The Taken (16 page)

“Anyway, the point is, I couldn’t eat it.” Charis shook her head like it surprised her. “I just couldn’t bite Jesus’s head off, you know?”

He frowned. “So what’d you do with the Cheeto?”

“Oh, I put it up on eBay. Someone might buy it as a relic.” She rocked her baby with a dismissive shrug before stilling suddenly, mistaking his silence for disapproval. “Hey, I’m not crazy, okay? If I don’t at least get enough to pay for shipping, I’m just going to feed it to my kid. She’ll eat anything.”

They both looked down at the Savior-eating child. She was smacking her lips on air as she pacified herself to sleep.

“Hey, can you stay with her for just a second? I really have to . . . you know.” She widened her eyes as she stood.

Grif jerked back. “Oh, I don’t know. Me and kids—”

“I’ll be just a sec, I swear.” And she waddled off before he could reply.

Grif realized his head was beginning to pound again. He rubbed the base of his neck, thinking he’d just ignore the little thing. She was sleeping easy, anyway. Why rock a steady boat?

“Cheers,” he whispered to the dozing child, before returning to his distant vigil over a woman celebrating the life of someone who was already dead.

C
haris took her damn time.

Sipping some more rum, Grif stole another glance at her slumbering child. She looked vulnerable lying there, chubby-limbed, with mere tufts of golden hair giving the aspect of a plucked bird. Yet somehow all the promise of the human race was wrapped up in those fat, milky cheeks, and pretty bow mouth.

Glancing at Kit, back at the bar and hugging Lil, Grif thought of what Charis said about the way Kit surrounded herself with the things that made her feel alive. He could see that. She was trying to recapture a time when things seemed simpler, more stable. He wished there was a way to tell her that even in the fifties nothing was really what it seemed.

The thought sharpened in his mind to the point of discomfort. Instinctively he dropped his head, but the pain struck full-out then, stabbing his skull and severing his thoughts. The left side of his face tingled, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Biting back a cry, he clenched his head, arm brushing against the rocking car seat. The sleeping baby startled.

“Shit.”

The child’s cries syncopated with the pounding in Grif’s head and light sparked like fireworks behind his eyelids. So when the voice sounded next to him—“Hey, Shaw”—he didn’t even try to respond. Instead, he rocked himself and the baby.

“Shh . . . don’t cry,” he said, not exactly sure which of them he was talking to.

“Oh, I’m not the one who’s gonna be crying if you don’t pull it together. Sit up.”

And the pounding miraculously ceased. Lifting his head, Grif realized no one had moved. The girls were still jawing at the bar. The band was still swinging like Jerry Lee was crooning. Charis was still busy in the can.

But the baby was staring at him, eyes large, dark, and hard in the sweet cherub face. Grif leaned closer and the toothless mouth twisted. “Sarge?”

“Who else?”

The words sounded funny when gummed, but Grif didn’t laugh, and the blades between his shoulders pulsed, reminding him he lacked wings. “Is the kid going to remember any of this?”

The child’s brows lowered so that she really did look like Sarge, though the voice was still undeveloped, making the angel channeling it sound like he’d sucked helium. “Relax. This’ll add ten years to her life and five hundred points to her SATs. Now what the hell are you still doing on the mud?”

“I’m sorry,” Grif said lamely. “I couldn’t allow it. Craig’s a good woman, Sarge. She didn’t deserve to die that way.”

“It’s not about deserving, Shaw.” The baby’s face hardened further. “And you haven’t changed anything. All you’ve done is prolong the inevitable. Every action she takes, every connection she makes with another person on the Surface is now something we have to work to unravel on this end. It’s not natural. She is
not
supposed to be there.”

Grif glanced up. Kit was leaning against a carved post, rocking slightly to the upright bass. The thought punched through Grif’s brain:
Yes, she is
.

He
was the one who shouldn’t be here. He’d screwed up. And now a woman who lived in the past and dreamed of the future was going to die because of it.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, peering into the seat. The baby grunted. “Am I really mortal again?”

“Look down, Shaw,” the baby shot back. “You are wearing the—”

“ ‘The sinful flesh.’ ” Grif nodded dismissively, but rolled his aching shoulder blades again. “Yeah, Anas told me. So I have free will again, right? I can make my own decisions as long as I possess mortal breath?”

The baby’s eyes momentarily narrowed, and smoke roiled in their depths. “Don’t forget what else comes with that divine gift.”

And another shock of burning pain seared the core of Grif’s brain. His eyes crossed and tears rolled down his cheeks, but then the pain flashed cold and was cauterized. Yet the first thing he saw when his vision returned was Kit. Talking to her girls. Gesturing animatedly. The brightest spot in a color-saturated room, and exactly what Grif needed to regain his focus.

Eyes glued on her bittersweet smile, he waited for the pain to abate.

“I have blunted the pain of mortality for you,” Sarge was saying. “Even now, while what little of your brain is tearing itself apart, I am shielding you from the worst of it. You’re not supposed to be alive, and that knowledge lives in every cell in your body. You know those times when you can’t catch your breath?”

Grif gave a short nod.

“Well, I’m the one who gives it back to you. You’d spend every moment gasping like a landed trout were it not for me. And you know the flashback you had upon landing on the Surface? That’s your memory awakening along with your senses. The longer you stay there, the worse those’ll get. But I’m the one who allows you to wake. I alone can keep another from coming your way.

“Now if you want me to stop protecting you from these things, if you want to feel your mind tearing itself apart all the time, then by all means keep disobeying orders. But the only way to find true divine peace is by returning to the Everlast where those unfortunate human emotions are blunted. God is your balm and solace.” The baby’s eyes narrowed. “But you gotta go through me to get to Him.”

“So if I let her die, I can return to the Everlast?”

The infant gave a small nod. “If you walk out and leave her right now.”

Grif’s gaze returned to Kit. “No incubation?”

“No incubation.”

So Grif could go back to the way things were before. Back to working on his guilt over Evie’s death in a place where he was safe, protected, and with his mind intact. He’d continue to assist people into the Everlast so they could heal from their stolen, unknowable futures, knowing that eventually every one of them would enter the Gates, and Paradise. To God. To their true home.

The baby put a chubby fist to her lips, looking wise as she squinted up at Grif. “You can’t alter fate, Shaw. Katherine Craig
is
going to die. The best you can do now is help her cross into the Everlast.”

Like he’d helped Nicole? Was that really the best he could do? “Listen, Sarge—”

“No, you listen. Defy me again and I’ll send you dreams you’ll never forget. Keep defying me and I will send you a living nightmare. But leave now and all will be as is fated.”

“Sarge—”

“Walk out now, Shaw.”

Grif tried again, but the Pure was gone. The chubby limbs lost their dexterity, and with a blink, the eyes were once again as light as a robin’s egg.

“Oh, look, she’s awake.” Charis returned, smiling, and lifted her baby with an exaggerated movement, rubbing her nose with her own. “Everything go okay?”

“Sure,” he said quickly. “She’s, um, a smart one. Might want to aim for Yale. I think she’s got a shot.”

The infant gurgled agreement, then dribbled spit from the corner of her mouth. Charis wiped it away with a readied cloth and gurgled right back. “That’s so sweet of you to keep Mr. Shaw company. But is my little Boo-Bear ready to go home? Ye-es . . . How about just one little dance first? A tiny swing around the room. Gotta show off your onesie . . . everyone loves black skulls and red cherries.

“And,” she said, nodding her thanks to Grif, “Nic loved this one.”

Whirling away, she held the child high over her other baby bump, still whispering lovely nonsense into the tiny ear. The baby, though, kept her wide eyes on Grif the whole way. She gave him a look that said he could change nothing. That he shouldn’t be there at all.

It was a look that said leave while you can.

Chapter Twelve

K
it slept like her life depended on it. Even in the home of a former mobster, or perhaps because of it, she fell into a dream state that was a black hole for her thoughts and emotions. Nothing existed for twelve straight hours, and she actually awoke refreshed, and feeling for the first time since Nic’s death like it was okay to be breathing.

Maybe that was because Nic had visited her in her dreams, saying she knew Kit would find out who did this to her, and that she really was in a better place.

“Nothing made in China,” she told Kit, in a pretend whisper, then straightened with a smile. “Not here. Not in the Everlast.”

Shaking her head at her own imagination, Kit took a long shower, dressed carefully in a gray pencil skirt and white blouse, and backcombed the hell out of her hair. By the time she sat down to a hearty breakfast of toast and eggs with Grif and Tony, she felt settled if not totally herself.

But Grif was obviously preoccupied. He kept touching his head like it was tender or he was worried or he’d forgotten something. He snapped at her when she asked if he was okay, and refused to answer when she asked what they were going to do next. The only thing that kept him from sullying her fragile good mood was recalling the way he looked the night before, hanging with her friends, listening attentively as they spoke of Nic’s life, and all the while watching the bar door to make sure Paul—or someone—didn’t return. She’d even caught him studying her face a couple of times, like she was some sort of riddle he was trying to figure out. When she asked him what he was thinking, though, he just shook his head and turned away.

She was getting to know him, Kit realized, as they set off from Tony’s to follow their sole lead. Grif only spoke when he had something definitive to say, then used as few words as possible to do so. She couldn’t say she liked his taciturn nature, but she appreciated his directness. It was much more refreshing than, say, the way Paul had once used countless words to camouflage his lies.

And, of course, the way Grif had watched after Charis’s baby had been sweet, talking with the little girl as if discussing something important. There was just something about big, gruff guys with tiny, vulnerable babies that was so life-affirming and reassuring. So she sighed, smiling slightly at the road as she drove, while Grif continued being a grump beside her.

“You always this happy when investigating murder?”

“I don’t always investigate murder,” she said, reason enough to be happy. Yet he wouldn’t want to hear that her mood also had to do with him. With all the questions still swirling around his sudden appearance in her life, even Kit wasn’t sure how she felt about it. But it didn’t stop her from being comforted by the very same.

“Bridget Moore,” Kit said, clearing her mind and pulling out her smart phone. “Her first arrest was for solicitation, at nineteen, almost a decade ago. She may have some underage arrests, but we’ll never know. Juvie files are sealed, but this one says she was born and raised in Vegas. No listing for a Bridget Moore that matches her age, though.”

“So she changed her name?”

Kit shrugged. “And opened the nail salon where we’re headed, a year ago. Incidentally, it was an all-cash purchase. Probably her savings.”

“Tired of running from Lance Schmidt?”

“Tired of trading her body for that money,” Kit guessed. “Else why not head out to Nye County to escape Schmidt’s reach and work her trade legally?”

Grif jerked his head. “The legal brothels won’t take you if they know you’ve been working the street. She’s got a record. Does she have a boyfriend? Husband?”

“Unknown on the first. Nothing recorded on the second.”

Grif made a noise in the back of his throat. “So maybe she found one and he wanted her straight.”

“Or she wanted to be straight for him.” Kit sighed. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Grif huffed again, disbelief evident in the sound, his slump, his lidded gaze.

“Everyone deserves a fresh start,” Kit said, answering his unspoken skepticism.

“I don’t think it works that way, Kit.”

And he looked so sad when he said it that Kit almost ran a red light.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. It was ten in the morning, and the streets were steady with local traffic, the tourists confined to the Strip and the airport and the downtown buffets as if held there by an invisible lasso. The street where Moore’s shop was located held only a sprinkling of pedestrians, and a roofed bus stop where a man was currently having a conversation with a pigeon. Grif eyed them both warily as Kit pulled into the lot. One car, a late-model Toyota, sat alone.

“Staying or coming?” she asked, turning off the car as Grif continued to stare at the man at the bus stop.

“Coming.” Yet even before the sole woman inside caught sight of Grif, her glance toward the door was wary. She’d been disinfecting tools, drying them and laying them neatly across a folded towel on the counter. She was dressed in tight jeans and a UNLV sweatshirt, but even its size couldn’t disguise a bosom that’d probably paid dividends in her previous profession.

Kit’s gaze skittered over the bleached hair and dark roots. What a shame. Kit could’ve told her that red lips and dark brows covered a multitude of sins. Then she chided herself. Shadows lay like tiny horseshoes beneath the woman’s eyes, and her shoulders were already slumped. Though Kit and she were near the same age, this woman clearly had worries that went beyond the cosmetic.

“Bridget Moore?” Kit asked.

“Appointment only,” the woman said in a heavy smoker’s voice. But Kit had seen the welcome for walk-ins printed on the door.

“We’re looking for Ms. Bridget Moore. Is that you?”

“Let me clarify.
I
only see new clients by appointment.”

“I’m happy to make one, but I was hoping just to talk. My name is Kit Craig.”

Moore cocked a hand on her hip. “I know who you are.”

“How?” Grif interrupted.

Bridget’s wariness turned to contempt as her gaze landed on Grif. “I read her paper.”

Kit shot Grif a warning look. Angering a source was no way to advance a case, and as a prostitute, Moore likely had less respect for men—and reporters—than the average
CSI
-loving couch potato. It would be hard to do what she did, or used to do, and not be changed by it.

Kit took a step forward, regaining Moore’s attention. “So you know why I’m here?”

Bridget considered her for a long moment before looking away. “No.”

“My colleague, Nicole Rockwell—” Kit shook her head. “My best friend was murdered three nights ago. She was meeting with someone at the Wayfarer Motel.”

Bridget just stared.

“I was hoping you could tell me a little about the place. The way it works. The girls. The clients.”

“I don’t hang out at the Wayfarer.”

Grif rejoined Kit’s side. “But you did a year ago.”

“That’s in the past.” She jerked her head to the door. “And I want to keep it that way. Understand?”

Angling herself so she was blocking Bridget’s view of Grif, Kit pulled the list from her handbag. “Bridget, please. I have a list of names here. Most of them are local businessmen, politicians with good reason not to be linked to the Wayfarer—”

“So don’t link ’em.”

“If you could look—”

But she cut Kit off with a brisk shake of her head. “I don’t exactly run with the political crowd.”

“Well, could you tell me if you’ve ever seen any of the men listed here at the Wayfarer?”

“No.”

And that, Kit thought with narrowed eye, was one of her least favorite words. Inhaling deeply, she made a show of looking around, crossing to run a finger over one of the nail stations. “Nice place you have here.”

“It’s a business,” Bridget retorted, not about to be appeased. She cast a snarling look at Grif. “A
legitimate
one.”

Kit smiled. “Clearly. And I could really use a manicure.”

“Really?” Bridget asked, crossing her arms.

“What?” Grif asked, crossing his.

“I have a Valentine’s Day fund-raiser to attend this weekend. Oh, and the most gorgeous vintage cupcake dress. Red crinoline beneath gold satin. Bought it at an estate sale for twenty dollars, an original Suzy Perette. The woman had no idea what a find it was.”

Both Grif and Bridget stared.

“Candy-apple-red fingernails would compliment it perfectly.”

“Can I talk to you,” Grif said, pulling her toward the door. With his back to Bridget, he whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Being charming. You might try it sometime.”

“You’re getting your nails done.”

“That, too.”

“I don’t get you! You’re this hotshot reporter but you’re willing to stop the presses just to pretty-up? After you already stopped the investigation to do your hair?”

Kit tilted her head. “You really think I’m a hotshot?”

“Kit!” Lifting his hat, Grif raked a hand through his hair. “What about saving the world?”

“Oh, Grif.” Kit blew out a breath. “Can’t you see you’re scaring her?”

“Wha . . . I didn’t do anything!”

“Besides, the world’s a better place when it’s pretty. Now take my phone,” she said, handing it to him. “Go download an app, and kill a pig with a bird or something.”

“Kill a pig with a . . . ?” But he never finished the sentence. Instead he shook his head and left without another word.

“Sorry about him,” Kit said, whirling to Bridget when the door had shut behind him. “He’s very intense. Tries to hide his soft side.”

Bridget just motioned to the nail station farthest from the door.

“I really do like your place,” Kit said brightly, as she sat. Bridget looked at her sharply, relaxing when she saw Kit was sincere.

“Bought it with all my own money. And, yeah, I paid in cash.”

“Wise,” Kit said lightly.

Pulling in tight across from her, Bridget picked up one of Kit’s hands. She gave her a hard double-take when she saw they were perfectly manicured, then shrugged and picked up a nail file. A client was a client. “When I’m able, I’m gonna expand to the empty space next door. Add beauticians. Someone who can do facials.”

“Sounds real nice.”

Bridget nodded, not looking at Kit again until she’d placed that hand to soak, and picked up the other. “Look, I read about your friend in the paper. I’m real sorry. But I ain’t been to that shitbox motel since I was busted. I’m clean. I washed my hands of all that shit.”

“So you didn’t contact Nic?”

“Nope. Don’t know who might have, either. I don’t run with those girls anymore. They can’t be trusted. Most will sell you to the devil as soon as they feel the flame.”

Kit lifted her eyes from her hands. “What about Lance Schmidt?”

Bridget didn’t look up, didn’t hesitate as she removed Kit’s old color, but her fingertips tightened over Kit’s. “Who?”

“C’mon, Bridget,” Kit said softly. “The cop who busted you at the Wayfarer . . . and back when you were nineteen.”

Bridget did look at her now, and naked fear warred with anger in the gaze. “I make a point of staying out of Detective Schmidt’s way.”

“Is he dirty?”

Bridget kept filing.

“Does he blackmail the girls?” Kit persisted. “Make them do things for him in return for not busting them?”

“I know nothing about him,” Bridget said stubbornly, buffing harder, then added quickly, “Except that he’s mean.”

“Mean enough to kill?”

“Mean enough that you don’t want to find out,” Bridget warned. Her tone also said she wasn’t going to risk her own skin—and salon, livelihood,
life
—to help Kit pursue that mad dog. Kit considered telling Bridget about Schmidt’s attack on her, but decided it probably wouldn’t help. Scared and jaded, she’d likely think Kit naive for not expecting it.

Besides, she might be lying. As Marin said, he’d bookended her career, and could be holding something over her still. He could have used her to contact Nic. She might have him on the phone as soon as Kit left the salon. So as Bridget cleaned and trimmed, Kit tried to think of another angle.

But Bridget surprised her by raising her own question. “That charity ball you’re going to this weekend. That wouldn’t happen to be the Caleb Chambers event, would it?”

Kit tilted her head. “Why?”

Bridget shrugged, but the movement was stiff. “Is he on that list of yours?”

“Chambers?” Kit nodded. “At the bottom, though. Alibied for the night in question.”

And yet, she suddenly realized, his name kept coming up again and again.

“Makes sense. He’s a bottom-feeder.”

Kit leaned forward on her elbows, staring closely at Bridget, now studiously looking down. A former prostitute who claimed no ties to the political crowd thought the most powerful of them was scum? “Look, if you can tell me anything about Chambers, about what happens at the Wayfarer, anything at all, I’d be grateful.”