I sighed, settled my five-foot-four frame into the lumpy couch cushions, and listened to the blood coursing through my veins. For the first time since I could remember, I felt ... what was the word for it?
Alive.
I whispered into the darkness.
“Goodnight, Grayson.”
A tingle ran down my spine when, to my surprise, he whispered back.
“Goodnight, Drex.”
Chapter Seventeen
I WAS LYING ON MY BACK. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face—not even the emerald ring I always wore—the one Grandma Selma had left me when she passed away.
My fingers searched the inky darkness to my left. Then to my right. Above. Below. No matter which direction I tried, my fingertips collided with a rough, flat surface mere inches from my body.
OMG! I was trapped inside a box. No ... a coffin!
Somewhere close by, a dog howled mournfully. The coffin was too short. My head was jammed in sideways. I tried to move, but I was wedged in tight.
Either that, or I was paralyzed. Or was I already dead?
The howling grew louder. Closer.
Heavy, slobbering intakes of breath sounded in the darkness, drawing nearer ... nearer.
Suddenly, something began scratching at the coffin.
Someone was digging me out! Or—oh crap!—trying to get in!
My mind froze with terror as the coffin lid first cracked, then flew away as it were caught in a tornado. Above me, the fangs of a hellish hound flashed white against the pitch black night.
It was Garth’s dog, Tooth!
The beast’s yellow eyes locked on mine. He let out a low, sadistic snarl, and lunged for my throat. I grabbed for my neck.
Suddenly, Tooth farted. He covered his muzzle with his paw and laughed like Scooby Doo ....
I woke up drenched in sweat, my head crammed sideways against the armrest of the couch.
Ugh. Damned chicken wings.
Forced into an odd angle, my neck ached like a stab wound. Stars danced in my eyes as I sat up and rubbed my shoulder blades.
Suddenly, an unearthly yowling sounded close by.
Instantly, I was wide awake. My spine jerked ramrod straight. My eyes darted wildly as I tried to decipher from which direction the horrible sound was coming. A vertebrae in my neck popped as I honed in on the culprit.
Then a grin crept across my face.
It was Grayson. In the bathroom.
The guy was either dying, or he was in dire need of singing lessons.
I laughed. Huh. Maybe Mr. Perfect isn’t so perfect after all.
I hauled myself up off the couch, grabbed my wig off ET’s sickly gray head, tugged it on, and fumbled my way around the tiny kitchen, trying to get a pot of coffee on the make.
The lifespan of an entire generation of fruit flies ticked by as I waited for the coffee to finish brewing. With mug in hand, I was about to do the old carafe-cup switcheroo when Grayson’s voice sounded behind me, startling me so badly I nearly dropped my cup.
“Morning, cadet. Coffee smells gold star.”
I turned around to find him wearing nothing but a pair of black jeans. No booties this time.
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s almost ready.”
“Good. I thought this morning we would—”
I mashed an index finger over Grayson’s lips. “No coffee, no talkie.”
Grayson grinned. “My mistake. I’ll go finish dressing.”
I nodded, and watched Grayson shuffled off to his bedroom. Mercifully, the coffee machine beeped, signaling it was done. I poured myself a mugful. After downing a life-resurrecting slurp, I placed the warm mug against the aching crick in my neck.
“How’s it working out with the couch?” Grayson asked from behind me.
Unable to turn my neck, I crab-stepped my body around to face him. Grayson’s head, shaved bald a little over a week ago, was now covered in dark stubble like a 1970s-era G.I. Joe.
“I’ll get used to it,” I said. “But the singing in the shower? That’s another story. I gotta say, Bad to the Bone is your song, Grayson. And I mean that in more ways than one.”
Grayson started to smirk, then stopped. “You could hear that? My apologies. Not used to having an audience.”
“No prob.” I poured him a cup of coffee and added a pinch of salt. “At least you didn’t quit your day job.”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I kind of did.” Grayson took a sip of coffee. “Mmm. Good stuff.”
It was good coffee. Less than one cup in and I already felt nearly completely coherent. “Why did you quit?”
Grayson cocked his head. “What do you mean?”
“You know. How’d you go from being some noted MIT physicist to rambling around in an old RV chasing monsters?”
Grayson’s face fell an inch. “I’m gonna need a bigger cup of coffee if I have to spill that story.”
He flopped into the booth of the small banquette. I put a couple of Pop-Tarts in the toaster, reinforced my coffee mug, and slid into the bench opposite him.
“So?” I asked.
“Well, it all started when—”
A knock on the RV door turned both our heads, but I was the only one who winced from the effort.
“You expecting anybody?” I asked, rubbing my neck.
Grayson shrugged. “No. You?”
I started to shake my head, but thought better of it. Instead, I got up and opened the door.
Officer Wells was standing at the bottom of the steps, holding a kite. I knew the kid was young, but really?
“Did someone tell you to go fly that?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
Wells’ brow furrowed, then he smirked. “No, ma’am. It was tangled up on your antenna, flapping against your roof. Couldn’t you hear it?”
Now that you mention it, yeah. But I thought it was Tooth scratching at my coffin.
“Want some coffee?” I asked.
“Maybe a quick cup. Is Mr. Grayson decent?”
“Sure. Why do you ask?”
His eyes darted up and down, then away. I suddenly realized I was still in my T-shirt and sweatpants, minus any lift and support. I cringed and folded my arms over my boobs. “Come on in.”
“Morning, Officer Wells,” Grayson said cheerily. “What’s up?”
I poured the cop a cup of joe and scooted to the bedroom where my new Walmart clothes awaited. The pink jeans, pink long-sleeved button-down, and white, fringe-covered fake-leather jacket were stuffed into the closet next to Grayson’s all-noir collection. There was plenty of room. The man’s entire wardrobe consisted of two pairs of black jeans, three black T-shirts, a black suit, and two black dress shirts. He was prepared for any occasion—as long as it was a nighttime stakeout or a funeral.
Comparing the clothes side-by-side made me realize maybe I’d gone a touch overboard in the girly department. But after being mistaken for a boy most of my life, and posing as a garage grease monkey for the past six months, I guess the pendulum was bound to swing a tad too wide on the rebound.
As I donned my town-tramp couture, I kept the bedroom door open a crack and listened in on the guys’ conversation.
“I can’t stay,” I heard Wells say. “I snuck Jenkins’ autopsy report out of the file on my boss’s desk. I’ve gotta get it back before he misses it.”
“What does it say?” Grayson asked.
“Read it yourself. With the exception of his skull, nearly every major bone in Jenkins’ body had been fractured.”
“What could do that?”
“Hell if I know.”
I hurriedly buttoned my blouse as I scurried out of the bedroom and down the hall. Forgetting that it only took a few steps, I nearly tripped on Wells’ long leg extending out from the banquette like a grasshopper’s.
He pulled it in and apologized. “Whoa. Sorry about that, ma’am.”
“My bad,” I said, and glanced at the photo of Jenkins doing his roadkill impression. “Have you ever seen a man crushed li
ke that before?”
“No, ma’am. Only in cartoons—usually with a steamroller.”
Grayson pursed his lips. “I’d say we can rule out Wile E. Coyote. I mean, how would he get a steamroller into the middle of a swamp?”
My eyebrows ticked up a notch. “That’s your problem with that theory?”
Grayson scanned the report, ignoring me. He locked eyes with Wells. “What else could explain it?”
Wells cleared his throat. “Being dropped from a high altitude would do it.”
“Like from an alien craft?” Grayson asked.
Wells sighed. “I was thinking more like from a skydiving plane. It happens every once in a while out near Zephyrhills. A skydiver’s chute fails and they hit the ground like a sack of wet cement.”
Grayson’s eyebrow ticked up. He turned a photo toward Wells. “Did any of them look like this?”
Wells grimaced. “Not exactly. Plenty of broken bones, sure. And pretty much smashed to a pulp, too. But when you’re dropped from that kind of height, your body usually busts open like a watermelon.”
I crinkled my nose. “What’s the minimum height you’d have to fall from to get Jenkins’ kind of injuries?”
Wells shrugged. “Offhand, I couldn’t say.”
Grayson rubbed his chin. “He’s right. It’s impossible to accurately calculate falling injuries.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Every case is different.” Grayson took another sip of coffee. “People have fallen off horses and died. Then others fall thousands of feet and end up with just a few scratches and bruises.”
“Well, Jenkins’ body wasn’t ‘busted open like a watermelon,’” I said. “The only cuts were around his head and neck. What could cause that?”
Grayson bit his lip and looked up at Wells. “You’ve heard about cattle mutilations, right?”
Wells sat up a little straighter. “Uh ... sure.”
“They say some of them have broken bones, like they’ve been dropped from an aerial vehicle.”
Wells shook his head. “I’d say that’s a stretch.”
Grayson eyed the autopsy report and grunted. “Well, whatever did it, one thing’s for sure.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
Grayson shot me a look. “It’s still out there.”
A cold streak ran down my back. I wanted to change the subject. “Officer Wells, has there been any news on Jenkins’ wife?”
“No, ma’am. She’s still missing. We checked the house with a fine-tooth comb. She’s not there.” Wells stood. “Thanks for the coffee. But I’ve got to get this report back before anyone notices it missing.”
Grayson stood and held out the report. “Thank you for letting me take a look at it.”
“Keep it. That’s yours. I made a copy at Walmart, in case you weren’t up yet.” He looked Grayson hard in the eyes. “We’re even now, right?”
“Absolutely.”
Wells’ face relaxed a notch. “Good. Now do me a favor. Stay away from Jenkins’ cabin. I don’t need to be cleaning up any more piles of potted meat.”
Grayson nodded and dropped the report onto the banquette table. He got up and opened the RV door for Wells. “Thanks again, Officer.”
“We’re even,” Wells repeated as he stepped out the door.
Grayson nodded. “As far as you know.” He shut the door, leaving Wells staring up at him like a deer in the headlights.
I shook my head. “So, what now?”
“Eat your Pop-Tart and put on your pink boots, Dolly. We’re going to Jenkins’ place.”
Chapter Eighteen
SLACK-JAWED, I STARED at Grayson as he took a casual sip of coffee. “You really think it’s a good idea to go back to Jenkins’ cabin after you just told Wells you wouldn’t?”
“Tsk. Tsk.” Grayson shook his head. “You should listen more carefully. I said no such thing.”
“You’re impossible, Grayson! And in case you’re not keeping tabs on these things, a guy just got himself murdered out there!”
“Who says he was murdered? And besides, when I said Jenkins’ place, I meant his other place. You know, where he used to play house with his wifey.”
“Oh.” I studied my Pop-Tart. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“Do I have to spell out every little detail for you?”
Grayson blew out a breath, and I suddenly worried he was thinking I was more trouble than I was worth. I swallowed hard and tried to come up with the kind of intelligent questions a proper intern might ask. I couldn’t think of squat.
Maybe he should fire me.
“So, what’s the plan?” I asked sheepishly.
Grayson set down his coffee mug and pointed an index finger to the sky. “Find the motivation, find the killer. At least, that’s what most investigators focus on. But the game we’re playing isn’t quite the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everybody we’ve talked to says Jenkins was a jerk, right?”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s putting it kindly.”
“Right. So there was ample reason to, shall we say, help speed the man along to his own personal doomsday.”
“So you do think he was murdered. By an actual human, I mean.”
Grayson shrugged. “Jenkins’ death could be a simple case of ticking off the wrong person. He could’ve gone to Blarney’s, inadvertently pissed off some clodhopper, and became the hottest new dance floor for a hillbilly stomp fest.”
My eyes narrowed. “Or his wife did him in and ran off with said clodhopper hillbilly.”
Grayson nodded thoughtfully. “Another fine possibility. But then again, what if our killer wasn’t human? What would be the motivation then?”
I held up my half-eaten Pop-Tart. “Uh ... breakfast?”
Grayson smirked. “Typically, yes. But Jenkins’ body wasn’t eaten.”
“Hmm.” I pursed my lips. “What if he taunted the animal until it finally fought back and killed him just for sport?”
Grayson took a slug of coffee. “A reasonable theory. But what if the killer wasn’t an animal at all, but something more otherworldly than that?”
I groaned. “Everything leads back to aliens with you. Don’t tell me these ‘superior beings’ you’re so fond of were able to navigate billions of miles to get here but couldn’t find a better test subject to probe than Lester Jenkins’ sorry old ass.”
Grayson laughed, then his eyes flashed with seriousness. “That’s a pretty good point, cadet.” He sighed, got up, and rinsed his cup in the sink. “I hate to admit it, but I think you’re right. I just don’t see anything that out of the ordinary going on here.”
I frowned. “What are you saying?”
“Simple. No monster, no paycheck.”
“We’re giving up?”
“Cutting our losses.”
I frowned. “What about that whole radio transmission thing? Jenkins yelling ‘They’re here,’ and all?”
Grayson shrugged. “Like Rexel said. He was probably drunk.” He dried his mug with a dishtowel and hung it on a hook. “I say we hit the road.”
My back stiffened. “Come on, Grayson. We’re here. We might as well check out Jenkins’ house like you planned. If we don’t find anything there to support this alien invasion theory, then we can go.”
Grayson’s mouth curled into half a smile. “Now there’s that scrappy intern I hired.”
I gave him some side-eye, then laughed. “Okay. Suppose Jenkins was abducted by aliens. And these other-planetary beings dropped him back to Earth without the courtesy of a parachute. What could possibly be their motivation?”
“Easy,” Grayson replied. “Entertainment.”
Chapter Nineteen
GRAYSON TURNED OFF the ignition. The old RV shuddered wildly, giving my sore neck a pleasant little mini-massage. It was midmorning, and we were parked on the street in front of a remarkably uninspired single-story house.
To call it a crackerbox
would’ve been an insult to Saltines.
Not much more than a concrete-block rectangle with a door and a couple of windows punched out of it, the house was one of a street-full of nearly identical homes, each somehow more unremarkable than the last.
I tipped my head and glanced over my sunglasses. My upper lip hooked skyward. “Geez. How would you ever find your house in the dark around here?”
Grayson snorted. “I doubt anyone around here stays up past sundown. Come on. Follow me.”
I climbed out of the RV and tried my hand at the kind of P.I. stealth mode I’d seen in the movies—head down, eyes darting around for danger. I glanced over at Grayson to see if I was doing it right.
I nearly choked. He was high-stepping it straight up the driveway like the leader of a marching band.
I scrambled up the drive and caught up to him just as he rang the bell. “What the—?” I asked, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“What?” He mashed the doorbell again. “Just making sure no black sheep relatives are here pilfering through the family jewels.”
Grayson’s screwed-up metaphor made my eyes itch to orbit around their sockets. He mashed the bell a third time. No one came to the door. I figured his next move would be to pick the lock. But he surprised me again. He merely shrugged and walked around to the side yard.
I shook my head as I trailed after him.
Either he’s the worst P.I. in the world, or I am.
“What are you doing?” I hissed at his back as we edged our way across a lawn that hadn’t seen a mower in at least a month.
He turned around. “Think, Drex. The cops already checked the house and known relatives. So what’s left? Where could Arlene Jenkins be?”
“Uh ... the garden shed?” I nodded toward a rusty metal structure in the corner of the lot.
Grayson shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
He turned, took a step, and fell face-first onto the ground, letting out a loud grunt. He was up and back on his feet before I could even bite my lip to keep from laughing.
“You okay, there?” I asked, trying to appear concerned instead of amused.
“Yes.” Grayson shook himself out and picked up his fedora. “Sizeable hole in the ground there. Watch your step.”
Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set Page 31
