Eleventh Grave in Moonlight Read online

The moment he said kid, dread started its slow ascent up my spine like a funeral march. I had to see for myself what would upset Angel so much. “Sweetheart, where is Uncle Bob?”

  “What?” He tried to gather himself. “No, not an IHOP. It’s like a breakfast place with a yellow sign. It has a sun coming up in the corner.”

  “Okay, I think I know which one you mean.” I slammed a quick gulp of coffee, picked up my bag, and tossed a couple dollars onto the table. “Off Tramway, right?”

  He nodded and I turned to Mr. Foster. “I am so sorry, Mr. Foster, but duty calls. I can drop by later, if that’s okay.”

  “Of course.” He refolded his memo pad and stuffed it inside the pocket again. “I hope everything is okay.”

  “Yeah, me, too.”

  Unfortunately, mass shootings rarely meant everything was okay.

  9

  Everyone complains about the weather, but no one wants to sacrifice a virgin to change it.

  —TRUE FACT

  Although my meeting with Mr. Foster didn’t yield much in the way of information, I did get one tidbit for certain: Mr. Foster could definitely see, even if just barely, into the celestial plane. I caught him glancing toward Angel twice, and both times it had been when Angel had moved quickly. If what he could see was anything like my friend Pari, he may have seen Angel’s essence in the form of a grayish mist. Just like in the movies. Then again, he could be like Amber’s main squeeze, Quentin. Thanks to a tragic demonic possession, that kid could see the departed as clearly as I could.

  I hauled butt back across town to Sunny Side Up on Central. Angel had seen a lot. He’d died over two decades ago. His reaction to this crime scene, after everything he’d witnessed, made no sense. It had to be the kid. He’d said something about a kid, proof that underneath all his bravado sat a heart of gold.

  But he saw dead kids all the time. Maybe it was the shooting. Maybe it brought back memories of his own death, which was shooting related, as well, the hole in his chest surrounded by a feathering of dark crimson evidence. Evidence that he would wear every day for the rest of his existence as long as he stayed on this plane.

  Was that what set him off? I’d never given much thought to how Angel handled everything he saw. He’d been with me all through high school, college, and the Peace Corps. And he’d been investigating for me since I’d opened Davidson Investigations over three years ago. He seemed to take everything in stride, but clearly there was more than met the eye. I’d have to pencil in a sit-down as soon as I could.

  Until then, the crime scene was easy enough to spot. Flashing lights and yellow tape were never a good sign.

  I had to park at a hotel next to the café. Then I went in search of my favorite—and only—uncle. He stood behind an ambulance, speaking to an EMT. The emergency technician nodded, shook his hand, then climbed inside the van and took off, lights blazing and sirens blaring.

  Ubie turned and saw me standing with the spectators behind the tape. I was just about to wave him over when he stormed toward me.

  He scanned the area, then dragged me under the tape and marched me toward the café. “What are you doing here?”

  I could hardly tell him I had Angel watching his every move. Because then I would have to tell him why. I would have to tell him that the man who could be responsible for his death was still at large. I would have to tell him how we thwarted the first—and hopefully only—attempt. I would have to tell him he was slated for hell. And then I would have to tell him why. That I knew what he did for me. That I owed him. That I loved him beyond measure.

  “Charley Davidson, you are under arrest.”

  Or not. “You can’t arrest me just because you want to, Uncle Bob.”

  He stopped just inside the doors to the café and snapped his fingers at a nearby uniform. “Watch me.” He collected the officer’s handcuffs and turned me around, concern drawing his brows into a hard line. “You have the right to remain silent.”

  I stilled when I saw the inside of the café. Overturned chairs. Broken glass. And blood. So much blood. “What happened, Uncle Bob?”

  “Anything you say—”

  “The kid,” I said, remembering what Angel had said. I whirled to face him but kept my hands behind my back even though he’d only cuffed one wrist. “There was a kid. Is he okay? Did he get shot?”

  Ubie let out a long, exhausted sigh. “How did you know there was a kid involved?”

  “Spies. Uncle Bob, what happened?”

  The anger drained from his body, and a sadness crept in. He walked to a chair and lowered himself into it. “Just another day in the city.”

  I knelt beside him and put my cuffed hand on his knee. “Is the boy … is he okay?”

  After a long moment, he caved. “He will be. He was shot in the head and shoulder. The head wound was just a graze, and the shoulder will heal.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” I scanned the area again. A couple of uniforms eyed me, clearly wondering what I was doing at a crime scene as the CSS team scoured the place.

  “Mass shooting,” he said, taking in the scene again. “A homeless man came in and shot up the place. Killed two people. Injured five others.”

  “I’m sorry.” It seemed like such a lame thing to say, but I had nothing else. What did one say to such a senseless act? “Did they catch the shooter?”

  He shook his head. “There’s a search going on as we speak. He took off toward the interstate, but that’s the last anyone has seen of him.”

  Before he could say anything else, his phone rang. He stood, walked a few feet away, and answered it. I stood and followed him.

  “Where? Just the coat? Get a field investigator over there and check the area for cameras.” He hung up, then turned, surprised at first I stood right on his heels until it sank in who I was. Who I was explained a lot of my actions to those who knew me well.

  “Good news?” I asked.

  “Possibly. They found a coat that may have been the shooter’s three blocks over.”

  “That’s strange.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, if he was just some random homeless guy, why would he ditch his coat?”

  “To throw us off.”

  “But a homeless guy on a chilly day who probably only has the one coat to speak of?”

  Uncle Bob bent his head in thought as I took a closer look at the crime scene.

  “Who died?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Who died?”

  “A woman in her midthirties and an elderly man.”

  I nodded. Bit my bottom lip. Started to let the emotions of the spectators I’d felt earlier soak in. A couple felt off, but I chalked that up to reporter enthusiasm. Only a reporter would get excited at a fatal shooting. Especially if he were the first on the scene. So there was definitely one reporter present. So, then, why did I get a similar reaction from another spectator who had no press credentials or cameraman to speak of?

  “Who died first?”

  “We don’t know that yet. What are you thinking?”

  “Okay, who was shot first?”

  “According to a security feed and a couple of witnesses, the woman who died was shot first.”

  “Was the kid hers?”

  “Yes,” he said, fighting the urge to care on anything more than a professional level. He was usually pretty good at that. This one bothered him, though.

  “What is it, Uncle Bob?”

  “The kid. He jumped in front of his mother, trying to protect her.” Then he looked at me as though the puzzle pieces started falling into place in his mind. “The shooter shot the woman once. Then the boy jumped in front of her to protect her. The shooter…” He stalked to a hall that led to the offices in the back of the place. I followed.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing. Not yet. It’s just, it looked like the shooter tried to move the boy out of the way, but the shooter was blocking the camera’s angle, so it was hard to tell exactly what happened
.”

  We went into an office where another detective was viewing the security recording. He nodded at Ubie, then went back to his task.

  “Can you rewind it?” Uncle Bob asked him.

  He did, and we watched as the horrific event unfolded. I slammed my hands over my mouth as the woman was shot. When the boy lunged to protect her, my faith in humanity was completely restored. We may be a messed-up race, but there was still more good in the world than bad.

  The man struggled with the kid a few seconds, then gave up and shot, very carefully, through him. After that, the shooter opened fire randomly. Many of the employees and customers had already fled. Those who were left hid behind counters and under tables, but the shooter still managed to take down several of the more unfortunate, including an elderly man who used a cane. He couldn’t have run out if he’d tried.

  Then, just as the man was about to flee, he stopped over the woman. Pointed the gun at her head again. Nudged her with his foot.

  Satisfied, he fled the scene out the back door.

  I sank into a chair. Uncle Bob looked back at me. “What do you think, pumpkin? Her husband?”

  “Yes. Or ex-husband. He didn’t want to kill his son. Unless he had to. But he damned sure wanted his wife dead. Enough to kill others to get her there.”

  The other detective frowned at us. “You got all that from the video?”

  “He’s out front, watching,” I told Uncle Bob. “You’ll probably find a wig and fake beard in his car. And he’s been practicing, so he’ll appear distraught. Nothing would make him happier than the news crew capturing his anguish for all to see when you tell him his wife is dead.”

  Ubie nodded. “You don’t happen to have his name and Social Security number, do you?”

  I raised my arm. “You’re going to need these.”

  He shook his head. “You’re still under arrest.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t going to argue with him. Something was eating at him. Gnawing at him. And it definitely involved me. He had his reasons for wanting me to stay home. To stay safe. I could respect that even if I didn’t listen.

  He pressed his mouth together, then summoned the officer to remove the cuffs. “You want to be a part of this?” The arrest. Did I want to be a part of the arrest.

  “You know what? I think I’ll let you handle this one.”

  “Okay.”

  I stood and hugged him. Hard. For a long time. At least I didn’t have a family member stage a fake mass shooting to murder me. My family may have put the fun in dysfunctional, but we were rarely homicidal.

  When I walked back to Misery, I passed the shooter. I stopped and took a step back. It was so obvious now. His emotions were all wrong. I wanted to look him in the eye. To let him know that we knew what he’d done. I couldn’t help the sneer on my face.

  He was tall and beefy with a protruding beer belly that screamed heart attack.

  “What?” he asked, eyeing me curiously. Then he realized I might be somebody important. His expression changed to one of concern. Desperation. “My wife. I think—I think she was in there.”

  I stepped closer and stared up at him. “Ya think?”

  I turned back to Uncle Bob, and gestured toward the man. “This is him.”

  Not that I’d needed to. He’d been standing behind me the whole time, so the suspect would have been a little hard to miss.

  He nodded. “Thanks, pumpkin.”

  The man began his efforts anew. “Please, I just want to know about my wife. She should have been home by now.”

  He truly thought Uncle Bob was going to tell him his wife had been fatally shot in a random, senseless attack. And he was good. His expressions were spot-on. Worry. Doubt. Agony. I got the feeling he even had a bit of denial up his sleeve for good measure.

  But when Ubie pushed him against a cruiser and ordered an officer to take him into custody until they could get a warrant for his house and car, the guy’s well-rehearsed demeanor crumbled.

  “What—? What’s going on? I’m just here about my wife.” He tried to keep up the act, but the realization that he was facing a life behind bars proved a bit unnerving. Panic had seized his lungs. When the officer went to cuff him, he started to fight.

  It took three officers to restrain him and get him into the cruiser.

  Unable to stand the scumbag’s presence any longer, I sought out Misery. Climbed inside her. Sat for a long time.

  I wanted to take over this world. To run it differently from Jehovah. He gave humans autonomy, the freedom to choose to do good or bad. But what would I do differently? Heal all disease? Quell all violence? Erase all remnants of racism?

  “Jehovah has a point,” I said to the angel standing outside my passenger’s door, looking in. “To control the human race, even a little … that can’t be the answer. Where would it end? When people are so healthy they’re living for hundreds of years? And still procreating until the world is so overpopulated we’ll have to pool our resources and find another world to live on? And then what?” I raised my brows in question. “Life is a cycle. I understand that. And I get it. He can step in when asked. When prayed to. That was part of the deal.”

  The angel tilted his head as he listened to me rant.

  “But it’s those few humans that … that ruin it for the rest of us, you know? I mean, holy hell, why not just get divorced? And then there’s the accidents. The tragic accidents that no one saw coming. They somehow seem the most unfair of all. When they are no one’s fault. They just happen for no explainable reason.” I glared at the celestial being. “Well, I want an explanation. What about Curren? What did he do?”

  I had no idea why I was suddenly venting to an angel. I’d seen so much. Faced so much. Maybe it was the essence of that sweet boy crossing through me, a boy who was born to such worthy parents, such a loving family, to then be faced with the reality that not all parents were created equal. Not all of them were such a high caliber. Some, instead, would shoot through their own child to rid themselves of a nuisance. And still others would rid themselves of the child altogether. Or commit unspeakable acts. Or just ignore their offspring, pretending she didn’t exist.

  “You know what?” I asked the angel. “I’m with Angel. I quit, too.”

  He continued to stare, ambivalent.

  The fury that had been pooling like a bucket of gasoline in my stomach ignited. The atrocious things people did to one another sickened me. He shot through his own child to kill his wife. When I couldn’t even hold mine, couldn’t even see her without risking her life, he shot his.

  I swiped angrily at the tears that refused to be squelched and glared at the celestial being. He was here. On this plane. And he’d done nothing. A powerful, radiant being had just stood by and let that man hurt all those people.

  This was where Jehovah and I parted ways. He could have done something. He could have stopped it.

  I could have stopped it.

  When the world began to shake around me, I closed my eyes. Filled my lungs. Tried to tamp down the rage that churned inside me. I had to slow my heart. To soothe the raw emotion that threatened to rip me apart.

  Then, despite squeezing my lids shut, my fingers, white-knuckled and gripping the steering wheel, came into focus. I blinked, confused when the world tilted and began to spin. Then realization sank in. My molecules were separating.

  I bit down.

  Fought for control.

  Lost.

  Before I knew what was happening, I plunged into the celestial realm, the sensation similar to being tossed from a sauna into a frozen lake. The sudden change in temperature, like scalding ice, like blistering freezer burn, sent shock waves rocketing through my nervous system. Winds whipped around me, and I struggled to gather the cells in my body, to bring them back to the fold, but they scattered in the tempest hidden behind the veil of our world.

  I doubled over, curled my hands into fists, and said quietly, “Stop.”

  A shift in reality shuddered through me. Time
had slipped, yes, but I’d been uprooted. The ground beneath me was wet. The interior of Misery had morphed into trees and bushes and grass, and I began to realize I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, unless Kansas was a thick, emerald green with icy-crisp air and an ocean crashing against rocks nearby.

  Probably not.

  * * *

  I stood and turned in circles, trying to get my bearings. Trees. Grasslands. Trees. Grasslands. The terrain, stunning and fierce, was the polar opposite of New Mexico.

  Last time my temper got the best of me, I ended up in upstate New York, but the crashing waves convinced me I was not in New York, either. I’d learned to dematerialize, but I still had trouble controlling—as in no control at all—where I ended up. So, God only knew. Well, God and my old friend GPS.

  I patted my skirt pockets and prayed, but my phone was still in Misery with my bag. And my jacket. And my ID.

  A sweaty kind of panic set in. If I died here, no one would know who I was. They’d never find my body. And if they did, they would have no way to identify it. Unless they spotted the tiny tattoo Pari had given me on my wrist that said in bold script MRS. REYES FARROW. That might give them a clue.

  Still.

  I had to get a handle on this shit. But first, I had to get home.

  I could try to dematerialize and find my way back, but knowing my luck, I’d end up in a terrorist training camp. Or a men’s prison. Or a feminine hygiene commercial.

  Left with little choice, I began walking.

  On the bright side, no angels stalking me.

  On the dark side …

  No, I was not going to succumb to the dark side.

  I repeated that mantra and channeled my inner Luke Skywalker as I walked for what seemed like hours. The landscape was like nothing I’d ever seen. Not in real life. It was rocky and grassy and woodsy and smelled fresh, like dirt and salt and ozone. I followed the sound of the ocean and came to a stunning cliff that dropped at least a hundred feet, white waves crashing against sharp, jutting rocks below. Then I turned right. It seemed like the right thing to do.

  It was all so breathtaking, but I had places to view and people to do. I didn’t have time to roam about, searching for signs of life.