Erin Solomon Mysteries, Books 1 - 5

by Jen Blood

  “You’re right,” he agreed, finally. “They were last seen in Tennessee… I’d like to head down there. Willett thinks they’ll be leaving the country, but if Einstein or Erin are hurt, I’m not sure he’s right about that.”

  “Do you have somewhere else in mind?” Jamie asked.

  He thought for a minute before finally nodding slowly. “I might. If you don’t mind getting the plane ready, I’d like to make a couple of phone calls.”

  “Of course,” she agreed immediately. “Whatever you need to do. If you’re ready for it, we can have wheels up by seven o’clock.”

  His head spun. Things to remember; things to forget. A woman’s scream in the dead of night; footsteps on hardwood; heavy fists pounding on the front door. A gunshot.

  Forget the dark spots.

  “That’s good,” he agreed, aware that Jamie was still watching him closely. “Seven o’clock will be good.”

  Chapter Eighteen - Solomon

  Sunlight.

  It bounces off the water, turning everything white and gold. It’s a warm day—hot, mid-summer. I stand in a tide pool, the water to my knees. Barnacles cut my bare feet.

  “Put your shoes on, Erin,” Daddy says. The sun is blinding. He is a hundred feet tall, speaking from the clouds. I hear the cry of sea gulls and the rhythmic crash of the surf.

  “I don’t need them,” I say. “My feet are as tough as yours.”

  Daddy’s feet are as tough as leather. In summer, he never wears shoes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even wear them in winter.

  “Put your shoes on.” I look up. My father is gone; Isaac Payson stands there instead. I feel a shiver of dread. He holds tiny sneakers out to me. His hands are huge, his eyes dark. “Do as I say.”

  I take the shoes and put them on. He ties them for me, but he doesn’t do it right—Daddy sings a song. When he’s done, I have loops that look like bunny ears. When Isaac is done, it doesn’t look like anything but strings in a knot. He holds out his hand.

  I don’t want to take it.

  “Come,” he says. He’s angry now. “I need to show you.”

  I won’t give him my hand, so he just takes it. He wraps his big fingers around my wrist and holds on tight. He drags me away from the water and the warmth and the sunlight, into the woods.

  I scream and I fight and I try to get away, calling for Daddy.

  He doesn’t come.

  Isaac won’t let go.

  Chapter Nineteen - Diggs

  I crossed the border into Kentucky an hour after leaving Willett and his cronies in the dust. Solomon was in the front seat now, tucked into a blanket with her eyes closed. She’d been drifting in and out all morning, her body shaking violently. Heat came off her in waves. Other than incoherent mumbling, she’d said nothing when I moved her to the front seat, checked her pulse and the bullet wound—an ugly through-and-through in her left side. I had enough First Aid training to know how critical it was to stop the bleeding, but the best I managed ultimately was packing bandages around it and puking on the side of the road before we were off again.

  At ten-thirty that morning, I pulled onto an empty, heavily wooded road in western Kentucky.

  When I reached Sally Woodruff’s front gate, I stopped the truck and jumped out, punching Sally’s number into my phone as I moved. Before I had a chance to hit send, a pickup pulled up on the other side of the fence. Dogs barked in the distance. Einstein whined frantically in the backseat, effectively recovered from his own trauma.

  “Sally?” I called.

  An older woman, mid-sixties, lean and leathery, stepped out of the truck. Her gray hair was shorter than it had been when I’d seen her before, just three weeks ago. I waited for her to tell me I should leave; that the police were coming or she wanted nothing to do with any of this… That we were still on our own.

  That Solomon would just have to die.

  “Hang on, hon. I’ll open the gate. Drive on through, and straight to the front door. I got a bed waiting.”

  I’ve never been more grateful for southern hospitality.

  The yard and driveway were empty at Sally’s palatial estate when I drove up. She used the place as an abortion clinic, funded out of her pocket and run with her own blood, sweat, and tears, in a place that definitely did not welcome the service. Three pit bulls barked frantically from a kennel just outside the door.

  I went to the passenger’s side door and opened it. Solomon almost fell out before I caught her.

  She didn’t wake when I carried her inside, her body limp in my arms. Sally stood by with her arms folded over her chest, a frown on her face. She wore jeans and a man’s flannel shirt, her feet bare. She doled out orders to me with reassuring ease, as though it was a common occurrence for men to show up on her doorstep carrying bleeding, half-dead women.

  Given her line of work, I supposed that wasn’t unlikely.

  “Can you get her upstairs all right?” she asked.

  I nodded. “She’s—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “She stopped talking about an hour ago. I can’t get her to wake up.”

  “Just get her up there, hon, and I’ll take it from there.”

  I trudged up the stairs, Solomon still lifeless in my arms. Sally directed me to a door on the left. The room was clean and cream-colored, with black and white photos of pit bulls on the walls.

  “Set her on the exam table there,” Sally directed.

  I did as she said. Another woman—younger, maybe Solomon’s age—appeared in the doorway. I had a vague impression of dark hair and brightly colored scrubs, but noticed little else.

  “Does she have any allergies?” the woman asked, once Solomon was laid out on the table. Sally went to her immediately, already starting to cut away her shirt and check the wound.

  “No allergies,” I said, gaze focused on Solomon. “None that I know of, anyway.”

  “Medical problems?” Sally added. “Chronic illness? Hepatitis? HIV?”

  “No,” I said again. “She’s healthy. I mean…” I hesitated. “It’s been a rough year. Last winter she had a miscarriage.”

  Sally looked at me.

  “The baby wasn’t mine,” I added unnecessarily.

  “How long was she hospitalized?”

  I thought of the call I’d gotten late one night from Michael—her husband at the time. You should come—she asked for you. They don’t know if she’ll make it.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “She lost a lot of blood. And she broke her wrist last summer—she’s had a couple of surgeries for that.”

  “You weren’t kidding—that is a rough year,” Sally agreed. “Okay. I think that’s all we need from you right now. I want you to go on down and make yourself some tea. Keira and I can handle this.”

  I remained where I was, arms crossed over my stomach. I realized distantly that my shirt was soaked with nearly as much blood as Solomon’s. Some of it was Einstein’s, but most had come from Sol. “I’d rather stay.”

  “I know you would, Daniel—but I’m sorry, sugar, that’s not an option.” She herded me toward the door.

  “If she wakes—”

  “We’ll take care of her,” Sally said firmly. “We’ve got this. I’ll come down just as soon as I can to let you know what’s happening.”

  She closed the door.

  I stood there for a long few seconds, fighting nausea and fatigue and the kind of heart-crushing fear I’ve only felt when Erin Solomon is involved.

  I went downstairs and out to the car, only just remembering that Einstein was still in the backseat. Willett’s bullet had grazed his side, seemingly scaring the mutt more than anything else. Now, he snuffled the grounds, tail tucked between his legs, and followed close behind me once he’d done his business.

  The last time I’d been here, vandals had torn the grounds apart. An inverted cross had been burning out front, the same symbol spray painted on every wall. In three weeks, Sally had gotten rid of any trace of the graffiti. She’d patched the h
oles and replaced the furniture. It was like nothing had ever happened.

  I wandered the hallways until I found the kitchen. I made myself a tall cup of coffee and a cheese sandwich, then set myself up at the table with the laptop. After a brief skirmish with the Wifi, I managed to connect to the Internet. The house was quiet apart from an occasional outburst from the dogs. Einstein kept whining at the door—trying to get to Solomon, no doubt. I tried to muster some sympathy. Instead, I felt a slow boil of resentment.

  Guilt convinced me to at least scrounge a bowl of kibble for the mutt before I sat back down and pulled up another search on Jonestown. Temporarily sated, Einstein curled around my leg with his chin on my foot. Solomon’s face, bloodless and worn, flashed in my mind; the feel of her body limp in my arms when I carried her into the house.

  I stabbed at the keyboard, punching in “MK Ultra.”

  Pages of conspiracy sites came up.

  I went back to the search bar and typed in “Project J-932.”

  It yielded no results.

  I went back to MK Ultra. Everyone from Barack Obama to Roseanne Barr had something to say on the subject. I scanned photos and read articles, searching for any sign of Erin’s father, Isaac Payson, Mitch Cameron, or any of the other half-dozen players in this global conspiracy. I found none.

  It took more than an hour before Sally came downstairs. She cleared her throat. I looked up to find her standing in the doorway, watching me. She was still in scrubs—bloody scrubs now, her eyes shadowed from the early morning and the extended surgery. Her face was a mask, unreadable despite my best effort. I tried to stand, but couldn’t make myself; tried to speak, but remained mute.

  “She’s okay,” she said when I remained sitting there, dumb. “She’s one lucky girl. Another couple inches to the right and things would’ve been a hell of a lot more complicated. The bullet went straight through. Missed her organs... It didn’t hurt a thing that won’t heal.”

  I was grateful she’d gotten to the good news so quickly, but I sensed a qualifier.

  “But…” I prompted.

  “But, she lost a lot of blood,” she said. “Anyone else would have gone into hypovolemic shock by the time you got here… You did a good job, though, dressing the wounds, keeping the bleeding under control.” For the first time, she took note of Einstein, now dancing uncertainly at her feet. “Is that the dog’s blood, or hers?” she asked, indicating his stained fur.

  “He’s not hurt badly,” I said. “He got hit first. If he hadn’t…” I stopped. Sally raised an eyebrow, surveying me coolly.

  “I guess this is all the dog’s fault, then?” she asked. She knelt beside Einstein and checked his side with gentle fingers, murmuring soft words. The dog whimpered.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  Sally rose with some difficulty and called into the other room. “Keira, you mind bringing in my kit? I’ve got another patient to tend to here.”

  Keira came in with Sally’s medical bag, and Sally settled herself on the floor with Einstein half in her lap. The dog made no move to get away, whining as Sally shaved the fur away from the wound in his side.

  “So… Erin gets hurt trying to save her dog, and you’re pissed off,” she said conversationally.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Well, nothing else I can think of to explain this bug that’s crawled up your butt. Funny thing I’ve found about men over the years is, they lose control of a situation, get a little scared, and their natural reaction seems to be to get PO’d at the world and everything in it.”

  “I’m not PO’d,” I grumbled. It wasn’t attractive, I knew. Frankly, I didn’t give a rat’s ass. “Do you have any idea how many times we’ve risked our lives because of this goddamn dog?”

  Einstein looked up at me with big, wet brown eyes, whining uneasily. I looked away. Sally murmured something to the mutt while I pushed the remains of a cold grilled cheese sandwich around on my plate.

  “I’m sorry if that’s supposed to make me think less of Erin, and more of you for your lot in life,” Sally said. “You’re the one who fell ass over teakettle for her. If it makes you feel any better, though, right now she’s payin’ through the nose for going that extra mile to take care of this dog.”

  It didn’t make me feel any better at all, as a matter of fact. “She’ll be all right, though. You said she’s okay.”

  She hedged. Any trace of relief I’d felt slid right out the window. “Like I said: she lost a lot of blood. Then there’s the risk of infection… She won’t be up for a good few hours yet, so we’ll just have to wait and see. But she stands a better chance than not of being just fine.”

  “But she’s not out of the woods yet,” I said. I thought of her lying lifeless in the backseat, still clinging to Einstein. Instead of love or loss or any trace of sympathy, I just had the urge to strangle her all over again.

  “Not completely, hon,” Sally said. “Listen, why don’t you go on up and try to get some sleep. I put you two in the same room—we don’t really have enough beds to go around these days.”

  It was a little before noon, bright daylight outside. Irregular sleep patterns and stress and caffeine had turned my natural biorhythms on their head. I knew I should have been exhausted, but, truth be told, I couldn’t seem to get far enough beyond pissed off to tell.

  “Actually, I think I might take a ride. I could use a little space. Some fresh air.”

  The humor vanished from her eyes. Sally knows the gory details of my history as an addict intimately. Back in my heyday, she was one of many who saw the road I was headed for long before I did—and one of the few who actually said anything about it.

  “You sure that’s such a good idea?”

  “Probably not,” I said shortly. “But it’s all I’ve got the stomach for right now.”

  She studied me for a minute before she seemed to realize she wasn’t talking me out of anything. Instead, she nodded.

  “All right, sugar. Maybe you’re right—maybe a little fresh air’s the best thing for you right now. But you take my number, all right? And borrow the pickup; it doesn’t seem like the best idea for you to take that SUV of yours out again right now. You get tired or you run into trouble, give me a call. Got it?”

  I nodded my agreement, irrational anger still burning below the surface. I left without telling her where I was going or when I would be back; without waiting to find out if Solomon was out of the woods, or when she would wake up.

  I ran, and I didn’t look back.

  Chapter Twenty - Solomon

  It’s dark.

  I hear whispers. The night is so hot that sweat runs down my back. Someone is crying.

  “I’ve got a secret,” a boy’s voice singsongs in my ear. When I turn my head I see only the glint of yellow eyes before he vanishes.

  I can’t find my Dad.

  “For thine is the power, and the glory…”

  Isaac is praying. He always prays so loud—his voice is big and wide; it shuts out the whole forest.

  There is a fire, burning bright in the middle of the darkness.

  Daddy kneels on the dirt ground. He has no shirt on. His back is bloody.

  “Things to remember; things to forget,” the little boy sings to me.

  “He’ll put us in the woods,” Allie Tate whispers. She sits beside me. One of her legs is bent backward. It’s like she doesn’t even notice, staring at me with wide eyes through Coke-bottle lens glasses.

  “Are you sorry for your sins?” Isaac asks. He has a snake in his hands—long and black, hissing and dark-eyed. He stands over my father. Daddy won’t look at him.

  “We’ve all got secrets,” the boy whispers. He runs again, before I can see his face. His yellow eyes stare out at me from the dark woods. “Keep them buried deep.”

  “Are you sorry?” Isaac says again. He roars like a lion, and the woods shake under my feet. A lady starts to sing.

  Daddy lifts his face. He is bleeding and broken, but he doesn
’t cry. He looks at Isaac, and I can see that he hates. Hates like he said I never should, and I hate with him.

  I want Isaac to die.

  “I am always sorry,” Daddy says. He says it quietly, like our nightly prayer, except this time all his hate is in the words. “I was born sorry.”

  Isaac picks up the snake again. Daddy bows his head.

  We’ve got secrets nobody can ever tell.

  Chapter Twenty-One - Diggs

  I drove the dirt road to the Durham farm with my hands clenched tight on the wheel and a burning desire for chemical intervention of any kind. When I reached the house, the hounds were roaming loose. George Durham was on the front porch of his cabin, smoking a cigarette. He shook his head when he saw me stride into view, like he didn’t believe his eyes. George has been more of a father than my own from the time I first visited Kentucky at twelve years old, saving my life and my sanity in more ways than one since that time. Recently, he’d lost his son to whatever war Solomon and I had been pulled into. The grief may have aged him, but I could tell by the light still in his eyes that he wasn’t letting it beat him.

  “Daniel?”

  “In the flesh.”

  He grinned. Got up off his porch swing with some effort and strode toward me, enveloping me in a hug before I could even extend my hand.

  “You seen the news, boy?” he asked. “Mae’s been worried sick, all the things folks’ve been saying.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him.

  “It don’t look like it—you look like hell, son.” He nodded toward the porch. “Come on up, set down before you fall down.”

  I followed his advice. Two floppy-eared bunnies loped the length of a homemade hutch, staring out at me with twitching noses. The sun was blinding. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, my shirt clinging to the small of my back. I watched the dogs race around after a couple of hens in the yard, and tried to figure out where to begin.