought Barbara Fisher was a medium. A psychic.” She’d tried to say it as matter-of-factly as possible.
Monique laughed and then winced. “Yeah, and I’m a physical therapist.”
* * *
What waited for her at home, however, knocked Monique and the disturbing revelation about Barbara Fisher right out of Phoebe’s head. As she stepped out of the Jeep in the carport, a low growl made the hair stand on the back of her neck. A pair of eyes glowed at her from under the gardening shelf. It took a moment to realize both the growl and the eyes were Puddleglum’s.
A quick squeeze of the LED flashlight on her keychain confirmed it was Puddleglum and not some feral cat. “Glum, sweetie, what are you doing under there? What’s the matter?” Phoebe crouched in front of the shelf, surprised when Puddleglum hissed at her. Before she could shine the flashlight on him again, a sound behind her made her whirl around. Puddleglum growled again, and when Phoebe pointed the weak beam of light into the darkness, it became obvious why. A large male coyote stood staring at her, unblinking and undaunted by her presence.
Phoebe clapped her hands at it. “Yah! Go on! Get out of here!” The coyote was unfazed until she chucked a gardening trowel in its direction. The animal trotted away into the darkness without any sense of fear or urgency.
Puddleglum was still growling, but he didn’t hiss this time as she reached under the shelf to pull him out. Only then did she realize why he’d been hiding and why she hadn’t seen him since last night. Dried blood matted his fur on one hind leg. The coyote must have been waiting him out after trying to nab him.
That settled it. The cat door was going. Puddleglum wasn’t going to like it, but his nomadic hunter days were over. Two of Puddleglum’s least favorite things followed: being put into his carrier and a drive to the vet.
While she waited for Puddleglum to get stitched up at the veterinary ER, Phoebe’s phone rang. Rafe’s name appeared on the display. God, she’d almost forgotten how the day had started.
“Rafe, hey. Are you okay? I saw the news.”
“Yeah. I just saw that you called. It’s been a... It’s been weird. And shitty.”
“I’m so sorry, Rafe.”
“We weren’t close.” Rafe sighed. “I don’t know why I felt like I had to say that. I don’t really know how to do any of this.”
“Of course not. No one does.” When her parents were killed in a car accident, it felt like she’d missed a class somewhere, something she ought to have learned somehow about how to behave in the face of unexpected loss.
The veterinary assistant came out with an unhappy but groggy Puddleglum in his carrier. “Puddleglum’s all ready to go home.”
“Thanks.” She stood and took the carrier, shifting the phone to her other ear. “Sorry. I’m at the vet. Just taking Puddleglum home.”
“Anything wrong? It’s kind of late for the vet’s office, isn’t it?”
“He got in a fight with a coyote. Can you hang on a sec?” Phoebe set down the carrier and took out her credit card to pay Puddleglum’s bill. “Sorry. Juggling cats and money.”
“Did you say coyote?” Rafe’s voice was sharp.
“Yeah. I guess I’m going to have to keep Glum inside from now on. The rotten thing was still hanging around waiting for the cat when I got home, just staring me down. They’ve gotten really bold. Guess it’s our fault for encroaching on their territory.”
“Phoebe... I don’t think you should go home.”
“What?” She paused with the pen on the credit card receipt.
“Bring Puddleglum over to my place. I’ll text you the directions.”
“Your place? Rafe, it’s just a coyote. I can handle it.”
“It’s not just a coyote. It’s nagual.”
“It’s what?”
“The necromancer.”
Chapter 13
At the gate to Stone Canyon, Phoebe punched in the guest code Rafe had texted her, while Puddleglum made impressively demonic noises beside her, doing his best to terrify the car and carrier into setting him free. The vet had given the cat methadone to calm him down for the stitches, but he seemed to be pretty much over
his buzz. The stops on the way to pick up cat supplies—and some dinner at Dairy Queen after Rafe had mentioned he’d already eaten—hadn’t helped matters much.
She had to admit as she wound through the hills that the view up here was spectacular, though she couldn’t help thinking Rafe was overreacting about the coyote. Sightings of the animals in urban areas had been on the rise in recent years. And Sedona wasn’t exactly an urban hub.
The house itself was stunning. Phoebe felt thoroughly out of place in her bargain-store smock shirt and leggings and her scuffed sandals as she carried Puddleglum up the artfully placed stone walk. Desert landscaping meant to make it seem as though it wasn’t landscaped at all—it just happened to be a botanical-garden-worthy desert paradise completely by accident—complemented the adobe construction.
Rafe waited for her in the mosaic stone entryway—stone seemed to be a theme here in Stone Canyon. Imagine that. As usual, he managed to wear his casual clothes almost as immaculately as his lawn wore its landscaping, the dark olive T-shirt hugging his muscular frame just enough to invite thoughts of spreading her hands over it, and the khaki pants wrinkled in all the right places. The bare feet on the clay tile brought the whole unbearable, effortlessly sensual, look together.
“I heard you coming.” He cast a wry glance at the cat carrier as he took it from her and headed inside. “We can set him up in the great room for the night.”
Phoebe scanned the spacious room with its cream sheepskin rugs and French doors on both sides. Damn. Even rich people’s living rooms were “great.”
“I’ll get him settled.” Rafe took the pet supplies out of her hand. “You go eat...” he glanced at the Dairy Queen bag “...whatever that is.”
“It’s a burger and fries. I’m not eating ice cream for dinner.”
Rafe grinned. “Not judging.”
While Rafe took Puddleglum to a corner of the room by one of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind an Aztec-carved wooden screen, Phoebe sat on the couch and wolfed down her meal.