Hoarfrost (Blood of Cain Book 2)

by J. L. Murray

  "I thought we hid it better," said Dekker, shifting in his seat. I could feel his pulse from where I was sitting.

  "People talk, don't blame yourself," said Esme, watching my face closely. "This is a small town, and the two FBI agents that rent out two rooms but only actually use one, that's something folks notice. Secret hand holding when you think no one sees, whispering, and, you know..."

  "What?" said Dekker.

  Esme grinned at us, looking from one to the other. "You guys are so damn obvious. The both of you. Checking each other out every five minutes, touching. Come on. We're all detectives here. If you were committing a crime, you'd be caught already."

  I laughed a little too loudly and Dekker threw me a look, but then he said, "You check me out?"

  Esme laughed. "I'm not going to rat you out, don't worry. I just want all the cards on the table. This isn't an interrogation. Unless you have something else to confess." Esme was watching us and I had the uncomfortable feeling of a mouse about to walk into a trap.

  "Of course not," Dekker said. "We're all on the same side."

  "Obviously," said Esme. "Now that we're all caught up, can you tell me something?"

  "Sure," he said.

  "What the fuck is going here?" I watched Esme as she leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table.

  "What do you mean?" I said.

  "What else could I mean?" she said. "Frozen bodies washing up on the beach, murders in the pancake house, frozen oceans. Is this the end-times, or what?"

  "Are you religious?" said Dekker, leaning back in his chair and covering his relief by raising his beer glass to his lips and drinking deeply. I drained my glass of bourbon.

  "I wasn't, no, not before this," she shook her head, "but what is all this? Dead fish, bodies that don't thaw, I'm a little afraid someone up there is punishing us. My mom was Catholic, I went to Catholic school, I am very familiar with the vengeance of God. And, something else."

  "What?" said Dekker.

  "Well, those detectives from Salem, investigating the incident with Abby Stromberg. They said something strange. The last time anyone saw her was at church."

  "And?" I said.

  "She was sitting with her mother."

  "Is that unusual?" said Dekker.

  "Her mother's been dead for ten years," said Esme.

  "Jesus," I said.

  "Damn right, Jesus," said Esme. "People are saying it was an act of God, that it was pre-ordained, that Abby had been guided by the heavens to kill that poor woman."

  "You don't believe that, do you?" I said.

  "Nothing wrong with believing in God," Dekker said diplomatically.

  "Do you?" I asked him, surprised.

  "Is it really so crazy after all we've seen?" he said, his voice low. "Agent Peck," he added, glancing at Esme.

  "Listen," said Esme, "I don't know about any of this. And I can't ruminate on the pancake house right now. One case at time, and I'm focused on these poor frozen bastards. But all I'm saying is, it gives me pause. Do you two have any theories, any at all? I mean, what the hell is doing this? What could possibly freeze the bay and turn people into permanent popsicles?" She frowned. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't disrespect the dead like that."

  "We're looking at all angles," said Dekker. "It's all very odd, that's for sure. Maybe some sort of chemical spill, or a freak act of nature. Global warming?"

  "I know I only just got here," I said, "but we really can't rule out things we don't understand."

  "What do you mean?" said Esme. "Like magic?" She laughed.

  "Not magic," I said, "I just think you need to keep an open mind about the cause of all this. We don't know everything about the world. And some things might not be easily explainable."

  "Everything's explainable," said Esme, the hard edge I'd seen hints of before showing.

  "Agent Peck is still very new," said Dekker, "you'll have to excuse her."

  "If she really is new," said Esme, frowning, "where did you two meet?"

  "We met in a bar," I said, glaring at Dekker.

  Esme smiled, the hardness dissolving. "I met Will in the slummiest hole-in-the-wall shithole you've ever seen. It was called the Sockeye Saloon and, yes, it did smell like fish. And a lot of other things."

  I laughed.

  "And you lived happily ever after," said Dekker.

  "Well, I wouldn't say that," said Esme. "We have our ups and downs, just like anyone. But he's the best decision I ever made. I've never once regretted marrying him. But don't think you're going to get me off topic. We'll come back to this, and soon. But I'm going to cut you some slack because I know you've had a rough day. You were there, weren't you? When Abby showed up."

  Dekker suddenly looked like he was very tired.

  "Yeah, we were there," he said.

  "You tried to talk her down, from what I understand, Agent Tucker. Commendable."

  He glanced at me, then met Esme's eyes. "Nothing commendable about it. I was trying to impress my new partner. Two people died. It wasn't brave or right, and I didn't manage to stop anything."

  "Some people might call that brave," said Esme.

  "Some people are full of shit," said Dekker.

  "I'm sorry if I hit a nerve," said Esme, "you're no doubt still pretty raw about it."

  "He did everything he could to save that woman," I said, surprised by the vehemence in my voice. Esme was watching me now, interested. "For all we know, Agent Tucker saved every other person in that restaurant, gave them a chance to escape. So, yeah, I'd call that brave. And I would call him a hero. He didn't hesitate, didn't even blink, just stood up and did everything he could to stop her from hurting anyone else. So whatever you're looking for here, Esme, grilling us and watching our reactions isn't going to work. We're FBI, not a couple of assholes off the street."

  She smiled, though not the congenial smiles she'd been giving us. It was something more calculated. She nodded and shrugged. "Sorry, old habits. You're right, Agent Peck. Not so green as Agent Tucker says, are you?"

  "I know my way around an interrogation."

  "Well, okay, then," she said, looking from me to Dekker and back again. "A few people said that Abby spoke just before she shot herself, but they couldn't make out what she said. And your statements didn’t report what Abby said, just that she shot the waitress and then took her own life while you were trying to subdue her."

  "It's all kind of a blur," I said. "I was trying not to die at the time."

  "I remember what she said," said Dekker. "She said, 'I'll give your love to the Mother.'"

  "That's it?" said Esme.

  "That's all I heard," said Dekker.

  "I remember that now," I said. "I thought it was just crazy talk."

  "'I'll give your love to the Mother,'" repeated Esme, frowning. "Her own mother? Or whoever was pretending to be her mother in that church? Maybe we should be looking for another suspect, an accomplice that drove her to it. But why would someone do that? Are you sure there wasn't anything else?"

  "That was all she said," said Dekker.

  "Well that's disappointing," said Esme. "I thought it would be more profound. A clue. Who did she say it to? Anyone in particular?"

  "Me," I said, pushing my chair back and standing up. "She said it right to my face. And then she splattered her brains all over my partner. Anyone else want another drink?"

  I walked through the doorway and set the empty glasses on the bar. Will came over, smiling broadly. "You look rough, Ezzy doing that thing?"

  "Thing?" I said.

  "Every time she meets anyone new," he said, still smiling, "she basically grills them. Don't worry, she only does it to people she likes. She likes to get a read on people, it's her thing. She did it to me when we met, too."

  "Sounds like some first date," I said, grinning.

  "You have no idea," he said, laughing. "But goddamn if I didn't fall in love with her in the first minute. By the time she decided I was okay, I was ready to get married."

  "F
airy tale," I said.

  "Are you married – do I have to call you Agent?"

  "Dottie," I said, "please."

  "You don't look like a Dottie, did anyone ever tell you that?"

  I smiled. “It’s come up a few times.”

  "Anyway, Dottie, are you married?"

  "No."

  "Kids?"

  "Nope," I said. "I have a bit of a tumultuous life. I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

  "Well, that's noble," he said. "But if you ever meet anyone, and you know right away that this is a person you want to spend your life with, don't hesitate. It's been a ride, I'll tell you that. But you know what? In the end, we all need someone to have our back. We need someone to be a partner, you know what I mean?"

  "Yeah, I get that," I said. "But some people just aren't built that way. Some people can't be a partner, even if they want to be."

  "That may be true," he said. "But damn that's a lonely life. And there's nothing that one person can bear that couldn't be borne easier with two." He raised an empty glass from behind the bar and tinkled the ice cubes. "Sorry, I've had a few. It's a slow night and I own the place."

  "Might as well live a little," I said.

  "I guess you three want another round."

  "If it's not too much trouble," I said. "Where's the bathroom?"

  "Right through that door there," he said, pointing toward the back. "I'll get these started."

  The bathroom was, in keeping with the theme, tiny and dim. A grubby mirror hung above the sink, surrounded by brightly colored miniature anchors. I washed my hands after relieving myself and chanced a look in the mirror, still anxious every time I saw my reflection. I looked tired, dark circles under my eyes, face puffy. Esme was right, it had been a day. I stood there for a long time, just looking at my own face. It was almost like it wasn't even mine anymore. I was becoming a stranger to myself. I touched a hand to my chest, trying to feel for the thing inside of me, the darkness that was always just below the surface, but it was quiet for once.

  I was turning to go when I saw something in the mirror out of the corner of my eye. I spun, but there was nothing there. I turned back to the mirror and nearly fell over when I saw the reflection again. There was a gauzy figure standing directly behind me, almost on top of me it was so close. My eyes widened at the sight of the thing, tall and looming, a suggestion of gauntness even while shrouded in a white cloak, streaked and stained, the hood obscuring its face. A smell like rotting roadkill flooded my nose and mouth and I suppressed a gag. I whirled, grabbing at the thing. But my hands closed on nothing but air. And when I turned back to the mirror, all I saw was my own wretchedly tired face. The smell was gone, as if it had never really been there.

  It must have. I couldn't have imagined a smell. Because my heart was racing and the darkness pulsed and scratched at the inside of my skull and teeth and bones. I filled the sink with ice cold water and plunged my face under until I was calm. When I forced myself to examine the mirror again, all I smelled was Lysol, and all I saw was a woman who could no longer differentiate dreams from reality. I dried my face with a paper towel and went back to the bar.

  "You look like you saw a ghost," said Will when I returned for the drinks.

  "I think something bad is about to happen," I said.

  Will smiled sympathetically. "This part of the world does things to your head if you're not used to it. Lack of sunlight."

  "Yeah, maybe," I said. "Thanks for the drinks." The front door swung open just as I picked the refilled glasses up to take them back to where Dekker and Esme were waiting. I looked at the disheveled man who walked through the door. It was raining hard, I saw as the door swung shut behind him.

  "Hey, Jerry," said Will from behind the bar. "How've you been?" The man didn't answer, just stood there, panting a little. Something about him was wrong. His eyes were twitchy, looking everywhere all at once. He was dripping wet, as if he'd been walking in the downpour for quite some time. He had one hand in his pocket.

  "You okay, man?" said Will. "Looks like you need to sit down."

  Jerry focused on him for a moment, then seemed to notice me. A grin spread across his face, his eyes cold, his gray hair plastered to his head with rain. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, and when he stretched his arm out toward me I saw that he was holding a small paring knife. I dropped the drinks and felt the glass shatter, booze splashing all over my new-old boots.

  "Who the hell are you?" I said.

  "She's looking for you, Frankie Mourning," said Jerry, walking toward me, the grin on his face seeming almost painful, and I saw a tear slide down his cheek. "She's not in a hurry, but you should be."

  "Who's looking for me?" I said, reaching under my jacket for my knife. I wrapped my fingers around the handle, unbuckling it from the leather sheath with my thumb. I took a step toward him.

  "Mother," he said, laughing a high-pitch laugh that grated on my ears. "She's going to find you. She told me what to do, though. A message just for you. I already know what I have to do. Then I can be with her."

  "Jerry," said Will, "put the knife down."

  I took another step toward Jerry, pulling my own knife out of the sheath and holding it low in front of me. "Who is she?"

  "She's bright," he said, the smile flickering. "So bright it hurt my eyes. I saw her face, I saw her face and then I saw Holly. Oh, God, my Holly. I'll be with her when I'm finished."

  "Holly?" I said.

  "My wife. She told me what to do. I know what I have to do."

  I heard the sound of a rifle being cocked behind me. "Put it down, Jerry, or so help me, I'll shoot you," said Will. "I don't want to, but I will."

  "Jerry, put it down," said another voice. I glanced over to see Esme and Dekker emerging warily from the hall. Dekker was zeroed in on Jerry, something cold and angry in his eyes. He'd talked Abby down in the cafe, but this was different. Jerry was standing right in front of me, and his knife was pointing directly at my heart.

  "Come on, Jerry, let's have a chat," I said, reaching for his knife, but he pulled it away and pointed with it. Pointed right at Esme. He grinned again.

  "I dreamt my father had a face," he whispered, "and all my tears had not run dry. They formed a lake of salt and pain, a sanctum on the other side." He let out a sob, his face crumpling. "Holly, I've done it. I gave her the message." He gasped for air for a moment as I stared at him.

  "What was that?" I said. "Who told you to say that?"

  "It's for you, Frankie Mourning," he breathed. "Only you. Now I only have one thing left to do."

  He moved quickly, faster than an overweight, middle-aged man should have been able to. He seemed a blur as he spun past me, but I reached my hand out and grabbed the back of his shirt as he ran towards Esme like a cannonball, screaming his wife's name as he went, "Holly, Holly, Holly, Holly!" I pulled hard, but his shirt ripped and he was free. I saw Jerry fall before I heard the shot, and for a time, I couldn't understand what had just happened. Warm blood slid down my face and soaked my shirt. Dekker was saying my name, but he wasn't calling me Dorothy Peck. He was, mirroring Jerry, saying Frankie, Frankie, over and over again. He was pulling me back, toward the door, and I saw Will drop the rifle on the bar as if it were poison, staring at it.

  "We have to get out of here," Dekker said in my ear.

  "Jesus Christ!" said Will, and stumbled out from behind the bar, his eyes glued to Jerry, lying still on the floor, with part of his head missing. "Jesus Christ," he said again, his eyes wild and panicked. Esme came over and put her arms around him, but she was staring right at me, her eyes not seeming to blink.

  "I have to find his wife," I said.

  "What?" said Dekker.

  "His wife, Jerry's wife," I said. "He said she was with this woman, the one he called Mother." I looked at Esme, not flinching at her hard eyes. "Where is she?"

  Esme shook her head and glared. "About half a mile inland at the Westport Cemetery."

  "What?"

  "She's dead," s
aid Esme. Her face was growing flushed, I could see it even in the dark bar.

  I looked at Dekker. "What's happening?" I said, finally letting myself feel it. "What is happening here? Why is this happening?"

  "We have to go," said Dekker. "Now. Before she finds you."

  "No way," said Esme. She picked up Will's rifle off the bar and pointed it at us. "You're not going anywhere. This is a crime scene."

  "It was an accident," said Dekker. "Self-defense at the most. Jerry was going right for you with that knife."

  "What's the rush?" Esme's voice was cool. Will sank down onto a bar stool, seeming unable to stand any longer.

  "Esme," Will said weakly. "Honey, this is my fault."

  Esme was watching us closely. She narrowed her eyes. "You're not FBI."

  "Of course we are," said Dekker. "But some people are after Agent Peck, and if I don't get her to safety, you're going to be responsible for her death. And as you know, I wouldn't be too happy about that."

  "Who the hell is Frankie Mourning?" Esme said.

  Dekker returned her glare. "No one," he said. "Put the gun down. Jerry was crazy, just like Abby. Let's get to the bottom of this instead of pointing a gun at federal agents."

  "What was he saying to you? What was that message?"

  "I don't know," I said truthfully.

  "Esme," said Will, his voice barely a whisper. "You don't look well. You need to calm down."

  "You're lying," said Esme. "That message does mean something. You're terrified, the both of you. Tell me what the fuck is going on right now or so help me, I will end the both of you."

  "Will you, Esme?" I said, something coming alive inside of me. "Will you end us?" I took a step toward her. She didn't move, didn't flinch, but her eyes grew wary.

  "Who's Frankie Mourning?" she said, her voice low.

  "Esme," said Will, "what's happened to your face? Are you all right?"

  Esme's neck and face were shining with sweat, and she stumbled back a little, her back hitting the bar behind her. Her eyes were wide as she let the rifle fall to the floor with a thud. She raised her hands, holding them in front of her face, then made them into fists and looked at me, shaking her head.