Grave Robber for Hire (25 page)

I climbed the ladder, and crawled into the tiny attic space. Tyreal had gone into the highest point and now rested on his knees with his head twisted to the side.

“You look comfy.”

“Pass me the bigger light, I want to look at these rafters.”

Flashlight in hand I viewed the beams surrounding us. “Do you think this is the original attic space?”

“No. I think there would have been more before it was opened to provide that giant main bedroom and bathroom”

“Crap.” New walls could cover the hiding place.

In the corner next to me sat a large steamer trunk from the 1900’s. I shuffled over, flipped the old brass lock and peered inside. Inside lined up in shallow shelves were tagged objects. The tags were just like the one we’d just seen attached to the fake Rembrandt.

A tag hanging off a pair of earrings said, ‘Martin Cronin, 1895.’ A beautiful miniature enameled vase from the 1920’s held a tag with, ‘Don Rumbly, 1922.’ I picked up the vase, and a sliver of ooze ran up my hand. Not a surprise. I dropped it back in place, picked up a large emerald ring. It hit me with an electrical jolt of lust. I gasped and held on, pulling out the tag, ‘
Phillipe Domenigo, 1878.’ Trying to ignore the ooze and the odd feeling of hate and lust that travelled up my arm, I dug through the treasure trove.

Each bauble had a tag, and a man’s name and a year. I lifted the flashlight. On the top lid of the chest I found a taped piece of paper, long gone dull yellow with brown age spots, it had rows of writing in different colored and faded ink. I leant in close, read the heading. “
Soul Harvesting Gifts
.”

That didn’t sound good.

“I win the bet, Tyreal. The shit in here is creepy.”

He shuffled over, looked inside. “Looks normal to me.”

“Look at the table of contents, all men’s names, over about ninety years.” I pulled out my cell phone and took a picture of the list and several images of the contents. I don’t know why I wanted the pictures, but I did, badly.

“That’s Clyde’s name.” Tyreal pointed to his name only a few down from the top. He scanned the rest. “And here.” He pointed again at about thirty lines below the first.

I looked over the list. “Only Clyde is on here twice.”

Who wrote this list and filled the box? Who collected trinkets from so many men?

I put my hand on the list and felt the usual ooze and evil but ignored it and opened my senses to the ether of time. Multiple dates skimmed into view, slipping over and over each other like pages flicking in a book.

Ah, each line was written on a separate date. I moved my hand, touching only a finger to a single line. Images flickered and closed until one remained. Josey dressed in a fine pin tucked, and frilled lawn blouse, a long burgundy skirt, her hair coiled into an intricate knot at the back of her head. She wrote, ‘Charles Lindenhurst 1905.’ The picture of a handsome blond man came into view, a chiseled jaw, moody dark eyes and a disdainful tilt to his head.

The thought, ‘
Soon, Charlie, soon you will join my master, but you above all others I will miss. You’re so gloriously rich Charlie boy.’
She tied a small tag to a thick gold bangle, pushed herself up from her chair and glided out with impossible perfect posture. At the door she stopped, twisted her head in an unnatural degree, and grinned at me.

Crap, I straightened my shoulders and slid my finger to the first entry.

“Geoffrey White, 1875.” A tall woman sat at a tiny scrolled desk, her hair in a loose braid, she wore a sateen cream embroidered robe similar to one I’d found in Clyde’s old house. She turned to pick up a long thin wooden box and opened it to reveal a gold multi-chained necklace. Josey again. What the triple hey—Josey?

I put my finger on the last entry. “David Hackney-Smith, 1945.” Josey’s image came into view, dressed in navy blue and white 1940’s war chic. The memory of a short red-haired man, with a cheeky grin, a roaring laugh and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. ‘
David. Such a shame, the war didn’t shut you and your stupid jokes up, but I will.
’

“Tyreal this is weird. I’ve just viewed Josey writing all this over nearly a hundred years, and other than fashion changes, each Josey looked identical.” Wasn’t likely I’d just viewed three earlier generations of Josey’s ancestors who had the same peculiar habit of collecting and cataloguing gifts. “It’s either Josey or her doppelganger ancestors. Every time, every year she was an absolute physical duplicate. Something stinks of big pits of sewerage in my time-travel gig.”

“Goes with the name on the deed never changing and you seeing Clyde give her the painting in her bedroom. How long do whatever she is live?”

“I’d know this how? I don’t even know what she is. However, I can state—they live way too long.” I pulled my hand away and stared at the trunk’s bounty. “What is all this stuff?”

“You look at that, I’ll keep hunting the painting.”

Tyreal knee shuffled to the outside wall of the attic and started tapping it the length of the tiny room. He stopped at a section near the far end of the space. “This is lined with a different timber. Want me to pry some boards off?”

“Yes. I’m happy if we have to tear the entire house down to end this.”

He rammed in the small crowbar and cracked the timber. I heard a thud as something hit the floor. “
Ow, shit. Fucking thing slid down my thighs.” He said lots of shits and fucks and at last sucked in a deep breath. “That was easy. The whole of this side of the wall fell off in one piece.”

“On your leg.”

“More, slid down and removed most of my skin.”

“Fun. What’s behind the wall?”

“Sympathy is a little lacking.”

I held my casted arm up. “Hello, broken arm.” I pointed to where the bruises and graze were still fading on my back. “Still recovering. No broken bones or squirting blood, no sympathy. Bit of skin so doesn’t cut it. I can hear your eyes roll.”

“You can’t hear that.”

“But you did, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“See and you just rolled them again. I am the greatest there’s no use denying it. Now what’s in the wall and please don’t say dust.”

“Well if you’d shut up I’d tell you. Something about four foot by three foot wrapped in moldy old fabric.”

My mind blanked but I heard a little inner shriek. “Really?” I flicked the flashlight over to him. Legs and head bent, I hurried over. Tyreal shuffled around in a circle, dragging the oblong object with him until he faced me and laid it on the floor. He rubbed his hands together, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.

If this was the Rembrandt then I was kissing him. With tongue, working partner or not.

Hand resting on my chest, I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt. “Is your heart pounding?”

“Yeah, it is.” He looked at me and winked. “This is the best job.”

All the horror had led to this. My animal rescue farm loomed large and impressive.

Tyreal untied some canvas straps, peeled off chunks of rotting hessian to reveal a thin layer of timber. He lifted that, and we saw the back of a painting.

My stomach fluttered and I felt giddy. “Holy crap—it’s the Rembrandt for sure.”

“Hope so.” He put his hand on the edge of a gilt frame. Purple flames shot up his arm, throwing it high. The flames engulfed his head, sizzling and swirling around it in a blinding aura. He flew back and crashed into a large old travel trunk.

He twisted, then convulsed and convulsed and convulsed.

“Tyreal! Shit, shit, shit.” I scrabbled forward and saw multiple leeches swamping the painting in a writhing sea of black. “Jesus, is nothing
not
a trap with this freak case.” I threw the thin board onto the back of the painting, grabbed a sheet that covered a small chest, and tossed it on top too and reached for Tyreal.

Kneeling beside his head, I slipped my arm under his shoulders, pushed up with all my strength and slid under him and held him tight. Seizures, fast and unrelenting, contorted and released his muscles. After a couple of minutes, the convulsions ceased. Vig poofed in and came to T
yreal’s side.

Tyreal lay in my arms, unmoving.

Chapter 23

Tyreal was dead.

My lips and chin quivered and tears poured as I stared into Vig’s light blue eyes. My heart felt like an anvil in my chest—hard, heavy and unmoving. “Vig, what the hell do I do? I don’t know CPR. Just the frantic hands pumping, lip pressing I’ve seen on T.V.” I doubted I’d revive anything more than dust bunnies with my puny efforts. “Do you?”

He shook his head. “Heart no stop.”

“No?”

“No.”

My fingers, numb and t
rembling from terror, traced Tyreal’s neck until I found where I thought I should find a pulse. It was so damn dark up here. Something beat frantically under my finger, but I wasn’t sure if I felt his heart racing or my own panicked pulse in my fingers. Florence Nightingale I’m not.

“Shit, Tyreal. Shit, I’m not equipped to deal with this. Vig help me.”

With Vig’s help, I slipped out from under Tyreal and ran my hand down his arm to his wrist. Something throbbed under my finger to a different and slower beat than mine. I hissed out a breath of relief. “I’ve got a pulse.”

Heartbeat, check. I put my head on his chest and felt the softest rise.

Breathing, check. I sat back on my heels, put my hand to my chest, feeling the muscle underneath complete a hundred meter dash.

Cardio-workout, check.

“Tyreal, wake up. Please. I’ll wear the nipple baring bra.” I ignored Vig’s grunt as I tapped Tyreal’s face but received no response. I sucked my teeth with my tongue and stared at the ladder void. Vig was strong and could carry things at home so he’d be able to lug Tyreal to the hole, but I doubted we’d get two, two hundred and fifty pound men down that steep, flimsy ladder simultaneously. I could see bodies dropping, hitting head first, cracking open and brains spilling out. And that appeared to be the best case scenario.

Fucked. We were gloriously fucked.

“Tyreal, wake up. Please.” I was going to have to call emergency. And even I couldn’t come up with enough bullshit to keep us both out of jail. I tapped his face a little harder. His eyelids flickered.

Thank the gods. But I needed a little more life.

“Tyreal, come on partner we need to blow this attic. You won’t like it if I roll you out of here.” I doubted I could roll him even once, but threats work sometimes. I tapped his face again. “Tyreal.” His thick lashed eyelids fluttered then split, and a glassy gaze met mine.

I touched his cheek, felt the prickle of stubble, the smoothness and warmth of skin, and let out a hard sob. “Man, I thought you were dead.”

“What happened?” He sounded as if his tongue had cleaved to the roof of his mouth.

I put my forehead to his. “Red eyed leech guardians. Multiple.”

“Great. Help me sit.” Vig pushed from behind and I latched onto Tyreal’s arm and pulled until he shuffled to the side to rest against one of the chests.

“You want anything?” Hopefully not, since all I had on me was a flashlight and cell phone, but it was polite to offer.

He shook his head. “Give me a sec.”

“Still think this is the best job or do you need to reassess?”

“Reassess.”

I used the flashlight to watch him until color returned to his face and the glint of mischief flickered in his dark gaze. I shuffled over to the cursed painting, readjusted the sheet. “Give me a hand,” I called to Vig, and stood the painting on its longest
edge. “Boy this thing’s heavy.”

With great care, Vig eased it down flat onto i
ts other side. Using the sheet, I wrapped the whole thing up like a present and knotted the fabric to act as a handle.

While carrying, or judging by the weight of it, dragging the painting out, I didn’t want us unnecessarily touching the frame or oil painted surface. I guessed a human body could only take so much of those volts and it couldn’t be good for guardian angels either. Vig re-stood the painting on its side and leaned it against the wall.

Behind me, Tyreal pushed himself to his knees, drew a few deep breaths. “I’m good to go. Nothing like a little hell-fire to zing out the brain cells for a few minutes. Don’t forget that nipple baring bra.”

“No bra,” Vig growled.

“Good idea, Viggo man. No bra is better.”

“The Rembrandt just fried you. I think it’s you paying for dinner. I’m seeing an outfit more uptight virgin than nipple baring hussy.”

He kicked the Rembrandt. “Stupid thing. I was looking forward to those nipples. Is that possessed thing safe to move?”

“You and I and Vig touched it wrapped, and it didn’t zap us. So I’m betting, yeah.”

Between us, we hauled our plundered loot over to the attic stairwell. I pointed to the stairs. “Vig you go down first, I’ll slide this into your hands, hold it until I can’t while you step down.”

#

At the front door, we turned off our tiny flashlights. Vig propped the cursed package against the bottom stairwell post and checked outside as did Tyreal. I flicked my tiny beam across the floor and saw misty reptilian leeches worming their way through the floor cracks.

“We have an audience. We’ve got to get out of here.”

Vig looked at the creatures. “Leeches. Hate leeches.”

“Me too.”

Tyreal glanced over. “Let’s move it. You go first, Princess. Slink along the line of bushes and stay down. Whistle when you’re good, and the coast is clear.”

“Don’t let those things touch you.” Knees bent, I dashed out and pulled my face mask off so I looked less like a miniature serial killer. I glanced at the cop car. They
had
moved, one now leaned back, appeared asleep, mouth gaping.

Impossible to see this far way, but I imagined a slight trickle from the corner of his mouth. The other guy, still watching porn or a Walt Disney download, now propped his feet on the dash. Good thing they hadn’t found a sense of duty in the last half hour.

I softly whistled, rose to my full height and strutted up the road as if my daddy bought it for me, and prayed Tyreal stayed one step ahead of the leeches. At the Toyota, I leaned on the passenger door, peeled off my gloves and waited.

Tyreal exited, then Vig who shut Josey’s front door behind him. The two men, dead and alive, casually left the building while Vig hauled a huge parcel which would have looked like it floated in the air to a passerby. Tyreal pulled off his felon mask and gloves.

It wasn’t fair that he looked far scarier in his black on black than I did. I was more crazed black pixie, he dark mobster.

At the car, Tyreal opened the trunk. Vig stuffed in the painting and grinned at me under the dull yellowy street light. Obviously he thought theft was high jinx. Tyreal took my gloves, and face mask, waited for my skull cap and tossed those in the trunk with his and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Job well done, Princess. Thanks Vig.” He looked at the house. “Great, red-eyes heading our way. Let’s blow.”

In our hire car, Tyreal did a U-turn, swerving to run over the snakes. We drove past the cops. Tyreal lifted his cell phone and took a quick pic. “I’ll show Tony his surveillance team’s excellence.”

“Nasty.”

“Can’t catch
crims with idiots like that on the tax-payers’ payroll.”

Personally I was glad they couldn’t catch criminals tonight. We’d been the
crims.

At the
end of the street, a tall man with shoulder length dark wavy hair leaned on a power-pole. One leg crossed over the other at the ankle. Arms crossed, he appeared to be watching us. Our headlights hit his face, turning the hair deep chestnut and polished old gold. His features although washed out by the brightness, were familiar. He lifted the side of his lip as we passed.

My skin crawled and burned as if I were covered in a thousand fire ants. “Fuck-fuck- motherfucking-hell, that’s Sasha.”

“Ferking bastard,” Vig roared and flashed out of the backseat.

“You sure?” Tyreal slammed on the brakes and skidded to, hit, and mounted the curb.

“No. But yes.” I hadn’t seen Sasha for a long time, but that hair color so like mine when natural was rare, and the lip sneer was his permanent expression.

“Stay here.” Tyreal dashed out of the car and ran toward Sasha just as Vig flashed in next to him. Sasha, who laughed as if he were a child playing a game of
tiggy, turned and took off through a small park with both men following. Although Sasha couldn’t see Vig, I knew he could feel him as they’d fought in the past.

After hitting the car’s central lock, I waited for Tyreal and Vig and kept an eye on the road for tiny red dots. I tapped my thighs, dragged my fingers through my hair, tapped my thighs, and stared out the windshield at the park then up the road. Two minutes passed.

I hated playing the fragile damsel while Tyreal risked his life with my insane brother. Time to hunt me some brother.

I threw my leg over the console, played poke me if you can with the auto’s stick lever, clambered into the driver’s seat, and started the car. Images of running Sasha over, backing back over him, forward again, pasted a huge and maybe slightly maniac smile on my face. My fantasy made me so happy I might even repeat those recipe steps a few more times.

Sasha needed a bit of sisterly love.

I headed for the other side of the park and ran over three snakes slithering down the road toward me. I found Tyreal, Vig free, a few blocks from where the chase started.

Hands on hips and wearing a not very flattering scowl, he stood glaring around and panting. No Sasha clasped in Tyreal’s hands, hanging by his throat.

Damn. Life’s full of disappointments. On the plus maybe Vig had him and was beating him to a pulp in some bushes.

Tyreal saw me, stormed for the car and flung open the passenger door just as I hit the unlock button. “Bastard can run and those snake things like him. Vig and I saw them race beside him, and I think some disappeared into him.” He shuddered.

Major
erk
. “Like I’d seen them do to Josey.” Well that’s confusing. “Sasha runs faster than you? You run like a cheetah.”

“Yeah, well,
he
runs like a cheetah on crack and can outrun your guardian too. Vig was still running when I last saw him.”

Tyreal pulled out his cell phone, hit a number and told Tony about the sighting of a prison escapee. Within minutes cops would swarm the area. Time to leave to stash our ill-gotten oil painted booty.

Tyreal hung up. “Been a weird night. Why was Sasha watching Josey’s house?”

“He could have been watching me … followed me.” Hunting me. D, all of the above.

“Now we know he’s in town, and he knows you’re in town, those two separate rooms you booked for us are a waste of money. I’m staying in yours, no arguments.”

“No way. I’m staying in yours. I doubt he knows who you are.”

He took my hand and kissed it, making my skin goose bump and my heart dip. “Good girl. Now I expect my guest to be naked at all times.”

“I booked the room, paying for it on my business account,
sooooo I’m thinking flannelette.” I’d have to swing past a store and buy some first.

“Heartbreaker.”

“It’s not your heart I’m breaking.”

Bloody great night. Tyreal got fried, the painting was full of little evil serpents, and my brother knew about Josey and about me visiting Sydney. On a scale of one to ten of screwed-up nights, this had to be an eight. I saved two points. One, we
did
find a painting although who knew if we had the right one yet. We never saw it and if it was a Rembrandt, then was it forged or the original? Two, neither of us were dead or permanently injured.

I stopped at a red light, took off at green. A yellow car flew through his red and smashed into our car’s front panel and my door. I flew sideways. My ribs crushing into the console.

Pain splintered into a hundred shattered shards in my side. I screamed.

The Toyota spun. Airbags exploded into huge white balls, mine clouting me like a basketball into my chest and face. The impact slammed me into my seat. “Fuck.”

“Angel!”

Something hit the rear of the Toyota in a sickening crunch and shriek of tearing metal and breaking glass. Tyreal flew forward. “Shit.”

A motor bike, skidding sideways, plowed into the passenger door. The leather clad person flew over the car’s hood, hit the tarmac, rebounded, hit again and rolled. A rag doll onto his stomach.

Our car’s remains breached the curb, slewed up onto and across the sidewalk, and hit a concrete sided bus shelter with a sickening crack.

Four sided impact, you can’t beat that.

Viggo flashed in and squashed onto the console, then flashed out reappearing at my broken window. He put his hands on my good arm.

“Hayyel,” the anguish in his voice frightened me. I did a quick self-diagnosis. I suffered only broken bones. I’d had enough over my life to know.

I whispered in my softest whimper, “I’m okay, Vig.”

Two seconds passed, maybe a few more or an hour, Vig hovered, radiating angst. I focused on the fact I lived while red hot irons knifed the inside of my cast arm and my side. I took nothing more than the shallowest breaths lest my ribs roared
noooooo
and impaled a lung. I pushed away the white airy deflating mass in front of me with my good arm for something to do.