Third Grave Dead Ahead

  “You left.”

  “Rocket, what are you doing here?”

  A huge grin spread across his face; then he grew serious again. “You left.”

  “Yes, I know, I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, jumping when he remembered what he had to tell me. “Teresa Dean Yost.”

  Startled, I asked, “What about her?” Surely her vital statistics hadn’t changed in the last few minutes.

  He turned a concerned face toward me. “Hurry.”

  Before I could say his name again, he was gone. Damn it. Hurry. I would if I knew where she was. What on planet Earth could the doctor have done with her?

  I dialed Cookie.

  “Do you think red and pink go well together?” she asked in lieu of a greeting.

  “Only if you’re a cupcake. Teresa Yost is alive,” I said, turning the ignition and swerving onto the street.

  “What? Really? A cupcake?”

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, I was driving a golf cart on the Isleta Golf Course. Uncle Bob had called. He’d gotten in touch with the detective who had been in charge of the forgery case, the one who’d flagged one Dr. Nathan Yost. I wanted to know why.

  I picked up my phone and called Cook again. “Dude, we have to get a golf cart to go back and forth to work in.”

  “It’s like a thirty-second walk.”

  “Exactly! This will shave minutes off our commute every year.”

  “Have you slept yet?”

  “Sure. I took a power nap on the way over.”

  “Didn’t you drive there?”

  “Yeah. Other drivers kept waking me up. Car horns should be illegal.”

  Before she could get too into scolding me—she was clearly still upset about the cupcake remark—I closed the phone and hung a left at the sand pit by the junipers. A small gathering of men stood on a grassy knoll, gazing at the long fairway before them. Or, possibly at me as I was practicing my evasive maneuvers in case I was ever shot at while driving a golf cart. This thing was just cool. But it needed flames. Possibly a lift kit.

  I screeched to a halt in front of the men. Metaphorically. “Are any of you named Paul Ulibarri?”

  One man stepped forward, an older gentleman with a nasty-looking club in his hand. “I’m Paul,” he said, slightly curious.

  “Hi.” I stepped out and offered my hand. “I’m Charley Davidson.”

  “Oh, of course, I just talked to your uncle. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  “Well, we have a missing woman, and I need to find her as fast as humanly possible.”

  “Of course. Howard,” he said, turning and handing the club to a man nearby, “I’ll be right back.”

  They all smiled and nodded graciously, almost too graciously, as we walked a distance away. Only one seemed a little annoyed at having the game interrupted, a younger man with a goatee, a flashy watch, and a frown lining his face.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your game.”

  “Oh, don’t be. We’re purposely taking our time. It seems we old farts don’t play fast enough, and young Caleb there has places to be and people to see.”

  I laughed. “So, he’s in a hurry?”

  “Yep. He promised his father a game of golf and has regretted it ever since.”

  I looked back at them. “Who’s his father?”

  “I am.” He grinned, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “So, your uncle mentioned the case, and I do remember it quite well. I called Hannah—she’s still at the department in records—and had her pull the file. She’s got it if you want a look.”

  “Thank you.” I was a little surprised at the cooperation I was getting.

  “I really wanted to nail that guy,” he said, working his jaw.

  “Dr. Yost?” I asked.

  “What? Oh, no.” He shook his head, refocusing on me. “Eli Quintero. Best damned forger I’ve ever seen. He printed more paper than Xerox.”

  “Paper?” I asked, surprised. “You mean like forged papers? Like IDs and stuff?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Wow, I wasn’t really expecting that. So, why did you have the doctor’s name flagged in the case?”

  “Because he was on the list.” When I shrugged my brows in question, he elaborated. “When we raided Quintero’s place, he’d already fled the scene—went to Minnesota or Mississippi, some place with an M, last I heard—but he left behind a book, a ledger that had fallen behind a table in his haste to vacate the premises. It had dozens of names, including that of your doctor.”

  “Really?” I was more than a little surprised.

  “Unfortunately, that’s all we got. Not enough evidence to prosecute, and I’d spent months on that case.”

  “That sucks.”

  He nodded lazily in agreement. “It does indeed.”

  “Do you know about when Dr. Yost went to see Quintero?”

  “Well, if I remember correctly, the doc was one of the last names on the list, so it had to have been around the time we raided his place. That would put it—”

  “Really, Dad?” Caleb whined from behind us. Apparently, it was his father’s turn.

  He turned slowly, and offered a huge smile. “Really, Caleb. Really.” He turned back to me as Caleb threw down a club and stalked off. “My wife spoiled that boy rotten. About three years ago, I’d say.”

  She spoiled him three years ago? ’Cause that kind of behavior took decades to cultivate.

  “Yeah, that’s right. It was one of my last cases, so I’d say almost three years to the day.”

  “Wow, well, okay. Thank you so much for your time, and I’ll get in touch with Hannah for the case file if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind a bit.” He handed me his card and had written her number on the back. Then he glanced at his pacing son and turned back to me. “Sure you don’t need anything else? Stock tips? Legal advice? To hear the Gettysburg Address recited verbatim?”

  I laughed and headed for my sweet ride. “I’m good. Thank you so much.”

  “Tell your uncle he’s an ass,” he called out to me.

  “Will do.” I liked that man. As I drove off, his son was in the throes of a full-blown rant about how time was money.

  “Let me express how much I don’t care on a scale of one to bite me,” the former detective said.

  * * *

  I called Hannah, the files clerk, about the case on the way back to the clubhouse and drilled her with a few questions. Apparently, right beside the doctor’s name in the ledger was the name Keith Jacoby. I got an exact date from the ledger and asked Hannah if she could hold on to the file for a while in case I needed to come in and take a look. I might need to find the forger Eli Quintero for more information. According to the detectives’ report, they believed Eli had absconded to Mississippi and set up shop there.

  “No problem,” she’d said. “Anything for Bobby.”

  Bobby? Did she mean Uncle Bob? Ew.

  I flipped Garrett off, climbed into Misery, and called Cook. “Forget the comings and goings on the islands of Dr. Yost,” I said when she picked up.

  “Good, because I’m not getting a whole lot of cooperation.”

  “Do people never watch Sesame Street anymore?” I asked, pulling onto 47. Garrett followed.

  “You got me. What’s up?”

  “I want you to do exactly what you were doing, only look for the name Keith Jacoby.”

  “Did I tell you how much cooperation I’m not getting?”

  “You sure did, and I appreciate the update.”

  “Where are you?”

  I merged onto I-40, narrowly missing a semi. “On my way back, why?”

  “You sound distracted.”

  “Well, I am. Garrett is freaking following me.”

  “Really? What’s he wearing?”

  “Cook, this is serious.”

  “Wait, what are you doing?”

  She could apparently hear the strain in my voice as I craned
my neck from side to side. “I’m trying to see past a little girl on my hood.”

  “Oh. Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Normally. But she has a knife.”

  “Oh, well, then, I guess it’s okay.”

  13

  A Nun’s Life: Chastity, poverty and obedience. Wait, chastity?

  —BUMPER STICKER

  As soon as I pulled up to the office, I ran up the stairs to tell Cookie the most incredible thing I’d just heard on the radio. I flew through the door and skidded to a halt in front of her desk. “Have you heard about Milton Berle’s penis?”

  Cookie’s eyes widened and she gestured behind me with a nod.

  I turned to see a young nun stand up. She’d apparently been waiting for me.

  Awkward.

  I smiled. “Sorry about that,” I said, offering her my hand. She wore a navy skirt and sweater that just matched the habit on her head, her hair brown underneath it. “I’m Charlotte Davidson.”

  “I know.” She took my hand into both of hers, an awestruck glow in her green eyes, as if she were meeting a rock star. Or she was stoned. “I’ve heard it was huge.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, thrown by the admiration in her eyes.

  “Milton Berle’s penis.”

  “Oh, right. Weird, huh? So, what can I help you with?”

  “Well…” She glanced from me to Cookie and back again. “You won’t answer my emails, so I decided to come see you myself.”

  I frowned. “Your emails? Have we met?”

  “No,” she said, a soft giggle floating toward me, “but I know who you are. I just wanted to meet you.”

  “Who I am?” I asked warily.

  She leaned in and whispered with a conspiratorial smile, “The grim reaper.”

  Besides the fact that I almost fell over, I handled her statement pretty well. I glanced at a wide-eyed Cookie, who was too busy gawking to notice she’d knocked over her coffee cup. I cleared my throat and gestured toward the cup. Fortunately, she’d downed most of its contents. She grabbed a tissue to see to the small spill as I led the sister into my office.

  “Can I get you some coffee?” I asked, heading in that general direction. It’d been minutes since my last cup.

  She shook her head.

  “Well, God knows I need some,” I said as I poured.

  “He probably does,” she said, and with an inward cringe I realized what I’d said. “I like your paintings.”

  Cookie took another cup as well and sat beside my desk while the nun sat across from it.

  “Thank you. So, can I ask your name?”

  “Of course,” she said with another giggle. “I’m Sister Mary Elizabeth. But you know me as Mistress Marigold.”

  I paused in the middle of sitting, looked her over again, then continued to sit. “You’re Mistress Marigold?”

  She offered a patient smile and a nod.

  “You’re not what I was expecting,” I said after taking a long sip. I was expecting a New Age kind of woman with love beads, tarot cards, and scented oils. Mistress Marigold was the woman with the angels and demons website. Quite frankly, it surprised me she knew how to build a website in the first place.

  “I’m sure. I’m sorry for the illusion. I just don’t want the others to know I’ve actually found you. Not yet,” she said, holding up her palms. “I wanted to make sure it was you before I told them.”

  “Them?” I asked. This could get ugly. Only a handful of people on the planet knew what I was.

  “The Sisters of the Immaculate Cross. We’re right down the street.”

  “Of course.” I examined her a long moment. She let me. “Look, it’s not that I don’t believe in the Big Kahuna, it’s just, how the hell do you know what I am?”

  “Well—”

  “And how did you find me?”

  “Oh—”

  “And how do you know about the son of Satan?” I asked, remembering that when Garrett had emailed her pretending to be the grim reaper, she’d written back, If you are the grim reaper, I’m the son of Satan.

  Cookie nodded as she sipped from her cup, her eyes large with curiosity.

  She smiled patiently, waiting for me to finish, then started again. “Okay, well, before we get too far into this, you might want to know a couple of things about me.”

  “Fair enough.” I leaned back and took another sip.

  She sat up straight, her knees pressed together, her hands folded in her lap. “I hear angels.”

  I blinked, waiting for the punch line. When none seemed forthcoming, I asked, “And?”

  “Oh, well, that’s pretty much it. I hear angels.”

  “Okay, well, that explains everything.”

  She blew out a breath of air in relief. “Thank goodness. I was worried—”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That doesn’t explain a freaking thing,” I put my coffee down and leaned forward. “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Oh, I see.” She frowned and shook her head. “I miss that sometimes.”

  “So, that whole website, that How to Detect Demons, that’s yours?”

  She nodded, her smile genuine. “It’s not a sin, strictly speaking.”

  “You’re Mistress Marigold for real?”

  Another nod. I think she was giving me time to let it sink in. Time I apparently needed.

  “Okay, let’s go over this.”

  Nod.

  “Cookie emailed you, and you knew it wasn’t her. Then Garrett emailed you saying he was the grim reaper, and you knew it wasn’t him. Then, and let me make this clear,” I said, holding up an index finger, “I email you, under a fake name Cookie set up for me, ask what you want with the grim reaper, and you knew it was me.”

  Nod.

  “How—? What—?”

  She took pity on me and spoke. “It was the name she picked.” She glanced at Cookie, who was just as boggled as I. “Jason Voorhees.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I told you not to pick the guy from Friday the Thirteenth.”

  “It was either that or Michael Myers,” she said defensively.

  “No, I was the one who wanted the guy from Halloween. You wanted to call me Freddy Krueger at first.” I looked at Sister Mary Elizabeth. “Really? Freddy? Have you seen his skin condition?”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” she said with a confident shake of her head. “The angels would have known eons before she chose a name which one she’d go with. That’s the name they said you’d use.”

  “The angels. They really talk to you.”

  She snorted and her hands covered her mouth self-consciously. “I apologize. Sometimes my manners are not what they should be.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Actually, the angels don’t talk to me. I’m not even sure they know I can hear them.” When I raised my brows in question, she said, “What I do is more like eavesdropping.”

  “On angels?” I asked.

  “I’ve just always been able to hear them. Ever since I can remember.”

  “Wow, that’s really interesting. You know, my friend Pari did something similar when she had been pronounced legally dead for a few minutes. On her way back to Earth, she heard the angels talking.”

  Mary Elizabeth giggled. “That happens. It’s the same thing, only I hear them constantly.” She leaned in as if to trust us with some sacred secret. “It’s actually quite annoying at times. They never shut up.”

  “Yeah, I guess it would be,” I said with a grin. “So, you knew what name I’d use, but how did you find me from there?”

  “Um, connections.” She scooted back in her chair, a guilty expression on her face.

  “Are those connections, mayhap, illegal?”

  She gasped. “No! Well, okay, I’m not entirely certain. I know a guy who knows a guy.”

  Coming from anyone else … “So, he…?”

  “Traced your IP address.”

  “Wow.” I was a little impressed. “And
you built that website with the database about angels and demons?”

  She nodded.

  “And you heard Charley’s fake name from the angels?” Cookie asked.

  “Yes, I hear all kinds of things. You would not believe what is going to happen next week if something isn’t done.” She rolled her eyes. “Which it won’t be. It never is. Nobody ever listens.”

  “You’re a prophet,” I said, a little floored.

  “Oh, pfft.” She waved away the notion with a hand. “Not really. Not in the traditional sense. I mean, I don’t prophesy. I just listen to those who do. It’s rather naughty, if you think about it.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “I am just so floored.”

  “Me, too,” Cookie said. “I mean, you’re just not what we were expecting.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot. But the sisters want to know all about you. Oh, and Reyes, of course.”

  Uh-oh. “So, how much do you know about Reyes?”

  “Well, let me think. He is the son of Satan who was born on Earth to be with you, the grim reaper, though the sisters don’t really like that label. They feel it limits you. Anyway, his name is really Rey’aziel, which means ‘the beautiful one.’ He is also a portal, like you. Oh!” She bounced back to us. “And he is powerful enough to bring about the apocalypse.”

  “You’re very informed.”

  “Yeah, like I said, blah, blah, blah.” She opened and closed her hand like someone talking nonstop. It was too funny. “So you know he can end the world?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I got the memo.”

  “But … I don’t understand.” Her brows cinched together. “You saved his life when the demons were going to kill him, and again when he was going to take his own life. Then you bound him to this plane, locked him on to it.”

  “Yeah, I did, huh?” After I’d vanquished the demons torturing Reyes by tapping into my inner floodlight—apparently demons are allergic—Reyes decided to take his own life to make himself less vulnerable. I stopped him, then bound him inside his physical body. But the fact that Sister Mary Elizabeth knew what I’d done, knew anything about me or Reyes, was a tad unsettling.