“Nothing he didn’t already know. But there’s something else…” Riga hesitated, unsure of how to say it.
“Let me guess. He suggested I was unstable, acting irrationally?”
“Yeah. You knew about this?”
“It started while I was in San Francisco last month. I’m sorry he dragged you into it. What did you say?”
“I laughed. It didn’t go over well.”
Donovan chuckled. “That’s the best news I’ve heard today. How’s your investigation going?”
Riga told him.
He was quiet for a time when she finished. “I don’t like the sound of this. I’ve got some things to wrap up with the police here before I can go, but I’ll be home by tomorrow night. Is Cesar still on duty?”
“Of course. I’m not stupid. Donovan, the last time we spoke you said we needed to talk.”
“Not the best way to end a call, I know. I’ve been thinking about us, about our future. I shouldn’t have said anything at all because it’s something we need to talk over face to face.”
“And since breakups are easier by phone…”
“No! Not that. I love you, Riga.”
“I love you too.”
“That’s the first time you said that to me.”
“I wanted to make sure I meant it first.”
They talked more, and when Riga hung up, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her. Donovan was safe, and was coming home.
If she dreamed that night, Riga didn’t remember it. She woke late, dressed hurriedly, and drove to the burned remains of the church. Standing in the parking lot, she felt she was looking at a black and white sketch. The scene was a study in monochrome: white-frosted pine trees formed the backdrop for a dark slash of asphalt and the charred ruins of the church. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and yesterday’s snow sparkled, a brilliant layer of white.
She leaned against her Lincoln and dialed a number.
“Hello?” a wavering female voice asked.
“Hello, Mrs. Carver. This is Riga Hayworth.”
“What do you want? How did you get this number?”
“I wanted to tell you that I wasn’t responsible for your husband’s death and to tell you I’m sorry for your loss, and for the loss of your church. I think your husband was searching for a killer, the same man I’m looking for, and that he died because of it. I’d like to finish your husband’s work and catch the person responsible. I think I’m close but it would be helpful to talk to you. And you’re in the book.”
Riga waited, holding her breath.
“Where are you?” Mrs. Carver finally asked.
“I’m in the church parking lot, across from the parsonage.”
Riga saw a gingham curtain in the parsonage draw aside, then drop back into place.
“Okay,” the reverend’s widow said. “We can talk.”
Riga crunched through the ankle-deep snow to the parsonage. Someone had made a path bordered by rough stones from the parking lot to the door, and swept the snow from it. The ground was wet and spongy beneath her boots. She knocked on the door. Mrs. Carver opened it before Riga could pull her hand away. Dark circles shadowed the hollows of the woman’s eyes. She tightened her long, lumpy parka about her, studying Riga warily, then stepped outside and shut the door behind her, keeping Riga out.
Riga stepped away, giving the woman more space. “Mrs. Carver—”
“My name is Marie.”
Riga mentally stumbled. Was this a statement of independence or a gesture of openness? Neither seemed in keeping with her earlier impressions of Marie Carver.
“Marie, thanks for seeing me. I can imagine how hard this is for you.”
“I know you didn’t burn down the church,” Marie said. “The Sheriff told me, and the men admitted to it.”
A Steller’s Jay shrieked angrily and they both glanced toward it. The sapphire-colored bird fluttered from a tree, dislodging a clump of snow.
“Did your husband ever talk to you about the women who died?” Riga asked.
“He didn’t kill them,” Marie said fiercely. “I know that’s what some people are saying. That he killed those women and then you—”
“I don’t believe he was responsible. Are you familiar with Occam’s Razor?”
Marie nodded. “The simplest answer usually is the correct one.”
“Yes. And the simplest answer is one killer. I think the man who killed those women, also killed your husband. Your husband had photos on his wall of the women he’d been picketing, and of me from the day we discovered Sarah Glass’s body. Do you know why?”
“Photos?” The thick lashes that shadowed Marie’s eyes flew upwards.
“Photos at the demonstrations make sense. Photos of me and the police, not so much…” Riga trailed off. Maybe they did make sense after all.
“What? What are you thinking?” Marie asked.
Riga massaged her right temple. A dull ache throbbed in her head. “Nothing. Just an idea.”
“About who killed my husband? Tell me what you know!”
“I don’t know anything. Did he talk to you about what he was doing?”
Marie moistened her cracked lips. “We didn’t… He was obsessed with evil. He thought something terrible had come here and he wanted to protect his flock. But I don’t know anymore.” Her expression changed to panic. “I can’t tell you anymore! Leave me alone!”
“Marie?” A man said from behind Riga.
She turned toward the voice. A man walked toward them. He looked vaguely familiar – mid-thirties, wearing a red and black hunters cap and thick leather jacket. Had he been at the demonstration at Audrey’s shop? Then she remembered. He’d been at the church the day of the fire, the man who’d charged Cesar.
The lines in his face hardened and in two quick strides he was beside Marie, one arm protectively around her shoulder. He looked at Riga with disgust. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
“I’m leaving.” Riga wondered at Marie and the man’s protectiveness. Was it a normal reaction after the tragedy, or something more? “Thanks, Marie, for your help. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”
She turned to leave. A branch cracked behind her and she glanced over her shoulder. The man stepped toward her.
“Don’t,” Marie said in a low voice, putting a restraining hand on his arm. “She knows martial arts.”
Riga stopped, turned to them. “How did you know that, Marie?”
Marie tossed her head. “Looked you up on the Internet. You’re not the only one who can find things out.”
Bull. Riga wasn’t online; she’d made certain of that. Marie was lying about something that shouldn’t matter and that meant that it did matter, somehow. She smiled blandly. “Thanks again. You’ve been very informative.”
She walked to her car, thinking hard. Marie had agreed to meet with her because she wanted something – to know what Riga knew? Perhaps Marie just wanted closure, to figure out who killed her husband. But her slip at the end warned Riga that it wasn’t innocent at all. She’d been surprised to learn about the Reverend’s photos. Surprised and… afraid?
Chapter 26: Cave Dive
Sunlight danced on the surface of the lake, glittering like a sapphire against the snow-capped mountains. Riga was unmoved by the sight. Standing at the rear of the gently rocking boat, she gazed unenthusiastically into the water and adjusted the strap on one flipper.
They’d anchored outside a rocky cove. The crew could have taken the inflatable dingy to get closer to the cave cut in the granite cliff side, but Sam wanted underwater shots of Riga’s approach.
“Cheer up,” Wolfe said. He sat beside her on the boat and wore a dive suit as well, his underwater camera held carefully upon his lap. His dark, curling hair was damp and it stuck to his scalp, making him appear even more vulpine. “The water’s shallow here. I’d be surprised if it was deeper than twenty feet. So it won’t be that cold.”
&n
bsp; “It’s snowmelt,” Riga said, incredulous.
Wolfe just grinned. “You ready for this?”
“No.”
“It won’t be that cold.”
“Shut up.”
Pen sat down upon the edge of the boat. She hiked up one sleeve of her fur-lined leather jacket, and leaned over the edge to dip her hand in the water. “Yow! It’s freezing!”
Riga gritted her teeth. “Yes! I know.”
Angus lifted a boom mic above them, his round face serious. “At least we don’t have to worry about sound. I’ll just splice in some scuba breathing audio later.”
“Oh, that’s good news,” Riga said. “So what’s with the boom mic?”
Angus looked towards the front of the boat, where Sam spoke with Griff. “Sam wanted to chat with you before you went in.”
Sam ambled over to them and Griff followed, his camera balanced on one narrow shoulder, one eye glued to the lens.
“Well,” Sam said, “sorry we couldn’t get a dry suit, but they told me a normal wet suit would work. It will be cold but this isn’t the arctic. How are you feeling, Riga?”
“I am breathless with anticipation.”
“So what’s your plan?” Sam asked, ignoring her tone.
“Since I’m not qualified to cave dive, we’re going to search the area around the cave entrance for signs of Tessie. In the eighties, two divers reported seeing a creature shoot out of a cave in that cliff face.” Riga pointed toward it. “They also reported finding two large fin prints where the creature had been resting. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” But luck for Riga meant ending the dive quickly.
“Don’t worry,” Wolfe told Sam. “I’ll go in and get some shots of the cave.”
“I don’t think so,” Riga said sharply. “You don’t dive without a buddy and you certainly don’t cave dive without one. And I told you, I’m not qualified to go inside.”
“Oh, come on,” Wolfe said. “I won’t go in far.”
“I said, forget it,” Riga growled.
Sam intervened. “She’s right. We don’t need interior shots and I don’t need a lawsuit if you get yourself killed.”
“Or brain damaged,” Griff muttered. “Not that you’d notice much difference.”
Wolfe handed his camera to Angus, then walked awkwardly in his flippers to the platform at the rear of the boat. He stepped off the edge, and disappeared beneath the water.
His head breached the surface, and he whooped. “Holy crap! That’s cold!”
“I can’t believe you agreed to this,” Pen said to Riga.
“Yeah. Well, it won’t be a long dive.” Thirty minutes of suffering, tops, and Riga would be back on the surface drinking something hot and alcohol-fueled. This was a high altitude dive, so they’d agreed to limit the depth and time. They were erring on the side of caution but Riga wanted to get this over with. She waddled to the edge and stepped off.
The water slashed her skin like knives. Her heart seemed to stop from the cold, and then she broke the surface. Riga shrieked from the shock of it.
“What did I tell you?” Wolfe said, bobbing beside her. His eyes crinkled with laughter. “Here, hand me my camera,” he said to Angus.
Angus reverently lowered it into Wolfe’s waiting arms.
“I’m going to give you a bit of distance so I can film you,” Wolfe said. “Ready?”
Riga spat in her mask, dunked it in the water and rubbed the plastic with her gloved hand. She lowered the mask into place, and jackknifed beneath the surface.
It was another world, dreamy blue-green and pierced by shafts of sunlight, silent but for her exhalations and the occasional odd metallic clank. They swam above a stand of petrified tree trunks, then drifted lower, towards the stone and silt-covered bottom. Riga had gotten over the initial shock of the plunge, but her muscles were tense, braced against the cold.
She used her hands to pull herself over the remains of an overturned row boat, scattering a school of minnows resting in its shadows. A sheer wall of rock soon rose before her, and she paused, scanning it for evidence of a cave. Finding none, she gave a mental shrug, picked a direction, and turned, following the rock wall.
A wide cleft in the rocks appeared, four feet tall at its highest point. She felt a strange resistance to getting closer, and forced herself to move forward, pulling herself along the round stones on the lake floor. The cave sloped gently into darkness. She wasn’t carrying a light, couldn’t tell how far or deep it ran, and imagined the cave sinking into the underworld itself. She shivered, tried to shake off the foreboding that gripped her.
Riga looked around, saw Wolfe, and pointed towards the cave, then made a show of examining the lake floor at the entrance, bathed in aquamarine light.
No Tessie prints. No surprise.
Wolfe joined her and switched on his camera’s light attachment. A school of minnows darted at him from the cave. His eyes widened and he let slip the camera, catching it before it sunk to the bottom. Riga would have found it funny but the tiny fish had startled her as well.
She tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the surface, then made a show of shrugging, palms up. Time to go?
He shook his head and disappeared into the cave.
Dammit! Her jaw clenched on the regulator and she tasted something bitter. What was he thinking?
Riga sank to her knees, and tracked the beam of Wolfe’s light from her position at the cavern mouth. He’d been reduced to a dark shadow in the gloom of the cave. The idiot would be fine, she told herself, and he’d come out when he saw she wasn’t coming in. Because she was not going inside. She made windmilling motions with her hands to keep her balance.
His light turned towards her and she pointed upwards, signaling she was going up, hoping that would motivate him to leave the cave.
A chill wracked Riga’s body and between them rose a cloud of silt. Something about it repelled her, and it was all she could do to remain motionless, watch Wolfe’s light illuminate the swirling particles.
Riga forced herself to stay her hands, to wait for the silt to settle, but the cloud thickened and the light from Wolfe’s camera dimmed, unable to penetrate it. The cloud congealed, forming the outlines of a distorted face, and then swiftly concentrated itself into a thick oblong shape the size of a large fish. It shot into the cave. Her teeth clenched on her regulator, and she reared back in surprise.
The beam from Wolfe’s light flipped to the vertical, then drifted downwards to shine sideways upon the cave floor. The light blinked out.
A wave of fear swept Riga’s spine.
She waited a beat, two, straining for a sign of Wolfe.
Darkness.
Her instincts screamed to flee. But she ducked forward and propelled herself into the cave, keeping low to the ground, glancing over her shoulder at the sunlit cave mouth, assuring herself it was still there. How far back had Wolfe gone? And what else was in here? Tentacles of blackness spread through her mind as she inched forward, away from the safety of open water. Her breathing seemed louder now, quicker.
She forced herself to focus on her hands, groping forward in the darkness, rather than think about the smothering water, the weight of stone above her. Her gloved fingertips brushed against smooth stones and the soft plush of silt. And then she touched straight lines, something angular, unnatural. The camera.
She fumbled with it, feeling for the light switch. But she didn’t know the machine, couldn’t find the button in the dark. She swam with it for the entrance, feeling lighter, safer as she approached its yawning mouth. In the rippling sunlight, she easily found the red button, switched on the light, swept the cave: moss-covered stones, the green tinted cave floor, and then a black, elongated shape. The light bounced, her hands shaking with fear. And then she understood what she was seeing: Wolfe, prone in his dive suit.
She heard her own breathing quicken, knew she was on the edge of panic, and she flicked her fins, zooming to him. His eyes were closed but his regulator was clamped in his mouth,
bubbles rising steadily. She grabbed the back of his inflatable vest with one hand. Swimming on her back so she could watch his regulator, she towed him from the cave, her blood throbbing in her veins. Once they’d cleared its mouth, she inflated their vests, tugged him toward the sunlight.
Wolfe had been right; the water was shallow and they quickly broke the surface. Riga wrenched the regulator from Wolfe’s mouth and tilted his face to the sun. God, he had to be okay, please let him be okay. She shouted and waved to the boat, then looked around, tried to get her bearings. The cliff here was sheer, no beach in sight. Five yards away, a line of boulders rose from the lake. She gripped Wolfe’s vest, and pulled him towards a low, flat-topped rock.
When they reached the boulder, Riga found the camera still clenched in one hand. She slung it atop the rock, then released Wolfe and hauled herself up. Riga turned and grabbed for Wolfe, who’d begun to float away. She tried to heave him onto the boulder but his body weight defeated her. Her arms shook with fatigue. She gave up and let him sink neck deep into the water, keeping a hand on his vest.
A year ago, she could have magicked him from the cave, used that force to lift him, make the people in the boat aware. She might have been able to sense what had been in the cave, understand it, communicate with it, she thought angrily. She’d told herself she’d never relied upon magic, had made it a point of pride. But the fact was, without it she felt as if a piece of her had been amputated.
She wanted it back and alchemy was too slow a process.
Riga needed that edge now. Too much was at stake.
It was maddening; she saw the boat, the crew lounging upon it, oblivious to her predicament.
She slapped Wolfe gently on the cheek. “Come on, Wolfe. Wake up!”
His head lolled and she pulled him closer to the rock. An orange plastic whistle floated in the water beside him, attached to his vest by a cord. Riga looked down at her chest, she had a dive whistle too. She blew the whistle, dropped it, and waved with her free hand, refusing to relinquish her grip on Wolfe’s vest.
Two figures, then a third, scrambled into the yellow dingy tied to the side of the boat: Pen, Ash and Griff. Of course Griff, Riga thought wearily. Something had happened, a cameraman was required. She sat on the rock, shivering, watching the dingy arc through the water towards her. The roar of its motor set a fat Canadian goose winging across the lake, honking angrily.
The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) Page 21
