Dead Demon Walking

by Linda Welch

  Whisperings book three: Dead Demon Walking.

  Linda Welch.

  Copyright 2011 by Linda Welch.

  Smashwords edition.

  ISBN: 978-1-4657-6603-8

  Dead Demon Walking

  Whisperings book three

  Linda Welch

  Dear Readers,

  In 2010 additional material transformed Along Came a Demon from novella to novel, which necessitated a small addition and some minor revision to The Demon Hunters. The plot basics did not change, but those of you who read the novellas will see obscure references in Dead Demon Walking and think what the heck? I promise, they are minimal and have no material impact on this novel.

  I hope you enjoy Whisperings book three.

  Linda.

  Chapter One

  Late August in Clarion is a contrary time of year, when the sun drops below the westward peaks at seven in the evening and does not rise in the east till eight in the morning. Temperatures fluctuate wildly; you can’t predict them from one day to the next. Days can be hot, and nights cold enough to chill your bones. I leave every window in the house open at night, though the house will feel like an icebox till noon, because I know the temperature will get right up there again. That way, I don’t need to run the air conditioner much, which keeps the electricity bill down.

  I came out my bedroom with my robe tightly cinched. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee bolstered my mood and drew me down the stairs to the kitchen. A new coffee maker, with a working timer, does that for me.

  My black-brindle Scottish terrier MacKlutzy waited at the pantry door.

  Most dogs trail their humans as they move through the house, but not Mac. He will occasionally join me in my bedroom when I work at my desk, but only if there is no patch of sunshine in the kitchen to lie in. His chief preoccupations are food and walks, and I’m merely the provider of these necessities. He sleeps in my room during the night, but trots downstairs to the pantry the second I stir. I rarely see him in his plaid doggy bed when I open my eyes.

  I went to the pantry, scooped kibble into his bowl and put it on the floor. As always, he cleaned the dish in less than a minute. I think he inhales the stuff. I would be seriously worried if Mac picked at his food, or worse, refused it.

  Next in his daily routine, I opened the back door so he could go outside and do what a dog’s gotta do. I left it open a crack so he could push back inside.

  The sun pierced the small glass pane in the backdoor and larger window in the wall beside it, painting two golden paths over the kitchen floor and my beat-up old kitchen table. Arms wrapped around her shoulders, Mel stood with her back to the multi-pane west windows. “Brr.”

  I grinned at her. Dead people don’t feel the cold. “Where’s Jack?”

  “Probably still in bed.”

  “You’re full of it this morning.” Dead people don’t sleep, either.

  I ambled to the counter, patted my new toy’s shiny white plastic surface and reached to the top cabinet for a coffee mug. The phone rang. I glanced at it, but didn’t recognize the number on Caller ID, so let the answering machine pick up.

  A familiar gravelly voice said, “Banks? It’s Brad Spacer. Something - ”

  I put the mug on the counter and plucked up the receiver with one hand as I felt in the silverware drawer for a spoon with the other. “Morning, Brad.”

  “You’re there. Good.”

  I snugged the phone between shoulder and ear, leaving my hands free to pour coffee. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Something’s come up, might interest you.” I heard Brad’s supersized coffee cup thunk as he put it down none too gently. Detective Bradley Spacer’s desk would look naked without that cup. “You were interested in a cold case a while back, guy went missing twenty-some years ago.”

  My teaspoon tinged the side of the glass carafe as my hand jerked a little. I knew which case Brad meant. I turned my back on Mel and spoke as low as I could. “What about it?”

  “I got a man in the interview room asking. When I told him we had nothing new, he asked me to recommend a PI. You know we can’t officially make recommendations, but your name could come up in our conversation.”

  I cleared my throat. “What’s his story?”

  “Name’s Dale Jericho, from outta New York City, stopped here on his way to Saint George, looking at property down there, taking an early retirement. Didn’t realize his friend was missing till five years after the fact, when he came here on business and decided to look him up. Went back to New York after, but kept tabs on the case. We’ve logged seventeen inquiries from the guy in the past twenty years.”

  “After all this time, he wants to hire a private investigator?”

  “So he says. Says it’s been on his mind all these years. You want it?”

  I couldn’t help Dale Jericho. I knew who killed his friend and where his body lay, and would not share that with anyone. That would open a whole can of worms. No way, no-how, could I explain why I’d not reported the two bodies, or what would be left of them, buried in my basement.

  I got the chocolate-mint-truffle creamer from the fridge, added a dollop to my Colombian medium-roast blend and stirred. Why would the disappearance of an old friend be “on his mind” after all this time? Why hire an investigator now?

  Unless he knows something about the murder.

  Mac pushed the backdoor open with his nose and made a beeline for the widest golden swath on the floor. The light made the copper brindle in his coat glint as he stretched out on his belly, head on paws, and closed his eyes.

  “You still there?”

  I pushed the backdoor closed with my foot. “Yeah. I’m interested. Not that I think I can help him, but a consultation fee is not to be sniffed at.”

  “Big time now, huh?”

  “Definitely. Got my name in neon lights across the office I don’t have.”

  He chuckled.

  I wanted to talk to Jericho, but not where Jack and Mel could hear. “Give him my cell number.”

  “Will do. See ya, Banks.”

  “Yeah, sure.” I put the phone down.

  I sat at the table, lifted the mug to my lips and almost impaled my eye on the spoon. Mel sniggered.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Brad Spacer. Nothing important, just following up on an old case.”

  Dale Jericho. I didn’t recognize the name. Would Jack?

  ***

  My cell rang as I dressed; I zipped up my Levis and fell across the bed to reach it. I flipped open the cover, put it to my ear and rolled on my back. “This is Tiff.”

  “Miss Banks? Dale Jericho. Detective Spacer gave me your number.”

  I eyed the hairline cracks in the bedroom ceiling. “He said you’re interested in. . . .” I hesitated, knowing my nosy roommates could be listening. “. . . . an old police case.”

  I heard voices, cutlery clattering in the background. A restaurant or café?

  “Can we meet and discuss this?”

  I glanced at the mantle clock. “Today?”

  “If possible. I leave for Saint George tonight.”

  Nine o’clock and I hadn’t eaten yet. “Where are you?”

  “Audrie’s.”

  Audrie’s Family Restaurant - the guy had good taste. They do really good breakfasts. “I can be there in ten minutes. That okay with you? Or would you rather we meet in private?”

  “Here’s fine. Ten minutes, then.”

  “I’ll be there. Why don’t you order me their biscuits and gravy breakfast? Eggs scrambled, with cheese. No toast; make it an English muffin. I don’t expect you to pay.”

  “Ah . . . very well. Biscuits and gravy. Right.”

  He sounded put-off. Hey, if I had to m
eet him in a restaurant I might as well eat breakfast. He could order and it would be ready when I arrived.

  “I’ll see you there.” I snapped my phone shut.

  I lay there, tapping my chin with the phone, pondering. Did the man think a private investigator could discover something new, when the cops found nothing? Or did he have another angle? Did he want to make sure nobody had discovered anything new? But surely, for that, he would need someone inside the police department, not an independent.

  I shunted off the bed, tucked the cell in my back pocket and went to my desk. I kept Jack’s file, and Mel’s, in the bottom drawer. I took a few minutes to skim through the foolscap sheets, though I didn’t need to. I knew every word by heart.

  I would not take the file with me, but it did give me an idea how to get out the house minus harassment from my roommates. I replaced the file and took a big manila envelope out the drawer. I went downstairs with it in my hand.

  “Going somewhere?” Mel called as I picked up my keys and wallet from the hall table.

  I flapped the envelope. “Off to the post office.”

  She stuck her head around the kitchen door. “Why don’t you leave it in the mailbox for pickup?”

  “I need a signature on delivery.”

  I’m not above lying if I think the end justifies the means. The end, in this instance, would be Jack and Mel not pestering me about where I went, why, and how long I would be gone. I didn’t want them to know, especially not Jack. Not yet.

  ***

  Audrie’s is an old log-cabin-style restaurant on Grant Avenue, on the west side across from the transportation hub. You can get almost anything there including American, Italian, Mexican and Greek. They serve huge meals at a reasonable price, all made from scratch. I adore their breakfasts. My favorite is cheese-covered scrambled eggs with biscuits smothered in sausage gravy. It comes with country-fried potatoes, a couple bacon slices and either toast, an English muffin, or a deep-fried scone with honey butter. And in my opinion their coffee can’t be beat by any fancy specialty coffee shop.

  Cars, pickups and vans crowded the rear parking lot, but I squeezed the Subaru between a truck and the chain-link fence. I locked my car and walked to Audrie’s entrance, went inside and hesitated as I tried to see into the three restaurant sections. Diners packed the place wall-to-wall.

  One guy sat alone, over near the bathrooms. As I wove among tables, I wondered if Brad told Jericho I’m a psychic. I’m not, and don’t advertise as such, but Clarion Police Department stuck the label on me and word spreads.

  You would be surprised by how many police cases in which those with psychic abilities are involved. What you’ll hear is an anonymous tip led officers to the perpetrator, and when they walk in the courtroom there is no argument with the evidence to which that anonymous tip led. They won’t advertise who gave them the tip; a defense attorney would have a field day with a psychic consultant on the witness stand, using that to draw out the proceedings as long as possible.

  I worried about being called to testify when I worked for Clarion PD as a consultant, a possibility as I didn’t have the rights of a confidential informer. But prosecuting attorneys never asked what tipped off the police when the evidence spoke for itself.

  I’m not really a psychic, or a medium, but I don’t tell anyone what I actually do. There is no title for people like me, who see and speak to the violently slain as if they are flesh and blood people.

  The guy focused on me. I made eye contact and smiled. He got up, reached for his paper napkin as it slid off his knees and missed. He bent over to grope down next to his ankles.

  Jack had been dead more than twenty years, so why did I expect to see some young guy? He sat up to observe my approach, back stiff as the slats of his chair, a tall, slim, attractive man in his early-fifties with casually-styled, collar-length brown hair receding a little at the hairline, a few silvery speckles here and there. He had what I call a distinguished face, clean cut in a craggy kind of way, with lightly tanned skin, a hooked nose, pale-blue eyes, a generous mouth and hollows beneath his cheekbones. In his open-necked gray knit shirt and smart gray suit several shades darker, he could pass for a male model, of the older variety. Silver glinted at his neck. He wore a silver or white-gold ring set with a small diamond on his pinky finger and a Movado sports wristwatch with a black face.

  “Mr. Jericho?” I held out my hand, which he took in a firm grasp. We did the little obligatory shake thing then sat, facing across the table. A waitress brought a laden tray and unloaded the dishes. Jericho had eaten half his toast and orange juice. My plates took up most the table. We waited till the waitress poured my coffee and left.

  “Thank you for meeting me, Miss Banks.” Jericho eyed my dishes. “Please, don’t let your breakfast get cold.”

  Audrie’s felt humid and the ceiling fans circulated the tantalizing aroma of a dozen ingredients cooked in grease. If you want Virgin Olive Oil and heart-smart, don’t eat at Audrie’s, she’s a big Crisco fan. A woman at the next table tucked into Audrie’s Spanish omelet and the smell of sautéed onion and bell peppers made my mouth water.

  I picked up my fork and waved it at his plate. “Don’t let me stop you.” Meaning I would not let him stop me plowing up my breakfast.

  I speared a fried potato chunk, swirled it in the sausage gravy and stuck it in my mouth. Then I realized my mistake. This breakfast should be savored, and how could I do that as I discussed a prospective job with a prospective client?

  No, not a prospective client - I couldn’t work for this man. I already knew what happened to Jackson Trewellyn. My interest ran more along the lines of sizing Jericho up as a suspect.

  Amplified by the high ceiling, chatter washed over us. I hoped he didn’t mind raising his voice to talk, or if I raised mine, though I doubted we would be overheard with the table tucked in the corner and other diners deep in conversation. “Jackson Trewellyn disappeared twenty-four years ago. Why are you so eager to find him now?”

  Too abrupt, maybe? He couldn’t meet my eyes and he flushed slightly. He cleared his throat and leaned in so he could reach his back pocket and dig out his wallet. He eased a piece of paper out the wallet and slid it over the table to me.

  Not paper, an old photograph going sepia. I held it close to my eyes.

  A much younger Dale Jericho, and Jackson Trewellyn. Side by side, relaxed and casual, they smiled at the camera. They wore identical navy long-sleeved sweaters over khaki pants. I peered closer at the background. It looked like the old River Valley College campus before they upgraded to university. Jack wore his hair longer and his eyes seemed to shine with merriment backed up by a hitched lip. I studied the photograph a good long time. I have never seen Jack smile.

  I have a picture of Jack looking solemn, copied from the one published in our local paper at the time of his disappearance, which I found in the library archives. I stare at it often as I compare that face to what I see now. Jack, whose eyes are wide with fear, the startled expression of a man who knows a bad thing is going to happen and he can’t do a damned thing to avoid it.

  Now I had another picture of Jack on file, if only in my memory.

  “Jack and I were friends. We met in Junior High, went to Ben Nevis High. He moved in with my family when his parents died. We shared a room at college. We got an apartment together after we graduated.”

  I made sure I got a peek inside Jack’s file before I quit Clarion PD. I had as much information as the cops, plus a little more. Jack’s parents died in a multiple car crash on Interstate 15 just outside Layton. “He lived with Harry and Margaret Chambers after his parents died.”

  “My mother married again. Harry is my stepfather, but I kept my father’s name.”

  I laid the photo on the table and slid it away from my plate. I didn’t want to spatter gravy over it. But I couldn’t look away from Jack’s smiling face. “What happened? You lost touch with him?”

  “We wanted to live in New York City. We went there to lo
ok for an apartment. We had a . . . we argued. Jack left, went back to Utah. I thought I’d hear from him but . . . I tried to call him a few times but he never answered, then the line was no longer in service. I thought . . . I thought he didn’t want to talk to me. I found out he went missing when I came back here five years later.”

  I switched my gaze from the photo to Jericho’s face. His eyes were moist. Genuine distress? He could be a damn fine actor. I buttered my muffin to give him time. Two bites later, he seemed more in control.

  I made my voice gentle although my words were not. “You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Jericho. Why the sudden interest in Jackson Trewellyn? Why now?”

  “It’s not sudden. I never stopped thinking of Jack, had we not parted as we did. . . .”

  I dug into the crème de la crème, the biscuits and sausage gravy. His conscience brought Dale Jericho back to Clarion? Or he wanted me to think so.

  “You must have known Trewellyn well, his personality, likes and dislikes.” Maybe his take on Jack could clue me in on the man’s honesty, if he truly was close to Jack.

  He surveyed his half-eaten toast and a smile flitted over his face. “Jack was hyperactive, had a hard time settling down to any one thing. Study was difficult for him. He had a dry, cutting sense of humor, somewhat on the sarcastic side.”

  That did sound like Jack.

  We sat in silence as the waitress topped up my coffee.

  “But he had a soft spot for the downtrodden, the oppressed, for lost causes,” he went on as she walked away. “He had an affinity for kids and animals, and I think it had to do with their being easy victims of those who prey on the helpless.”

  Now there is a side to Jack I don’t see - I forgot to shovel more breakfast in my mouth.

  “Jack liked to hike, rock-face climbing, hang-gliding. He came up with the craziest plans. . . .” He fell silent, looking past me at memories.