“I’m not thanking you.”
“Oh, well I—”
“I’m telling you that I’m not going to kill you for what you did. Not yet anyway,” she said, interrupting my bumbling response. “Thanking you? Don’t be an idiot! Of course it’s your fault!”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Well, that certainly clears things up. I guess a ‘thank you’ is in order. You know, for not killing me. I’m sorry I betrayed your trust like that.”
“Trust? I never trusted you. I underestimated your master. And I overestimated you. I want my gun back. Yesterday!” she finished, slamming the phone down.
The dial tone droned for a few seconds as I let that exchange sink in. I knew Alastor did some damage while in my body—the extent of which I wouldn’t be able to fully understand. All I could do was move on and try to undo it. Business as usual. I hung up the phone.
“Things could have gone worse,” I muttered aloud with a shrug.
I finished my disgustingly potent liquor and turned in. I had work in the morning. There was still a demon on the loose and I’d spent enough time stalling.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wednesday morning, I woke up sore in every muscle and bone of my body. My head felt full of that pink fiberglass insulation. I couldn’t really tell where the pain came from. I remembered what day it was after fifteen minutes of careful thought.
My legs trembled as I got out of bed. Stiff as a board, I took a long, hot shower to loosen up. Water washing over me, I started to feel human again. Time passed, though I lost track. I planned to stay in until my hot water ran out, but I heard the digital chirping of my phone. Grumbling, I shut the water off, got out, and threw towels around my waist and over my head. I hobbled out of my bathroom in a rush to answer it.
“Landon. This is Phil,” the senior agent said as I put the phone to my ear. “I’m interviewing the victim’s family today, but DPD is requesting a briefing about their role in the case. You up for it?”
It wasn’t a question as much as a polite command. Idly drying my head and shoulders, I thought, DPD requested it? Does that mean Mendoza? “Yeah, I got it. Precinct Three?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Check in after noon.”
I confirmed and hung up.
Getting dressed turned out to be a chore. The tight, stiff muscles protested every movement as I pulled on slacks. I paused as I slipped my undershirt on, inspecting the narrow mirror on my dresser. There was a small scar on my stomach where I’d nearly been disemboweled by the shadow drake.
The resilience and ability to recover from such injuries amazed me, but the dark power came at a steep cost. I had a subtle reminder of that in the knob of scar tissue on my abdomen.
I finished getting dressed in the plain, flat black suit and narrow tie that so characteristically defined FBI agents. Moving about helped alleviate the aches and by the time I get into my car, I thought I was almost ready to do my job. I just hoped I wouldn’t have to face any demons or nether creatures that day.
Several thoughts went through my head as I pulled into the police lot, worries my rational mind told me were ridiculous. Alone in my car, I told myself, “Just be cool, Landon. There’s no way Mendoza would kill you in the police plaza.”
It occurred to me that the whole purpose of meeting at the station might have been a statement that she didn’t intend to kill me. She’d said as much last night, but I was used to distrusting what I heard from supernatural sources. It came with the territory when you signed your soul away.
I parked right up front in a visitor space. There were cameras on me which gave me a small sense of comfort. I got out of my car and walked inside, forcing myself to maintain a casual pace. Law enforcement types tended to perk up around people in a big hurry.
Approaching the narrow-faced desk sergeant, I asked, “Would you call Detective Evelyn Mendoza and let her know that Agent Graves is here.”
“Don’t bother. I’m right here,” Mendoza said to the sergeant, mere feet behind me.
I was proud of myself for not jumping out of my skin.
“Good. I was about to go on break,” the man replied, grabbing a coffee mug and getting up from this chair.
Taking a breath to calm myself, I turned to face the slightly shorter woman as the desk sergeant left us. She wore a beige pantsuit, something a little less functional than her typical attire. I supposed it was more of a professional look, a psychological tactic for dealing with bureaucratic superiors or reticent civilians. I spotted the waist holster for her Glock and the badge on her belt.
There was a brown kerchief tied neatly around her neck and I only realized its purpose after a few moments. The out-of-season garment hid the bruises my hands had left as Alastor choked her into unconsciousness. The guilt hit me like a ton of bricks.
We met each other’s eyes silently for a moment. I had no idea what to say. I didn’t even know if I could speak, and the awkward silence stretched uncomfortably. The detective snorted and uncrossed her arms.
“Listen up, ‘cause I’m only going to say this once,” she said with quiet intensity, her divine fury tightly contained. “I get that you’re a good guy in a bad situation. I do. You saved my life when you didn’t need to. You didn’t attack when I was at my weakest.”
I wanted nothing more than to slink away in shame. The woman didn’t let me, locking me in place with her steadfast gaze. All I remembered was the calm, levelheaded detective who’d had my back in the shadow realm. Nothing “weak” about that.
“But if you let your master out again…” she warned, leaning in close and jabbing a finger into the meat of my chest, “I’ll kill you. Even if it destroys my life, I’ll end you. Do you understand?”
I swallowed. “Uh, yeah.”
Turning away, she said, “Come on then. And for God’s sake, don’t try to make small talk. We’ve got a long drive.”
“The briefing was only an excuse to get me down here?” The Chosen had other plans for the morning. I hazarded a guess as to what. As we exited the building and headed to her car, I asked, “Cedar Meadows?”
Mendoza nodded and ducked into her car. I quickly got in the passenger’s side of the Crown Vic and the she sped off. I stared out the window at nothing in particular as a way to avoid any more eye contact.
By the aesthetic and upkeep, Cedar Meadows Veterinary Hospital catered to the social elite of pet owners. My shoes squeaked on the immaculate tile floor as I followed the detective through the large lobby. I noted the well-lit, sterile environment and cheery, courteous receptionist.
We waited until the owner of a Great Dane was led through to the back to see a vet who greeted the man with the same demeanor as a heart surgeon. The door shut and I turned my attention to the receptionist whose nametag read, “Alexa.”
“Hello,” Mendoza said, her voice casual—almost friendly. She pulled out her badge and showed the woman. “I’m Detective Evelyn Mendoza and this is Special Agent Landon Graves with the FBI. We have a few questions about a former employee of this clinic.”
Despite the pleasant tone, Alexa’s eyes widened and her expression became one of puzzlement and concern. “Oh, uh, who?”
“Oliver Pontas.”
The receptionist quickly said, “He hasn’t worked here in a long time.”
“And how long have you worked here, miss?” Mendoza asked.
“Three years,” answered the stocky brunette. “Did Oliver get into trouble again?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Mendoza answered. “But you knew him? What can you tell me about him?”
Alexa shrugged. “We worked together for about a year before he got fired. He seemed alright to me, but I guess he had problems with his wife.”
My ears perked up. Marital problems aside, Oliver might have contacted the missus for help. If she had given him anything—money, supplies, or a place to hideout—we needed to find out about it.
“Do you have any emergency contact information?” Mendoza asked. “Can we look at his personnel
file?”
“Uh, I guess,” Alexa said. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into a small office and returned with a thin folder a short time later. “My boss says it’s okay to show you this.”
Mendoza thanked the woman and asked, “Do you have a copier?”
They did. We got the limited information in the file: a full name, social security number, driver’s license number, next of kin with contact information two years out of date. It was something to go on, though Mendoza probably had some of the information already from running Oliver’s name through the police database.
“So what do we do?” I asked as we left the hospital. Flipping through the pages of the file, I continued, “Call it in? You want to get uniforms to track his wife… Gwen down?”
I read on. Oliver had a son listed as a dependent for insurance purposes. I shook my head, stifling the pity evoked by the information. I’m writing a profile, not a sob story.
Mendoza chewed on her answer, waiting until we were in her car again before she spoke. “No, they aren’t equipped to handle Oliver if he… changes.”
I cringed, knowing her thoughts were of me, of my patron wearing my flesh. “So, we track down the wife. See if he’s made contact or if she’s harboring him.”
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes distant with thought. “Let’s get going.”
We arrived at a quaint suburban house twenty minutes later.
Plastic Mattel toys littered an otherwise well-kept yard. A tired looking but pleasant mother politely informed us that the Pontas family had sold the house a year and a half ago. She had forwarding information that led us to an apartment.
We had no luck there either. Gwen and Oliver had been evicted after only three months. The management had no idea where they’d ended up. I could sense Mendoza’s frustration as we hit the dead end.
“Take it easy,” I said as she shut the door to her car just a little too hard. “Think about it. Their lives were falling apart. They went from that home to this crappy apartment and then they got evicted. Where would Gwen have gone?”
The detective turned a harsh glare on me, but stifled her frustration. Without answering me, she snatched up the mic to her radio. “Dispatch, this is Detective Mendoza. I need the last known address of a ‘Gwen Pontas’ as well as the addresses of her next of kin.”
The police databases would only have information as recent as Gwen’s last trip to the DMV. Moving around so often after what I assumed was Oliver’s descent into addiction, she might not have been back to update her license. It wasn’t the kind of thing your average person prioritized.
A few minutes later, the dispatcher relayed the address of the house we just visited, confirming my doubts. Fortunately, Mendoza also asked for Gwen’s next of kin and got an address for her parents. I scribbled it down in my notepad.
We took off toward the best lead we had.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gwen Pontas’s family, the Richards, lived in Aurora. We drove to the old neighborhood with wide streets and large yards for each home. Each house on the block had its own style and personality. School wasn’t out yet, but I could imagine kids playing in the street. It felt insulated from the city by fifty foot tall trees, a warm haven of dappled sunlight.
Mendoza parked on the street and we exited the vehicle. Though I saw no one immediately, I felt eyes on me. It was nothing malevolent, just curious neighbors who had spotted two people who didn’t belong in their safe world.
“Let me know if you sense anything,” I said as the detective rounded the car, assuming she was going to employ her Chosen-o-vision on the property.
She nodded and hung back as I slowly walked down the narrow, worn cement path to the porch. I scanned for any sign of trouble—either supernatural or mundane. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, so I discreetly unbuttoned my underarm holster and rang the doorbell.
Though muffled by the stout wooden door, I heard a woman say, “No, I got it.”
I glanced over at Mendoza as she returned from the side of the house, her brief inspection completed. She gave a little shake of her head. Knowing that Oliver hadn’t been there anytime recently took a load off my shoulders. I was actually able to smile as the door opened.
“Hello,” I said, noting details.
The woman stood just on the short side of average height and sported dirty blonde hair in natural curls. She wore no makeup, her face plain but pleasant. An honest face. She dressed in jeans and a faded red T-shirt. As she reached to open the storm door, I saw that she had no wedding ring.
I drew out my badge and opened the jacket. “My name is Landon Graves. I’m a special agent with the FBI. Could I please speak to Gwen Pontas?”
The woman froze for an instant, a typical reaction when an official of law enforcement showed up out of the blue asking for you. Then she reached for the badge and inspected it closely. Looking up, she said in a perplexed tone, “Uh, that’s me. Only I go by Gwen Richards now. How can I help you?”
Oliver is divorced, I noted, a pang of sympathy flashing through my mind. I motioned back to Mendoza as she approached. “This is Detective Evelyn Mendoza with the Denver Police Department. I’m afraid that we’re here about Oliver.” Gwen’s eyes widened with alarm until I added, “Has he contacted you recently? Do you know where he is?”
The woman put a hand over her heart and let out a small sigh of relief. “No, I haven’t talked to Oliver in several months. Not since the divorce papers went through.”
“You may still be able to help,” Mendoza said with a solid professional tone, neither stern nor warm. “Will you answer some questions for us?”
Gwen glanced back inside the house and muttered some reassurances to her parents standing just inside. She turned back and agreed to speak with us, walking out a few paces from the porch. “I’ll... I’ll do whatever I can.”
“Oliver’s personnel file at Cedar Meadows didn’t specify a reason for why they let him go,” I said, keeping my voice neutral and non-judgmental. “Can you tell us what happened?”
She crossed her arms and looked back over her shoulder to the house. “He, uh, had a bad car accident. Got blindsided. Broke his arm and leg.” She sniffled and brushed a finger under her nose. “Anyway, the pain was bad, so they give him OxyContin and Vicodin. He got hooked. When he went back to work, he started stealing painkillers.”
“They caught him,” Mendoza said, gently hurrying the woman through her story.
Gwen made a face and I could tell by her voice that she was fighting back tears. “Things got bad for a while. We had to sell the house. Then he got into rehab, but we couldn’t afford it.”
“You were evicted and you moved back here,” I supplied. “Where did Oliver go?”
“I, uh, don’t know,” she said, words squeaking slightly. “We sort of split up. But he was getting clean. I could tell when he visited me and Adrian. He had a job.”
“Do you know where?” Mendoza asked, noting things on her own pad of paper.
Gwen rubbed her arms idly as if she was cold. “A construction company. I don’t remember the name. We don’t talk much. I don’t see him often.”
I stopped writing. “Would that company happen to be Daniels and McGraw?”
“Uh, yeah. Now that you mention it, that sounds right.”
One piece of the puzzle slid firmly into place. Oliver knew the layout of the Lowry dorm because he’d worked on it. He knew it would be empty and isolated. He knew it wouldn’t have security. He knew how to get onto the base.
I could almost fill in the rest of her story. “When the contract unraveled, Oliver got laid off.” I thought back on what the initial reports about the dormitory said. “That was about six months ago. I’m guessing you haven’t seen Oliver since then.”
She shook her head slowly. “I… I thought you were going to tell me he was dead.”
Mendoza stepped forward suddenly and did something I would’ve never expected. She put an arm around the woman and com
forted her, leading her to the decorative bench on the porch. I kept my distance, letting the Chosen do her thing.
After a minute of softly spoken words, Mendoza stood and walked over to me. “I don’t think she’d turn him in,” she said quietly, careful not to look back at the woman. “Even after everything she’s been through, she still loves him. If he came to her, it could be trouble.”
I nodded. “You want me to do something about it?”
She tilted her head. “What can you do?”
“Nothing you’d like,” I said with a shrug, avoiding eye contact. “But nothing that would cause any harm.”
Even with my details so vague, her mouth turned in a tight frown. “You’re right. I don’t like it. Making her do something against her will—”
“I’m not that good,” I interjected. “All I can do is add a little weight to my words. Make her take us seriously. We can only hope it sticks.”
The Chosen looked in my eyes for a moment and grudgingly said, “Fine. Do it.”
I saw the leap she’d made in trusting me, a miracle after what happened Monday. It’s not “me” she doesn’t trust. It’s my power. My patron, I told myself. If that wasn’t the case, she would never have agreed to work with me again.
I turned and walked to Gwen. “I know this must have been hard.”
Glancing quickly at the door, I saw that it was still shut. I guessed that her parents were just inside, but I couldn’t do anything about that. If Oliver came back to her, I had to know she’d do the right thing.
I took a deep breath, gathered my power, and focused my will. My power heated up, a coal in my chest. “Listen and heed my words.”
It was incredibly difficult to maintain a reasonable volume to my voice and the words seemed to echo under the eave of the house. I couldn’t afford to be delicate with my power. I didn’t have Alastor’s finesse or his raw mystical might, but the supernatural influence grabbed a hold of the woman and she waited patiently for me to speak.
“Oliver isn’t himself right now,” I said, looking deeply into her soft blue eyes. “He’s dangerous.” I thought it over for a moment and decided to pull the necessary strings. “Until he gets help, he will hurt your son or your parents. He will hurt you. If Oliver contacts you, call the police immediately. If he shows up unannounced, get away from him.”
Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1) Page 15
