The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7)

by Kirsten Weiss

  Donovan slid the bouquet onto the glossy, wooden counter. Light from the overhead lamps gleamed across the hospital’s laminate floors. The walls alternated color, pale gold and pale blue. Somewhere down the corridor, an electronic alarm pinged.

  “How is Sheriff King?” Riga asked. “Will he be all right?”

  The nurse pushed the tab of a hand sanitizer container set into the wall and scrubbed her hands. “I’m sorry, I can’t say.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Riga clenched her jaw.

  Donovan placed a hand on her arm.

  The nurse’s brows drew down. “Won’t. I’m sure you understand.”

  Frustrated, Riga blew out her breath.

  Local sheriff shot. Long range. Shooter at large.

  Little wonder the story dominated the news. Senator Stile had even found time in his busy schedule to share his shock with the press.

  They damned well better have King under guard.

  She paced to the tall window and gazed over the parking lot, the islands of lights illuminating miniaturized cars. Was the shooter nearby? Or off plotting his next move?

  Sickened, she rubbed her arms. She existed to deal with things like Tanhauser, things the police couldn’t. And in spite of that, she’d gotten Sheriff King involved.

  “We can’t do anything else here,” Donovan said.

  “No,” she said, bitter, “I’ve done enough.”

  “We can’t be sure this has anything to do with Tanhauser. If the police had a description of the shooter, it would be all over the news.”

  Sergeant McAdam plodded down the hall. He rubbed his head, ruffling his curling, mahogany hair, and held his broad-brimmed hat in his other hand. His uniform was rumpled, stained.

  Riga hurried to him. “Sergeant McAdam.”

  He blinked in confusion, his face haggard. “Mrs. Mosse?”

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “In a coma. They don’t think…” He swallowed. “The odds aren’t good.”

  “He’s under guard?”

  “We’re not leaving him alone.” McAdam’s jaw tightened.

  “What happened?” Donovan asked.

  “Shot from the tree line by someone with a high-powered rifle.” The deputy’s voice was dull, flat. “The FBI’s involved now. They’re saying domestic extremism.”

  Riga’s brow wrinkled. The senator’s pet cause. “Was the sheriff involved in a domestic terrorism case?”

  He shook his head. “Sometimes you don’t know you’re in one until you’re in it. DHS says you could encounter a sovereign citizen at a routine traffic stop. They’ll start shooting because they think the police don’t have authority over them.”

  “The Department of Homeland Security is involved?” Donovan asked.

  McAdam shook his head. “Just the FBI.” His expression hardened. “And us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Riga said. “Sheriff King’s a good man.” She knew his wife, had met his son. They were good people too. Her throat tightened.

  McAdam walked to the elevator, punched the button, stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind him.

  “Domestic terrorism,” Donovan said. “I wonder how they reached that conclusion?”

  “Tanhauser did this.”

  “Let’s go. This is in the doctors’ hands now. There’s nothing you can do.”

  She allowed him to lead her from the building. They paused beneath the amber lights at the hospital entrance. The parking lot lights and fattening moon dimmed the stars.

  Ash peeled from the shadows and joined them.

  In silence, they walked to the SUV, and Donovan handed Riga inside. Ash slid into the back seat.

  She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. Nausea twisted her gut. Sheriff King had to live. She clenched her hands, imagining his anxious family, despising her own helplessness.

  Donovan started the car.

  Domestic extremism her ass. Tanhauser was behind the shooting. The sheriff had found something. He’d been on the verge of telling her, but Tanhauser or his accomplice had gotten to him first.

  And the sheriff had warned her of the danger. But she’d pushed forward anyway, pushed him into it. And the disaster had all started because she’d been bored at home and wanted to boost her ego, be a detective again.

  Her fault.

  She turned her face to the window and opened her eyes. Dark silhouettes of pines streamed past on the winding highway.

  Donovan was wrong.

  Her jaw set. “The doctors aren’t the only ones who can help the sheriff.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In the half-dark of a man-in-the-moon nightlight, Riga gripped the rail of the crib. The twins lay curled like a yin-yang symbol, Jack’s top to Emma’s toes. She resisted the urge to brush the back of her fingers across their downy skin, to risk waking the twins.

  Riga had work to do.

  She tiptoed from the room, leaving the door ajar.

  The murmur of voices, Pen’s and Donovan’s, drifted up the carpeted stairs. Donovan knew her plan. He would make sure no one disturbed her journey.

  Grabbing a pillow, yoga mat, and blankets from her bedroom closet, she went to the bookcase and opened the door to her secret room. Her own bed would be more comfortable, but the energies in her small workspace were hers alone.

  She spread the yoga mat and a blanket on the floor, dropping the pillow and remaining blanket beside it. Stepping over the arrangement, she rummaged in her desk for her music player and headphones.

  Riga smiled, grim. She was no shamanic healer, but she knew her way to the underworld. If Sheriff King was in a coma, she might be able to find the corner between worlds where his spirit had taken refuge.

  She lit a thick white candle on her desk and turned out the light.

  Lying on the yoga mat, she adjusted the pillow beneath her head, pulling the blanket over her for warmth. Riga jammed the earbuds into her ears and clicked on a shamanic drumbeat. She closed her eyes.

  The beat pounded, a steady, double drum. She breathed, letting the rhythm bring her heart into sync, into trance.

  The massive pine tree outside Donovan’s Tahoe casino rose in her mind’s eye. She visualized the reddish color of its jigsaw bark, the dried pine needles carpeting its base. Its thick roots broke the asphalt, nature unstoppable.

  She ran her hands along its rough bark, pressed herself against the trunk, and inhaled the vanilla scent of the sugar pine. Above her, obscured by its fan of branches, stars wheeled, an eternal clock face.

  A pine cone lay balanced on a crack in the asphalt. She focused on it, felt herself shrinking. The cone grew larger as she diminished, its thorns threatening to impale her.

  The drumbeat and her heart were one, thrumming. Find Sheriff King.

  Stepping to the edge of the crevasse, she jumped. She slid down a tree root into a dirt passage lit by a sickly glow. Worms of white roots crawled above, piercing the damp ground.

  She dusted off her hands and ran down a sloping tunnel. Quartz crystals embedded in the earth shone like lanterns, lighting her passage. Her footfalls thudded in time with the beat of the drums.

  A chasm split the earth before her. She plunged into it. Like Alice descending the rabbit hole, she floated rather than fell, spiraling downward. Drifting.

  Her feet struck rocky soil, touching bottom, and her knees buckled.

  Ahead of her, light blazed, a jagged lightning bolt marking a fissure in the rock face. Heard but unseen, water trickled through the base of the crack.

  Sheriff King. She focused on his perpetual five o’clock shadow, on his bearlike bulk, his rare smile.

  Riga squeezed through the break in the rock, rough stone scraping her face, tugging at her clothing. She emerged from the cave and winced, raised her hand against the blinding light.

  Sheriff King. I’m here for Sheriff King.

  Icy water chilled her ankles. Blinking, she paused for her vision to adjust to the light. Shapes moved into focus.

 
She stood outdoors in a shallow stream. The water fed an alpine lake, dazzling beneath a high, white sun. Snowcapped mountains encircled the lake, their icy peaks reflecting in its clear waters.

  A dock stretched into the lake, and a rowboat bobbed beside the pier. At the end of the dock sat a man in a portable, fabric chair. His fishing hat sank low on his brow. He held a pole in his hand.

  Her heart jumped. King. He was still alive, or half-alive.

  A massive crow dove from the cloudless sky and landed on a piling.

  Riga walked down the stony beach. Smooth rocks clacked and ground beneath her shoes. She stepped onto the pier, her footsteps hollow on the wood.

  The man at the end didn’t move.

  Her eyes narrowed. The figure in the blue chair had Sheriff King’s bulk, but this was Lower World and things were not always as they appeared.

  And this was too easy.

  The crow squawked, flapping its wings as she passed.

  She walked to the man, still at the edge of the pier. The water was crystalline, emerald grasses waving, languid, beneath the surface.

  “Hello,” she said.

  The man didn’t respond, and she turned to him.

  Face blank, the sheriff stared at the point where his fishing line vanished into the lake.

  “Sheriff King?”

  He sat, unmoving, unspeaking.

  A drumbeat echoed off the mountains.

  She knelt beside him and laid a hand on his knee. “Sheriff, it’s me, Riga Hayworth, or Mosse, or whatever you want to call me.” Her voice cracked.

  Still, he stared.

  She followed his gaze. The water around his line rippled.

  “I think you can hear me if you want to,” she said. “We were speaking on the phone when you were shot. You’re in the hospital, and you’re going to get well. The cops at your station are out for blood. I think you suspect who shot you. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to help you find your way home.”

  An uncomfortable rush of heat rolled through her, and she rubbed her lips. She was no shaman. Once, she’d assisted with a soul retrieval, helped a shaman guide a soul back to her body. But she’d never attempted a soul retrieval on her own. And the stakes had never been this personal. She rose and looked across the lake, her cheeks warming.

  “I think there will be an attack on the Sunset Towers,” she continued. “The solstice is tomorrow, the day Mrs. Norton warned of. I believe you know what’s coming, maybe even how to stop it. And I think you want to stop it, because you care about your work, about the people you protect.”

  She stepped in front of him.

  He leaned sideways, gazing past her at his line.

  “Your fishing line. What does it mean? Is that what’s keeping you here, tethered?” Was it keeping him in Lower World or was it keeping him alive? She couldn’t risk touching it. Riga rubbed her temple. What the hell was she doing?

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “And I don’t have enough time to figure it out. Tanhauser’s a killer. Is he using the senator, or is the senator pulling the strings? And what the hell does any of this have to do with the Sunset Towers? Is it just a convenient place for Tanhauser to scoop up sacrifices for his death magic? Or is there more there? I’ve searched through the personnel files… Yes, I got them. Don’t ask me how. I couldn’t find anything or anyone out of the ordinary. The head janitor, Arwood Wilde, has access to the entire building. So does the woman who runs the place, Morgan Verdun. If Tanhauser wanted help, either of them would be good candidates. Then there’s the head nurse in the dementia unit, Kayley Jalonik. Something seems off about her. But if Tanhauser needs an accomplice, it could be anyone in that facility.”

  King didn’t reply.

  “You’re right,” she said, “it’s not just anyone. My instincts say it’s one of the three. Maybe even all three.” She whirled on him, laying her hands on his bristly jowls. “Come on, King. Your family needs you. Your station needs you. Come back to the real world.”

  His gaze locked on hers, and she drew a sharp breath.

  “She’s there,” he croaked.

  “Who’s there? Where’s there?”

  His thick lips moved, soundless. Then, “Hallie Stiiiile.” The word was a long exhale. “In the Towers.”

  Dammit. Why hadn’t she asked Hacker Jeff to get the names of the patients as well as the employees? “What does Tanhauser want with her?”

  “You.” He gasped.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck. “He wants me?”

  He sucked in a ragged breath. “Can’t stop him. He’s not like us.”

  “I know. He’s not human anymore. His body is, but something else is running him. That I can handle,” she said, injecting a false note of confidence into her voice. “But I need you back in action once I eject the demon. Tanhauser invited it in, and he needs to take the fall for what he’s done. I need your help.”

  He drew breath. “You can’t…”

  “I can,” she said. “Did you find out what Tanhauser’s plan is for the solstice?”

  The sheriff’s face contorted, stretched, narrowing, his skin hanging loose on his skull. His eyes rolled back, showing their whites. “Hallie.”

  Shocked, she stepped away from him, her heel turning on the edge of the pier. Riga stumbled, knelt, forcing herself to grasp his hand. His bones shifted beneath hers. “Sheriff King! Come back with me.”

  The sheriff shook his head, a blur of motion, stopped.

  Wearing his Navy dress whites, Vinnie sat in the sheriff’s chair. His young face twisted in a rictus grin.

  For a moment she couldn’t speak. “Vinnie!” She dropped his hand, her knuckles whitening. “Where’s King?” Good God, was she too late?

  “He’s still here.”

  Her shoulders sagged. There was still a chance to bring King back. “What’s going on?”

  “Everything’s changed, Riga. Everything.”

  “Not helpful,” she snapped. “As usual.”

  “King doesn’t know what’s coming. You want answers, ask me.”

  “Fine. I’m asking.”

  He stared at her, his expression solemn.

  “Well?” She jammed her fists onto her hips. “What’s coming?”

  “The end.” He shivered and hunched in the chair. When he straightened, it was Sheriff King again.

  The drumbeat speeded.

  “Sheriff, come back with me.”

  He smiled at her. “Riga? What are you doing here?”

  Shaky with relief, she covered her mouth with her hand. Whatever fugue state the sheriff had been in before, it was gone. “I’ve come to bring you home.”

  He gazed over the lake. “Are you now? Then why do I get the feeling you don’t know what you’re doing?”

  “Know or not, I’m doing it anyway.”

  He shook his head. “Not this time, Riga.”

  Her mouth went dry, her heart speeding and sinking at the same time. “Your family needs you.” The drumbeat accelerated, pulled at her, a warning. Their time was running out.

  “They don’t need me,” he said, “not anymore. Oh, they’ll miss me, I know, but my son’s his own man, and my wife was always the boss of the family. They’ll get by.”

  She grabbed his shoulders. “No. Don’t give up like this. Your life is waiting. Don’t throw it away.”

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve been fishing. You ever been fishing, Riga?”

  “You can fish for real fish in the real world. Why are you staying here? What’s holding you?”

  “I’m tired, Riga. And this place isn’t half bad.”

  “Half is right. This isn’t heaven,” she said. “It’s just an in-between place.”

  “Really?” He reeled in his line, cast it. “You mean there’s a better place than this?”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” she said, reluctant. “I’ve never actually been there.”

  “I think I’ll stay here awhile.”

  “
You can’t use an in-between station as a vacation spot! You need to return.” Her hands fluttered. How could she make him see? Sure, death was just the next adventure, but life was a miracle, precious. “But… there’s family and food and beer and pizza and real fishing in a real lake.” At least one of those things must appeal to him.

  The drumbeat pulled her backward, invisible hands dragging her away from him and down the dock.

  “Come with me,” she shouted.

  He waved, not looking back. A great wind sucked her through the cave entrance, up and through the weirdly lit tunnels. She whizzed past beetles, writhing tree roots, and popped through the asphalt beside the tree.

  The drumbeat stopped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Riga beat her fist on the floor of her secret room.

  She’d failed.

  She leapt to her feet, pacing. The sheriff’s spirit hadn’t returned with her. Vinnie hadn’t given her more than vague, dire warnings. But Hallie Stile…

  The sheriff had confirmed that the senator’s wife was at the Sunset Towers. Could she be Tanhauser’s next target?

  She speeded downstairs.

  In the living room, Pen and Donovan sat opposite each other on wide, leather sofas and fed the twins their eight o’clock bottles. All involved had silly smiles on their faces. Resting in the crook of his father’s arm, Jack’s eyelids sunk to half-mast.

  “Any luck?” Donovan asked.

  “No.” Riga collapsed onto the sofa next to Pen.

  Her niece’s cream-colored cargo pants sagged about her waist, exposing her bellybutton. “Here you go.” Carefully, Pen handed Emma into Riga’s arms.

  “What happened?” Donovan asked.

  “The sheriff wouldn’t come back with me. But he confirmed that the senator’s wife is in the Sunset Towers.”

  “The senator’s wife?” Pen asked. “Senator Stile, you mean?”

  Emma’s damp lips parted, her eyes closing. Riga removed the bottle from her mouth, and a measure of her fear and anger lightened.

  “There’s going to be an attack at the Towers tomorrow,” Riga said. “Maybe an attempt on the senator’s wife. We’ll stop it.” She stroked a finger across Emma’s cheek. These moments with the children managed to drive away the worst of the world. Moments the sheriff would miss with his future grandchildren. Grandchildren. She should have used them as a reason for him to return.