End of Day

by Mae Clair

  Before she could shake off the gloom, the angry blare of a car horn intruded. Tires whined over asphalt, kicking up the blistering burn of heated rubber. The stench lodged in her throat, thick as syrup, and the street exploded in a kaleidoscope of candied red and sun-bright metal. Mangled wheels and spokes soared airborne. A second later, the female bicyclist struck the windshield of the Camaro and slid to a broken heap on the hood.

  Bolting to her feet, she raced for the scene of the accident, Sherre already three steps ahead.

  * * * *

  Eli Yancy paced in his office at Wickham, the one he’d dressed with a glass-topped desk, two side chairs, potted plant, and a coffee bar. He’d been trying to reach Warren Porter for two days, but the good-for-nothing lout wasn’t answering calls. Yancy had been careful not to leave anything incriminating on the messages, just demands that Porter contact him as soon as possible. With one hand stuffed in the pocket of his pants, the other holding his cell pressed to his ear, he strode past the window for the fourth time, listening to Porter’s phone cycle through several rings.

  “Yeah?” Finally, the man answered.

  Yancy blew out a breath. “Where the hell have you been? Didn’t you get my messages?”

  “Got ’em.”

  “Then why didn’t you call?” A pause as he imagined Porter beetling his brow, trying to come up with a plausible lie. “Never mind.” He didn’t have time for the Neanderthal’s shortcomings. “Did you go back to the cemetery?”

  Porter guffawed into the phone. “You’re shitting me? Are you trying to tell me you didn’t see what happened there on Monday?”

  “I saw.” Yancy waved a hand in the air. The damn knuckle-dragger was going to use the hoopla as an excuse. “There was an accident. So?”

  “A guy freaking died. On top of that, he had the grave half filled in with dirt before he bit the Big One. No way can I clear that out.”

  “Get your brother and dig it like you did before.”

  “Not happening. Between cops and reporters, the place is too hot. There’s a busted tree sitting on top of a sinkhole, and if you think I’m going anywhere near that shit, you’re out of your freaking mind. Besides—if the emerald fell into the grave when Clive and I hauled out Vane, the kid who took a spill could have found it.”

  Yancy opened his mouth. Closed it with a distinctive clack of teeth. In three quick strides, he was at his desk where he’d left the Hode’s Hill Daily Echo lying folded open. An editorial about the grave robbery blasted him like a snide accusation. What an idiot he’d been!

  “Damn it, you’re right.” How had Porter managed to get one up on him? “Any idea who the kid was?”

  Porter huffed a grunt of air. “Not my problem.”

  “Make it your problem. Find out who he is and if he has the stone.”

  “Forget it. You can keep your money. I don’t screw with kids.”

  A dial tone droned in Yancy’s ear. Swearing, he punched the disconnect button.

  Of course, the kid found the emerald.

  Yancy’s research had been meticulous. Dinah Crowe’s binding stone was never recovered despite a thorough search of Vane’s house and possessions by Atticus Crowe. It only made sense Vane had swallowed the emerald at some point before his death. Yancy still remembered the elation he’d felt when arriving at such a clever deduction. Too bad all that brilliance hadn’t stopped him from overlooking the obvious.

  How the hell was he going to find out who the kid was? Names of juveniles were protected by both cops and the press.

  From the window he spied a blue Accord pull into the parking lot. Just what he needed. Another appointment about his website. The emerald was all that mattered now. Once he had the stone, the whole business could go belly-up for all he cared. Used correctly, the gem would open doors to prestige and money.

  He’d have to deal with Porter later. Decide what he was going to do with the bones in the basement. How he was going to get the blasted emerald.

  Straightening his shirt in an effort to look professional, he ground his teeth and headed for the door.

  * * * *

  Jillian drew a deep breath, grabbed her laptop and purse, and stepped from the car. After the events of the morning, she should have canceled the appointment, but she wanted to finish the website and put the job behind her. Yancy had paid half up front, the other half due on delivery. The money would go into an account for Madison’s care, funds that continued to dwindle with every passing month.

  It wasn’t simply that she needed the money, but there was something about the project that didn’t sit right. Every time she talked to Yancy he’d forgotten what they’d discussed before. He’d been so particular in the beginning, micromanaging details and requesting daily updates. Now, he agreed with most anything she asked, quickly cutting her short as if her questions were a nuisance.

  She’d yet to see any cars at Wickham—the local name too ingrained for her to think of the building by any other name—and wondered how he was going to make a profit. He’d told her he already had several clients he provided life-coaching services for, probably online or by phone. Each time she passed on the drive to Rest Haven, the lot was empty. The only vehicle she’d ever spied at Wickham had been Dante’s 4Runner. Could he be one of Yancy’s clients?

  Stilling a tremor in her hand, she opened the rear car door. “Come on, Blizzard.” She picked up the husky’s leash. “We can do this.”

  She closed her mind to the image of the woman lying broken on the hood of the red Camaro, her boyfriend bent over her sobbing, the driver of the car white with shock. She’d left Sherre on the scene when the ambulance arrived, her empathic nature on overload as she alternately placed herself in the shoes of the boyfriend and the young driver, both of whom were going to be emotionally scarred for life. At least the woman had been breathing when the EMTs put her in the ambulance. She’d call Sherre for an update later, needing to know the woman survived.

  With Blizzard at her side, she walked down the short sidewalk to the front door. The slant of the roof cast shadows at the entrance. Patches of cool blue and slate nestled in the corners. She tried the door but found it locked. A second later, Yancy appeared on the other side of the glass.

  “Sorry. I’m not open for business today.” He motioned her inside. “Just doing some private work in my office.” His grin was too quick to be genuine. “I’m behind on a few things, so hopefully this won’t take long.” Blunt and short as always.

  “It shouldn’t.” Jillian had never met him at Wickham and did a quick scan of the surroundings. The room on the left was outfitted as a waiting area with two upholstered armchairs, a small sofa, and a glass coffee table. An abstract painting with random splashes of apricot, orchid, and sienna hung above the sofa, and an artificial tree stood in the corner. Light was provided by two floor lamps with a cluster of upturned shades as if the poles sprouted lilies. The whole area was spotless, somehow sterile-looking despite what appeared as an effort to be trendy.

  “I see you have your dog with you.” A flicker of distaste passed over Yancy’s face, masked by an artificial smile. “This way.” He gestured to an open door on her right, then followed behind when she stepped into his office, the room every bit as sparse as the waiting area. His glass-top desk held a folded newspaper, scratch pad, computer screen, and little else. Sliding into a chair, Jillian dropped Blizzard’s leash, then settled her laptop case on her knees. Without being instructed, Blizzard sat obediently at her side. Yancy took the seat across from her, behind his desk.

  “Can I offer you some coffee?”

  “No, thank you.” She had a feeling the offer had been made from protocol rather than any true desire to be courteous. Coffee would have only soured her stomach anyway after the events of the morning. Even thinking of the acid brew made her queasy.

  She unzipped her laptop case. “We can look at your site on
my laptop. Or if you prefer your screen, I can give you the backside URL. The site hasn’t been published, but I’m hoping we can work through the final tweaks today.”

  “Yes, I’d like that.” Yancy moved the newspaper aside, motioning her to set her laptop on the desk. His fingers were long and spidery, a match for his tall, wispy frame. With thinning blond hair, close-set blue eyes, and a pale complexion, he’d always reminded Jillian of a mortician.

  As she booted up her laptop, she caught a sideways glimpse of the article Yancy had been reading. The paper was folded open to the editorial about the violation of Gabriel’s grave. The accompanying photo showed the old hickory tree—taken before its destruction—and the caution tape roped around Gabriel’s burial site.

  “Oh.” The gasp slipped from her lips involuntarily.

  Noticing her eying the paper, Yancy tapped the page. “Dreadful thing, that.”

  “Yes.” Jillian fought to pull herself together. Mentally, she wasn’t sufficiently prepared for the meeting with Yancy, the distraction of the newspaper article making her think of the recent string of accidents. She feared even the latest involving the bicyclist was connected. The collision might have happened outside of Hode’s Hill, but it wouldn’t surprise her to learn the woman’s ancestors were buried in Hickory Chapel Cemetery.

  Ducking her head, she quickly tapped several keys on her laptop. “At least Elliott was okay.”

  “Elliott?”

  “The boy who fell into the grave.” Jillian opened a browser window and loaded Yancy’s website.

  He drew back, steepling his hands under his chin. “You know him?”

  “He lives next door to me.”

  “Is that so?”

  As the website loaded, Jillian swiveled the laptop so Yancy could see the final design. She’d put a lot of thought into the psychology of color for his gender-neutral target audience, using a palette appealing to both men and women.

  “I’ve used cobalt and sage as the primary colors to capture your message, with a touch of sandstone for contrast.” She pointed toward the screen as she relayed her reasoning. “The pages are predominantly white, but the variations on blue and green are trigger colors that work well in advertising. Blue relays the trust and reliability of your confidential services, while green speaks to the potential for growth and abundance clients can achieve under your tutelage.” It sickened her to realize she didn’t believe a word of what she was saying. She’d never hire Yancy as a life coach. The man creeped her out, yet here she was trying to paint him as highly reputable.

  It didn’t matter. He wasn’t listening.

  “Yes. Yes.” He waved a hand at the screen. “That all looks satisfactory.”

  “But I haven’t even started to show you the site.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” He withdrew a pen and checkbook from his jacket pocket. “Let’s settle up. Unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the amount on the final bill.”

  Jillian told him the figure. “Do you want me to make the site live?”

  “That’s fine.”

  Once again, it felt as if he wanted to finish quickly, the website an annoying distraction rather than the primary tool of a man who hoped to find the bulk of his clients online.

  “I’d feel better if you reviewed it first.”

  He tore off the check and handed to her. “If you insist. I’ll look it over in the next few days and call you by the end of the week.”

  “All right.” She keyed the browser closed. It was his money. If he wanted to part with it so easily, that was fine with her. She slipped the check into her purse, then closed her laptop.

  “Tell me, Jillian.” Yancy had folded his hands on the edge of the table, a tight smile on his thread-thin lips. “That must have been quite a fall Elliott took. I imagine it shook him up a good deal.”

  She nodded absently, only half listening as she packed the laptop in its case. “I’m going to need you to sign off on the website. I’ll email the final paperwork by the end of the week after you’ve had a chance to study the site in detail.”

  “That would be fine. The boy didn’t say anything, did he?”

  Startled, she raised her head. “Excuse me?”

  Yancy’s smile faltered before holding steady at a higher wattage. “I was just thinking what a frightening experience it must have been, alone in that hole. I understand the thieves removed the bones, but a grave that old…” He let his voice trail away. “There was likely debris in the pit. Elliott might have fallen over something or picked something up—an old coffin nail. A piece of wood or a stone…”

  Her stomach twisted. She pushed the ugly thoughts away by raising a hand. “I don’t want to think about it. All that matters is that Elliott is fine.” Hiking the laptop strap onto her shoulder, she stood.

  “His parents must have been so worried.”

  “His mother was beside herself.”

  Yancy nodded somberly. Sagely. “Well. As you said—it all worked out in the end.” The sham smile returned as he held the office door for her.

  She exhaled in relief when she finally stepped outside into the parking lot. A few more days, then she could officially write Eli Yancy off her client list. The hour couldn’t come soon enough.

  “Come on, Blizzard.” Quickening her step, Jillian hustled to her car.

  * * * *

  And just like that, he was back in the chase.

  Heaving a relieved sigh, Yancy dropped into his desk chair and tilted his head to gaze up at the ceiling.

  “Thank you.” He had no idea who he was talking to but didn’t care. Whether by virtue of some higher cosmic force or archaic powers-that-be, he’d just been handed a treasure trove of information.

  Jillian had no idea she’d just sang like the proverbial canary. He hadn’t been able to wheedle a last name for Elliott, but hunting one up wouldn’t be hard to do. Best of all, when he’d mentioned parents, Jillian confirmed the boy’s mother had been “beside herself.” No reference to a father, which meant the guy was out of the picture, or at least not in residence. That left a woman and a child in the house by themselves.

  What to do?

  He picked up his pen, absently clicking the end as he worked through the dilemma. A simple confrontation should take care of matters, but he couldn’t be seen accosting a child. Someone needed to put a scare into the kid. Rough him up and find out if he had the emerald.

  Porter was out. He’d already made it clear he wanted nothing to do with the situation. Not everyone was up to being hard-assed with a kid. Even career criminals got willy-nilly about shit like that.

  He considered Clive only briefly, writing him off as too much of a simpleton. The oaf stumbled through life thanks to the tolerance of his older brother.

  But there was a third Porter. One he’d only heard about and never met. Clive had wanted to include him on the grave robbery, but Warren squashed the idea the moment it was mentioned. From what Yancy gathered, Kirk Porter was a wild card—young, crazy, and dangerous. Just the kind of person he needed.

  A man willing to cross any line if the money was right.

  Chapter 8

  October 12, 1799

  Gabriel crept with all the stealth he could muster, muffling his footsteps as he inched toward the cave where the Endling slumbered. A trickle of sweat wormed down the back of his neck; his palms gummed with perspiration where they gripped the stock of his long rifle. The gun would be unwieldy in the cramped interior, but it was his only weapon, and he had no intention of entering the den unarmed.

  Behind him, Hiram and Jasper took up positions in the trees, waiting for him to flush the beast from its lair. If all went according to plan, the result would be a slaughter, the wolf caught in a deadly crossfire between Hiram’s wind rifle and Jasper’s musket. In less than an hour they’d tie the vile carcass to their pack mule and head home.

>   Gabriel wiped sweat from his upper lip. He hadn’t expected to be so nervous. The closer he drew to the cave, the ranker the air became. The stench of masticated animal skin and feces assaulted him. His gut rolled over and crawled into his throat. Drinking unsteady gulps of air, he breathed through his mouth. He forced himself to think of Dinah. Of the gem tucked into his pocket. For the woman he loved, he’d face more than a predator in its lair, however horrific the beast.

  A horde of fat blow flies swarmed near the entrance of the cave. He swatted the cloud away and ducked inside, fighting to still the ragged hitch of his breath. The air was cooler in the cave, but clammy with the sticky touch of residual moisture. His boot sank into the soggy ground with an audible squish. He sensed ribbons of water dribbling over the craggy walls, but the pall of darkness was too opaque to see far. Something moved in the gloaming with the click-clack of claws against rock. The hair prickled on the back of his neck, propelling his heartbeat higher.

  What feeble light existed was blotted by the silhouette of the beast. An abomination of sinew and ragged fur, it reeked of death. Of disease and spoiled meat left to rot in the sun. Gagging, Gabriel jerked his rifle into position.

  The confines of the cave hampered the length of the gun and made it difficult to maneuver. Before he could get off a shot, the monster slammed into him. His head and shoulders struck rock, teeth clacking together with a jolt that traveled the length of his jaw. He tried to twist free, but the beast pinned him to the ground, fetid breath hot against his face. The creature’s eyes were the pale mustard yellow of phlegm, its fangs long and curved.

  Gabriel’s finger convulsed on the trigger. In the enclosed space, the blast of the rifle was deafening.

  The Endling jerked and bellowed, flung backward. Claws raked across his chest, peeling skin like shavings whittled from a stick. A roar of pain and rage, twice as thunderous as the gunshot, exploded in the cave. Gabriel scrambled to his feet, one hand clutching the rough, wet stone behind him. He fumbled to load another shot, but the creature bounded past, racing for the exit.