by Nene Adams
“You’re on. Meet you there or should I pick you up somewhere?” Veronica asked over her shoulder as she walked out of the kitchen.
Mackenzie slumped in relief. “Meet me there. Six o’clock good?”
Veronica’s muffled agreement floated to her from the bedroom.
Since they’d driven to the house together last night, Mackenzie had Veronica drop her off outside the downtown bakery. Shading her eyes with a hand, she checked the building’s second floor where an empty window marked her apartment. No broken glass or debris on the sidewalk, which meant someone—likely Sam—had swept up.
She entered the bakery. The instant the delicious aroma of baking cookies hit, her stomach growled. Swallowing a mouthful of saliva, she eyed the glass-fronted cases, already loaded with pastries, cakes, pies, and other treats. Just the smells gave her a sugar rush.
Her sneakers made little squeaky noises on the tiles. She stopped at the counter. “A cherry and cheese danish, please,” she ordered from the young woman at the cash register while digging in her pocket for money.
Sam waddled through an open door behind the counter, wiping his hands on the front of his apron. His smile revealed the gap between his front teeth. “Good morning, Kenzie.” He slid the five-dollar bill back to her and handed over the bag with the danish. “The storm did a real number on your window last night.”
Realizing he expected a response, Mackenzie shook herself out of the danish-induced trance. “Yeah, uh…a bird…a big bird…an owl,” she said, stumbling over the lie and cursing herself for an idiot. She should have got her story straight before seeing him.
“No one was hurt?” Sam asked, an anxious expression in his mild hazel eyes.
She remembered the minor cuts on her face, now scabbed and only a little hideous according to her brief glance earlier in the bathroom mirror. “We’re fine, just scratches.”
“Damage to furniture or anything like that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s a relief.” Sam blew out a breath. “I was worried when I found the glass this morning in front of the shop. I went upstairs, but nobody answered the door, so I figured you and Deputy Birdwell spent the night somewhere else.”
Sam’s casual assumption about Veronica took her aback—not that she’d really expected negative reactions from friends or family. Had her romantic relationship become common knowledge in town, so common it almost wasn’t worth commenting on? Or did he think she and Veronica were still just friends and playing Scrabble every night? She shook her head free from rambling thoughts to concentrate on the moment. “We stayed at her place.”
Sam beamed. “Good. Glad you two girls didn’t end up at a motel. You can never trust the beds in those places.” He leaned an elbow on the counter and began sorting through a batch of order tickets. “My brother-in-law is coming this afternoon to replace the window. Do you want to be there or can I let him in?”
“That’s okay,” Mackenzie said after checking her memory to ensure no embarrassing articles like panties lay in plain view in the apartment. “The kitchen table’s small, he can just move it or fold it up and put it out of his way.”
After settling a few more details with Sam, she took her leave and ate the danish while walking down the sidewalk. What should she do today? Work held no appeal. At the moment, Finders & Keepers, Inc. had hit a dry spell—not unusual for the time of year. Apart from a commission to locate a mint condition 1985 Thundercats Lion-O action figure for a toy collector in Tennessee, she had nothing else currently on her agenda. She wasn’t worried. Business would pick up after Halloween and stay busy until Christmas.
A cappuccino at Mighty Jo Young’s sounded like a better way to start her day than going to the office. She dumped the empty bakery bag in a nearby trash container and crossed the street. Just when she reached the coffee shop, her cell phone rang.
“Ms. Cross, this is Jackie Shotpouch from Renaissance Two Residential Care. I hope I’m not disturbing you. Is this a bad time?”
Recalling the good-looking, dark-skinned woman at the assisted living facility, Mackenzie replied, “Not at all, Ms. Shotpouch. What can I do for you?”
“One of our tenants, Mr. Pharoah DuPeret, requested I contact you.” Jackie’s voice betrayed curiosity and doubt. Mackenzie pictured the woman’s plucked eyebrows arching high on her forehead. “He’d like you to visit him today.”
“He would?”
“Yes.”
No further explanation seemed forthcoming. “Um, okay.”
“At what time can Mr. DuPeret expect your visit?”
Mackenzie checked her watch and considered the drive out to Copper Ridge. “I can be there in forty-five minutes or so, if that’s convenient.”
“I’ll let Reception know to send you up.” Jackie disconnected the call.
Mackenzie immediately called Veronica’s work number and left a message with the desk sergeant. Giving the coffee shop a longing glance, she tucked away her phone. A cappuccino to go? She decided not to take the time. Resigned, she continued walking to the city parking garage, wondering what Pharaoh DuPeret wanted from her.
Chapter Thirty-One
After driving out to Renaissance Two, Mackenzie was greeted in the lobby not by Jackie Shotpouch as expected, but by DuPeret’s son.
Rayburn DuPeret stood with his beefy arms crossed over his chest. He gazed down his nose at her, his eyes the same color as the waters of Lake Minnesauga and a lot colder. “I hear you been pokin’ around in Daddy’s business,” he accused without preamble.
“I’m here today at your father’s request.” Mackenzie was aware of the receptionist at the desk glancing at them with barely concealed interest. Rayburn might be a decade older and outweigh her by a good hundred and fifty pounds, but she refused to be intimidated. She lifted her chin to give him stare for stare. “Do you know why he asked me to come?”
“I don’t want to know and I don’t want you here. Go home,” Rayburn ordered. “Leave the old man alone. After all he did for this county, you ought to let him die in peace.”
Mackenzie paused, swallowing a retort. Had she walked into a terrible faux pas? “I’m very sorry, Mr. DuPeret. Is your father…” She let her voice trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence without making a sad situation worse.
“What? No, Daddy’s still alive.” Rayburn shook his bald head like a bull irritated by a fly. “But you ain’t got no call to poke and pry into what don’t concern you.”
“That’s for your father to decide. He’s the one who asked for me.”
“Daddy don’t got much time left, you understand? He needs to be thinkin’ on the life everlasting with Jesus, not dwelling on the sins of the past and digging up old ghosts.”
Mackenzie coughed into her hand to cover an involuntary chuckle. If only Rayburn knew how right he was! Old ghosts, indeed. “Well, since I don’t know why your father asked me to visit and neither do you, why don’t we go upstairs and see what he wants? Then I’ll go forth and trouble you no more. That sound good?”
After a brief hesitation, Rayburn seemed to come to a decision. “Let’s go.” Turning abruptly, he led the way to the elevator.
She followed, gladdened beyond measure when the polished, reflective steel surfaces on the walls showed only herself and Rayburn.
As the elevator rose, he turned to her. “If you upset the old man, you’re outta there.”
“Fair enough.” Mackenzie waited until the second floor to add, “Unless your father decides he wants me to stay. It’s his decision, not yours.”
Rayburn swallowed thickly and didn’t reply. She eyed him. Was he about to hurl? Few things worse than being trapped in a small, unventilated space with a fresh rainbow yawn. Fortunately, the elevator soon came to a jolting halt. The doors slid open. She stepped out and down the corridor to Suite 205.
He caught up to her and put out a hand, preventing her from knocking on the door. His touch was firm, but cautious. “All I’m sayin’ is, be caref
ul, Ms. Cross. Don’t rile up Daddy or keep him too long in this world.” The fluorescent ceiling lights made his skin sallow and deepened the bruised pouches under his eyes. “He’s not well.”
Mackenzie realized Rayburn looked wrung out. A prickle of uneasiness ran up her spine. Was Pharaoh DuPeret really on the verge of dying? He’d seemed pretty lively when she visited the first time. “Seriously, is Mr. DuPeret up for a talk or not?”
“He gets tired pretty quick,” Rayburn said after a split-second hesitation. “But I guess the old man wouldn’t have called if he didn’t want to see you,” he went on grudgingly.
She went inside the suite. The cold air smelled of sickness, medicine, disinfectant and the unforgettable, indescribable scent of old age. She started for the living room area, but Rayburn led her to the bedroom instead.
Pharaoh DuPeret lay propped up in bed on a pile of pillows, his thin body barely a bump under the blankets. A nasal cannula ran under his nose to an oxygen tank.
Mackenzie caught her breath. The man appeared almost desiccated, his weathered skin stretched over the bones as if all the moisture had been wrung out of him and he’d been staked out in a desert to dry. She approached quietly. “Mr. DuPeret?”
The bleary eyes opened and focused on her. DuPeret grunted. “About time, girlie.”
Without prompting, Rayburn went over to the nightstand, took a tissue from the box and dabbed at a thread of saliva on the corner of his father’s mouth. The gesture earned him a get on with it glare that could have cut glass.
“Good morning, sir,” Mackenzie said to the old man in the bed.
DuPeret waved her closer, wheezed for air and squinted at his son. “Go on, Ray.”
“But Daddy—”
“I said git, boy.”
Grimacing, Rayburn turned and trudged slowly, heavily to the door. He hesitated. “Daddy, don’t tire yourself out, okay?”
“I said, git.”
Rayburn mouthed something to Mackenzie—probably a threat or a plea—and exited the room, every inch of his body radiating reluctance. He left the door open, though, and could be glimpsed hovering anxiously out of earshot.
“As for you, girlie, c’mon closer. Can’t bite. Ain’t got my teeth in.” DuPeret let out a raspy, almost soundless chuckle that turned into a cough. He heaved a few breaths and sank back on the pillows. “You know ’bout the body they found next door a while back?”
Mackenzie had no reason not to answer. “Yes, sir. A woman’s skeleton.”
“You asked me about what happened at the camp.” DuPeret’s gnarled fingers with their thick, discolored nails tightened over the Bible resting on his chest. “I lived too long.” His gaze drifted far away to some point in the past. When he spoke, his words were interrupted by long, slow breaths. “When I was sheriff, all the evil I saw made me harder in my heart than a good Christian man should be. I didn’t do right by some folks. I let them down and my failures weigh on me. Now comes the reckoning for my sins.”
“Sir, what do you need from me?” Mackenzie stepped to the bedside. From this angle DuPeret appeared even frailer. Pity filled her. She thought about her aging mother. Someday, she’d stand above a dying Sarah Grace and look down at the woman who raised her, her own heart filled with wishes, regrets and love. “Do you want me to call a preacher?”
DuPeret blinked. “No, girlie, I’ve made my peace with Jesus.” His voice faded. He rallied. “I want you to do me a kindness. You don’t owe me nothing, but you know things. You know about them two Jap kids and where we buried ’em.”
“We?” Mackenzie murmured.
He went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I called one of my buddies over at the sheriff’s office. Told me they buried that girl in Potter’s Field. I didn’t say nothing about the camp. Maybe I should. All them goddamned secrets weighing me down, making me unrestful in my bones.” He took hold of her wrist in a surprisingly strong grasp. “Find the boy. He’s out there. He deserves a better burial than dirt shoveled in a hole in the middle of the night.”
She agreed, thinking if Osame hadn’t been disturbed by the construction in the first place, none of the fires would’ve happened. Perhaps if Osame’s and Jun’s bodies were reunited, that would be enough to settle the angry spirit should Abbot Imamura fail to calm her at the Obon festival as planned.
“Good.” DuPeret relaxed his grip and patted Mackenzie’s hand. “Good.” His eyelids fluttered closed. In a few moments, his mouth sagged open. He snored.
“Mr. DuPeret? Sir?” Mackenzie hated to wake him, but she had no choice. When he opened his eyes, she went on, “Where did y’all bury Jun?”
“Me n’ Koga put the boy and the girl into the ground.” DuPeret’s voice was reedy and somewhat indistinct with exhaustion. “Figured that son-of-a-bitch ought to get his hands dirty burying the mess he made.” His eyes shut again. He murmured, “Tell that damned fool son of mine to quit worryin’ about a dying old man and take care of himself.”
Mackenzie waited, but DuPeret fell asleep within a few more seconds. She tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
“Well?” Rayburn asked, almost pinning her to the wall in his eager rush. “Is Daddy okay? Does he need anything? What did he want from you?”
She squeezed away from him and continued to the front door. “To answer your questions in order: sleeping, not that I know of, and none of your business.” Feeling sorry for the hangdog man, she paused with her hand on the doorknob and added, “Hey, Rayburn, I’m just respecting your father’s wishes. What he and I talked about doesn’t involve your family’s affairs. I promise I won’t have to darken your doorstep again. He did give me a message for you: he said to take care of yourself.”
Rayburn pursed his mouth, clearly unsatisfied, but let her leave.
She took the elevator downstairs to the lobby, thinking about Koga and imagining the scene from decades ago. In the dark, in a field under stars and a sullen moon, surrounded by the thickness of trees on the Ridge. The younger sheriff, grim and forbidding, a rifle held at port arms across his chest. And Koga…the way he’d orchestrated Jun’s and Osame’s deaths, he must’ve been a hardened man. But maybe the horror of the moment had touched him, too. How could he not feel something while shoveling dirt over his victims’ faces?
She pushed aside the fanciful scenario for a more practical consideration: how the hell was she supposed to find an almost seventy-year-old lost grave?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Driving down the highway headed to downtown Antioch, Mackenzie let herself relax. Subtle vibrations from the ’72 Datsun’s engine hummed in her body, much the same as the tires hummed on the asphalt. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, following Keith Moon’s epic drum performance as Daltrey screamed, “We won’t get fooled again…”
The first fire engine roaring past with full lights and sirens in the opposite direction aroused her mild curiosity. The second and third, her concern. When ambulances and police cars joined the steady convoy of vehicles streaming toward Copper Ridge, she picked up her cell phone from the seat beside her and dialed Veronica’s number. Seven rings, no answer, but the moment she ended the call, the phone rang, startling her.
“Hey, Mac, thank God.” Veronica sounded relieved. “Where are you?”
“On my way home. Why?”
“Sergeant Bloodworth told me you were off to see Pharaoh DuPeret this morning. When we got the call, I thought you’d still be out there—”
“Ronnie, slow down.” Mackenzie ordered, her heart thumping. “What happened?”
She heard Veronica take a breath. “Renaissance Two is on fire.”
Mackenzie’s uneasiness exploded into sickening certainty. Cradling the phone between shoulder and ear, she tapped the brake, downshifted and made an illegal U-turn across the highway. She hit the gas, worked the clutch and continued to accelerate to a tolerable ten miles over the speed limit.
Veronica’s voice cut through the noise. “Mac? Mac! Are you okay?�
��
“Yeah, I’m on my way. Are you there yet?”
“About two more minutes.”
“Do you think—?”
“I have a bad feeling.”
“Me, too.” Mackenzie swallowed and flicked off the radio, the better to gather her scattered thoughts. “Jesus, Ronnie. I thought we had a little more time. Imamura’s supposed to do the ceremony thing and I guess I thought we had more time,” she repeated, hitting the steering wheel a couple of times in frustration. Her fist tingled.
“Mac, I need to go,” Veronica said, her tone strained.
The call cut off.
Mackenzie dropped her cell phone on the passenger seat and nudged the gas pedal a little harder. She found herself leaning forward, almost pressing her chest into the steering wheel as though she could urge the car to get there quicker by sheer force of will.
Why burn Renaissance Two now? According to the timeline she and Veronica had researched, the fire wasn’t due to start yet—but she realized that lacking eyewitnesses to the beginning of the original Big Burn, the journalists in 1945 had probably taken their best guesses about the time the blaze started. Their dates might possibly be off.
“Shit,” she spat, gunning the engine to further speed.
Mackenzie peeled the car off the highway and onto the exit ramp, flying past gas stations, motels and fast-food joints. Traffic seemed to slow in response to the emergency. She cursed, catching a glimpse of red and white lights flashing ahead, which reminded her of fireworks bursting on the horizon. The lights dipped over the crest of a small hill and fell out of sight. A column of black smoke poured upward into the gray-tinged sky to merge with thunderclouds massing over Copper Ridge. Rain will help, I hope.
She continued to Renaissance Two and had to park the car on the side of the road some distance from the gate because the area was crowded with emergency response vehicles and personnel. Spotting a late model Corolla with a magnetic Antioch Bee sign stuck on the driver’s side door, she ran over to talk to her friend, James Larkin.
