Dead Demon Walking (15 page)

As we dunked and nibbled breadsticks,
I replayed what happened in Arkansas in my mind - as if I hadn’t
already been over it a dozen times. I tried to come up with a
killer other than Gelpha. An animal? Did Alva go crazy and attack
her people? I didn’t think so.

I felt sure the murderer looked like a
tall alien person to a dog’s eyes, like Royal, and that is why Alva
went for him. Maybe dogs see Gelpha as they truly are, as I
do.

Mac is okay with Royal. He only bit
him once and didn’t even break the skin above his ankle. There
again, this is MacKlutzy and even I don’t understand the little
turd.

Another kind of animal? The same rules
apply to human and animal killers and getting rid of shades killed
by animals is faster and easier. You find the animal, kill it, and
say bye to the lingering victim.

But surely the FBI can identify animal
bites from different species.

This was the sticking point: the
Bureau couldn’t identify the murder weapon. But I bet they never
had a case in which the victim had body parts torn off and chunks
ripped out by another person’s bare hands.

Definitely a person. The idea an
animal could be the killer was wishful thinking.

My phone rang as I swirled the end of
my breadstick in the dish of sauce.

“
Miss Banks, this is John
Vanderkamp.”

Crap.
I shouldn’t have answered. “What can I not do for you,
Agent?”

“
We - ” His voice cut off
and I hoped we’d lost the connection, but he probably just realized
exactly what I said.

He began again. “Our file indicates
the crime scene doesn’t have to be . . . fresh, for you to get a .
. . reading.”

They had an actual file on
me. I should have known that. When the Bureau keeps tabs on you,
everything they discover goes into a database. You can be sure
someone, somewhere, is gathering information on you, but to
know
. . . . I did not
like the feeling that gave me. “You’re right.
If
something’s there, I’ll see
it.”

“
We’d like you to look at
the first crime scene.”

“
Why, when I didn’t get
anything worthwhile in Arkansas?”

Royal had his breadstick halfway to
his mouth and a frown on his face. I grimaced back.

“
We’d like you to try
again.”

I bit a piece off the breadstick and
let Vanderkamp hang as I chewed.

“
Miss Banks?”

I swallowed. “I
don’t
like.” I swirled
the sauce again. “And I don’t see any check for Arkansas in my
mailbox.”

“
You’ll be paid when we no
longer require your services.”

“
Huh. I thought we were
finished.”

I might as well have spoken to a brick
wall. “Las Vegas. We have reservations for the two-fifteen from
Salt Lake. We’ll have you home this evening.”

But we’d have to leave for Salt Lake
soon. “Let me talk to my partner. Call me back in fifteen.” I
snapped the phone shut.

As I told Royal, his frown deepened to
make a vertical furrow between his eyebrows. “We should go,
Tiff.”

I knew it. If the
killer
was
Gelpha,
we needed anything we could get from the Bureau.

I drummed my fingers on the tablecloth
as the Alfredo sauce cooled. “If I see anything in Vegas, should I
tell the agents?”

“
Depends on what. We should
give them something if we want to stay in the loop.”

“
Precisely what I thought
back in Arkansas. But if I give them a description and they put out
an APB - Royal, he tore the Fenshams apart. People will get hurt if
they try to restrain him.”

“
I doubt they’ll get near
him. And there is the possibility, if they do, they can bring him
down with enough firepower.”

I broke off a small piece of
breadstick and chewed. I hoped I was wrong about the killer, but
what else could move like the wind and inflict that kind of
mutilation?

I glanced up as our waiter arrived
bearing a huge tray. “Can you get us two orders of cannoli to
go?”

Royal’s eyes twinkled. “I like a woman
who knows how to prioritize.”

A sparkling stream of sunlight pierced
a skylight and bathed our table, but even the sun was not as bright
as Royal’s copper-gold hair, nor warm as what I saw in the depths
of his glowing copper eyes.

***

When the FBI has its eye on you, it
could do so literally, so we used a conventional mode of travel to
Salt Lake City International: Royal’s truck. We walked in the
terminal at two-fifteen. We spotted Agent Vanderkamp lurking in the
concourse.

I tossed my empty cannoli carton in a
bin and winked at Royal. “Darn. We missed our plane.”

“
Nice try, Miss Banks.”
Vanderkamp wore a disagreeable expression as he approached us.
“Come this way.” He strode along the partitioned passage by which
incoming commuters leave the gate area, ignoring people who had to
move to avoid him. I cocked an eyebrow at Royal and we
followed.

“
Where’s your buddy?” I
asked as we stepped on the escalator.

“
Agent Gunn is not with
us.”

“
I adore the way you state
the obvious. You have a flair. Do you learn that in FBI Agent
School?”

He ignored me and his
expression became stony. Was I finally getting on his
nerves?
Good for me! Whoopdedo!

He led us to our gate and down the
tunnel to the plane. We were the last to board; they must have held
the plane for us.

We settled in our seats in
the middle row with Vanderkamp between us.
Drat
.

An elderly lady with finely wrinkled
skin and long gray hair in a braid sat on my left. Her gaze slipped
up to my face, she beamed and said, “There were giants in the Earth
in those days.”

I squinched one eye.
“Pardon?”

“
The Book of Genesis.” She
laid her head back and closed her eyes.

Weird.

All the flying here, there and
everywhere began to wear on me. This flight would be short, but the
knowledge didn’t cheer me. Another damn plane, another stuffed and
stuffy cabin. But Royal was right, we had to do this. A maniac
Gelpha on the loose, killing humans - it didn’t bear thinking
about.

Royal dozed, Vanderkamp stared ahead,
I fidgeted, and an hour and a half later the plane touched down at
McCarren International Airport.

Chapter Eleven

I wilted when we stepped
out into the Nevada heat. Of all the times to visit Vegas, August
is
not
a good
choice.
Yet another black SUV with a driver
waited at the curb. Not that I complained; getting in the
air-conditioned auto was a blessed relief. They even had cold
bottled water waiting.

The worst thing about these little FBI
joyrides was not being able to chat freely with Royal. We didn’t
exchange a word on the flight and now, with Vanderkamp in the SUV’s
front passenger seat, I still felt uneasy about talking and I know
Royal did too.

We took the 215 and turned on South
Rainbow Boulevard. I tried to let the scenery divert me.

When we turned on Sahara Avenue, a
leaden feeling swept through my limbs, as if my blood cooled and
thickened in my veins. Vanderkamp eyed me in the rearview mirror. I
felt my expression set like concrete, the skin of my face taut, my
mouth tight.

The first crime scene. No,
it can’t be. . . .

We drove through tall, wide, open
gates and panic welled in my chest.

Royal took my hand and spoke softly,
merely a breath in my ear. “Tiff, what’s wrong?”

“
Nothing.” I didn’t dare
tell him with Vanderkamp near.

We pulled up outside a
stucco home with a small garden out front. Shaken, I gripped
Royal’s fingers.
I can’t go in
there
.
I know her.
I know Janine Hulme.

He spoke to Vanderkamp. “You said this
was the first murder?”

The Suit nodded and turned his
attention to Royal. “A month ago. Janine Hulme. Her fiancée is
clearing out the place, but he agreed to make himself scarce this
afternoon so Miss Banks can have privacy for her . . .
investigation.”

I hoped he’d add more, but he opened
the door and got out the car. Royal climbed out his side, me mine.
They came from behind the car to join me and we stood in the
street, looking at Janine’s home. The driver stayed in the
SUV.

Her name hummed in my head. Janine,
with her big bony body and scraggly hair. A year since we sat in
her great room, talking about Elizabeth Hulme? It seemed like
yesterday. She would be the first dead person I talked to before
they died. The skin on my arms pebbled again. I stood in the dry
heat of a Nevada afternoon and shivered.

Vanderkamp made a shooing motion with
one hand. “Off you go, Miss Banks.”

Condescending bastard. I wanted to
deck him.

The street seemed so . . . normal. An
elderly couple worked on their garden two houses down. The man
prepared to start his little electric lawn mower as the woman
clipped at a glossy green shrub. Farther down, on the other side of
the street, a family with two small kids climbed out their gray
sedan and moved along a path. A white-haired woman opened the door,
greeting them with a sunny smile. Just another tranquil day in
Janine’s neighborhood, one she could no longer enjoy.

I walked up the sloping path between
flowerbeds and opened the door. Standing in Janine’s small hall, I
listened, but heard nothing. I slowly walked between the
dining-room and formal living room, remembering how the glass walls
impressed me when I first came here. Cardboard cartons sealed with
packing tape were stacked between the furniture.

I went on and came to the big,
casually furnished great room. This place had barely been touched,
one bookcase and a display cabinet emptied and empty cartons
waiting on the floor. The French windows were cracked open a few
inches, letting in a runnel of sunlight and minor blast of Nevada
heat.

I ran my hand over the back of a big
armchair upholstered in butter-soft, caramel-colored leather. I sat
here last year, gulping diet soda while Janine told me about
Elizabeth Hulme and the expedition to Myanmar.

The house had the silence peculiar to
an uninhabited building, the slightly musty odor of unmoving air
and dust. No blood-and-guts smell, thank God. I inhaled deeply and
made my shoulders relax. I shouldn’t let this freak me out. My
connection to Janine was tenuous; I had no cause to dread seeing
her shade.

“
Janine?” I
whispered.

“
Hello!” she responded
immediately. Then she stood before me.

Janine wore her straw-colored hair
shorter than when we first met, and spiked rather than upswept. At
first I thought she wore a shirt in a bright, tropical pattern over
her white pedal-pushers. When I saw my mistake, the gorge rose in
my throat.

Janine had been
disemboweled.

I tried not to look, but the horrific
wound sucked my gaze down. I’m not one for fainting spells, but I
felt a little light-headed.

Her chin jutted as she peered at me.
“Miss Banks? Is that you?”

Tearing my gaze from her
abdomen, I smiled weakly. “Hello, Janine.” Then I couldn’t think
what to say next. How are you? What have you been doing with
yourself lately? So sorry you’re dead.
Duh
.

“
You can hear me?” She
clapped her palms together at her chest and stepped nearer. “Can
you see me?”

“
Both, Janine.”

“
Is this new?”

“
I’ve done it for
years.”

Janine clenched her hands. “This is
marvelous!” With rapid steps, she went to the facing love seat and
sat. “Please take a seat. I’m sorry I can’t offer you something to
drink, but you know how it is.”

Still the hostess. She sounded quite .
. . merry, which eased my attack of nerves. I sank into the soft
chair. “How are you coping?”

“
I think I’m doing well
under the circumstances.” She twitched her shoulders. “Not being
able to talk to Robert is trying, and I will miss him terribly when
he has the house cleared out and. . . .” She stared down at her
twisted fingers. “I wish I could tell him to stay.”

I could tell him, but I
wouldn’t.

Janine’s head came up. “I suppose I
will live vicariously through the new owners, although considering
what happened here, the agent may have difficulty finding a buyer.
They have to declare, you know.”

I squared my shoulders. Enough
chitchat, time to get down to business. “Janine, what
happened?”

“
Happened?” She pointed her
index finger at her stomach. “You mean this?”