by Linda Welch
“We talked to the neighbors again. They swear they don’t recall any child living with Lindy Marchant.” He scratched his head behind his ear. “Three of them agreed to a polygraph. They’re telling the truth, or think they are. It doesn’t make sense.” He eyed me like he hoped I could solve the mystery.
“I have no idea what’s going on, Mike. Only know what I got from his mother.”
He continued to stare at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction, and I got edgy. I couldn’t tell him what I knew, so I tried to look baffled. I knew more was coming as Mike would not have called me to his office if he had good news. So I said nothing as I watched a deep frown etch his forehead.
But neither did he. He was the first to look away.
“What gives, Mike? What do you know about Lawrence?”
“This is bigger than the disappearance of one child. I spoke to Agent Larsen earlier.”
The FBI? What now?
He looked in my eyes again. “You know how many kids go missing each year, here in the States? We’re talking hundreds of thousands under eighteen-years-old. So I’m not surprised it took this long to make the connection.”
My breath caught in my throat. “Connection?”
“More than two hundred of those kids were born on November 9, 2002. Same as Lawrence Marchant.” Mike looked away; he couldn’t meet my eyes now. “And we just started looking. There could be more, a lot more.”
He ran his palm down his face, but that didn’t erase the rigid lines on his forehead and beside his mouth. “Some bright spark at the Bureau saw a communication from Interpol and joined the dots. Same thing’s been happening all over the world.”
“The world?” I repeated inanely. I couldn’t quite coordinate my thoughts.
“Lawrence Marchant’s disappearance is part of a pattern. Male children born on November 9, 2002, have been disappearing since then.”
I tried to speak and stuttered the words instead. “Since 2002? But, you mean babies, toddlers… .”
His voice softened. “I know.”
A dead silence hung between us for a few seconds.
“I know missing children aren’t your field, but I’d like you with us on this. You put us onto Lawrence and I think you have an interest in finding him.”
I cleared the lump in my throat. “Believe me, I do have an interest in tracking down Lawrence, and even if I’d never heard of the boy, do you think I’d say no to finding a missing child? But why do you think I’d be of any help, Mike?”
“You said you… . You said… .” He cleared his throat and tried again. “You communicated with his mother. Maybe she knows something,” he said uncomfortably.
Lindy didn’t appear to know anything helpful, but I didn’t tell Mike. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good. I thought you’d agree. I want you and Roy working together on this.”
What? I was not a cop and had never been asked to partner with one. Surely Mike could see the difficulties posed by such a partnership? He thought I contacted the dead, he didn’t know I saw and heard them. Cops are method, logic and evidence while I’m anything but. I could see Mortensen asking me for the names of my sources and insisting I rigidly follow police procedure, and not believing a single word I said anyway.
With a thin smile, I said, “Um, no.”
His smile was just as narrow. “I thought you’d say that, but I want you to reconsider. If you don’t work with Roy, you’re out. I’ll get a C & D from Judge Michaels.”
I gripped the wood arms of the chair. “You’ll put a Cease and Desist on me? You’re kidding, right?”
He slowly shook his head side to side. “Lawrence Marchant is our business now. If you won’t work with us, you’ll get in our way.”
I gave him a murderous look. “I’m a private citizen, Mike. You can’t stop me.”
“Yes, I can.”
And he could, too. Damn the man.
“And if you work for me, you get paid,” he added.
I leaned back in the chair and folded my arms over my chest, compressing my lips stubbornly. “You know what people think of me, I’m a whacko. Mortensen won’t listen to anything I tell him.”
Mike’s shoulders relaxed. “Give him a chance. He wasn’t surprised when I told him what you do. He worked with a psychic on a couple of cases in Seattle. Told me the experience totally rearranged his thinking on metaphysical investigation.”
Metaphysical investigation? They have a name for it now?
“Tiff?”
I waved at him. “Give me a minute.” The upside, I would be in on anything the cops learned about Lawrence. The downside, I would be stuck with Royal Mortensen breathing down my neck. But he could go where I couldn’t without a damned good reason. He could open doors.
“Okay,” I agreed. “But you tell Mortensen we’re partners. He’s not my boss.”
“Already done, Tiff. Already done,” he said smugly.
I started to my feet, but Mike saved the whammy for last. “One more thing. Some of the children were found. They were murdered.”
And while I was still trying to absorb that, he looked past me at the big plate-glass window separating his office from the squad room. “Roy’s here. Come meet him.”
I followed Mike inside the Squad Room and to a side office. He called through the door, “Roy, Tiff’s here.”
Detective Royal Mortensen came out the office. I took a step back, almost tripping over my feet as what I saw registered. Mike said something to Mortensen and looked back at me. He put his hand on the guy’s shoulder. “Tiff, meet Roy Mortensen.”
To Mortensen he said, “Roy, meet Tiff Banks and if you know what’s good for you, don’t call her Tiffany. She’s partnering with you on the Marchant case.”
Royal Mortensen presented his hand. I stared, and I cannot even begin to picture my expression. Dumfounded. Horrified. Incredulous. Take your pick. His hand dropped and the half-smile slid off his face.
Six-foot-six? Shining metallic copper hair threaded with strands of gold, clipped back in a pony tail. His tip-tilted eyes sparked and glowed a deep brown like newly minted pennies. Wide shoulders strained a black tee tucked in khaki pants with his ID badge pinned to the waistband.
He was so much more than his picture.
I looked at Mike, then back to Mortensen, wondering what Mike saw when he looked at him. I do not believe this!
Those little cogs and gears in my head clicked and dropped into place. The process normally felt good, but not this time. Kids born six years ago, disappearing over the past six years. Mortensen had been a detective for the past six years.
Demons were involved.
Mortensen was a demon.
“Forget it,” I growled, and stalked away.
I stepped outside to a cool Clarion evening, the sun descending in the west and flaming distant peaks with crimson. Down the street, the neon on the new Megaplex center flashed a bright, green welcome. People entered the impressive portal of the Clarion Hilton across the street in ones and twos, from their attire going to some fancy function. The Golden Spike Bank advertised a drop in home mortgage interest rates with a huge banner slashed across its face.
What am I going to do? A demon in the Clarion PD. And he was ideally placed to make those little boys disappear. With Mortensen on Lawrence’s case, the kid would never be found. He’d make sure of that.
Who to talk to? Only Lynn, and she couldn’t help me. I was on my own.
“Miss Banks!”
Mortensen trotted down the steps before I could get in my car. I stood with my back to him, frozen in place. My heart pounded as if trying to jackhammer through my chest.
“I think I - ” he began.
“I know what you are,” I blurted as I turned to face him.
He looked amused. “I’m sure Mike gave you the rundown, and - “
“I know what you are!” I growled. “I’m psychic. I see you as you really are.”
He tucked his chin in his neck, his expressio
n wry. “And what am I, Miss Banks?”
“I don’t know what you call yourself, Mister Pointy Teeth. You tell me.”
I got in my car and drove off, leaving him on the curb, looking after me. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Chapter Eight
I like a hearty breakfast, but not taking the time to prepare one. Toasted frozen waffles are not bad when you slather them with strawberry preserve and a squirt of the stuff supermarkets call whipped cream. Mel and Jack watched me swallow every mouthful.
They don’t remember the taste of food, but watching me eat fascinates them. Sometimes they ask me to describe flavors, but since they have no point of reference, what I say makes no sense to them. They still ask.
As their eyes tracked each forkful of waffle, I wondered they were not bored. I was totally their world, their drama and their amusement. Yes, shades still experience the entire spectrum of emotions, including envy.
“What are you going to do about him?” from Jack.
“Obviously she can’t do anything,” Mel said.
“There has to be something I can do,” I replied fretfully, “but I can’t think of a thing.”
I chewed slowly, strawberry and cream and a slightly rubbery pastry-like product. I would have liked to believe Mortensen was a nice demon, if there were such a thing, but what I knew of them pointed to the opposite. Mortensen was in solid with the cops, too.
I couldn’t work with him. And after opening my big mouth, I could have three demons coming after me instead of two. What made me let on I knew about him? What happened to common sense, Tiff? Where did you lose that edge you’re so proud of?
Did Mortensen hex me soF I couldn’t think straight? My hand twitched, making my fork chime on the rim of the plate. But I didn’t feel anything from Mortensen, nothing like the power of the black-haired demon as he pinned me to the ground.
I didn’t care what Mike said or what he laid on me, official or otherwise. I would find Lawrence Marchant, and I’d do it alone. I would start at Mary Frances, talk to Lawrence’s teacher. A mother does not always perceive her children as others do; other people could give me a different picture of Lawrence. And, talking of pictures, I would like one of the boy.
“Visitor!” Mel chimed the same time as the doorbell.
Would I ever again have a peaceful, uninterrupted morning?
“Tiff,” Jack hissed. “It’s one of them.”
Please, be mistaken, I anguished. I pushed my plate away, got up, crept to the hall and stuck my head around the kitchen doorframe far enough I could see through the glass either side of the front door. A frisson of foreboding shuddered down my back. Royal Mortensen stood on my doorstep.
He looked luscious in a black, silky short-sleeved shirt tucked in tight black jeans, his badge clipped to his front left pocket. Any other man I would have called crazy for wearing a thin shirt in November, but maybe demons didn’t feel the cold. He wore a shoulder holster. I wondered what gun he used, so he could safely handle the metal.
He didn’t look any less beautiful for looking more like a human than a demon. But his hair was still metallic copper and gold, and his eyes an incredible burnished brown.
“Now he is what I call drop-dead gorgeous,” Mel said.
“Har har,” from Jack.
The bell chimed again.
“Don’t let him see you! Pretend you’re out,” Jack hissed in my ear.
I leaned away from him. Touching Jack hurts neither of us, but it would be an intrusion, so we try to respect each other’s space. “My car’s out there,” I whispered.
“Miss Banks? I know you’re home. Please open the door.”
“He doesn’t know. He can’t,” Mel said.
Mortensen slid his hands in his hip pockets and looked through the glass. I ducked back in the kitchen. “I heard you on the phone,” he called out.
“The phone?” from Jack.
“He must have heard me talking to you guys, but knows I’m alone.”
“Thinks you’re alone,” Mel corrected.
I peeked through the hall again. Mortensen propped his hip on the glass. “We can work together, Tiff. We can find Lawrence Marchant. Just give me a chance.” He peered through the glass again. “I’m not going anywhere until we talk.”
Oh hell. I recognized the stubborn set of his jaw for what it was. He would wait all day. “I’m going out,” I told Jack and Mel. “Don’t sidetrack me.”
I pulled up to my full height, ran my palms down my hips to wipe the sweat off them, and with a single deep breath, went in the hall and to the door. You’ll be fine, I told myself. I just had to remember what he really was.
I opened the door and glowered at him.
Mortensen smiled slightly. “Miss Banks. May I come in?” And he stepped right over the steel filings still scattered on the floor.
I backed up, speechless, every profanity I knew on the tip of my tongue, too astonished to spew them out.
He walked past me, along the hallway like he owned the place and in the kitchen. “May I?” he asked, pulling out a chair and sitting at the table.
I followed him in. “No, you may not. Get out.”
“But I just got here. Mm, waffles.” He looked over at the toaster. “Any to share?”
I was frustrated and afraid. A demon in my home! “You leave my house right now!” I spluttered.
Jack and Mel shrank in the corner of the room near the backdoor.
I unclipped my charm bracelet and threw it at him. He caught it in one hand. “Pretty, in a metallic kind of way.”
Mouth open, I sank to the chair opposite him. “How can you - “
“No. How can you?” He dropped the bracelet on the table top with a little clatter. “I’ve worked with mediums and psychics before - how can you know what I am?”
So much for the let me in so we can help Lawrence Marchant routine. I crossed my arms on my chest and hunched my shoulders. “I’m not sitting here in my own house, in my own kitchen, answering your questions.”
He reached behind his neck with both hands to adjust the strip of leather which bound back his glorious hair, and my gaze was drawn to the muscles of his arms and the way his chest expanded. I had to concentrate on his words when he said, “Then why don’t we trade information? You answer my question, I answer yours.”
“Do it,” Jack said.
“Why?”
“It seems fair.” Mortensen told me.
“Because you could learn something,” from Jack.
Like what? As if Mortensen would be honest. I couldn’t believe anything he told me. And I definitely did not want to share what I knew with him.
There again, being a demon himself, Mortensen must know his buddy demons chased me, and why. He’d know whether one of them did something to Lindy. He knew more than me. Maybe he would slip up.
I realized I was locked into his incredible brown eyes, and blinked. I also realized my fascination, not any arcane demon powers, pulled me in. I gave my head a quick little shake to shake me out of it. “I don’t want to know anything about you.”
“But you already know quite a lot about me and my people if I’m not mistaken,” he said smoothly. “Yet you told no one. You are a rarity, Miss Banks.”
“No, but I’m not an idiot either. Who would believe me?”
“True,” he said with a nod. His fingers stroked the poorly applied white paint of the tabletop; long, lean fingers moving in a caress, as if he touched skin, not wood. “So, what have we? We have already established I am not of any race native to your world. What else do you want to know?”
I couldn’t ignore the opportunity. “Where do you people come from?” I asked.
“Could be difficult to explain.”
I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “I knew it!”
“We did not come from another world,” he went on. “We live here, on Earth, as you do but in a different … sphere, or dimension. You could say we occupy a different space.”
“Sure,”
I said with perfect understanding. Not! “You watch too many sci-fi movies.”
He put his head back and laughed, a warm, rich baritone which made my skin tingle in a far from unpleasant way. He met my gaze, amusement making his eyes shine, and slid the bracelet across the table to me. “Here.”
I took it and refastened it on my wrist. “How come alloy doesn’t bother you?”
He traced a pattern on the table top with one finger. I wished he would look someplace else, because his deliberate concentration on my face discomfited me. “We become inured to it if we remain here for a long time. Those of us who were born here, like me, have no problem with alloys.”
That widened my eyes. “You were born here?”
“Many of us form relationships with your people, have children, careers, spend our lives here. From you we get a certain, well, pleasure we don’t experience with our own kind.”
I grimaced. “You’re talking about sex.”
His expression was serious. “Yes and no.” Then he widened his eyes theatrically. “What, do you think our own women are lacking in that department? But you give us something above and beyond sex. It is … pervasive.”
“You feed off us.”
A chuckle burst from him. “Where did you get that idea? It just feels damned good, Tiff!”
And they also used what feels damned good to control us, like the other two demons tried with me.
Something he’d said posed a question. If they formed relationships with human beings, and had children … . “You have babies, the same way we do. I mean how our women do?” I felt my face redden at how stupid that sounded coming from my mouth.
He rolled his eyes. “No, we lay eggs and hatch them - of course we have babies! We think the reason we can enter your reality so easily is we are very like you.”
“How, like us?”
He leaned in. His gaze bore into me. “Physically.”
I almost gulped aloud. Avoiding his eyes, I laid my arms on the table and twined my fingers together, concentrating on my nails. “How many of you are here?”
“Here? You mean worldwide? Many of us; although we gravitate to the highly populated areas. My turn. Why can you see my true form?”
