by Linda Welch
I shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. I see supernatural beings. That’s all there is to it. Don’t know why. Don’t know how.”
I sounded calm, but a part of me was somewhere else, looking down at the stupid woman having a casual conversation with a demon. “How long have your people been here?”
He smiled and looked down at his moving finger, still making invisible patterns on the table. Tiny laugh lines formed at the corners of his mouth. “We have been here for a very, very long time, Tiff.” He looked up, laying his palm flat on the table.
With an inward shiver, I reminded myself I faced a dangerous man. I needed the reminder, because as we talked I was letting my guard down, feeling comfortable sitting at my table with a supernatural … something, and I was defenseless. My gaze flicked to the kitchen drawer where I kept the Ruger.
I leaned back in my chair. “Your turn, Roy.”
“I prefer Royal.”
Did I really just call him Roy! I was losing it, and fast. What was wrong with me? Was he working his magic on me after all? Surely I would know if he were.
“And I’d prefer you call me Miss Banks,” I snapped.
He raised his arms, holding up his hands placatingly, and for a second, musculature bulging all over the place hypnotized me. “A change of attitude would benefit both of us.”
“You mean a change in my attitude.”
“You have to trust me.”
I planted my palms on the table top and half rose to my feet. “Trust you?” When your friends attacked me? When they came to my house, asking me where Lawrence is? When you just happened to be where boys like Lawrence disappeared in the past six years?
Disappeared, and died. Mike didn’t tell me how many were murdered. He knew it would be more information than I wanted.
Okay, the conversation was over. If anyone let something slip, it would be me. “You get one more question, then you leave.”
“I had but one and you answered it, if in an unsatisfactory way.”
I got to my feet. “Then this is good-bye, Detective.”
He looked up at me quizzically. “You don’t want to know more?”
I had a ton of questions, but this felt too much like consorting with the enemy. I mutely shook my head as I glared at him. I could no longer trust my own mouth.
He rose to his feet and walked out the house.
“That went well,” Jack said.
“Hm. What?” Mel said. Jack shook his head. “Did you get any of that, or were you too busy slobbering over him?”
Here we go again, I thought as they squared off.
Colin and I went to a movie followed by dinner at Arrivederci, our favorite Italian restaurant and no relation to the chain in Arizona. As always, the tiny eatery was packed and loud with the clink of utensils and chink of glassware, the chefs and waiters yelling at one another in Italian, and Frank Sinatra crooning in the background. It was not conducive to conversation and I was glad, because I didn’t feel like talking. I did eat, but mostly I fiddled with my fork and Colin kept reminding me my dinner was getting cold.
Every now and then he looked at me with concern and I thought to myself, what a nice guy. And right then I realized two things. I had already decided I would eventually lose Colin, just as I lost other boyfriends. And Jack and Mel were not to blame for my doomed relationships. I was to blame.
I lied to them, about everything, and a relationship based on lies cannot survive. I was too worried about what they would think of me to tell them the truth. I thought the truth would drive them away, but I drove them away. I didn’t even have the guts to tell Colin what I did for a living.
“Col,” I said, “what do you think of the supernatural?”
He tucked his chin in his neck and a lock of fine blond hair fell over his forehead. “Supernatural? What do you mean?”
I made a face. “You know … ghosts.”
He grinned. “It’s rubbish, isn’t it.
“Is it? A lot of people have seen ghosts. They can’t all be wrong.
He dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, folded it and put it neatly by his empty plate. “People see what they want to see, Tiff. We love mystery and myth. We keep the tales going through the centuries.” He threaded his fingers together and folded his hands on the tablecloth. “People who think they see ghosts are deluding themselves.”
Oh.
I leaned back in my chair with one arm hooked over the back. “So you won’t even entertain the possibility?”
He suddenly chuckled. “Don’t tell me you thought you saw a ghost!”
“Of course not,” I said with a small smile.
He reached over the table and took my hand. “I’m a down-to-earth kind of guy. I’ve never understood the need some people have to believe in all that otherworldy crap.”
Otherworldy. So of course I spent the rest of the evening thinking of Royal Mortensen.
I didn’t go to Colin’s apartment after supper. I told him I was too tired, and I told myself I didn’t want him to see the road rash down my leg. I lied about the wrist, saying I sprained it when digging weeds. I went home to my prying roommates.
Chapter Nine
Mike wanted me to work with Royal and I needed the money. And I still thought I could learn something from the demon. Not from another question and answer session, because he could tell me anything and I would not know truth from fiction, but I still hoped he’d let something slip.
I learned that like the stereotypical cop, the demon variety favor coffee and donuts for breakfast and can eat with nary a speck of powdered sugar falling on their brown leather jacket.
Demons eat our food. Demons drink coffee. Big deal.
Driving with Royal unsettled me. He was hot, in more ways than one. Warmth seemed to emanate from him and bathe my side from hip to head. His left hand lay on his thigh, and each time I glimpsed it from the corner of my eyes I recalled the black-haired demon’s supple fingers.
I turned off the car’s heater and fixed my gaze on the road ahead. He tried to speak to me, but gave up and nibbled on another donut after five minutes of me grunting one-word replies.
But I wanted to talk. I really wanted to ask. Did his kind really come from another world, or whatever, or was it baloney? But why bother to make up such a tale? Why not try to convince me he was just a regular Joe? And what about Royal Mortensen - was he married, with little demon brats running around his ankles? How long had he been in Clarion? Where did he live? My eyes slid to him and away. He looked ahead, but he smiled.
An old Catholic school built of big blocks of stone, Mary Frances has the attributes which make a church-run school feel like a church: lofty ceilings, arched doorways, narrow windows more like slots. Our footsteps tapped briskly on the cold flagstone floor as I walked along a cloister-like passageway with Royal a step behind. A nun in full habit wafted down a side passage as we passed it, her steps silent.
Lawrence’s teacher, Father Robert, awaited us in his office just off the assembly hall. Bookshelves and big old pieces of furniture crowded the room and stacks of paper lay everywhere: on his desk, the three chairs, two high tables and on the edges of the bookshelves, pushed up against the books. He cleared some off the two chairs facing his desk, looked about for somewhere to put them and ended up stacking them on the floor below the big bay window. Royal’s arm brushed mine as I lowered myself to one of the chairs and I felt a tiny thrill of sensation.
After a polite welcome, Father Robert steepled his fingers and gazed solemnly at us over them. “I was very sorry to hear about Lawrence’s mother; we all were. Totally unexpected. She was so young.”
I expected him to say it was God’s will Lindy died, but he didn’t. I was glad, because that statement always raises my hackles.
“Did Lawrence have any visitors? Did you see him with another adult besides his mother?” Royal asked.
“We allow visitors only with the permission of the parent, and it is generally related to the student’s education
or Saint Mary Frances activities.”
“Did Lawrence have any as such?”
Father Robert shook his head. “Not that I know of.”
“You do know Lawrence is missing?”
“So we were informed. We wondered if Lawrence saw his mother die and ran away.”
I wondered the same thing. I wondered if the boy saw his mother’s murderer.
“We’d like to talk to his friends, with their parents’ permission of course. Could you give us names and addresses?”
Father Robert’s gaze slipped past us, over our heads, as if studying the wainscoting. “I don’t know how to respond, Detective. Lawrence does not really have friends, not in the sense he has playmates.” His eyes half closed. “I would have to describe them more as … fans? Followers?”
I glanced at Royal, but he stared at Father Robert. “I don’t get you, Father,” I said.
“Lawrence’s relationship with the other pupils at Saint Mary Frances is … unusual, in that he does not foster friendship with them, but they are nonetheless attracted to him. I have watched them at recess. They gather around him. I don’t think he understands it himself. He appears bemused by their attention.”
“Surely he’s just a popular child with his own little clique?”
Father Robert smiled. “Believe me, I am not normally one to wax lyrical. Lawrence is a quiet, well-behaved, studious child, yet I feel he holds himself apart from everyone but his mother. Not as if he is better than anyone else, rather he is … removed from the mundane world.”
That was deep and I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Then we would like names and addresses of his classmates, if it is no bother,” Royal said as if Father Robert had not just said something which sounded decidedly creepy.
“Of course not.” Father Robert took a ledger from a desk drawer and started to copy names and addresses on a sheet of foolscap.
“Do you have a photo?” I asked.
He looked up, then groped through a pile of papers on his desk. “Lieutenant Warren said you would need one. Ah, here it is.”
Royal and I looked at the photo. A standard school photo, but Lawrence was anything but standard. He was a beautiful child with long, shoulder-length, glossy brown hair and bright blue eyes, his face the same pointed shape as his mother’s. He didn’t smile in the photo, but his eyes seemed to glimmer. It must have been a trick of the light.
I drove, since Royal didn’t have his own car. He claimed he had not found the time to shop for one. He could have taken one from the pool, but at least I would get mileage reimbursement.
Money was a major issue for me. Laid off from Bermans, the telemarketing company I worked at for four years, I should have been job hunting, but I hadn’t had the time since Lindy turned up. With a fraction over five hundred dollars in savings and my checking account an embarrassment, I was thankful I owned my house, but the annual property taxes were due and up another hundred since last year. I needed to renegotiate my fee with Clarion PD.
Royal flipped through Lindy’s file again. “An only child. Mother and father deceased. Her only living relative is an aunt in Chicago, who’s in her eighties.” He looked over at me. “The woman was all alone in the world. Do you know who fathered Lawrence?”
The question surprised me. And what an odd way to phrase it: fathered. I took my eyes off the road a moment to glance over at him. “Is it important?”
“If Lawrence knows who his father is, he could be trying to reach him. Or, if he’s local, already be with him.”
“Hm. I never thought of that.” I stared at the road ahead. “But I’m not a detective.”
I had a little difficulty with my driving if I didn’t concentrate. Royal’s presence filled my little Forrester. I felt a wash of heat tingling down my right side. Actually, it was downright pleasant, but also extremely distracting. I thought he knew the effect he had on me because every now and then he smirked.
My thoughts wandered, and I was having a nice little daydream I would rather keep to myself when Royal’s hand on my shoulder shocked me right out of it. “Tiffany?”
“Don’t call me that!”
He grinned at me as he pointed through the windshield. “I thought that would get your attention. You almost went in the back of that pickup.”
I eased off on the gas. “Get in the back.”
“What?”
“If you want to be a backseat driver, assume the position.”
He chuckled. Did all demons have such a cute chuckle?
I indicated right and checked my rearview mirror, and almost choked.
Two demons in the black SUV behind me. They were right up my rear end so I got a good look at them. I was pretty sure one was Caesar and the other had long black-red hair.
I grit my teeth and swung the Subaru to the right lane. Royal grabbed the arm rest. “Tiff?”
The SUV swerved in behind me. “Shit!”
Royal eyed a question at me, but I couldn’t speak. Stuck with a demon in my car and two others following me - what the hell do I do now?
Royal saw me glance in the rearview mirror. He twisted to look behind us.
We roared down Wendover Avenue and the demons - I should say the other demons - came right behind us. I cranked the wheel to the right and took us onto Adams. I admit I felt panicked, torn between screeching to a stop and jumping from the car, or driving as recklessly as I could without hitting something, hoping I could lose them and keep Royal off balance.
I risked another glance in the mirror. The demons were dropping back.
Royal yelled “Stop!” right in my ear.
I don’t know if surprise made me do it, but I did just that. I reflexively stamped my foot on the brake and the Subaru, like the obedient little girl she was, instantly obeyed, sending us into our seat belts. But Royal was out the car in a flash.
Appalled, I watched him charge the car behind us. He didn’t pull his gun, he just charged. Another surprise: instead of acting like I’d been served to them on a platter, the demons tried to back up. They looked as frantic as I felt. The passenger yelled at Caesar and both alternately looked behind them and back at their buddy demon, who was almost on the hood of their car.
I reached across the passenger seat, pulled the door shut, and put my foot down. I roared away in a cloud of dust and burning rubber.
Chapter Ten
“You have to talk to someone,” Mel said.
“Like, who?”
“Mike Warren knows you well enough to believe you. Doesn’t he?”
I let my head fall in my hands. “I get results. When Clarion PD loans me out to another department and I get results, they get kudos. He thinks I’m a psychic and he’s almost comfortable with what I do, to the point he sees it as a useful specialty. He is not going to believe a crazy story involving demons, and Clarion PD’s new blue-eyed boy is one.” I looked up at her. “And what happens when Mike tells Mortensen what I say? Because it’s exactly what he’ll do, and Mortensen won’t like that, not one little bit.”
“But you think Mortensen knows what really happened to Lindy,” Jack pointed out. “And his cohorts are after you.”
I groaned. “I think he does. He has to.”
“Then you have nothing to lose.”
My shoulder twitched. “Easy for you to say, Mister Insubstantial. Ain’t a weapon known to man can hurt you.”
Mel stood across from me at the kitchen table. “So you wait until he comes for you? He already waltzed right in once. What’s stopping him coming back?”
I jumped up and stormed across the kitchen to the cabinets. I got my gun from the drawer and took off the safety. “Demon or no demon, this should put a hole in him.”
Mel flung her hands up. “You can’t, Tiff. It would be murder.”
“He’s a demon!”
“You’re the only person who knows,” Jack said. “He’s a detective for Clarion PD; they’d throw away the key.”
Right. My stomach churned que
asily as I sank back in my chair, clutching the Ruger.
Mel came up to me and put out her hand as if to touch my shoulder, then her hand fell to her side. “You could run away.”
“Temporarily,” Jack added hastily.
“Just until it’s safe and you could come home,” Mel said.
I mulled it over. Could I get away? Could I go far enough, the demons couldn’t follow?
Could I leave Lawrence to them, if he was still alive?
I slowly shook my head as I chewed on my lower lip.
“As if I could leave you guys all alone,” I said, but I couldn’t raise a smile.
I fell asleep after a couple of hours of tossing and sweating. The last time I looked at the clock, it read two in the morning. When I woke, it was four o’clock.
As well as the noise from the old heating system, my house likes to creak and groan as it settles down for the night. I know its noises, so I knew the creak in my bedroom did not belong. Someone was in here with me.
I slowly groped for the Ruger, fingers inching under the spare pillow, feeling for metal. I left my hand there and rolled on my back.
I made a few muffled noises and rolled to the side of the bed farthest from the door, sliding the Ruger under the edge of the duvet, pretending I moved in my sleep. I know every inch of my bedroom and presumably the intruder did not, and unless he possessed uncanny night vision, I held the advantage. If I could get on the floor… .
The overhead light came on, blinding me. I sat up blinking, the gun in both hands panning around the room as my senses strained. A few unlikely scenarios spun through my head: An unarmed crook? Colin sneaking in to surprise me? I couldn’t shoot randomly.
But no, Royal leaned on the doorframe with one hand on the light switch, very natty in a short-sleeved, pale-gold shirt, black slacks and black leather loafers. I pointed the gun at him, pleased my hands barely shook.
“How do you know those men?” he asked.
