Dark Passing (The Ella Reynolds Series) (17 page)

He shook his head. The scene wasn’t too far from the inn. Red and blue lights flashed around a small alleyway. “Stay in the car. I’ll come get you if it looks like it could be related.”

I nodded, staring out the window at the emergency responders swarming all around. Fagan walked with purpose and ducked under the tape with the fluid grace of someone who’d been doing this for a long time. A few minutes later, he came back to the tape and beckoned me forward. My stomach sank. I opened the door with shaky hands and walked to Fagan.

“Are you sure you want to see this?” he asked, completely serious.

“Can it really be worse than last time?”

He shrugged and lifted the tape. “If you’re going to throw up, move as far away as possible.”

I looked at him, more nervous than before. The small crowd parted slightly as we approached. The first thing I noticed was the blood. It was everywhere, gleaming in the spotlight even as it dried. Next, the swollen chunks of purple flesh hanging from the body of what I believed was a girl. A puddle of thick blood mixed with teeth, as if they’d been expelled from the body, was too near my right foot. An eye was dislodged on the crushed side of her face and hung loosely. “Jesus,” I whispered.

Fagan cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea who this is?”

I shook my head, but something caught my eye that took my breath away. “Can I see her hair?” I squeaked.

Fagan nodded to the man squatting near her head. He held out a strand of too-blond hair with lavender ends. I closed my eyes. Nikki. She didn’t even know anything. “It’s Nikki Obermiller.”

“Had you spoken with Nikki?”

I nodded. “How—” I didn’t know how to finish the thought. How was she killed? How could someone do this? How had the killer known about Nikki? Why, if he really thought she was a threat, did he let her live as long as he did?

“A hammer.” Fagan nodded toward the red brick wall a few feet away. A bloodied hammer with hair and flesh stuck in its claw lay on the ground with a yellow number next to it.

“Oh my God.” I couldn’t imagine how terrible that would be, how painful.

My throat clenched as the wind changed and the smell of blood drifted over to me. I stepped back.

“Seen enough?” Fagan asked, and I nodded. He walked me to the police line, then watched me get back in his car before he returned to his work.

I was coping better with this gruesome death than I had the others in my life. It was, for lack of a better word, easier going in knowing what to expect. My husband’s body had shocked me, nearly broken me. Lakota’s brought those feelings to the surface again, but with Nikki, a strange detachment formed somewhere in me. I wasn’t sure it was a good thing. I called Gabriel to update him.

“You sound strange,” he said.

“I’m okay.”

“I know. That’s what’s strange.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been trying to be understanding and supportive, but enough is enough. This is beyond your abilities. Come home. Stop this investigation before you get yourself killed.”

“No.”

“Three people have died.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Ella—” The patience in his voice was maddening.

“Stop.” I bit my lip to stall the overreaction that was ready at the gates. “I’m in this now, like it or not. You can call me obsessive if you want. I don’t care. The killer is obviously still here, and I must be close. Two of the people I
spoke to are dead. They agreed to help me, and they died horrible deaths for their bravery. I can’t just run away.”

“Do you still think it could be Fagan?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know. It’s possible. He left the office before me. I really don’t know where he went.”

“Just be careful. I don’t want you coming home in a body bag.”

I rubbed my forehead. I didn’t want that either.

“You still going to see Jennifer tomorrow?”

“And Bryan, if I can swing it. But I have an appearance at the local bookstore, so who knows?”

I ended the call when Fagan came back to the car. He got in and melted into his seat without starting the engine. The stress of two murders was cracking his vote-for-me shell. The polished sheriff with a smile for everyone and permanently tanned skin and sun-kissed hair looked disheartened. “Do you want to get a drink?”

I nodded. I didn’t need the drink, but Fagan definitely looked like he did. He started the car and promptly drove past all the taverns in Jackson and started out of town. “Where are you taking me?” My heartbeat increased as I looked at him out of the corner of my eye.

His too-white teeth glowed in the dark car. “Nervous?”

“Fagan—”

“Call me Carter.”

“Where are you taking me?”

He stared straight ahead. “Smithton. I told you I have an image to maintain in Jackson.”

The drive was quiet and uneventful. He took me to a large, somewhat posh establishment. I looked around at the gold swirled sign that read “Horton’s” with an established date below. The inside had low lighting and deep, rich wood. The booth backs were high, and as I slid in, the leather was soft beneath my hands. Very nice. Either Fagan thought I would be impressed—though I couldn’t imagine why; I’d already taken him to my favorite dive—or he had expensive tastes. The latter was curious, though; I had trouble believing his occupation could support too expensive of tastes. A young waitress in all black and ultra straight hair came to our table.

“Well, I haven’t seen
you
in for a while.” She smiled at him. “How’ve you been?”

He returned the smile with a slight glint in his eyes. “Great. Can I get a Patron?”

“Sure thing.” She looked at me expectantly.

“She’ll have a vodka tonic,” he answered before I could order water.

I kicked him under the table. “I can order for myself.”

“Were you going to get water?”

“Maybe.”

“Then you couldn’t order for yourself. I see it written all over your face. You know what you want. Why are you not taking it?”

So many reasons. If I had one drink, would I fall back into my old patterns? I already saw ghosts without drinking. How much worse could it get? Would imbibing dull my senses for this investigation? Would I let my guard down around Fagan? “You don’t know as much about me as you’d like to think.”

The waitress set our glasses down and hurried away. Fagan nudged my drink to me. “So you’re saying you don’t want this?”

“Not if you want me to have it,” I grumbled.

He laughed, finally breaking the icy barrier that had surrounded him since he picked me up that morning. “Don’t make me drink alone, Ella. Not tonight.”

Had he looked anything but pathetic, I wouldn’t have even considered it. But he looked like he could use a friend—and I was the only one there. “So why are you with me and not a real friend?”

“Because you don’t like me, therefore there’s no pressure to behave any certain way. It’s nice not to have to be who they think you are for a while.”

I didn’t really understand. People didn’t like me all the time, but I never felt any sort of relief from it. I didn’t really care one way or another. I was always me. I felt most comfortable with Gabriel, and he saw me the most clearly of anyone. “You like hanging out with people who don’t like you?”

“Apparently.”

I shook my head. “Hmmm, maybe if you were just yourself and not what other people want you to be, you’d enjoy being with people who actually like you.” I thought about it a moment longer. “Or maybe you just don’t like yourself very much right now.”

Fagan threw back his drink. “Very insightful.”

I bit my lip to keep from picking him apart further. It was hard to stop once I started, but I certainly wasn’t going to get him to talk to me by telling him what was wrong with him. “You want me to like you? Tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, so the time for a heart-to-heart and to braid each other’s hair has arrived at last?”

I bit the inside of my cheek as I looked at him. “I guess.”

“Then have a drink.”

I bit my lip, but wrapped my fingers around the cold glass. As the perfect blend of lime, tonic water, and vodka touched my lips, I closed my eyes and let myself enjoy the sensation as it slid down my throat and warmed me in a way that was far too right. Fagan smiled at his small victory. “So.” I prompted.

“What do you want to know?”

“Why are you a cop? Where are you from? Are you married, divorced, gay?”

“I’m a police officer because I always wanted to be one. I’m from Jackson. I’m not married, divorced, or gay.”

Hmmm. Only answering my exact questions. Very tricky. I’d have to try harder. I was mulling over my next question when he asked his own.

“How serious are you with Detective Troy? Who else have you interviewed? Why are you so determined to be involved in this case?”

I rapped my knuckles on the table a couple times, weighing my options. I had questions I wanted answered and already knew he was a lightweight when it came to drinking. It was only a matter of time before he was drunk enough to share his secrets, so long as I played nice. “Alfie Laurie, Caleb Monroe, and Bryan Jenkins. I wasn’t determined to be involved. Jennifer talked me into coming here, but now the more I look at the case, the more it sinks its claws into me. I have to know the ending. I have to know what was worth killing these people over.”

“What if the killer’s gone?”

“He’s not.”

He shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like “rookie.” “What about Detective Troy?”

“Gabriel is…”
None of your business
. “…the best thing to come into my life in a very long time.”

“So you’re pretty committed, huh?”

“What does it matter, Fagan? You aren’t interested in me.”

He finished his drink. “You’re growing on me.”

“I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

“See,
direct
. I like that.”

“Hmph.” I reached for my glass, but it was empty. I hardly remembered drinking it. Fagan motioned to the waitress to bring two more. “Why no girlfriend? Had you ever worked a murder before Mary? And why are you so intent on making me drink?”

“I had a girlfriend, but we… broke up. I’ve worked murders before Mary Nelson. And it seems like alcohol might get the stick out of your ass.”

The waitress dropped off the next round, and I took a drink from my fresh glass. “You’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“I’m starting to grow on you, aren’t I? Did you really see ghosts? Where does your family live?”

“You have your moments. I did see ghosts. My family’s dead.”

And so it went, for at least two hours. Drinking and firing random questions at each other. It was a game and hard to tell who was winning. We both answered as vaguely as possible, not wanting to give anything away. By the time we paid the check, my face was partially numb and my vision blurry—I didn’t have the tolerance I used to. Fagan flung his arm around my shoulders as we walked, or somewhat stumbled, outside.

“See I told you. Alcohol. The number one stick-from-ass remover.”

I snorted. “But now we’re stuck. We can’t get home.” Then I had a sobering thought. “I’ll have to call Gabriel, and he will not be pleased.”

Fagan waved my worries away and charged down the sidewalk, still limping slightly, and dragging me with him. We walked past his car and turned down a quiet, old residential street. After a couple blocks, he headed up the driveway of an old brick two-story home.

“Do you know these people?” I asked, half concerned and half finding the entire situation hilarious.

“It’s my house.” He pulled out a key and pushed me through the door in front of him. He flipped on the lights, and I looked around.

 It was a cute house, but what was the Sheriff of Jackson doing living in Smithton? “You live here?”

“No. I inherited it. I only use it when I need to blow off steam. I haven’t been up here for months.”

I went to the bay window and looked out over the dimly lit street. It was still dark enough I could see stars in the sky, but not so dark that I couldn’t see the neighbors’ yards.

“Why am I one of your suspects?” His breath tickled my ear. I froze. He was too close.

“You’re not—how did you know?”

He didn’t move away. His hot breath gushed against the collar of my shirt. “Do you think I’m stupid, Ms. Reynolds?”

I turned around ever so slowly, backing away slightly. “You’ve gone out of your way to keep me from investigating this.”

He advanced, backing me against the wall. The still functional part of my brain told me I was the stupid one. What was I doing in his house in Smithton after a night of drinking without even telling Gabriel? “Are you scared, Ms. Reynolds?”

My breath was shallow. “No.”

“Liar,” he whispered, pressing his hands against the wall on either side of me and leaning in.

My mind may have been sluggish, but my instincts were fine. I stomped on the same foot I got after the Laurie’s party.

“Son of bitch!” He lifted the foot on instinct, hopped a couple times, then stopped his advance and limped away. “Will you stop doing that? I’ll never walk the same again.”

My pounding heart reminded me I was a liar. I was scared out of my mind. I stayed pressed against the wall, not quite ready to let go yet.

“I’m not going to hurt you, or anyone, Ella. I’m not your suspect.”

“But you are hiding something about the case. There’s a reason you don’t want me investigating.”

He sat on the couch and rested his elbows against his knees. “If I tell you, will you swear it doesn’t leave this room or make it into your book?”

I nodded once.