Dark Places (20 page)

“When and where, McKay? Tell me that. That would be useful.”

“I see a dark place, and it's hot and humid there, with a funny odor, and you feel trapped and want to get out but can't. That's the sensation I keep getting. Not very pleasant, right?”

“Sounds like a grave.”

I don't know why I said that, but the expression on his face shook me some. He looked ghastly ill for a second, and I thought he was going to faint. Then he stared at me as if I were an apparition.

I said, “Are you okay?”

He seemed to come back to himself then, and he headed for the door. He turned back after he'd opened it, his face as white as the curtain of snowflakes falling behind him. “Remember what I said. Be careful. You're next.”

Then he was gone with a blast of cold wind off the lake. I shut the door and slid the bolt. Now that was a threat if I ever heard one.

Unfortunately the Dome of the Cave Academy for the Gifted closed down from Christmas Eve through January 22. Even more unfortunately, Bud and I couldn't prevent the kiddies and faculty from going home for the holidays. On the good side, Bud and I had spent the last week questioning the students and staff about Christie Foxworthy so were able to finish up our interviews just about the time the exodus began. Everybody was leaving, and some for good, no doubt, once their parents heard that somebody had a penchant for murdering people affiliated with the school in the most horrific ways possible. Rumor had it Jesus might even close the academy down indefinitely until the crimes were solved. I was afraid our perp might be heading out of town, too.

Cars were lined up in front of the dormitory and happy laughter floated in the frosty air, along with waves, good-byes, and Merry Christmases. The monthlong shutdown was putting a crimp in our investigation but police officers have families, too, albeit neglected ones. Charlie gave nearly everybody the afternoon off, as well as Christmas Day. For the past few years, I'd volunteered to man the front desk so everybody else could have downtime, but this year I actually had a guy to spend the holidays with. Me. Imagine. I didn't have to feel too guilty, though, because a new and gung-ho kinda guy named Carl Marston could take my place. He was young and unmarried, and his family lived in Missoula, Montana, so he couldn't make the trip. Secretly I was glad. Okay, I admit it. The last few Christmases I'd been lonely, nothing to do, nobody to be with, unless I crashed somebody else's family and watched them exchange gifts. Not fun.

Hey, and it was looking more and more like it might be the same thing this year. Black hadn't called and probably wouldn't make it home in time, anyway, which truly did suck. But worse things had happened, so there you go. I'd live. The book I'm giving him was all wrapped and ready. It would wait. And I had two undeniably grotesque homicide cases to keep me warm and fuzzy.

As Bud and I walked out to our SUVs parked near the old church, I looked up at the sky. It was bright and sunny for a change. Clear blue skies, but the air was absolutely arctic. The ground was covered with snow over a foot deep, and the temperature was predicted to dip below zero after nightfall. We stopped between our vehicles, and I leaned back against my fender. Bud had been assigned the background check on Christie Foxworthy.

“You have time to check out Christie's family yet, Bud?”

“Oh, yeah, Dad sounded pretty shook up. He's in the merchant marines somewhere in the South China Sea. Mom sounds like she could care less. She's a real piece of work.”

“Any word on the boyfriend and Mafia connection she mentioned to us?”

“No, can't say death by scorpions sounds like a Mafia hit, either. But I'm on it. Charlie said we can go to New York if we have to.”

“It doesn't wash with me. The perp's from around here. Homegrown. I can feel it.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“I'm interested to hear what Brett can tell us about that big species of scorpion he thinks killed her.”

“We'll get him, Claire.”

“I know.”

I tried to lighten things up, tried to smile, but these kind of cases had a tendency to take the cheer and goodwill right out of the holidays. I was having trouble thinking about anything else.

“Your mom and stepdad make it in yet, Bud?”

“Yeah, they pulled in last night around seven. Mom's in my tiny kitchen as we speak, slaving over homemade cranberry sauce, cornbread dressing, and roast turkey.”

“Mmm, sounds good.”

Bud grinned. “You bet it does. My stomach's been growling since Thanksgiving. Hey, wanna come over and eat with us tonight? Mom likes you. Thinks you're the right kind of girl for me. Told me I should've beat Black to the punch.”

“I'm way too sloppy for you.”

“True.”

Across the quadrangle a boy and girl hugged and kissed with enough enthusiasm to warrant a lewdness charge. They finally let go of each other at her parents' embarrassed urging. She got into the backseat, and they drove away quickly, no doubt afraid the boyfriend would chase the car like a dog in heat. We watched the boy hang his head and shuffle off down the hill toward Red Building, as if facing the gallows.

Bud said, “Ah, young love. It's a bitch, if I recall.”

“Wouldn't know. I didn't have any boyfriends at that age.”

He looked at me. “Why not?”

I realized that I'd never mentioned my tortured youth to him, had it buried too deep, I guess. Black's therapy sessions must be working. I'd actually come out to Bud with a scrap of personal information.

“Never was in one school long enough.” I felt uncomfortable and wanted to change the subject. Probably not a good therapeutic sign. I opened the door of my backseat. “Here, I got you a little present. You know, for Christmas.”

“I got you something, too.”

I pulled out a gift bag. “I guarantee it's not a book you can quote out of.”

“Damn. I'm already disappointed.”

We grinned, both feeling sappy. Partners are a funny business. You loved them almost like a husband sans the sex, if you were smart, and spent most of your waking hours with them. A life-and-death friendship where one of you could die any minute. A narrow tightrope to negotiate at times, especially a male and female. Maybe that's why cops argued and joked around so much with each other. Keep it nice and light until you bury somebody with a bullet in their chest. Gee, happy holidays everyone?

Bud said, “I wanna open mine.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

The parking lot was pretty much cleared out. Bud opened the bag and pulled out the insulated camouflage shirt and pants I got for him for duck hunting. He grinned and nodded his head. “This's all right, Claire. Thanks. Harve and I've been wantin' to go out to the blind. This is gonna keep me warm as toast.”

“Yeah. I figured you guys needed something warm and waterproof. I got him some, too. So you'd match.”

“Cool.” I could tell he was really pleased. He looked at the package I was holding. “You got me something else, Morgan?”

“Yeah.” I felt a little funny about this one. “Here, take it.”

Bud tore off the paper and pulled the yellow silk tie out of the box. He looked at me, shocked. “Wow. Totally awesome.”

“Remember that time I flew to London with Black? We got that down on the street with all the tailors and clothing shops. You know the one?”

“You mean Savile Row? Are you kidding me? This came outta Savile Row?”

I nodded. “Black said you'd like it. He helped me pick it out, but I paid for it.”

“You paid a lot for it, too, I bet.”

“Good, you like it.”

Bud was caressing the soft silk between his thumb and forefinger. “Wow, Savile Row, I sure wasn't expecting this.” He got a gift bag out of his backseat. It was red and white and covered with Santa Claus faces. It was the one I gave him last year. He was a recycler. “Didn't get this in England, but I know you've been needin' one.”

I opened it. A new gun-cleaning kit. I smiled, actually delighted, then picked up two cards stuck in with it. The first one contained a full year's membership in the National Rifle Association. “Man, Bud, thanks. I always forget to renew.”

“Yeah. That'll get you the monthly magazine, too.”

“Great.”

“You probably won't like the other thing much but I figured you might need it now that you're dating the guru.”

The second card held a $300 gift certificate to Swank's, a ritzy ladies' fashion shop in downtown Camdenton where even the mannequins looked snooty. I'd never set foot inside, and I probably wouldn't, either.

“How thoughtful, Bud. You trying to tell me you don't like my ripped jeans and ratty sweatshirts?”

“You hate it, right?”

“No, I don't. You're probably right. I might need a dress for something someplace someday. Thanks.”

Bud looked sheepish. “C'mon, Claire. You know we're both gonna hafta go to that New Year's Eve gala thing they're havin' out here at the academy, and it's formal. You'd think they'd cancel it, but they say they can't. Anyway, I thought you'd need something to wear if Charlie makes us go.”

He was right. I still figured they'd cancel the thing or face lots of criticism. In a way I hoped they wouldn't. It'd be interesting to watch the staff at a social venue. Bud was right about the dress. I didn't have anything remotely suitable for a fancy gala. Imagine that.

“You're right on, Bud. I hadn't thought about it.”

Bud smiled, pleased. He blew out a frosty breath and tugged on his gloves. “Sure you don't wanna come over tonight? Say hi to the folks and watch mom try to get us together?”

“Black's supposed to be back tonight, but who knows? He's a busy guy. I might drop by.” I knew I wouldn't, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

“Well, if he doesn't show, come on over. Merry Christmas, Claire.”

“Merry Christmas. Tell your mom and dad I said hi.” We didn't hug or anything, uh-uh, that was way too sentimental, so I watched him get in to the Bronco and back out of the parking space. He was smiling from ear to ear as he drove off, probably with visions of his new tie from Savile Row dancing in his head. He'd wear it tonight for sure. He had good taste and was immaculately groomed at all times, all right, and I bet if I asked him nice enough he'd go down to that snotty dress shop and pick me out the exact right dress. He'd probably love it. Maybe I'd ask him. Then I wouldn't have to step foot in the place.

Duty on hold for twenty-four hours, and most of my reports done, too, I drove to Harve's house. Traffic was horrendous, everybody in town out buying that last perfect stocking stuffer or picking up the obligatory pumpkin pie from the bakery. I cursed the honking cars and bustling pedestrians but was very glad they didn't know yet about the heinous crimes being committed in their backyards. I checked in and put myself on call, figured that was the least I could do for Marston. Black probably wasn't going to show, anyway. So what? I was preparing myself for that eventuality. He was an important man, busy, busy, the jet-setter of all jet-setters, spending the holidays in Paris and London, for Pete's sake. Why would he rush back to this little hick town? It didn't matter anyway, I told myself. I had crimes to solve and a brand-spanking-new plasma TV to watch.

Most roads were clear or would be until the next load of snow was dumped on them. And that would be tonight, if the forecast could be believed. I almost wished I still lived in L. A., but oh no, bite my tongue. I vowed last summer to never, ever visit that hell on earth again and I meant it.

By the time I pulled up in front of Harve's house, I realized by the other cars parked in his driveway that his relatives were in for Christmas. His brother, Randy, and his family were in from Michigan. Harve never said so, but he'd been looking forward to it. I'd been spending all my spare time with Black, and Harve was lonely. I'd barely knocked on the door when Harve threw it open. The delicious mingled odors of turkey and dressing and baked yams assaulted me like a two-bit crook. My mouth watered, my stomach rumbled. It reminded me of Aunt Helen's house down at Hartville at Christmastime, and it made me miss her and reconsider my decision not to drive down and spend time with her at Ted and Janet Russell's house with their daughters, Paula and Julie. I hadn't made the trip because of Black, but it didn't look like he was showing up. Maybe I would get in my car and go. Why not? Nobody could cook like Janet Russell, except maybe Paula Deen.

“Hey girl, it's about time! You've got to eat with us. Jamie is one hell of a good cook and she's been baking up a storm all mornin' long.”

Randy's wife, Jamie, stepped into sight at the kitchen door. She was holding a rolling pin and had flour all over her hands. She waved at me, and Randy came forward and gave me a big bear hug. I'd gotten to know them a lot better last August when Harve and I both were in the hospital for a while.

“How you been, Claire?” Randy grinned. He was a big guy, broad shouldered, friendly, with brown eyes that twinkled with laughter just about all the time. He was a firefighter in Detroit, as much a hero as Harve was. He'd saved a little girl a couple of years ago by hacking his way to her through the roof. He almost died and still bore the scars on his arms. “You look a little better today than you did last time I saw you.”

Laughing, I said, “Yep, fifty-some-odd stitches in your shoulder can put you under the weather a bit.”

“Seriously, I'm glad you're okay. You and Harve both. That was a helluva ordeal.” He glanced in the kitchen then lowered his voice. “Hear you've got another real nasty case. Making progress?”

“Some. It's a little soon.”

Jamie yelled for Randy to take her pecan pie out of the oven. He said, “Claire, you stay safe, you hear?”

Harve rolled the wheelchair over to me. “I said you'd stay for dinner. You will, won't you? I'd sure like you to.”

“Maybe. If Black doesn't show.”

“Don't you worry, he'll show up. The man's crazy in love, I tell you.”

It sounded strange to hear somebody say that out loud. Black and I hadn't even said it out loud yet. I wondered if I was in love with him or if I was fooling myself. The idea was scary, sort of brought me to a standstill. Being in love made you more vulnerable than anything else, and in an intimate way I didn't think I was ready for. I'd told Black that from the get-go, and he wanted it to go slow, too. But that didn't mean I didn't want him home for Christmas.