Dead Demon Walking (14 page)

“
On the next block. Big
guy, tiny wife, five kids.”

His mouth crunched on one side. He
wasn’t amused, and neither was I. My wisecrack sounded strained,
inappropriate under the circumstances. I can get that way when I’m
anxious.

“
What about the one
percent?”

“
It’s how the Fenshams
described him. I barely saw him: black hair and his clothes, and
motion, blurring through the room.”

Now he eyed me with a piercing gaze. A
blur. That’s how I see demons when they move at full speed. A blur,
a haze, a displacement in the air.

In my mind’s eye, I saw Alva charging
us. “I think Alva attacked because she saw your resemblance to what
killed her people.”

He said in an undertone, “How did he
kill them, Tiff?”

I recalled that one-second-glimpse of
hands on Gregory’s head, Brian’s arm dropping away. I
shuddered.

His arm snaked around my waist and
molded me to him. I closed my eyes and snuggled in, hoping his heat
could banish the gooseflesh which mottled my skin.

“
I think. . . .” I
swallowed. “I think he did it with his bare hands.”

I let him have his silence,
waiting for him to say,
we would
not
and/or
we
could not
. Remembering how muscles corded
his arms, his shoulders, and the veins on his neck and wrists stood
out as he struggled to hold Alva away from his throat, I
wondered,
just
how strong
is
he
?
Did
he put on a show for the edgy
agents, or require that effort?
He scoops
me up in his arms like I’m feather-light.
Strong enough to punch a hole in a young man’s back, rip his
arm off at the shoulder, separate a man’s head from his
neck?

Passengers were boarding, leaving
fast-food containers and Styrofoam cups on the carpet and in seats,
ignoring trash bins a few feet away. Tired of standing, I slipped
from his arms, took his hand and led him to the nearest seats. I
sat on thick, unyielding plastic. Royal stood behind me, hands on
my shoulders. He bent his head so his breath brushed my hair.
“Shall we cancel our flight to Boston and get the next available to
Salt Lake?”

With images of the Fensham family
etched in my mind, I had a sick feeling in my stomach, but my voice
sounded calm enough. “That sounds good.”

So the vacation ended almost before it
began. At least I would not have to see Chris Plowman
again.

Chapter Ten

“
I found Vanderkamp, Gunn
and Garrett in the FBI database easily enough, but I can’t get into
their cases. Digging deeper will put up a red flag,” Royal
said.

We sat in my newly decorated living
room, formerly the one room in the house I rarely used because it
was dowdy, and gloomy to the point of bringing on claustrophobia.
As often as I complained about always having to sit in the kitchen,
I didn’t have the money to redecorate until now.

We pulled up the old carpet and found
a nice oak board floor beneath. Sanding, staining and sealing the
wood is not something I want to do again in a hurry, but the end
result was worth the sweat and aching joints, a floor with a lovely
warm satin glow. Royal cleaned and polished the small wood-burning
stove. It’s the type which fits right in the fireplace and although
I don’t think it has the charm of an open fire, the flames looked
nice through the glass plate in the door and it certainly got the
room toasty. We brought in a guy to clean the chimney and lit a
fire to make sure the smoke pulled.

We tore down the faux paneling,
painted the walls white and added an oak baseboard. Royal found an
old sepia photo of Clarion’s Twenty-Second Street taken in the
1920s, had it enlarged and put in an oak frame. It looked perfect
over the fireplace. One day I’d get new furniture, but for now the
old would have to do. I pictured bookshelves either side of the
fireplace, with more books in piles here and there on the floor; a
six by nine rug, a huge armchair big enough for two people to
snuggle in, with a big square footstool.

I
so
enjoyed
not
sitting in the kitchen all the
time.

“
Have you been in their
database before?”

“
A few times. It’s like
peeling an onion layer by layer. Sometimes you can get farther than
others. But Garret, Vanderkamp and Gunn have brick walls up just
below the surface.”

I turned my new toy in my hands. I was
just window-shopping, honest, when this sweet baby caught my eye. A
Davis Derringer D-38 Special is a weighty little monster for its
size, but not so heavy it dragged my hip pocket down. I liked the
feel of it snugged in my palm.

Man, having money for a change felt
good.

“
What about the Gelpha
community?”

“
Nothing.” His brow
pinched. “If the killer is Gelpha, he has done nothing in
Bel-Athaer to draw attention. But I will speak to the Council. They
should be warned.”

We were hanging out till
lunch. You don’t have to dress up to eat out in Utah, but my frayed
cutoffs and black T-shirt would be conspicuously
ugh
next to Royal’s
outfit, so I changed into navy linen slacks and a low-necked rayon
blouse with a silver and gray pinstripe which gave it a shimmer.
Royal, fabulous as always, wore khaki slacks and a creamy dupioni
silk shirt with his copper-gold hair unbound and glinting on his
shoulders.

I noticed the silver chain around his
neck, with a little something-or-other dangling from it. “You
weren’t wearing that when you came in.” It didn’t look right on
him; the chain was too short for a start.

He lifted the whatever away from his
shirt so I could see it better: a small crucifix with a center of
coiled silver strands. “The Celtic knot. Also called the mystic
knot, or endless knot, thought to represent the timeless nature of
our spirit. Do you like it?” He let go as I took it in my
fingers.

Smiling, I nodded. “It can also
represent an uninterrupted life cycle - no beginning, no end - a
protective charm. I do like it.”

He slid his hands beneath his hair to
his nape. “Good. It’s for you.”

He fastened the chain around my neck.
I didn’t know what to say. Royal never bought me a gift before.
Then I realized I had a silly grin on my face, so I said, “Thank
you,” and leaned in to kiss him.

I broke away as I heard Jack coming.
“Yo girl yo a ho girl but yo mo ho girl.”

I tried not to laugh. I trapped it in
my throat and it burst out my nose as a combination
squawk/chuff/snigger.

“
What?” Royal
asked.

“
Jack thinks he’s a
rapper.”

“
Oh.” He picked up the
newspaper from the couch arm and rattled the pages into place.
Finding the financial section, he became absorbed. Royal pays as
little attention to my roommates as possible, which you would not
think difficult when he can’t hear nor see them, but he can’t
escape my side of the conversation.

“
They laughed at Michael
Jackson, you know,” Jack declared huffily as he breezed into the
living room.

Mel came a step behind him. “Did not,”
she wheezed. Gripped by uncontrollable laughter, she held her
stomach in the flats of her hands. “Anyway, Michael didn’t
rap.”

Jack would not give an
inch. “I expect
everyone he knew
laughed at one time or another, but he rose above
the ridicule and you know where that took him.”

“
Yeah, a heap of plastic
surgery and a far from star-studded death,” from Mel.

I bit on my lower lip,
presenting a thoughtful expression. “Maybe you’re onto something
here, Jack. You can’t have plastic surgery and you won’t die from a
physician-administered overdose, you’re
way
ahead of Michael.” I changed my
expression to dreamy. “I can hear it now. The DJ announces, ‘And
here’s the latest from superstar stud-muffin Jack the Rap. . .
.’”

I cupped my open hand behind my ear as
if listening. I frowned. “Strange, I don’t hear a
thing.”

“
Another promising career
brought to a
dead
end,” Mel said, followed by an exaggerated sigh.

Jack tossed his head and walked out
with chin in the air. I heard all but inaudible, whispered phrases
trail up the stairs. His voice cut off, then continued, louder. “By
the way, Tiff. . . .”

I slid the Derringer in my hip pocket
and spoke in an undertone. “Quick! Let’s go.”

Royal peered over the newspaper. “It’s
early for lunch.”

“
I’m hungry.” I widened my
eyes, grit my teeth and jerked my head at the hall.

He got the hint. “Oh. Shall we go,
then?”

I gratefully rose and headed for the
door, nodding at Mel as I passed her. Royal brought the newspaper
with him, but that was okay, Jack and Mel already read
it.

Royal shut the front door. “Tiff, what
- ?”

I silenced him with a finger on my
lips. Jack may be challenged in his vocal range, but there is
nothing wrong with his hearing.

We climbed in Royal’s big red truck
and I closed the passenger door. “Whew! Jack is nagging me about
Dale Jericho. I’m running out of excuses. And Dale phoned yesterday
to see if I’m back in town. I let the answering machine get it, but
Jack knows and wants me to return Dale’s call.”

He turned the key in the ignition and
the truck rumbled to life. “Why not turn him down?”

I blew out an exasperated breath, not
at Royal, at me for being a chump. “Because, I’ll never have
another moment’s peace. I shouldn’t have said I’d consider it. In
Jack-Speak, that’s a yes.”

“
But he is. . .
.”

I knew what he’d been about
to say.
But Jack is a ghost. Why can’t you
ignore him?
After all this time, my
roommates were still not real people to him.

I didn’t want to argue with him. I
cast my eyes back at the house as we drove away. “You don’t have to
live with him.”

We drove down Beeches and took a right
on winding Feldale Avenue. Royal took a contorted route down to
Clarion and his eyes swept back and forth the entire drive. He
can’t quite escape cop mode, always alert for anything which does
not quite add up.

I looked along the winding road. “I
wonder how many incidents there were, and where?” I didn’t need to
clarify.

“
I could not find anything.
The FBI is keeping it close.”

“
But there are
more.”

“
Perhaps not. The nature of
the slayings in Arkansas could be serious enough to involve the
Bureau.”

“
Or something we don’t
know.” Which seemed likely, with as little as Garrett and his gang
told us.

We turned on Twenty-Eighth, drove west
through the Avenues and down to Grant. I ruefully eyed Audrie’s as
we sailed past, but perked up when we turned left on Benson. Royal
parked out front of The Factory.

The Factory was once exactly that, a
factory, though I don’t know what it produced. A big gray concrete
building with small windows and a tin roof, it still looks like a
factory on the outside. Inside, it’s spacious and washed by
sunshine which streams through big skylights. There is no ceiling,
just giant girders spanning the one huge room. Wooden partitions
inlaid with glass mosaics in every color imaginable separate the
place into a host station and two sections full of tables. Stairs
at the back lead up to a wide balcony with more seating. Every
table has a snowy-white cloth and a small Tiffany-style lamp in the
middle.

I heard about The Factory
when it had been in business six months. It didn’t advertise; news
spread by word of mouth. In the old industrial complex, near the
dog food plant, the place should have died before it got going, but
it prospered to become Clarion’s best kept secret and a minor
financial miracle. The Factory dishes up
the
best Italian cuisine you ever
tasted. The white cloths are my only bugbear - we’re talking
spaghetti and pizza sauce here.

The host bustled over to us. “Welcome!
Welcome!” He gestured with both hands. “Come, come, I have table
for you!” Then off he went. I scurried to keep up as he wound
through the partitions to the stairs. Royal glided behind
me.

Our balcony table, next to the rail,
let us overlook the entire dining area. No sooner were we seated,
our water poured, than our waiter stood at my elbow. “Your usual,
Señorita?”

I’m a creature of habit when eating
out. I have my favorites in my favorite restaurants and seldom
order anything other. “Yes, thanks. The cannelloni al forno.”
Finely minced veal, chicken and Italian sausage stuffed in shells,
on a bed of thick Alfredo sauce drizzled with marinara. I could eat
it till it came out my ears.

Royal ordered Chicken Alfredo pizza.
We didn’t talk as we knew the breadsticks and Alfredo dipping sauce
would arrive any moment. You can never get enough Alfredo
sauce.