by Nene Adams
“Hey, Little Jack.” Mackenzie noted the frown on Larkin’s dark face when he exited the Corolla. “Did you pick up the call on a police scanner?”
Larkin nodded. He removed a bag from the front seat and set it on the car’s hood. “I didn’t hear about any casualties,” he said, opening the bag and removing a Nikon digital camera. He darted a worried look at her. “I hope…well, Esme’s sister’s father-in-law is a resident, so of course we’re all praying he’s okay.” His gaze narrowed. “What are you doing here?” he asked, clearly trying to mask his curiosity by pretending to focus on the camera.
“Oh, me?” Mackenzie floundered a moment for a ready lie and found none. She shrugged. “I was out here visiting Pharaoh DuPeret. The old sheriff, remember?”
“Yeah, when we were in school, we all thought he was at least a hundred years old.” Larkin looped the camera’s carrying strap around his neck. “Didn’t know you were related.”
“We’re not. I was out here on a business project. Confidential,” Mackenzie put in hastily at the glint in Larkin’s eyes. “I’d already left, but when Ronnie called me with the news, I had to come back. So do you think this fire fits in with your arsonist theory?”
Larkin took two steps toward the chaos beyond the open gate, turned and fired a question at her. “You don’t?” Without waiting for a reply, he disappeared into the crowd of firefighters, sheriff’s deputies, facility employees in navy blue jackets or scrubs and a pitiful collection of elderly men and women, some in wheelchairs or supine on hospital beds.
Mackenzie slipped through the chaos after him.
Once she reached the chaotic front line, she saw a fire hose snaking from a parked water tender, disappearing between the building’s neoclassical columns and through the open front door. Residents were still evacuating, some white-haired ladies supporting each other down the shallow front steps. She noticed smoke coming mainly from an open window on the second floor. Her heart plummeted, although most of her hoped she was wrong.
“Mac, it’s Mr. DuPeret’s room,” Veronica said, looming out of the crush. All the fresh loveliness in her face had withered since that morning, leaving a pale shell filled with remorse, pain, guilt and anger.
“Not your fault.” Mackenzie stepped as close as she dared, because if she gave in and comforted Veronica the way she wanted, there’d be a public spectacle. “Is Pharaoh—?”
“Yes. But he didn’t burn, Mac. I’m sure he didn’t burn.”
“What happened?”
“The chief says the fire was localized to Mr. DuPeret’s bedroom. Probably smoke inhalation or a heart attack killed him. Flames didn’t reach the bed.”
“He probably wouldn’t have had the heart attack if not for Osame.”
“I need to go.” Veronica turned her head at a shout. She seemed distracted. “I’ll see you later at Cherry Bomb’s if the sheriff doesn’t ask us to work overtime.”
“Call me.” Mackenzie tried a reassuring smile despite the twinge in her chest. Instead of grabbing Veronica and kissing her, she made a little wave and returned to her car to think.
This bullshit needed to end. Whatever Osame had suffered at the end of her life was no excuse for these…these…temper tantrums of hers. DuPeret hadn’t participated in the rape and murders, but he’d helped cover up the crimes, making him morally responsible. Still, killing a dying man seemed like spite, pure and simple.
Lacking any clues, ground penetrating radar, or corpse scenting dogs, how could she find the location of Jun’s grave? A possible answer came to her. She started the Datsun and drove downtown to Straightaway Shopping Center.
At the Crone’s Abode, she found Myrtle Johnson behind the counter, mesmerizing a curly-haired, scruffy-looking twenty-something man.
“And the carnelian’s for your root chakra.” Myrtle leaned forward to caress a chunk of red stone in the middle of several rocks and crystals scattered over the countertop. Her dress hugged her abundant curves, ratcheting up the sexual tension. She gave the young man a smoldering look and corkscrewed a lock of blond hair around her finger. “Do you know where that is, Danny? It’s right at the base of your spine. I could help you open it if—”
“Hey, Myrtle, sorry to interrupt,” Mackenzie said, taking pity on the slack-jawed man, whose glazed eyes remained riveted on Myrtle. “I need some help.”
Myrtle sniffed. She straightened, becoming more businesslike. Her sex goddess magnetism dimmed to a simmer. “Okay, Danny, that’s a real nice carnelian and I can tell your root chakra needs work, so I’ll sell it to you for just ten dollars. And I’ll give you a coupon for five dollars off a private Reiki session with me.”
“Huh?” Danny closed his mouth, blinked and reached for his wallet. He still appeared to be in something of a daze. He fumbled out a bill.
“Thanks!” Myrtle twinkled at him as she rang up the purchase. After she’d wrapped the carnelian in tissue paper and popped it into a green paper gift bag with the Crone’s Abode cauldron logo on the side, she went on, “Now you take care, Danny. And call me when you’re ready for that Reiki session ’cause I’ll take your chakras for a ride you’ll never forget.” Leaning over the counter again, she pressed a kiss to his unshaven cheek.
“I’m surprised he has enough blood left in his head to stay conscious,” Mackenzie remarked dryly, standing back to allow Danny room to stagger out of the shop, a scarlet lip print on his face and the little bag swinging from his hand.
Myrtle preened. “Nice of you to say.” She tucked the scarlet hibiscus more firmly behind her ear. “Blessed be, Kenzie. What can I do for you?” She swept the stones and crystals off the counter and stored them underneath.
Feeling foolish, Mackenzie explained her need to contact a dead man. The longer she spoke, the more Myrtle’s expression changed from curious to curiously blank. She brought her story to a stumbling halt, not sure if she’d said too much or too little.
Myrtle frowned, drew a breath, hesitated and finally asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Mackenzie replied, though the word came out less confidently than she wished. She endured Myrtle’s stare without fidgeting.
At last, Myrtle said, “Your aura’s flaming violet and indigo with black around the edges, so yeah, there’s seriously whacked out stuff coming down your spiritual pipeline.” She gave Mackenzie a hard look. “You listen to me, Kenzie, and do what I say, ’cause when you open a door to the spirit world, that’s as good as an invitation.”
Mackenzie promised.
Ten minutes later, she walked out of the Crone’s Abode with a surprisingly slender package and Myrtle’s instructions—and warnings—ringing in her ears.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mackenzie waited until two a.m. to sneak out of her apartment, leaving Veronica asleep in bed, and drove to the Copper Ridge construction site. She’d convinced herself she had a couple of excellent reasons for not wanting Veronica involved in a spook hunt that might turn out to be as big a boondoggle as a snipe hunt. None of those carefully constructed arguments seemed important or even reasonable once she arrived at her destination.
Crap. Why’d I think this was a good idea?
By daylight, the site had seemed ordinary—torn and rutted red clay soil, concrete slabs, steel skeletons, men in hard hats walking around and operating heavy machinery. Now droning cicadas replaced the roars and shouts. Under the coin pearl moon, the place was bathed in an eerie, milky blue light that didn’t chase off the shadows as much as force them to huddle in corners.
Mackenzie got out of the Datsun carrying the Crone’s Abode package and a shovel. Her father’s old Zippo lighter rode snugly in the back pocket of her jeans. A breeze cooled the sweat on her skin. Cold furled in her chest, right under her heart. She shivered before shutting the car door and walking further into the site.
Two steps in, she paused. Did the company have security onsite? She glanced at the management trailer. The windows were dark. No telltale blink of a flashlight carried by a guar
d. Satisfied she was alone, she continued, though she still couldn’t relax.
She reached the random spot she’d chosen, squatted and opened the package to draw out a bundle of dark incense sticks. Immediately, the fragrance struck her: resinous, spicy, bittersweet. She couldn’t identify the individual ingredients Myrtle had reeled off for her in the shop, but she recalled star anise, wormwood, black copal and mandrake. The anise was familiar. Her mother liked to freeze the whole star-shaped spices in ice cubes at Christmas. She didn’t know the other stuff from Adam. The odor had a subtle edge verging on the unpleasant. She imagined poison owned a similar malevolent fragrance.
Mackenzie dug the Zippo lighter out of her pocket, chose a couple of incense sticks from the rest and lit the ends. Smoke spiraled upward, two gray silk ribbons twining and separating only to merge again. She planted the sticks upright in the dirt. Jun had to be buried here somewhere. Since she couldn’t dig up the whole place by herself, she’d ask as nicely as she knew how and see if he made an appearance.
Mackenzie closed her eyes and tried to do what Veronica had suggested once—open herself to the spirit. What that meant, she didn’t have the faintest idea. She’d asked at the shop, but Myrtle had given only the unhelpful advice to relax and let it happen. She snorted. I’ve heard that line before.
The cloying scent strengthened. She tried to concentrate, to stretch her senses as though attempting to catch snippets of a distant conversation. Distractions continued to interfere, like the tickle of sweat on her bare arms or a mosquito buzzing her ear.
Abruptly, a spark of panic bloomed hot. What was she doing, trespassing at a construction site in the middle of the night? What if somebody saw her and called the police? She didn’t need any more trouble. And what about Veronica? A more crucial question shoved its way to the forefront of her mind: what would Mama say?
Mackenzie decided she wasn’t cut out for meditation. Besides, this was a stupid idea. She should have stayed at home in bed instead of sitting out here in the dark getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, choking on incense smoke and unable to stop wondering if she ought to swing by the all-night diner for pancakes and bacon.
Admitting defeat, she opened her eyes. And gasped.
A man floated in front of her. Jun. Disheveled hair covered the top half of his face, leaving only his lips visible. Every part of him was gray and white, translucent, shifting and swirling like disturbances in a human-shaped fog.
Not fog. Smoke. Her gaze flicked to the incense sticks, now more than half consumed. Two thin wisps connected the sticks to the spirit. She could see Jun without the usual sidelong effort, maybe because he seemed literally made of smoke. Her pulse jumped.
“Jun?” she ventured. “You’re Jun, right? I haven’t…uh…you know, accidentally got the wrong number or…”
Her voice trailed off. Christ Almighty, I’m an idiot. Jun likely didn’t speak any more English than Osame. And where were his legs? His plain kimono’s hem flapped in the air about a foot off the ground, leaving empty space where his calves, knees and feet ought to be. More questions crowded into her thoughts, jostling together like airplane passengers clogging an aisle, each impatient to reach the exit.
“I need to know where you’re buried, so you and Osame can be together.” Mackenzie pointed at him. “Jun.” Her wave encompassed the general area. She mimed digging a hole, throwing the imaginary dirt over her shoulder. “Where?” She indicated him and shrugged broadly, raising her eyebrows and mugging bafflement.
A rasping sound, like someone taking a long, luxurious drag off a cigarette, startled her. A glance showed the incense sticks dwindled to a bare inch.
Mackenzie looked at Jun, whose outline appeared a bit more ragged, his features more blurred. As she watched, his contours smoothed with the new application of smoke. The pieces clicked together. She scrambled to light the rest of the sticks.
About to shove a handful upright into the ground, she paused. Her efforts would be wasted if she and Jun just stared at each other until the smoke ran out. Impatient for action, she rose to her feet, keeping the burning incense sticks in her hand, and reached for the shovel handle. Her arm passed through the apparition.
Instantly, the light fell away from her eyes, leaving her in darkness. She couldn’t feel her body. Breath froze in her lungs. The tick of her heartbeat ceased—
And she stumbled backward, drawing in shuddering gulps of air.
“Jesus,” she swore, blinking rapidly to clear involuntary tears. What was that about?
Jun remained silent and impassive, an unnerving figure. Smoke curled around his body, wisps escaping only to be sucked back into the floating figure.
Mackenzie took a step to the side, careful to avoid touching Jun. The ghost drifted along with her, tied to the burning incense sticks she carried, but soon darted away to the furthest limit of the tether. This time, she followed him.
Jun led her several yards toward a long, straight trench gouged out of the earth, flanked by a bulldozer and a backhoe. By this time, the incense clutched in her hand had nearly burned to ash. She frowned. When the smoke ran out, would Jun disappear? Should she drive to Myrtle Johnson’s house and hope the woman felt inclined to sell her witchcraft supplies at oh-shit-thirty in the morning? But if she left, she’d lose contact with Jun. Would another round of incense burning conjure him back?
Distracted by her dithering, she nearly missed Jun’s sudden lunge.
Mackenzie flinched to avoid the outstretched gray hand reaching for her. “Hey! No touching,” she protested, turning around to keep an eye on Jun as he floated closer. Too close, in her opinion. “Leave me alone. I’m trying to help you.”
The visible part of Jun’s face darkened to the angry leaden color of a thunderstorm. He swept toward her with definite purpose. She backed away. He kept coming. Her nerve broke.
She dropped the remnants of the incense sticks and bolted, her heart pounding. The back of her neck chilled. Goose bumps pebbled her skin. She put on more speed, almost tripped, recovered, and continued running to her parked car.
As she finally stumbled to a halt beside the Datsun, her breath came faster. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly at the door handle. She made an effort to calm herself and try again. “Damn it,” she gritted, hitting the door with her fist. Belatedly, she remembered to pull her car keys out of her pocket.
The cold feeling on her neck intensified.
Mackenzie turned, pressing her back against the car door, and saw Jun.
The ghost had dwindled to a suggestion of a human form, hardly more than a faint gray smudge outlined against the sky. She opened her mouth—to scream, to protest, to beg, she didn’t really know—and Jun swooped onto her.
Into her.
The night vanished. Everything stopped. Her body and mind disconnected like someone had pulled a plug, leaving her in a profound, smothering darkness. Were her eyes open? Was she facing up or down? She couldn’t tell and couldn’t move to find out.
Panic became a flood roaring up from the inner depths to crash over her with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Mackenzie floundered, unable to think much beyond buried alive. The two words slashed through her mind over and over, tearing her to ribbons. She saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. She spent an eternity freefalling into a dark, featureless abyss until the faintest pinprick of light suddenly bloomed ahead of her.
Her frenzied thoughts stopped chasing themselves, reined in by hope.
She wasn’t sure she trusted her eyesight, but the light continued to grow, widening outward into…a hole? Semi-circular, crumbling around the edges and getting bigger by the second. She lay on her back looking up at a night sky lit by watery moonlight. Relief changed to horror when a shovel blade appeared to scrape more dirt away, enlarging the hole.
I’m at the bottom of a grave.
Panic surged anew. She clamped down hard. If she was really dead, she wouldn’t be seeing anything, right? She’d be doing the hallelujah reunion with deceased relations.
After a moment, a person came into view at the top of the hole. Someone wielding a shovel. Veronica? The person turned, giving her the first look at her savior.
Mackenzie recognized her own face staring down at the grave.
Once again, her body shut down, leaving her blind, deaf and mute. A second later, before she had time to work herself into another panic attack, all her senses came back online. She found herself poised on the edge of the hole she’d dug, the shovel in her hand, blinking at the skeleton she had apparently unearthed.
She fell to her knees, a filthy hand pressed to her mouth to stifle the screams.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Please tell me that’s not for breakfast.” Veronica blinked at the dirt-encrusted skeleton on the kitchen floor.
Mackenzie shifted in her chair at the table. Jun’s remains were rather gruesome, she admitted. Iron-tinged earth clung to the bones like gobbets of flesh. At least she’d had the foresight to put down another tarp before hauling the wrapped carcass from the Datsun’s trunk and into the apartment. “I’ll settle for toast if you will.”
Veronica sidled over to the counter on bare feet. “Tell me you didn’t dig up Potter’s Field.” She reached into an overhead cabinet for a mug. Her short T-shirt exposed a strip of tanned flesh on her lower back, just above the waistband of her pale blue panties.
“Nope.” Mackenzie waited while Veronica poured herself a cup of coffee, added a spoonful of sugar, stirred and took a long, blissful swallow. The woman looked good fresh out of bed, all rumpled and half-dressed, brunette hair tangled around a face marked by sleep lines on one cheek. “Actually, it’s Jun.”
Lowering the mug, Veronica gave her a piercing, narrow-eyed glance. “You dug him up last night? Alone? From where?”
“No, I dug him up very early this morning from the Renaissance Three construction site on Copper Ridge.”
