by Dawn Mattox
My bottom remained on the bench, but my mind drifted to Travis. He had been distant at the party, which would be normal for any man attending something as goofy as a baby shower. Something more was going on—a lot more. Maybe it had been the softness in his face, in his body as he relaxed against the door jamb and watched Paige shriek with delight, giggling with childlike abandon as she opened pastel bags—pink, blue, yellow, and green, decorated with duckies, rattles, and lambs. Everyone ooo’d and aah’d over the baby crib, but the Ninja Man completely disarmed me when he gave me a haunting look of appreciation and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
Only Travis, Cali, and I knew about Paige’s tragic and traumatic childhood. There were reasons that she sometimes acted like a little girl. Typical of trauma survivors, a part of Paige would always be trapped in time. For her—a child of thirteen.
Unnoticed, I slipped out the back door and cut through the woods bound for the road home. I ran, legs flying, heart pumping. I hated life and could not move fast enough to escape the myriad of feelings that nipped at my heels as I fled down the road.
Safe at home, still panting, I shut the door behind me as the phone rang. It was Chance. No breaks.
“You’ve been running.” Chance’s voice was full of concern.
“I jogged back from the baby shower,” I said between gasps. “I thought I would run off the Red Velvet cake and Death-by-Chocolate ice cream.”
Chance chuckled. “You know I love you, hon. You really are amazing.” His voice warmed. “Thank you for all you’re doing for Paige . . . and the little one.”
I let the undeserved compliments slide.
“Was Travis there?” Chance asked.
“Of course.” I couldn’t resist, “You sent him, didn’t you? You sent Travis to follow me last night.”
Silence reigned for a couple of heartbeats, followed by the guy-grunt, throat- clearing noise that men make when buying time.
“I know I can trust Travis to look out for you,” said Chance with slow deliberation. “The question is, can I trust the two of you beyond that?’”
Another long pause as I considered his remark. After all we had been through, I resented the implication that I needed help but accepted that Chance having my former lover watch out for me had to be an act of love.
“Trust is a two-way street,” I replied, “and I am pretty sure it’s not called Easy Street. The good news is, we are still walking it. Right?”
“Right.”
Alone, at last, I picked up Kissme and snuggled into the comfort of her warm body and soft fur. Then I climbed into my sanctuary, the recliner, and spent the evening looking out through the French doors, across the valley to the Coastal Range. Evening approached with open arms. It was a time that invited reflection and contemplation regarding the men in my life.
California sunsets rival any and all locations in the world for beauty and magnificence. Tonight, dramatic colors blazed across the western skies, throwing flaming streaks of liquid gold and burning orange as far as the eye could see. The great globe slipped toward the crest line of the dark-purple Coastal Range and spilled over into the floodplain below.
The central valley, filled with lakes and rice fields and vast miles of standing water, waited expectantly. I could feel the presence of a mighty God and trembled in awe as the water splashed with color, resplendent with flames that mirrored the fiery sky. Slowly, with great deliberation, the massive ball of fire began to merge, sinking into itself, as the sun swallowed its own reflection. The two became one. It was . . . majestic . . . yet somehow, ominous.
CHAPTER 17
Four large cardboard boxes sat stacked in the corner of my office, filled with pictures, reports, and taped interviews taken by the sheriff’s office over the past five years. I sorted out the animal cases—photos depicting dozens of mutilated animals. The six birds had been racing pigeons. Someone had broken their necks and plucked their feathers, painted them blood-red, then strung them up from the rafters inside the coop. The cat's legs had been had been zip tied before they had been beheaded. One poor dog was found hanging upside down in a tree, and another had a pentagram carved on its head. There were livestock in addition to pets—pictures of dead chickens, goats, and cows.
Chewing thoughtfully on the top of my pen, I pondered why it was easier for me to work with battered women than look at tortured animals.
Maybe I thought I could change social behavior regarding domestic violence but felt powerless to affect ritual abuse. I hated feeling helpless, and I could still hear the pitiful cries of the ram at the blood moon gathering.
Travis walked in accompanied by a good-looking young man wearing a cowboy hat, jeans and boots, striding with the natural gait of a cowboy whose horse was parked outside. And maybe it was. This was Butte County—cowboy country. Travis was also attired in casual outdoor clothing.
“Sunny, I’d like you to meet Forrest Woods, Butte County’s brand inspector,” said Travis.
It seemed as if everyone under the age of forty in California had a name as colorful as the state itself. “Hello, Forrest. Welcome to the trendy name club,” I said, taking a weak stab at humor.
“A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” he said, removing his hat. “It was my Grandpa’s name.”
Open Mouth “A.” Insert Foot “B.”
I pointed to the chairs. “Please, sit down,” I said, noting that Forrest’s denim-blue eyes matched his jeans and work shirt.
“We hiked down to the ceremonial site this morning,” said Travis as their attention shifted to the pictures spread out before me.
“Did you find anything?”
“Oh yes, ma’am,” said Forrest. “The remains of the ram you reported seeing was there”—he glanced meaningfully at Travis, who nodded—“um, minus its horns, eyes, tongue, and male parts. It was all very surgical, not from predators. I’ve seen similar patterns of animal mutilation throughout the region. It isn’t really new to people in my field. I’m thinkin’ you might also want to talk to Animal Control. They see a lot of that stuff too. It just doesn’t make headlines, if you know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant. YouTube had recently blacked out several videos taken at the Chinese Dog Meat Festival for the horror they depicted. By contrast, traditional American news stations seemed to prefer sensational entertainment over uncomfortable truths—and findings of ritual sacrifice were definitely out of people’s comfort zones.
“Anything else?”
“Someone brushed away footprints. Even the quartz rocks that you followed were gone. Not scattered—gone. Nothing else in the way of evidence . . . except . . . maybe this.” Forrest held up a tiny silver heart that gleamed and flashed like a fishing lure. I took it from him, turning it over in my hand for a closer look. Etched on the back was a little pair of footprints.
Lunchtime found Travis in a familiar place, sitting across from me over bowls of won ton soup at Chow Mein Charlie’s. I had kept my composure and suspicions when handing the charm back to Forrest. After all, millions of them had been sold. Just because it looked like the one I gave Paige didn’t prove anything. There was no way she could have hiked down that hill in her condition, and she would have needed a four track to haul her back out. Only a total paranoid would jump to such a conclusion without further proof. Still . . .
Travis was saying that he had to pick up Cali for the trip home when Duncan and Bonita walked in. My face must have registered surprise. I paused mid-wave. It was hard to believe the metamorphosis taking place in Duncan. Today he wore a leather coat and a pair of sunglasses in spite of the fact it was raining outside. But a much bigger surprise was not the clothes and accessories but the scathing look he gave Travis as he removed his shades and pulled up a chair.
I knew that look—Duncan’s look. I knew it all too well, from Logan. The jealous, possessive look that Duncan the newbie gangster fired at Travis.
Travis put out the fire with the simple narrowing of his eyes. Just one look from T
ravis and Duncan reverted back to an insecure, oversized little boy. I felt sorry for Duncan, and to Travis’s amazement, I sat the big guy down between us and patted his arm.
“I got your things ready back at the office, dear,” said Duncan. “Shall I go with you?”
Travis raised his brows at me, and Bonita volunteered, “Sunny has a meeting with a high school counselor and a probation officer. They’re doing a room search on a kid busted for selling pot at the high school. Not all that exciting, really.”
“Why would they ask you?” Travis asked me.
I shrugged. “The kid is a self-proclaimed warlock, and I’m the new resident cult expert. His roommate down at juvie said the guy keeps a book of secrets detailing gatherings, attendance, activities, and such. His PO thought I might want to be there if the book shows up. Anyhow, the boy is only sixteen. Not exactly leadership material.”
“Let me know if there are any references to the blood moon gathering,” said Travis.
Duncan tore his eyes from the menu to look at me with his mouth hanging open. Bonita answered “okay” for me.
“You should take Mercy with you,” Travis suggested. “It’s a safe bet he hides his dope wherever he hides the book. I’ll call the SO and see if Mark can get away.”
Like my life, it was complicated. Mark Anderson had been a good friend of Chance’s and one of Paige’s many lovers. He had been captain over Chance at the sheriff’s office, and through that agency, they had worked together in Search and Rescue. Our German shepherd, Mercy, had had extensive training from both the military and law enforcement. With Chance gone, Mark had become Mercy’s foster handler.
It was time to go. I skipped the fortune cookie, thinking maybe it was time to write my own.
Travis and I stood on the sidewalk under the overhang of the restaurant close enough that I could smell the strong, masculine fragrance that he wore mingling with the freshness of the rain-washed air. “Listen,” said Travis, “I am going to find out what’s going on. The items from your inbox, the CD in the car, and the message on the phone—they are probably all related."
I rolled my eyes. “Where did you get your Super-Agent badge? At the Dollar Store?”
Travis shook it off. “I’m in touch with Lieutenant Barcus from Special Investigations up at High Desert regarding the phone message. He’ll be giving me updates on Logan. We’ll find out if he called your work number, or, for that matter, if any inmate in the state has ever called any of your numbers.” Travis wet his lips and moved closer. “Just remember—even if it comes back negative, there is still no guarantee that Logan didn’t have someone on the outside working for him. Are you still packing your gun?”
My gaze dropped in reply, and he took me by the shoulders with a firm tug. “Start carrying it.” And then he drew me to him and kissed me. Long. Deep. Passionate. The taste of him melting in my mouth was like a rich, tempting appetizer.
“I’ll be in touch.” And, like Chance—like Starla—he was gone, leaving behind the lingering, tantalizing taste of love that first excites the palate, then quickly fades into memory.
Black on black on black. How could any parent let a child paint his room black? Ceiling black, curtains black, sheets, bedspread—everything black-black-black. The only color in the room came from posters of rock stars: Marilyn Manson and the rock bands Behemoth and Nattefrost. Over his bed was another of the tarot death card.
I wondered who was sicker—the child or the parents that consented to such decor. How hard Is it to say no?
The probation officer led the way past a fashionably dressed irate mother who insisted, “It’s just a passing fad—a trend. It’s called Gothic. Don’t you guys know anything?”
Warren Aldrich had had years of experience with juvenile offenders, and Mark and Mercy wasted no time getting a hit over the mother’s continued protests. Warren whipped out his Wunder Bar and went to work prying the baseboard from the wall as I tried in vain to calm the mother.
“You can’t help your son with wishful thinking. Don’t you want to know the truth?” She didn’t. She wanted the wall fixed and us to mind our own business—when in fact, this was our business.
“Your son seems to have a passionate interest in the occult,” I said. “Does he belong to any . . . er . . . clubs or groups that share his passion?”
“His girlfriend is a witch. A white witch,” the mother clarified.
Was she serious?
The mother’s green eyes snapped.
Yup. She was.
I looked her in the eye. “While witchcraft and Satanism aren’t the same, you might like to know that Antone LaVey, author of the Satanic Bible, says that white witches and black magic are one in the same. He said that every practitioner believes they’re doing the right thing.”
She stared at me as if I was from Mars.
Warren had replaced the baseboard after removing a black leather-bound book the size of a diary and a small bag of marijuana as evidence.
“Mrs. Blackstone,” began Warren, “your son, Chase—”
“Charles,” she interrupted. “His given name is Charles.”
“Charles may be involved with some very bad people.”
“He isn’t doing anything his friends don’t do. Is Harry Potter a criminal, for Christ’s sake?”
Warren paused so Mom could catch her breath. “Ma’am, I would say that thirty to forty percent of the kids in high school are caught up in some form of the occult.”
“Exactly!” said the mother triumphantly.
“And seventeen percent of those kids get involved in criminal activity because of it.”
“You mean that little bag of pot? Even the president of the United States smokes pot. Mr. Aldrich, please don’t put my son back in Juvenile Hall. He’s all I have.”
First logic, now tears.
Warren looked sympathetically at the young man’s mother. “Ma’am,” he said, “I am telling you this because it sounds to me that you love your son very much. You should know that out of that seventeen percent, ten percent will become repeat offenders and go to jail, and from that group, some will end up in prison.”
She shifted gears from pathetic to angry. “Not my son! You have what you came for, Mr. Aldrich. Now you and your associates get the hell out of my home.”
Out by the vehicles, Mark puckered his lips and pinched his fingers, snapping them as if to cool them off. “Ouch! She’s got teeth! Too bad Mercy didn’t bite her back.”
Warren shrugged. “She’s partly right. Listening to death metal music and dressing Goth doesn’t make a person a Satanist. Neither does doing drugs or being a fan of demon and zombie movies. But one thing is sure.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“They may not all end up Satanists, but dabbling is exactly how they all started. I’ll let you know about the book.”
CHAPTER 18
“Duncan. We need to talk.”
“Do we ever! You bet!” The big guy picked me up and gave me a bear hug, then blushed as he sat me down. “Come on, Sunny. You gotta see this! Come on! Come on!” He grabbed my hand and headed for the door.
How could I refuse this gentle giant who looked for all the world like . . . like a . . . wait—I got it—Duncan the St. Bernard had transformed into a Bull Mastiff.
Stunned and amazed, I let him lead me by the hand downstairs to the parking lot.
There it sat in all its glory.
No way!
War horses were for knights and Harleys were for bikers. Yet Duncan, the introverted computer tech, was showing me a beast of a ride: 1800 CCs of black paint, chrome, and raw power. He, Duncan, stood there, his face as radiant as the sun on your best day ever.
My eyes widened in amazement and lips bowed into a tight, crooked smile. “Okay. I give up,” I said. “Whose is it?”
“Mine! All mine! Ours!”
“Whoa! Duncan. You have to stop. Enough with the ‘dear, ours, and us’ thing.” His face fell, looking like last week’s pa
rty balloon, so I squeezed his hand. “Whose bike is it, really?”
“Mine.” Duncan lowered his head and lowered his voice, tightening his expression to repress the tremble that flicked across his features. What little neck he had disappeared. “Didn’t you tell me I should live the dream?”
It sounded vaguely familiar. I probably had said something like that. “But Duncan, dear . . .” Awkward “. . . friend. This bike is an animal. You could get killed.”
Love and hope rekindled in his eyes. “I’m taking lessons. Don’t you like it?”
I weighed the possible outcomes between encouraging and discouraging his dream: broken heart or broken bones. “It’s . . . awesome. Magnificent.”
His chest swelled.
Bonita strode by on her way back from the sheriff’s office. Her eyes gleamed as she took in the bike. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?” she asked with a look of appreciation.
“It’s my new bike.” Duncan dropped his gaze again, making his answer sound more like an apology.
“Way to go. It suits you, big guy. I like it. Definitely, like it.”
“He could get hurt,” I said defensively.
She laughed it off. “I know women that ride ’em. He’ll learn.”
I recalled the biker woman Bonita had been cuddling with that looked like a road captain for Dykes on Bikes and couldn’t argue her point. I wanted to choke her but had to beg off and hurry to court.
It was trial day for a man who had tried to kill his girlfriend—chain-sawing through the roof of her car as she sat, trapped inside and screaming until she lost her voice from traumatic shock. There were no guarantees that she would ever get her voice back, but today, I would speak for her.