Sam Harlan (Book 3): Damned Cold (8 page)

I splashed cool water on my face and wiped it clean with some paper towels from the wall dispenser before returning to the office. Callie was perched on the edge of the couch, talking softly to Jameson and drinking from a coffee cup.

There was a steaming mug of coffee waiting for me on the edge of the desk and I gratefully accepted it. It was black, without cream or sugar, but the bitter flavor warmed me and I mumbled something appreciative to Jameson.

He nodded, then gave me an appraising look. “What will you do?”

“I’m going to speak to Jodie and Gene,” I said. “The simplest explanation is usually the correct explanation. They sent the stick man or they were involved, somehow.”

Jameson started to protest, but Callie nodded in agreement.

There was a rattling outside. The Kimber appeared in my hand as if by magic, an instinct now ingrained in me, but I lowered it when Father Mosley opened the door.

His eyes widened when he saw us, and he blanched when they slid to the Kimber. “What happened?”

I broke it down for him—the hotel, the stick man, and how I’d managed to stop it before it could murder us. I explained how we’d left the hotel and spent the night in the church, but he winced when I said we were going to speak to the Rexfords.

“You really think they sent that thing?” he scoffed. “I’ve known them for years.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on it?” I asked. “Are you willing to bet Dorothy Hamm’s life on it?”

“But why attack you?” Mosley continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “You only expressed concern for Dorothy. There’s no reason—”

“Maybe they weren’t as close as they seemed,” I said. “Or maybe they don’t want anyone looking into her disappearance. Or maybe it’s not them.” I turned to Callie. “I won’t have a repeat of Marshalltown. I’m going to speak to the Rexfords and I’ll get answers.” The anger boiled over inside and my lips pulled back in a snarl. “One way or another.”

* * *

Mosley hung up the phone and shoved it across his desk. “I told them you urgently need to speak with them about Dorothy. They agreed to meet.”

I stopped speaking to Callie and turned my attention to the young priest. “When?”

Mosley checked his watch. “They said they would be available after eight thirty, so twenty minutes from now.”

“Good,” I said.

“Samuel,” Jameson said, his voice full of apprehension. “What do you plan on saying to them?”

“I’m going to push them a little,” I conceded. “I tried beating around the bush a few months ago. It didn’t go well.”

Callie winced. “He has a point, Father. I know he sounds gruff…”

Jameson sighed heavily. “They’re just people. Not monsters. You can’t beat them into submission.”

The hell I can’t.
“I’ll be careful, Father. Don’t worry.” I pointed at Callie. “Besides, I’ll have my babysitter with me.”

Mosley watched our exchange with alarm. “Please, Mr. Harlan, these people—”

“They lied to me,” I growled. “I can
feel
it.” I stood and headed for the door. “Coming, Sister?”

I left before anyone could speak and made my way to the truck, rummaging through the toolbox in the back until I found what I was looking for, then climbed into the front and started the engine. Callie exited the church. The sun hadn’t warmed the earth yet, and the temperature was well below freezing. She hugged her jacket against her for warmth and joined me in the truck.

I held up my hand before she could speak. “Take this,” I said, offering her a snub-nosed revolver. It was loaded with silver ammunition, and Callie had been practicing with it regularly.

She frowned, then took the Smith and Wesson .38 and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

I waited for her to speak, but she remained silent. Finally, I asked, “Not going to argue?”

“No,” Callie said.

“Going to give me grief?”

“No.”

I grunted. “Going to say more than one syllable?”

She turned and frowned at me. “You’re right. We can’t make the kind of mistakes we made with Santiago.”

I snorted. “I’m starting to understand how Jack got to be such a hard-ass.”

That brought a smile to Callie’s lips. “Please be nice to the Rexfords. It won’t cost anything to give them the benefit of the doubt.”

“I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ll try. Scout’s honor,” I said, holding up two fingers. I turned the key and the truck’s engine roared to life. I let it run for thirty seconds, not daring to look at Callie, then threw the truck in reverse.

Bement is a small town, and it was only a couple of minutes before we were heading east on Bodman street. In the daylight, the grain elevators weren’t a menacing presence but a cheerful wall of white concrete that stretched to the sky. We passed them and I realized I’d been holding my breath.

What a weird town.

Like the grain elevators, the Rexfords’ house looked different in the daylight. It was warm and festive, and the paint appeared fresh. The lawn was well groomed and not a single dead leaf from the oak and maple trees disturbed that sense of order. A vine-covered gazebo sat next to the house, looking like something out of a Rockwell painting.

If Marshalltown had taught me anything, it was that looks could be deceiving.

I parked behind their tiny green Toyota Prius. “Tree huggers.”

Callie looked puzzled. “What?”

I pointed at the Prius. “I haven’t seen a lot of those around here. What kind of people in a farm town drive a Prius?”

“People who like small cars?” Callie said, rolling her eyes. “Or maybe they’re concerned about the cost of gas. The Chevy must burn ten times as much gas as that thing.”

I snorted. It was true, though. After I had inherited Jack’s estate, I found that while the engine was original to the truck, anything that could be replaced
had
been replaced with high-performance aftermarket parts that I felt every time I hit the pedal.

Like everything Jack had owned, the truck was hard, powerful, and functional.

We made our way up the front steps. Gene Rexford opened the door before Callie could ring the doorbell. I almost missed how his eyes flickered across my face, taking note of the scratches and scrapes, before glancing away.

He knows something.

“Please,” Gene said. “Come in.”

I turned to Callie and raised an eyebrow. The smell of pine emanating from the door wreath was so thick I could almost taste it. I bit back the taste. Callie’s nose twitched, but she shrugged and followed Gene inside the house, down the hall, and into the dining room, where Jodie Rexford waited.

They were dressed much like the night before, except in lighter colors. Both wore a lot of tan, and Jodie’s blouse was a print of green and brown leaves. She cradled a cup of coffee in her hands, nervously wiping the lip with her thumb. “Father Mosley said you needed to speak with us,” she said. Her voice was neutral, but her thumb wiped faster.

“Yes,” I said. Callie and I took the seats across from them, and again I noticed the ceramic figurines of boys and girls lining the shelves.

She must have a fortune tied up in those stupid things.

There was an uncomfortable silence until Gene cleared his throat. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

Callie turned to look at me, clearly confused by my silence. I let Gene and Jodie stew a few more seconds until I said, “We don’t have any new information about your sister, but we did have an interesting development last night.”

“Oh?” Gene said. A fine bead of sweat ran down his forehead. “What kind of development?”

“The kind where we were attacked,” I said.

“Attacked?” Jodie said. Her eyes widened and she sat up straight in her chair. “That couldn’t have anything to do with Dorothy.” She took a drink from her cup, unable to meet my gaze. “Are you okay?”

I glanced over to Callie. “We’re fine,” I said pleasantly. “That’s funny. You didn’t ask
how
we were attacked.”

Jodie’s mouth opened, her jaw working, until she finally stammered out, “You—you’re right. How rude of me.
How
were you attacked?”

I thought about playing along, not giving them anything too specific. Perhaps I could get more information from them, but after Marshalltown, I wasn’t in the mood. “A magic stick man tried to kill us.”

Jodie grabbed her husband’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I don’t understand.”

Gene shook his head. “Mr. Harlan? We don’t know what that means.”

“I think you do,” I said. “I think you know
exactly
what it means.”

Jodie chewed at her lip and then said curtly, “We really don’t.”

I saw Callie frowning, and my anger came rushing back. I slammed my fist against the dining room table, cracking the oak from side to side.

The sound was as loud as a gunshot, and the figurines on the shelves around the room came to life, gasping at the sound and shrinking back against the wall while covering their mouths in shock.

There was a tickle against the back of my neck, the feeling of something brushing against the fine hairs.

Magic.

My hand moved before I could think, darting under the trench coat. Jodie’s hands were moving as well, but the Kimber cleared the holster and time seemed to slow.

Jodie and Gene’s eyes widened, and they rocked back in their chairs. Jodie started to speak, but I held the Kimber pointed at her chest.

“Don’t,” I said quietly.

I expected Callie to admonish me, but she stared at the figurines in shock, then said, “Sam will do it. He can shoot before you finish.”

There was anger in Jodie’s face, along with a haughty pride, but Gene placed his hand on Jodie’s shoulder. “Dear? Please don’t.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Don’t, or whatever you’re about to do will be the
last
thing you do on this earth. How about we talk, instead, and avoid any unnecessary complications?”

“You brandish a weapon in my house,” Jodie said through gritted teeth, “and you think there
won’t
be complications?”

“Please,” Gene urged. “Tell him. He might be able to help.”

The muscles in Jodie’s jaw were clenched tight, but she blinked hard and sat back in her chair.

I didn’t holster the Kimber.

“Sam
can
help,” Callie said. “If you are in trouble, he
will
help.”

I would?

I didn’t come to Bement to fight witches. I came for a vampire, but maybe the two were linked. There was only one way to find out. “The stick man,” I said. “Tell me about it. Then tell me what
really
happened to your sister.”

Jodie slumped forward in her chair. When she did, the little boys and girls on the wall assumed their original position, becoming inanimate ceramic figurines once again.

Now that’s creepy.

Jodie hung her head, deflated. “What do you want to know?”

“The stick man,” I said. “Did you send it?”

“Goddess, no,” Jodie said, glancing up in shock. “I would
never
do such a thing.”

“So,” I said. “You
are
a witch.” I could actually
feel
it, now that I knew what I was looking for. She exuded something akin to a scent. The disturbing thing was that I didn’t smell it, but sensed it with that part of me where the vampire essence coiled and slithered about.

And, it wasn’t just Jodie. Gene Rexford exuded the same thing, but to a lesser degree. He appeared to be a bland middle-aged man, but I held no illusions. Neither of them were people. They were something a lot more dangerous.

Witches.

Jodie bit her
lip, but her eyes never left mine. “We are not evil, Mr. Harlan. We worship the Goddess—”

“Save it,” I said. “You’re witches. You use magic. I know. I’ve
seen
it before. I’ve
felt
it before.”

Jodie leaned forward and Gene put his hand on her shoulder to pull her back, but she shrugged it off. “I’m sure you have.”

Her eyes shifted, becoming swirling pools of amber that threatened to suck me in. There was something in those eyes that scared the hell out of me. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

Jodie continued to watch me with those creepy eyes. “I don’t know
what
you are, Mr. Harlan, but you’re not human. Not anymore.”

“Don’t forget who has a forty-five full of silver bullets pointed at your chest,” I said. “Tell me about the stick man.”

“It wasn’t us,” Gene said. Jodie turned her glare upon him, but he shook his head. “Just tell him.”

“You were attacked by a creature made of sticks?” Jodie finally asked, her eyes returning to normal. “Was there anything else?”

“Like what?” I asked.

Jodie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harlan. It’s too dangerous. Leave this place. Go back to wherever you came from.” She turned to Callie. “It’s safer for the
both
of you.”

“We can take care of ourselves,” Callie said. “You practice witchcraft. It gives you the sight. Look upon us and behold the truth.”

I had no idea what Callie was talking about, and I was about to demand an explanation when Jodie closed her eyes.

When she opened them, they were a rheumy white, like they were covered in a thin layer of cream. She stared at me for a moment, then her face went pale. “So much death. Dear Goddess, so much death.”

I turned to Callie and raised an eyebrow, but Callie just shook her head.

Jodie turned her gaze upon Callie and her face blanched, her mouth forming an
O
. “Glory be upon Him,” she whispered. She blinked and her eyes returned to their normal shade of brown. “Perhaps you
can
help,” she said.

What was that all about?

“What did you see?” I demanded.

Jodie sighed heavily. “Nothing I could explain to you. The stick man that attacked you. What else did you find?”

“There was a heart,” I said. “And two eyeballs.”

“A heart to beat,” Jodie said, “and eyes to see. He was watching you.”

“
Who
was watching us?” I demanded.

“The man who took her sister,” Gene said angrily. “Carlton Meriwether.”

“Who the hell,” I asked, “is Carlton Meriwether?”