The Dirt on Ninth Grave Page 8

  “She could have destroyed the entire block—” the male voice I didn’t recognize said.

  “She could have destroyed the entire planet,” Reyes countered.

  “—but she didn’t,” the other one continued. Osh, perhaps? “This doesn’t change anything. We stick to the plan.”

  Someone else spoke then. Another male, but younger. Hispanic. “Aye, dios mío.” Angel. He was the first departed I’d actually talked to after Day One, and I only talked to him because he wouldn’t leave me alone until I did. I was in denial at the time, and pretending he didn’t exist kept me in my happy place. But he harped on and on about how he could give me the best night of my life and swearing that once I went cold, sex never got old.

  Seriously. He was thirteen. He told me. I told him I had a really strong gag reflex. He pretended to be offended but continued to hit on me every chance he got. I wondered if exorcists charged by the hour. If I saved up my tips …

  “You two are like cheerleaders,” he said, “fighting over the quarterback.”

  There was a silence that I suspected was filled with glares before Angel continued.

  “Mira, I get it. You’re afraid she’ll ascend. Scared she’ll come to her senses and leave your ass.”

  I heard a scuffle, then a tight “What is your point?” from Reyes.

  When Angel spoke again, his voice was slightly higher than before. “You don’t get it, pendejo. Maybe she just wants to be normal for a little while.”

  Another pause.

  Angel coughed and Reyes asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe, I don’t know … Maybe she just needs a break from all the bullshit. It’s controlled her life since the day she born.”

  “Kid has a point,” Osh may or may not have said. Still wasn’t sure.

  “Fuckin’ A, I have a point. A razor-sharp one, cabrón.”

  Overall, this was a really unusual dream. Most of my dreams were filled with utter nonsense and questions like what color scythe would go best with my sweater. No idea. But this one had no pictures. Just darkness. And voices. And a hand on my arm. But it wasn’t until I felt the tongue slide up my face that realization sank in.

  I’d fainted! My lids flew open, and humiliation surged through me. I was such a dorknado. Not only had I fainted, I’d done it in the arms of Reyes Farrow. I groaned and slapped a hand over my eyes. No telling what he thought of me now.

  Artemis, the departed Rottweiler I’d met after waking up in the alley, whined and scooched closer, almost pushing me off the cot. I gave her a quick hug, then replaced my hand.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” a male voice said, but it was not a voice I particularly wanted to hear.

  Artemis growled. I only knew her name because her collar had a tag on it, but she’d stuck with me through thick and thin. Mostly thin. She also had an affinity for showers, but only while I was taking one, and cooking, but only while I was in the kitchen. She could materialize anywhere, including on the countertop where I prepared food, which wasn’t as bad as it sounded. She was departed, after all. How germy could she be?

  I pried open my lids one at a time and focused through my fingers. Officer Ian Jeffries sat on the cot beside me in his police uniform, his blond hair cut military short, his jaw freshly shaven.

  He’d been the responding officer that first night when I woke up in the alley and walked into the café with exactly zero memories. Since then, he’d taken it upon himself to check up on me almost daily. Sometimes several times a day.

  He was sweet for the most part and very nice looking, but I got a strange vibe off him, a possessiveness, as though he felt he had dibs on me because he’d helped me that first night. He’d gone with me to the hospital and stuck around when a detective questioned me. When Dixie showed up and offered me a place to stay and a job until I got my head screwed back on straight—her words—he’d insisted on driving me back to the café, to what would become my accommodations for the next two weeks.

  I glanced around. I’d lived in this storeroom until I found an apartment. Thankfully, Dixie had connections and convinced my current landlord I was a good egg—again, her words—and that he should rent to me despite my lack of credit history. Or any history, for that matter.

  I was hoping to see Reyes and whomever he’d been arguing with. Instead, I got Ian. I tried not to get rankled by his use of the too-familiar colloquialism. His sweetheart I was not, but rankled wasn’t my best look.

  “I heard you took quite a spill.” He drew tiny circles on my arm with his thumb. Tiny, possessive circles that sent shivers lacing up my spine. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for everything he’d done, but he was a cop. Responding to a call. Wasn’t that, like, his job?

  I lowered my hand. “I barely remember what happened,” I croaked. Literally. Suddenly thankful Reyes wasn’t within earshot.

  And I’d lied. I remembered everything about Ana and her life, but it was just too much to process at the moment. Too impossible. Too unbelievable.

  “I’m just glad you’re okay. I’ll drive you home when you’re ready.”

  I eased onto my elbows as an excuse to get his hand off me. Artemis took that as her cue to dive-bomb me. Air whooshed out of my lungs, then again when she used my stomach as a launch pad to bigger and better things, disappearing into the otherworld.

  “That’s okay,” I said, my voice tight as I fought a groan of agony. “I still have some work to do.”

  He chuckled. “I think Dixie will let you off this once.”

  I didn’t want to tell him about the other work I needed to get to that had nothing to do with Dixie or the café.

  Fortunately, Cookie came in with a bottle of water and a washcloth.

  “You’re awake,” she said, relief evident as though she let out a breath she’d been holding.

  “That I am.”

  She gave Ian a harsh glare and shooed him out. “She needs rest,” she said, and while I didn’t, I was not about to argue.

  The minute she waved the washcloth, encouraging him to leave, a spike of anger shot out of him. It made my own ire rise in reflex.

  “I’m fine, Ian.”

  “I’ll wait for you out here.”

  “She already has a ride,” Cookie said. She seriously didn’t like the guy. It cracked me up.

  But another spike of anger set me on edge, and this time I was the one who leveled a heated glare on him. He was about to argue when he got a call on the handheld at his shoulder. He gave me a curt nod, then left.

  “That man,” Cookie said as she pulled up a box and sat down beside me. She arranged the cloth on my head. It felt heavenly. Next, she forced the water bottle into my hand and watched with toes tapping until I downed at least half.

  “You’re dehydrated,” she said, and she was right. I seriously needed to cut back to ten cups of coffee a day.

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “It’s almost four thirty.”

  I bolted upright. “I’ve been out for hours.”

  She patted my shoulder, then took my hand into hers. “We were going to call an ambulance—”

  “No!” I said with more aggression than I meant. I took another sip of water and forced myself to calm down. “No, it’s all good. Thanks for that. I have enough bills to last me a lifetime.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, honey.”

  Clearly she hadn’t seen the paper mountain growing in my apartment.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  To my surprise, I wanted to tell her. I wanted to trust her, but I couldn’t be certain she wouldn’t try to have me committed.

  And how could I explain the things I saw? The things I experienced? Truth was, even though I’d only known her for a month, I loved Cookie. A lot. A really, really lot. I didn’t want to taint her opinion of me. I didn’t want her to look at me with anything other than admiration. Or befuddlement, depending.

  “I’m fine. I just got light-headed.”

  “Good. But are
you okay okay? With everything? We haven’t really talked about your … situation in a while. Maybe, you know, the stress—?”

  Ah. Was I okay with being the local amnesia chick? “I think I’m okay. I mean, I look at everyone who walks into the café to see if there’s any resemblance, but I’m dealing with it.”

  She nodded, her sympathy genuine. “Have you thought about therapy?”

  “Yes, I have. And as soon as I sell that kidney I listed on eBay, I’ll be able to afford it.”

  “They have programs.”

  “Right? Those things are great. I watched a zombie program last night, and tonight I’m going to watch this one about a blond chick who controls dragons. And there’s this sexy short guy who’s drunk all the time.”

  “Not those kinds of programs.” She admonished me with a withering stare. It almost worked. “There are clinics.”

  I scooted back and leaned against the wall. I didn’t know much, but I did know if I told a counselor about my interactions with dead people, she’d lock me up and throw away the access code. I just wasn’t ready for a life of padded rooms and pudding.

  “I don’t think therapy is the answer.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” She shifted excitedly. “You need hypnosis.”

  I blinked. Squinted. Crinkled my brows.

  “Think about it. You could learn about your current life and your past ones.”

  “There is that.”

  “I’m pretty sure I was Cleopatra in a past life.”

  She was serious. I tried not to giggle.

  “Or a vacuum cleaner salesman. My arches fell.”

  I didn’t ask. “I’m not sure I’m ready for a padded cell.” Pudding, however …

  “No way. What could you possibly say that would convince a therapist you needed to be committed?”

  If she only knew.

  “No, really,” she continued. “You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

  I rose, and she helped me stand. After I knew for certain I wasn’t going to snog the linoleum again, I said, “Can I ask you something instead?”

  “Of course!” She followed me out.

  The café was glaringly bright compared to the storeroom. Reyes was gone, as were most of our customers. The dinner crowd wouldn’t start showing up for another hour. And thankfully Ian was gone, too. One less headache I had to deal with.

  I called out to Frazier, one of the third-shift cooks, and ordered two sandwiches to go. Cookie had grown used to my order and didn’t question it. The sun loomed low across the cloudy sky in preparation for the inevitable sunset, and the air outside looked frozen. My walk home was going to suck.

  I turned back to Cookie. Now was as good a time as any to ask her about something that had been niggling at me, but I had to surprise her. To get her true reaction before she tried to cover it up.

  I grabbed a takeout bag and opened it while slipping in a casual “Who’s Charley?”

  Cookie gaped at me a minute as I read her every reaction.

  When she didn’t say anything, I decided to explain. “You’ve called me Charley at least six times lately.”

  At first, I thought she might actually know me, but Charley didn’t fit any better than any other name I’d tried. Not to mention the fact that I looked nothing like a Charley.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said. “That just slips out occasionally because it’s what I call Robert at home. I’m just so used to saying it.”

  That was a bald-faced lie. And the mystery deepened. “You call your husband Charley?”

  “Yes.” She nodded for emphasis. “Yes, I do. Because that’s his name. Charles Robert Davidson.” She tossed the towel she’d been carrying and took off her apron. “Everybody back home calls him Charley. So I still call him that most of the time.”

  “I thought you said everybody back home called him Bob.”

  She blinked. Did her darnedest to recover. “Yes, they did. They called him Charley … Bob.”

  I coughed to keep a giggle from erupting. “Charley Bob?”

  “Charley Bob.”

  The second she said it, Bobert walked in, his timing impeccable.

  A rush of sheer panic washed over Cookie, but she recovered and waved to him a little too enthusiastically. “Hey, Charley Bob!”

  He slowed, a frown creasing his brows as he got closer. “Hey, Cookie Butt.”

  She laughed out loud and waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not his favorite nickname. But I have to tease him every once in a while to remind him of his past.”

  He stepped closer and gave her a quick squeeze before settling his attention on me. “Are you okay, pumpkin?”

  People asked me that so often. “I’m good,” I said as he pulled me into a hug. I breathed in the scent of his drugstore cologne and the barest hint of a cheap cigar. He smelled wonderful.

  It was odd how when Cookie and Bobert called me things like sweetheart and pumpkin, I wanted to drown in their embraces. But when Ian did the very same thing, my skin crawled. Clearly my skin was trying to tell me something. Either that or I was a meth kingpin and had a natural aversion to cops. I didn’t think so, though. I had fantastic teeth.

  Cookie chuckled again. For no reason. “I was just telling Janey that your nickname back home was Charley Bob and that I call you Charley sometimes. At home. When we’re alone.”

  He set me at arm’s length. “Ah.”

  “So, can I call you Charley Bob?” I asked, ever so hopeful.

  “No.”

  He sat in a booth close to the station. Cookie scooted in next to him and I sat across from them, completely uninvited. ’Cause that’s how I roll.

  “Okay, I have to be honest. I do this thing and—” I wasn’t sure how to tell them, so I decided to skip the hows and get right down to the whats. “I can tell when someone isn’t being completely forthcoming. And I know that your name is not really Charley Bob. Thank God, because damn.”

  Totally busted, Cookie wrapped an arm in Bobert’s and sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to bring it up. It’s very painful.”

  Okay, she wasn’t lying that time.

  “It’s just … I recently lost my best friend and her name was Charley and I keep slipping and calling you Charley and it’s just wrong. I—I apologize.”

  Bobert covered her hand with his and squeezed.

  I cringed and prayed for a freak hurricane to shatter the glass and cut me into tiny pieces. “Cookie, I am so, so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, hurrying to console me.

  “No, it’s not. Why didn’t you tell me? What happened?”

  After a quick glance at her husband, she said, “We don’t really know what happened. We lost her a few weeks back.”

  “She died?”

  “No, she just … vanished. But we’re hoping she finds her way back to us.”

  Every word she said was the truth, and I felt like dog excrement after a jogger stepped on it and ground it into the dirt. I sucked ass.

  The bell dinged. Frazier had finished my sandwiches, and I had work to do.

  “Cook, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Janey,” she said, taking my hand into both of hers, “don’t you dare feel bad. I should have told you.”

  “No. It was none of my business. I shouldn’t have forced it out of you.”

  “We’ll give you a ride home, pumpkin,” Bobert said.

  A sadness had settled over both of them, and suddenly my dog-excrement analogy seemed too light-hearted.

  “That’s okay. I have to do a couple more things before I leave.”

  Bobert’s interest was piqued. “You aren’t going to do what you said you wouldn’t, right?”

  “No way. Speaking of which, did you find anything out?”

  “I’m meeting with a guy tonight. He’s with the local FBI.”

  The FBI? Wow.

  “You just have to stay out of trouble until then, capisce?”

  “Got it. If there’s anything I c
an do, it’s stay out of trouble.”

  I hurried to get the sandwiches, paid for them with my tip money, then headed out the front door and straight toward trouble.

  * * *

  Mr. Vandenberg’s door was locked, and the sign had been turned to CLOSED a few minutes earlier than he normally quit for the day. I cupped my hand and peered in the glass door. The store was empty, and all the lights were out. Alarm and a sickening sense of dread rose inside me. What if they were finished with him? What if they didn’t need him or his family anymore? Would they kill them?

  I had no choice. I was going to have to bring Ian into this. To tell him what was going on. He might not believe the whys or hows, but he would have to report it to his superior officers. I’d just drive home ad nauseam the fact that they could not go rushing in without knowing the whereabouts of Mr. V’s family first. If they were being held captive and someone tipped off their captors …

  I shuddered with the thought and turned my immediate attention to the dry-cleaning business next door—and grew more confused than ever. If the men in Mr. V’s shop were tunneling that direction, maybe it had nothing to do with the business. Maybe there was hidden treasure under the shop. It was an antiques place, after all. It could have pirate loot underneath it. Because why on planet Earth would anyone dig a tunnel into a dry-cleaning business? What could they possibly hope to gain? A dinner jacket? A prom dress, maybe? Window treatments?

  I decided to go deep. I’d pose as a customer and check it out. Get a feel for the place.

  By the time I walked the fifteen feet to the store entrance, I was already shivering. The jacket I had, the only one I owned, was an old army jacket, and while it was plenty warm most days, today was not most days. The wind crept through the pores of the fabric and sliced into me like razor blades, cutting the marrow of my bones. The wet air hung thickly, and the threat of a freezing rain loomed close by.

  I’d have to hurry if I planned on making it home before I froze to death, but more importantly, in time to borrow Mable’s car. She was my neighbor, and she hadn’t had an actual license in over a decade, but she’d kept her husband’s car to drive to church twice a week. Unfortunately, she went to bed early, and once that woman was asleep, there was no waking her up.