Wild Card (50 page)

We’d left Melissa’s car on the main drag and she was sitting very still in my passenger seat, nervously checking to either side and behind. There was no one there at the moment. The street was quiet, dark and cold. It was even colder in the spartan cabin of the Hill Bitch.

We slipped on latex gloves and booties while we waited.

“Okay, let’s go,” I said after ten minutes of scanning the area without seeing anything suspicious.

We got out quietly and walked to the trailer’s door, Melissa behind me.

“I didn’t lock it,” Melissa whispered.

The place felt empty.

I checked the safety on the HK and stood to one side as I opened it. Much good that would have done if there’d been Nagas inside. High velocity rounds would go right through the walls, the person outside and probably into the next trailer.

It was dark inside and the stench of death drifted out.

“You leave the light on?” I murmured.

She shook her head. Tidy girl.

“Wait.”

I went in low and quick, HK sweeping back and forth, eyes struggling to see into the blackness. Silence. Nothing to see, even in the infrared, other than a blur on the floor which I assumed was Clayton.

“Come in.”

I stepped carefully over his body. I wanted to give him more respect than that, but there simply wasn’t time. I had to assume one of the Nagas would think to come back here to check.

Clayton’s home was about twelve feet by forty. On my right was the living room, with a cooking and eating area that was supposed to open out onto a covered porch. The porch had all but rotted away.

I crossed to the opposite end and checked the bedroom and shower. Nothing.

Melissa closed all the cheap curtains and switched on the light.

It wasn’t bad. I’d lived in a smaller apartment when I’d been at Mrs. Desiarto’s in Aurora.

And despite his slide into the bottle, Clayton had kept it clean. He’d probably kept it tidy too, but the Nagas had torn the place apart. Not a single box or drawer was left whole. Everything had been opened and smashed.

Clayton wasn’t at the very bottom of the debris.

I swallowed. He’d been alive when they’d started. If I had a look, I suspected I’d find he’d been tortured. There’d be no way a drunken old man would have stood up to it, but from the amount of debris that was on top of him, they’d gone on searching after he died. Did that mean he’d died without telling them?

Melissa cleared his body and started inspecting him.

“We’re not doing a police investigation, Melissa,” I said. “We’re looking for a hiding place for his missing notes. We can’t take long.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“I think we may be out of luck anyway.” I gestured at the devastation. “That’s about everywhere there is to hide something, all in pieces on the floor.”

“Maybe.”

She walked the perimeter, stepping over the trash and looking at every wall, every corner.

I looked at the ceiling for suspicious bulges, but apart from some small water stains around the vents, there was nothing.

“He wouldn’t want to keep a storage locker,” Melissa said. “He’d have something here.”

“Wishing won’t make it so.” I really hoped there wasn’t a storage locker. A key is way harder to find than a notepad.

“He was bitter,” she said, thinking out loud the way I did occasionally. “He was sure there’d been something to his investigation. Something he was going to uncover. He would know the rogue had framed him and then murdered the prostitute to weaken his credibility even more…”

She slowed.

“Why would he think that was the end of it?” I finished her thought. “He was expecting to be killed?”

“Yeah. You and I might say the rogue had done enough, and could just leave him, but for Clayton this was personal. He believed he was going to be killed as soon as the rogue felt it was safe enough to move on him.”

“And he was right,” I pointed out. No wonder he’d started drinking. “However the rogue found out, Clayton gets killed the same night he wants to talk to you.”

“Or he was tortured into making that call.” She started pacing. “That’s not important. What I’m saying is he expected to be killed and he would want to leave something that the killer wouldn’t find, but the police would.”

“Hmm. Okay. That might be why he was eager to keep up his old contacts, so that however he was killed, however it was arranged for him to die, it’d be looked into deeper.”

The death of a policeman always got more attention.

“Yes.” Melissa switched the light off. “He’d be expecting CSI to look at this place. He’d want them to find his notes.”

“In the dark?”

“No.” She pulled a flashlight out of her pocket and flicked it on. “Under UV.”

The trailer filled with neon blue. The area around Clayton’s body was black where his blood absorbed all the light. I could see the dark flecks of blood extended out across the floor, and black patches on some of the broken furniture they’d used to hit him with.

And at the ends of the curtain rod above the window to the porch, two large, dark X shapes. They were older, with soft edges. Not his blood, but whatever he’d used, he’d done a good job.

The hollow rod broke easily. Inside were the loose-leaf remains of notebooks.

And the TacNet, switched to silent and worn like a necklace, was pulsing against my throat.

“Farrell, you there?”

“Gray?”

“Yeah. Got a hit on that list you gave me. You better get here.”

Chapter 52

We arrived at the place we’d agreed to meet, just inside Denver’s upscale suburb of Glenmore Hills Village, only half a mile from Suzannah de Vries’ house. Mary, roused out of bed in the middle of the night, had barely said a word on the trip. There was no sign of Nick or his Harley at the roadside.

“He doesn’t know this car,” I said, opening the door. At least it wasn’t any colder outside than in.

“He’s here,” Mary said quietly. “Watching.”

“You can sense him?”

“This one? Yes, when he’s close. He can sense me, too.” She sighed. “I never thought…You do make me mix with strange types, Amber.”

I opened my mouth to question that when Gray appeared out of the shadows by the road.

How did I not see him?

He cast a thoughtful eye over Mary, but all he said was: “Take the second right,” as he climbed in alongside Melissa, behind me.

Mary spoke to him, the words fast and low. It wasn’t Arapaho and I doubted she spoke Chippewa. That’d make it one of the old plains trader tongues. Gray answered, slower than Mary.

I turned where he’d said, and he broke off long enough to tell me to look out for the spruce trees.

“Turn in and stop at the gate,” he said, when I found the wall with blue spruce looming above it.

We were facing an iron gate between two brick pillars. Through the gate I could see a drive snaking toward a house that was mostly hidden by more spruce, with a scattering of cherry and mimosa. It was very expensive, very private.

I had been searching my memory for the details associated with the house. The man who had lived here was an eccentric recluse. Tullah had marked him as borderline for inclusion in the list. Bills were paid, food and goods occasionally delivered. No car. No taxis. Unless he walked to the stores and bought food with cash, there was just too little of everything.

The house certainly would fit the needs of the rogue. It was isolated from the neighbors by its trees, not to the extent a ranch would have been, but enough that no one would notice what went on in here.

Gray got out.

“There’s an alarm,” he said. “Wait here.”

He walked to the right hand pillar and leaped up, suddenly catlike. From the top he looked carefully at the ground below and then jumped silently down. All I could see in the night was a blur of warmth heading toward the house.

I blew warm air into my cupped hands.

“You found a lot to talk about,” I said to Mary.

“Uh. He’s very polite for a skinwalker,” she replied.

My mouth worked soundlessly for a couple of seconds. “As in, like the stories? He can change to any animal?”

Mary snorted. “I doubt it, but the stories say several different animals. He’s a sort of Were, with a big dose of Adept. I never thought I’d meet one.” She shook her head. “Huh! I didn’t think there were any left.”

That set another cascade of thoughts off in my mind, but the one that came to the surface was : “Could the rogue be a skinwalker too?”

“No. I’d have felt that.” She looked out the window. “I think. But this house Gray’s found—he’s right. One of the Denver pack has been here.”

The gates opened silently. Gray reappeared beside them and waved us in.

I stopped next to him.

“You’re a man of surprising talents, Mr. Gray. Are you sure the house is empty?”

“Ask her,” he said, indicating Mary, who nodded. “Go on and park in front.” He stood on the running board while we drove the loop to the house.

The house was as expensive as the setting suggested, but to me it was a haphazard pile of boxes, without any true design. Still, the exterior was as well-maintained as the grounds. Those had been some of the bills that were paid.

Melissa and I handed out gloves and booties, then Gray let us in through the front door and switched on lights. I guess he had to be completely sure in his own mind that the place was empty. I glanced at the doorframe in passing. It hadn’t been forced. Surprising talents indeed. I’d have to get him to teach me how to do that.

We stood in a hallway. There’d been no bills for interior cleaning and it showed. The place smelled musty. I could tell why Gray had thought we’d be in no danger coming in.

I opened doors at random to see a variety of rooms with dust thick on the furniture. If anyone lived here, they didn’t use the ground floor.

“Garage and basement,” I said. If the rogue used this place, he’d want to drive into a garage and have access directly to the basement from it. Not that there was much chance of anyone seeing him, but it would fit better with him being fanatically cautious.

“Basement,” Mary echoed. Her voice was hoarse. She didn’t look well.

Gray touched her arm. I expected her to flinch or snap at him, but something had happened between them in the few minutes of our drive.

Melissa had picked a door that looked as if it was the way to the basement. It wasn’t the original wooden door. It was out of place and ugly, a steel door with no handle and no keyhole. We pushed, but it didn’t budge.

“Sealed,” I said. “We need to break into the garage and go from there.”

Gray led us out and around the side. He knelt in front of the garage doors briefly, then left them and found a side door. The lock was rusted, but in a couple of minutes he was forcing the door open against the sound of squealing hinges right out of a horror movie.

Hints of werewolf marque drifted out with dry, dusty air. And the suggestion of spells, a scent like the sea, a scratchy shiver on my skin.

It was a three-car garage. Two spaces were empty and the third had a green Ford F-250 with tires like the Hill Bitch outside. Same green as the ranger vans.

Melissa peered in the car’s window. “This wouldn’t have trouble reaching those body dump sites. Want me to check for signs of bodies inside?”

I shook my head. “I bet it’ll be too clean for anything we can do in a hurry.” I pointed at the equipment racked up against the back wall: power sprays and chemical cleaners, and a stack of brand new brushes and sponges. Use once and dispose of. Ultra cautious.

“We need to see the basement,” I said.

There was a door on the opposite side from where we’d come in. Gray picked the lock and it opened onto a small landing and a set of steps going down into darkness.

Mary and Gray both looked unwell now. Whatever it was didn’t seem to affect me as badly. I was getting the itchy skin effect of spells, but nothing worse. I left them to gather themselves in the garage and went down the stairs, flicking the light on as I did. I held the HK out in front, but my instincts told me there was nothing alive down there.

I heard Melissa’s footsteps following me.

Halfway down there was another landing and a branch going back up to the steel door that would open into the house. I ignored it.

There was a sharp smell of bleach. Underneath that: mixed Were, and blood, and days-old death.

The steps came out into a basement that was a simple rectangle, about twenty feet by fifty, with bare concrete floor and walls. All along the walls, at intervals of six feet and about three feet up from the floor, solid steel bolts were set into the concrete. They had hoops as thick as my thumb.

At the far end, the body of a Were slumped in chains—strange, adjustable shackles fastened around his neck and stomach and fixed to the wall bolts.

The chains held him in a half standing position, in a sick parody of a broken puppet. His flesh was ripped everywhere, strips of skin and muscle hanging from him. He’d died in an orgy of violence.

“The missing Matlal.” I breathed through my mouth, but the marque, even in death, was still clear.

Melissa went to him. I stood in the middle and turned around and around, trying to comprehend the mind that did this.

The whole thing, except for the body, was obsessively tidy.

Water pipes ran down in a corner. Next to them, there was a pump and a power spray and brushes, just like the garage above. Coiled electrical cords. A row of electrical sockets. A stack of trash bags. Chains and ropes in neat piles. Power tools. Toolbox. Rack of knives.

Methodical. Orderly. Precise.

And at the other end, a body torn and abused beyond belief. A violent, bloody contrast.

“He was killed right here and then left,” Melissa said. Her voice shook a little, but her gray eyes were clear as she looked at the equipment. “I have some DNA samples from the wounds. We might be able to match with suspects, if the rogue was careless.” She held up her sample kit. “It looks like this guy was tortured first.”

“Maybe that’s how the rogue got the information about how to contact Petersen,” I said, swallowing hard. “Got to step back from the detail. What’s it telling you?” I pointed at the two ends of the room.