“Good call.” Rixton keyed up the radio so I could call in the promised backup. “Those kids are brave, but there’s a thin line between brave and stupid.”
I finished the call and was ready to hit the ground running when we parked in front of the roaring bonfire that used to be a sprawling plantation-style home. A portion of the downstairs had been dedicated to the family restaurant and other business pursuits while the living quarters were upstairs. None of it would survive. I read it plainly on the faces of the firemen working to keep the blaze from spreading to the western fields. The eastern fields, where the trapped cattle bellowed for salvation, was being devoured on the whims of the breeze.
Three men and a woman dressed in jeans and matching tees looked on with grief in their eyes. The oldest of the group, a man of around forty, noticed us and limped over to offer his hand.
“I’m Peter Culberson.” He favored his left side, but I could tell the EMTs had been and gone thanks to the missing lower leg of his jeans and the bright bandage wrapping his shin. “Guess you’re here to talk about Boris Ivashov.”
Rixton handled the introductions then asked, “Is he the arsonist?”
“Yeah.” The man ruffled his hair. “I guess.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he did this. He’s been with us for years.” He glanced up, a hint of shock dulling his eyes. “You think you know someone, right?”
Telling him you could never truly know another person was counterproductive, so I shepherded him back on topic. “Where is Mr. Ivashov?”
“They took him to Madison Memorial.” He shifted his weight, grimaced. “He’s in bad shape. I’d be shocked if he survived the night.” He scanned the fields around us through bleak eyes. “Hell, I’d be impressed if they got him there alive in the first place.”
Despite the wall of heat roasting my cheeks, I shivered with the knowledge we would have to stop by the hospital at some point, assuming the man survived. “Can you tell us what happened?”
“We’re trying out a new lunch menu, so the restaurant was open earlier than usual. I was in the back with our chef when customers started screaming. I ran into the dining room in time to see Boris smash out the front window with the butt of a drip torch, one of those metal canister deals we use for controlled burns on the back forty.” Mr. Culberson rubbed his face with the heels of his palms. “He set fire to the tablecloths first, and once the customers started scattering, he got serious about lighting up the tables and chairs.
“We focused on distracting Boris long enough for everyone to clear the building, but he got riled up when he lost his audience and started chasing folks to their cars. I took a shovel and beat him back, but it was like he didn’t feel it.” A harsh chuckle moved through him. “Guess I did my job a little too well. He started running after me then. Scared me so bad the way he was waving that torch around, I tripped over my own damn feet and fell through a busted-out window. I got my shin cut up pretty good, but I’ve had worse. Working on a farm, we’ve all had worse. I got out of there, but Boris walked right into the house, sat down at one of the tables like he was waiting to be served, and didn’t budge until one of the firemen hauled him to safety.”
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Culberson,” Rixton said, ending the interview. “I hope you make a speedy recovery.”
“I’m glad no one else was hurt,” I added. “You were all very lucky.”
“Tell me about it.” He looked back at the others. “We’re all alive. That’s what matters. We can always rebuild.”
The others corroborated Mr. Culberson’s version of events. We chatted up the fireman responsible for hauling Ivashov out, and he confirmed the victim had been ready to sit at his table until the flesh melted from his bones. He didn’t put up a fight until the fireman made it clear he wasn’t leaving him to finish roasting.
According to his co-workers, Ivashov exhibited no signs of depression and had expressed no suicidal thoughts. His rampage had been an unintelligible litany of snarls and growls, so no light bulb moment there, either.
Hours later, after the fire had been contained, Rixton and I got in the car and hit a fast food joint. We parked and let the car idle while we crammed burgers and fries into our faces then washed down all the delicious grease with cold milkshakes too thick for our straws.
“We need a make and model on those drip torches.” I swirled a salty fry through my chocolate shake then popped it in my mouth. “We also need to find out if there’s any connection between Boris Ivashov and Les Rowland.”
“Or between the Hensarlings and the Culbersons,” he added. “I can’t see a tie between cotton and cattle, but there might be overlap on the administrative side or a less obvious link.”
“Loans through the same bank.” I picked up his thought process. “Policies through the same insurance company.”
“Speaking of insurance companies.” He slurped on his strawberry malt. “How did your chat go with the suit? Any progress on your claim?”
“The chat was about as much fun as you’d expect.” Understatement of the year. “No word yet on when or if they’ll be cutting us a check. Apparently, when they wrote up our policy, no one paused to consider the need to hammer out the verbiage for a super gator clause.”
Rixton grunted an acknowledgement, or maybe he’d just given himself an ice cream headache.
“No one could have seen that one coming.” His frown drilled into the oncoming darkness beyond the windshield. “My guy at MDWFP says they have yet to locate a super gator in the wild. The tracks and slides are all old. Folks got curious and hit the water searching for them, but there have been no civilian sightings either. The general consensus seems to be that Super Gator Fever flushed the beasts from their homes out into the Mississippi.”
“Gators on the river, even ones that size, could be anywhere by now.” The lie fell from my lips with ease that shamed me. Keeping Rixton in the dark was the smart thing to do, I had no doubts on that score, but I hated withholding information that might one day protect him and his family. “It wouldn’t hurt my feelings if I never saw another one.”
Too bad the odds of that happening were zero.
War might have beaten a strategic retreat, but she was far from defeated.
“Unit four-one-six.” The radio fuzzed to life. “We received a 911 call from a driver involved in a single car accident on Peace Street. Emergency services are en route.”
“We’ll be there in five,” I told dispatch while cramming our trash into its original paper bag. “We can clean up this mess then head back to the station. We need to pull everything we’ve got on the Hensarlings and the Culbersons. I’ll take the Culberson file with me, and you can have the Hensarlings. I could use the reading material on the drive tomorrow.”
I bit my tongue, but it was too late to call back the words. Exhaustion had made me slip up and bad.
“A drive, huh?” He threw the car into gear and spun out on the street. “Where are you headed?” I’m not sure what he saw from the corner of his eye, but it had him cackling with glee. “Or am I not asking the right question? Who are you heading there with? Who is freeing you up to read?”
“You sound like a damned owl.”
“Owls are wise, and they also deliver acceptance letters to kids who get into witchcraft and wizardry school. I’ll take it.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Now about this drive…”
Cole was the obvious answer to the real question Rixton was asking. He’d met Cole, and thanks to him defending my honor against that photog turd Moses Franke in Hannigan’s, more than a few of our coworkers assumed we’d had a fling during the Claremont case. But I wasn’t up to the scrutiny while I still sported bandages on my toes from my sprint through the woods.
“I’ll let you know if things get serious” sounded like an ideal compromise.
“My BS senses are tingling.” He tapped the side of his nose. “You’re being evasive. That means you know I won’t approve, which means I’ve met him or I know of him.” His hands
tightened on the wheel. “Tell me you’re not seeing Heaton.”
“Cole and I are not dating.” That much was the God’s honest truth. “Stop fishing. You’re not going to catch anything.”
“Oh, Bou-Bou,” he lamented. “I trained you. I molded you in my image. I am the process behind every thought you have. That air current swirling under your pits? It’s not the vents. That’s me. I am the wind beneath your wings.”
“Do you hear yourself?” I twisted in my seat. “Does what you just said make any sense to you? I’m honestly curious if what I’m hearing is actually what you think you’re saying.”
“The point is this —” A solid minute lapsed during which I wondered if he had forgotten his point, or if he had ever known it in the first place. “You have insulted my powers of deductive reasoning, and for that you must be punished.”
“Let me guess.” I saw where this was heading. “Punishment involves you discovering who I’m going out with and exposing me, probably in a public forum. Let’s say the breakroom. Probably after you’ve chummed the waters with a dozen cherry-flavored jelly donuts to ensure your audience is primed to chomp at all the juicy details.”
On a slow news day, my love life was worth a column and obligatory grainy photo in the local paper. Most guys didn’t enjoy seeing their private business splashed across the gossip pages, particularly when the articles insinuated they were dating a cryptid, but the few who caught a thrill got booted before the ink dried.
“Aww.” Rixton mimed wiping away tears. “You flatter me, but no. I would never waste a dozen donuts on breakroom letches who were only in it for the sugar. I will, however, unmask your boyfriend in front of my wife, who will do the rest of my dirty work for me. Name, description, likes, dislikes, the whole shebang.”
The unspoken chastisement that I would even kid about him outing me in any way etched frown lines on either side of his mouth. The only person who hated vultures more than me was Rixton.
Misery swelled behind my breastbone until the pressure shot bolts of agony straight through my heart.
How was I going to tell him I was quitting? How was I going to justify my choice without getting into the whole I’m a demon with badass, world-ending sisters out to wipe your species off the planet specifics? And if he pushed me for details, well… yeah, Detective. How was I going to admit that as horrific as that sounded, I had brought them here?
CHAPTER SIX
As much as I wanted to head home at the end of my shift, that had Bad Idea written all over it. Even if Wu hadn’t issued himself an open invitation into my bedroom, which was damn creepy considering how often the house had sat unoccupied during the last week, leaving him free to rummage through the debris of my life, there was still the mystery of the plants to solve. I didn’t have much pride left after this morning, but I wasn’t about to risk stumbling through the yard in the dark and contracting another round of the come to mammas. Once I got hot and bothered, I had no doubt who my lust would target. I could imagine how well that conversation would go if I wound up sweating it out on his doorstep.
So, Cole, I get that Conquest enslaved you, slaughtered your people, and laid waste to your empire, but do you think I could rub against you for a little while? Just until my skin stops itching? What’s that? You can’t actually tell me no because of the whole enslavement thing? So I can use your back like a scratching post or nah?
No. Just no. Me and my libido were not his problem.
Far safer for me to head back to the Trudeaus’ where I could check in on Dad. Bunking with my uncle guaranteed tomorrow’s pickup would be awkward since White Horse had left town as far as he knew, but the location would protect the coterie from exposure. If my desire had been a thread, Cole’s had been a noose cinched around my throat, choking off all oxygen except for what he allowed me. I wouldn’t put him through that again.
Air mattress it is.
“Earth to Bou-Bou.” Rixton waved a hand in front of my face, drawing my attention to the fact we were parked in his driveway. “Are you coming inside to see the missus?” He jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. “We can order pizza. Watch a movie.” He licked his pinky finger then smoothed his eyebrows. “You can babysit while Sherry and I —”
“I can’t be in the same house as you while you’re doing… that.” I slapped my hands over my ears. “I have a long day ahead of me, and I don’t need the nightmares.”
“That’s right,” he mouthed in front of me. “You have a date tomorrow.”
Me and my big mouth. “Say it with me: scenic drive.” While hunting for cat-mummifying demons. “Natchez Trace Parkway is gorgeous this time of year.” I lowered my hands in defeat. “You should take your girls on a picnic or something.”
He fluttered his eyelashes at me. “Is that an invitation to join you?”
“The fall colors won’t be out in full force until mid-October,” I countered sweetly. “For maximum romance, you should wait until then.”
His eyes almost vanished in their crinkles. “So you admit it’s romantic.”
“I’m out.” I left him to choke on his smugness and got in my Bronco. “What the —?” I reached under my butt and pulled out a thin piece of metal. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Self-conscious as all get-out, I inhaled the way Thom always seem to be doing, but I didn’t pick up any peculiar scents. I sniffed the phone itself, feeling ten kinds of stupid, but all I picked up was leather from the bifold. “So much for my demonic super powers.”
A rap on the glass startled me into dropping the thing in the floorboard. I cranked the engine and lowered the window while Rixton gave me an expectant look I couldn’t interpret. “What?”
“Are you having second thoughts about —” he winked four or five times in a row “— you know?”
“Helping you get laid?” Jabbing the button, I waited until the glass almost sealed before chirping, “Nope.”
“You’re a cold woman, Boudreau.” He clutched his chest. “Dare I say heartless?”
“What?” I cupped a hand around one ear. “Did you say something? I can’t hear you.”
The porch light flicked on, and I spotted Sherry moving behind the window. If I wanted to make a clean getaway, this was my only chance. I tossed a wave at Rixton, put the Bronco in gear, then backed out faster than Sherry could take the stairs while also pretending not to see her. A low move, yes, but she would talk my ear off if I let her, and I wanted a little quiet time to gather my thoughts before bed.
Briiiiiiing.
I sucked in air through my front teeth while my heart slammed against my ribs, a Pavlovian response that made my fingers itch for the rotary phone on my nightstand. Not answering was next to impossible. Had the cell not been sliding beneath my feet, I would have caved to years of conditioning.
Briiiiiiing.
Of all the ringtones in all the apps in all the world, Wu had to select that one.
The tang of copper in my mouth was the first sign I had let my anxiety gnaw a layer of skin off my bottom lip. Cursing a blue streak, I turned in to the first fast food chain I spotted and scooped up the silent phone. This time I hit redial before my brain caught up with my thumb.
“How did you know?” I demanded the second he answered. “Who told you about the ringtone?”
Wu chuckled in my ear. “Who do you think?”
The phone cut into my fingers, but I couldn’t seem to loosen them. “How do you know him?”
“It’s a small world.”
Compared to my world as of a week ago? This new world of demons and infinite hells was freaking endless. “Does he work for the NSB too?”
Wu let the silence do the heaving lifting for him.
Yet another thing he had in common with Ezra.
“Answer me, or I’m taking a hammer to this cell when I get where I’m going. I’ll do the same to the next one and the next one and the next one until I find you and shove the carrot you’re dangling in front of my nose straight down your throat.”
&
nbsp; “Why does he matter so much to you?”
I clamped my mouth shut until my raw lips tingled and numbed from the pressure.
“Show me yours,” he coaxed, “and I’ll show you mine.”
“I used to think he had all the answers, that he knew me, okay?” For the longest time, some small corner of my heart had been convinced I mattered to him. Why else call? Why else make a connection? Why else spare me the agony that pressed in on me every year on my birthday? Without his intervention, I clawed at the unquenchable itch like I might rake the skin from my bones and reveal what lurked beneath. Only Ezra could stay my hand, his voice more soothing than calamine lotion. “I want to look him in the eyes, put a face to the name, at least once. He owes me that much. I deserve an explanation.”
Bone Driven Page 7
