Southernmost Murder

by C. S. Poe

  Just my phone’s flashlight it was, then. I followed the small beam out of the parlor and across the downstairs to peek into the dining room. Dark. Empty. Ghost- and intruder-free. I circled around to the stairs and started up. My palms were sweaty and Jun’s gun weighed about a thousand pounds in my hand, but I was fine. I could do this.

  I had to take my house back.

  Well, not my house, but I digress.

  Anyway, a gun would stop someone dressed like Ghost Smith. Unless… you know, there was still that little chance Ghost Smith was… a ghost. In which case a bullet wouldn’t do much. Fuck. I should have brought salt or something. That’s what they used on Supernatural.

  By the time I’d reached the second floor, I realized my thoughts had detoured drastically from guns and intruders and ghosts and whatnot to being centered mostly on how hot Jensen Ackles was. I chuckled and then froze when I heard a creak that hadn’t come from my own steps.

  I stopped breathing.

  I didn’t move a muscle.

  Be chill, I told myself. Be the Aubrey Grant you were at the beginning of the week.

  I wasn’t afraid to stand up for myself.

  I wasn’t a wimp.

  I took all of life’s curveballs and carried on.

  But most important, I would never hear the end of it if I told Sebastian about this and admit I ran away before investigating. He was my junior, after all. I have to keep face with the kid.

  Squaring my shoulders, I boldly walked into the master bedroom, flashing my phone in all of the corners and clearing it of any persons, physical or spectral. I did the same in the children’s room and concluded what I’d heard must have simply been the house settling. So onward to the third floor.

  I walked up the second set of stairs, no longer trying to be quiet. The Smith Family Historical Home was my life, damn it. Someone could try to take it from me, sure. But they’d have to deal with me kicking and screaming the entire time.

  “Okay,” I called as I reached the landing. “I know I’m alone, but on the off chance I’m not, I’ve got a huge gun and I don’t know how to use it, so don’t fuck with me.”

  The house was silent.

  “That’s what I thought,” I answered back.

  I walked into the study, shining the light around. The rope barriers had been left on the floor, untouched by the investigating police. And like I’d predicted, it was the ones to the far right of the room, where maps were framed and hanging on the wall—leaving Smith’s desk and small artifacts untouched. I carefully stepped over the ropes.

  Color me fucking surprised as I stared at a big empty spot where Smith’s original map was supposed to be. I was angry that I’d been robbed, but this was good for two reasons: one, it leaned heavily in favor of Jack’s Spanish treasure being very real, and two, I kept digital photographs of every antique in the house for cataloging and insurance purposes. So I still had access to the treasure map’s details.

  I just wish I knew what it was about this map in particular. I’d guessed correctly that it would be missing, but for the life of me, when I closed my eyes and recreated the image in my mind, there was nothing… treasure mappy about it. It was simply a topographical map of Key West that Smith had made harmless notations on. I shined my light on the other charts still hanging on the wall, but they weren’t original to the house, and nothing jumped out at me as thar be silver here!

  So what was I missing?

  What did Cassidy and his killer know that I didn’t?

  There was something obvious I was overlooking. It had to be right in front of my face and I’d just written it off as nothing.

  I walked out of the study and went back to the storage closet where this entire fiasco began. I unlocked the door and went inside, shining my light onto the false wall and staring hard at the wallpaper. It covered the entire interior of the closet, but was also inside the nook behind the false wall.

  It was a cream color, wonderfully preserved, with shimmery stars and crescent moons in random patterns. This was the anomaly in the house. The anomaly in the entire tale unfolding before me, really. Everything followed a timeline, from the 1850s straight on until Captain Smith, aka One-Eyed Jack, bit the big one and his body mysteriously vanished in 1871. And yet, this style of wallpaper was from the mid-1880s, and it appeared nowhere else in the house. In fact, I believe it was a style seen more in New England and—

  “I’ll be damned,” I murmured. Now I knew why it always struck me as such an odd style. It was actually a ceiling paper.

  I put my elbows on the wall and leaned into the nook. The ceiling paper was better preserved here than the rest of the closet. The stars were vivid and sharp, varying in tones of gold, copper, and silver, while the centers had mismatching dots of color. I shifted my phone and Jun’s gun to the same hand and reached out to brush my fingertips against the paper. I’d seen stars like this before—in this house.

  “Son of a—”

  “Aubrey!”

  I flailed, fumbled, dropped my phone, and held the gun up in a panic. “Stay back!” I shouted.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s me!”

  Oh crap.

  “Jun?”

  “Who did you think?” He replied, dark silhouette holding his hands up in defense. “Put that down right now.”

  I lowered the pistol, Jun immediately came forward, and snatched it from my hands. “I’m sorry,” I started.

  The light shining from the phone on the floor cast distorted, angry shadows on Jun’s face.

  He checked the safety and clip before tucking it into the back of his jeans. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, moving closer and towering over me. “I don’t know where to direct my anger first.”

  “I was only—”

  “Breaking and entering.”

  “I work here!”

  “It’s a crime scene, Aubrey!”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You stole my handgun,” he continued. “You took a federal agent’s weapon, and you’re waving it around out in the open like an idiot. Do you want to go to prison?”

  “I didn’t steal it!” I argued. “I borrowed it! I wasn’t going to shoot it. I just wanted to feel safe.”

  “You’d feel plenty safe if you weren’t sneaking around at half past three in the goddamn morning!” Jun said, voice booming and scary angry. “You could have blown my head off. You could have shot yourself!”

  Geez. I wasn’t just skating on thin ice; it had cracked underfoot and I was drowning. “I discovered what was missing,” I tried desperately.

  Jun narrowed his eyes. “Out,” he said, his tone dropping low and frankly proving to be even scarier than when he shouted. “We’re going home now.”

  “Jun, we can’t. There—”

  “Aubrey. Don’t.”

  I swallowed. I didn’t move, didn’t say a word as I stared at him.

  Taking his gun…. God, fuck, what was I thinking? I felt tears pricking the corners of my eyes as the very real fear of Jun breaking up with me and leaving immediately settled like a rock in my stomach. I tried to apologize, but nothing came out. My throat was dry, parched like I’d been stranded on an island with no well. I reached out for Jun, and he stopped me, beginning to push my hands back before he froze.

  Jun turned his head at the same time I looked around him toward the open closet door and the third-floor landing. Halfway up the steps, staring at us from between the banisters, was Captain Smith. Only a second or two passed between the three of us, but I swear it might as well have been an hour. Jun and I staring at him, Smith staring right back. He was as real and solid as the first run-in I’d had with him, and now Jun saw exactly what I’d been hysterical about.

  My knees buckled, and I grabbed at the nook. I used my hold on the wall to keep myself sort of standing, while my cataplexy fought to drag me into a useless heap on the floor. “S-Smith!” I sort of slur-shouted.

  It was hard to make out details in the near dark, but I knew Smith froze. A gh
ost had no reason to be on alert. So an intruder. A living, breathing human. For some reason dressed as Captain Smith.

  “FBI,” Jun said in a commanding voice. “Freeze!”

  Nope. Smith turned and bolted down the stairs, feet pounding and the house shaking as he made a mad dash for safety. Jun took off after him, flying down the steps and vanishing from sight.

  “Fuck, wait! Jun!”

  I let go of the wall and grabbed my phone before I staggered and stumbled to the stairs. I looked to the second floor and saw Jun race along the hall and make a sharp turn before continuing down the next flight. I gripped the railing and tried to hurry after the two without killing myself. At the second floor, I had to stop and give my muscles a moment to gather strength before I continued to the main floor. I was halfway down the next set of stairs when I heard the parlor window slam open and bodies scramble out of it.

  Come on, come on!

  The cataplexy wasn’t as awful as it could have been, and by the time I reached the parlor, I was okay, but alone in the house. I ran for the window and all but dove out of it to try and catch up to Smith and Jun. I jumped off the back porch steps and turned to my left in time to see Jun vanish into the surrounding heliconias and leap over the picket fence.

  I was in no shape to do that—I’d only just given up smoking! Damn it! I tore off into the gardens, reached the fence, and hoisted myself up before landing hard on the sidewalk outside the property. I wiped my palms on my pants, turned around, and looked for them. I saw Jun racing down Greene Street, so I took off after him.

  Smith was at least a block ahead, with Jun closing in on him. I pushed myself harder, blood pumping and adrenaline racing. Our feet pounded the pavement, echoing along the empty street. We ran by a sushi restaurant, a hot sauce shop, and half a dozen bars, all shuttered and silent. A chicken startled somewhere nearby, squawking and flapping its wings.

  A trash can was overturned ahead of me by Smith, the metal rattling loud enough to wake the dead. I watched Jun leap the obstacle with ease, but no way were my short legs taking me over it. I’d end up face-planted in a half-eaten cheeseburger for sure. I dodged sideways, barely missed tripping over the lid, and kept going. My lungs were burning, and I had a stitch in my side now, but Smith hadn’t stopped and neither had Jun.

  We reached the boardwalk, and Smith didn’t hesitate to run up a set of stairs and along the winding path. If Jun hadn’t been so close on Smith’s heels, he might have gotten lost in the dark twists and turns. The few drunk people still hanging around, maybe waiting for the sunrise, let out shouts of surprise as we ran by. The only immediate thought I had at this point was Jesus Christ, I’m going to die. Not even back in high school gym class had I ever run like this. But somewhere in between wishing for sweet death, I thought, Jun should have some sort of FBI logo on his body. Not that a T-shirt or jacket would protect him any better, but anyone could claim to be something, you know? I could claim to be Santa Claus, but without the beard and suit, I thought I wouldn’t be taken very seriously.

  I didn’t want to see Jun hurt because of the fuckup I’d made.

  Sea Shack was looming in the distance, a shadow against the darker sky. The boats docked to the left bobbed and rocked in the gentle coming and going of the waves. I stumbled when I dared to glance at the water and crashed to the ground, bruising and scraping my knees. I swore loudly and gripped my scratched, bloodied hands.

  When I finally looked up, hissing through clenched teeth, I saw Smith jump into one of the boats. An engine turned over and failed.

  “Out of the boat!” Jun shouted. He stopped running and took a firing stance.

  Then a shot pierced the quiet of the island.

  Jun ducked and ran for cover.

  Oh God, oh God. Jun hadn’t fired—Smith had!

  I scrambled to my feet as the boat’s engine turned over again and another shot seemed to shatter the night like a hammer to a mirror. I dove behind a trash can and peeked around the side. I watched Jun lean out from behind a small white building that housed the electrical controls for the pier’s lights, but he didn’t have a chance to fire before Smith took a third shot.

  The engine sputtered once more, and then it seemed like Smith gave up, climbed back onto the dock, and shot in Jun’s direction as he began to run again. Jun fired back this time, and Smith clutched his bicep and stumbled forward but kept running. Now it was official. Jun would have to account for that bullet. I’d gotten the FBI involved when all the poor man wanted to do was enjoy a little R&R in a tropical paradise.

  Instead?

  More of the shit Jun dealt with on a daily basis.

  Dead bodies. Criminals. Shootouts. Just… you know, instead of chasing suspects down smelly back alleys in New York, Los Angeles, or Boston, Jun was doing it with the ocean on his left and palm trees to his right. It really wasn’t much of a consolation prize, though.

  “Jun!” I shouted, slowly standing.

  Jun came out into the open and took sure strides toward the middle of the walkway, looking at where Smith had vanished down another road toward a residential area. “Stay where you are,” he told me before going to the boat.

  “Like hell,” I called, hurrying after him, ignoring the burning pain of my scraped knees.

  I could hear sirens nearby. The shots had roused at least one Good Samaritan.

  Jun got to the dock’s edge and peered into the boat, gun aimed and ready if there was anyone inside.

  “Jun,” I said again, reaching his side and then freezing when he held his hand out to stop me.

  I peered into the boat and saw the cause for concern.

  Peg Hart—dead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE SIRENS were right behind us.

  I turned away from the boat to see police cars pulling into Sea Shack’s parking area. Jun turned as well, gun now aimed at the ground in a nonthreatening manner. I could practically feel him vibrating at my side. I looked and caught a stain on his shirt and arm.

  “You’ve been shot!” I exclaimed.

  Jun shook his head tersely. “Just a scratch,” he replied.

  “Drop the weapon!” an officer called out, standing behind his car door and aiming a gun at us.

  I put my hands up.

  Jun slowly set the gun on the ground. “I’m a federal agent,” he said as a few officers approached. “I have identification in my back pocket.” He put his hands behind his head as one of the officers roughly grabbed him and started searching Jun for more weapons.

  “For Christ’s sake,” I called when the second officer ordered my hands behind my head. “He’s FBI,” I told the first guy. “You going to buy him breakfast after that frisk?”

  “Stop, Aubrey,” Jun said firmly.

  The first officer finally pulled Jun’s badge from his pocket and opened it. “Special Agent Jun Tanaka.” He looked back and, after a beat, handed Jun the badge. “My apologies.”

  Jun tucked the badge away and collected his gun, giving the officer who was checking me a hard look. “He’s with me.”

  I lowered my hands when the cop backed away.

  The first officer extended his hand to Jun, who briefly shook it. “Officer Brown. We got a call about three suspicious men seen running along the boardwalk and multiple shots fired,” he stated.

  “Four shots were fired by the subject I pursued here on foot,” Jun answered. “I returned one shot after I was hit.” He turned a bit to show the blood soaking his T-shirt sleeve. “Mr. Grant was unarmed and ran for cover,” Jun finished, pointing at me.

  “I’ll call for an ambulance,” the second officer said as he tilted the remote speaker on his shoulder and began reporting the situation as he walked back to the vehicles.

  “I chased the subject from the Smith Historical Home,” Jun said.

  “That’s pretty far,” Brown said, impressed.

  Yeah, and I felt every cigarette I ever smoked the entire way.

  “I believe the subject to be involved in an on
going homicide investigation headed by Detective Tillman out of Stock Island. However, my current cause for concern is what’s in the boat the subject tried to escape on.”

  Brown’s expression faltered. “And what’s that, Agent?”

  Jun turned around and walked back to the water’s edge, pointing. “This individual is a friend of the first murder victim.”

  Brown peered into the boat, and I leaned a bit to catch the color drain from his face, but he kept cool. “Tillman, you said?”

  “Yes,” Jun answered.

  “I’ll get him out here right away,” Brown said, getting on his own radio.

  JUN REFUSED medical treatment at the hospital. He sat with one of the EMTs, who was cleaning and wrapping the wound on his bicep. “Are you okay?” he asked me.

  I realized I had my arms wrapped so tight around myself, it looked like I was gripping my stomach so I wouldn’t hurl. “Me? Yeah.” I dropped my hands to my sides.

  He nodded his chin in my direction. “You scraped your hands.”

  I looked down at them. My palms were caked in dirt and dried blood. I shrugged. “Just a boo-boo.” Jun was staring hard when our eyes met again. “I’ve got Hello Kitty Band-Aids at home I’ve been dying to use.”

  He frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, glancing at the EMT and back at Jun. “I just wanted to help. The only time I’ve ever run away from a problem was with Matt, and I gave up a life in New York that I loved because of it. I gave up my friendship with you. I didn’t want to make that mistake again. Does that make sense? I didn’t want this mess to ruin everything, and I felt it would have if I didn’t confront it and try to… help fix it.”

  Jun didn’t respond but stood when the EMT gave him the all clear. He came toward me, got right up in that nonexistent personal space New Yorkers were used to having invaded, and put his hands firmly on my shoulders. “Yes, it makes sense.”

  “But you’re still pretty pissed, aren’t you?” I stared up at Jun.

  “Oh yes.”