Kill Me Why?: Gray James Detective Murder Mystery and Suspense (Chief Inspector Gray James Detective Murder Mystery Series Book 2)

by Ritu Sethi

  He stepped into the sunken foyer to look; only one very solid, oak door—with a sliding bolt on the surface—could have led to the cellar.

  It took eight tries on the keychain before hitting gold.

  The circular staircase leading downward was pitch black, dank, and rotten. Rampant squeaking preceded a flash of movement at his feet. Gray swung the torch.

  Rats sprang at him and flew upstairs to the house. He clenched his fist and took in a few steadying breaths. Fleeing rodents could mean only one terrible thing.

  It wasn’t too late to turn back. Dad was right; he should leave it to Slope. Except, without this evidence, nothing would be right again. The bodies had to be down here.

  Gray’s breathing came quick and heavy. Each step into the damp darkness brought a real fear he was brave enough to acknowledge. The sooner he searched the cellar, the sooner he could get out.

  Halfway down, he heard the expected roar.

  On the bottom step, water gushed into his already drenched shoes, sprang forward, now reaching his ankles.

  Sharp debris hit his leg—the edge of a wooden crate?—and the bobbing of his torchlight revealed water-logged tools, clothes, even a kite.

  What the hell was he doing? He turned back—until Gray saw a manikin’s hand, with painted nails, swimming towards him as though riding a rapid.

  Except, it wasn’t a manikin; it was a woman. He recognized the coat from the beach and Delilah’s mutilated face which now appeared more grotesque and bloated.

  He could stay long enough to grab her body safely.

  She jetted towards him like a ghostly apparition, and he steeled himself not to jump back, to control the slamming of his heart. He held the torch with his claw grip and used his good hand to grab her rigid form.

  It slammed against him, and he fell face down in the water—just as something else hard hit his head.

  Coughing and sputtering, Gray came up to get a lungful of musty air. Delilah had hit the bottom of the stairs and was getting shoved and beaten by other debris.

  He pushed himself up on stiff legs. The frigid, salty water now reached his thighs.

  Somewhere, past the inky depths of the cellar lay uncharted caves leaving into the eyes of the cove—similar caves and caverns to the one he’d discovered by the yacht miles away at Smuggler’s Cove.

  Pine Mansion had a similar smuggling history. Caves, which were generally above ground, were flooding in the storm. This cellar would in minutes be underwater.

  He lifted Delilah’s stiff body, and his arms ached from everything they’d recently been through. Wet clothes and fatigue weighed him down.

  Each step up the winding staircase felt impossible. The current grew stronger by the second and pulled at Gray's legs until finally letting go its teeth when he reached the first dry step. There was still a long way up before he reached the lit foyer.

  Another eight or nine steps and he’d be there. He couldn’t think about reaching the top or carrying Delilah across the now more flooded lawn. Anyone could be out there waiting for him, and Gray no longer had the strength for a fight.

  One step at a time; only one step at a time.

  He made it to the top. Delilah fell out of his arms and rolled onto the entrance tile.

  Heaving a sigh of relief, Gray closed his eyes -- when a figure rushed forward—eyes bright and mad, face possessed in a frenzy—and slammed the door in his face.

  Gray stumbled back, the torch still in one hand, the other grasping for the rail—Matisse’s crazed face burned into memory forever.

  The fall ended when he smashed into the curved wall. Ice-cold seawater pounded his left hip.

  In seconds, the staircase and sunken entrance would flood to the water level of the lawns outside. Gray took deep breaths. Icy hands encircled his chest.

  Struggling to his feet, he flew to the cellar door and tried the handle. The door wouldn’t budge. He slammed the rock-solid oak with his shoulder, but Matisse must have engaged the bolt. No light shined from underneath. No one answered Gray’s calls.

  The water’s push might break the door on its hinges, or it might not. Either way, Gray would drown before that happened. He needed another plan—quick—before the air ran out.

  How far before the cellar met the caverns of the cove? The distance might be forty or fifty feet?

  Once the stairwell filled—provided the door held—water would stop pouring in, and Gray could swim. He was a damn strong swimmer, even in this state. It was a long-shot.

  Without the torch, he was dead already. He shifted it to his good hand.

  Water climbed his neck, lifting him to the ceiling. Every inch of his skin felt jabbing needles, and he risked hypothermia before making it to the cove.

  Five more seconds…four…three. It inched up his face. He arched his neck for the last breath before all air disappeared—preparing: flexing and positioning his muscles and opening his eyes to the salty and frigid sting.

  The bright torch beam shot forward, bouncing off wobbling objects surrounded by blackness.

  Panic called, but his chest muscles remained tight and still, while his arms and legs pushed in powerful bursts.

  The cellar ended at a wall devoid of debris, but somewhere, there must be an opening for the water to pour in.

  Flashing the light around brought the opening into view—one barely half of Gray’s height and twice his width.

  There wouldn’t be room enough to swing his arms. Any descent through the enclosed cavern—who knew how far—was going to be slow and painful.

  And already, pressure mounted in his lungs; his eyes stung. Any second, he’d pass out.

  He swam and needled himself through the tunnel. The water pressure was higher here; he pumped burning legs harder—while the torch beam blurred and cleared, while his body screamed in agony.

  Out there in the cove and ocean, his son awaited.

  Three years couldn’t have obliterated him entirely. Gray’s baby had become an integral part of the sea, and maybe they should join here together. What was there in the world for him now? More failure as a father; more unrepentant criminals to hound down. Did it all mean nothing in the end? Upon death, wouldn’t he disappear into nothingness like Craig—except no one would mourn Gray. He didn’t deserve it.

  The tunnel ended and spilled out into the cove. The torch beam dispersed into nothingness, hitting no rock walls except the one behind him.

  He reached for the hard edge but could feel nothing.

  How much time had passed? Any second, he’d become delirious or unconscious. So little of his brain still functioned—but he knew one thing: the water was calmer down here than on the surface above. If he surfaced this close to the rocks, he’d be smashed to bits.

  Should he crawl up the rock edge or swim further out? The pressure inside his chest had numbed, too. He no longer needed to breathe—only float under the surf until he reached Craig. And they’d be together forever. Noel didn’t know him, and Sita was half-way to finding her a new dad. Maybe it was time to let go finally.

  A vice gripped his right wrist.

  His entire body felt cut off from sensation—except at his scarred hand where the contact burned like from a flame and pulled him up so hard his shoulder might dislocate.

  It took everything to lift his head. Saltwater bubbled into his nostrils, the insides searing a little before going numb.

  A small hand held on tight. Dead white feet and legs kicked vertically to lift them both upward. Gray wouldn’t go. He couldn’t leave Craig.

  Trying to break free didn’t work; the grip tightened further, scorching his skin until he almost screamed.

  The apparition glowed.

  A smiling face looked down with kind eyes and pointed upward with a small hand—and suddenly, the burning ceased.

  Craig was here. Gray must go with his son. They wouldn’t be parted, ever again.

  Feet turned into meters, and they went up and up…while a warmth flooded Gray’s heart. Craig looke
d so happy, so serene.

  And now, the boy’s face morphed into a little girl’s. And Gray heard her cries—cries reminding him that a desperate killer still roamed the mansion, an unpredictable and out-of-control monster.

  Craig pulled them up, higher and higher—where the current grew strong and whipped them about.

  Gray couldn’t feel his legs, much less move them. He’d lost all control over his body, and now his lungs came back to life and created a vacuum in his chest, screaming for release.

  Another few seconds—if he could stay conscious another few seconds, he could get to Noel. But would that mean leaving his son?

  Oh God, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let Craig be obliterated again by the sea.

  The current came fiercely. Craig let go Gray’s wrist and rested that bony hand on Gray’s head—eyes calm and forgiving, for a second which might have lasted forever but soon went.

  The boy’s luminous body dissolved into blackness. Numbness receded and brought back a violent cold which clutched at the heart, tearing it to shreds.

  No. No.

  Don’t go. I can’t live without you. I don’t know how I have for three years. Only by being numb, but now I’m not numb, and it’s beyond pain—where consciousness drags you to a hell you can’t endure. But maybe I can survive it, Craig, if I know you’re somewhere okay. But I’ll never know, will I? I’ll never know for sure—until my dying day.

  Gray’s head broke the surface. He gulped in cold air and spray.

  Shattered lungs convulsed and coughed, and like a rag doll, he flew amongst the white-tipped waves, bobbing up and down.

  But oxygen worked his magic. All the empty blackness slowly filled with the sea’s roar and the sensation of rain his face.

  He tried to gain control; the surf instead threw him against the rocks, and he hit his shoulder but felt no pain—only a crunching of bone against bone.

  He had to swim out and find his son, who was out there somewhere. If only his body would move. If only reason hadn’t reasserted itself, bringing the knowledge that nothing existed out there to find.

  The next wave crashed upon his head and pulled him out to sea before boomeranging him back against the rocks—this time into a crevice between two pointed boulders.

  In a second, he’d be yanked out into the ocean again.

  Gray roared as loud as he could and flung two lifeless arms together, linking them around a rock. But the tug was too strong. He couldn’t hold on for much longer.

  Shouting again only hurt her ears. They were the cries of a stranger.

  Disjointed voices came from a distance. His blurred eyes refocused and found movement in the rocks.

  Teddy’s round figure hobbled simian-like, balancing on both hands. “He’s here! Hanging on. Quick, the tide’ll pull him out.” Porch lights from a distance lit the Squire’s haloed silhouette, but his face was a black void.

  “Gimme that rope.” Seymour appeared out of nothingness. The wind knocked the doctor off his feet, and surf slashed across his face. “I’ll tie it around him.

  “And have us all pulled out? We form a chain. Emmy, wrap this around you.”

  Why had they all come? Gray’s thinking cleared. They’d left Noel alone with who—Sita, Lew, and Slope? What if the two smugglers returned for the painting? He shouted, but they didn’t listen.

  Seymour’s scrunched face leaned in close. “He’s cut. Careful—his neck or back might be broken.”

  “Hurry,” Gray mouthed.

  He floated upward and lay flat on rocks that dug into his back. An angry and curdled sky threatened to plummet upon them, but it was blocked by feminine hands hovering as though performing an incantation.

  They encircling his neck. “I’m holding it steady,” Emmy said. Her head sheltered his from the rain; her long hair fell forward in a semicircle, and water slid down their silky lengths.

  An unknown force lifted him, and he floated towards the mansion, its shadowed turrets looming overhead in the power of the storm.

  “You’re going to be okay,” Emmy said. Her forehead was serene. He believed her.

  Everything numb started to feel warm. Seymour and Teddy were talking nearby while Gray floated towards the house. Their words jumbled into an unrecognizable blur.

  Somehow, he had to stay awake—and yet the pull to close his eyes, for only a second, proved too much.

  He’d close them for a second.

  “Gray’s passing out,” someone said.

  No, I’m not. A pounding began in his chest. Warmth flooded his arms and legs, and he was partly relieved to be alive, and in part wishing himself back in the sea—with that small, luminous hand upon his head, with warmth again flooding his heart.

  Gray held on to that timeless moment, clutched at it so it would always be with him and never go.

  Before everything went black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A VIOLENT PAIN smashed through the fog of his unconsciousness, accompanied by an excruciating snap, felt in his left shoulder.

  Gray bolted up. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Seymour held Gray’s arm and shoulder. Emmy and Dad supported his torso.

  The doctor shot him a look. “Don’t move. Your shoulder was dislocated, and I’ve just replaced it in its socket. I didn’t dare leave it dangling—in case you need your one and only good arm tonight.”

  “You could have waited until I regained consciousness,” Gray said. “You ever heard of pain control?”

  “Sorry, James. I needed you awake, ASAP.”

  Seymour’s dark look was shared by the other two. Across the salon, Slope and Sita worked at distracting a tired and crying Noel. Teddy was with them.

  Gray moved to get up, but Lew and Seymour held him down.

  “She’s okay, Son. Your daughter’s fine. Leave them for now.”

  “Yeah,” Seymour chipped in. “The storm’s not abating. It’s still the middle of the night, in case you didn’t know, and there’s a killer loose among us. We needed you back if only to tell us what the hell is going on.”

  Gray ran a hand over his face. He now wore loose, dry clothes instead of his tux—Teddy’s? The hearth roared a few feet away, sending sparks and welcome bursts of hot air.

  Emmy hadn’t said a thing, but her pale face and trembling lips told him she was at breaking point.

  Seymour spoke in bursts. Gray had never seen him this worked up. “I want to hear all about the cove, but first—I’m dying to know—who’s the goddamn Stitcher?”

  Gray rubbed his shoulder at the site of a bandage; his skin stung. He must have cut himself against the rocks, and the characteristic tug indicated Seymour had needed to stitch him up. At least, the bones weren’t broken.

  “That’s complicated. Someone get me something. I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

  Dad put a hand on his chest. “Take it easy. Lie back down.”

  “I don’t want to. Some scotch—that might help.”

  Seymour made a face. Even at times of crisis, he was a character. “I’ll get it, but not too much.” He pointed a finger, clearly thrilled to have a live patient for a change. He returned a moment later with two fingers of single malt in a crystal tumbler—Gray’s favorite.

  It burned down his throat, brought life into his body.

  Noel had fallen back asleep across the room in her mother’s arms. The shifting of a log as it crackled, the stillness of all eyes upon him, made time stand still. And it felt like Christmas for the first time this season, bringing a childhood bliss he scarcely remembered.

  He wanted to hang onto it forever, but they were looking to him for answers.

  Gray straightened and downed his scotch. “Where’s Matisse?”

  “He ain’t the Stitcher” Teddy had joined them, jaw clenched, fists at his side. No one had lost more than this tough man—his fiancé and adopted daughter. Still, he looked more angry than broken.

  “No—and yes. Has anyone seen him?”

  “N
ot since he ran off two hours ago.”

  Gray put down the glass and stood. The room blurred before clearing, and Seymour had both arms out in case he fell.

  “Matisse locked me in the guest house cellar,” Gray said. “I swam out through an old smuggler’s cavern leading to the cove.”

  Lew’s hand gripped his shoulder.

  “I’m okay, Dad.”

  But Gray’s thighs screamed. There must be bruises all over his body. He kept his expression neutral, feeling the doctor’s eyes upon him.

  Teddy shook his head. “No way, Matisse killed my Farrah. He was with me the whole time after Farrah went off on her own. And we both found her afterward—lyin’ dead on the terrace like that.”

  “He did kill his mother. I’ll explain after we find him. Let’s not forget we also have two violent fugitives on the property.” Gray shook his head to clear his thinking. “Where’s Vivienne.”

  “She went to the bathroom,” Emmy said.

  “Alone?”

  Vivienne stepped into the room on cue. A purple and black lump adorned her forehead, and her lower lip looked like a grape.

  “We’ve both looked better.” She gave him a tight hug. “Mon Dieu, you frightened me. It’s been a hell of a night.”

  “It’s not over. Are you feeling well enough to help me search the house?”

  She nodded and moved towards Slope.

  Gray took Lew to one side. “You still have the revolver, in case either of the three return?”

  “Yes.” He leaned in, so only Gray could hear. “Who do I trust in this group?”

  “Does Slope have his gun?”

  “He says he didn’t bring it to the party. Vivienne thinks he’s head of the art smuggler’s group.” The Picasso rested against the nearby sofa.

  “Not the head, but I can’t exclude his involvement without interrogating the two thieves. They’re on the property, and so is Matisse, thanks to the storm. We have to find him, at the very least, tonight. By morning, all three will have skipped town. Which means I have to decide whether to take Slope with me or leave him here.”