Blood, Ash, and Bone (2 page)

“Or get knocked on your ass, I get it.”

“I’m serious.”

“I am too.”

“I’m more serious.”

I laughed at that. “Don’t worry, coach, the next time I seduce you, it will be for real. And then you’ll be in big trouble.”

His mouth quirked in an almost-smile, and I felt a current of relief. Usually I spent post-workout nights at his place in Buckhead, but since I had an appointment with my friendly neighborhood ATF agent in the morning—plus a ton of packing for the upcoming Civil War Expo—we were headed to Kennesaw instead, to drop me off at my apartment above Dexter’s Guns and More.

“Seduction is not the point,” he said.

“What is the point?”

“That one move won’t save you, not in a real fight. Not with a trained fighter.”

“If you’d been a real bad guy, I would have shot you.”

“If I’d been a real bad guy, you wouldn’t have gotten that chance.”

Another valid point. But I wasn’t interested in the finer instruction of hand to hand combat. At least not the combat part.

I leaned over and nuzzled behind his ear. “Come up with me. The place is chaos, but no more pizza on the floor, I promise.”

He raised one dubious eyebrow.

“Come on, I told you I’d replace the shoes.”

“You can’t afford Prada.”

“I was thinking Hushpuppies.”

But he wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were focused instead on the front door of my shop. “Tai? Who is that?”

I squinted through the windshield and saw the figure waiting next to the motorcycle, his features shadowed in the amber haze of the streetlight, blurred by cigarette smoke. My stomach clenched.

“Aw hell, not tonight.”

Trey pulled the Ferrari into the space next to the door, the tires crunching gravel. His shoulders dropped, and his expression went cool and questioning. His ex-cop face.

The man beside the bike was tall and husky, with broad shoulders under a road-fatigued leather jacket, his Levis and black leather boots dusty from the road. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed, but the hair was a shoulder-length tangle of curls. He’d been riding without a helmet again, which meant he’d come through some state besides Georgia on his way into town. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I knew they were blue. Not blue like Trey’s, which were a crystalline sapphire blue. Blue like the edge of a thunderhead, a tumbling gray-blue.

I exhaled sharply. “That would be John, my ex. So you should probably stay in the car—”

Trey got out of the car. “Is he the one who left you for your roommate?”

“Yes, Trey, thank you for that succinct reminder.” I snatched my workout bag from behind the seat. “Which is why I’d like to handle this myself, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t think—”

“He’s harmless. Gritty on the surface, marshmallow underneath.”

Trey ran his eyes down my face and across my mouth. I didn’t complain; I was used to having my veracity verified on a regular basis. It wasn’t even insulting anymore, just another quirk in a Smithsonian-worthy collection of quirks. But I was telling the truth, so I let Trey see it.

“You’re doing it again,” I said. “That over-protective thing.”

“But—”

“Go home. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He eyed my visitor, then nodded reluctantly. I kissed him goodbye, with perhaps a little more display than necessary.

Afterward, he put his mouth to my ear. “Tonight. Call me tonight.”

“I will. Now go.”

He climbed back into the Ferrari, eyes still on the guy standing at my door. He revved the engine and pulled a tight arc in the parking lot, kicking up gravel.

I went up to my visitor. I could hear the tick-tick-tick of the Harley engine cooling. So he hadn’t been there long.

I stuffed my hands in my pockets. “John Wilde.”

“Tai Randolph.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling. “That’s the kind of guy you’re seeing now? Some uptown yuppie?”

I looked over my shoulder to see the taillights rip around the corner, the F430 coupe taking the turn at an almost ninety degree angle.

“Uptown, yes. Yuppie, no. Trust me on that one.”

John laughed. He had a really good laugh, and it came from deep in his chest. His voice was still pure Alabama, slow and rich, like a deep river.

“A Ferrari.” He shook his head. “Your taste in men certainly has changed.”

“Not as much as you might think.” I unlocked the door and bumped it open with my hip. “Come on in. Then you can explain why out of all the gun shops in the greater metro area, you ended up at mine.”

Chapter Two

He plunked his helmet down on my counter. It had been almost two years since I’d seen him, but he’d changed little. A smattering more gray perhaps, and a new tattoo, an intricate piece of Celtic knot work winding around his left wrist. His body was a map of ink, a walking gallery.

He looked around the shop. The display cases were mostly empty—I’d stored the expensive firearms in the gun safe—but the shelves of bullets and shot cartridges made no bones about my profession. Neither did the wool kepis on the hat rack, or the Confederate belt buckles on the counter. There were boxes everywhere—some taped shut, some spilling Civil War collectible manuals, some still empty. In the corner, my failed experiment with rolling my own black powder charges leaked gritty soot all over spread-out newspaper.

“Nice place,” John said. “Kind of a mess, though.”

“I’m packing for the Southeastern Civil War Expo next week. This is my first time as a vendor, so I’m a little disorganized.”

His face went solemn. “I sure was sorry to hear about your Uncle Dexter passing. He was good people. To lose him so quick after your mama…”

We stood a few seconds in awkward silence. John had left me three months after my mother’s funeral. I waited for some anger to wash up, but felt only an edged curiosity.

“You want something to drink?” I said.

“Got a beer?”

I went upstairs and grabbed a Guinness for him, a Pellegrino for me. Back in the shop, I sat at the counter and sent the beer sliding his way. “So what brings you to the ATL?”

“Looking for you.”

“Why?”

He popped the top off the beer with his thumb. “Been reading about you.”

“And?”

“You’re quite the celebrity. Got yourself mixed up in some murders. Handled yourself real well from what I read.”

I remembered the article in the Atlanta paper.
Feisty if somewhat foolhardy
, the reporter had said of me. And then she’d slobbered love all over Trey.
The enigmatic and intriguing corporate security agent.
The cops hadn’t been happy with either of us, however.

I took a cold sharp sip of Pellegrino. “You still haven’t explained why you’re here.”

“You remember Hope?”

I tried to keep my expression neutral. Hope. My former roommate, former co-worker, former friend. Until she and John had run off together, of course, leaving me with a cracked heart and an avalanche of back rent.

“What’s Hope got to do with anything?”

He pulled out a pack of Marlboros and held them my way. I shook my head firmly. He stuck one between his lips, dug a lighter from his jacket. “We got married last month.”

“Congratulations.”

“Not really. She left me a week ago, and she took something with her that’s mine. I want it back.”

“And you’re talking to me because…?”

“Because you seem to know your way around a tricky situation.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I need you to find an artifact for me.”

“You know I charge a finder’s fee.”

“I expected as much.”

“Ten percent of the appraised value upon delivery.” I tipped my Pellegrino at him. “For you, though, let’s call it fifteen percent.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

And then he pulled a checkbook from his pocket, snagged a pen from the counter. A few squiggles and flourishes, and he sent the check my way.

“That should cover things.”

I stared at it. John didn’t say anything. He let the numbers speak for themselves.

I dragged my eyes from the check. “Is this for real?”

“Real as rain.”

I examined it closer, then shoved it back. “It’s post-dated.”

He shoved it my way again. “I don’t have the money right this second. But I will soon, if you help me.”

“You’d better start at the beginning.”

And so he did.

“Hope and I run a pawn shop down in Jacksonville. We sell the usual stuff, TVs and guns and video games, but we do some antique trade too. One day we hit this estate sale. The woman running it was an out-of-towner—from Des Moines, I think—and she offered me this roll-top desk filled with papers, pen, books, old stuff. The price was cheap, and it was solid walnut, so I bought it.” He smiled his gotcha smile. “Turns out, she hadn’t even looked through the drawers. Because if she had, she’d have found it.”

“Found what?”

“The Bible.” He leaned forward, eyes blazing. “An 1859 Oxford King James. It was covered in burgundy-colored velvet, crushed and stained, but in good condition overall.”

“And?”

John savored his words. “It belonged to General William Tecumseh Sherman. A gift from President Abraham Lincoln, signed and inscribed.”

“Dated?”

John smiled wider. “December 21st 1864.”

I tried to hide my excitement. I knew this story. I used to tell it every day during my days as a tour guide in Savannah, parking my herd of tourists in front of the Green-Meldrim House and explaining how, on that very soil one hundred and fifty years before, the mayor of Savannah surrendered his city to General Sherman, who had previously burned Atlanta to ash and then marched a swath of destruction to the sea. How Sherman had then offered the city of Savannah, along with some cotton and ammunition, as a Christmas present to the president.

“You found this Bible in the desk?”

“Hope did.”

“And now she’s run off with it?”

“Not just the Bible. Everything from the desk is gone—papers and pens and inks and books. She said she was taking it to an expert up here. But a friend of a friend called me and said they spotted her in Savannah.”

I sat back in my chair, fiddling with the check. “So call the cops.”

“I don’t want the cops on this, I want you.”

“Why me?”

“Because it’s personal.”

“Find her yourself then.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s in Savannah. And I can’t go back there.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

Suddenly things were starting to make a whole lot of sense. “Don’t tell me you still owe Boone money?”

He sucked in a long drag on the cigarette. “Yeah.”

“Then you shouldn’t be in Georgia, much less Savannah, especially now that he’s out of prison. He’ll—”

“I know what he’ll do. But I also know that if you find that Bible for me, I’ll have more than enough money to pay him back, interest and all.”

“How much are you in for?”

“Twenty grand.”

I was stupefied. Beauregard Forrest Boone—gunrunner, moonshiner, smuggler, and former KKK Grand Dragon—was one of the most dangerous men in Chatham County. The second John stepped across the county line, Boone would find him. And John could very likely end up as crab snacks in one of the salt marshes.

I shook my head emphatically. “Forget it. No way I’m pissing off Boone for you.”

“Boone always had a soft spot for you.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t piss him off.”

John spread his hands. “Come on, Tai, there ain’t nobody that can work that territory like you. And now that Hope’s hooked up with Winston again—”

“Winston who runs the tour shop?”

“The same.” John’s mouth pursed. “Goddamn Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, Yankee son of a bitch.”

I turned the bottle up and took a long swallow. What an incestuous little knot Hope was tying. Winston Cargill of the brightly flowered shirts had been my boss, and Hope’s, when the two of us worked as tour guides. A former history professor, he’d ditched that career when he discovered that selling history was more profitable than teaching it.

I started connecting the dots. “You think she’s hitting the Expo?”

“Of course she is! Every Civil War nut south of the Mason-Dixon line will be at the Expo. And I know how Hope thinks. She’s looking to find one of those big-money, under-the-table collectors. And if she makes that sale, she can disappear, and there won’t be any way in hell I can prove a thing against her.”

He was right. And since he couldn’t work the event, he needed someone who could. Someone already planning to be there for reasons that had nothing to do with Hope. Someone with connections and smarts in the Civil War trade. Someone exactly like me.

“What’d you do to her?”

“Nothing!”

I rolled my eyes. “Come on.”

He picked at the beer label with his thumbnail. “She thinks I’m having an affair.”

“Are you?”

“No. But I bet she is, probably with Winston. She could always wrap him around her little finger.”

“So what if she is? I still haven’t heard a good reason to help you.”

He leaned across the counter. “It’s a lot of money, Tai. My best guess? If that Bible goes to auction, it’ll pull mid-to-high six figures minimum. But if it disappears into the underground…” He spread his hands. “Nothing. For nobody. And the world loses a piece of history to boot.”

History, yes. Irreplaceable. But it was the money I couldn’t stop thinking about. I’d redone the flooring, but my cabinets and display cases were in bad shape. The inventory needed expansion, especially in the long gun department, and Trey was making noises that the security system needed upgrading. My apartment was a bare-bones studio with a sofabed and a decrepit shower stall, and I owed Trey new shoes, Prada apparently.

But it was more complicated than money. This had been explained to me in painstaking detail by the Atlanta Police Department after my last foray into private detecting. The fact that I hadn’t received any monetary compensation had been the only thing keeping me on the good side of the law.

I drummed my fingers on the counter. “This isn’t an ordinary runner’s job. There’s a crime.”

“Not if you find her before she sells it.”