by Livia Quinn
I started to ask about the father but the lab techs arrived. “Get me addresses on all the Pomeroys, Peggy, and anything else you can think of. Leave it on my desk. I’ll be late. You don’t need to hang around.”
I ended the call and thought about the information she’d given me on River Pomeroy. He lived at Harmony Plantation, near Lightning Bayou, with his sister.
I couldn’t help but wonder why a successful contractor would be so attached to such an ugly vase?
Tempe
“What kind of trouble are you in now?” Dylan’s quiet voice grated over my cell, like he didn’t want to be overheard.
“I thought you were out of pocket,” I said.
“You’d better be glad I returned this call. Seems the local badge put a BOLO out on you. It won’t be long before they find you.”
I groaned.
“Damn, Te—if you keep this up I won’t be able to dig you out with a backhoe.”
All morning my emotions had been close to the surface, affecting my ability to hold my Tempestaerie-ness in check, like a tropical storm on the verge of earning an official name. But two blocks away from the clubhouse I started thinking more clearly and a plan formed. I could make two stops and stay out of serious trouble with UM; one to deliver my last big package and the second to deliver on a promise I’d made this morning. Then I’d drop my mail in the first collection box—not the preferred method—and arrange for Tuesday off so I could look for River. I’d run Phoebe down tonight and see what she knew.
“I’m aware I’m not the most popular employee right now with the new agency, Dylan, but I’ve got to find River. I can’t do that locked in the back of a police car. I’m going to drop all the mail in the closest collection box before 4:30. It’ll be close, but I think I can make it.”
I counted to six while colorful curses flooded my ears. “That’s against procedure, and you’ll miss your return inspection.” Irritated, he asked, “The sheriff’s dispatcher mentioned stolen evidence?”
“River’s amphora. I’m not giving it back.”
He was silent.
“Yeah. I found it in that locker in the clubhouse. Now I know there’s something wrong.” My voice caught. “I didn’t worry when he didn’t come home last night—okay I did, but not overly—then one of his subcontractors called me this morning, irate, when River didn’t show for their meeting.”
My phone beeped, the caller ID read Beck. I ignored it.
“Look, Dylan, if you want to help, just sit on all this for a couple hours. Gotta go.” I snapped the phone shut and knew wherever he was, his blood pressure had just gone up.
I intended to pass up the rest of the boxes but a familiar figure in his premature St. Patrick’s Day getup was seated on the end of the last one, legs crossed, all gray Impy skin and green clover. “Hear ye’ve had a bad day, eh, Colleen?”
“Get in, Marty. I’m in a hurry. And can the Colleen crap.”
Eyes wide, he backed up, one hand holding his polyester clover, the other palm out. “No, I can’t get in that old truck. Too much iron, ‘ya know.”
“You’re not a faerie or a Leprechaun so it doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for this, Marty. Get in, now!” I ordered, tears dangerously close. Why was he being so uncooperative?
He gave up the charade. Carefully picking his way down onto the lid of the mailbox, he leaped across the two-inch distance between lid and window, then pulled out my cup holder and plopped his butt into it. “There, now, lassie. Let’s calm down.” The little sycophant.
I tossed the mail in the box and slammed it shut. My hands shook. Whether from adrenaline or fear, I didn’t know. Then there was that quickening thing everybody kept talking about.
We drove in silence for a few seconds.
“What do you know about River?” I asked.
“River? Nothing, I swear. Why are you asking me?” he squeaked.
What an odd reaction—guilty? “When was the last time you saw him?” Marty was kind of a family familiar but he is an Imp after all which means he’s selfish, caring more about his schemes than doing familiar kind of stuff, you know, tagging along with or being a support to his holder, handler, owner—whatever.
He made a show of trying to remember, propping his chin on his index finger and squeezing his eyes shut. “I believe it was Saturday.”
“Marty, could you change into something less... clothing minimalist. I need you to do some undercover work, see what you can find out.”
Many of the fae and supernaturals resented clothing; they claimed it interfered with their natural abilities. I could relate, in fact, but I’d grown up more human than supernatural and I’d absorbed their social mores for the most part to fit in with the community and at work.
“Okay.” Marty transformed into a black unitard, like a mini cat burglar. “Perfect for playing spook,” he said.
He was perfect for it. Marty could go anywhere, be anything—anything small. He was inquisitive and resourceful, and, all that aside—I was desperate. He was officially my brother’s familiar, but I never saw them together.
“So, what seems to be the problem?” Marty asked in a tell-the-doctor-everything voice.
“River’s missing,” I said. Marty frowned, looking genuinely concerned. “I just found River’s amphora at the scene of a murder.” I pointed to the bottle on the floor by my feet. Marty peered down at the bottle and paled, diving head first over the back seat into a mail tub.
“Let me out of here,” he whined.
What in the world? Iron wouldn’t affect Marty. “There’s nothing in it, Marty.” I picked the vase up and tried to coax him back into the front seat. “See?”
His eyebrows disappeared up under his hairline, and he squeezed himself up into the corner behind me, flattened against my backside glass. He screamed, “Keep that thing away from me. I promise, I’ll see what I can find, but let me out. Please, Tempest,” he begged.
I banged my head against the headrest. What was his problem? More Impish-ness? “Fine. Get out.” When the next mailbox drew even with my window I eased it open. He scrambled out from behind my seat and dropped out through the open window.
“Tempe.” He hung from the window edge briefly. “Be careful.”
The expression on his face, oddly one of compassion, triggered a memory long buried. Marty had appeared for the first time to River and me, the day Dutch died.
Chapter 13
Tempe
I drove up to the high school entrance five minutes later to fulfill the promise I’d made to the school secretary. The clock on the radio read 4:21. In less than ten minutes, I was going to add another sin to the list I’d already amassed today.
A teenager sat on a bench out front as I pulled up to the double doors at St. Mary’s. Face turned toward a young male leaning down over her, she turned as I drove up into the driveway. The young man trudged off, head bent; worn athletic shoes scraping the pavement. He glanced back at me once before turning the corner of the building. Something didn’t seem quite right there.
I got out and skipped up to the double doors, finding them locked. “Shootfire,” I said, glancing over as the girl walked toward me, hands extended.
“I think you’re looking for this.” She handed me a rubber banded flat of large envelopes. “Miss Madge said to give them to the mail carrier.”
“Thanks.” I took the letters and started to get in on the passenger side of my truck but something about her tugged at me. Her air was confident, her posture erect, unlike so many kids that slouched around the high school games. But there was a lonesome independence about her, as if she didn’t have, no, it was more than that, didn’t need friends. “Was that boy bothering you?”
Her eyebrows sank a bit as she looked off in the direction the boy had taken. “Not…really.”
Hmm, that didn’t sound good. “Are you waiting for someone to pick you up?” There weren’t any cars in the parking lot and no one milling around but her, and that boy.
&nbs
p; “No, Ma’am. My dad has to work and I couldn’t get in touch with my grandparents. So, I’m going to hang around until the guys’ practice starts and catch a ride with somebody, or wait on my dad.”
“Where do you need to go?”
“My grandparents live over on Ledgerton, off Oakland Drive?”
Add another sin—riding a passenger. “I’m going near there. Jump in. I’ll give you a lift.”
“Uhh… I don’t know. I’m not supposed—”
I stuck my hand out. “My name’s Tempe. I’m safe.” I held out my ID badge. “See, mail carrier, Federal background check, picture ID and everything.” (I didn’t mention the being a fugitive part.)
She leaned over to look at it cautiously. “Well...”
“What’s your name?” I prompted, because we had to G-O-Go.
“Jordie,” she said after a pause.
“Nice to meet you, Jordie.” I looked toward the corner of the building. “Somehow I think your family would feel better about you being with me than sitting at a locked up school building after hours.”
“I guess, but...” she peeked in the window, “where am I going to sit? Aren’t you driving from the passenger side?”
“Oh, that. Just get in and we’ll take care of this stuff on the way. I have to drop this mail in the collection box near the Donut Shop by 4:29.”
I ran around to the driver’s side, looking at my watch. 4:26. She buckled her seatbelt and we peeled out of the driveway.
“Okay, if you don’t mind, collect those packages on the floor at your feet and this bundle.” I handed her the mis-sorts from my dash.
“Now, put these in that tub with the other letters and that batch of mail Madge gave you, and when I pull up to the collection box, shove it through the slot.”
I looked in my rear view mirrors as she stuffed the mail into the box. Very efficient. I pulled forward when she was done and asked, “So, where am I dropping you?”
“My grandparents’ house,” she said and gave me the address, which was two blocks from my favorite malt shop. My stomach growled.
UNbelievable.
“How about a malt? It’s on the way and we can drive thru.”
The smile she gave me was perfect and completely unself-conscious. “Sounds great.”
Jack
“Jack,” Kirkwood ran up the walkway to the clubhouse, “that Pomeroy woman—” his voice lowered ominously, “She’s got Jordie.”
Fear sliced into my gut. A red haze glided over my vision. I blinked it away, grabbing his shoulders. “What did you say? Never mind. Where? Hurry, man.” He filled me in as we ran toward my cruiser.
Jordie had been seen in Tempe’s truck at the malt shop. I threw myself into my vehicle, flipped on the siren and raced through the subdivision toward town. “The friggin’ malt shop?” I yelled in disbelief, pounding the steering wheel.
I called Peggy. “Forget what I said, Peggy. No one goes home until I find my daughter. Tempest Pomeroy was seen with her at the malt shop. Get the head guy from the mail center on the phone. And report a kidnapping to the DPD. I want her found ASAP!” I shut the phone and pounded it on the seat.
What did she need a hostage for? Was this personal somehow? No. I tried to think like a lawman, but as a father, all I could think of was losing my little girl to yet another crazy ass woman; another woman my instincts had mistakenly convinced me I could trust.
I tried Jordie’s phone on the way to my parents’ but all I got was not available. “Damn it.” I slapped the dash in frustration. I pulled up to my parents’ one story brick rambler and ran to the door. No one responded as I let myself in. I made a quick sweep of the rooms to verify Jordie wasn’t there, and got back on the highway.
My blood pressure rose, making my head pound. I took three breaths, but I was too stressed to manage anything more than shallow attempts. I was reacting like a father when I needed to think like the Memphis detective I’d been a year ago; get my mental and ultimately physical reactions in line with the training I’d practiced as a fighter pilot. A simple exercise in centering like I’d exercised while flying brought me to a place of calculated calm.
Where would Tempe go? I turned on the visor light to look at my notes. I had her address, the old Harmony plantation near Lightning Bayou.
So the bottle—what did she call that thing—ann fora? belonged to her brother. He lived with her. Maybe she was covering for him. Or, maybe they were in on it together. I could be there in three minutes.
Tempe
I parked in the driveway of the brick home and waited until Jordie gathered her stuff. She swept her long brown hair behind her ear.
“Are your grandparents home?” I asked. It didn’t look like it but some folks were on the reclusive side and didn’t make a lot of noise.
“They’re over at the mall doing their five mile run.” So much for them being recluses. “But I have a key.” She held it up and shook it. “Thanks for the lift—and the malt, Tempe.”
“No, problem, Jordie. You were the best part of my day.”
She tilted her head, “Must have been a pretty bad day then.”
I smiled, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe you’re just selling yourself short, girlfriend.”
She started to turn away, then turned back, biting her lip. “Would you like to come to my basketball game Saturday?”
“I’d love to. Night game?”
She grinned, flashing that beautiful smile. Probably had more than one boy trailing after her. “Six-thirty sharp. But there will be stuff going on all afternoon, if you want to come early.”
“I’ll be there.” If I’m not in jail.
“Great. See ya. Thanks again for the ride.”
I couldn’t get past the feeling that I’d seen her before.
Tempe
The closer I got to the Voracious Monster—the nickname for my money pit of a house—the darker it got. Moss hanging heavy from live oaks obscured the view of the stars. Crickets, hoot owls, cicadas, and tree frogs ceased their chatter as I shut my car door and locked it—without the use of my hands.
I heard a quiet click of metal behind me, spun around and swallowed a startled gasp. I was staring into the barrel of a mean looking gun, and at the other end of that rigid grip was an even meaner looking Jack Lang, the one I hadn’t met until now, a cold-as-ice predator. His knuckles were white but his arm was steady as a granite mountain.
“Where’s...my...daughter?” he growled. One eye actually twitched as silver eyes whitened into pure frost. If he was trying to scare me, he’d succeeded.
A sound rumbled up from his chest like that of an animal. “What have you done with Jordie?”
Recognition came in a flash. I smacked my hand against my forehead. “I knew I recognized her.”
His eyes seemed to take on an angular appearance, brows winging up, but the gun never wavered. “Woman, you’d better start talking or you’re not going to like my next move.”
Not an animal—a papa-bear.
“I’m sorry.”
He gave a snarl of pain and grabbed me. “What do you mean you’re sorry?”
“I mean…” I squirmed in his bruising grip… “I’m sorry I didn’t put it together.”
He roared, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is Jor—”
“She’s at your parents’.” It finally dawned on me. He thought I’d kidnapped his daughter. Zeus’ newborn godling!
“You’re lying. I was just there.” He recoiled when I put my hand on his arm, but thankfully, he was professional enough not to pull the trigger. My guess: he was probably tempted.
“Call her,” I suggested.
He pointed his finger at me and glared. “You. Don’t. Move.”
This time, I obeyed.
He eyed the amphora I clutched to my chest but said nothing. Pulling out his cell, he spoke into it, “Call. Dad.” He didn’t put his gun down right away, but I could tell when Jordie came on the line. His shoulders relaxed and even in the d
ark his eyes shone with relief.
He spoke deliberately, like he was afraid of losing his disposition. “We’re going to have a talk when I get there about getting into vehicles with strangers.”
The word strangers was more of a snarl than a word. Then, “I know. Still goes. I lov—.”
His lids lowered briefly as a frustrated sound escaped his throat and he squeezed the phone. Then he lowered the gun, and I watched his shoulders rise as he took one long shaky breath. He strode off toward his car. I thought he was leaving. Just like that, but he spun around toward the house, his face in profile, planted his hands on his hips and looked up at the sky like he was waiting for some kind of divine intervention. The whole time, I watched his aura change and vent, like colored steam pouring from a boiling teakettle.
I drummed my fingers together under my chin, understanding that now was not the time to push things. (I’m not always so erratic. Really.) I saw the minute he’d made his decision, his shoulders relaxed, his aura turning a cool Caribbean blue. He stroked his chin as he walked back over to me, still holding his gun at his side. Now that I knew he was Jordie’s father, I wasn’t as intimidated as I’d been at the end of that icy glare, looking down the barrel of his gun.
“You’ve done a wonderful job with Jordie, Sheriff. She’s a great kid.”
He holstered the gun with more force than necessary. “And you’re an expert on parenting, I suppose.”
Low blow. I should have expected that I guess. So much for a truce.
“I know a bit. Now, if you’ve come to arrest me, do it. Otherwise, I’ve had a horrible day. I want a long hot bath and a cold glass of sweet tea.”
“You think you can just walk away after what you did? I ought to haul you off to jail.”
Anger flared, “I gave a teenager a ride—your teenager, an act of kindness that may put the nail in my employment coffin in the morning.”
That serpentine glare returned. I seemed to bring out his inner dragon. “You...escaped custody,” he gritted.
“Hello...” I waved my hand. “I don’t remember being arrested, just illegally detained.” I punctuated that with a poke to his chest.
