Tales of the Otherworld (40 page)

And yet to everyone’s surprise, perhaps my own most of all, my relationship with my father has improved since I began seeing Paige. Greatly improved. Ignoring him had always been difficult for me. Whatever our ethical differences, I wanted a relationship with him. Even though I’d grown up with my mother, I’d been closer to him than most children who live with their fathers. Paige taught me that it took more strength to stand firm in my opposing philosophical beliefs than to run and hide them from his influence.

It was a far from easy situation. Lately, though, he’d eased back in his manipulations and his attempts to return me to the Cabal fold. I thought we’d been making progress. Now I saw my error. He’d simply been letting me relax my guard before a strategic strike—the Portland satellite office.

I wanted to call him back and demand answers. Yet I knew that even if I caught him off-guard, there was no guarantee I could elicit the truth. The telephone also placed the matter in his favor, giving me no body language cues or facial expressions with which to judge the veracity of his claims. Better to wait until he was here and get my answers face-to-face.

In the meantime, I had other things to occupy my attention. So I called and left a message explaining that I was on a case, but if he let me know when he’d be in town I’d set aside time to meet him.

T
HE NEXT MORNING, PAIGE DROPPED ME OFF
in Tacoma. She and Cassandra would continue on to Geddes’s house while I’d rent a car and drive back to Middleton to investigate the murder. I understood this was an efficient division of labor—one that I’d suggested—yet I couldn’t help wishing I could fully share this investigation with Paige…preferably without Cassandra.

Before we left, Paige had joked about sending Cassandra to Middleton in my place. Let her sweep through town, demanding answers, and they might give up the killer willingly, just to get rid of her. The alternative would be to send Cassandra to Seattle alone to deal with Geddes. But, again, while tempting, she was liable to stride up to Geddes’s door, ring the bell a few times, and if he didn’t answer, leave and declare her duty done.

I arrived in Middleton at ten and proceeded to the police station. I did not, however, go inside, but instead found the nearest coffee shop. It was the sort one could expect to find in any town—heavy on linoleum and vinyl, the faint smell of burnt coffee ingrained in every surface.

I picked up an abandoned newspaper from a booth, then perched on a stool at the counter. After ordering a black coffee, I opened the paper, not so much to read it as to persuade the two police officers sitting beside me that I wasn’t interested in their conversation.

One glance at the newspaper heading told me the murder had not
been solved. It took only a few minutes more of eavesdropping to know it wasn’t even close to being solved.

The chupacabra attacks had not been a high priority for the local authorities. They’d been playing hot potato with the state police. The town side argued that livestock attacks were a rural concern and therefore state jurisdiction. The state side argued that the first had fallen within town boundaries and the perpetrators were almost certainly town residents. Both sides argued that they had neither the budget nor the manpower to invest in isolated attacks on livestock. Now that a murder had been committed, the town police had taken control but were practically starting from scratch.

When the officers left, so did I, pausing only long enough that I wouldn’t appear to be following them. They headed back to the station, the one place I
couldn’t
follow them, so I stopped to check my phone. Paige had sent a text message, to avoid interrupting me.

“House yes. Occp’d no. Will check records.”

In other words, the address Aaron provided appeared to be correct, but Geddes was not at home. They’d take some time checking public records while awaiting his return.

If he was home and hiding, I hoped Paige didn’t realize it. She was not above taking risks in pursuit of a suspect she deemed a danger to others.

I reopened my phone, then stopped. Paige could handle this.

I took a deep breath, then closed the phone, pocketed it, and continued walking.

I pushed open the front door to the
Middleton Herald
and stood in line behind a woman dropping off a classified ad for a washer and dryer, and debating with the receptionist the merits of “good working condition” over merely “working condition.”

I assessed my surroundings. A small reception area with offices to the rear and stairs to the left, presumably leading up to more offices.

“Can I help you?” asked a voice to my right.

A middle-aged, heavyset man stood in a doorway, eyeing me, likely trying to figure out what I was selling. While I’d forgone my suit that day,
I was well aware that my definition of casual—a dress shirt and slacks—didn’t coincide with most people’s.

I extended a hand. “Luis Cortez,
Miami Standard.
I was wondering whether someone might have a moment to discuss the chupacabra case.”

I flashed my press pass. The
Miami Standard
was a tiny Spanish newspaper in Miami, owned by a half-demon I’d helped years ago. In return, he’d provided me with press credentials for his paper and was always ready to verify my employment.

“Miami, huh?” The reporter waved me toward a flight of stairs. “Guess that makes sense. Case like this would probably interest your readership down there. I suppose you people know more about this chupacabra stuff than we do.”

I suspected that by “you people” he didn’t mean Floridians, but I only said, “Yes, sir,” as I followed him upstairs.

At the top, he ushered me into a small room with a table and a few cheap chairs.

“So, where you from?” he asked as I sat.

“Miami.”

A laugh. Then, “Before that, I mean.”

I resisted the urge to say “Miami.” My father’s family had come from Spain nearly two hundred years ago. My closest immigrant relative was my maternal grandfather, whose parents had arrived from Cuba when he was an infant. We must pick our battles, and this wasn’t one I’d chosen for my life. So I lied and said my family was from Mexico, and listened while he waxed eloquent about a winter trip to Acapulco.

“I believe there were reports of chupacabra activity in that region in the early nineties,” I said, not because I knew any such thing, but because it provided a polite segue back to the topic. “And I do appreciate you taking the time to speak to me this morning, Mr….”

“Sullivan. Call me Sully.”

I told him what I knew so far about the case.

“Yeah, cops dropped the ball on this one,” he said. “Can’t say I blame them, though. I think this whole chupacabra nonsense made them—” He stopped. “I mean, not to offend anyone’s beliefs or mythology …”

“The chupacabra is considered a modern myth, unconnected to any religious or cultural beliefs. It’s merely a legend that people enjoy
propagating, but one that most do not believe in. Similar to, let’s say, werewolves.”

Sullivan grinned. “Good, then, we’re speaking the same language. The lingua franca of superstitious bullshit. That’s why the cops were giving those animal mutilations low priority.”

“Not wanting to lend credence to what is presumably a hoax.”

“You got it.”

From Sullivan, I received the names and addresses of people involved, from the farmers originally targeted by the mutilations to the dead man’s widow. It was rarely so simple, but in Sullivan I’d landed a fortunate break. He’d lived in Middleton all his life and had likely been the paper’s lead reporter in his day. As he’d neared retirement, though, he’d been moved to an editorial desk and appreciated the distraction and ego boost of talking to a young reporter.

“So the question is, how does Billy Arnell’s death tie in with these livestock killings?” he finished.

“Does it?” I asked.

Sullivan frowned. “You think the murder is separate? Seems to me there has to be a link, and I’ll bet it has something to do with that bar.”

“Was Arnell gay?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? He had a wife—ex-wife, too—and four kids, but …” Sullivan shrugged. “Maybe someplace like Miami, a young man such as yourself might go into a gay bar with some friends, and it doesn’t mean anything. But here? A guy like Arnell? Thirty-eight, blue-collar worker, never lived anywhere but Middleton? He doesn’t just walk into a place like that for a beer.”

As soon as I left the office, I tried calling Paige, telling myself I only wanted to provide an update. If I’d had any doubts as to my true intentions, they evaporated when Paige’s voice mail clicked on and my stomach clenched. I disconnected and called again. Still no answer.

Here then was my excuse to go to her and reassure myself that she was safe, join her hunt for Geddes. Yet logically I knew that the chance that she needed rescue was minimal. Whatever scrapes Paige got herself into, she always managed to find a way out. Most likely, it was simply an inconvenient time to answer her phone.

If I dropped my investigation to run to her aid, only to discover that she’d been busy chatting up a city hall records clerk when I’d called, it would be awkward. Serious backpedaling and prevarication would be required.

No, I had to leave a message, and phone back when I could.

Next, I stopped at the bar. The owner was in, doing paperwork. Pictures of his wife and kids plastered the office walls, competing for space with centerfold pinups and girlie calendars. A man who wanted everyone to know he ran a gay bar purely for the profit.

He agreed to answer my questions, thrilled that his establishment might be mentioned in a Miami newspaper. His answers added little to my current knowledge. He knew Arnell, but swore he’d never been a patron or had any reason to be in the bar—deliveries, odd jobs, and such. I was, however, welcome to take a look around.

The police had finished processing the scene, and the bar had returned to business as usual. On a Monday afternoon, though, it was closed and empty, so I could investigate freely, arousing the interest only of a lone cleaner.

The storage room was located in the bathroom hall, which Sean said had been occupied by several people when he’d found the corpse. Difficult then for someone to drag Arnell’s body in during business hours. It could be done, though, if executed early enough in the evening.

Contrary to Sullivan’s suspicions, I doubted Arnell had been a patron. Sean had come here because he deemed it safe—a place far enough from home and his colleagues in Tacoma that he wouldn’t risk encountering anyone he knew. A gay Middleton man attempting to hide his sexual orientation wouldn’t set foot in here.

I checked the storage room. The lock was broken. Sean said the door had been left ajar. Someone had wanted the body found.

I walked to the rear exit. It opened only from the inside. From outside, it required a key. Unless …

I found the cleaner and asked whether she ever arrived to find the back door propped open.

“At least once a week,” she said. “They use it to sneak outside and do…whatever, then come back in. I tell Neil—that’s the bartender—to
check it before he leaves, but he never remembers. I tell you, one of these days, he’s going to come in and find me dead, killed by some punk cleaning out the liquor.”

While I was in the bar, Paige had text-messaged. I phoned the moment I got outside. She was fine and had been questioning someone when I’d called. They were making the rounds, gathering information on Geddes while regularly swinging past to check his house.

“No sign of Geddes yet, but I think he’s only out for the day. There were wet tire tracks in his driveway earlier, suggesting he left this morning. He’s a financial advisor, self-employed, but a neighbor said he’s often gone for the day, so he probably conducts his business through house calls. His home is a single-family detached bungalow in a suburb, which makes a stakeout tough, but we found a church parking lot about a half-block down and we can see his driveway from here. When we’ve exhausted our sources, that’s where we can hole up and wait for him.”

“Sounds as if you have everything under control.”

A husky laugh. “Not really, but I’m trying. All those years on the council, thinking I knew how to conduct an investigation…then finding out how little I
did
know.”

But it was under control. Meaning there was no excuse for me to join them. I swallowed my disappointment and offered a few suggestions.

As we discussed the possible necessity of a postdark break-in, I’ll admit that prospect helped alleviate my disappointment. Standard investigative work, such as I’d been doing all day, while necessary, is somewhat less than exhilarating. And while I understand and accept the need for the monotony, I’m more than happy to alleviate it with the occasional bout of “less than legal” adventuring.

I continued my rounds of the places and people involved in the chupacabra “appearances.” While I maintained the guise of a Miami reporter, the subterfuge was hardly necessary. Half of those I approached took one look at me and guessed I was there about the chupacabra. Even when I thought it prudent not to mention my supposed newspaper
affiliation, they still talked to me, seeming to assume I was on some sort of cultural pilgrimage.

Speaking to the farmers, I got the distinct impression that the attacks brought more benefit than harm. Rather like crop circles. As annoyed as they may have been to lose their livestock, the loss was relatively minor and their subsequent fame more than adequately compensated for it.

The first “victims”—a young couple running an organic goat farm—had used the interest to promote their struggling enterprise. One farmer, a widower, now had a freezer stocked with sympathy cakes and casseroles. Another family’s refrigerator was covered in articles, their names highlighted in each. The fourth’s enterprising preteen children had preserved their goat’s corpse as a science fair project, and charged area youths a dollar to see it.

As one farmer put it, “To be honest, son, this chupacabra is the most exciting thing to hit Middleton since the kids won the state football championship in ’99.”