by Catie Rhodes
“Reba must have been one of Bob’s descendants.” I tried to put things together but didn’t have much luck. The sting of betrayal muddied my logic. “Reba never mentioned this stuff when I stayed with her. She only said she knew Memaw when they were both little girls.”
“She knows things about your family, and you think she should have told you. Maybe Miss Leticia forbade her. You remember how your memaw was.” Rainey closed out the files and opened a browser window. She navigated to a free email service and logged into her account. “The woman who shared Bob Skanes’s memoirs with me is named Geneva Skanes Shadix. I’m sure she’s a relative of Reba’s. Why don’t I email her on your behalf? Reba may still be alive and willing to talk to you.”
Without waiting for my answer, Rainey typed out an email and sent it. “I gave her both your email address and your phone number.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Only that you knew Reba Skanes when you were young and wanted to get in touch with her again.” Rainey closed the laptop and set it on the coffee table. “Maybe she’ll get back with you pretty quickly.” She snapped her fingers, and Ugly hurried over to her. She rubbed his misshapen head and leaned to kiss it. “It’s past Ug’s and my bedtime.” She clipped a leash onto the dog’s collar and stood to go. Hannah handed her the briefcase, and she strapped it across her body. Rainey took a couple of steps toward the door and turned back to me.
“I’m sorry not to have a hard and fast answer for you, Peri Jean. You do realize you may already have your answer?” She patted her dog, eyebrows raised.
“I can’t.” I pushed myself as far as I could into the couch.
A frown creased Rainey’s face. “Michael Gage will come at you hard and fast, and he’ll use the treasure to do it. I hope you’ll find something to help you get ready for him.”
“You’re a good friend, Rainey.” I waved goodbye to Ugly who wiggled his stump of a tail in response.
Rainey grunted and left.
My cellphone buzzed with another message. Tubby Tubman again. I need to see you.
I texted back. No you don’t. I considered turning off my cellphone but worried someone important might try to reach me.
“I’m exhausted,” I told Hannah. “I worked last night at Long Time Gone until closing. Went home, slept two hours, and got out to Priscilla Herrera’s cabin before dawn to set up the ritual to contact her. I need to go home and rest.”
Hannah drained the last of her whiskey out of her glass. Her eyes already glowed with the shine of alcohol. She nodded slowly. “I ought to make you stay here instead of going out there to the woods by yourself.”
“Wade’ll come on home once he realizes Gage is at large.”
“And he’s a lot more appealing to you than I am.” She gave me a languid snort.
I opened my mouth to protest but shrugged instead. She wouldn’t remember in the morning anyway. I made sure to lock her apartment door behind me and to double-check all the museum’s outer doors on my way out.
FATIGUE SWAM BEHIND MY EYES. It took two tries to get the key into the lock on the museum’s back door. I gave the door a hard jerk to make sure it actually locked and staggered down the concrete steps, scrubbing at my face, trying to rub off the fatigue. A stray thought hit me.
Wade. I needed to call him and let him know Michael Gage was at large. The Six Guns had their own beef with Gage and would definitely be interested in trying to get to him before law enforcement.
I set my purse on the hood of my car and got out my cellphone. My call to Wade went straight to voicemail. I remembered Diamond the Candy Pistol rubbing her boobs on Wade’s arm. Great time for him to have his cellphone turned off. A little spark of anger flared and went out almost immediately. Where did that come from? Wade and I are friends. Nothing more, ever.
I needed sleep. I dropped my cellphone into my purse and rummaged for my keys. When I pulled them out, the damn purse went ass over teakettle, somersaulting through the air, to land in a scatter of junk on the ground next to my tire.
“Shit a damn brick. What else?” I knelt and began picking through the detritus of my life.
Footsteps scraped on the concrete behind me. The grogginess I’d been fighting faded faster than Friday night lust on Saturday morning. All the spit in my mouth dried up, and I held my breath. Had Michael Gage already found me?
I needed something, a weapon, to use against him. My pocketknife lay an inch away from my knee. Using my fingertips, I slipped the knife into my hand, thumbed open the blade, gripped the handle, and waited.
A pair of expensive hiking sneakers appeared in my peripheral vision. Too far away to stab him in the foot, but I couldn’t let him get any closer. I tensed and shifted my weight to the balls of my feet. This was it. I’d only have one chance to hurt him.
“Peri Jean?”
I jumped up and spun around with the knife raised to shoulder level.
Nash's mouth opened, and his eyes widened. He stumbled several steps backward and raised both hands. “It’s Nash. Nash Redmond. We were together a couple of hours ago.”
“Nash? What the fu—what are you doing back here?” I lowered the knife but kept my grip tight. The adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream insisted there was still danger.
“Taking a walk. If I cut through that alley and this parking lot, I can come out on Austin Stree—” He shook his head. “Oh, hell. Why lie? I do walk back here all the time, so I know it’s where you park when you come to see Hannah. I-I hoped I could catch you when you left.”
I pressed my back against the Nova. This was creepy and weird. “What for?”
“Will you give me another chance?” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“I gave you my cellphone number. What makes you think you blew it?” He had blown it, and this conversation was making it worse. I’d have Hannah Kessler’s ass the next day for setting me up with this freak.
“You didn’t want to give me your number.” He chuckled at whatever he saw on my face. “The way I was on the date—that’s not me. I wanted you to like me and ended up coming off like an arrogant jackass.” He gestured to his faded blue jeans and the untucked button down shirt. “This is the real me. I like old movies, old cars, old anything. I picked up YOLO, and the suit, from Jay.”
“Jay’s a tool.” The words came out before I could stop them.
“He’s also my neighbor at Armadillo Run Apartments.” He shrugged. “When he told me he planned to ask the Hannah Kessler out, I told him I sort of had a thing for you. He promised to arrange a date between us. I think I listened to too much of his advice.”
“A thing for me? You’d be better off finding someone else.” I gestured at my day-old t-shirt and rumpled blue jeans. “This is the real me.”
Nash shook his head and laughed. “I bet we have more in common than you think.”
I studied him. Did he just want to get laid? Was that it? “You and I couldn’t be more unalike. Look at you. Maybe, maybe, five years older than me, and you own a movie theater. And you’ve got enough money to renovate it.”
Nash opened his mouth, and I held up my hand to let him know I wasn’t finished.
“Me? I recently lost the business I spent seven years building because I see ghosts. My ex dumped me for the same reason. My grandmother got murdered because of me, and she didn’t have life insurance. I’m going to be paying for her funeral well into next year.” The mess of my life sat like a weight on my shoulders. My feet hurt from supporting it. “My only income is a shitty, part-time bartending job and a few cleaning gigs. That’s it. All I want to do right now is go home and crash. I’ve been up for about thirty hours. I don’t sleep so good anymore.” I knelt on the cool concrete of the parking lot and shoved my spilled junk back into my bag. Nash knelt next to me.
“The funny thing is we’re more alike than you think.” Nash held out my cellphone. “A guy in a Six Gun Revolutionaries jacket gave you this. You’re attracted to him but think he’s trash.” He leaned close and w
hispered, “You deserve better.”
I jerked as if he’d caught me doing something wrong. Corman Tolliver gave me the phone. How could Nash know? I took the phone from him and stuffed it in my purse.
Nash picked up a tube of lipstick and held it. He closed his eyes. “This was a sample. You got it at a big store, and you were with Hannah. You love her like she’s your sister.” He offered the lipstick to me.
I made no move to take it and just squatted there, gaping at the piece of plastic. He dropped it into my purse. He grabbed my key ring, which was a piece of metal in the shape of a guitar. I reached for it, but he held it where I couldn’t get it.
“This belonged to your friend Chase, the one you said that escaped convict Michael Gage killed. Chase liked using this key ring to open beer bottles. An overweight woman—his mother?—gave it to you. You were both crying.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “She hugged you and said, ‘He loved you best of all, Peri Jean.’ You loved him too. A lot.”
I snatched the key ring from him, my hand trembling so bad I almost dropped it before I could get it in my purse. “What the hell is going on?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you I can do psychometry.” He touched my hand with the tips of his fingers. “But I wanted you to know we have stuff, stuff that counts, in common.”
It took every bit of my self-control not to yank away from him. Was this how people felt with me? Calm down, Peri Jean. I took a deep breath and gathered the rest of my belongings. I stood and clutched my purse to my chest. I wanted to leave, to get away from Nash as soon as possible before he saw more of my private life. I put my hand on the car door handle and stopped. I couldn’t treat Nash the way people treated me. The receiving end of that treatment felt like shit. I opened the car door, tossed my purse on the seat, and turned back to Nash.
“So your ability—you called it psychometry?— shows you where items come from? What people who had them were thinking?” All I wanted was to be understood. I wanted people to know they didn’t need to fear me. Unless they pissed me off.
“Pretty much.” Nash took a deep breath. “I wasn’t born like this. It started when I woke up from the coma. After my parents died. Their life insurance and the sale of their estate, by the way, is where I got the money to buy the Panther Theater. Before that, I was about like you.”
“Is the psychometry why you touch me so much?” I made myself smile. It came easier than I thought it would.
The corners of his mouth twitched into not quite a smile. He nodded. “If I brush your clothes, sometimes I get a little flash of…” He trailed off and shrugged. “I like you a lot, and I want to know everything I can, so I don’t screw up. I get the feeling it’s pretty easy to screw up with you.”
I looked for the lie in his eyes and didn’t see it. The open guilelessness on his face stabbed at me. How long had it been since I was really, truly willing to lay it all out? I never did with Dean. By the time we met, I was too far down my own road, too broken to go into anything without trying to protect myself.
“Thank you for trusting me with your secret.” I stretched as far as I could and kissed his cheek. He pulled me to him and hugged me a little too tight. I returned his hug. He broke the hug first.
“I guess you want to go home, right? But if you didn’t…” He shrugged. “Maybe we could spend some time together. I meant what I said about starting fresh.”
I considered his offer. How nice would it be to talk to somebody who understood me in a way few others could? Like Wade. Only this one isn’t off limits. Then, I thought of Chase Fischer lying dead in Piney Hill Cemetery because of me. With Michael Gage on the prowl again, the same thing could happen to Nash.
“I am flattered. Please believe that.” I searched for the right words. “Bad things happen to people I care about. The risk is double with Michael Gage having escaped from prison.”
Nash's mouth turned down. He reminded me of Rainey’s dog, Ugly, when someone scolded him. An idea occurred to me. I could show him why he’d be better off looking for love in other places.
“I know somewhere we can go.” I gestured to the Nova.
Nash hurried around to the passenger side and let himself in. I got behind the wheel, mind buzzing with second thoughts, and backed out of my parking place.
5
Piney Hill Cemetery sat at what used to be the edge of town. Now it acted as the divider between the old part of Gaslight City and the new part. I drove through a residential area of homes built in the 1940s and 1950s. Passing Dean’s house, I couldn’t help noticing all the lights were off and both his retro Trans Am and an unfamiliar economy sedan sat in the driveway.
Dean, the most tight-assed person I knew, had officially replaced me. Did she make him happier than I had? Probably. She was normal, which is something I’d never be. At least her car sitting in front of his house likely meant he wasn’t out on a late night run. His usual route went through Piney Hill Cemetery. He’d give me holy hell if he caught me there.
Dean’s street dead-ended at Piney Hill Cemetery. I parked in front of the tall, wrought iron fence and turned off the engine. The heavy chain and padlock holding the gate closed against partying kids and pranksters clinked against the wrought iron post with each gust of wind.
“You brought me to the cemetery?” Nash peered out the window. “I toured it when I first got to town.”
“You wanted to know where I spend time. Just about everybody I love is in here.”
Nash stared at me, his mouth slightly open. “Wh-wh-why?”
“They’re all dead because of me.” I dug my mini flashlight out of the glove box and grabbed an extra pack of cigarettes and a plastic sack for the butts. “Figured you ought to know what you’re getting into.” I opened my car door.
Nash got out of the Nova but stayed close to it, his back to me. He spoke without turning around. “Isn’t this place closed? The gate’s locked.”
“The wrought iron fence changes to chain link when it hits the woods. We can climb over.” I watched Nash's back and waited for his response. He said nothing for so long, I figured I’d have to drive him back to the Panther. “You in or out?”
“I’m in. I’m in.” He turned around and gave me a thumbs-up.
I started walking. The glare of the streetlights dimmed as we neared the woods, and the darkness rushed forward to swallow us up. The sound of an owl came from somewhere nearby, echoing against the open ground of the cemetery. Nash crowded close enough to me I heard his breathing.
I stuck close to the edge of the woods and kept the fence in sight. The shorter fence started right where I remembered it. I grasped the top bar and used the chain links as footholds to climb over. Nash followed, more nimble than I’d have expected.
I breathed in the smell of damp earth and freshly mowed grass and squinted at landmarks in the moonlit gloom. Spotting the spire of the Mace crypt, I headed toward it. The first grave I’d take Nash to visit was in direct sightline of the crypt.
Piney Hill Cemetery dated back to Gaslight City’s beginnings in the 1840s. New graves intermingled with the more elaborate older grave markers. We passed the tombstone made to look like a log stood on end, and I knew to go two more rows toward the Mace crypt. I stopped in front of a double tombstone and clicked on the flashlight.
“This is my grandmother and grandfather. Someone murdered my grandmother a couple of months ago, back in August, because of me and what I can do.” I kept the flashlight pointed at the tombstone.
“What about your grandfather? You weren’t even born in 1969.” Nash jammed his hands into his pockets and cast his gaze over the gloom.
“He died hunting the Mace Treasure.” I pointed at the tall roof of the Mace crypt. “Right over there.” I took a few steps to the left and stood in front of the next tombstone. “This is my father, Paul Mace. He was murdered while looking for the Mace Treasure.”
“But the Mace Treasure was hidden way back in the eighteen-hundreds. Nothing to do with it is your fault.�
�� Nash had his arms crossed tightly over his chest. I’d have wagered he had chill bumps from this macabre little tour.
“Everything to do with the Mace Treasure is my fault. I’m supposed to find it. My fate, if you subscribe to that kind of shit.” I took off walking again, not giving Nash a chance to react.
His footfalls came from behind me. Something familiar about them nagged at me, but I was too deep down the self-pity well to focus on it. I walked five rows back toward Dean’s street from the Mace crypt and used my flashlight to spot the tombstone I was looking for. The neck of the guitar-shaped marker pointed into the sky like a finger of damnation. I went to stand in front of it and leaned forward so I could trace the words on the tombstone.
Chase Lawrence Fischer
March 18, 1983 — November 2, 2013
Son, Father, Friend
“Michael Gage killed Chase Fischer to scare me into helping him find the Mace Treasure.” The fact Chase was killed ate at me. The things I could have done differently numbered in the hundreds and went back years before he died. I was sorry for each one. Tears stung the back of my throat, but I wouldn’t give in to them. Not in front of this stranger. “Me and Chase knew each other all our lives.” I lit a cigarette.
“I saw the two of you in the TV documentary on the Mace Treasure.” Nash stared hard at the tombstone. “You were trying to get away from the cameras. Chase had his hand on your back. The two of you exchanged this—I don’t know—this look, and it said so much. I didn’t know you then, had no idea he was dead, and I envied him.” Nash stole a glance at me and quickly turned away.
I barely heard his words, didn’t register the meaning behind them. The anger at myself for the way everything had gone, for all the people who got hurt, tightened and ground inside me. I clenched my jaw, nearly biting through my cigarette, and took shaking breaths. This was a stupid thing to do. I should never have brought Nash here.
“Are you really a whore?” The voice came from a few feet away.
I sucked in a shocked breath and whirled around, head swiveling in every direction until I saw him. The moon shone on his too-long blond hair but left his face in shadow. I knew the lanky frame, though. At first, I thought it was Chase, come to visit in spirit form and wondered why he’d say something so cruel. Then, the boy took another step toward me, and I saw the sharper chin and the pug nose. Not Chase. His son, Kansas.
