Demon on a Distant Shore (27 page)

So I was right all along. She did come after Royal. “You must have made a huge impression on her when you were dating,” I couldn’t resist saying.

“Maybe. But I think it is more that she is unstable.”

I snuffed back a snigger. Unstable? An understatement.

“Are you ready?”

My head reared. “I’m not going with you!” The thought of hours in a car with Lorraine . . . no way!

One more step brought him near enough to touch. “I am not leaving you here on your own when people have tried to kill us.”

I was already in a really foul mood and one thing I did
not
like about our relationship was Royal’s tendency to be overprotective. I had lost count of the number of times I told him I could take care of myself. It began the day early in our relationship when he declared he would never leave my side again, and I resented the implication I needed a watchdog hovering protectively over me. “You’ll be back in no time at all.”

His jaw clenched. I slowly raised one eyebrow.

He finally said, “Four hours, tops. I will take you back to the inn.”

I shook my head. “I’m gonna have a quick word with Johnny, then head back.”

There was that look again. I took a step backwards. “Are we gonna fight about this?”

“Sometimes, woman. . . ,” he growled. He sucked in a breath and pulled me for a squeeze. A kiss on the forehead. And he was gone.

Smiling, I put my fingers to my brow. A quick peck from Royal was as intimate, as sensual, as a full-blown smooch with another guy.

I followed the overgrown verge to keep to the left side of the lane. I couldn’t see the opposite side with the fog so thick. I peered ahead, squinting, trying to see Johnny. Would not do to walk through him.

Cloudy smudges in a gray blanket, the first cottage’s exterior lights barely penetrated the fog. The next two sent out fuzzy beams from the windows. Johnny’s old home sat in its own patch of shadow. I shivered and hugged my arms to my sides. God, this stuff was horrible.

Johnny looked like a ghost sitting there. I mean the flimsy type you see on TV shows and movies. He watched me coming. I lifted my hand to wave a hello.

“Look out,” he said.

The Elemental’s shriek pierced my head; so strident, so powerful, I knew it was close.

A figure solidified in the fog, a small person wearing a hoodie, the hood low over their forehead, right hand pointed at me. I couldn’t see their face.

Only a second to realize what that hand held, to hear the
pop
from a silenced handgun, to be knocked halfway around as the bullet punched in my left arm. I went down, thwacking the side of my head on the ground.

Chapter Fourteen

I woke face-down on a cold, hard, uneven surface, arms strained out ahead of me. It felt as if they were being pulled from the sockets. I groggily raised my head and agony shot through my cranium, so I let it rest on my arm till the pain eased to a steady pounding.

Thank the Lord Royal was not with me. Gelpha are fast, but can they outrun bullets? I wouldn’t want to bet Royal’s life on it.

I risked looking up again.
Ow!

Handcuffs fastened my wrists to a pipe which ran down a wall and jointed to another running horizontally a few inches from the floor. With a groan, I rolled my head on my right shoulder so I could see to my left.

A room. Brick walls and floor. Old brick. The air tasted stale and smelled of dust. Broken bricks, pieces of wood and torn newspaper made a pile in the corner. Another groan as I rolled my head in the other direction. A big, black, unlit furnace squatted next to a water heater. Dust everywhere, and what could be mouse droppings much too near my face.

How long? Royal’s not back or he would have found me.
He can sense me if I am not too far away. So, less than four hours.

Sure, Tiff, you can take care of yourself
. Royal would never let me forget this.

I pulled, hunching my body, trying to bring my legs up under my stomach and get in a kneeling position, and yelled aloud. My shoulder
hurt like hell!
With a groan, I dropped my cheek on my good arm.

A man, or a woman? I didn’t get a good look, but the posture . . . a man, I decided.

Dim light from a single bulb burned at the end of a long cord in the middle of the room. He had left the light on. A small kindness? Sympathy? Could I use that? More likely he wanted to see inside the moment he opened the door. Windowless, the place would be pitch black without the bulb and someone could grab him as he reached inside for the light switch.

What did he think I was, Superwoman, who could snap a set of steel handcuffs? At least they were cuffs, not those plastic restraints which don’t let you even twitch your wrist.

Blood soaked my sleeve from shoulder to elbow, but the fabric had stiffened and almost dried. I bit my lip and flexed my arm - it hurt, but didn’t feel like anything in there was broken. From the pressure on my scalp and throbbing in my head, I had a nasty goose egg behind my left ear.

With a lot of groaning and cussing, I got on my knees and shuffled to the wall.

“Poor dear,” a feminine voice said.

I tried to look back and ended half-slumped against the wall, which put my wounded arm at an awkward angle.

They sat on a large object behind me and to the right, a sandy-haired man and a woman, side by side, the man nearest to me. Partly hidden by his bulk, only a fraction of her was visible, the line of her back, a fall of tousled red hair. Rope tied his hands behind his back and no doubt hers also.

No mistaking them. Paul and Sylvia Norton.

I blinked, wishing I could wipe my crusty eyes. The couple sat on a stone sarcophagus.

Sitting on that cold, unyielding surface for so long had become agony. No relief from the pain in every part of their bodies. Terrified, knowing he stood behind them, wondering what he would do next. A soft rustling sound; something came over his head, then hers, obscuring their sight. A hand holding it tightly to each neck. They gulped in huge breaths of air tasting of plastic. Only a minute before the air went and the plastic bags flattened over their faces, their noses, their mouths. . . .

I drew in great gulps of air myself. I’ve met victims of asphyxiation, but not by this method. The Nortons suffocated before their bodies were found in Scotland. The murderer must have used a plastic bag in each hand, because they died seconds apart, their memories of death merging, overlapping, so distinguishing which came from Paul and which from Sylvia was difficult.

One killer, or two? One man could do it. Slip the bags over their heads, a hand on each bag to twist the slack and hold it tight at their napes. Weak from hunger and pain, with their hands tied behind their backs, one strong man could do it, no matter how they tried to struggle. A strong man like Darnel Fowler.

Legs outstretched, he sat on the floor. A plastic bag came over his head, hands twisted it around his neck. Terrified, he held his breath and wrenched his upper body over, but the person behind pulled him back. He kicked frantically, struggling for all he was worth, but was powerless in his killer’s grasp. He couldn’t help himself; panicking, he pulled in air, until the bag sucked at his face and he could breathe no more.

Holy Moses!
There was another dead person in the room.

A wave of dizziness sent my senses spinning. Head bowed, I tried to breathe, air rasping in my throat. Three deaths in as many minutes - it was too much. I heard words gasp from my mouth and realized I was praying.

But I recovered; I always do. I shifted to see the rest of the room. Two more large sarcophagi occupied it. Boxes and things I couldn’t identify sat in several niches in the walls. A mess of wood from broken crates, piles of ragged material - old clothing? Three wide, deep stone steps led up to a blackened wood door.

I winced as my arm throbbed all the way down to the wrist. A small wet circle appeared on the patch of drying blood. Movement had started the wound bleeding again.

I squinted at the two people, as if it would help me see them better.

“Where are we?” I asked.

Silence, then Sylvia asked, “Is she talking to us?”

Paul replied, “She can’t be.”

“Paul Norton, isn’t it?” I said.

“Peter Cooper down here,” another voice called out.

I spotted a pair of trouser-clad legs ending in polished black shoes which stuck out from behind the sarcophagus.

“And I’m Sylvia,” she said. “Now that’s a turn up for the books, someone who can talk to us. Can you see us?”

“Yes. Where are we?”

“Beneath Saint Thomas.”

“This is a crypt?”

“Crypt cum furnace room now,” Paul said.

“You’re from America,” from Sylvia.

“Yes, I’m from America.” I groaned as I levered myself higher.

“Nice is it, America?”

“Yup, pretty nice.” I’ll give them this, Brits seemed to take being dead stoically. Must be the stiff upper lip thing.

“We were going to America, weren’t we, Paul.”

“That we were,” Paul agreed. “We were excited.”

“Not that anything was arranged, but in his letter Uncle Scott said he wanted us to visit.” Sylvia sighed. “Oh well, can’t win ‘em all, can we, love.”

Uncle Scott?
I shifted on my knees, which were starting to hurt. “You
knew
Scott Norton?”

“Not really. We didn’t meet. Just the one letter from him.”

“Scott hired me to find them,” said Peter Cooper.

Scott hired Cooper? Why didn’t he tell Patty? “Scott’s wife hired me and my partner for the same reason.”

“Probably when I went missing,” from Peter.

“No.” I shook my head, trying to get my thoughts together. “She didn’t mention you, Mr. Cooper.”

“Now that is strange, although I dealt only with Mr. Norton. Perhaps she didn’t know of our arrangement.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Strange? Definitely. Seemed like Scott wasn’t completely honest with Patty. How come? Did he have a reason to keep her out of the loop?

“Did Scott know you found them?”

“No,” Cooper said. “I only had his mobile number, but he didn’t answer. I left a few messages, and sent emails. His home number was not listed. After almost a week I decided to call his attorneys. I went to the office to find their number on the contract, but they were waiting for me.”

“Never mind about that,” Sylvia said. “She needs to escape before Pickins comes back.”

“Special Constable Pickins?”

“You didn’t see him?”

“Someone shot me. I passed out.” I frowned. “Special Constable Pickins?” I repeated inanely, picturing the short, skinny guy.

Sylvia made an exasperated noise. “Yes, the same. Now stop talking and get to work on that pipe. Pickins likes to play. You don’t want him playing with you.”

And they were here for weeks, under everyone’s nose, while Pickins played with them. I shuddered.

Cuffed to a pipe, how was I supposed to escape?