Third Grave Dead Ahead (29 page)

“Go!” I yelled.

He shook his head, and in that brief exchange, an army rushed toward the truck.

“Go!” I yelled again, rolling my eyes in frustration, and Garrett knew he had no choice. He threw his truck in reverse and peeled out to get away from the onslaught, then executed a wicked spin and tore down the street, rubber smoking a good fifty feet on the way.

They followed. A sea of leather ran down the street toward Garrett’s truck as it disappeared into the distance. Some went for their bikes. Some came back for orders. All speared me with glowers of distrust.

“Get him,” Donovan ordered before taking hold of my jacket a second time and dragging me, quite literally, into the house. Once again, the prince and Mafioso followed. We stumbled past broken furniture toward an office at the back. He slammed the door, but the two men following just opened it and let themselves in. I hoped I hadn’t underestimated Donovan. He was a good guy, but even seemingly good guys could have an uncontrollable temper underneath. Damned testosterone.

He shoved me into a chair, then started pacing. “Blake?” he said from between clenched teeth. “It was Blake?” He was actually directing his question to his seconds in command. Then he turned back to me. With an agility I hadn’t expected, he was in front of me at once, both hands on the arms of the chair around me, his face barely an inch from my own. “How did you know?”

“It’s difficult to explain,” I answered, my voice airy.

“You have one chance. Do you know him?”

“No. Please sit down.”

He jostled the chair to get my attention. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in right now?”

I swallowed hard. Shaking in my Dolce & Gabbanas, I glanced over at the prince. He seemed to feel bad for me, but I doubted he would go against his leader. Mafioso might, though. He seemed a bit less reverent.

“Donovan, if you’ll just sit down, I’ll explain.”

He crouched before me, keeping his hands locked on the chair. That was as good as I was going to get.

“I can feel things,” I said, trying to take deep, calming breaths. “I … know things by assessing the emotions radiating off people and analyzing their auras.”

“Don’t give me that New Age shit.”

“It’s not New Age. It’s old, actually. Very, very old.”

His brows drew together, wondering how much he should believe.

“You know how I can talk to Rocket?” I glanced at all three of them for validation. Mafioso shrugged. “It’s kind of like that. I sense things other people don’t. Like right now.” I looked back at him, a wrenching kind of sorrow making my heart heavy. “I can sense the pain that is completely consuming you. Those dogs were everything to you, and that guy, Blake, took that away.” I put my palm on his jaw. “Your pain is so strong, I can barely breathe under the weight of it.”

He leaned back a little, eyeing me warily, and I dropped my hand.

“It’s like you’re drowning in it, and I knew if you got ahold of the guy responsible for that kind of pain, you’d probably kill him.”

He sat back on his heels and dropped one arm.

“You would go to prison for a very long time, and you’re a good person, Donovan. I can feel that, too, sense it, just like when I sense Rocket’s presence.”

My phone rang then, and I waited for a nod of approval from Donovan before answering. I fished it out of my jacket pocket but didn’t recognize the number. “This is Charley,” I said as Donovan got up and started pacing again.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Garrett? Where are you?”

“At a convenience store. Where the fuck are you?” he asked, clearly upset. “What the hell is going on?”

“Is that guy still with you?” I asked, glancing underneath my lashes at Donovan.

“Hell no.”

Startled, I asked, “Where is he?”

Donovan stilled.

“He jumped out at a fucking stop sign. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

Garrett seemed upset. He rarely used the word
fuck
that many times in a row. He usually staggered it more, used it sparingly. Surely he realized the act of incorporating the word into his speech that often lessened its impact, thereby systematically deteriorating its overall efficacy.

“Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry. Just stay there. I’m fine.”

“Are you still mingling with the
out
crowd?”

“Um, yes.”

“Then fuck that. I’ll be there in two.”

“Swopes. I totally have this.”

“You mean when they dragged you into the house by the collar?” he asked, clearly agitated. “Did you have that?”

“I’m telling you,” I said, leveling out my voice, “I’m good.”

“Damn it, Charles.”

“Garrett, holy cow.” Without waiting for another argument, I closed my phone.

“Where is he?” Donovan asked.

“He’s on his way back.” I knew my order would have done no good.

“With Blake?”

“No. He jumped out at a stop sign,” I said reluctantly. I expected outrage, curses, flying chairs. What I got was a smile.

He glanced around at the gang. “He’s ours.”

Well, probably the only good I did was to prolong Blake’s torture. Now they were angry
and
prepared. Wonderful. Maybe I was going to be indirectly responsible for his death. Maybe Blake the dog killer would be my guardian. I hoped not. I didn’t particularly want a guardian who’d been a dog killer in his previous life. Why would anybody do something like that?

Then I realized Donovan was still smiling at me, a seductive patience shining in his eyes. “Now, about that kiss.”

“Oh,” I said, stumbling to my feet with an utterly inane giggle. I started to back out, but the prince blocked my path. The traitor.

Donovan closed the distance between us and placed his fingers under my chin. “That was a pretty brave thing you did. Ultimately a complete waste of everyone’s time and energy, but brave.” He ran his thumb from my bottom lip down my chin and back up again. “How do you do what you do?”

I decided impress them with brutal honesty. “I don’t normally tell people this, but I’m the grim reaper.”

Smiles snaked across all their faces, even the prince’s. He looked around me from behind and winked.

Another emotion came over Donovan then, something startlingly similar to respect, admiration. He tensed as if fighting for resolve and studied me a long moment. “I’m so fucking in love with you,” he said before dropping his gaze to Danger and Will. “You’d better go before I change my mind.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice. I ducked past a grinning prince and tore out of that place like a cat in a room full of pit bulls.

While I wanted to stop and chat with Rocket, now was clearly not the time. Those men were going to be out for blood. I just hoped Blake had a good pair of running shoes.

20

Some days you’re the cat. Some days you’re the brand-new, suede leather Barcalounger.

—T-SHIRT

Cookie had left the info on Yost’s property in Pecos by the coffeepot in my apartment. I gave a shout out to Mr. Wong, then put on a pot of java before looking it over. According to the county tax assessor’s report, Yost had a hunting cabin deep in a wooded area of the Santa Fe Mountains a short distance from the Pecos River. Shouldn’t be too hard to find during the day. Since it was already dark, I’d have to wait and head out at first light.

In the meantime, I rummaged through my bag—a cross between a clutch and a suitcase—and fished out the mail I’d stolen from the crime scene of Farley Scanlon’s mobile home. The girl with the knife looked on, slightly interested. I’d managed to abscond with two envelopes addressed to a Harold Reynolds and one addressed to Harold Zane Reynolds. Unfortunately, two were credit card offers, and one was a flyer inviting Harold to invest in gold.

After making a mega-sized cup of coffee, I sat at my computer to see what dirt I could dig up on the guy. The girl stood beside me, mesmerized by the computer screen, her knife clutched solidly in her hand.

It didn’t take me long to find out Harold Zane Reynolds was fairly nonexistent. “Well, this sucks,” I said to the girl. She ignored me.

I searched a bit more and found a previous address for a Harold Z. Reynolds, that looked promising. If nothing else, maybe a neighbor knew Harold and could tell me where he’d gone. If he hadn’t killed them all.

I repacked my belongings, poured my coffee into a to-go cup, then headed out the door, leaving the girl in the incapable hands of Mr. Wong. She was too busy studying my screen saver to notice my absence anyway.

Garrett must have called it a day. Neither he nor his colleague was out front, which made me happy until I hopped in Misery and started toward the address. Something about it seemed familiar. And the closer I got, weaving my way through Albuquerque’s south side, the colder the realization prickling my spine became.

I pulled to a stop in front of a condemned apartment building, the reality of where I was washing over me in stupefying waves. The last time I’d been at this particular building, I stood in the street with my sister Gemma and watched as a man beat a teenage boy unconscious. If I hadn’t been sure Harold Reynolds was one of Earl’s aliases before, I was now.

I looked up at the boarded window, the same window I’d thrown a brick through to get the man to stop. I looked to the side between the buildings where Gemma and I had run when the man came after us. I looked at the steps I’d taken the next day when I went back and found out from an angry landlady that the family in 2C had moved out during the night, stiffing her for two months’ rent and a broken window.

Stepping out of Misery, I closed the door and stared for a very long time as memory after memory flooded my senses, tightened my chest. The crisp night kept me alert as several sets of eyes locked on to me. Most were homeless, hidden in the shadows of the apartment building and the abandoned school behind me. A couple others most likely belonged to gang members curious about my reason for being there. I offered none of them my attention. I just stared at the window. It had been so bright that night, illuminated with a sickly yellow as Earl Walker pummeled a boy named Reyes. Counting back, Reyes had to have been about eighteen at the time. I was fifteen. Young. Impressionable. Ready to save the world with my super reaper powers. Yet the only thing I could do to save him was throw a brick from the abandoned school through the window.

It worked. Earl stopped hitting him and came after us.

If I had called the police that night, if Reyes had let me, I doubt I would’ve been standing here at this moment. I doubt Reyes would have gone to prison for killing Earl. Surely Children, Youth, and Family would’ve taken Reyes and Kim out of that situation. Surely they would have been safe.

With nothing to lose and hours before dawn, I grabbed a flashlight and a tire iron—partly for breaking and entering and partly for protection—and headed up the steps. The metal door had definitely seen better days, and it didn’t take me long to gain access. I was certain the homeless people in the area had been entering the building the same way for months, possibly years. The entrance opened up to the second floor. The floor beneath sat half underground. And 2C was directly on my left. I stepped over trash, debris, and a couple sets of legs, careful not to shine the light directly in the faces of the people lining the walls, until I came to a door with half a
2
nailed to it and the unpainted remnants of a
C.

“I wouldn’t go in there, missy.”

I turned to a voice echoing down the hall and raised the light. A woman sat wrapped in several layers of clothes, a shopping cart turned over beside her to protect her meager belongings. Or she needed driving lessons. She raised her hand to shield the light, and I immediately lowered it. I didn’t need it anyway. Not for her.

“Sorry about that,” I said, indicating the light as I aimed it to the side.

“Don’t be sorry to me,” she said, “it’s just that’s Miss Faye’s place, and she don’t take kindly to no visitors.”

“Should I knock?” I asked, only half serious. The acrid smell that hit me when I’d entered snaked around me like a poisonous gas, and I couldn’t decide which would be worse—breathing through my mouth or nose.

The woman chuckled. “Sure. Knock. Ain’t gonna help, but you go right ahead.”

“Have you ever heard of a Harold Reynolds?” I asked, again only half serious.

“Nope. Why you asking?”

“’Cause I’m looking for him. He used to live here.” I lifted the lapel of my leather jacket and covered the lower half of my face, hoping it would help. It didn’t.

“Oh, then you need to ask Miss Faye for sure. She used to run the place. Still thinks she does.”

In a flash, I realized who Miss Faye had to be. The landlady’s name all those years ago had been Faye. “I think I remember her.”

“Yeah?”

“Bleached blond hair? Resembles death warmed over?”

She chuckled again. “That’s her. You go on about your knocking, now. I could use me a good laugh.”

That didn’t sound promising, but the thought of actually talking to that landlady again had my pulse racing in anticipation. Maybe she knew where Earl Walker had moved off to after he left here. She hadn’t been much help when I was fifteen, but the possibility was worth a shot. I raised my hand to the door, and the woman started cackling in excitement, apparently readying herself to be entertained. How bad could Miss Faye be? She’d had one foot in the grave the first time I’d spoken to her, and that was over ten years ago. Surely, with a little luck, I could take her.

About half a second after my knuckles made first contact, something crashed against the door, loud enough to startle the bejesus out of me. I ducked and stumbled back before raising the light first to the door, then back to the woman.

“What the hell was that?”

She laughed some more, holding on to her sides, then managed to say, “Soup, sounded like.”