Circle of the Moon (Soulwood #4)

by Faith Hunter

  I turned onto Strutt Street and into the parking lot of an empty building just as the cell dinged again with the information. I input the address, slapped the lights on top of the truck, engaged the siren, and pulled back into rush hour traffic, guided by the cell.

  • • •

  The address took me to an older, updated house on Panama Drive, in a well-established middle-class neighborhood. I whipped the wheel, turned off the lights and siren, put them away, reseated my weapon, and clipped my ID and badge in place as I looked the land over. It had likely been farmland once upon a time. Now it was detached housing with big lots, houses built in the seventies, older trees, outbuildings, trucks, manicured lawns, a news van, five police cars, and neighbors everywhere, milling around, some crying.

  I studied the land, which looked tired, overfertilized, and underloved, showing a distinct lack of organic matter, companion plants, or complementary plantings. It was drab and not as green as it should have been this time of year. I shook my head at the sad state of the landscaping, and secured my hair in an elastic.

  I drove back onto the street and up to the armed uniformed officer, showed him my ID, and parked where he pointed. It was after six and still hot as blue blazes when I exited the Chevy C10. The heat radiating off the blacktopped road, the stink of old tar, and the muggy temp still in the nineties slapped me in the face. The officer pointed at a two-story house. I lifted a hand in thanks and trudged beside the concrete drive, my field boots on the springy, too-long grass. It needed cutting and had browned slightly in the heat. The storm had missed this area and it needed rain. But it was okay. It was grass. It would survive. The oak trees in the yard were twenty-five or so years old and needed rain too, but there was nothing I could do about that.

  Crime scene tape marked off the entire front yard and there was an additional square of tape about fifteen by fifteen near the mailbox. The place where the girl had been taken, I presumed. A crime scene tech was placing markers in the brittle grass.

  “Ingram!”

  The sound of my name shook me from my contemplation of the grass and trees and I spotted Margot on the porch. “What do we have?” I asked.

  “FBI has lead on this one. A missing girl and a witness who gives me the creeps, the five minutes I spent with him in the victim’s house. I want you to check him out, see if your church-dar sets you off.”

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “Church-dar. Like radar but for creepy old men.” She pointed at the house across the street. “His name is Jim Paton, fifty-six, white, single. Talk. Then find me.”

  I was still confused, but maybe Margot wanted me that way. I had learned that probies were often sent into situations where they could see things with a fresh eye, or learn things the hard way. I went back across the too-hot asphalt and walked around the witness’s one-story house. The front plantings—aged boxwoods and thirsty azaleas—were dry and sere, if neatly trimmed. The back was enclosed with a six-foot brick wall and secured with a sturdy padlocked wood gate. I leaned into the gate and put an eye to a crack to see a wonderland of raised beds and lush plantings, masculine garden furniture, a small garden house, a lovely fountain of a naked nymph pouring water from a jar on her shoulder, and a water feature that mimicked a mountain stream. It looked like upscale commercial work, far too pretty for this neighborhood.

  Back around front, a uniformed officer let me in and I chatted him up, taking in the front room. The house had been built in the seventies and not painted or updated since. The living room walls were a brownish gold, the trampled-down shag carpet a deeper version of the same shade. Matching couch and chairs were upholstered in floral fabric with big gold roses on each cushion. Matching vases of faded yellow roses rested beside matching lamps on matching end tables. A big-screen TV and a newish recliner sat front and center. A heavy layer of dust covered everything except the recliner. The place smelled of mold. There were cobwebs in the corners. Dry-rotted draperies covered the front windows, a paler gold than the walls, and were ruffled along all the seams and the hem. The room looked as if it had been decorated by two very different people, a woman who liked roses and, much later, a man who liked TV. I texted JoJo to see if Jim Paton was the original owner or if he was a newcomer, and if he’d been married or had a significant other in the past.

  I followed voices to the kitchen, standing in the doorway, taking everything in before I was spotted. The kitchen was neat as a pin, gold-painted walls, gold-painted cabinets. No dust. No dirty dishes. Everything in its place, though way too much gold. Gold flooring, the kind that came in long rolls and was designed to remind people of tile but was really plasticized stuff. Gold stove and fridge. Gold tablecloth. At the small table was a uniformed officer and a man who did not fit the house. He was neither a decorator who liked roses nor a man who belonged in the comfortable recliner. Jim Paton was middle-aged, fit, with khakis and a dress shirt that had started out the day starched and pressed and still looked fresh. His hair was combed and neat, his shoes polished to a shine. Despite his athletic physique, he had plump cheeks, blue eyes, and what I mentally described as a benevolent face. When he smiled, his cheeks formed little cherubic balls of joy, his eyes twinkled, and the uniformed officer smiled with him. “Anything I can do,” Paton said. “Raynay is such a sweet child. This breaks my heart. The world is so full of horrible people and our young are no longer cherished and protected.”

  I put a sweet look on my face and let my voice rise a little, more high-pitched than my normal tone, as I stepped in, interrupting the chitchat. “Mr. Paton, I’m probationary special agent Nell Ingram with PsyLED. I understand you saw the girl abducted?”

  Paton turned to me, and I understood Margot’s church-dar comment. Paton surveyed me in one swift glance, evaluating and categorizing me, my voice, body type, hair, shoes, and gun. It was fast, so fast I’d have missed it had I not been focused so tightly on him.

  “Probationary? Such a sweet young woman for such a dangerous job.” He shook his head. “I was just about to fix Officer Cobb a cup of coffee. Would you like one? Or maybe tea?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, my voice going a little more girlish. “I know you’ve already told your story several times, but can you tell me what you saw?”

  “I came in from work, got a cola from the fridge”—he pointed at the gold antique—“and sat in my recliner. I looked out the front window and saw Raynay walking to the mailbox. A black panel van rolled up, braked, and I saw several pairs of feet moving faster than a human possibly can. The van sped off. Raynay was gone. I raced across the street, banged on the door, and told Lonie what I had seen. Lonie Blalock. That’s Raynay’s mother. We called the police together. They got here fast and said it sounded like a vampire kidnapping. Do you know anything new?”

  “Did you see a license plate? Get a look at the driver?”

  “The van was between Raynay and me.” He put a hand over his heart, a gesture of commiseration, but … it looked off. Affected. Fake. My newly described church-dar for creepy old men was clanging loudly. “The windows were tinted,” he continued. “It happened so fast. I didn’t see anything else.”

  “I see,” I said. “You were in the recliner? In the living room?”

  Paton’s face altered just a hint. Barest tightening of the creases around his smiling blue eyes. “That’s what I said.”

  “The recliner in the living room?”

  Paton said nothing.

  “The recliner in the living room?” I repeated.

  “Yes,” Paton said, and he pasted a happy, innocent smile on his face.

  “Thank you.” I left the kitchen for the living room and stood near the recliner. The drapes were closed, but I couldn’t rule out that Paton had closed them. I opened the drapes. A puff of dust filtered out. I retook my position at the recliner, looking out the front windows. I bent to where Paton’s head would have been when he used the chair. Shifting back and forth, I considered his line of sight along the recline position. The
draperies obscured most of the yard across the street. The area where the crime scene tech worked was hidden behind the trees. I opened the front door and studied Paton’s house. There was one window that gave a clear line of sight to the place where the girl supposedly had been abducted. I texted Margot and JoJo on the same thread. Witness lying. Margot, get over here. Jo, check databases for past domestic abuse or sexual assault allegations on Paton.

  Margot strode across the street to me. Jo texted back, In process. Margot called out, “What do we have?”

  I shut the door to give us privacy. “Witness says he was in his recliner when he saw the girl abducted. He saw several pairs of feet beneath a van. You can’t see the house from his chair. But there’s a bedroom window that might work.” I pointed. “And it’s low enough that he might see feet.”

  Margot changed direction and walked to the window. She leaned in and made a circle of her hands against the screen, pressing her face close. “Gotcha, you lying son of a bitch.” She raced to the porch, past me, and inside, one hand on her weapon. She looked heated and cold all at once, focused and scary. I followed her more slowly. “Mr. Paton,” she said. “You’ve told us several times about seeing Raynay abducted. Tell me again. Starting with where you were when you saw the event. And this time? I want the truth.”

  “I’ll be calling my lawyer,” Paton said calmly.

  “In that case I’ll be taking you in for questioning.” There was something gleeful in Margot’s voice. “Read Mr. Paton his rights, Officer. Cuff him, and put him in my unit.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the cop said.

  “Don’t touch anything,” she added. “I want a warrant for this one.” Margot came back in the main room.

  “Be sure to include the backyard in the warrant,” I said softly for her ears only. “And his business office. And any properties he might own or rent. And whatever he watches on the TV in the main room.”

  “Why’s that?” Margot asked.

  “Church-dar. For creepy old men.” For things that seem wrong.

  • • •

  Back in the Blalock yard, I asked the crime scene tech to step back and used the psy-meter 2.0, reading the spot where Raynay disappeared. I caught a hint of vampire. Which was strange because vampires in the daylight were impossible. But Paton’s description of the abduction sounded like the way well-fed blood-servants moved—faster than normal. And paneled vans with tinted windows were a common method of transportation for vampires.

  I looked back at the window of Paton’s house that faced this spot. Compared it to the front of the house where Raynay lived. On a hunch I packed up the psy-meter, thanked the tech, and made my way to the Blalock house. Quietly, I made my way down the hall to the bedroom where two cops and a crime scene tech were standing. Green walls and carpet. Unmade bed. Clothes on the floor. High school banners hung on one wall. The room of the abducted girl faced the front of the house, overlooking Paton’s house, with a clear view of the window where Margot had said, Gotcha, you lying son of a bitch. What had she seen?

  My cell dinged. JoJo had sent a text to Margot and me. Found a Peeping Tom report from twenty years ago, and one count of lewd behavior with a minor. Nothing since.

  Margot texted back, He went underground.

  She meant that Paton was a sexual predator who had learned to hide his activities enough to be considered safe around neighbors. But why would a sexual predator claim he had witnessed an abduction if he was the culprit? Why not just remain silent? I thought about the sanctimonious predators at the church and considered them in light of the evidence here. I texted back, I’ll access all reports of missing girls when I get back to HQ. But I think he really saw the girl abducted. It fits the MO of a man hiding his own activities. In warrant, look for child pornography.

  Margot texted back, My money says we got him.

  I hoped her money was right, but just in case, I sent a text to Yummy that said, Can vampires smell other vampires and their blood-servants? If so, when you wake and get this, I’d like you to take a sniff at the abduction site of a human teenager. Then I sent a shorter text, Please.

  • • •

  Because a child was missing, Margot got her paper in record time. I spent the next hours working on my search on Isleen and Loriann, running back and forth between Paton’s house and the Blalock home, updating people at HQ, and keeping my nose in everything important.

  In the middle of the running around, my laptop dinged. I took it to the truck and plugged it in to charge while I looked at the results of my search. I sat for a while, sweating, my fingers on the keyboard, limp, as I stared at the results. Then I called JoJo on her cell.

  “Jones,” she said.

  “I may have found Loriann, Rick’s ink blood-magic witch.”

  “Go, probie!”

  “Not really. Things areconvoluted. There’s an NOPD complication from the two years after Rick was inked.” I told what I had discovered.

  Jo listened and then said softly, “I’ll do some more research and then call Soul.”

  “Copy that.” I ended the call. If I was right about what I had discovered, Rick had been hiding things from his unit.

  • • •

  Two hours after the call had first come in, we had significant evidence against Jim Paton for possessing child pornography and for watching Raynay Blalock through her window with a telescope that was usually set up on a tripod in his bedroom. The scope was found under the bed, but the feet of the stand had made indentations in the carpet that were impossible to explain away. Jim claimed he had nothing to do with Raynay’s kidnapping, but he was in deep trouble and his lawyer was trying to arrange bail and a safe place for the man to stay. So far no judge was willing to consider letting him out on personal recognizance, and Jim wasn’t going to be safe in his own house anymore, not since word had gotten out to his neighbors that he was into abuse of children.

  But. Raynay was still missing. Margot and another FBI agent I didn’t know had spent hours with the mother of the missing girl, but she knew nothing. I didn’t think Paton had anything to do with the kidnapping.

  It was finally dark and Yummy was on her way over to add more evidence. Waiting on her, I sat in the overheated truck cab, windows open, sweating, making cell phone calls and typing up reports, my skin coated with that oily, greasy sweat that results from high humidity and midsummer heat. The temps were making me gripey and impatient and I was hungry and thirsty and I had forgotten to refill my water bottle, which meant I’d had to refill with city water from the Blalock kitchen tap. The taste was chlorinated and awful. And Yummy was late.

  That thought was still echoing in my brain when the truck rocked and a fanged face slashed at my windshield. I had drawn my weapon and aimed before I realized it was Yummy. False vamp laughter, mocking and insulting, echoed down the street. Playing a vamp game. My heart was stuttering around one-eighty, and my breathing was still trying to catch up. Knowing she would hear me through the open window, I muttered, “I’m loaded with silver-lead ammo. Be glad I didn’t fire.”

  “Maggoty Nell would make me true-dead?” she asked through the glass, still laughing. But it was now human laughter and her fangs snapped back into place in the roof of her mouth as her eyes bled back to human.

  I reseated my weapon and opened the door, sliding out of the seat. “Thanks for coming.”

  “The news media is all over this like white on rice. If my assistance will stick Jim Paton behind bars and recover the missing girl, then I’m happy to oblige.” The edge in her voice convinced me she was more than willing to help, this once with no quid pro quo to balance the account between us.

  I inclined my head toward the crime scene tape and together we ambled over, unconsciously keeping the cruisers between the news van cameras and ourselves. Softly, so no one with a parabolic mic or something even fancier could overhear me, I said, “I don’t think Paton took Raynay. I think he’ll go to jail for child pornography, but I think blood-servants took the gi
rl. I got a reading that suggested vampires took her in broad daylight, and since that’s not likely, I’m thinking blood-servants who have been drinking a lot of vampire blood—enough to make them read a little like vamps—took her.”

  “You are not accusing Ming’s people,” Yummy said, half question, half assertion.

  “No. But you tell me.”

  We had reached the fifteen-foot-wide square of lawn marked off by yellow crime scene tape. The tech was long gone. Yummy looked at me as if asking if she could cross the tape. I shook my head. “Do the best you can from here.”

  Yummy dropped into a squat, one knee on the ground. She was wearing tight Lycra running pants and still wasn’t sweating. I didn’t envy the whole blood-drinking thing, but I did envy the vampire not-sweating thing. She leaned forward and sniffed several times. Then sat back on her haunches. She said softly, “The human girl was frozen in panic. The ones who took her are the same blood clan as the Naturaleza who attacked the council chambers of Ming of Glass.” Yummy’s blond hair shifted and fell across one shoulder as she angled her head up to see me. “They’re Ming’s enemies. The enemies of all the Mithrans of Knoxville. When we find the location of their lair, we’ll kill them all. But we’ll be mindful of prisoners.”

  I frowned. “Don’t you think it would be better to get PsyLED to take down a lair?”

  “No.”

  That was succinct. “Okay then. Thank you for coming.”

  “One thing.” Yummy rose to stand beside me. “I also smell magic on them. Perhaps not enough to register on your machine, but enough to make them dangerous. Be careful. They might have powerful amulets.”

  “Okay. Hey.” I stopped, thought it through, and asked, “You ever hear of a vampire named Isleen?”

  “Yes. She is true-dead. If you have further questions, ask your LaFleur.” Yummy faded into the night.

  I went back to my truck and called HQ, filling them in on the information Yummy had given me about the kidnapped girl, calling her a confidential informant. It wouldn’t fool anyone at HQ, but it did keep Yummy’s name off my reports.