The Diamond Dragon (Kip Keene Book 4) (5 page)

“You think Shambhala really exists?” Keene rubbed his lip. Something about that woman had shaken him deeply. It wasn’t that she had essentially confirmed the journal’s details.

It was what had gone unsaid.

There was something unspeakably horrible about living in Tillus. Keene hoped it was mundanity, but he feared the truth was far more sinister.

“If I was a betting girl?” Strike said.

“For argument’s sake, let’s say you are.”

“I’d bet the house,” Strike said. “Then remortgage it and bet it again.” Her eyes flicked back and forth at the moving shadows. Patches of the bank’s linoleum floor were cloaked in almost total darkness, lending a conspiratorial aura to the investigation.

“Fuck it, then.” Keene reached into his back pocket and extracted the journal. Then he stuffed it into his waistband and covered it with his shirt tail. No need to tip his hand further by brazenly alerting the locals that he was wise to what was going on. Now fully prepared, Keene stepped up beside her and pounded on the door. Over and over and over again—courtesy and caution be damned—until the cops inside stopped moving, distracted by the incessant noise. A wisp of a young man, his oversized suit hanging off his shoulders, came down and stood on the other side of the door.

He gave no indication that he intended to unlock it.

“Please return to your—” He stopped, his eyes flashing with surprise. “Oh. Strangers.”

He immediately reached down and unlocked the door.

“Thought you were all deaf,” Keene said.

“Yes, sorry, where are my manners. The local news has been a terrible bear,” he said, with a homeliness controverted by a wolfish, inauthentic smile. The empty street bore no evidence that the local news had any interest in the bank. “Detective Danny Ferdinand. But everyone calls me Duke.”

“Duke?” Strike said. Her question was more accusatory and pointed than curious.

“Yes. Like Franz Ferdinand.” He shrugged, the rolls of fabric on his arms rippling. “High school world history, you see.”

“Sure, Detective,” she said. “That would’ve been my first guess.”

“So, what can I do for you folks? There’s a nice diner around the corner, twenty-four hours. Tremendous custard pie. To die for, as they say, but we don’t like that expression much. Kind of dour. Especially given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances would those be?” Strike said with a raised eyebrow.

“An unfortunate murder—a death during a robbery,” Duke said, wiping his brow, his eyes shifting like he’d revealed too much. “A private police matter.”

“What a coincidence,” Keene said. “We’re looking for the man who did it.”

He and Strike exchanged sideways glances. This was all improvised, like walking a tightrope without a net. The town might know that strangers were afoot, but they didn’t know
who
these strangers were, exactly.

Play this right—give off a vibe that it was best to leave them alone, that he and Strike were too much of a hassle to harass further—and they could get information and maybe even save their own hides.

Play it wrong, and well—what had the innkeeper said about staying in Tillus forever?

Duke moved uncomfortably, like he was trying to determine whether to slam the door or listen further.

“I’m afraid this isn’t nineteenth century England, and we don’t employ amateur detectives, Mr. Holmes.”

“Name’s Keene.”

“Yes, of course. Tell you what. I’ll call ahead, have Brenda treat you folks on the house, since you came all this way to help us out.” Duke turned to close the door.

Strike stuck her boot in the jamb and said, “The FBI doesn’t come to shit stick towns like this for the pie, Duke.”

“FBI?” Duke’s fingers played with the lock, the deadbolt shooting in and out of the empty air. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“Agent Samantha Strike. You want to call my supervisor? Agent Jennings, Manhattan Field Office.” She held out her phone, her eyes daring Duke to make the call.

“Phones are down,” Duke said. “Afraid we’re a bit behind you city folks.”

“So you gonna let us in,” Strike said. “Or we need to wait out the storm?”

Duke sized them both up. “You’re not dressed like FBI agents.”

“Don’t want our killer getting spooked. You seen his sheet? Shit, this guy thinks the feds are in town, he goes to ground, we’ll never see him again. Jennings will chew on my ass for weeks.” Then, in a clandestine whisper, “And your precious box will disappear, too.”

“You—you know about Box 462?” Duke’s voice came out in squeaks and stutters.

“Play nice and we’ll get everything back, no sweat.” She winked.

“Sure—sure, we can use all the help we can get.” Duke didn’t seem like he could use the help at all, but he also seemed convinced that he had no other option but to acquiesce to Strike’s demands. “Come on in. And lock the door, please.” He stepped out of the doorway and walked back up the stairs.

Keene caught the closing door and held it for Strike. As she passed by, he said in a low voice, “Quite the performance there,
Agent
. Nice touch with the box.”

“Training dies hard,” she said with a shrug. “Figured it was the only reason anyone would rob this place. Shot in the dark that it was true.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t find out you’ve been fired,” Keene said.

“Don’t worry. Phones are down, remember?”

Keene allowed the door to slam shut behind him. Locking it, he took one last glimpse at the empty street. Two police cars, headlights barely cutting through the after midnight rain, a wine store and an ice cream parlor. Just like any other town he’d ever visited.

Yet nothing like them at all.             

Keene’s footsteps echoed off the polished steps.

It was time to find out the fate of Box 462.

And whether it really held the key to Shambhala after all.

“The suspect, James Mitchell, shot Mike cold, right here.” Duke formed a pistol with his fingers and mimed pulling the trigger. His hand cast shadows on the floor, making the demonstration resemble a premonition from an old noir movie. “Killed a good man.”

“How’d you figure out his name?” Keene said.

“He announced it to everyone,” Duke said. “Crazy son of a gun.”

“You see him around before?” Duke gave a quick shake of the head. “And he just wanted the box? Nothing else?”

“Took the box and we haven’t seen him since.”

“What’s so special about this box, anyway?”

Duke just shook his head and shrugged, but offered no explanation.

Keene stared at the masking tape outline, its edges stained crimson. A forensic tech gathered yellow numbered cones and stacked them nearby. The bank manager leaned against the counter, speaking with a man dressed in a sheriff’s uniform.

The bank had the feel of a structure from the Wild West, caught somewhere between this century and one long before. The bankers’ desks were arranged without cubicles, in a neat row running alongside two large windows. They were the type of desks that took three burly men to push along a carpet, six to lift.

“Any reason for shooting him?” Keene said.

“The guard—Mike—drew on Mitchell and tried to put him down. Didn’t work out.” Duke jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Put seven rounds in the walls and counter.”

“Hit him, though, it looks like.” Keene nodded towards the red droplets smeared on the floor.

“Oh, he got Mitchell pretty good.” Duke pointed at a blood trail that headed out the door. Smeared footprints were visible in the tacky pools.

“You always contaminate the scene?” Strike said.

“It’s our first murder in a while. We had an accident awhile back around ninety, ninety-one? Suicide, we think. Nothing like this. So we might’ve, uh, messed up the evidence.”

“We need to see the vault,” Strike said.

“I don’t know if I can swing that.”

Strike gave a lackadaisical shrug. “That’s too bad. Storm’s almost over. Phones will be back soon.”

“No, no.” Duke mustered up a large disingenuous smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

He walked away and waited patiently while the sheriff finished his conversation with the bank manager. The lack of attention paid to Duke’s presence suggested that the sheriff was uninterested in what his sole detective had to say.

Strike pulled Keene off into a corner, near the towering windows, where the forensic tech—who now appeared to be little more than a college intern with an interest in science—couldn’t hear. She sat down on one of the massive desks, her fingers tapping against the solid frame.

“This is the most ridiculous scene I’ve ever been to.”

“Thought you were fired by the FBI before you even caught an official case.”

Strike’s nostrils flared. “They let us watch. Tag along at the academy. In-field experience. You see how friendly Duke got once he saw we were strangers?”

“Completely different guy,” Keene said. His thoughts flashed back to the strange affectation that had washed over their driver Johnathan. He glanced towards the counter, where the bank manager had finally receded behind the cracked glass. Duke and his superior were engaged in a hushed but heated conversation.

Probably about outsiders.

The citizens of Tillus were stewards of this portal, guarding it from outsiders. In return, they received a root—which, judging from what Keene had seen, granted them freedom from ailments and ageless youth. So long as they guarded the portal’s key, their population would remain the same, their town intact.

Now the ominous voicemail made sense. Even if you wanted to leave, you couldn’t. Not once you knew the town’s secret, had been ushered into its strange world. Perhaps some of the locals were okay with this arrangement. But others were trapped, unable to ever return to the real world.

And now the population had suddenly become 1,461. No wonder everyone had been so happy to see him and Strike. One of them was going to become a permanent resident. The other might be disposable.

The only way to save themselves was to go to Shambhala. But first they had to find James Mitchell. And that damn box.

Which meant they needed to split up.

Keene gulped.

“You look kind of pale there, buddy,” Strike said.

Keene shivered and was about to open his mouth, but could only manage to say, “I’ll explain everything in a minute,” as the sheriff and Detective Duke made good time across the room.

The sheriff tipped his hat as he approached, his boots clacking against the floor. “Not every day we get Federals around here.”

“We need to see the vault,” Strike said. “Now.”

“Whoa ma’am, we ain’t even been acquainted yet.” The well-built man extended a hand. “Sheriff Dale Hendricks.”

After an awkward pause, Keene grabbed the man’s hand, Strike following his lead. No one seemed particularly enthused about the meeting. Introductions made, the sheriff indicated he had already been briefed on the particulars by his young, inexperienced detective.

“What I don’t understand is, a man is murdered, and the FBI is worried about a couple bearer bonds.” Sheriff Hendricks folded his thick forearms over his khaki shirt. The bronze star pinned above his breast pocket rattled. “Seems a little inconsiderate. Cold, even.”

“We all know that’s not what’s in Box 462, Sheriff,” Keene said.

Sheriff Hendricks gave a low whistle and raised his eyebrow. Duke didn’t say anything. He stood frozen in place, his fingers balling up the cuffs of his blazer, like he wasn’t sure what his next move should be.

“A good man was murdered, if you recall,” Keene said. “We’re just trying to help.”

“That so, now, is it?”

“We’re looking for motive. Who Mitchell works for, what he plans to do with whatever’s inside that box. National security, you see.”

The sheriff’s veins pulsated in his arms. A tenuous silence held in the air. Keene wondered, briefly, if he had pushed too hard. After all, they were outnumbered 1,461 to 2. Keene didn’t particularly like those odds.

But then Hendricks’ demeanor softened. A smile—not happy, but not grim, either—flashed across his weather-beaten face. “Follow me.”

“Just Agent Strike,” Keene said. He turned towards Strike. Unspoken questions flashed in her eyes. “I have another lead to follow up on.”

He could see that she wanted to desperately ask him,
what lead
—perhaps with a string of expletives attached to indicate her displeasure about being kept in the dark. But instead, she nodded, and said, “I can handle this. I’m the real agent, anyway.”

“And who is Mr. Keene, then?” Sherriff Hendricks asked.

“My sidekick,” Strike said as she followed him away from the desks. “Like Duke.”

“Speaking of which,” Hendricks said, nodding towards the junior detective, “Mr. Keene could use some company. So that he doesn’t get lost in our fine town.” Strike and the sheriff disappeared into a room behind the teller window, leaving Detective Duke and Keene alone.

“Where’re we headed, then?” Duke waited for a minute, then said, “Sir?”

“Back into the storm,” Keene said, finally looking away from the glass. He took the stairs two at a time, thoughts swirling.

He knew exactly how he could track down James Mitchell.

But first, he would have to cut ties with his anchor.