Elemental Assassin 02 - Web of Lies (18 page)

We drove on, still heading north. The terrain became rockier, more rugged, as the rolling hills of the lowlands gave way to knobby ridges and pine-covered mountains.

Houses began to appear on the side of the road, although they were far less grand than the hidden McMansions that populated the Northtown estates. The road narrowed from four lanes to two and twisted back on itself in a series of switchbacks that would give most folks nausea.

Instead of sleek sedans and chrome-covered SUVs, we began to pass dump- and coal trucks on the road.

After about thirty minutes of driving, Violet pointed out the windshield. “That’s it, just up ahead at the crossroads.”

Finn slowed, turned into a gravel lot, and parked. I peered out the window at the structure before us. The two-story clapboard building might have been a home or perhaps a hunting cabin, once upon a time. Although it was obviously old, the building sported a fresh coat of white paint, with the shutters trimmed in a pale green.

Smaller, matching outbuildings squatted next to the main structure, connected to it by short, covered walkways.

Wooden steps led up to a front porch that was even wider than Jo-Jo’s. The porch ran the length of all three buildings. Rocking chairs lined either side of the front door, along with barrels topped with checkerboards. The tin sign mounted above the main entrance gleamed like a new nickel in the sun. Country Daze, it read in green paint that matched the shutters. The roofs of all three buildings were also tin, the kind that made a slow, steady rain sound like a classical sonata.

The parking lot—if you wanted to call it that and not just loose gravel, curved around the store like a crescent moon. A stop sign squatted off to the right, and the road came to a T, forcing you to go right or left. One of the road signs pointed the way back to the interstate and declared that this stretch of pavement was part of some scenic, tourist-trap highway. The other sign featured an arrow and the words Dawson No. 3. Less than a mile away. Interesting. I might have to go check out the coal mine, after I met the illustrious Warren T. Fox.

We got out of the car. Underneath my boots, the parking lot gravel vibrated with the sounds of traffic and tires continually rolling across it. A low growl that told me the stones had seen a lot of people and cars go by in their time. Nothing sinister, just the everyday facts of life.

A smile brightened Violet Fox’s face and softened her eyes, chasing away some of the lingering shadows from last night.

“You really love this place, don’t you?” I asked.

She nodded. “My parents died when I was ten. My grandfather took me in and raised me. I’ve been helping him with the store ever since. It’s like my second home, you know?”

Violet Fox and I were more alike than she realized, because I did know. Because I felt the same way about the Pork Pit. That’s why I’d reacted so badly, so defensively, when Jonah McAllister had come calling today—because he wasn’t just threatening my business, my livelihood, he was threatening my home as well. A piece of my heart. The last piece of Fletcher Lane that I had, since the old man was dead and gone and had left me nothing else but riddles to solve.

Violet started to walk ahead to the store, but I grabbed her arm.

“Stay behind me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Just do it, all right?”

Finn stared at me over the hood of the SUV. “You think there’s going to be trouble inside, Gin?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But if this is such a popular place, why aren’t there more cars here? It’s lunchtime. Folks should be packed in here, getting a sandwich or a cold drink.”

Finn’s green eyes flicked over the gravel lot. Only one other car was parked in it, an anonymous navy sedan. His eyes drifted out to the road. A steady stream of traffic came and went at the crossroads, but none of the drivers looked at the store, much less pulled into the lot. Finn’s face tightened.

“It’s been quiet since Dawson started sending his men over to harass us,” Violet explained. “People don’t like to stop somewhere there might be trouble. Sometimes, we’re lucky if we get five customers in eight hours. It’s probably just a slow day.”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go find out.”

I led the way, with Finn behind me and Violet bringing up the rear. As we crossed the parking lot, I palmed one of my silverstone knives. If there was trouble inside, I’d be the first one to see it—and I wanted to be ready to deal with it.

The porch stairs didn’t creak under my weight. They were too smooth and well-worn to do that. I walked up them, opened the front door, and stepped inside.

Country Daze was exactly what I’d expected. Scarred, ancient wooden floors. Displays of tourist T-shirts, key chains, and other doodads. An odd assortment of tools and outdoor equipment. Barrels full of rock candy, saltwater taffy, and cellophane-wrapped sugary pralines. A couple of coolers filled with old-fashioned glass soda bottles.

A few more with sandwiches and other snacks. Tables full of honey, strawberry preserves, and apple butter. A revolving rack of cheap sunglasses. Nicer arrangements of quilts, baskets, and other, more expensive handmade items.

A large counter filled with silver jewelry formed a solid square in the middle of the store. An old man stood behind it, one hand resting on a large shotgun with a scarred wooden stock.

What little there was of his wispy white hair stuck up over his forehead as if it had been shocked upright by my appearance. His eyes were dark and shiny, as though two chocolate caramels had been stuffed in his face. He was about my size, stooped with age from his original, taller height. His skin was a dark, burnished brown, marking him as having some Native American heritage, most likely Cherokee in this neck of the woods. Deep lines grooved his face around his pinched mouth, as if he frowned a lot.

But perhaps most unsettling was the fact he wore a blue work shirt that could have come straight out of Fletcher Lane’s closet. His dark eyes held the same fierce determination that Fletcher’s had always had, and I could tell by his proud stance that this store was his life, his kingdom, and meant as much to him as the Pork Pit had to Fletcher. The man in front of me didn’t look anything like my murdered mentor, but in some ways, he was a mirror image of Fletcher. It unsettled me—and made me feel a softness toward him that he’d done absolutely nothing to earn.

I didn’t need Violet to tell me this was her grandfather, Warren T. Fox. A crotchety old coot who’d probably just as soon cuss as look at you. I knew the type. I’d been raised by one.

But Warren T. Fox wasn’t alone.

There was another man with him, someone who needed no introduction, either. Someone I already knew all too well.

Detective Donovan Caine.

15

Now I knew whom the sedan outside belonged to. It had
cop car
written all over it. I just didn’t realize it belonged to
my
cop.

The two men turned at the sound of my footsteps on the worn floor. Warren T. Fox frowned. Surprise filled Donovan Caine’s golden eyes.

“Gin?” the detective asked. “What are you doing here?”

“You know her?” Warren Fox asked. His voice was high, thin, reedy, like someone whistling through a broken flute.

“Yeah,” Caine said in a low voice. “You might say I know her.”

Well enough to sleep with me. Well enough to want to do the same again. Despite the fact I’d killed his former partner.

I opened my mouth to respond when Finn and Violet entered the store behind me. The girl walked around me, went straight to her grandfather, leaned across the wooden counter, and hugged his neck tight.

The old man’s face softened for a moment, and the sheen of moisture dampened his eyes. Then he scowled and pulled away from the younger woman.

“Where have you been?” he snapped. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Violet sighed. “I called you last night, Grandpa, remember? I told you I was staying with Eva.”

The old man’s brown eyes narrowed. “Yes, you called, and you sounded peculiar. But I wasn’t really worried until Eva called here this morning. She said you two were supposed to have breakfast, and you didn’t show.”

Violet’s face pinched up into an oh-shit-I’ve-just-beencaught look.

“I tried your cell phone to clarify the matter,” Warren continued. “No answer.”

“The battery died,” Violet said in a soft, desperate voice.

I didn’t know why she was still trying to stick to her story. The truth was going to come out in the next minute, two tops. I supposed Violet just wanted to spare her grandfather the ugly details about what had been done to her last night. Most people tended to block out things like that. Sometimes I wished I could do the same, instead of dwelling on the past the way I always did.

“I called the college, Eva again, and all your other friends I could remember. Nobody had seen you since last night,” Warren replied in a curt tone. “Do you know how worried I was about you? With everything that’s been going on? So I called Donovan to report you missing.”

I eyed Caine. So that’s what the detective was doing here. And from Warren’s use of his first name, it sounded like the two of them knew each other. The detective saw me looking and shrugged his lean shoulders.

Violet cringed again, and Warren opened his mouth to tear into his granddaughter some more for worrying him.

But I cut him off.

“Enough. Violet didn’t come home last night because someone tried to kill her.”

That shut him up. Warren’s mouth fell open, and he just stared at me. So did Donovan Caine. Violet shifted on her feet. Finn leaned against one of the coolers.

Amusement filled his bright green eyes.

“Now that I have your attention,” I said. “Let me tell you exactly what happened last night.”

———

The five of us ended up on the store’s wide front porch. I sat on the porch railing and leaned against one of the columns that supported the sloping tin roof. Finn was in a similar position across from me. Donovan Caine slouched on the steps between us, while Warren T. Fox and Violet rocked back and forth in two of the old-fashioned chairs.

“And there you have it,” I said, wrapping up my tale.

“That’s why Violet didn’t come home last night. Because she was a little busy getting her face put back together by an Air elemental. Her name’s Jo-Jo Deveraux. You might know her.”

Warren stared at me, his dark eyes narrowed and thoughtful. His gaze cut to Finn, then back to me. Thinking about something—or rather someone. Fletcher Lane.

“Let me get this straight, Gin,” Donovan Caine said.

“Violet went to the restaurant looking for some guy who called himself the Tin Man. Then someone shot up the Pork Pit, but you backtracked the shooter and realized he was aiming at Violet. So you used her credit card receipt to hack into her personal information and find her at Ashland Community College.

“Actually, that was me, detective,” Finn said. “The only thing Gin knows how to hack into is warm bodies.”

I shot him a dirty look. I hadn’t exactly told Warren and Violet what I used to do, but I was sure the old coot had guessed. After all, he’d known Fletcher.

Donovan shook his head, ignoring Finn’s remark. “You guys go to the college and see a dwarf attack Violet. Gin intervenes, and the two of you cart her off to some healer you know. Did I get it right?”

“More or less,” Finn replied. “Although you left out the part where I helped Gin subdue the assailant.”

“You and a monster truck,” I sniped. “I did all the hard, dirty work, if you’ll remember.”

Finn grinned at me.

At the sight, Warren Fox made a deep sound in his throat, almost like a choking cough. He stared at Finn.

“You’re the spitting image of your father when you smile like that.”

Some of the cheer drained out Finn’s green eyes.

“That’s what people tell me. He’s dead, you know. Two months now.”

Warren rocked back in his chair and nodded. “I know. Saw the obit in the newspaper.” The old man stared at Finn a moment longer, then turned to me. “And you’re Fletcher’s girl, aren’t you? The one he took in off the streets all those years ago?”

I frowned. “Yeah, I am. How do you know about that?”

Warren shrugged his stooped shoulders. “Fletcher and I might have had a falling out, but I kept tabs on him.”

Nobody said anything. But Donovan Caine looked at me, questions in his golden eyes. Despite our having slept together, the detective didn’t know about my time living on the streets—or that my family had been brutally murdered by a Fire elemental when I was thirteen. That I’d been tortured by the sadistic bitch and barely escaped with my life.

I wasn’t sure I wanted him to know. Pity was the last thing I wanted from the detective—or from anyone else.

Violet reached over, put her young, smooth hand on top of Warren’s brown, speckled one, and stopped his rocking. “Gin came here to help us, Grandfather.”

“Did she now?” Warren muttered.

Donovan frowned. “Help you with what, Warren?”

The old man resumed his rocking. “It’s nothing. Just that bastard Tobias Dawson.”

The detective’s frown deepened. “Tobias Dawson? The dwarven mine owner?”

“He wants the land the store sits on,” Violet explained in a quiet voice. “He’s always wanted it, but he’s become more and more insistent in the last two months.”

“It’s nothing,” Warren muttered again. “Just his usual threats and bluster. He knows he’ll never get the store or the land until I’m spinning in my grave.”

“Or until your granddaughter’s untimely rape and death puts you there,” Finn pointed out. “Whatever Tobias Dawson’s done in the past, he’s decided to play hardball now—starting with Violet.”

The college girl’s fingers crept up to her face, and her nose twitched, as if she was reliving the pain she’d suffered last night. She shivered.

Donovan noticed Violet’s reaction, and a sad, sick look filled his eyes. As a detective, Donovan had seen his share of victims. He knew how badly Violet had been hurt, how an innocent piece of her had been stripped away that she’d never get back. Anger and helplessness tightened Donovan’s rough features. Because he also knew how hard it could be to get justice for victims like Violet.