“Detective,” he drawled with obvious contempt. He didn’t stand up or offer his hand. He gestured instead to the man on his left. “This is Calvin Buchanan, my attorney. And these are William Moller and Bennet Kimball, also my attorneys.”
Ray nodded a greeting to each of them. His gaze skipped to the young man who still wore a look of fury, though now his attention had shifted to Runyon.
“That’s my nephew, Landon. He was just leaving.”
“I’ll need to speak to him, too.” He didn’t make it a request.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Runyon said dismissively. “He’s been away and just returned today. Go now, Landon.”
The kid’s face reddened, his jaw clenching so hard Ray thought his teeth might crack to pieces. He gave a jerky nod and strode out, slamming the doors behind him.
Ray drew his notebook out of his coat along with his pencil. He flipped open the cover. This interview wouldn’t go well. He’d be lucky to get anything useful out of Runyon. Landon Valentine, however. . . . He’d find a way to interview the boy without Runyon around.
“Can you tell me what happened, sir?”
Runyon’s lip curled. “I already gave a statement. Surely you’re not so incompetent you haven’t read it.”
Ray’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t lose his temper. He’d dealt with a lot of assholes in his career, and he had a job to do. He kept both his face and voice blandly earnest. His lack of reaction would piss the other man off. “Yes, sir, but I’d like to hear it from you. You may remember more details.”
“You’re wasting my time. Get out there and find my damned mother and sister!” Runyon’s thick face turned red as he gestured violently with his hand, then slugged down half his drink.
“I will, sir, but I could do that more quickly if you’d just go over the events and timeline of last night and today with me.” Ray offered a placating smile.
“Alistair, let the detective do his work,” Bennet Kimball said, brushing invisible lint off his crossed knee. “You know how this works.”
Runyon glared at Ray but spoke to his companions. “I should demand a different detective. This one is next to useless.”
Ray didn’t let himself react, but Runyon’s pronouncement sounded personal. What was his problem? Ray had never met the man in his life, nor had he worked on any cases related to Runyon, at least that he knew of. So, what was the man’s beef with him?
A question to tuck away for later.
“All right, ask your damned questions,” Runyon said grudgingly, pointedly not asking Ray to sit.
“When was the last time you saw your sister and mother?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“What time was that?”
“Around six. We had early cocktails, and then I left to attend a dinner party. I stayed the night with friends and returned early this morning. When my mother and Margaret failed to come down for breakfast, I found it odd. When we couldn’t track them down, we called the police.”
“At what time was breakfast scheduled?”
“Eight o’clock. Sharp.”
That left a whole lot of real estate on the clock before Runyon logged a call to the police. Looking for the women would have taken a matter of an hour at most, with the army of people the Runyons employed.
“They didn’t answer calls to their cell phones?”
“Everything went to voice mail.” The way Runyon’s eyes flicked downward told Ray he was lying. The question was why? Because the man was involved in the disappearances of the women? Or because of some secret he wanted to cover up?
“No one has contacted you for a ransom?”
“Don’t you think I would have told you that?” Runyon demanded. “God knows I’d pay whatever necessary.”
He guzzled the rest of his drink and slammed the glass down on a side table before springing to his feet. “I have precious little family left, and I’m not about to lose any more.” He jabbed his finger in Ray’s direction. “I’m holding you personally responsible if anything happens to them, do you understand? If you don’t bring them back safely, I will make sure you regret ever being born. Now get the hell out of my sight!”
“I appreciate your feelings and I can assure you the PPD will do everything in our power to find your mother and sister,” Ray said, ignoring the blustered order. Runyon’s emotions seemed genuine enough, but still something seemed off.
“I don’t give a shit whether you appreciate my feelings,” Runyon sneered. “Just do your damned job and do it quick.”
“I think that’s quite enough for now,” William Moller announced as he rested a hand on Runyon’s shoulder. “Alistair is understandably upset, and I’m sure you have leads you must pursue. Time is of the essence in these cases, as you know. If you have more questions, we’ll arrange a time for you to ask them later.”
And by later, he meant never.
Ray resisted the urge to snort at Moller’s admonition that time was of the essence. If they really believed that, they wouldn’t have waited six and a half hours before calling the police. He merely nodded, knowing he’d get nothing more at the moment. “If you can think of anything else, please call me.” He drew out his card and handed it to Moller before exiting the room.
Now to find Landon Valentine and find out what he knew. This wasn’t a simple case of abduction, and until Ray figured out what the hell it was, he wasn’t going to find the two women. At least not alive.
OVER THE NEXT few hours, Ray spoke to the staff and every single friend and acquaintance who milled about like hyenas waiting to rip up their kill. Aside from Runyon and his three lawyers who remained cloistered in his office, the only person Ray hadn’t managed to interview was Landon Valentine. He’d vanished after storming out of his uncle’s office, though guards at the gates assured Ray that he hadn’t departed the premises.
Two gates. He’d been right about a service road up to the manor. Its gate was more industrial than ornate, since the visitors through there had little importance. The guards posted there also claimed they had not allowed anyone in or out during the window when Theresa Runyon and Margaret Valentine had gone missing or after. That meant Landon Valentine was most likely still inside the fence.
Ray resisted the urge to rub his gritty eyes, ignoring the growling of his stomach. He’d managed to grab a cup of coffee but hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He’d have to scrounge something. He vaguely remembered leaving a bag of pretzels in his squad car a day or so ago. It wasn’t much, but he’d take it in a heartbeat. He checked his watch. Six o’clock and he’d not made any progress. He didn’t expect to get sleep again until he found the women, hopefully soon. Hopefully alive. If he didn’t, Alistair Runyon would be using Ray’s nutsack for a coin purse.
To find them, he needed a lead. For that, he needed to get answers, and those started with finding Landon.
Ray didn’t like magic. Sure, it could be useful, but it was damned unnatural and a whole lot like cheating. Instead of working for something, people just did a bibbity-bobbity-boo, and voila! Done. No effort, no sweat, no earning your accomplishment. Magic made people soft. Complacent. They didn’t have to solve their own problems; they could just pay someone to do it for them.
Even after the nightmare of the Witchwar, even though nobody trusted a witch, people still swarmed Nuketown looking to buy spells. Some witches had even gone so far as to open up shops in the city, despite the continuing distrust and anger for their kind.
Ray didn’t like that some invisible force could come out of nowhere and create havoc or save the world. He didn’t like that you couldn’t see it coming and had no idea when it might show up. It was like relying on God. Send up your prayers and maybe you’d get a miracle or maybe you’d be damned, or more likely the bastard would just ignore you. Except magic came around a lot mor
e often than any god or devil, and it fucked things up. It fucked people up.
And yet—
Ray scraped his teeth over his lower lip. He needed a lead and now. He needed to find Landon. He delayed a moment in considering his nonexistent options. He didn’t have any. Which meant he was going to have to do the one thing he hated above all things.
After glancing around to make sure no one saw him, he slipped out of the main foyer and ducked into a side passage. He hurried, turning a corner before finding a small sitting room.
He examined the feminine room and floral upholstery wrapping the chairs and sofa and white sheer curtains blousing around the windows. A blue, patterned rug covered most of the white carpet. Several antique glass cabinets lined the walls containing delicate porcelain dishes. A huge vase of pink and white roses scented the air.
Ray slipped a reluctant hand in his pocket and drew out his knife. He turned it in his fingers. The handle was made of antler, the ridges smoothed by years of use. It had been his grandfather’s. He was fairly certain this would work. The Runyons probably hadn’t installed any hard-core magic suppressors inside the house. The wealthy prided themselves on having magical amenities in their homes, whether to keep the bathrooms clean or change the wallpaper on a whim.
Closing his fingers around the knife, Ray focused his attention on what he needed to do. Easier said than done. His mind kept skipping away to anything else, and he had to drag it back. Finally, a reddish glow formed around his fist, like flame over wood coals. Magic rippled and crawled inside him, nosing through his body like a not-quite-angry ghost.
He shuddered and flinched from himself, his gorge rising. The flame around his hand flared and shredded apart into uneven blobs and splatters. Ray clenched his teeth and bent his will to his magic. As he tried to mold it into what he wanted—a spell that would lead him to Landon—sudden zaps of power popped all over his body. What the hell?
Ray cut off the flow of magic, heart thundering against his ribs. He looked down at himself. He appeared no different from before he’d started formulating his spell, but his body was alive with pulsing power. It swirled around him in an almost-visible cloud. It scraped over his skin, hot and gritty. He broke out in a cold sweat, his chest tightening.
He had no idea what to do or if this was normal or not. After Magicfall, he’d developed witchy powers. He’d avoided working magic until it began to leak out when he least expected it. He discovered a witch had to practice witchcraft or face a backlash from dammed-up power. That had led to secret experiments based on the lore he could glean from whatever scraps of gossip and news that he ran across.
He’d decided that if he had to release the magic, at least he could make it useful. He’d worked out what he called a bloodhound spell. It worked more reliably if he had something like hair or fingernails from the person he was looking for, but if he focused enough, he could craft a spell that would track his target. His experience as a cop gave him the skills and attention to detail that helped him form the precise mental image needed.
But in the four years since he’d developed witch powers, he’d never experienced anything like this. In crafting his spell, he’d somehow summoned a cloud of magic that now collected around him, waiting to be used. Ray had no idea how to tap it or dispel it. Ray stood still as seconds dribbled past, waiting for the cloud to dissipate. Several minutes later it still hadn’t. Urgency gnawed at him. Margaret Valentine and Theresa Runyon didn’t have time for him to waste.
Suck it up, Garza, he told himself.
He decided to just bull through his spell and hope nothing exploded. Focusing again on the jackknife in his hand, he built an image of Landon in his mind, remembering his voice, his anger, and his fear. He gave as much detail to the portrait as he could, and then he fed his desire to find the young man into the knife, binding it with filaments of pure determination.
All around him, the cloud of magic thickened, pushing against him with smothering weight. He tied off his spell, and he released the power he held. Grasping the knife tightly, he backed toward the door. Instead of dissipating, the cloud clung to him.
Fuck. Now what?
Ray knew there were ways to siphon up that magic and either hold on to it or feed it into an object like his knife. Both were beyond his expertise. In fact, most magic fell into that territory, and he was just as happy to keep it that way. Still, he had to admit it would have been handy to know what to do to disarm the situation. Maybe he should get over himself enough to find out. It would be the smart thing to do. But the thought of consulting another witch—of admitting out loud that he was one himself—No. He’d managed this long without help. He could manage awhile longer. A long while.
As he racked his brain for a solution to the cloud, he realized that it had begun to thin and fade. Because he’d quit using his magic? It seemed logical. Would it accumulate again when he activated the spell tied to his knife? Hopefully not.
He opened his hand and looked down at his knife. It looked no different from before.
“Lead me to Landon,” he said softly, invoking his spell. He’d heard that witches didn’t need words to trigger a spell. Maybe that was true for some, but not for him.
Immediately the knife pushed forward in his hand. He caught it before it could shoot away. If he let it go, it would fly through the air to its goal. Unfortunately, it didn’t care about walls or other obstacles. Finding Landon was going to be a little tougher than following a straight line.
In fact, running his target to ground took almost a whole frustrating hour. The delays included updating Captain Crice on his nonexistent progress and having to listen to the captain’s threatening encouragement.
He ducked out the front door and walked around the house, trying to triangulate Landon’s general location in the giant house. Surprisingly, the knife didn’t point him back to the house, but instead guided him behind it.
The two-story, ten-car garage looked more like a small fortress curving around the outer edge of a broad, gray stone-cobbled courtyard just behind the house. An expansive rose garden the size of a small pasture spread out on the left side, and a barn with an attached arena stood off to the left. The service road slithered away just beyond the barn and disappeared into the march of trees surrounding the main grounds.
An unlocked side door on the west end of the garage allowed Ray entrance into the garage. Inky darkness filled the space, along with stifling silence. He pulled out his flashlight and switched it on, sweeping the beam across the first bay. It held a variety of tools, workbenches, cabinets, and toolboxes. A doorway in the back led into a small office space with a bathroom and refrigerator. He checked the other bays, finding a variety of vehicles, including snowmobiles and a dune buggy, but no Landon.
His pocketknife kept pulling him along until the second to the last bay, where it went quiescent in his palm. Ray frowned, turning in a circle, waiting for the tug of the knife to pull him along. Nothing. No sign of Landon. Had someone activated magic dampeners? Or maybe his spell had given up the ghost.
He leaned toward the latter. He was like a kid with a gun: able to pull the trigger but no idea how it worked. For the most part, the spells he’d tried since developing witch powers tended to turn out half-assed at best. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he didn’t know what he was doing, or whether he was just a minor power.
What did it mean that he wanted it to be the former?
Nothing good. Dammit, he didn’t want to be a witch. His lip curled with self-disgust. But if he was one, he damned well didn’t want to be a weak one.
Ray turned in a slow circle again. An almost inaudible sound came from above. He aimed his light at the ceiling as understanding hit. His spell hadn’t failed. It had found Landon, except that the kid was upstairs, and Ray hadn’t equipped his spell with a sense of dimension.
He slid the knife int
o his pocket before locating a set of stairs inside a round turret on the back corner of the garage. Ray jogged up the spiraling steps, then quietly opened the door to the second floor and glanced through. A long hallway stretched away following the curve of the garage. A bank of windows overlooked the grassy pastures behind the garage on the right, while a couple of doors broke the pale-yellow expanse on the left.
Taking the knife from his pocket, Ray let it guide him to the correct door. Instead of knocking, he twisted the knob and pushed the door open. Inside contained a broad game room with a TV, a long shuffleboard table, a pool table, a felt-covered poker table, a kitchenette, and shelves of board games and books, plus a few comfortable chairs scattered throughout.
Landon stood beyond the pool table chalking a pool cue as he scowled down at the table. Tense energy curled around him.
Ray knocked on the open door. Landon started, his head jerking up.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’d like to talk to you,” Ray said, adopting the soothing voice he reserved for scared dogs and kids. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Landon’s fingers flexed on the cue, his lips thin with hard-held emotion. “No,” he said finally, biting the word off with an audible click of his teeth.
“No?” Ray repeated, brows rising. “I need your help to find your mother and grandmother. You want me to find them, right?”
Not the right tack to take. The kid’s body went rigid, and he started to shake.
“Fuck you,” he said. “Fuck you, and fuck Uncle Alistair, and fuck the fucking kidnappers.”
“Who did you want him to call?” Ray asked. Asking the unexpected might just win him a truthful response.
Landon gave Ray a considering look. Finally, he gave a little curl of his lip as he answered.
“My cousin. She used to be a cop. Uncle Alistair hates her, but she knows her shit and she’ll know—”
The Witchkin Murders Page 7
