Demon on a Distant Shore

by Linda Welch

  Chapter Three

  The little circular park behind River Valley University is the prettiest in Clarion. It has a pond and everything. With ducks. And of course the ever-present gulls clatter their nasty beaks as they vie for dropped food or peck in the trash cans.

  Nestled as it is in a bowl of grass on the steep gradient of the east bench, a lot of people use the park in fine weather. Benches are positioned in deep shade cast by the towering old trees which ring the path and also out in the sunshine for those who prefer the heat. There are a few barbecue grills, but visitors mostly bring picnics or fast food, and a lot of University students eat their lunch there. But God help you if you don’t pick up after your dog and the University police collar you. They stride around with thumbs tucked in belts and ominously stare at you through their mirrored shades in an attempt to look like the real thing.

  Patty’s eyes almost popped out of her head when Royal and I met her. Mine did too when I first saw Royal, but for a different reason. Patty appreciated a handsome man. My emotion at the time was sheer horror as Captain Mike Warren introduced me to a demon I had to accept as a partner.

  Gelpha are not demons as in evil horned creatures from hell, but I knew no other name for them till Royal told me. Yes, they are beautiful, but the danger posed by their unearthly abilities eclipsed the allure. They are seductive as all get-out, and happily use their arcane charms to get what they wanted from human beings. Is it any wonder I called them demons?

  I was trying to break the habit, but the name occasionally snuck out.

  A picture of Royal hung on the wall of Clarion PD’s Homicide Department when he worked there. A tall exotic man with a lean, chiseled face, straight nose and full lips, skin nicely bronzed, hair a glossy brown streaked with blond. His deep-brown, tip-tilted eyes caught the light, sparkling with good humor.

  I see a man who seems to subtly glow with an inner fire. Emotion makes his eyes smolder. When strong light washes over him, like now, he blazes.

  Everyone sees the same, magnificent physique.

  “You make a stunning couple,” Patty said as we stood before her.

  We do tend to draw the eyes when we are together, Royal sun-kissed and I all silver and ivory. Clarion PD called me the Ice Queen when I worked for them, due to my height, long silver-white hair and pale skin.

  Royal presented his hand. “A pleasure to meet you in person, Mrs. Norton.”

  Patty wrapped her long fingers around Royal’s. I didn’t miss the little squeeze she gave them.

  Patty wanted to meet in a dog-friendly park. Charleze needed fresh air and exercise. Charleze’s idea of exercise was to jump up and down on the spot and bark at everyone in sight, until Patty picked her up and sat her on the bench. Royal and I faced Patty with the sun beating on our heads.

  With her eyes still on Royal, Patty’s hand went in her purse and came out with some doggy treats, which she fed to Charleze one at a time.

  Royal cleared his throat. Patty blinked and tore her gaze from his face. She took a slim white envelope from her purse and handed it to him. We put our heads together to read the letter from Scott’s attorneys Falkman, Sturgis and Cannon, signed by George Falkman. It outlined the terms of our agreement, our fee, and the purpose of our trip to England.

  Patty stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder and picked up Charleze. “I must be going.” She held out her free hand. “This is my private number and email. I would appreciate timely updates.”

  I took her little card and tucked it in my back pocket.

  “No doubt you have arrangements to make, but I hope you’ll be on your way soon.”

  “We will be there before you know it, Mrs. Norton,” Royal said.

  She nodded. “Do keep me informed. Thank you for doing this and I wish you both the best of luck. Oh, and be sure you fly first class, all the way.”

  She turned on her heel and walked away.

  We leaned back on the bench as a kid’s soccer ball whizzed past a little too near our faces. I looked in Royal’s glorious eyes. “We are sure, aren’t we? We’ll be on our own, and all we have is a few pieces of paper.”

  “We do not have to do this, Tiff.”

  I squeezed his arm. “Thank you, but I want to go. It’s England - how bad can it be? It’s not like going to a real foreign country where you don’t understand a word anyone says.”

  I heard a low snicker from his direction, but when I glanced over he appeared serene as he looked at the pond.

  The sun hung in the west, hot on the side of my neck and bringing sparkles out in Royal’s eyes. For a second, I forgot Patty Norton. The background noise of kids’ laughter, the chatter from people and cheep of birds faded to a near-silent burr. I felt solid muscle through his sleeve; I remembered the silk of his skin.

  I shook myself.

  That’s the problem when you date a Gelpha; their proximity makes you feel too damn good even when they don’t use their magic.

  We got to our feet and walked the sloped concrete path to the parking lot. The sun slowly set as we drove through the gates in Royal’s pickup and headed south along Bracken Way. I looked up at the bare crag of Merlin Point and Waterfall Canyon to the south, where the waterfall gushed and tumbled down the cliff face.

  I leaned into Royal’s shoulder. “Are there mountains in England?”

  Tapping the blunt end of a pencil on the table, I checked the clock for the fourth time. Royal came down the stairs from my bedroom where he used my computer for a little snooping.

  He sat across from me, the table between us. “They’re both wealthy in their own right. Patty inherited millions from her father when he passed away. Scott invests diversely and heavily, which brings him in half a billion or so a year. He is also the beneficiary of his family’s Trust Fund. They have a good reputation in the business world as well as in their personal relationships. Just your normal, happily married couple with dollar bills seeping from their pores.”

  He shook back his long copper-gold hair, where it blended with the honey-gold of his shirt. “I think if nothing else, we get to see England. We will not work every minute of the day, we can take in a few sights.”

  “Then we keep a log of our time. We might tweak the rules now and then, but we don’t take a client’s money and use it to vacation.”

  He hiked both eyebrows. “Tweak the rules? That is what you call sneaking in Purcell’s office and rifling his files?”

  I did not sneak! I slipped in the attorney’s office while his secretary nipped to the bathroom. “Says the ex-cop, who watched my back while I did it,” I reminded him.

  I threw my pencil at him. He caught it from the air.

  My brow furrowed. “The question is, can we find Scott Norton’s nephew?”

  “Looks like a simple seek and find.”

  I wholeheartedly believe in Murphy’s Law. In retrospect, I should have seen that statement for what it was, an invitation for Murphy to step right in.

  Royal stood behind my chair. “I should get back to the office. I have not documented the Perkins case yet.”

  I looked through the window at the gathering dusk. I had a date in five hours time. “Okay.”

  He followed my gaze. “I heard the announcement on the morning news. I can come with you.”

  I shook my head. He would only feel uncomfortable watching me talk to someone he neither saw nor heard. “But I won’t object to finding you here when I get back.”

  “You can bet on it.” He angled his head to kiss my cheek, but I turned my face so our lips met.

  A bag lady, Brenda wore several layers of mismatched clothes, with a navy-blue beret centered atop her brittle gray-and yellow-streaked hair and torn and dirty hose wrinkled around her ankles. She stood in the Megaplex’s plaza, where a junkie killed her for the few dollars in her pocket when a mall and parking garage occupied the space.

  She peered at me. “I remember you.”

  She didn’t recall much about her life, but she had not quite forgott
en me yet.

  “Nice of you to spend a minute with an old slut,” she said in her raspy voice.

  I felt awkward. Not only did I lie by omission, but to the shade of a dead woman. I was not here to be companionable. I hoped to observe a paranormal event.

  Although I couldn’t tell from her face, the lilt in her voice let me I know she was happy to see me. She got lonely as she stood in her couple of feet of space with her shopping cart. At most she could take a few steps in any direction. The days were not so bad, when the plaza swarmed with people as they went to and from the theatre and sports center, the restaurants and bars, but she had little to watch at night when Clarion closed down.

  She was better off than some. She had Irving. I waved at Irving Prentice where he stood on the corner of Twenty-First and Temple, a skinny, hunched figure in a business suit, the twisted victim of a hit and run. People who milled around me as they left the Megaplex theatre would think I waved at some living person across the street.

  Irving would miss Brenda.

  The event I awaited normally took place late at night on a weekday. I checked my watch. Perhaps they were running late. This particular event couldn’t be rushed.

  I plunged my hands in my coat pockets as a breeze slid cool air over my exposed skin, and wished I wore a warmer jacket. The sidewalks cleared as people got in their cars and drove away. Pretty soon just a few automobiles broke the silence of the streets. Restaurant staff came from the back of Murphy’s Tavern and the Mexicali Grill and drove off or walked away to the nearest bus stop. The streets got that chilly nighttime feel typical of late August, even though days were still hot.

  The white globes of street lamps shone like small moons which illuminated the facades of the old buildings on Temple and Twenty-First, but left the block-length expanse of dirt and rubble on the north in the dark. They should put up a wall, because when the wind blows strong, it whips dry, powdered dirt into the plaza.

  Brenda made a sound in her throat to get my attention. She expected conversation, but I stood there woodenly. I smiled, opened my mouth to speak and instead my jaw dropped.

  Not a white light, but silver. It didn’t come for her, it came from inside her. It suffused her entire body as if emanating from the pores of her skin. I cannot describe it any other way. She glowed silver. Tears leaked from her widened eyes.

  I couldn’t speak. A shade, one of my shades, whose expression never changes - her face reflected an emotion in direct contrast to that she wore when she died. She wept. Her hands rose to touch her face. She held one finger before her eyes, a teardrop glistening on the tip.

  “You knew.” Even her voice sounded different, gentle, the hoarseness gone. “Thank you.”

  She faded inside the silver. She turned to mist and disappeared until the silver shape of a body remained, which feathered at the edges and wisped away in the night sky.

  I stood alone outside the Megaplex.

  Bill Moore, the man who killed Brenda, had just died of lethal injection in Utah State Penitentiary.

  My eyes stung. That neon lighting’s a bitch.

  Chapter Four

  We were lucky, we got a Thursday flight, and I have to say I enjoyed flying first class. If only the flight were not so damned long.

  Five in the morning is a god-awful time to get off a plane when you have not slept for twenty-four hours and the entire day stretches ahead. Because of the seven-hour time difference, it was Friday morning, when my wristwatch told me ten PM Thursday. I felt as if we had lost a day.

  Surprise number one: British police were all over the place, inside and outside the airport terminals. They wore flat-brimmed caps, bullet-proof vests and carried automatic weapons. Where were the British Bobbies with their funny knobbed helmets?

  When the Immigration officer asked why we came to England, Royal told her we were on vacation. So we were officially under cover. But what if one of those gun-toting cops questioned us and we slipped up? Would they shoot us on the spot or drag us off to the UK’s version of Guantanamo Bay?

  I tried not to catch their eyes. Just a tourist. An innocent, naive American tourist. Damn, I should have brought along a camera and looked the part.

  I didn’t much like Heathrow, which was really noisy and crowded with travelers brutally shoving a path between those in their way, not watching where they or their bags went. We finally got outside to a large, brightly illuminated plaza an hour after landing and stopped to get our bearings. A lot of people and vehicles were around for that early in the morning. Taxis and buses lined up at the far curb. Men and women huddled near ash cans as they frantically sucked on cigarettes before going inside the terminal.

  The first impressions to flood my brain were not promising. The air reeked with the smell of gasoline, diesel and damp garbage. The sky seemed too low and all cloud, and a light rain drizzled down. The humidity made me feel dirty and sticky. I was dirty and sticky.

  “Ah, there we are.” Royal lifted one hand and waved in the direction of the street.

  “There we are where … or what?”

  He pointed. A tall man held a placard aloft as his eyes searched the crowd. Dressed in a black suit, he stood in front of a long, gleaming navy-blue car. The white placard said MORTENSEN in big, black capital letters.

  I’d not slept in forever. I felt very tired and very irritable. “Explain, please, before I pick up the nearest Brit and beat you over the head with him.”

  “He’ll take us to the car rental agency.” Royal started off, case trundling behind him.

  I couldn’t identify the big showy car but it was obviously a classic. I didn’t care, as long as it was comfortable. The driver opened the near passenger door as we approached, then stepped forward. “Marninsur. Oymfranklin. Uryurbagsontway?”

  Huh? I scowled. I thought Brits spoke English.

  Royal bent his head close to mine and interpreted in a whisper. “Morning, Sir. I’m Franklin. Are your bags on the way?”

  Remembering his snigger when I naively said going to England couldn’t be too bad because we speak the same language, I gave him a filthy look.

  “Good morning, Franklin.” Royal collapsed the handle on his suitcase. “No, this is it.”

  Franklin grabbed Royal’s case and nodded at my little wheeled bag. “Butmadamsur?”

  “But Madam’s, Sir?” Royal whispered.

  I unsubtly jabbed my elbow in his ribs.

  “Madam prefers to travel light,” he told Franklin.

  Franklin didn’t bat an eye. He took our bags and stowed them in the trunk as I slid in the back seat. Royal climbed in beside me. Franklin got in the driver’s seat, the car rumbled to life and pulled smoothly from the curb.

  Excuse my ignorance, but I thought an airport called London-Heathrow sat slap-bang in the middle of London. Countryside surrounded the airport complex, with grass, bushes and trees alongside the road, and a smatter of houses here and there.

  Royal put his arm across my shoulders, hugging me to his side. His body heat felt wonderful, as if a big, warm blanket cuddled me. I breathed in his sandalwood and amber scent and experienced a tingle which, given our location, was totally inappropriate. I squirmed.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

  “More than okay.” My hand fell on his thigh. I squeezed. He tensed, hard muscle bulking to fill my palm.

  He cleared his throat, his breath swept over my ear. “Franklin is watching.”

  “I’m sure he sees plenty of action in the back of this heap.” I met Franklin’s eyes in the rearview mirror and wiggled my eyebrows.

  Unfortunately I don’t possess the audacity to make out in the back of a hired car. With a sigh, I eased away, let my head fall back and closed my eyes. Exhaustion must have gotten the better of me, because I opened them to find myself curled against Royal, my head resting on his chest, my arm over it beneath his jacket. His arm lay over my back with his hand tucked in my armpit to stop me sliding down.

  I pulled my head back far eno
ugh to make sure I had not drooled on his shirt. “How long was I out?”

  “A few minutes. We are almost there.”

  The sun was up … somewhere. Rain still drizzled down and cast gloom over the streets. With the sky so murky, street lamps here and there shone out a misty golden light which reflected off puddles and pavement. The streets were considerably narrower than in modern cities, more the width of many of our old downtown areas, but had lost any character they once possessed. Tasteless, often garishly painted little shops occupied the ground floors of tall, once stately buildings, to my mind begriming them, robbing them of their dignity.

  The car had a glass barrier between the driver’s and passenger seats. The panel slid down several times as we drove, Franklin spoke unintelligibly, Royal nodded sagely or said, “thank you, Franklin,” and up it went again.

  I dozed again until we reached the rental agency. Franklin drove between rows of neatly parked cars and stopped beside a small blue sedan. He hopped out and transferred our bags. I felt grateful the agency hadn’t given us a Smart Car. Just the thought of folding our bodies inside one made me want to hoot.

  Royal’s cell phone rang and he turned away to answer it.

  Franklin said something else totally unintelligible and drove away.

  “Bad news,” Royal said as he snapped his phone closed and put it in his pocket. “Paul and Sylvia Norton left Little Barrow two weeks ago. Which would not be a problem, if not for the fact no person knows where they went.”

  I should have guessed. Murphy sure works hard on my behalf. “How do you know? Who was on the phone?”

  He opened the passenger door for me. “I have a few friends here. I called a couple before we left home.”

  I scooted into the car. Royal shut the door and went around to the driver’s side. “But Paul Norton was born in Little Barrow,” I said as he got in.