Along Came a Demon

by Linda Welch

  Then, pow! I could see dead people. No fanfare. No blast of lightning. Just that first confusing, scary moment when I stood outside the Sun and Bun cafe and spoke to a person nobody else saw. And I had no idea why.

  My interest in my parents resurfaced. It seemed important to know if one or both had my talent. Did they know I had it? Is that why they dumped me? But there was no trail to follow. I gave up on them all over again.

  But I would track them down one day, and maybe they could tell me why I saw dead people.

  I didn’t have friends; I had friendly acquaintances. I had two boyfriends before Colin, but I was not in love with them. I wasn’t in love with Colin.

  I knew Lindy was not at her apartment when I stepped inside, but I went from room to room anyway. The bedrooms were bare of furniture now and small pieces of trash littered the floors. The manager had started clearing out the place. The air felt dead and fusty. The place seemed lonelier than ever and as I stood in the living room, so did I.

  I was on the helipad when the copter landed. Mike and Royal joined me and we ducked and ran for the copter bent over, the downdraught from the rotors whipping my braid. Mike sat up front with the pilot; Royal and I climbed in back and buckled in. I watched the roof of Clarion PD recede, then we flew over Clarion and climbed to clear the eastern peaks.

  I was still mad at Detective Royal Mortensen and pretended to ignore him, but those kisses intruded in my thoughts, the memory of them a feather-light pressure on my lips. A couple of times I stopped my fingers going up to brush them. I dozed as the copter headed for Wyoming, jerking awake each time I felt my head nod in the direction of his shoulder.

  I know Wyoming well, cities big and small and the vast stretches of empty land between them. I’ve also spent long, happy days in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. Ironically, not only had I visited both Saratoga, Wyoming and Granby, Colorado, they numbered among my favorite places to be.

  I passed through Saratoga when driving home through Wyoming one summer, and the old western buildings on East Bridge Street, where it dissects the I-130, beckoned to me. I had to check them out. I thought I would take an hour to wander up and down East Bridge Street and discover what was inside those buildings, and ended up staying the entire day. I spent over an hour chatting with shopkeepers and town folk in every little shop I entered. I ate lunch at Lollipops and went back later in the afternoon for another helping of their delicious homemade ice-cream. I rented a motel room for the night and left the next morning.

  In fact, I daydreamed of one day living in Saratoga, a tiny old western town in the middle of nowhere with a population of fewer than 1,800, where people are friendly and traffic in the old part of town so sparse you don’t bother to check for cars before you cross the road. And no lingering murder victims.

  Of course, when I fell in love with Saratoga, it was the city; I did not explore the surrounding countryside. As we flew over Saratoga, the Hot Springs and the great North Platte River, I wondered if the spirit of a dead child lingered among the sagebrush below, and I said good-bye to my dream.

  Ten miles outside Saratoga, we settled down at the Harley B Ranch on their personal pad. A little Cesna poked its nose out between the open doors of a small hangar. In states like Wyoming, where ranchlands are vast, ranchers often have their own planes. But since when did ranch houses become mansions? This place was a huge adobe concoction with red-tiled roof and balconies everywhere.

  The rancher came out the house to meet us; a tall, gangling, mahogany-skinned man named Andy Ferrin. After handshakes all around, he told us to follow him to his Jeep. He was a man of few words, or perhaps he didn’t care to talk too much about finding a murdered child on his property. He must have gone over it with various law-enforcement agencies countless times when one of his hands found the body in the summer of 2006.

  Mike climbed in front with Ferrin, which left me in back with Royal.

  Despite my calf-length down coat, I just about froze until the heater kicked in. I took possession of the two blankets on the seat, wrapped one around my shoulders and put the other over my knees. We drove along a snow-and ice-packed trail heading west from the landing pad. Traffic must have used it regularly, or it would be hidden beneath the snow like the surrounding terrain. Rounding a small hill, suddenly we were in the middle of nowhere. Mountain ranges surrounded us, but they were far away. The landscape looked like a white desert where the merciless Wyoming winds had blown the snow into dunes. Some areas were under several feet, while in others, where the wind bared it, wiry grass and sagebrush poked up through. Fencing intersected the land in the distance, but nothing else broke the monotony.

  Royal sat a bit too close for my comfort and I thought the heat between us had nothing to do with the way I was bundled up against the chill. Ahead of us, in the distance, a small stationary figure stood near the trail.

  The Jeep bombed along and Ferrin made no effort to avoid potholes. Or perhaps he couldn’t miss so many.

  We approached the person near the trail and indeed he stood at the very edge: a small elderly man in a heavy, knee-length overcoat of undeterminable color, baggy gray pants and beat up old boots, a hemp sack slung over one shoulder. He wore a hat like I owned, the one I used in extra cold temperatures, with earflaps, except his looked filthy. Wisps of gray hair straggled from beneath it.

  Ferrin didn’t slow and I felt sorry for the old guy who stood motionless in the bitter cold. As we drove past him, I grinned apologetically and waved my hand. He gave me a gap-toothed leer in return.

  Yes, definitely a leer.

  Royal’s gaze bore into me. I frowned at him. “What?”

  “What were you waving at?”

  Oh, crap!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mike twisted to face us. “Something wrong, Tiff?”

  “No. No. A fox. Saw a fox. I happen to like waving at foxes. Cute little things. Smile and wave, it’s what I do when I see a fox. They appreciate it,” I babbled.

  Not the smartest thing to say, because I knew I had to talk to the old fellow when we drove back to the ranch. My garbled explanation was for Ferrin’s benefit, but he looked at me in the rearview mirror like I was crazy. I gave him a weak smile.

  I laid my head back on the seat and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see anything else before we reached our destination.

  The Jeep pulled up at a snow break not long after. The site lay near the property line close to I-130, and I had a feeling I would not find anything. I went through the motions; got out of the Jeep and looked around; stood like a statue as if trying to sense something.

  I sighed and turned to Mike. “Nothing. Sorry.”

  Mike paced to the snow break, turned back to face me. “Are you sure? Maybe you need a little longer.”

  “I’m sure, Mike. I don’t need a minute more.”

  Mike scowled, but trudged past me to the Jeep. I rejoined Royal in the back seat. I looked at the desolate landscape, imagining a tiny body crumpled near the fence. It killed me to know children were out there, lost and alone. Did they realize, at their young age, what happened to them?

  Ferrin strapped on his seat belt. “So it could be my property was a convenient place to drop the boy. The killer could have come from anywhere.”

  “True,” from Mike.

  Ferrin nodded to himself. “Good. When we found him on my land, I thought maybe someone local did it.”

  Royal didn’t reassure him. “That could still be the case, Mr. Ferrin.”

  Ferrin harrumphed and we drove off.

  The little old man showed up ahead of us not many minutes later. I swore beneath my breath. Much as I would have liked to, I couldn’t ignore him. When we were fifty feet away, I asked Ferrin to pull over. He swiveled his eyes at me but didn’t slow. I figured he wanted my reason to stop.

  “Something happened here,” I told Mike.

  He got that here we go again expression, but didn’t argue. He asked a puzzled Ferrin to pull up.

  Royal p
ut his mouth near my ear. “So it was not a fox. One of your ghosts?”

  With a nod, I edged away. Keeping one blanket around my shoulders, I climbed from the Jeep and tottered the rest of the way. The rancher turned off the engine.

  The chill ate at my exposed skin. It must have been fifteen degrees, balmy compared to what temperatures would be by February. I watched where I put my feet; the tracks made by the Jeep were already icing over.

  The old guy stood only a tad above five feet tall and I didn’t want to loom over him, but he might be insulted if I treated him like a child and bent over, or squatted. So I stood on the other side of the track across from him. “Hello.”

  A woman stood just about where I was. Mid-thirties at a guess, long auburn hair, small green eyes, fleshy cheeks, pouting lips, a tight blue dress which left nothing to the imagination, she distracted him while another person reached from behind and sawed at his throat. He wasn’t afraid - a little puzzled why they took him to the middle of nowhere, but otherwise pretty much enjoying himself. The attack came as a shock, quick but messy. No time to struggle; he was old and weak and they were strong.

  I had seen many expressions on a ghost’s face, but not a permanent leer. Leering, he lifted one hairy, gnarled hand to touch the side of his hat. “Howdy,”

  Howdy? How long had he been here?

  “How come you’re out here? What happened to you?” I asked, although I already knew.

  He raised his whiskered chin, at the same time pulling down the neck of his dirty shirt to reveal a jaggedly gashed throat. “Stinkin’ nephew, Missy. Slit me throat, he did, the dirty bastard. And the knife was notched. God Almighty it hurt.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Why did he do it?”

  He rubbed at his whiskers. “Me money, no doubt. Don’t believe in them banks. Never did. Every cent I earned, I kept close to home.”

  “He was your heir?”

  “Could’ve been. Never made a will. Suppose he were me nearest livin’ kin.” He stamped one foot. “Dang it! If I’d knowed what a sneakin’ little black-hearted bastard he was, I’d’ve left everything to the dog pound!”

  I folded my arms over my chest to keep the blanket in place, cocked my head on one side. “Who was with your nephew?”

  He pulled on one earlobe. “How d’ya know that?”

  “You were ogling someone and I don’t think it was your nephew.”

  “Was Avril, his wife. Face like the side of a barn but titties like a couple of melons. Always fallin’ out her dress.”

  “What’s your name?”

  He peered at me with watery blue eyes. “Jeremiah.”

  “Jeremiah what?”

  “Johnson.”

  I slowly clapped my hands. “Bravo. What’s your real name?”

  “Henry. Henry Randall.”

  “And your nephew’s name?”

  His tone turned suspicious. “Why you askin’ all these questions, Missy. An’ how come you see me when no one else can?”

  “It’s what I do, Henry. What’s more, I’ll do my best to bring your nephew to justice.”

  “Oh, aye? That’d be nice.” He ran his tongue over his lips. “I’ll tell you what’d be nicer, though.”

  I forestalled him. “I can’t do anything about you being stuck here. I’m really sorry, but I can’t. You will pass on eventually, Henry.”

  “Nah, not that! Show me yer titties.”

  “My… ?”

  His permanently twitched-back lips allowed me the full glory of his almost toothless mouth. “Haven’t seen a gal’s titties for a good long time. Not since Avril. Jest open up yer shirt, jest a flash, like. That’ll do me. Looks like you got a good pair on you.”

  I spluttered. “Henry!”

  “Forget it, then. How ‘bout you come over here and let me have a feel.”

  I sobered. “You can’t, Henry, and I bet you know already.”

  “Tarnation! This is me fate, then? Standin’ here in the middle of Wyomin’ on me lonesome?”

  “Not if we can get your nephew the death penalty.”

  He sagged. “An’ that’s likely, ain’t it.”

  I hugged the blanket tighter around me as I began to shiver. “Did he leave your body here?”

  “Oh, aye.” He stamped his foot again. “Right here, ‘neath me.”

  I looked about, but couldn’t see anything to mark the spot. “Okay, Henry, I’m going to the Jeep, but I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He nodded, somehow making his leer seem glum, or perhaps it was my imagination.

  I tromped back to the Jeep. Mike and the rancher were having an obviously animated conversation, probably about the crazy consultant.

  I stopped at the driver’s side. Ferrin rolled down the window.

  “Mr. Ferrin, have you got anything heavy which I could use as a marker?”

  Ferrin glanced at Mike. “Uh, the spare tire, I guess.”

  “What’s going on, Tiff?” Mike asked.

  “Does the name Henry Randall ring a bell?” I asked the rancher.

  He squinted one eye. “Sure. Old Henry was an eccentric. Spent most of his days and evenings walking through town, bothering the ladies.”

  I bet I knew how.

  “But he was harmless,” Ferrin concluded.

  “Was?” Royal asked from the back seat.

  “Disappeared two years ago. Unfortunately, we didn’t realize till someone reported they hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks. We launched a search, but never found a trace of the old guy. Had the habit of walking out in the desert, we reckon he passed away and the animals took care of him. He was eighty-five and in poor health.”

  I was fast becoming frozen. I got in the back seat with Royal and asked Ferrin to drive on. When we reached old Henry, I asked the rancher to stop.

  Mike and Royal unfastened the Jeep’s spare tire and laid it by the trail at Henry’s feet. Henry watched them, leering forlornly.

  I waited till they got back in the Jeep. “Get a team to dig here, and you’ll find Henry Randall’s body.”

  Looking at the spot, Mike spoke to Ferrin. “Spread the word to your hands, do not move that tire.”

  Ferrin looked at Mike, at the tire, at me in the rear view mirror. “She’s saying Henry’s buried here?”

  “He is,” I told him. “Can we get back to the ranch now, please?”

  We started off. As we passed Henry, I winked at him. “Does Henry’s nephew still live around here?”

  “Billy Norris? He moved to Rawlings when we couldn’t find Henry. Nice guy. He donated the old house to the Saratoga Historic Society. Had to do some restoration, Henry never took care of the place.”

  Mike caught on. “You hear anything of him?”

  “He opened his own car dealership.”

  “Did he inherit anything from Henry, apart from the house?” I asked.

  “Not a cent. Henry was a pauper. He would’ve starved to death if not for handouts from the community.”

  I leaned forward to speak to Mike. “I think if you look into it, you’ll find Norris didn’t get a loan to start his business, he used cold, hard cash. Henry’s cash.”

  “Mr. Ferrin,” Royal interjected, “you realize this is now a police investigation and this conversation goes no farther.”

  The rancher puckered his brow. “You think Henry had money and Billy took it? So? Billy has a legal right to Henry’s estate.”

  I exchanged looks with Mike and he gave me the okay with a nod. “He did more than take Henry’s money. He took Henry’s life,” I said.

  Ferrin brought the Jeep to a stop and twisted in his seat to look at me. “You’re out of line, lady. Billy wouldn’t harm a hair on that old man’s head. He didn’t murder his uncle.”

  “I know he did; he and his wife.”

  “And you know this because… ?”

  I drew my shoulders up to my ears. “Henry told me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I waited for Royal to start in with the questions. Mike
was way past the how do you know, are you sure, how can you tell, you must be mistaken stage, but it took years, and although Royal had worked with psychics and mediums, he hadn’t worked with me. But he didn’t say a word as we climbed back in the copter. Maybe Mike warned him I won’t discuss how I get information from the dead.

  I laid my head back on the cushioned headrest and closed my eyes. The tension in my body began to ease. After Granby, I could go home and concentrate on finding Lawrence.

  But what about Lindy? Where was she? Had she already passed over? This case was so not typical of anything I experienced before.

  “Tired, Tiff?” Royal asked. His hand came down gently on the back of mine.

  I didn’t have the energy to free myself, and anyway, his fingers warmed my cold skin.

  I vacationed in a condo in Granby for a week one summer. Just me and Mac. We took long walks on the trails near the ski lifts and I think we both lost a little weight. We investigated tiny Granby and the larger city of Winter Park, drove through the Rocky Mountain National Forest and over the Rockies to Estes Park. We walked the old main street of Grand Lake and ate a picnic in the park, then I sat on the edge of the lake for an hour, looking at the water and persuading Mac not to jump in after the mallard.

  A small city of 1,500 people in the Colorado Rocky Mountain valley, a valley devoted to tourism - holiday homes, apartments and condos everywhere - Granby itself doesn’t have a lot to offer to a big-city dweller, but I like it and its proximity to the Rocky Mountains makes it a good base for sightseeing. Prices in the small stores and one small supermarket are outrageous, but the local people are unpretentious and friendly.

  As Mike, Royal and I walked past the bakery, the skies above Granby were clear and blue and the pale winter sun beat down thinly. Snow already coated the Rocky Mountain peaks. An early influx of skiers and snowboarders crowded the small town, taking a look before they got down to the serious business of tackling the slopes.