Dark Demon Rising: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven

by Linda Welch

  Then why come?

  Royal took a key from his pocket, opened the door and his mouth stretched in an unconvincing smile. His voice dropped to a low croon. “Hey, Mac! Mac-boy!”

  Mac-boy? Jack mouthed.

  Those tears which were not there made my eyes swim. Royal came to tend to my boy, perhaps the bravest thing I’d known him do. Entering my house without me there, risking a chunk out of his ankle, for my sake, took guts.

  “I can’t watch,” said Mel as Royal went along the hall to the kitchen.

  He peeped around the doorframe. “Hey, Mac.”

  My little man-hater—well, Mac does not discriminate: men, women, anything with legs; an ankle is an ankle, whether it wears pants, boots or hose—sat under the kitchen table. He cocked his head, perked his ears and walked to Royal with his tongue lolling in a big doggy smile.

  Royal went to his knees and scratched Mac behind his ears.

  Shocked, I released Royal’s aura. “Well I’ll be damned.”

  After half a minute of scratching, Mac scuttled to the pantry and eyed the door expectantly. Royal went over there, got Mac’s bowl off the shelf and scooped kibble from the bag. He put the brimming bowl on the floor and Mac dived in.

  “I should have known.” I puffed out a breath. “All these years . . . cupboard love.”

  Jack said, “The little beast has learned a new appreciation of your guy now he’s the one handing out the chow.”

  “Don’t be upset,” Mel said.

  I scowled. “I’m not upset.” Not biting the hand which feeds you didn’t mean Mac changed his loyalties.

  “No, not you. Your face crunches up like that naturally.”

  I made my forehead smooth and headed for Royal. He stood with Mac, waiting for him to finish his food, which didn’t take long. Royal took the bowl to the sink.

  I sank in a crouch. “Mac. Come on, baby.”

  Mac snuffled at the floor for invisible crumbs.

  “Guess he can’t hear you, Tiff,” Mel said softly.

  My boy sometimes sensed Jack and Mel, but not me. How much of this being incorporeal could I stomach before I lost my mind? I couldn’t comfort my man, couldn’t touch my dog. I wanted to curl over on the floor and beat it with my fist.

  “He can’t possibly taste anything he eats, it goes down too fast.” Jack folded his arms. “His taste buds must have atrophied by now.”

  Mac’s head jerked up. A threatening rumble developed in his belly. With a snarl, he flung his stocky body at Jack.

  I happened to be in the way and my lad went through me. Although I felt nothing, I still cringed.

  Royal spun to face us. “Jack? Mel?”

  After a second, Jack stuttered, “What? Did you. . . ? He. . . .”

  I couldn’t get a word out either.

  “He must be desperate,” Mel said.

  Why did Royal say their names aloud? He never acknowledged their presence, now he called to them.

  Jack tore to Royal. He clasped his hands as he looked into Royal’s face. “I’m here, honey-pie.”

  I chortled. “Back off, Jack. He’s taken.”

  Royal’s wide shoulders sagged and he shook his head, a wry smile twisting his lips. He came across the kitchen to Mac and stooped over. “I have to get going.” He stroked one of Mac’s ears, then the other. “You must go outside for a minute.”

  Royal went across the kitchen, raised the pet door and opened the back door, for although Mac used the pet door to come inside, he refused to go out through it. Mac trotted outside and Royal shut the door.

  He sat at the kitchen table, a faraway look in his eyes until Mac trundled back in. Royal jumped up and snagged the towel off the peg by the back door. Dropping it on Mac, he went to his knees to rub Mac’s damp coat and mop his paws. Mac’s paws are sponges, they absorb his body weight in moisture.

  Mac wriggled out and promptly shook, spraying Royal and the floor with snowmelt. However much you towel a dog, it always has moisture to spare for a shake. Then he left tracks across the kitchen as he trotted to the pantry. Mac thinks he gets a treat every time he suffers anything done to his body.

  Royal sat back on his heels. “Mommy gives you a treat at the drop of a hat but you are a little hefty. Extra weight is not good for a dog.”

  Mac didn’t budge. He sat with his eyes lifted to the pantry.

  Royal sighed as he got upright. He opened the pantry door, dug into the small box of liver treats and dropped two on the floor for Mac, who sucked them up.

  I grinned. “Ha! Now you see why I can’t say no to the little devil.”

  Royal took his jacket off the back of a kitchen chair. “I’ll be home soon. Behave yourself while I am gone.”

  Home. Now I noticed the changes in the kitchen. Tidy, spotless counters. The floor so clean you could eat off it if so inclined, if you avoided the mucky trail Mac left. Royal’s wok perched near the sink, which didn’t contain a single dirty dish or pan. Royal was living in my house.

  “Come on, Tiff,” Jack urged. “He’s on the move.”

  I crouched and held out my hand. “Mac! C’mere boy!”

  Mac kept a hopeful gaze on the pantry door.

  I tried to snap my fingers but they didn’t work. “Mac! Hey, boy!”

  “He doesn’t hear you,” Mel said.

  Mac sensed Jack and Mel in the kitchen, why not me?

  “Now, Tiff,” Jack commanded, jogging his head at Royal.

  Royal went to Mac, bent and ruffled the hair on his head. “Behave.”

  “Mac!” I tried one last time. I didn’t want to leave him. Surely if I stayed. . . .

  “You can’t do anything here,” Jack said.

  With one last look at my little black boy, I joined my roommates as they hustled after Royal. We caught his aura and left with him through the front door.

  We pulled up outside the new courthouse which incorporates Clarion Police Department.

  “Ready?” Jack asked.

  I hoped so. If my fingers slipped their hold on Royal’s aura, I’d be stuck in the truck and I didn’t want to miss this meeting with Mike Warren.

  Jack and Mel reached out and grabbed at Royal as he slid from the pickup. I imagined we’d make a startling picture if people could see us: three people clinging to the tall man who strode up the steps and inside the courthouse.

  Royal didn’t check in with the desk sergeant. He lifted a hand to Officer Penrod and Penrod waved him on. Up the escalator we flew, stuck to Royal head to toe as if velcroed.

  Royal entered the squad room. For some unknown reason I expected it to look different. Maybe because an age seemed to have passed. But nothing had changed. Half a dozen detectives sat at desks, officers moved through the big room. And there, in his office, Mike Warren stood looking through the window.

  As we passed his desk, Brad Spacer said, “How’s she doing?”

  Royal didn’t pause, he kept going, face looking as if the muscles had frozen. “No change,” he said tersely.

  Mike turned from his window, spotted Royal approaching and beckoned him in. Royal shut the door behind him as Mike stood behind his cluttered desk.

  They shook hands across the desk. Mike sat and indicated Royal should do the same. Mel and Jack let go of Royal. Still clinging, I knelt on the floor at his side.

  “How is she?” Mike asked.

  “The same.” Royal’s expression turned grim. “They moved her out of ICU.”

  “A good sign, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. But they think she should have woken before now and do not know why she has not.”

  Mike settled deeper in his chair. “I’m pulling my men from the hospital, Roy. I need them on the street.”

  Royal nodded. “I understand.” He eyed Mike from beneath his brows. “So?”

  “This is a tough one, Roy. We don’t know if someone with a grudge tried to take out Tiff. Maybe they went after both or either of you, and Tiff was unlucky enough to offer them a clear target.”

>   “Satisfying a grudge is the obvious motive.”

  “We’re looking at the cases you worked when you were with us. As for Tiff, she never testified in court so it’s doubtful any perps or their families know of her involvement, but possible. We need a list of your private clients, some do know what Tiff does, those she did her special thing for. They might have let it slip and it got back to a perp’s family or friends. And it might be a perp; incarceration doesn’t separate them from the outside world. They may have paid someone for the hit.”

  Royal’s voice emerged leaden, lifeless. “You may never discover who did this.”

  “We will, Roy.” Mike stuck one finger in his shirt collar to tug it away from his neck. Red crept up his throat and sweat beaded on his broad forehead.

  Royal’s eyes locked on Mike’s face. He leaned back in the chair and stretched out his long legs. His gaze dropped; he tapped the fingers of his right hand rhythmically on the chair arm, and said nothing.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. It went on and on.

  Jack stood in front of a precariously stacked pile of file folders on one of Mike’s cabinets. So we could move, at least in Mike’s office. I released Royal’s aura, rose and looked at the squad room.

  And we could move in the Squad Room. Mel had snuck out of Mike’s office and now sat in a chair facing Officer Arcangelo Armellino. Tall, raven-haired, a sun-kissed complexion, swooping black brows and warm brown eyes which make a woman melt like a popsicle on a one-hundred-degree day, Archie Armellino drew Mel like a magnet.

  I went behind Mike’s desk to see if a file for me sat there but didn’t spot it.

  “What are they doing?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know.” Then I did. “See how ill at ease Mike is? He has something and Royal knows it.”

  “So it’s a kind of macho waiting game?”

  Neither Royal nor Mike said a word, but Mike’s face reddened. When I thought their war of silence would last forever, Mike said, “Roy, this is a police matter and you’re a civilian. I’ll try to keep you informed, but really I can tell you very little. I couldn’t even if you were still under my command. You’re too close. It’s personal.”

  “Damn right it is personal.”

  “I’m sorry, Roy.”

  Royal shoved up from the chair and glared. Mike opened his mouth, closed it. Both volatile men in certain circumstances, they knew they’d lose their tempers if the conversation continued.

  I watched Royal leave Mike’s office.

  “Come on!” Jack hissed. “He’s getting away.”

  I rushed after Royal and clutched his aura. Mel joined us after a final, reluctant look at Archie.

  In his truck, Royal’s face turned ruddy as anger flushed his copper complexion. “He’s on to something, Tiff.”

  “I’m wondering—” I began, and swallowed the rest. He wasn’t really talking to me.

  “I swear I will find who did this to you.” His hands clenched on the steering wheel until the leather creaked. “And when I do. . . .”

  “Oh, shit.” My shiver came not from chilly temperatures I did not feel. I recalled a night when I lay in his arms and told him my deepest fear, of dying violently and remaining as a shade. He promised to find my murderer and kill him, and release me to pass onward.

  “But I’m not dead.” My gaze darted from Jack to Mel. “If he kills anyone, it’ll be murder, and when I get back in my stupid body and wake up, and Royal understands what he’s done. . . .”

  Then I saw a deeper meaning in his words. “Oh, Royal,” I whispered. He believed I was beyond saving. He meant to find the shooter and kill him so I need not linger when I died.

  Chapter Five

  Royal pulled into the parking lot opposite his apartment, climbed from the truck and slammed the door. We floated with him to the sidewalk and across Twenty-Second.

  “Let go before he gets to the steps,” Mel said.

  I looked at the nameplate by the staircase. Banks and Mortensen. “I don’t want to,” I moaned. What if I never saw Royal again?

  “He is not going to conveniently take us to the clairvoyant. If you want to see her, let go now,” Jack snapped.

  I clenched my jaw. I refused to think I existed on borrowed time. I would get my body back. To do it, I needed every scrap of information I could gather and I couldn’t do it alone. I needed someone who operated in the physical world.

  I released my grasp on Royal’s aura and stopped moving. A giant hand folded on my heart and squeezed as I watched him climb the steps without me.

  “Now we can go on.” Mel pointed at a middle-aged blonde who carried two shopping bags. “She’s heading in the right direction.”

  “But I don’t know her.”

  “You want to wait until you see a friend?” Jack rolled his eyes. “We might be here till Christmas. You don’t understand the mechanics of traveling yet. Getting here with Royal was easy, but hopping transportation when you want a particular destination is hit or miss.”

  “Yeah. We move in increments and it can take an entire day, and that’s to get someplace in Clarion,” from Mel. “So we take what we can.”

  “Oh, okay,” I grumped. I grabbed at the women as she passed us. Her aura slipped clean through my hand.

  Luckily Mel and Jack came a heartbeat behind me. They held the woman but let go when they saw my failure. But now they stood several feet from me.

  “We have to coordinate. We can’t keep stopping for you to catch up,” Jack declared petulantly.

  It occurred to me I didn’t know where the clairvoyant lived, or operated out of. “In case we do lose one another, what’s the address?”

  Jack squinted and fingered his lower lip. “Somewhere on Pennsylvania.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “We saw her ad in the newspaper an age ago.” Mel pointed at another woman. “Her.”

  I let the woman pass me. “Do you know how long Pennsylvania is?”

  “No. Do you?”

  I didn’t exactly. “It connects east and west Clarion. It’s long,” I emphasized. I sighed as our next target passed and moved beyond reach, knowing I grasped at straws. We didn’t know Madam Magenta’s location and unless her business bore a sign, how in the world might we find her?

  Miserably, I gazed across the street at the Mad Moose and a window full of sweet and savory confections. I often paused here at the bottom of the steps to savor the aroma of pastries and coffee which seeped from the café. Now I got nothing but dead, lifeless air.

  We managed to snag a young man and he continued for half a block until he reached his car. As we had no idea where he headed, we released him.

  I groaned. This would take forever.

  And it didn’t help when Mel suddenly let go as we turned along Deacon Street piggybacked to a couple of teens who twined each other like mating octopi. Jack and I were ten feet away when we released our grips and settled to the sidewalk. “Mel!”

  “Look at these shoes,” she crooned as she stood at a store window with hands clasped at her bosom. “You’d think after all this time I’d be used to wearing the same clothes, but I’d kill to get into a new outfit.”

  “Come on, Mel,” I exhorted. “People are swarming. Catch one.”

  “In a sec.” She put her head on one side and looked at the shop window. “I adore the fashions of today.”

  “Am I gonna have to come get you?” I threatened.

  “Not your fashions, let’s face it, you don’t have any,” she continued obliviously. “Styles for the younger, slimmer, chicer woman.”

  “See what I’ve endured all these years?” from Jack.

  I dug my fingers in my hair. “Mel!”

  Scowling, she turned from the window. “You don’t have to yell. Believe me, in a few years you’ll wish for something else. You’ll be glued to store windows, imagining how fashionable clothes will look on you.”

  I wore the clothes I threw on the morning I was shot and didn’t notice what I put on at the time. A plain
white T-shirt, blue fleece vest, worn blue jeans, black leather jacket and brown leather ankle boots. My usual stylish ensemble.

  Hm. Why the clothes I wore when shot, not a hospital gown? I supposed I should think myself fortunate. I shuddered to imagine the remarks Jack might invent had I worn a short, gaping gown.

  Oh, my. I reached inside my jacket, found my angle draw holster and drew my Ruger.

  “What are you doing?” Jack shrilled.

  “Just thought of the stuff in my pockets and wondered if I had this.” I turned the gun in my hand, studying it.

  “Put it away!” Mel piped. “It might go off!”

  I met her agitated gaze. “Why? Nobody but us can see it. If it does fire, it can’t hurt anyone. Can it?” I pointed the barrel skyward.

  Jack lifted his hands, palm down, and flapped them. “Don’t try it, Tiff. Better safe than sorry.”

  “If it doesn’t hurt the living, what if you shoot a ghost bird, or a ghost plane, or an angel?” from Mel.

  “Mel,” I snorted, and put a little pressure the trigger.

  It didn’t move, not a fraction. I pulled harder. For a second I marveled that however much pressure I put on the trigger, my finger didn’t feel near to breaking.

  “What do I need the damn thing for anyway?” I rammed the Ruger in the holster.

  “We aren’t left with what we need, we get what we carried with us at the time,” said Jack. He pushed one hand in his pants pocket. “Look.”

  A dime balanced on his palm. Jack peered at it sadly. “It’s all I have, they took everything else.”

  “Me, too,” said Mel. “Even my earrings.”

  “They must have missed it.” Jack sighed and slipped the coin in his hip pocket. “And I can’t get rid of it. Not that I want to. I accidentally dropped it down the heat register in the kitchen. Days later when I put my hands in my pockets, there it was. So I experimented, tossing it away, finding it back in my pocket.”

  When you are used to a certain weight in your pockets, you don’t notice it, which is why I didn’t immediately marvel I had my Ruger. Now I groped in my jacket and jeans pockets and fished out the contents. My house and car keys, my wallet which would not open, a stick of gum I couldn’t get out of the wrapper, and half a dog biscuit.