"You need a security system," he said. "One of Don's men installs excellent units at very reasonable prices." He meant Don Gallagher, his primary client. Don headed the Satan's Saints. It was not a heavy metal band.
"Uh-huh. A biker who installs security systems? Does he keep a 'backup' copy of the code?"
"Petty larceny is hardly profitable enough for the Saints to bother with--if they involved themselves in criminal activity, which they do not. Any system I buy from them would be both secure and affordable."
Having survived that fall off the back of a truck without a scratch.
"I still can't afford--"
"I'll deduct it from your pay. Now, I seem to recall you saying once that your father had a garage full of cars?"
"Yes . . ."
"You should take one."
"I'm not--"
"Let's take a look."
He limped off, leaving me to follow.
CHAPTER THREE
Gabriel scanned the two rows of cars. His Jag might reach six figures, but he could have bought two of them for the price of any of these vintage sports models.
I stifled any twinge of guilt. Yes, Dad had inherited the Mills & Jones department store, but it'd been close to bankruptcy when he'd bought out the Mills family. He'd earned every penny to buy these vehicles, the same as Gabriel had for his.
"My dad loved fast cars," I said as I walked over.
"As does his daughter."
Gabriel's Jag had five hundred horses under the hood, but for him it was only a status symbol, a mobile business card that said, "I might be young, but I'm a fucking genius at what I do."
"Which is your favorite?" he asked.
I opened my mouth to say that I didn't have one, but he'd already noticed where my gaze slid. He walked behind the two-seater.
"A Maserati?" he said. "Not much trunk space."
"You don't buy a 1961 Maserati Spyder for trunk space."
"All right, then. Where are the keys?"
"I can't--"
"Does your mother use these cars?"
"No, but--"
"Does anyone else use them?"
"No, but--"
"You need a vehicle, Olivia. The fact that your mother continues upkeep on these suggests she considers them yours, for your use, the same as your laptop or your clothing. I suspect if you checked the will, your father left them to you. If you feel the need to check with her, do that."
"I don't. But a waitress with a Maserati? That's not who I want to be. Yes, I need a car, and once I'm working for you I'll rent or lease something. Right now--"
"Whose vehicle is that?"
He cut in as if I'd stopped talking a few sentences ago. For him, I probably had--or at least I'd stopped saying anything worth listening to. I followed his finger to a decade-old VW diesel Jetta tucked behind the Rolls.
"That belonged to our former housekeeper," I said. "She lived in and didn't have her own car, so Dad bought her the Jetta."
"No one drives it now?"
I shook my head. "She retired and our new housekeeper lives out."
"Then take that." When I opened my mouth to protest, he said, "Is it too ostentatious to drive in Cainsville?"
"No, but--"
"Do you expect you'd find any leased or used car with lower insurance or better gas mileage?"
"No, but--"
"Then it meets your standards and overrules your objections. We'll pick it up later."
He headed for the door. I looked at the VW. He was right. For now, this would be no worse than borrowing the Clarks' Buick.
As I came up behind him, Gabriel said, "Catch," and tossed his car keys over his shoulder. "Take the Jag. If you did indeed have a vision of yourself dead in that car, you shouldn't get behind the wheel. I'll follow you back to Cainsville and we'll speak to Rose."
"You don't have to--"
"I have business there."
When I still hesitated in the driveway, he waved at his car. "Take it. Go."
I handed him the Clarks' keys. "Thanks."
I wanted to say thanks for more than letting me drive his car. Thanks for dropping everything and coming out here. Thanks for not making me feel like I'd panicked over a false alarm. But Gabriel doesn't do well with gratitude. He prefers cash. So I settled for that simple "Thanks," which he brushed off with a wave as he limped to the deathmobile.
--
Cainsville, Illinois, was an hour's drive from Chicago, a perfectly reasonable commuting distance, which should have ensured the town became a bedroom community for the big city. While some residents did work in the city, it wasn't easy. No train. No bus. Not even a local taxi service. Commuters had to drive, which started with a slow twenty-minute trek along a country road that took you in the opposite direction to Chicago but led to the nearest highway exit--"near" being a relative term. Even those who wouldn't mind the commute would have trouble finding a house in Cainsville. Hemmed in by the highway, a river, and marshy ground, there was no room for expansion.
It was a small, insular community, still "fond of the old ways," as the elders liked to say. Yet every modern convenience--including screamingly fast Internet service--was available to those who wanted it. A strange little town. And I adored it.
Driving back that afternoon, I took it all in, as if I'd been gone for weeks. The only road into town became Main Street, the commercial center of Cainsville . . . if you call a dozen shops and services a center. I would. Almost anything I could want was there, within a few minutes' walk of my apartment. Life doesn't get much more convenient than that.
Main Street looks as if it belongs in a small town preserved or restored for tourism. Except, without so much as a bed-and-breakfast, tourism wasn't the point for Cainsville. That's just how it looked--picture-perfect storefronts, mostly Renaissance Revival architecture. The street was as narrow as it must have been in the days of horses and buggies. In contrast, the sidewalks were wide and prettied up with overflowing flowerpots, freshly painted benches, and ornate iron trash bins.
This was a town for ambling, as those sidewalks suggested. No one was in a hurry. No one was much inclined to take their car, either, not unless they were leaving town or had the misfortune to live too far from the grocery store. There were a couple dozen people out and about, and if some of them didn't wave, it was only because they were too engrossed in conversation with a companion.
As I drove in, I looked for gargoyles. That had become a habit. I was too old for the annual May Day gargoyle hunt, where kids competed to see who'd found the most, but I still looked in hopes of spotting a new one, because in Cainsville not every gargoyle could be seen all the time.
I turned onto Rowan. My street. I pulled up across the road from my apartment building, and Gabriel parked behind me, in front of his aunt's tiny dollhouse Victorian. Rose's car was gone. Gabriel didn't suggest calling her cell to see when she'd be back. If he did, she'd rush home to help him.
Rose's relationship with her grandnephew isn't an easy one. Gabriel discourages emotional attachments the way most of us discourage door-to-door salesmen. They're inconvenient, intrusive, and liable to end up saddling you with something you never wanted in the first place, at a cost far higher than you wish to pay.
If Gabriel is attached to anyone, it's Rose. Yet when his mother left him, he didn't tell her. When Rose found out, he ran until she stopped looking for him. That's hard to understand, but there was something in Gabriel's psyche, perhaps arising from his family's con-artist past, that said you don't take anything from those you care about. You took only from marks, and marks were always strangers. If Rose had learned that Seanna had abandoned him, she'd have looked after him, and he couldn't accept that. Or maybe he just couldn't believe she'd actually want to.
Gabriel stayed at my place for an hour, prowling the apartment, checking the windows, and engaging in stare-downs with the cat. Then he declared Rose wasn't returning anytime soon and stumped off to speak to my landlord, Grace, about the security system bef
ore heading back to Chicago.
--
The next morning, I had the seven-to-three diner shift. My fellow weekday server, Susie, has a second job and we work around her schedule. Which means I have a mix of day and evening shifts that my body hasn't quite adjusted to yet.
I don't love my job. Oh hell, let's be honest--I barely like it. But as impressive as a master's degree from Yale might sound, it doesn't qualify you for shit, especially when you have no work experience and you majored in Victorian literature.
If there was one thing I did like about my job, it was the people. The owner--an ex-con named Larry--was a dream boss. The regulars were mostly seniors--I swear half the town collects social security--and they'd embraced me like a runaway come home. Even finding out who my birth parents were hadn't changed that.
This was my first shift back after Edgar Chandler's arrest. Everyone had heard what happened and they were all so pleased, so very pleased. Which seems a little odd, but in Cainsville "a little odd" was the norm.
"Such an exciting adventure," Ida Clark said when I brought her lunch. Ida and her husband, Walter, are probably in their seventies. It was their car I'd borrowed.
"A terribly exciting adventure, don't you think?" she said to Walter, who nodded and said yes, terribly exciting.
"Liv was shot at," said a voice from across the diner. "She watched a man die and had to hide in the basement while being stalked by a killer. I don't think 'exciting' is the word you're looking for."
That was Patrick. The diner's resident novelist. Also the only person under forty who'd dare speak to the town elders that way.
Ida glared at him. "It is exciting. She proved her parents are innocent."
"For two out of eight murders," I said.
"Still, that's grounds for an appeal. But what exactly happened to that poor young couple? The newspapers weren't very forthcoming. Did--"
"Good God, leave her alone," Patrick said. "You're monopolizing the only server, and some of us require coffee."
He raised his empty mug, and I seized the excuse to hurry off.
As I filled Patrick's mug, he murmured, "Don't tell them anything. I'm sure it's a messy business, and we don't want to tax their old hearts."
There was no way Ida could have overheard, but she aimed a deadly scowl his way. He only smiled and lifted his mug in salute.
--
After the lunch rush passed, I brought fresh hot water for the Clarks. Several others had joined them, most notably Veronica, one of the elders I knew best, though I can't say I knew any of them well, despite hours of chitchat. Mostly, they just wanted to talk about me, and if I swung the conversation their way, they'd deflect. "We're old and boring, dear," they'd say. "Tell us about yourself."
With Veronica, it was more of a two-way conversation, but only because she'd talk about the town and its traditions. An amateur historian. And, like all the elders, a professional busybody, though I say that in the nicest way. They don't pry--they're just endlessly curious.
Veronica had brought in a sheaf of papers. I only caught a glimpse of a dark-haired woman's photo. When I filled their teacups, she said, "You're in the city quite often, aren't you, Olivia?"
"Oh, we shouldn't bother her with this," Ida said.
"With what?" I asked.
"Posting notices for Ciara Conway," Veronica said. "I'm sure the police are doing all they can, but every little bit extra helps."
"Olivia hasn't been around since Friday," Ida reminded her. "With everything that was happening, I doubt she's even heard one of our young women has gone missing."
There were very few "young women" in Cainsville, and I'd met none named Ciara. When I said as much, Ida explained: "Her mother grew up here." Meaning Ciara had likely come to visit her maternal grandparents, which in the eyes of the elders made her a local. That was Cainsville. Gabriel had never lived here, either, and they considered him one of their own.
"When did she disappear?" I asked.
"Saturday."
I glanced at the papers. "So you're . . . posting flyers? That's certainly how it used to be done, but these days--"
"There are other methods," Ida said. "We know. But the old ways are still useful."
Veronica pushed the stack toward me. She said something else, but I was too busy staring at the photo on the flyer.
Ciara Conway was the dead woman I'd seen in the car.
"Liv?" Walter said.
"S-sorry." I wrenched my gaze from the photo. "Sure, I'll take some to the city. I'll be there tomorrow, doing work for Gabriel. Just leave me a stack."
I retreated as fast as I could. I took another table's order, but after I'd finished, I stared at the words on my pad as if I'd written them in a foreign language.
"Olivia?" Ida said. "Are you all right, dear?"
I nodded. As I headed for the kitchen, Larry watched me, his wide face drawn with concern.
"Liv's been investigating the deaths of young people," Patrick said to the elders. "You don't go shoving pictures of missing girls in her face."
I said no, I was fine, but Larry took the order pad from my hand and told me to go home and take it easy. The lunch rush was over. He'd handle the rest of my shift.
Any other time, I'd have protested. But I kept seeing that smiling girl on the photo as an eyeless corpse.
"I'll walk you home," Patrick said. "You look a little woozy."
"We were just heading that way," Ida began. "We can--"
"Got it." Patrick smiled at Ida. "Rest your old bones."
BLACK SHUCK
If looks could kill, the one Ida aimed Patrick's way would have drawn and quartered him. Which was far worse than the usual ones that only wished him a swift and relatively painless death.
Olivia's long strides consumed the sidewalk, leaving him jogging to catch up. He wondered what was really bothering her. While he was certain her basement ordeal had been traumatic, resilience was in her blood. She should be over it by now.
When Olivia noticed he'd fallen behind, she slowed her pace. Together they passed through the tiny park and on to the walkway that led to her Rowan Street apartment.
"How's Gabriel?" he said.
He hadn't meant to ask. He would prefer not to, or if he did, he would like it to be a show of fake concern. He'd lived a very long time without taking any interest in his epil. Gabriel was different. Or perhaps Patrick was simply getting old. Soft.
"I heard he was injured in that business at the Evans house," he continued.
"Shot in the leg." The briefest pause. "He won't use his cane. He's going to make it worse."
Patrick had to bite back a laugh at the way she said it. First she acknowledged he'd been shot, almost casually. Then she complained about the cane. Worried about Gabriel and loath to admit it.
After a few more steps, she asked, "What do you know about dogs? Symbolically, I mean. Folklore, occultism, whatever. From your writing research."
"Any specific type of canine?"
"Big black ones."
He tried not to react. Fortunately she was still walking with her gaze straight ahead.
"Mmm, it depends on the culture," he said. "If you're looking at the British Isles--"
"Probably."
"Black Shuck."
Before he could explain, she nodded. "The Hound of the Baskervilles. I did my thesis on Conan Doyle. He based his book on the legend of the Black Shuck."
"You didn't need to ask me, then."
She shrugged and looked uncomfortable. "It didn't . . . It didn't seem . . ."
It didn't seem to fit. Because the Black Shuck was a portent of death, and she could interpret those instinctively. That was how her old blood manifested. If she'd seen a death omen, she wouldn't have needed to consult him.
"Is there anything else in the lore?" she asked. "Besides the Black Shuck?"
"No," he lied.
Patrick left Olivia at her building door. Grace was on the porch, and he knew better than to pass her. Before they parted
, he tried to get Olivia to tell him why she was asking about the black dog. She wouldn't.
Had she seen a Cwn? That seemed most likely. She'd spotted one in Chicago and realized it was no ordinary pet--and no ordinary omen.
If she had truly seen a Cwn, that meant . . . well, it meant trouble. For her. For Gabriel. For all of them.
CHAPTER FOUR
My landlord, Grace, sat in her usual place--a folding chair on the front stoop. She looked like one of the town's many gargoyles, a wizened imp scowling at the world, daring it to cause trouble.
I said a quick hello as I reached for the doorknob.
"Scone?" she said.
"What?"
"You were at work, weren't you? Where's my scone?"
No, not an imp. A troll. A gray-haired lump of a snaggletoothed beast, guarding her gate, one gnarled hand raised for the toll.
"I forgot," I said. "I'm sorry. I'll grab you two tomorrow. With coffee."
Her beady eyes narrowed. "What's wrong, girl?"
"Nothing."
"If you're apologizing and offering me extras, something's wrong."
"I'm just . . . off today."
I opened the door and stepped through.
"Well, get some rest and eat something. You're too pale. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Maybe I have, I thought as the door closed behind me.
--
When I swung into my apartment, TC was perched on the back of the sofa. I dropped my bag with a clunk and he only snarled a yawn, his yellow eyes narrowing as if I'd disturbed his rest. Then he hopped down and wound around my ankles, completely oblivious to the fact that I was racing to my bedroom.
"I'm changing it to DC," I muttered. "Damn Cat."
TC wasn't a name, as I was quick to point out to anyone who asked. It was an acronym for "The Cat." I refused to name him because I was not yet resigned to the possibility I might actually be stuck with him.
TC was a black cat, which should have given me all the ammunition I needed to get rid of him. Except in some parts of the world, including Cainsville, they're considered good luck. And it wasn't as if I'd "let" the beast into my home in the first place. He was a stray who'd zoomed in after a mouse and refused to leave.
The suitcases I'd brought from home sat in the corner, still packed. I tugged one onto its side, took out each piece, and stacked it. Then I lifted TC--protesting--off the second bag, pulled out my dresses and wrapped shoes, and made absolutely sure I hadn't stuffed any other clothing in there. Then I looked at the piles surrounding me, searching for something specific, something I wasn't seeing.