“That’s what I said. So, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Gabriel placed the red baseball hat on his head and tossed the beige hat in a trash can. He edged between the crowds toward the street where a parade of vintage cars sputtered up the main drag behind a green tractor hitched to four carts.
He crossed the street to the other side, found the book stand and waited behind two dumpy brunettes.
FIFTY-SIX
Temeke was restless, but then he always was in a crowd. He had the sense Gabriel Mann was only a few steps ahead, hopefully waiting by the book stand on the opposite side of the street.
A bead of sweat ran down one side of his face and he stopped for a moment, glanced over the crowds at the families with their strollers, a live band and a lone straw hat browsing the book stall.
Jarvis was forty yards ahead dressed in jeans and an old army fatigue jacket. He was sitting at a table with Maggie Watts sharing a plate of Navajo tacos, while Officers Hinkley and Toledo were on the other side of the street admiring a 1964 purple Impala.
It was warm for March ‒ fifty-six degrees and climbing. There were people dressed in psychedelic colors, some barely dressed at all, cruising the strip and looking for a new squeeze.
As for Temeke...You’re too bloody conspicuous, he thought to himself, slackening his stride a little and then pausing to take in the aroma of fresh roasted chile.
Bald, black and British, he wasn’t fooling anyone in his lackluster clothes and leather boots. Too tense. He attracted the attention of three young boys who were urging a young woman to touch him.
She and that dreamy expression got up too close, lips wrapped around a popsicle. “Kiss me,” she slurred, lips red and shiny.
He was maddened by two intoxicated eyes and a huff of rancid breath. “I’ve got an unsavory reputation, love, like the toilets downtown.”
Lifting both hands, he made a half circle around her, keeping his eyes on the street and the passersby. A small child pushed past him wearing green scrubs and a stethoscope made from a pair of first generation IPod headphones and a suction cup. His mouth was smeared in chocolate.
Gabriel Mann wasn’t invisible, he was here somewhere and although Temeke’s eyes ranged from left to right, passing over the crowd and stopping to scan the book stall, he could see no one who resembled a half dead corpse on the run.
The sun rose high in a sky where one half was clear blue and the other a blanket of gray rolling in from the west. People milled beneath the awnings, mothers carrying toddlers on their hips, father’s staring longingly at the antique cars, and the elderly hovering over an open-air restaurant in the hope of finding an empty chair.
Temeke wiped his head and felt the phone vibrate inside a cargo pocket. He moved towards the shade of a cottonwood tree and listened to Malin’s voice.
“Not seeing him,” she said, flicking through the pages of a book she was pretending to read. “But I am seeing a her. Three females standing in front of a table. But here’s the thing. Two of the females came off a hayride four minutes ago, heavy-set brunettes and the third, a skinny blonde, tacked along behind and then started talking like she knew them?”
Temeke heard the rise at the end of the sentence, realized he had to give his two cents worth. “Maybe she came late. Maybe she’s an old friend.”
“Blonde hair, as in platinum blonde. Five feet seven, one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Khaki sweater, blue jeans. Was wearing a beige hat. Now it’s red. Something about her, sir. Watchful, you know?”
An essence, Temeke thought, pulse spiking. There would definitely be an essence.
He lowered his head, sunglasses hiding the direction of his gaze. A school group appeared to be listening intently to a teacher, a middle-aged man with a dog in a working harness, two heavyset women and a blonde wearing a red hat.
“Got her,” he said, and hung up.
Straight back, rigid thighs, feet pointing forward as if they were pegged into the ground. She was slightly behind the other two, following but not following, browsing but not browsing.
The casualness of her pose did nothing to disguise the vigilance, gaze floating up from the book she was reading to examine the street. The posture was already mapped in his mind, even before the left knee turned sideways and the figure started forward slowly along the line of tables.
He made his way through the crowds, almost colliding with a man in a Smokey the Bear costume handing out forest fire leaflets to a group of teenagers. Temeke scanned right and left, and then straight ahead.
Under the awning he could see Malin ten yards to the left of him, Jarvis and Watts to his right, and he could sense Hinkley and Toledo behind him. They had been alerted by his sudden race across the street.
He couldn’t see the blonde woman in the red baseball cap and he was baffled. His head was burning, sun glaring in his face as he studied the crowds, calculating which direction she would have taken. She had been so close, only a matter of yards, and now he had lost her.
He latched on to the most obvious conclusion and the throbbing in his chest began to slow. She knew they were there, knew they were cops, and knew exactly how to dodge them. Funny thing was, he could still feel her.
He brushed his forehead with a wrist and glanced at the hay rides as they trundled south along the street. Raw instinct made him follow them, eyes taking in each tiny detail.
Three white baseball hats, two blue, four yellow and one red, all bobbing above the hay bales in the tractor carts.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Temeke followed the blonde past the Mercantile towards Dina Nelson Road. The red baseball hat hadn’t thrown him for a second and he sprinted along that country road, hearing only silence and wishing like hell he had Malin with him.
Weapon checked and holstered, he felt an eerie strain in the air as if the sun had suddenly set, leaving a darkening sky above him and rolling clouds. It was beautiful, but it was threatening too.
He called Malin, told her he was following the suspect on foot and that he needed immediate assistance. She said she wouldn’t be far behind.
No, he wouldn’t wait for backup. That was insane. Not when he rounded a corner and he could hear the sound of boots slogging up a dirt lane that intersected the end of the road. Gun drawn, both hands on the pistol grip, he followed her north under a thick canopy of cottonwoods.
Years of police work had taught him how to pinpoint and isolate the source of a sound, and he moved slowly, balancing on the balls of his feet. Still no sign of her.
The bushes on the side of the street were so high he couldn’t see over them and every step along that sandy road was a dangerous one. He heard the huff of his own breath and wondered if she could hear it too.
Gabriel, Gabriella... whatever it was she called herself today, a girl beaten by her father because she wasn’t a boy.
Beige hat, red hat. She was crazy to be out here on her own. Believing being Gabriel would help her forget and take away her guilt. Believing she could outsmart a man in a Kevlar vest and a Glock in his hand. Decades of tracking suspects left him in a state of constant motion and he would never give up.
He stood before a slight bend in the road, keeping his gun at low ready. The wind hurled sand flurries across his path, brown leaves racing and rolling, branches groaning above him. The north side of the sky was layered in dark clouds, rippling towards the southern horizon which was bathed in an eerie amber light.
Storm’s coming, he thought, as he braced himself against the spiraling dirt devils, focusing on the snaking road ahead and the distant figure he thought he saw. A flare of lightning branched in the gray and flickered again like the glowing filament of a light bulb.
Had she summoned these demon winds?
From warm sunshine to peals of thunder in less than twenty minutes, Temeke had to wonder. He was conscious of the tart scent of rain as it began to tap against the surface of the road, and better still, a boot print in the dirt.
The natural cambers and b
ends made it impossible to get a sighting, but she had to be only fifty yards ahead walking along the side of the road and too exposed to think she was being followed.
There were potholes and spidery cracks in the dried mud and a ghostly pall on the lane that wasn’t there a moment ago. He froze when he saw a red baseball cap, blown off by the wind and bobbing along the grass verge toward him.
His body tensed with the sound of scuttling leaves, but only for a second. He stooped and lurched for it, hooking the muzzle of his gun through the snapback. Temeke’s instinct wasn’t to touch it. There was a small bag in his pocket, not large enough for the cap, but big enough to cover his hand. Without touching the visor, he slipped it into his cargo pocket.
His pulse began to spike as he set off again, this time half running, half walking, back aligned with the hedge and grip tightening on the Glock. The steady percussion of thunder reminded him the storm was overhead now, lightning forking in a blinding flash.
With each silent step he advanced by inches, feeling the burn in his muscles. Was she armed and hiding? Because if she was, she had a better firing position. Never expect the usual, he thought. It would kill him every time.
The scent of damp wood alerted him to an old slatted barn up ahead. He approached it from the northeast corner, estimating a building of about thirty feet wide and fifty feet long. There was a four foot gap between the sliding doors and a wide aisle where pools of water had collected from the rain.
Temeke slipped into the shadows and pressed his shoulder against the stable wall. He paused and listened to the drumming rain against the roof and the occasional hoof stamping against the kickboards. Each stall had a row of bars above a sturdy five-foot wall and a door that led out to individual runs. He counted five horses inside, ears flicking forward and back, and nostrils twitching.
His trained ear caught the sound of a shoe knocking against metal and he squatted behind a tower of empty water troughs.
A pained yell.
Temeke fought a rush of nausea. It wasn’t the whinnying horses that bothered him, or their intermittent kicking and strutting, as if they would break out of the stalls at any moment and trample him underfoot. It was the sound of a human voice.
He duck walked up the aisle, one step at a time, arms extended. To his left was an open tack room with feed bins and buckets, and on the right a cloud of dust floated above a straw bale. Something had recently brushed against it. He traversed his weapon 180 degrees, peripheral vision studying the dim outline of the stalls and the bars above them.
Then a thin grinding sound, like wheels riding along a steel rail. Temeke dropped deep into his calves, leveled his weapon and ignored the throbbing in his legs.
The sound was coming from an opening in the wall about ten feet beyond the straw bale. He waited three minutes, rose up into a crouch and edged around the corner. He found himself in a short corridor where a sliding metal gate separated the main barn from a circular lunging pen. Lighting flickered feverishly through a domed glass ceiling and a layer of clouds hovered directly above.
He spun inward, saw a female fifteen feet away kneeling in a thick bed of sand, head lowered as if she was praying. She didn’t seem to hear the words “Police!” Kept swaying back and forth and chanting something he didn’t understand.
There was enough light in the sky to see the wig discarded in the sand beside her, hands pushed down between her thighs as if she was cold.
Temeke shouted again. This time she heard him, head raised for only a moment. He could make out the rounded cheekbones, the red hair and mouth slightly open.
“Go away,” she moaned.
“Lily, it’s me. It’s OK.”
“It’s too big now.” She tapped the side of her head with a knuckle. “It hurts so much. Please... go away.”
“Lily, I’m here. Let me help you.”
“No, no, no... Stay back!”
It was the irony of it all that would come back to haunt him. The very book Alice bought ‒ to empower, to encourage ‒ had damaged none other than her own precious sister.
“I meant what I said,” she shouted. “Either you open the door and let me in or I’ll‒”
Temeke didn’t hear the response that interrupted her. He heard whispers and then two voices, one taunting, the other pleading.
“I’ll scream,” she said. “You know how loud I can scream!”
She sounded out of breath, chest rising and falling, forehead glistening with sweat. One hand dropped to her thigh, fingers opening and closing as if she was flexing a cramping muscle.
“You said I could see Alice. You said, you said, you said!”
Temeke crept forward a little, feet wading through sand. And then he saw the terrible thing she clasped, barrel, slide and trigger in a rugged shade of gray.
When he was halfway across the space, she pushed the muzzle in her mouth.
When he was five feet away, she fired.
FIFTY-EIGHT
It was forty days after the disappearance of Asha Samadi and Champagne corks were popping in the boardroom. Commander Hackett was his usual ebullient self, cracking jokes with Sergeant Moran and teasing him about an array of paperclip animals now hanging behind the front desk.
Captain Fowler, Officer Jarvis and Maggie Watts were running bets on how long it would take for Temeke to go through the rest of the cold files on his desk. Toledo and Hinkley were stuffing their faces with a Glock-shaped cake that looked more like an old sock, and Malin was crinkling a plastic cup in the hope that someone would fill it. She was a splendid combination of freckles and black hair and Temeke wondered what had taken him so long to notice.
By nine thirty, the room was full and the flat screen was buzzing on the back wall. Channel 4 got to it first, Cynn Wrigley, chief editor of the Duke City Journal, stood next to Stan Stockard in front of the courthouse with a mic. Within minutes the networks were crackling with the suicide of Lily Delgado and the safe return of Adel Martinez to her high profile and somewhat detached family.
One network caught the Chief of Police outside McDonalds with his grandson. His suit appeared to have a generous coating of polystyrene beads on the epaulets, either that or it was a bad case of dandruff, Temeke couldn’t decide which.
With the exception of Lily’s death, the networks bounced back and forth between pictures of Los Poblanos Academy and Gibson University, citing the dangers of study drugs and encouraging the public to use discretion with any form of witchcraft.
The Esoterica was hailed as a ‘dead loss’ by journalist Jennifer Danes, which had increased sales online by ninety percent.
Zarah Thai’s interview was short and meaningful. She said she had not spoken to Lily Delgado since starting her freshman year at Gibson, and in spite of the sisterhood, she never once considered Lily a friend.
Not surprisingly Adel Martinez had nothing to say. She was filmed crying through the open passenger window of a Jaguar XE, a car her father was driving. For some, the day wasn’t a resounding success, friends all gone, memories dashed to smithereens. Adel would be continuing her undergraduate course at an undisclosed university in Georgia.
There were stills of Alice Delgado, Adel Martinez, Paddy Brody, Asha Samadi, Zarah Thai, Kenzie Voorhees and Rosa Belmonte standing under an avenue of trees, thought to be the front drive of Los Poblanos Academy, and a poignant video of Asha Samadi playing Chopin’s Prelude in E minor at Popejoy Hall. A full press conference would follow.
The Duke City Journal showed a photograph of a body bag on a stretcher and the heading; Suicide Girl Kills Friends. Rituals found in an Esoterica led Lily Delgado to murder and subsequent suicide. Duke City Police Department triumphs in yet another solved case.
Temeke’s back was becoming sore with all the patting and he relished the thick wad of cash Hackett had just given him. Nearly four sodding grand.
He suddenly felt crowded in and needed air. Funny how parties always seemed to go on without him and he could still hear laughing all the way down t
he hall. His cell phone pulsed a greeting and although he didn’t recognize the number, he answered it anyway.
“Hello, David.” A female voice.
It took Temeke a few seconds to register how familiar he was with that voice, how he had dreamed of it.
“Serena!” he blurted.
“I wanted to be the first to congratulate you,” voice lowered almost to a purr. “I just wanted to say hi.”
It was nearly April and the wind blew the sweet fragrance of freshly mown grass through the front door. It reminded him of happier days, as if she was standing right next to him.
He paced back and forth, telling her everything from the minute they found the Samadi remains to the ruin of a once vibrant family haunted by a tragic car accident and two suicides. “Mrs. Delgado will never be the same, love. Makes you realize how lucky we are.”
“Blessed, David. Blessed.”
“They say she’s moving to Colorado. Can’t blame her with all those memories.”
“I’ll be praying for her.”
“And Lily... there was nothing I could have done.”
She must have heard the tremor in his voice, read the despondency. “You did good.”
The last word was drawn out, almost whispered, and he realized how much he missed those far-away eyes, the high pitched laughter and the wagging finger.
“I assume you’ll have a long vacation now,” she said, half laughing.
“How’d you guess? I could take you out to lunch, if you want.”
She took a beat too long to answer. “I’ll think about it, David. You take care, now.”
And she was gone.
It was two long minutes before Temeke dragged himself away from the essence of that voice. He walked into the main office and found Malin sitting on one of the L-shaped desks, feet swinging, cheeks glowing and holding two cups of Champagne. It struck him he had not seen her wearing lipstick before and a third sense told him it wasn’t a fluke.
Past Rites Page 28
