Fifth Grave Past the Light: Number 5 in series (Charley Davidson)

by Darynda Jones

  Uncle Bob was more than alarmed. Anger rushed through him like wildfire, and I could only imagine what he would think when he found out I’d used Cookie on a job that almost got her shot. Maybe I’d leave that part out.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Uncle Bob asked, and everyone glanced around. A couple patrons patted themselves down to double-check. Then everyone shook their heads in unison.

  Taft spoke behind me. “I’m going to let this little incident slide for now,” he said to Reyes. Then he stepped even closer to him. “But if I ever —”

  “Taft!”

  Since we were a tad on edge as it was, every person in the bar jumped when Uncle Bob yelled at his colleague. Including Taft. Uncle Bob rounded a fallen chair and took Taft’s arm to pull him away from Reyes. He didn’t know what Reyes was exactly, but he knew enough to steer clear of him unless left with no other choice.

  “Why don’t you start asking around, see if we have any solid witnesses to the events.”

  Reluctantly, Taft nodded and backed off to question a group huddled in a corner booth. I was glad. They looked terrified.

  Sirens sounded outside and more cops entered the scene one by one. I scrubbed my face with my fingertips. My dad was going to kill me. This was so bad for business.

  “And you!” Uncle Bob – or Ubie as he was known on certain X-rated forums thanks to yours truly – pointed directly at me, and said, “Don’t even think about leaving.”

  I pointed to myself. “Me? I didn’t do anything. Cookie started it.”

  Cookie gasped.

  Ubie shot me a stormy glare.

  Taft glanced over his shoulder and shook his head.

  And Reyes leaned back against the bar, crossed his arms over his chest, and studied me from beneath those same ridiculously long lashes. Men and their freaking lashes. It was so unfair. Like the exorbitant cost of designer shoes. Or world hunger.

  I stepped over to him, sulking like a kid who’d been sent to stand in the corner, and leaned against the bar, too. I wasn’t about to try to get near Cookie. She was surrounded by veteran cops on an adrenaline rush. My face would eat floor before I could say, “Hey, Cook. So how’d it go?”

  I pocketed the receiver I’d been wearing and noticed that Duff had disappeared, not that I could blame him. Still, it wasn’t as though a stray bullet could hurt him. As nonchalantly as I could, I took Reyes’s right hand and opened it. He let me, keeping a vigilant eye on my every move. An abrasion that was part incision and part blistering burn streaked across his palm and fingers. The bullet had kept going after time bounced back. It had to. That kind of energy didn’t diffuse just because I’d wanted it to, and though Reyes healed fast, he wasn’t bulletproof.

  “Reyes, I’m so sorry,” I said, ducking to hide my face. I’d caused him so much pain recently, not the least of which was a .50-caliber bullet ripping through his chest. A .50-caliber bullet that had been meant for me.

  “How sorry?” he asked, his voice suddenly permeated with a husky awareness.

  I dropped his hand and cleared my throat. Despite everything, Reyes was still my number one suspect in an arson case. I had to remember that. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  He tucked his hand back over his chest. “I was just passing by. Saw the commotion. Figured you were involved.”

  “Hey, I was handling it.”

  “I can see that. You want me to leave?”

  I did, but only because his presence caused every molecule in my body to quake. And I didn’t, but only because having him near was like basking in the glow of the sun. A really sexy sun that wasn’t so much yellow as a dark, sultry bronze. Still, I had work to do. And a lot of explaining.

  “You can’t leave now. There’s an active investigation going on, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  I looked on as Uncle Bob helped Cookie to a chair. “Yes.”

  “Then say it.”

  I raised my chin, striking a defiant pose for him. “I want you to leave.”

  A slow grin spread across his face. He eased closer and bent toward me to whisper in my ear, “You have to mean it.”

  I closed my eyes, tried to stop the flood of lust that rushed between my legs. Our relationship was a lot like underwear in a dryer without a static control sheet. One minute we were floating through life, buoyant and carefree. The next we were attached at the crotch.

  Rattled, I said, “You still owe me a million dollars.” I’d presented him with a bill for proving his innocence and getting him freed from prison. He had yet to pay. Couldn’t imagine why.

  “Yeah, I was hoping we could work that out.”

  “The interest alone is going to kill you.”

  “What do you charge?”

  “Three hundred eighty-seven percent.”

  “Is that ethical?”

  “It’s as ethical as my dating the son of Satan.”

  I took inventory of the patrons still in the bar, a little surprised to find that Jessica had stuck around. That was not her strong suit. Then I realized why. Her eyes were glued to Reyes’s crotch. Her friends were only slightly less obvious as they took in every sultry shadow that dipped between Reyes’s muscles, their expressions a cross between appreciation and raw lust.

  Ruffled despite my every desire not to be, I said, “You have a fan club. I had no idea.”

  Completely uninterested, he ignored me and asked, “We’re dating?”

  I glanced at him in surprise. I hadn’t meant it that way. He’d given me a key to his apartment when he moved in next door. I had yet to use it. I wasn’t sure if I was scared or just plain terrified. He was still my number one suspect in an arson case. I had to remember that. And he was still healing from the gunshot he’d received thanks to me. And he’d grown up with a monster so abusive, it defied explanation. And he’d gone to prison for killing him – an act he didn’t commit since Earl Walker was still alive – because I had failed him. My first vision of Reyes Farrow was of him being beaten senseless by Walker when he was nineteen. I had failed to call the police – at his behest, yes, but I should have done it anyway. At the very least, I should have told my dad, who was a cop at the time. How much would Reyes’s life have changed? How much of the suffering would have been avoided?

  Like me, Reyes could feel emotion. He could feel anger rolling off people. Fear. Doubt. And sympathy. He most certainly felt mine. I realized my mistake when his expression hardened.

  He brushed a thumb across his mouth in annoyance. “Surely that’s not pity in your eyes.”

  I heard someone call out before I could answer.

  “You!” a male voice said.

  We looked to our right and saw a uniformed officer motioning Reyes over, Taft standing beside him.

  Reyes sighed and I felt his annoyance dwindle. He leaned close again, his mouth at my ear, his breath warm across my cheek. “Use the key, Dutch.”

  The thought of using the key, the key he’d given me to his apartment, caused an electrical charge to race up my spine.

  He felt that, too. With a soft growl emanating from his throat, he turned and walked over to the officer. But I felt something, too. The heat of Jessica’s glare as jealousy consumed her. Normally I would giggle like an insane schoolgirl in such a situation, but I couldn’t quite manage it. That growl washed over me like cool water, caused another tingling in my abdomen, and I had to remind myself to fill my lungs with air before I turned blue. Blue was not my best color.

  When a spot beside Cookie opened up, I hurried to get to her. In all the chaos, she’d somehow been elbowed in the face. I tried to feel bad, but I was still a little shell-shocked. Reyes did that to me. Still, Cookie would be sporting a shiner for days. I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Are you okay, Cook?” I asked her as Uncle Bob sat in a chair beside her.

  She was shaken and flustered. I put my hand on hers.

  “How about I get you some water,” Uncle Bob said to her, “and you two can
tell me what happened.”

  “Thank you, Bob,” she said, her voice quivering. When he left, she patted her cheeks and neck with a napkin, then asked me, “So, how was your day?”

  There she was, the Cook I knew and loved. Taking the good with the bad and turning it into an opportunity to grow and, quite often, make fun of innocent bystanders.

  I decided to play along. I dropped my head into my hands. “My day sucked. I failed again.”

  “This was not your fault,” she said, rubbing my shoulder absently.

  I bounced up. “Oh, no, not this. This was totally your fault. A gun?” I asked, astounded. “No, really. A gun?”

  She gaped at me a solid minute before conceding with a long sigh. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Three Mile Island, Cook.”

  “I know. Geez. I can’t believe I didn’t kill anyone.”

  If she only knew.

  She waved it off, then asked, “So, what did you fail at?”

  “I failed my cardiology test,” I said, watching Reyes’s interrogation, his every move pure perfection, his every feature stunning. Like he’d been Photoshopped. I suddenly felt gypped.

  “Cardiology test?” Cookie asked. It was fun to watch her, with her face kind of lopsided from the swelling. “You went to see a cardiologist?”

  “Yes. And he refuses to do open-heart surgery based on my insistence that something is wrong with it. According to Dr. Quack Head, the tests have all come back normal. I just think he needs a bird’s-eye view, you know? A hands-on kind of thing.”

  She pressed her mouth together. “Damn it, Charley, you scared me. And there is nothing wrong with your heart.”

  “Yes, there is. It hurts.” I poked myself in the chest several times for dramatic effect. “Having Reyes so near is painful. I think it has apoplexy.”

  “Do you even know what that means?”

  “No, but it sounds serious. Like Ebola. Or hives.”

  “You’re going to wish you had Ebola after I’m done with you.”

  “What? What the hell did I do?”

  “I don’t know, but all of this has to be your fault.”

  “You just said it wasn’t.”

  “I was lying.”

  “You’re the one who brought a gun to the party.” When she refused to address that little elephant in the room, I took out my phone and dialed an old friend of the family’s.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Noni. You’re taking his class. The next one starts tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, and you’re going to be in it.”

  “What?” She grabbed for my phone, but I dodged her attempts like Mr. Miyagi dodges the punches of his enemy. “I don’t need a concealed weapons permit.”

  “It’s also about gun safety, Cook,” I said, holding up an index finger to put her in pause. “And if you carry a gun in a concealed way, you need a permit. The class is eight hours tomorrow and seven on Sunday.”

  She lunged for the phone again. She missed. “That’s my entire weekend. I had plans.”

  “A Vampire Diaries marathon is not plans.”

  She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Have you even seen the Salvatore brothers? Holy mother of ginger snaps. And I was going to make a pan of enchiladas for us to eat next week, too.”

  Gah! She knew that would hurt. I sighed in defeat. “Then clearly we are both making a huge sacrifice here.”

  Noni picked up, saying something grumpy about the time. It was weird. I charged forward, explained the situation to him as Cookie watched Uncle Bob’s every move. Or, well, drank in Uncle Bob’s every move. He was consulting with one of the off-duty officers, and Cookie seemed to find his actions mesmerizing.

  That wasn’t disturbing at all.

  “Thanks, Noni.”

  “I hate you right now,” he said.

  “For gravy’s sake, it’s nine thirty. Who’s asleep by nine thirty on a Friday night?” I hung up and said to Cook, “You’re in.”

  “Fantastic.” She said it, but I didn’t think she meant it.

  “Right? Okay, so he’ll ask you a lot of questions to determine your mental stability. How good are you at lying?”

  She scowled at me. “As good as you are at staying out of trouble.”

  “Crap. Well, just do the best you can. He’ll also give you a handbook on all the gun laws in New Mexico. And Noni is —” How did I put this without making him sound like a fanatic? “Noni’s enthusiastic. He takes his gun with him into the shower, but he’s a good guy and you’ll learn a lot. More important”— I took her shoulders to get her full attention; then I shook her a little for good measure – “everyone will be a lot safer.”

  She nodded, then shook her head, changing her mind mid-shake. “I don’t know, Charley. I don’t think I can shoot a gun in front of other people.”

  “What were you planning on doing with it tonight? Seeing if Tidwell was interested in buying one?”

  “No, I just thought that showing it would get him to calm down.”

  “And how’d that work out?”

  “Charley,” she said, her voice sharp with warning.

  “Okay, okay. But for future reference, never pull a gun unless you’re willing to use it. Anyway, firing your sidearm is only a small part of the class. By the time you get to that point, you’ll be comfortable enough with everyone to take off your bra. Don’t. Trust me. It never ends well. Before that, he’ll go over specific laws and give you real-life scenarios, self-defense situations to mull over. You know, everyday things.” I scooted closer to her. “Cook, he’s going to ask you if you’re ready to kill someone.”

  “What? Like right now?”

  “No, he’ll probably give you a scenario and ask if you’d be willing to pull the trigger.”

  “Wonderful.” Again, she said it but I questioned her sincerity.

  “And then he’ll teach you different techniques. How to enter a room when there’s a terrorist raiding your refrigerator. What to do if someone breaks down your front door with an axe. It’s all about staying alive and defending yourself and your family.” When she only stared off into space, I added, “You’ll do fine, Cook.”

  Oh yeah, that special place in hell was looking more and more likely by the minute.

  3

  667: The neighbor of the beast.

  —BUMPER STICKER

  The moment I could feel my knees again, I decided to check on my old friend-ish type person-slash-associate of sorts, Garrett Swopes. He was always good for a laugh. On the way over, I pulled up one of my new, possibly pirated GPS apps my friend Pari told me about. So even though I could find his house with my eyes closed – a feat I was fairly certain I’d done one night during a bout with insomnia – I brought up the app on my phone, picked a voice, and plugged it into the auxiliary outlet. Heavy breathing, as though someone were on life support and breathing through a machine, flooded the car. It might not have been so creepy if it weren’t dark out. I punched in my destination, i.e., Garrett’s address, then hit Route.

  “In three hundred feet, turn right,” Darth Vader said. The Darth Vader. I felt like we were friends now. Like I could tell him anything.

  “Thanks, Mr. Vader. Can I call you Darth?”

  He didn’t answer, but that was okay. As the non-favored child of a stepmother, I was used to being ignored. I headed that way.

  The breathing sounded again. “In fifty feet, turn right.”

  “Okay, well, thanks again.”

  We did that the whole way. Him telling me what to do. Me thanking him. I suddenly felt dirty, like he was using me for his own amusement. This relationship seemed very one-sided.

  When I was almost there, Darth spoke again. “In two hundred feet, your destination will be on the right. Your journey to the dark side is almost complete.”

  Why did I get the feeling he was related to Reyes?

  “Your destination is on the right.”

  “Yeah, okay, got it. Had it before.”
<
br />   “Your journey to the —”

  I exited the app before he could finish his sentence. It seemed wrong to cut him off prematurely, but I could take only so much heavy breathing before inappropriate thoughts involving whipped cream and a Ping-Pong paddle crept into my mind. And I was going to see Garrett Swopes. While not anywhere near the top of my to-do list, the guy’s abs were to die for.

  I hopped out of Misery, my beloved cherry red Jeep Wrangler, and strolled to his front door. He lived in a small bungalow-style house with lots of lush vegetation, which was kind of unusual for Albuquerque. We were more of a lush-free kind of state. Sparse was more our style. I knocked before realizing his truck wasn’t out front like usual.

  The door opened anyway and an exhausted-looking bond enforcement agent in dire need of a shave stood before me. Garrett Swopes was a lot like a hot gay friend only he wasn’t gay, which was too bad because then I could tell him how hot he was without him getting the wrong idea. He had smooth mocha-colored skin that made the silvery gray of his eyes even more arresting. And again he had abs to die for as evidenced not by his lack of a shirt but his negligence in buttoning said shirt.

  I drank in a hearty swig of Garrett-abs before addressing him. “How’s it hanging, Swopes?” I asked, ducking past him.

  He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and index finger. “Charles, it’s late.”

  “It’s always late when I come over. At least you weren’t in bed this time.”

  After a lengthy sigh to let me know just how annoyed he was pretending to be, he closed the door and headed for the kitchen. For some reason, every time I came over, he felt the need to drink. It was weird. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.

  “To my pleasure, duh. I get all kinds of joy annoying the ever-loving crap out of you.”

  “I meant, what’s going on? Is the world ending? Is a mass murderer stalking you? Are you trying to stay up for days at a time to avoid alone time with your evil neighbor?”

  Damn. He knew Reyes had moved in next door to me. I’d wanted to be the one to tell him, to break it to him gently. My relationship with Reyes was complicated and, at one point, involved me staying up for days to avoid summoning the guy into my dreams. Unfortunately, Garrett had become a victim of my circumstance. He’d helped me through a rough time and I should’ve been the one to tell him about Reyes’s new pad.