Darynda Jones - First Grave on the Right

How was this possible? How could the universe be so cruel?

A knock on my door raised my hopes. It was the inside door to my office that Dad always used. He’d have coffee. If he knew what was good for him.

I opened the door wide, only to be met by a tense Garrett Swopes. My lungs released a long breath as I scowled at him. “What do you want?”

His expression softened. “I have coffee.”

I eyed the coffee in his hands, tried to keep from drooling, wondered if the gods were toying with me, then gave in. Fine, I’d play along.

Plastering a bright smile on my face, I began again. “Oh, hey there, Garrett. What’s up?” Good enough. I snatched the coffee from his hands and started back for the slippery comfort of my plastic wood-grained office furniture and faux-leather chair. “What do you want?” I asked over my shoulder.

“I just want to talk.”

“I’m busy.”

“You don’t look busy. What are you doing?”

“Whatever the little voices tell me to do.”

“Will you just give me a minute?”

As if a delayed reaction had suddenly hit, Taft’s outburst was starting to gnaw. Another person angry with me for no reason. Eating away at me as well were the hostile, wary glances at the police station yesterday. In fact, men in general were pretty low on my list of priorities at the moment. Garrett could bite my ass.

“I don’t feel particularly inclined to give you anything, Swopes. Not even a minute.”

“How did you do it? Yesterday at the station. What did you say to him?”

“Please. Like you’d believe me if I told you.”

“Look,” he said, stalking forward, “you gotta admit, it’s all a little hard to swallow, but I’m trying.”

I jumped out of my seat, suddenly angry at the world, and faced Garrett head-on. “You know what I’m tired of?”

He thought a moment. “Unsightly cellulite?”

“People like those assholes at the station yesterday. People like Taft with their sideways glances and hushed whispers who turn their backs on me every time I walk into a room. People like you who treat me like shit until they figure out I really can do what I say I can do. And then suddenly I’m their best friend.”

“Taft? That cop?”

“And, and them!”

“Them?”

“All of them! Wanting me to tie up all the loose ends they left hanging when they bit it.”

“I would think your lawyers—”

“Not the lawyers,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “They have every reason to want their loose ends tied up. It’s these people who come to me with, ‘I didn’t tell Stella I loved her before I got sucked into that jet engine.’ ”

“Okay, slowly, and without making any sudden movements, hand over the coffee. I’ll go get you another cup, and we can start over.”

“What’s wrong with this cup?” I asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

“You need decaf.”

I pulled in a long deep breath and sat back behind my desk. Tantrums never got me anywhere fast. “Sorry. I’m working on a deadline.”

“This case?”

“No,” I said, thinking about Reyes in that hospital bed, connected to machines just to keep him alive. After several soothing sips of java, I calmed down. Well, kind of. My insides were still seething a bit. Taft was a freak. “So, that’s why you’re here? To find out what I said?”

“Pretty much. And to chew your ass out for being at the wrong place at the wrong time again.”

“Pffft. Stand in line.”

“That guy tackled you pretty hard. Do you look for ways to be maimed?”

“Not daily. Have you heard anything about the warehouse?”

“I’ve gotten just enough on it to make me think it’s not what we think it is.”

“Oh, well, good thing I wasn’t married to my beliefs.”

“I’ve heard talk that the good Father who owns it really is a good Father. He runs a mission for runaway kids downtown.”

“Kids?” I asked.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he asked, referring back to my deal with Julio Ontiveros.

“Nope. Since we have two kids involved in Mark Weir’s case, I’d say there’s a connection somewhere.”

“It’s possible. Can you give me a hint?”

A knock at the door saved me from once again having to say no. What was it with men and the word no anyway?

It was the side door Garrett came through. “Come on in, Dad,” I called. Then I turned to Garrett. “You know, we do have a front door.”

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug.

When Dad didn’t come in, I stood and walked to the door. “Dad, you can come in,” I said as I opened it. A split second later, my life flashed before my eyes, and I came to one important conclusion about it.

It was fun while it lasted.

Apparently, this really was Kill Charley Davidson Week. Or at least Horribly Maim Her. I considered the slick gun pointed at me from across the threshold confirmation. It would probably never get government recognition, though, destined to be underappreciated like Halloween or Thesaurus Day.

When I opened the door, Zeke Herschel, Rosie’s abusive husband, stood across from me with vengeance in his eyes. I glanced at the nickel-plated pistol clenched in his hand and felt my heartbeat falter, hesitate, then stumble awkwardly forward, tripping on the next beat, then the next, faster and faster until each one tumbled into the other like the drumroll of dominoes crashing together. Funny how time stands still when death is imminent. While I watched Herschel’s muscles contract through my periphery, his finger squeeze the trigger, I focused on his face. A cocky arrogance glittered in his colorless eyes.

I glanced down at the gun again, watched as the firing pin snapped forward; then my gaze traveled up and to my right … to him. Bad stood beside Zeke Herschel, glaring down at him, his hooded cloak mere inches from the man’s head, his silver blade glinting in the low light. Then he turned the full heat of his gaze on me. The effect was similar to the flash of a nuclear explosion. His anger, thick and palpable, hot and unforgiving, washed over me, stole my breath.

In the time it took to split an atom, Bad severed Herschel’s spinal cord. I knew this because he’d done it before. But at the same time, the tip of his silver blade sliced into my side. The moment I realized I had been nicked by Bad’s blade, Herschel flew back and crashed against the gate of the elevator so hard it rattled the building.

Then Bad turned to me, his robe and aura fusing together as one undulating mass, his blade tucked safely into the folds of the thick black matter. I realized then that I was falling. The world rushed to meet me at the exact moment arms locked around my waist, and I saw him for the first time beneath the hooded robe.

Reyes Alexander Farrow.

Dad handed me a cup of hot chocolate as we stood together outside the bar, leaning against his SUV. He had wrapped his jacket around me, as mine was still part of a crime-scene investigation. The jacket swallowed me. I was surprised, considering how thin my dad was. The arms hung to my knees. With infinite care, Dad rolled up the sleeves one at a time, relocating the cup in the opposite hand when he switched.

The elevator came to a creaking halt inside the bar, and I knew the EMTs were bringing Herschel out. I waited, my breaths shallow, as they wheeled him inside the ambulance and closed the doors. This was the same man who hit me in the bar. The same man who beat his wife into submission on a regular basis. The same man who pulled a gun on me with pure hatred in his eyes and violence in his heart. He must have figured out his wife had left his sorry ass, put two and two together, and came after me wanting revenge. Possibly even information.