by Tina Whittle
“She took my key ring. The one Dexter made me.”
“She took mine too.”
“How many did he make?”
“Don’t know. But whoever that was in the woods, I bet he had one too, the poor bastard.” Richard took a long drag on his cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke toward the trees. “Sometimes I think Joe Ben’s right, that this place is haunted. It used to be peaceful and quiet, and then the day Braxton’s bones saw the sun again…”
“You say that like a man who believes in ghosts.”
“I believe the other side ain’t nothing to be getting definite opinions about.” His radio crackled, and he pulled it from his belt. “Yeah?”
The voice at the other end was raspy with static. “Detective Perez says everybody can go now. They’ve got the scene secured. She says it would be very helpful if nobody left town, though, especially not that girl from the gun shop.”
I sighed. Of course. Different corpse, same story.
Chapter Thirteen
The clouds fell away behind the departing storm, leaving a chilly wind and diamond-on-velvet sky to see us home. Trey hurried to the car without looking up, then belted himself in and submerged himself in paperwork. He was finishing up another call to Marisa when I climbed behind the wheel.
I managed to back out without ramming any of the dozen official cars parked willy-nilly at the gate, including an ambulance just arriving. “I hate to tell them, but it’s way too late for an ambulance.”
Trey pulled a penlight from his pocket. “It’s procedure.”
“Sometimes procedure makes no sense. Like when you stick a grotty skull in an ambulance.” Once we cleared the gate, I flipped on the high beams. “So what do you think happened?”
“About what?”
“About the skull. There was a crater in it, like somebody took a baseball bat it.”
Trey remained immersed in his papers, his penlight a slim focused beam as he read in the darkness. “I don’t have enough evidence to theorize.”
“Then guess.”
“I’m not good at guessing.” He turned his attention to me. “Why are you asking?”
“Because it’s looking like that skull’s connected to Uncle Dexter in some way.”
Trey switched his penlight on me. His cranial lie detector didn’t work very well in a dark Camaro, but it functioned well enough. He’d damaged several cognitive functions in the car accident, including the mechanism that let most people ignore verbal deceit. The “white lie shield,” my brother called it, explaining that after the accident, Trey didn’t have one anymore. Lies hit him square between the eyes now. What this meant for me was that I had a devil of a time hiding anything from him. Every not-quite-factual word I spoke glowed like a road flare.
“Tai,” he said, “your part in this is over. This is a suspicious death investigation now, possibly a homicide.”
“I know. That’s why I’m not getting involved.”
He reached up, flipping on the interior lights to better scrutinize my micro-emotive expressions, and I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was cranking his neurons into high gear. “If you’re not getting involved, then why do you have notes written on your hand?”
“That’s not murder-related. That’s from the inscription below the stained glass. Latin. Et tu Domini something.”
“Et ut inhabitem in domo Domini in longitudinem dierum.”
The words flowed from his tongue with practiced ease, lovely as a sonnet. They were a direct contrast to his expression which had all the softness of granite.
“How could you possibly remember that?” I said.
“I learned it in third grade. It’s the Twenty-third Psalm, Twenty-second in the Latin Vulgate: ‘And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’”
Sometimes I forgot that he’d gone to Catholic school. There was nothing of the religion in his present life, no Mass, no confession. He seemed to have escaped from the nuns without a single mystical bone in his body.
“So correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Former Altar Boy, but that quote doesn’t belong with the Prodigal Son story, right? That story ended with something about the brother who was dead being alive again, fatted calves, the whole forgiveness thing.”
“Correct.”
“Then why is a quote from the Psalms under there instead?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Aha! See? Something weird. And it has nothing to do with the skull. This is my historical curiosity being stirred, nothing more.”
Trey shot me that look, the one that showed he didn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth. I ignored the look.
“And while we’re on the subject of those windows, did they look like the real thing to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Real antiques. Richard said they were, but they seemed awfully new to me.”
“I have no expertise in that area.”
“Neither do I. But still…” I finished up the last of Richard’s awful coffee. “Windows, key rings, skulls. You gotta wonder how it’s all connected.”
“Tai—”
“But like I said, I’m leaving this particular mess to the cops.”
His gaze tracked across my face, lingering around my mouth. He shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “No, you’re not.”
***
Once we returned to the gun shop, I walked Trey to his Ferrari. “And it’s not as if—”
“Tai. You explained. I heard you.”
“Yes, but you think I’m about to do something stupid.”
“I think you’re becoming…I don’t have the word.”
“Overly curious?”
“Overly something.” Trey opened the car door, slipped his briefcase behind the seat. “As for the rest of it, I’ve ordered a new video monitor for the safe room. It should be here tomorrow. But unless Brenda agrees to shared access on her property, the alley will always be a vulnerability.”
“I’ll do my best with her, but she’s not being cooperative.”
He turned to face me. The wind had died down, leaving a tenacious, heavy cold in its wake. I moved closer to him, but he kept his arms crossed. In the amber glow of the street lamp, his eyes were almost turquoise, his face a study of shadow and light.
“You did good out there today,” I said, “heading up the search team. You really miss it, don’t you?”
“What, searches?”
“The whole cop thing.”
“That’s not my job anymore.”
“Maybe. But you still miss it.”
He didn’t reply. I burrowed under his coat, wrapping my arms around his waist, pressing myself into the circle of his warmth. He uncrossed his arms to let me in, but that was his only response. If I wanted a goodnight kiss, I’d have to take it. As usual.
I looked him in the eye. “Trey Seaver, what do I have to do to get you to make a move on me?”
He blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You know. A move. A pass. Something—anything—that will end with us having sex.”
He cocked his head. “Are you asking me to seduce you?”
“Yep. That’s it. Got it in one.”
“Oh. Okay. I can do that.” He leaned back against the car, pondering. “I’ll need your help, of course. Because you’re somewhat difficult to seduce.”
I resisted the urge to thump him between the eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’ve never even tried, you jackass.”
His eyes flashed. “I’ve never had the chance. You’re very…I need a word, multisyllabic, starts with A.”
“Assertive?”
He shook his head.
“Aggressive?”
“Fast. You’re very fast.”
I glared at him. “Fast doesn’t start with A.�
�
“Nonetheless.” He looked down at his shoes, a slight flush running warm along his cheekbones. “Fast isn’t a bad thing, of course. I like fast. But I’m…”
“Slow?”
“Not slow.” He raised his head. “Just less fast.”
I caught his scent then—subtle, as always, carried on body heat and proximity, the mixture of that evergreen aftershave and the musk of skin. My fingers itched as I remembered the muscles camouflaged under the sleek Armani suit, the sure touch of his hands, the intense pleasure he could deliver…
I move my mouth closer to his. “I could take you now if I wanted.”
“I know.”
“Right up against this Ferrari. You wouldn’t put up any resistance whatsoever.”
“None at all. But that would hardly count as a seduction on my part, now would it?”
I almost caved. The pull of him was gravitational, like planets circling into suns, ever closer, as reckless and heedless as physics. It was science, chemicals and laws and rules, and all I had to do was kiss him, and he’d kiss me back, and the chain reaction would begin…
I forced myself to take one step backwards. “There. That’s me being less fast.”
He watched me. Considered long and hard. Then he got in the car, leaving me standing alone in the freezing solitary night. He started to close the door, but I stopped it with my hand.
“What the hell, Trey?”
He looked up at me. “What?”
“That’s it?”
He nodded. “For now.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
He said it calmly, softly. But his eyes gleamed, even in the low light. Yes, he was serious—he was always serious. But this was a new kind of serious.
I leaned forward into the car. “Trey. Boyfriend of mine. I don’t know what you think seduction is, but this isn’t it.”
I saw the quirk at the corner of his mouth, and a fresh desire flooded me like sap in the springtime, especially when the quirk deepened into one of his rare crooked smiles. He kept his eyes on me as he started the Ferrari, all four hundred horses under its hood leaping and snorting in a growly eight-liter rumble somewhere close to ninety decibels.
“Of course it is,” he said.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning dawned sunny and clear and bitter cold. I kept the engine running and the heater blasting as I parked in front of my brother’s house. His lawn wore the dead of winter well, the leafless dogwoods and winter-spare azaleas complementing the lines of his Arts and Crafts bungalow. I knew better than to honk in his part of Virginia Highlands, but of course I didn’t have to—Eric was already coming out to meet me, suitcase rolling beside him like a well-behaved dog.
Maybe it was the bright clear light, but he looked thinner, more gray hairs among the dark blond tousles he so carefully cultivated. He’d turn forty this year, I remembered with a start. I had thirty in my headlights and no gray yet, but my brother’s hair was a portent of things to come. He popped his luggage in the trunk, then slid into the passenger side, balancing a travel mug as he arranged his messenger bag between his knees.
“I could have gotten a car,” he said, fastening his seatbelt. “The coffee’s for you, by the way. Blue Mountain. Sugared and creamed.”
I took the mug from him. “Let me guess. Organically sourced from a single cow in Switzerland.”
“Oh, you are full of funny this morning, aren’t you?”
I laughed as I pulled the Camaro into his driveway for a quick turnaround. Despite the sunshine, his street was empty. Usually there were joggers, retired couples walking fancy dogs clipped like topiary, but temps in the thirties had the neighborhood shuttered and silent.
Eric dropped his glasses to his nose and frowned. “Why aren’t you taking Virginia?”
“Virginia’s blocked at Monroe. They’re filming some movie at Piedmont Park this morning.”
“So take Highland to Ponce and then—”
“I know how to get to the airport.”
“But—”
“Trust me.”
Eric shook his head doubtfully. He looked exactly like our father when he did it—eyebrows lowered, jaw set, the barest waggle of chin. He didn’t argue, though, just checked his phone for any messages he’d missed between the doorstep and my front seat.
“So how’s it been?” he said. “I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
“I’ve been hunkered down in the shop, trying to get it ready for the ATF audit.”
“How’s that coming?”
“Good.”
I watched as he typed out a quick text with his thumbs. Apparently the known world would dry up and sift away if he stopped answering his messages for five minutes. I took the next left, crossing my fingers that the Connector wasn’t suffering from extended rush hour gridlock.
I tried to sound nonchalant. “I’ve got a question.”
He didn’t look up from the phone. “Shoot.”
“Did Uncle Dexter give you a key ring like this one?”
I reached around the steering column and fingered the black iron curlicue of my Dexter-made key ring. Eric examined it, nodding.
“He did. For Christmas, I think, a couple years ago?”
“Your initials on it?”
“Uh huh. The engraving was a bit wonky, but then, he’d only been blacksmithing for a little while, right after he lost Dotty. Then his hip got too bad to stand at the forge all day.”
I was a little surprised at how much my brother knew, and a little guilty. I’d visited Dexter every time I’d come up to the city, but I’d visited because he was an irascible old coot, good for a story. I’d loved him, sure enough. But I hadn’t paid attention. Apparently Eric had.
My brother ran his fingers along the key ring. “He made those pointy things too.”
“Tent stakes?”
He snapped his fingers. “Those. For his reenactment unit, when they went camping. And the things you hang pots with.”
“S-hooks.”
“Right. Simple things, he called them. Good for a beginner.”
“Do you know who else he made key rings for?”
Eric shook his head. “You could ask the rest of his reenactment unit, or the folks at the History Center. They could probably answer most of your questions.” He eyed me then, keenly. “Because you have lots of questions this morning. Why is that?”
I shrugged. Eric gave me the therapist look, which sometimes made stuff fall out of my mouth that I had no intention of telling him. I managed to resist this time, however, setting my jaw, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.
Eric thumbed a number into his phone. “Fine. I’ll call Trey.”
I reached over and pushed his fingers away from the screen. “Don’t you dare.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
So I explained. Thing were going well until I got to the word ‘skull.’”
Eric’s eyes widened behind his wire-rims. “You found a body?”
“No, I found a skull. Kinda grotty, but—”
“Tai! Why didn’t you call me last night?”
“This is why! Because you overreact!”
He yanked his glasses off his face and polished them furiously on his sleeve. “It isn’t overreaction, it’s concern. You have an unfortunate tendency to throw yourself into dangerous situations. Situations involving skulls, for example.”
“Jeez, Eric, I asked you one question, about a key ring.”
“That’s always how it starts. Innocently. But at some point you cross a line, and you cross it deliberately, and then you start doing sneaky things like offering to drive me to the airport just so you can quiz me about a piece of evidence in a murder investigation!”
“Nobody said anything about
murder.” I eased off the gas and settled reluctantly into the middle lane. “And that’s actually not the reason I wanted to talk to you.”
That caught him off guard. “Then what is?”
So I told him that story too, which took a lot longer. I started with the night in the gun shop, when Trey had thrown me in the safe room, then backed up to the nightmares, the insomnia, his lack of interest and energy in pretty much anything until he’d been handed a search grid.
Eric listened. He’d heard it all before, when he’d helped Trey recover after the accident. He listened with a new perspective now, for Trey was no longer one of his clients—he was the guy dating me—and that complicated the situation. Which explained the seriousness in his voice when he started talking.
“Tai, you know that Trey’s particular brand of instability is not only dangerous for him, it can be dangerous for anyone in his immediate vicinity, including you.”
“I know. But the truth is, he probably did hear somebody, probably the same somebody that set off the alarms yesterday. Maybe the other false alarms too. I’m not sure that was provocation enough to pull his weapon, though.”
“It’s what he’s trained to do. It’s his fallback.”
The memory of Savannah flashed again. Deep parts of Trey had come to the surface. And while some of them had been downright mouthwatering, I’d seen the darker aspects too. I sometimes forgot that Trey was capable of killing in various total and professional ways—with his hands, with a knife, with a sniper rifle. I’d been forced to confront that part of myself too, the part that could kill, would have killed, and had wanted to, very badly.
My brother kept his voice level. “How aware is Trey of his behavior?”
“The PTSD part? Quite. There’s other stuff going on I’m not sure he sees, though.”
“Like?”
“Like how utterly starved he is for something exciting to do. His entire professional life is now charts and graphs, and he adores them—yes, he does—and he’s great at them—yes, he is—but there’s something missing, and he thinks he can fill that empty spot with paperwork.”
I pulled up to the Delta terminal, but Eric didn’t get out immediately. Instead he opened his messenger bag, pulled out a pen and scribbled something on a notepad. He tore the paper off and handed it to me. It was a book title: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: A Cognitive Behavioral Approach.
