by Linda Welch
Defeated, she folded her body to sit beneath the cherry tree.
Well, nothing I could do about it. I headed for the house.
I had no idea how to go about breaking into a building, so I called Mike, ignoring Jack and Mel for the moment.
“I won’t believe nothing of Lawrence is in their apartment till I see for myself.”
“Well, it’s not a crime scene, so I suppose there’s no harm letting you take a look. But the manager may have already cleared out the place.”
“Damn! I hope not.”
“I’ll give him a call. Give me a few minutes.”
Mike called me back five minutes later. “He hasn’t got to it yet, so I let him know you’ll be by.”
I was relieved. If Mike had said no and I tried to barge in anyway, I would be in it deep when he found out. And I was determined to get inside Lindy’s apartment, one way or another.
Chapter Four
Jack and Mel were all around me like there were more than two of them. “Well?” from Jack. Mel hopped up and down in agitation.
So I told them about it as I went in the pantry and reached to the top shelf for a small canister I kept there. They followed me to the kitchen counter, all bated breath and widened eyes; metaphorically speaking. Skipping over the fact a little boy was missing, they zeroed in on what they considered the most intriguing aspect of Lindy’s case.
“But that means… .” from Mel.
“Demon,” Jack provided.
“Or -” Mel began, voice all fluttery.
I cut her off. “Or nothing. No vampires. No werewolves. No pixies or trolls or djinns.”
“You call them demons, but you don’t know what they actually are.” Jack planted himself in front of me as I removed the lid from the can. “They could be anything.”
“Does Gorge mind you calling him a demon?” Mel asked.
I did Jack the courtesy of going around him, not through him. “I don’t. Not to his face.” I tightened my jaw, exasperated. “You know it’s just a term I use. As Jack says, they could be anything.”
Mel had an unholy fixation with Gorgeous Gorge. “Anything so cute can’t be a demon.”
I shook my head with irritation. “You’ve never met Gorge.”
“I’d like to.”
As if I would invite a demon in my house.
“I did see his photo in the newspaper once, and he is cute!”
I would never call a demon cute. Incredibly handsome. Charming. Deadly. Not to be trusted. According to Lynn, they did not blatantly lie, but could do so by omission when it suited them. And you could ask them a question and they answered in such a way that, without exactly lying, they didn’t give you the truth.
Although Gorge owned his small antique shop, he didn’t need a business; he didn’t need the income it provided. Lynn told me demons have no interest in possessions. They were all about sensual gratification. They fed off us, off our arousal, and it gave them an incredible high. They didn’t harm people they used, although they certainly could. Their victims were not hurt, they were compensated by sharing the sensations the Otherworldy themselves experienced. It could be an exquisitely rewarding relationship. Or so Lynn told me.
Lynn told me a lot about demons which later proved less than factual.
I dug in the canister and put a handful of steel filings in each pocket of my Levis. Not much in the way of protection, but I had something better as backup. If a demon killed Lindy, I was not going near her apartment unprepared.
Jack hung over my shoulder as I got my Ruger SR9 from the kitchen drawer, made sure the safety was on and looked for the holster. I own a hip holster, but I prefer the angle-draw shoulder holster. The Ruger is slim, and light enough for concealed-carry, and the magazine is double stack, holding seventeen rounds. The frame is impact-resistant polymer, but the sides and barrel are stainless steel. I figured if I had to shoot a demon, and missed, I could batter it with the gun.
I didn’t buy the gun with battering demons in mind. As a woman living alone, I believe in the right to defend myself. I believe in my right to bear arms. And because I also believe I should be able to go anywhere in my town and not fall victim to some drugged-out mugger, I have a concealed-carry permit. And although I’m no markswoman, I generally hit what I aim at, or the State of Utah would not have given me a permit.
I found the holster on the hall coat-stand, under my suede coat. Jack watched me fasten it and snug in the Ruger. “Now you’re frightening me.”
“Ooh! Jackie’s scared to death!” Mel sang.
Jack shook his head. “You think you’re so damn funny. You’re not.”
“Funnier than you, deadboy. I can tell a joke we haven’t heard like a million times.”
“Really?” Jack’s hands went to his hips. “Let me have it.”
Mel’s head jutted forward. “If only I could. I’d let you have it … right where it hurts.”
Jack beckoned with crooked fingers. “Bring it on, baby.”
As they argued, I crept past them and out the backdoor.
A ten-foot-high redbrick wall surrounds my orchard on three sides, which makes the place kind of stick out, because no other properties in the area have high walls. A few old maple and sycamore rear up behind the wall and beyond them the apartment complex raises its head.
It was not here when I moved in. Just a matted, humpy old field and a few trees. The way land was at a premium in the area, I should have known someone would build eventually.
A tall wrought-iron gate bisects my wall. I used to imagine previous owners of my house taking their dogs through there for their morning walk among the trees, then across the field. I went that route myself to reach a small, family owned corner-store called Marvin’s Mart until it fell victim to the apartment complex.
I started off in the dusk. The woods were not very deep and the lamps from the street ahead penetrated through the trees. The air was crisp and cold, permeated by wood smoke, and I would have seen a lot more stars if not for the glow from Clarion behind me. Leaves crunched under my feet; one more good wind and those remaining on the trees would come down. The leaves turned early this year and looked crispier, and I wondered if the past summer’s drought had something to do with that.
In a couple of minutes, I was standing on the curb, looking across the street at the three-story apartment complex.
To give them their due, whoever designed the complex tried to make it blend in with the area and the old east bench homes. Built of honey-colored brick with steeply pitched slate roofs, oak doors and window frames, it looks older than it actually is. The main block faces east, with a wing extending at each end, surrounding a beautiful expanse of lawn trisected by cobblestone paths. The sidewalks surrounding the entire complex are likewise cobblestone. At each corner, where the wings join the main block, an arched passage goes through to the rear of the complex.
Borders of shrubs and annuals had been tidied up and mulched for the winter, but I remembered how pretty they looked in spring, summer and early fall. I waited for two cars to drive past, then crossed the street.
As is often the case, the manager’s apartment is on the ground floor just off the main entrance. The manager, a small, balding man, was not at all interested in me or why I wanted to get inside Lindy’s apartment. Yes, Lieutenant Warren called him and here was the key. He kept looking back over his shoulder at his TV as he spoke to me, and the door shut in my face before I took more than one step back.
I went outside and through one of the passages to the back. I looked over a nice little play area for the kids and a fenced-in swimming pool, now covered, the gates locked. I wanted to get to Lindy’s apartment from the rear, to see if I could spot anything odd on the backstairs going up.
The top floor apartments boast wrought iron balconies. A lot of them had plastic chairs, a potted plant or two. Lindy’s balcony was bare.
I used the key, stepped inside, and with my left hand searched the wall for a light switch. Strip lighti
ng on the ceiling and recessed globes above the cabinets illuminated the kitchen in stark detail. Small, but very nice, with plenty of oak cabinets going right up to the ceiling, a built-in gas stove near the sink, dishwasher, trash compacter, and a free-standing refrigerator against the outside wall. The kitchen was very neat, with only a microwave, a few canisters, a can opener, a coffee maker, and a jug containing utensils precisely arrayed on the single counter. The dishes were still in the dishwasher - clean. A small oval antique dining table with two chairs just managed to fit in near the backdoor.
An arch gave into the living space. This room was a good size. A couch and matching armchair in soft beige leather. A small antique buffet with a few tasteful knickknacks. A forty-two-inch plasma TV on a small unit. An end-table between the chair and couch. A small antique roll-top desk. A couple of very nice reproduction Constable prints on the walls.
The air was stuffy and warm, the scent of rose potpourri cloying. I looked inside the home entertainment unit and sorted through a few DVDs. None of them were for kids. Opening up the desk, I found utility bills bound with rubber bands, notepaper, envelopes and various other documents, but none of them had anything to do with a little boy named Lawrence Marchant.
A short hall went from the front door past the living room to the bedrooms and bathroom. The bathroom was fairly basic with tub and showerhead, sink, toilet, medicine cabinet over the sink, and the counters were a pale green marble which almost matched the tiled floor in color. Unused rose and honeysuckle candles sat in the windowsill. I checked the cabinet and found the usual self-medicating pharmaceuticals and feminine hygiene products. No kiddie bubble baths or Disney toothbrushes. No bath toys lined up on the rim of the tub. The tub was mildly scummy and a bottle of baby oil had tipped over to leave an oily trail down the inside. A few items of clothing draped a small stool, with Lindy’s thong on top of the pile.
I went in her bedroom. Pretty, with a bright-yellow comforter on the queen-sized bed, and matching curtains. A yellow and cream rag-rug by the bed. A big old oak ladies wardrobe which matched the oak dressing-table, both antique pieces. Hair products and cosmetics littered the dressing-table’s French-polished top. Clothes crammed the wardrobe, with shoes sitting in a row along the floor of it. More clothes lay crumpled on an overstuffed yellow and white paisley armchair in one corner of the room.
Lawrence was taking a nap in his room. I opened the door to the second bedroom and looked in. A blue and green plaid spread on the twin bed. Matching drapes were closed over the window. A small bedside unit with a blue-shaded lamp. A built-in closet, the doors wide open to show it was empty. Nothing else. The room looked like a seldom used guest bedroom fitted out with the bare necessities, not the den of a little boy.
I saw a lot of little holes in the wall, about the size a tack makes. Pictures? There were none now. Perhaps the holes were made before Lindy moved in, or maybe she had pictures up at one time and took them down. I had no cause to think a child’s drawings once covered the walls. I checked under the bed and in the bedside unit.
It was a nice apartment, and I couldn’t help but compare it to my cluttered house with its dark living room and antiquated fittings, although the apartment must cost a pretty penny to lease.
After my preliminary look through, I started in earnest. I looked in every drawer, every closet, every cupboard.
Did not find a thing.
One thing struck me as odd: no photos, not even of Lindy.
If anyone cleaned the place of all traces of Lawrence, they did a thorough job. I sat on the couch for a moment, trying to think of anyplace I could have missed.
It was dark outside and time for me to get back home. I was not going to find anything.
But as I walked through the kitchen, I noticed all the magnets on the fridge. A lot of them. Most of them were free giveaways from utility companies, plumbers, that type. Some of them were scuffed on the surface as if they had been handled a lot. But there were a whole heap of little ones, the kind from which you make poetry or witty saying. Hugs, Heart, Children, Love, Warm, Mommy, Cuddles, Baby, to name a few. I moved some, putting them in a straight line across the fridge: Children leave imprints on your heart. I read that somewhere.
Why would a childless woman have those on her fridge?
I opened up the freezer section, then the refrigerator, but nothing inside particularly looked like kid’s food. Just your basics.
Then I saw the edge of a piece of paper under the fridge.
I bent and tried to pull it free, but it was stuck on something. Gripping the sides of the fridge, I pulled one way then the other, walking it along the kitchen floor. It was a small unit and as I said, I’m a big girl; it moved easily. I uncovered dust balls, a paperclip and there!
A child’s drawing done in Crayola. A tall building. A tree with a woman and a man beneath? Or a boy and a girl? Maybe a mother and her little boy? And another person near the building. And on the bottom in large, untidy scrawl: lawrence.
The tall figure had long yellow hair. The man who came in Lindy’s bathroom and touched her? Did he watch them while Lawrence played outside?
I folded it and put it in a pocket. As I did, I heard a noise behind me, a bare whisper. I spun to face the room.
He was almost on me, coming at incredible speed, his long hair streaming behind him, black streaked with blood-red, his long leather coat whipping back. His eyes were a bright sparkling green in a sharply chiseled face. And that’s all I had time to see before he leaped at me.
I knew what he was.
I brought my hand from my pocket and flung steel in his face.
He stopped like he’d been pole-axed, hands clawing at his face. The filings worked; they were already burrowing in his skin and I smelled charred flesh.
I didn’t wait to see any more. Leaving the lights blazing in the apartment, I was out the backdoor and hurtling down the stair. Demons heal quickly and the filings would be just a minor annoyance once he got over the shock. And demons were fast. Heart pounding, I took the steps two at a time.
I jumped the last five steps and hit the ground with an impact which sent pain shrieking up through my ankles and shins. I ignored it and charged through the passage and across the grass, reaching under my jacket to pull the Ruger. I didn’t look back; I concentrated on running.
Something dug in my calf and I pitched on my face, all the air knocked out of me. The pistol flew from my hand. He had me, he had hold of my leg. His nails punched through denim and bit in my flesh. I wanted to scream but didn’t have the breath.
I stopped trying to move and lay passively as I waited to get air back in my lungs. The grip on my right calf didn’t let up, but I felt his other hand on the inside of my thigh. It slowly slid up my leg. An odor of charred flesh and cinnamon emanated from him.
I gasped in air. Rolling, I brought my left leg up and slammed my foot in the side of his head. He barely registered the blow, his head jogging over just a little. He let go of my calf, but both his hands immediately clamped on my thighs. As I lay on my back, looking at him, he smiled, a nasty little grin which showed the pointed ends of his teeth.
His black-red hair dripped over his shoulders like molten lava and his eyes glinted emerald as he looked in mine. Oh god, he was beautiful. His fingers, hot, strong and supple, massaged the inside of my thighs. I raised my hand to touch his face. He dipped his head to let me stroke his cheek. His skin was like silk. My lips parted in invitation as I lifted my head.
I thought of Lawrence.
I let my head fall back to the damp grass and tried to appear relaxed as I smiled into his face. He smiled back, a dreamy, possessive expression. I looked at the end of his nose, not his eyes. You don’t look in a demon’s eyes. His hands slid up my thighs until his thumbs brushed my groin through the denim. With a little shudder, I drew a hissing breath through my teeth - it felt good, better than it should. I grit my teeth and inched my hand nearer my pocket.
His right hand moved to my waist a
nd up to the underside of my right breast, while the thumb of the other slowly stroked me. I wanted him, badly. My hips writhed in rhythm with the movement of his fingers, the soft strokes and gentle nips. His power rolled over me, in my blood and bones, in the sweetness of a demon’s caress.
But I wasn’t some unsuspecting woman who didn’t know what had its hands on her. Fear and adrenaline can override a demon’s mojo. And I had an ally, sixteen-year-old Tiff, who swore no man would ever again use her body against her will. The world came back into focus; I smiled crazily through clenched teeth, sat up and slammed my wrist against the side of his face. He screamed as the charms on my bracelet sizzled on his skin and I tossed another handful of steel right in his gaping mouth.
I heard him coming after me as I reached the street.
A car drove along the street, and as I jumped over the curb and on the road, it slowed and stopped. The passenger door opened. The driver twisted in his seat, looking back at me. In the car’s dome-light I saw his hand wildly beckoning.
I do not make a habit of getting in a stranger’s car, but I swear I thought it was some guy passing by who saw me pelting along and the man coming after me, and wanted to help.
I must have been out of my mind.
I dashed the few feet to the car and threw myself in the passenger seat. The car moved off before I could get the door shut, so for a few seconds I struggled to close it. The driver put his foot down, flooring it, and the car sped up. Gasping, I looked back through the rear window.
Not a thing. The demon was not coming after us.
I shuddered and turned back to the driver.
Long silken hair like a solid sheet of gold slithered over his shoulders. Gold-tinted skin. Arching golden eyebrows and arching cheekbones. Bright sapphire eyes tilted at the corners. A long narrow nose and mobile mouth. Which smiled at me.
Damn.
“Hello, Tiff. My name is Caesar and I’m very pleased to meet you. Very pleased indeed.”
Good Lord, even his voice was beautiful.
