“Crap,” she murmured.
The lack of decent photos—still or cine—was a bullet point of interest on the “Reasons Nessie Doesn’t Exist” list. If the monster were real, there would be a physical record of it—especially during modern times when every third person had a camera and knew exactly how to use it.
Underwater attempts understandably produced junk. The damn peat content made seeing your hand in front of your face a fricking miracle. Kris had firsthand knowledge of that.
The motion pictures that had been shot were hazy, spotty, dark, and wavering. Half of them had been ruined or lost.
The still photography wasn’t much better. Certainly getting close enough to the loch with the right light, appropriate lenses, and film speed at a time when the monster just happened to appear was a neat trick. But someone in the past decade, when cameras had become damn good, should have been able to manage it.
Yet they hadn’t.
Kris shut off the water. Or perhaps they had. Perhaps anyone who’d filmed Nessie without trembling hands or garbage equipment had found themselves at the bottom of the lake.
Like her.
She blew a derisive puff of air through her lips as she snatched a towel. How could that happen? It wasn’t as if the loch had someone who watched over it 24-7 like a—
The towel dropped from Kris’s suddenly limp fingers. “Park ranger?”
Hell!
Maybe Liam had tossed her in.
*
By the time Kris got dressed, microwaved some of the coffee that Liam had made last night but they’d never gotten around to drinking, then drank it before heading for Drumnadrochit at a brisk pace, she was calmer.
Kris was nothing if not a logical woman. And logic dictated that if Liam wanted her dead, he’d had plenty of chances to kill her.
Of course there was also the little voice that whispered: He doesn’t need to kill you now that your film is swimming with the fishes. At least until you do something else that threatens—
“What?” Kris muttered. “What did I threaten?”
Proving Nessie existed would be good for business. Why would anyone want to stop that?
As far as Kris could tell, everyone in Drumnadrochit worshiped the creature. But maybe whoever wanted to destroy the legend of Nessie wasn’t from here. Or maybe they just wanted the mystery to remain a mystery.
Kris paused for a second. That actually made sense. If the monster was proved to exist beyond a shadow of a doubt, there’d be biologists and naturalists and all sorts of -ists who weren’t tourists. And then the government would get involved.…
Kris wasn’t sure how the British authorities worked, but she was quite familiar with the United States. They’d capture Nessie and put her in …
“Sea World,” Kris whispered. Or that big, echoing warehouse where they kept the Ark of the Covenant.
So, she could see why someone might want to protect the monster from detection. It did make sense.
Until you added murder.
Wasn’t killing someone to prevent them from discovering the truth called overkill? Ha-ha. Then again, murders had been committed for less than that.
Kris began to walk again, faster than before. Thinking about murder made her twitchy. She wanted to get to the village, where there were other people, a few cops, eyewitnesses, and she wanted to get there fast.
As she continued at power walk speed, Kris eyed the trees that bordered the loch. The sun shone, and everything should appear cheery and safe. Except in those trees shadows reigned and damn near anyone could hide.
Her gaze went to the water, where several boats bobbed, but the surface remained as impenetrable as interrogation room glass. The loch and the forest had a lot in common.
She glanced toward the distant hills. Those, too, were as mysterious as midnight. She was going to need Liam’s help to figure this out. Unless he’d tried to kill her.
Then he was fired.
A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped as Kris reached the outskirts of Drumnadrochit. She really needed to stop thinking so much. Her mind was twirling in circles, and she was beginning to get seasick.
Or maybe it was just the reheated coffee. Her gaze went to Jamaica’s place. Kris hated reheated coffee. It rolled around in her stomach like standing water in a freeway pothole—complete with the top layer of oil.
“Glurk,” Kris muttered, gaze still on the coffee shop; then she shook her head.
Not yet.
First Alan Mac, then Effy Cameron—Kris needed to tell her landlady that the door to the cottage was broken—then fresh coffee.
She strode to the station. This time the constable wasn’t standing out front. He wasn’t even working inside.
“He was called to Dochgarroch,” the woman at the desk informed her. “Something was stuck in the lock.”
“I don’t remember there being a Dochgarroch Lake.”
“Not a lake loch, lass.” The receptionist grinned. “And would ye like to say that five times fast?”
Since she appeared to be waiting for Kris to answer, Kris shook her head, and the woman continued. “A lock on the canal. Helps with the boats and such.”
“And this is Alan Mac’s problem, why?”
“We won’t know until he returns.”
Kris thanked her and left. She had a bad feeling she knew what was stuck in Dochgarroch Lock.
Another body.
Strolling back through the village, Kris heard someone call her name. She glanced toward the coffee shop. A hand reached out the door, beckoning her with a go-cup. She could have sworn she saw Kris written in the steam that trailed upward.
Kris hesitated. She hadn’t actually talked to Alan Mac, but she’d tried. That should be enough for at least one cup of the good stuff in reward.
She looked both ways—waiting for a tour bus, followed by a few bikers, to trundle by—then crossed the street, taking the cup from the outstretched hand and her first blessed sip as she stepped inside.
The place was empty.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Jamaica, who was dressed in an eye-shockingly bright yellow skirt that reached to her ankles and an equally bright orange peasant blouse, raised her sculpted brows. “What you mean?”
Kris lifted her chin toward the bare tables even as she slurped coffee like she’d been denied for weeks instead of hours.
“Oh, dat.” Jamaica waved her hand dismissively. “Such a nice day. Everyone take dere coffee to go. We’ll get busy again once de sun go down.”
“How much do I owe you?” Kris asked.
“On de house. You seemed to need it.” She narrowed her hazel eyes. “Why you walkin’ down de street like a zombie?”
“I … uh—” Kris took a swig of coffee. Should she tell Jamaica about being tossed into the lake? Since Kris had no proof that she had been tossed, probably not.
“You searchin’ for Alan Mac?”
Kris frowned. Why was Jamaica watching her? Then again—Kris let her gaze wander over the empty shop—what else did Jamaica have to do?
“I was wondering how the case was progressing.”
True enough, although that wasn’t why Kris had gone looking for him.
“He find de man who be askin’ all over for you?”
“No.” Since she hadn’t told him about it, it would be a little hard for Alan Mac to find the guy.
Could the mystery man have been the one who pushed her off the ledge? Sure. Although his question—was she happy?—made her wonder why, if he cared about her happiness, he would then try to kill her. Of course his question was creepy, and so was he. For all she knew, he’d been wandering around other places, asking if other women were happy.
Then killing them.
She really did need to tell Alan Mac about her strange stalker. And wasn’t that the most redundant description ever?
“So de case is not progressing?”
Jamaica’s voice brought Kris back to the coffee shop, and for an in
stant she wondered why Jamaica would automatically assume that the case Kris was asking about was the happy-man freak and not the missing and murdered women.
Then she remembered. Alan Mac was trying to keep the whole dead-people thing on the down low. Kris wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but then again, she wasn’t a cop. She had a feeling that if women continued to disappear and a few more of them washed up around the loch, he wasn’t going to be able to keep anything quiet anymore.
“No progress,” Kris said. “I think that guy, whoever he was, is gone.”
Jamaica’s expressive brows shot downward. “Not yet he isn’t.”
Kris froze with the go-cup a mere breath from her seeking lips; then she lowered it. “Why would you say that?”
“I saw him walkin’ down de street bright and early dis morning.”
Kris glanced outside. “That’s the first time you’ve seen him since he asked about me?”
“Yes. Although he could have come in and asked someone else. Or asked in any other shop or restaurant in Drumnadrochit. By now, I’m sure he found someone to tell him exactly where you be livin’.”
Kris winced. She was sure he had, too.
“Maybe you should stay wid me,” Jamaica murmured.
Kris actually considered it, which showed how spooked she was. Sure, she liked Jamaica. But the quickest way to ruin a friendship—especially one so new—was to take advantage.
“Thanks. But I’ll be okay.”
“You sure?”
She wasn’t. Not really. But if she took Jamaica up on her offer of an extra room or maybe just an extra bed, even the couch, there’d be no more getting naked with Liam. Was the sex worth risking her life for?
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Hell.
“I’m sure,” she said.
Jamaica pursed her lips and held Kris’s gaze for several beats. She must have seen something there that convinced her Kris was all right, because she nodded once and let it go.
“I’d best put dis place to rights,” Jamaica said. “I usually get a rush round four.”
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“Anytime.” Jamaica turned, and her skirt spun with the movement, the bright material flipping upward and drawing Kris’s eye to the tattoo just above her ankle.
“What’s that?” Kris blurted.
Jamaica turned, expression curious, and Kris pointed downward.
Something flashed in Jamaica’s eyes—it really looked like guilt—but what was there about a tattoo that could cause such a reaction?
Jamaica stared at her feet, clad in ugly, but hopefully comfortable, tree hugger sandals. “What?”
“You know what,” Kris said softly. “Was that a snake?”
Jamaica jumped, her gaze darting around the floor. “Where?”
“Tattooed on your ankle.”
“Oh, dat.” Jamaica flapped her hand.
“Yeah, that. The percentage of tattoos in one small Scottish village seems to be freakishly high.”
Jamaica lifted her head. “What you talkin’ about?”
“Alan Mac has one on his biceps.”
“A snake?”
“No.” Kris thought back. “Well, I don’t think so. I’m not sure what it was, but Effy’s definitely wasn’t a snake.”
“Effy Cameron?” Jamaica laughed. “Dat old woman never get a tattoo.”
“It was on her—” Kris waved vaguely in the area of her breasts.
“And how would you be seein’ dose?”
“I didn’t. I mean, well, I didn’t want to.”
“I bet not.”
“Her dress gaped. Happens to the best of us.”
“Mmm,” Jamaica said. “Probably a bruise.”
Kris considered that. What she’d seen had been bluish and roundish, kind of humped. It could have been a bruise.
“Does her husband—?”
“Effy never married.”
“But Rob—”
“He be her brother. They been livin’ in dat house all dere lives. Dey might argue like dey want to kill each other, but he would not dare touch her. She’d eat his liver for lunch.”
Kris’s lips curved. Good.
“Most likely she fell.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Sometimes dey actually fall.”
True.
“Alan Mac was in de Queen’s Own Highlanders,” Jamaica continued. “Military regiment. Dey have a tattoo. I don’t know of what.”
“And you?” Kris asked. “Were you in the Jamaican branch of the snake charmer’s brigade?”
“No,” she said.
“That is a snake?”
Jamaica lifted her skirt a bit to reveal a diamond-shaped head and long, curving neck trailing upward.
“You don’t get comments on it around here?” Kris asked.
Jamaica let go the yellow material. The snake tattoo disappeared from view. “Why would I?”
“Didn’t Saint Somebody drive the snakes out of Scotland?” Although if that was true, why had Jamaica practically jumped onto a chair to avoid the one she thought Kris had been pointing at?
“Dat was Ireland and Saint Patrick. Scotland has snakes. Just not very many.”
“And Jamaica?”
“Not a lot. Most islands have none.”
“Isn’t Ireland an island?” At Jamaica’s lifted brows, Kris continued. “How did Saint Pat drive out snakes that weren’t there?”
Jamaica’s lips curved. “De snakes were a metaphor for evil.”
“Ah,” Kris said. “So he drove evil out of Ireland, and distributed happiness and Catholicism to all.”
“Dat would be right.” Jamaica shuddered. “I hate snakes.”
“Then why do you have one tattooed on your ankle?”
“I don’t.”
“But—”
“It isn’t a snake.”
“But you said…” Kris paused. Actually Jamaica hadn’t said it was a snake. She’d merely drawn up her skirt and shown Kris the tattoo when she’d asked. “What is it?”
Jamaica’s gaze went distant. “You’re de first person to see dat in—” She shook her head, and her dreads flew. “I don’t know how long. De tattoo is…” She took a deep breath. “Embarrassing.”
“It’s not the prettiest one I’ve ever seen, but it’s not that bad,” Kris offered.
“I’m not embarrassed by de tattoo itself but by what it represents.”
“Which is?”
“Evil.”
“An evil snake,” Kris said.
“Not truly a snake. The image symbolizes Obi, a West African god.”
“I’m gonna need more than that.”
“In Jamaica dere is an old religion called Obeah. It originated with de slaves.”
“Like voodoo?”
Jamaica shrugged. “Obeah is more about magic dan worship. More about evil dan balance. Obi,” she pointed to her ankle, “is de mark of a witch.”
Kris opened her mouth, shut it again. She met Jamaica’s gaze, and the woman spread her hands.
“You’re a witch?” Kris asked.
“I was.”
CHAPTER 15
“Is that something you can give up? Kris asked. “Maybe for Lent?”
Jamaica gave a weak, burbly laugh. “No. You’re right. I am a witch. I just don’t … do dat anymore.”
“What?”
“Kill t’ings.”
Uh-oh.
Kris took one slow step backward; then she took another.
Jamaica’s head went up. She saw Kris’s face, and she reached out a hand. “It’s not what you t’ink.”
“What is it?”
Jamaica rubbed her eyes. “I was young and stupid.”
“Redundant.”
“Yes. But me more dan most. I got involved in de Obeah cult. I became an Obeah woman. I sacrificed t’ings to get de power I needed.”
Kris didn’t like the sound of that.
“
Sacrificed what? Sleep? Money? Snickers bars?”
“Animals.”
“Not cool.”
“Better dan what you were t’inkin.”
True. Kris had been thinking people.
“You really believe that sacrificing bunnies brought you power?”
Jamaica’s brilliant eyes met hers. “It did.”
Kris snorted. Her disbelief in Nessie might have waned, but her skepticism of every other hoax on the planet had not. Witchcraft? “I don’t think so.”
“T’ink what you like. I know de truth.”
“If you were truly able to practice magic, why would you give it up?”
“Black magic.” Jamaica wrapped her arms around herself and held on tight. “In Obeah, all de princes of hell are personified, Satan most of all.”
“Hell and Satan are Christian boogies.”
“Obeah, like voodoo, combines de religions of Africa with Christianity. They use de Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses as guides.”
“Wait a second.” Kris ticked off a finger with each word. “Genesis. Exodus. Leviticus. Numbers. Deuteronomy. That’s five.”
“Moses was considered de greatest magician in all of Egypt. A snake charmer. He parted de Red Sea.”
“With a little help from his friend.”
“Or his books of magic.”
“Seriously?” Kris had never heard this, and she’d heard a helluva lot.
“De Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses were left out of de Pentateuch, but dey exist and contain all de magic of Egypt. Did you know de Egyptian word for snake is ob?”
“Like ‘Obi.’”
“Life’s a circle,” Jamaica said.
In Kris’s opinion, life was a straight line, as long as you stayed on track, but she wasn’t going to derail the conversation by arguing the point. “Go back to how Moses wrote books of black magic.”
“Not black,” Jamaica corrected. “Not den. De black came later. When darkness fell.”
“What darkness?”
“Slavery.”
“Okay.” Kris could buy that. But not much more.
“De magic turned dark when evil ruled. De only way to fight such evil is with more evil.”
“Two wrongs do not make a right,” Kris said.
“Spend a few lifetimes in chains and see how right you feel.”
“You weren’t in chains.”
Moon Cursed Page 14
