"A little out of your reach," I said to the cat.
It ignored me, tail puffed, yellow eyes following the distant bird.
Crow, crow, get out of my sight
Or else I'll eat thy liver and lights
"Great," I muttered. "Just great." I shook my finger at the cat. "You guys really are bad luck."
The clouds overhead shifted, sunlight coming through again. As I headed back to the pathway, I glanced over my shoulder once, but the cat hadn't moved. It just kept staring at that crow, as if hoping it would come lower. If it did, the cat would be in for a surprise. The bird was probably as big as it was.
When I was about halfway down the path, I could make out the Victorian house across the road, the one with the psychic in residence. Again, I saw a face in a window. And two black circles. Binoculars. They pulled back and I smiled to myself. Psychic, my ass. In a town this small, all you needed to pull off that gig was the gift of nosiness.
A cloud moved across the sun again and I looked up. Maybe it would rain after all. That might establish me as a psychic. Look out, lady--
A throat-clearing. And as my gaze dropped from the sky, I realized it wasn't a cloud blocking the sun at all. There was a man barely a yard away.
"Ms. Taylor-Jones?"
The first thing I saw was his suit. It was a good one. Excellent, in fact. Worth more than some of the cars parked along the road behind him. I thought, James has hired someone to find me.
There was a reason the guy seemed to block the sun. He had to be at least six foot four with shoulders so wide I had to bump up my estimate of the suit's worth. Nothing off the rack would fit him.
Whoever sprang for a fancy suit, hoping to make him look less intimidating, had wasted his money. One look and you knew exactly what he was--a high-class thug. Property of a very wealthy man. This wasn't the sort of person James would send. Not unless he wanted me running the other way.
My gaze went to his eyes. Instinct, honed by my dad. Look strangers in the eyes right away, Livy. That's the only way to get a good read on them. Usually a good rule. Except when the stranger was wearing shades so dark I couldn't see through them.
The man took a long step backward and the corners of his mouth twitched.
"Is that better?" he said, his voice deep, tone amused. "You look ready to scamper back down the path. Not what I'd expect from the daughter of Pamela Larsen." Before I could react he pulled a card from his inside pocket and presented it with a mock flourish. I glanced at it, noting only his name--Gabriel Walsh--a Chicago address and the words "Law Firm."
Not a thug, then. An investigator ... probably with a little thug thrown in, for getting information people didn't care to give.
"You work for a lawyer," I said. When one brow arched, I continued, "Whatever your boss--"
"I don't have a boss, Ms. Jones."
He reached out, and I struggled against the urge to move back. He tapped the card with one huge but perfectly manicured fingernail.
I read it again. Gabriel Walsh. Attorney-at-law.
"Oh," I said.
"A common mistake. I represented your mother. The biological one."
I glanced up sharply. "You were--?"
"Not her original lawyer, of course." He wasn't old enough for that. "I represented Pamela Larsen in her most recent appeal attempt. Lost, unfortunately."
"I wouldn't say that's unfortunate at all."
His only response was an oddly elegant shrug.
"I suppose she sent you," I said. "That heartrending jailhouse plea to see her only child? You can tell her--"
"I said I represented her, past tense. She fired me when our request for an appeal was denied."
"And now you want to get her back."
"No, I was fired only because she didn't give me time to quit."
"I really do need to be going," I said as I hefted my paper bag. "If you'll excuse--"
"I've come with a business proposition." He turned toward Rowan Street. "There's a coffee shop down the road. The food isn't as good as the diner's, but it's quieter."
He knew Cainsville? I checked the card again. The office address was definitely Chicago.
"How did you find me?" I said.
"I had a tip." He waved toward the psychic's house. "Now, about that coffee...?"
I shook my head, said, "Not interested." I stepped to the side, to go around him. He hesitated, and I thought he was going to block me. My heart picked up speed, brain calculating the distance back to the park. He let me pass, but followed, still talking.
"You may be aware that your mother wrote a book. You may not be aware that it continues to sell quite well. The proceeds, naturally, do not go to Pamela. In the absence of an heir, her royalties are donated to charity. However, now that her heir has been found..."
"You'll help me gain control of those assets," I said, still walking. "For a price."
"Fifty percent." He said it without hesitation. I should have been appalled, but all I could think was, At least he's honest.
"Those proceeds are going to the victims, aren't they?"
"Their families." He clarified this as if it made them less worthy of compensation. A pause for dramatic effect, then he lowered his voice, "The only living victim here is you, Ms. Jones."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. He only dipped his chin, as if granting me a point in a game, which I supposed this was. For him, at least.
"I can see that your standard of living has dropped significantly as the result of this revelation. Your adopted mother has apparently disowned you--"
"No, I'm just taking some time away."
"Oh?" He looked around. "So this is where you usually come on vacation?"
I kept walking. He followed in silence until we reached the sidewalk, where a sleek Jaguar had taken the last spot on Rowan--the one in front of the fire hydrant.
"May I suggest that poverty is not the grand adventure you expect, Ms. Jones?"
"I know what poverty is."
"Do you? My mistake then."
I glanced back. His lips were slightly curved, this time not in a smile but in disdain. Bastard. I climbed the apartment steps. Grace was still there on her battered lawn chair, pulled back into the shadows. She nodded. But it wasn't me she was looking at.
"Gabriel."
"Grace. I brought you a scone." He lifted a small brown bag, which looked remarkably like the one ... I looked down at my empty hand.
How the hell had he done that?
"Fresh from the oven," he said. "Still warm."
Grace took it with a queenly nod, then glowered my way. I started to claim the scone, but realized it would sound like whining. If he got it from me, that was my own fault. Bastard.
"You two know each other?" I said.
"We're acquainted." Gabriel turned to me. "I've made my offer, Ms. Jones, and I hope you'll take some time to reconsider it."
"I don't need to."
"I think you might."
He nodded to Grace, then walked down the steps and headed for the Jag. Got in, peeled from the curb. I watched him go, then turned to Grace.
"You know who I am," I said.
"Maybe." She peered into the bag and pulled out the scone. "Don't expect me to feel sorry for you."
I stood there as she took a bite, gray eyes closing in rapture.
"He said she called him." I waved toward the fortune-teller's house. "Tipped him off about me."
She opened one eye, then the other, piqued at the interruption. "If you think it was me, say so. Don't beat around the bush. Makes you look weak."
"Okay. So you called him."
"I wouldn't call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire." She pursed her lips. "No, I might. To sue everyone responsible--from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I'd wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he'd just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement."
"So he's an ambulance chaser."
"He's a money chaser, doesn't matter where it c
omes from. Young as he is, he runs his own practice. Makes him look like some kind of prodigy, but the truth is with his reputation, even the sleaziest firm in Chicago wouldn't hire him. He is honest, though, in his own way. If he said Rose called him, I'm sure she did, because she called me about you, too. The part Gabriel left out? That old gossip is his great-aunt."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh. Gabriel Walsh comes from a long line of hustlers. He's just the first one to go to law school and get a license for it."
So the last lawyer to represent Pamela Larsen had an aunt who just happened to live across from my new apartment? Seems my luck in finding Cainsville came with a price. I supposed I should have expected as much. Fate is capricious. Nothing comes free. And Gabriel Walsh was an irritation I could deal with.
Grace took another bite of her scone and sighed with pleasure. "Damn. You must have made a good impression on Larry if you got him to bake me up a fresh batch."
"You knew...?"
"That you brought me this? Course I did."
"But you thanked--"
"He got it from you. You let him. You need to pay more attention, girl. Especially around that one."
"In other words, keep my distance."
"Never said that. Men like Gabriel have their uses. You just need to keep your eyes open and your hand on your wallet."
Thunder cracked. Lightning split the sky. When I looked up, the clouds had rolled in again.
"Huh, looks like we're getting a storm," she said.
She stood and walked to the door, then waved impatiently at her chair. I folded it and carried it inside just as the downpour started.
Chapter Nineteen
I returned to my apartment only to realize there was nothing for me there. No food, no drink, and most urgently, no cleaning products. So I waited for a break in the rain, then jogged to the grocery store a block over. I spent an hour there. Ten minutes to grab basic foodstuffs. Fifty minutes reading every freaking label in the cleaning supply section to figure out what I needed.
After three hours of scrubbing, I collapsed onto the bed ... only to realize I'd left sheets off my shopping list. I managed to struggle to my feet, considered the likelihood that any shop in town was still open, and fell back onto the bare mattress.
I woke on a rocky plain. Bitter wind whipped my hair into my eyes. A salty mist sprinkled my face, but I couldn't see or hear the ocean, just looked out over an endless dark field of fog and rock and gnarled trees.
I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. I was barefoot and dressed only in a thin shift, the wind cutting through it as if it was nothing.
Someone raced past me and I caught a glimpse of a girl with long blond hair before she disappeared into the swirling mist. I took a few tentative steps across the ice-cold rock and damp moss, and I saw her there, still shadowy against the darkness but turned now, watching me. She didn't speak or smile, just waited until I drew close, then ran into the fog again, only to stop and wait until I got closer.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
My voice echoed. She lifted a finger to her lips, then scampered off.
At last I stepped through the fog to see her crouched in the middle of a mist-shrouded circle of misshapen dead trees.
I looked around. Did I know this place?
Familiar yet unfamiliar.
Same with the girl.
I walked over. She was throwing something onto the ground, like jacks. The mist curled around her face, shrouding it.
When she saw me, she nodded solemnly and moved back, as if to give me room. I walked over and bent down. She picked up what looked like a stubby piece of wood and held it out.
"I don't know how to play," I said.
"Yes, you do."
"No, I'm sorry, I--"
"Shhh. Don't wake them."
"Who?"
When she said nothing, I looked around, but saw only the gnarled, fog-misted trees. I started to rise. She caught my hand and tried to tug me down.
"They're resting," she said.
"Who's resting?"
The croak of a raven answered. I looked over my shoulder to see one perched on a branch, pecking at the pale bark. The girl leapt to her feet and waved her arms.
"Shoo! You aren't supposed to be here."
The raven fixed her with one beady eye and croaked in protest, but took flight, soaring off over our heads.
The girl sat again and threw her sticks, and I saw that the sticks were bones. Polished white finger bones.
White bones against black rock.
Black rock on the edge of a pit filled with murky water, stinking like a swamp. More rocks piled above it. A waterfall. A dry waterfall.
My garden.
The raven swooped past. The girl waved her fist at it. "Ewch i ffwrdd, bran!"
She turned to me. "The bran know better," she said. "They aren't to disturb the dead. It's disrespectful."
"The dead?"
She waved at the tree and the mist began to clear, as if swept away, and I saw that the gnarled trunk wasn't a trunk at all. It was a corpse. Bound to a dead tree, arms spread, naked and bald, empty eye sockets, skin an oddly marbled red and white.
Then the last of the mist cleared and I saw the marble surface wasn't skin. There was no skin.
I stumbled back and wheeled to see that every tree was the crucifix for a flayed corpse. That's when I started to scream.
I woke up still screaming. I clapped my hands over my mouth and huddled there, heart pounding as I strained for any sign that I'd woken up the whole building. But all stayed silent.
When I closed my eyes, I saw the corpses again. I saw those horrible, flayed bodies and a half-remembered rumor about the Larsens surfaced.
I vaulted from bed and made it as far as the bathroom door before hurling my last meal onto the freshly scrubbed tiles.
I returned to bed but couldn't get back to sleep. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw that raw muscle and sinew and--
I couldn't get back to sleep.
I called James. I couldn't help myself. But I did manage, halfway through dialing his number, to stop, think, and punch in his work number instead. He wouldn't be there. That was the point. I listened to his voice message, hung up, called back, and listened again, feeling my heart rate slow, the dream fading into wisps that floated away as he asked me again to leave a message. That time I did. Just a brief, "Hey, wanted to let you know I'm okay. Hope you got the car."
Hope you got the car. I'd broken off our engagement. I'd thrown the ring at him and stolen his car and run into the night ... and that was the best I could come up with? Yes, it was.
While hearing James's recorded voice helped, I still couldn't sleep. Finally I broke down and took a pill. That only made things worse. Now I dozed in twilight sleep, dreams and hallucinations rolling into an endless drama. I'd see those bodies in my room, hanging from the walls, lying on the bed, sitting up and talking to me.
Then I'd see the Larsens. But I wasn't seeing them with the corpses. It might have been better if I did. Instead I dreamed of them, laughing and teasing and singing, scooping me up and holding me tight and making me feel ... wonderful. In Pamela Larsen's arms, I felt something I never felt in my own mother's awkward embraces. I felt adored.
It was those images that sent me back to the bathroom, over and over, until I gave up on going back to bed and just huddled on the floor, the cool tile against my cheek. Lying there, I tried to force the two images together--my birth parents and the flayed corpses. I tried to imagine them in that grove, as if the image would freeze and shatter those warm memories. But no matter how hard I tried, my brain refused to insert the Larsens into that scene.
When dawn's light finally flooded through the glazed window, the nightmare dreams fluttered away and instead I saw that newspaper headline: "A Mother's Desperate Jailhouse Plea." I saw that and I knew I had to see her.
No, I had to face her.
She'd helped my father murder eight young men and women. My bra
in knew it. My gut refused to agree.
I now realized I'd locked away memories of a happy childhood, but I wasn't sure if they were real memories or the inventions of a miserable, abused child. I had to face my past, which meant facing my biological parents. Or at least the one who'd reached out.
First, though, I needed to know exactly what they'd done. No more nightmares based on half-remembered stories. I needed facts. I got ready, then realized the library wouldn't be open yet. I couldn't stomach the thought of breakfast, so I just lay on the bed for another hour, haunted by my dreams, worried about my future.
When I opened my apartment door, I halted. Then I tried to figure out what had stopped me. A sound? A smell? A flicker of movement?
I looked down the hall. Three closed apartment doors, plus the stairwell. I inhaled. Just the faint smell of pine cleaner. I listened. Nothing. Really nothing--that church hush I'd noticed yesterday still enveloped the corridor. It was strange, actually, the silence and the peace, when I was so accustomed to the usual assault on my senses. While I still noticed smells and sounds, they didn't seem to have the same effect on me here in Cainsville. I could say it was like the other day in Chicago, when I'd been too shocked to notice anything, but this felt different. Like stepping off a busy street into a library. Maybe it was just the difference of small town life.
But something had caught my attention out here. I stood there, feet on the lintel, unable to step into the hall.
I looked down. There was something on the floor, just outside my doorway. Some kind of dark gray powder, almost hidden on the hardwood. I bent. Scattered powder.
No, not scattered. It seemed to form lines. A pattern?
I rubbed the back of my neck. Then, after a glance down the hall, to be sure no one was watching, I hunkered down with my face almost to the floor, trying to get a better look. It might be lines. It might even be a pattern. Or I might be an idiot, prostrate on the floor, staring at dropped cigarette ash.
The more I stared, the more certain I became that it was ash. I could even detect a faint smoky smell.
I shook my head, went back into the apartment, and grabbed my brand-new dustpan and broom. I swept up the ash, dumped it, and headed off to the library.
The Internet confirmed that the Larsens had killed four couples. One was dating, two were engaged, one married. All were in their early twenties.
The Larsens themselves were only twenty-six when they'd been arrested. They'd been born on the same date, in the same Chicago hospital, delivered by the same obstetrician. The media had made much of that coincidence. I don't know why. It only meant that their mothers had met in the maternity ward and become friends, so Pamela and Todd grew up together. To hear the tabloids tell it, though, you'd think some nurse had injected them with Serial Killer Serum in their cribs. Or practiced satanic rites on them while their mothers slept.