Downpour (27 page)

I nodded, feeling my knees wobble from adrenaline burnout. I wondered for a moment where he’d gotten the scar. He didn’t strike me as a scrapper or a bad boy. He had a calm blue energy currently streaked with red that made me think he was the sort of solid, quiet guy everyone liked, until they were on the wrong end of his resolve.

“Why would they take the list?”

“Because his or her name’s on it?” I suggested.

“Just one of many. Why would he or we make a connection?”

“I don’t know. Strother must have had notes.... Maybe he knew something else that fit one of the names. This is a local problem, so I’d assume local knowledge is the key.”

Faith nodded thoughtfully. “Could be. We’ll look into it. You know, you can go now, if you like.”

“I can? I thought you wanted to hold me. . . .” I knew I sounded like an idiot, but I’d assumed they suspected me—it was my hotel room, after all.

“Nah, you’re clear. Doc says the time of death was about when you were up on the mountain with Tripp. I suppose if you were some clever criminal from one of those cop shows, you might have figured out how to make a phone call from the Log Cabin Resort while you were lying in wait for Alan, but this ain’t a cop show and you couldn’t have been sitting in Tripp’s car at the same time you were knocking Alan’s head in. You’re free to go.”

I blinked at him.

“Really. No bull,” he added. “I’ve got your numbers. I’ll call you to answer some questions, but not tonight.”

“Oh. Well, then . . . could I have my suitcase?”

He thought about it, then had one of the guys in the room bring it to the door. He let me take a change of clothes out of the bag, watching the whole time and making a note of what I took. It was a little annoying, but it gave me a chance to crouch down by the door and look up into the room so I could see the desk. I was glad I’d put the laptop into the back of my truck that morning, since I wouldn’t have to wait for it to be released from evidence, but it wasn’t the only thing that had been on the desk: The license plate from Steven Leung’s Subaru that I’d found in the spell circle beside his house had been there, too. Now it was gone. I didn’t think Housekeeping had tidied it up, so unless the cops found it in Strother’s coat, I would bet the murderer had it now.

I didn’t mention the missing license plate. I didn’t want to explain how I’d gotten it in the first place, and I thought it might be just what the sheriff’s office would need when the time came to play pin the tail on the killer.

Do I need to say mine wasn’t a restful sleep that night? Even after finding another hotel, I’d slept badly because I’d known I couldn’t sleep anywhere near the activity—paranormal and otherwise—of a violent crime scene. I wondered what connection Strother had made, if any, that had brought the killer down on him and why he or she hadn’t resorted to magic this time. Lack of preparation? Too far from the lake? Whatever it was, it looked to me as if the killer had panicked and acted on impulse, not with the care used in Leung’s case. Strother or I had done something to frighten someone.

I also couldn’t help wondering if Willow was involved in Strother’s death. She’d known his first name and seemed surprised or frightened to hear he was outside the greenhouse. Could she have sent Jin, not to help me, but to make sure I stayed out of the way while she went after Strother? What would she have wanted to kill Strother over now rather than days or years ago? Of course, there was also her sister, Jewel, and her overly protective husband to consider, as well as everyone else whose name might turn up on Strother’s list.

Was the list the key? Maybe the killer had just taken it on general principle. Maybe it was the license plate he or she had been after and Strother’s appearance at the scene had just been a coincidence. Maybe Strother had caught the killer stealing the plate . . . but no . . . the ghost would have said so. Strother’s lingering spirit hadn’t known what had happened and he’d been hit from behind, so I’d have to believe Strother hadn’t seen death coming. That, at least, was something to be grateful for.

I’d liked Strother and I felt angry at whoever had smashed in his skull. It looked as if the killer had the power to hide a car after the fact but couldn’t kill victims from a distance. He or she had to—or liked to—kill up close. Or maybe both the murders had been impulsive, without time to plan ahead and cast a spell. Could someone actually cast a spell that would kill someone else at a distance? Would the killer have cleaned up after the death of Strother if there’d been more time? I didn’t know, but the questions tumbled around in my head all night and left me sandy-eyed and tired in the morning.

I had to waste a portion of my morning buying some clothes, since I was pretty sure I wouldn’t get my suitcase back soon, and shop for something to placate a greedy demon, too. Luckily, be it off-season or not, Port Angeles is a tourist town and I was able to find a couple of high-end shops near the ferry dock and the fancier hotels that had a few trinkets I thought might please him. I did wonder if a demon really needed a Swiss watch, but perhaps it would dazzle him into flatout telling me who’d killed Strother. Much as I thought it necessary to solve the bigger problem of the lake eventually, at the moment, I was still angry enough to put that aside if I had the chance to grab the person who’d set Steven Leung’s car on fire and smashed in Alan Strother’s head.

Eventually I drove to the tollbooth outside the Sol Duc Hot Springs resort with a watch that cost more than my first car tucked into the pocket of my new coat—the old one, still pretty damp, was hanging up in the back of the Rover, making the whole interior smell of wet sheep. So much had happened the previous day, it seemed like more time should have elapsed since I was last at the tollbooth looking for Ridenour, but it was only a little more than twenty-four hours. It was less than that since I’d seen Strother alive for the last time on the top of Pyramid Mountain.

I wasn’t in a spectacular mood when I arrived and Jin, dressed in a suit of dark gold silk with a brown stripe, only tempted my temper to flare by saying, “You’re late.”

I pulled my red scarf tight around my neck and swung toward him, pushing the loose strands and pools of magic outward with a vicious thought that flashed up white and bowled the demon onto his back. “Don’t screw with me,” I warned him. “I told you to meet me here. I didn’t say when.”

Jin picked himself up out of the icy bracken and brushed himself off with finicky little flips of his hands. He glanced at me warily in the normal, but I could see the demon face glowering with indignation. I caught my ire and clamped it back down before I could get myself into real trouble. The flash-bang trick was about the only one I had in my arsenal at the moment and I didn’t want him to catch on.

I sighed as if disgusted. “I’m sorry,” I said with clear insincerity. “I had a bad night.”

He didn’t look mollified, but I noticed he didn’t say anything about Strother. Did he not know? I wondered as the sound in the Grey escalated to a warped chorus of untuned organ pipes and wailing musical saws. The lines that reached from the lake to the springs coruscated as if someone had turned up the wattage on an array of neon tubes. The ley weaver seemed to have noticed I’d borrowed some of his power. I wondered how long I had before he—or it—showed up.

“Do you know about Alan Strother?” I asked.

“The sheriff’s man? I know a few things.”

“Do you know where he is right now, or where he was last night?”

Jin looked truly puzzled. “No. Why do you care?”

“Because I suspect your . . . friend, Willow, will care that he’s in the morgue—or what passes for one around here—until his body can be shipped to Seattle for investigation.”

Jin frowned. “He . . . is dead?”

“Yes. He was murdered last night in my hotel room.”

He blinked at me, leaned in, and sniffed me. Then he settled back onto his heels. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No—and here’s the juicy bit you won’t be hearing from anyone else—he was bludgeoned to death while I was going to retrieve my truck here last night. Since you seemed genuinely surprised to hear it, I assume you didn’t kill him.”

He shook his head and looked mournful on both faces. “No, I did not. I wouldn’t. Willow was . . . fond of him. She would be angry if I had killed him.”

It didn’t take Willow off the hook since many a fond heart has been moved to murder the object of its affection, but it did put a different light on her interest in him at the greenhouse. Though that, in turn, left me wondering why Strother had shot at her . . . if he had actually been shooting at
her
. His aim had been improbably high and wide....

The noise in the grid began to rise and play across my bones in uncomfortable disharmonies as the light and energy flickered.

“We’ve attracted the ley weaver’s attention. But we’re safe up here. He won’t come out to the road where he might be seen,” Jin said. He gave me a cringing glance, as if he was afraid I’d lose my temper with him again. “Did you . . . bring me . . . something?”

He was like a kid who wanted his birthday present but felt embarrassed to ask. Maybe that was the truth of it: He was a child in demon terms, not old enough to have much power and a little naive about how the rest of the world worked outside his playground. It would certainly explain his odd behavior a bit.

“Oh,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “I did bring you a present.”

I held out the box and Jin took it with care. I was surprised he hadn’t snatched it, but if he was truly wary of me now, I guessed that wouldn’t do. He looked at the box, turning it over a few times and reading the labels. He opened the white outer box and pulled out the black leather-covered inner box. He looked at the brand name stamped in gold on the top. Then he glanced at me. “Is it really?”

I just nodded.

He grinned and ripped the box open, hooking out the watch inside with one curved claw and holding it up to his face. He cooed at it, and I wish I were exaggerating, but there’s no other word for the sound he made as he looked at the slim automatic watch and stroked the eighteen-karat-gold case with his fingertip. For a moment I’d been tempted by a flashier Rolex with diamonds and a case so heavy you could crack crabs with it. But I’d remembered the elegant lines of the defunct black suit and thought a lower bling factor and a more rarefied name would be better. Score one for me.

Strange noises, like a tarantula walking on a piano’s strings, played across the grid and moved closer to us while Jin strapped on his new watch. Then he snapped out his well-adorned hand and snatched me forward, onto the trail down to the resort. “We have to meet him before he can sneak up on us.”

“You can’t call that sneaking,” I gasped, running behind his remarkable speed down the road. “He sounds like a whole convoy on the move.”

“You can hear that?”

“Better than you.”

Jin giggled and dragged me onward for a few dozen yards before he stopped with a jerk and shoved me forward. “You have to go without me. He won’t like you if he thinks we’re together. Just go down the road and when the fire starts, keep going. Follow the lights.”

I stumbled forward on my own and caught my breath, coughing on the memory of smoke. I let the mist-world rush in on me—not that it was giving me much choice. Ahead of me a silvery plane cut across the Grey: a single, shimmering temporacline from which the noise and heat rose. Surely Ridenour hadn’t come down here before? And to what was Jin sending me?

I stepped into the temporacline and the world opened out into a vista of trees through which the light of a massive fire flickered. I walked forward into the slab of memory, down the road on which women in long, straight dresses and men in white trousers and striped jackets, all looking as though they predated the First World War, passed by me. The people—memories of people—ran from the flickering light, calling out in fear as they went toward the highway. I walked on toward the firelight until the trees opened up to expose a compound of wooden buildings engulfed in flame, facing a long, steaming body of water. The buildings had been elegant before they caught fire and, as I watched the loop of time replay itself, some of the smaller ones collapsed, sending sparks into the shivering air. The roaring of the flames was accompanied by the eerie, warped sound of an organ playing something funereal and grim while a handful of people tried to extinguish the flames with buckets of water. They were no match for the fire, and the inferno blazed while the organ played on.

There was a whiff of sulfur in the air that wasn’t just a memory; nor was the smell of evergreens and soil that hadn’t frozen over but churned with some unnatural life just below the surface. Stripes of colored light shot through the scene—power lines drawn from the grid—veering into the trees to my left. Bright orbs and streamers of color danced along the lines, heading deeper into the trees. I followed them away from the memory of the burning resort and into the rain forest.

Ahead, through the mist both real and not, I could see something rising and shining through the gloom. Echoing the mournful organ, a strange atonal song came from the brightness ahead, and I felt a frisson of cold fear run along my spine. Something was moving in the bracken nearby, something low to the ground and many-legged.

I stepped through a screen of low-hanging branches, feeling a curious buzzing in my blood as I crossed out of the temporacline and into a huge bubble of Grey separated from the rest. The cacophony I’d heard off and on near the hot springs shifted suddenly into tune and swelled, the harmonies of grid and ghost voices roaring in a chorus of sound that slammed me to my knees.

Where my hands and legs hit the ground, the mist and colored light rippled, adding a chime of silver bells to the uncanny choir and a wash of blue and gold lights to the weird construction ahead. Something scurried up to me and I raised my head. Then I recoiled from the thing that had paused beside me, making the song of the place waver and slide into a minor key as I stared in horror at what appeared to be a disembodied hand the size of a rottweiler with a sphere for a head where the stump of the wrist ended. The palm and back were a dark green color, fleshy, thick, and callused like the hand of a manual laborer, but the head was a round glob with only a pair of jabbed-in pits for eyes, as if they’d been made with the tip of a massive pencil; yet they moved together as if the thing were looking me over. The fingers were skeletally thin, knobby, and blackened, with short, pointed nails and rough skin covered in tiny hooks where the pads of fingertips should have been. It scuttled around me like a lopsided spider. The smell of sulfur and brackish water clung to the hand-spider-thing as it inspected me.