Harmony Black (18 page)

THIRTY

“
You’re still awake,” Jessie whispered in the dark.

To my left, numbers hovered on the digital clock on the nightstand between our beds—1:32 in deep crimson.

“How can you tell?”

“Can hear you breathing,” she said. “People breathe differently when they’re asleep. Different cadence. You smell worried, too.”

“You can’t smell worry.”

“My senses are a little sharper than most people’s,” she said.

“I just keep going over the case in my head. It doesn’t play.”

Jessie rolled over in bed and propped herself up on her arm, facing me.

“What doesn’t?”

“Fontaine and Nyx are in town because somebody broke hell’s rules.”

“Right,” Jessie said. “Edwin Kite. He had a deal with Adramelech, and he busted it somehow.”

“But that’s the part that doesn’t work. If the whole Bogeyman thing is about getting kids to sacrifice for Adramelech . . . why is he still doing it? His contract was up before the abductions in the 1940s, let alone the ’80s or today. He can’t be hiding from the guy
and
working for him.”

Jessie stretched, talking through a yawn. “Don’t know. Do know that it’s after one thirty in the morning, and if you keep yourself up all night you’ll be useless come sunrise.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be sleepy.”

The room fell silent.

“Jessie?”

She rolled over again. The silence turned expectant.

“About today,” I said. “That parasite, the nightmares . . . are you all right?”

“Oh, is that what you want to talk about? I thought you’d want dating advice. Saw you and Cody from the window, sitting on his car hood like a couple of teenagers. You ought to get a piece of that before we leave town.”

“Cody’s a good guy, I think. I like him. But we’re here on business. The job comes first.”

“Oh, please,” Jessie groaned. “Can I ask you an honest question?”

“Sure.”

“Harmony, when’s the last time you got laid?”

“Jessie.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “Now, I’m not saying you
should
pull Deputy Handsome into the nearest broom closet for some no-strings-attached boning, preferably with a level of energy and enthusiasm normally reserved for Olympic gymnasts, but I
am
saying it’s an option.”

“Stop changing the subject. I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

She took a moment, thoughtful in the dark, before she spoke again.

“You saw some things, huh?”

“A few,” I replied.

“Well,” she said, rolling onto her back and tugging the sheets tighter around her, “that parasite did a crap job of hurting me, if that’s what it was going for. It wasn’t smart enough to figure out what it was doing wrong.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

Her eyes gleamed in the shadows, faintly luminous.

“That’s what it
always
looks like inside my head.”

I felt the hand of sleep wrap around my mind, dragging me down, tugging my eyelids shut. Before I slipped away, though, Jessie spoke again.

“Harmony?”

“Yeah?” I said.

“You know, I . . . I don’t like letting on when I’m scared. Makes me feel weak, and I fucking
hate
feeling weak. But I honestly don’t think I would have made it out of that basement if you hadn’t been there. I’m glad you were. Thanks.”

“You saved me, too,” I told her. “Sometimes you just can’t do everything alone. And that’s okay.”

She fell silent, and I fell asleep. Eventually.

I woke with the sunrise, my own words echoing back to me as I jumped out of bed and into the shower. I’d just given myself the clue I was looking for.

“The lead we haven’t followed,” I told the team once we’d all gotten back together, “is the one who came back. The Kite child.”

“We haven’t followed it because they’d be a pretty lousy eyewitness,” Jessie said. “How much do
you
remember from when you were an infant?”

“Sure, maybe they don’t remember the abduction, but listen.” I opened up Mitchum’s laptop, clicking over to the e-mail from CTide06 and reading it out loud. “‘Just found her crib empty. She’s going to be the next Returned. This has to stop.’ You said it yourself last night: if they
know
the Bogeyman’s going to bring their kid right back, why are they so upset?”

“What’s your theory?” April asked.

“Let’s look at the pattern. This whole mess is tied to Edwin Kite and the history of Talbot Cove. As near as we can tell, there’s always one child who gets taken and then returned during every rash of abductions, and it’s always a blood relative of the Kites. Thanks to the e-mail, we also know that at least some of the modern-day family members are aware of what’s going on. Aware to the point that they hired a demonic bounty hunter to make it stop. And from the sound of Mitchum’s last response? Nyx’s services don’t come cheap. They’re acting out of desperation.”

Kevin glanced up from his laptop. “But the kid
does
come back for good, right? There aren’t any reports of
re
abductions.”

“Right,” I said, “so that’s not what has them scared. What if it’s not that cut-and-dried, though? What if the kid comes back . . . wrong?”

“Wrong?” Jessie said. She flopped back on one of the beds, lifting and stretching her legs one at a time.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. There has to be a reason they’re taking one child and bringing him back again. And a reason these parents
aren’t
relieved to get their kid back. The only thing I can think of is, somehow, the kid’s not the same.”

“Changeling,” April said.

“With George C. Scott,” Jessie said. “Scary movie.”

“I was referring to the folklore, but you’re not far off. For centuries there have been tales, from Scotland to Nigeria, of infants being replaced by monstrous impostors in their cradles. Most often by fairy folk. I don’t believe in fairies, but I do believe in evil, and you’re quite right: there’s a reason for these returned children. We just aren’t seeing it yet. We need more data.”

I picked one of the wicker balls off the table and held it up. The wood felt spongy against my fingers. Diseased.

“How’s this for a reason,” I said. “Like I said last night: because sometimes you can’t do everything alone.”

Jessie sat up straight.

“The balls. You think the kid who came back in the ’80s is
summoning
the Bogeyman this time around?”

“It’s a cycle,” I said. “One kid comes back. Decades later, somebody creates these beacons and calls the Bogeyman, and more kids vanish. Except for one who comes back. And on and on it goes.”

Kevin turned in his chair. “Makes sense. I mean, somebody’s gotta be leaving those things all over town, right? And now we know it’s not the Kite family, because they’re trying to
stop
the Bogeyman. Who else have we got for a suspect?”

“Jack and Squat,” Jessie said, “and Jack just left town. Okay, it’s a valid lead. How do we follow it?”

“Barry,” I told her. “He might have given away the old case report, but he didn’t give away his memory. Let’s go shake it up a little.”

M
abel, Barry’s elderly assistant, met us at the station door.

“Ah,” she said, “you’re back. I have to say, it’s so exciting to see real, live FBI agents in Talbot Cove. We never get this kind of commotion around here. And lady agents, too! Are you the first ones?”

Jessie blinked at me. I forced a smile and said, “Er, n-no, ma’am, the first female special agents joined the Bureau in the 1970s.”

“But you don’t do all the same things that the men do.”

“Yes, ma’am, we do,” I said. “Same training program, same duties and standards.”

Mabel looked dumbfounded. “Well, just imagine. And your husbands
let
you put yourselves in danger like that?”

Jessie gritted her teeth and swallowed. Hard.

“We really need to see Sheriff Hoyt,” she said. “Now would be good.”

Mabel waved her hand and smiled. “Oh, sure, sure! Just go on back. You know the way. I’ll buzz his office and tell him you’re comin’ down.”

As soon as we rounded the corner, Jessie leaned close and whispered, “I’m sorry. Did we just jump back in time to the ’50s? That was some serious Mayberry shit.”

I didn’t know what to tell her. I flailed an empty hand.

“Small towns,” I said. “They can be a little weird.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see how you ended up the way you did.”

“We moved when I was
six
.”

Jessie flashed a smile. “Whatever, Mayberry.”

I rapped on the office door twice and let myself in. Barry didn’t look happy to see us. He didn’t look like he’d slept, either, given the bags under his eyes and the double-size, gas-station cup of coffee on his desk.

“What happened?” he said. “Did you find the mayor?”

Jessie spun one of his chairs around and dropped into it, leaning forward against the back of the seat. “He never showed up. We assume the meeting was just a ruse to distract you while he slipped out of town.”

“He’ll turn up eventually,” I said, taking the chair next to her. “But let’s talk about the Kites.”

Barry wrung his hands. When he pulled them apart, I could see a little tremor in his left hand. Just a little one.

“Anything,” he said. “I’m
trying
to cooperate. You can see that, right?”

“Sure,” I told him. “But there’s one detail we’re missing. The child who was taken and brought back, during the abductions in the ’80s. We need to talk to him.”

“What for? He was just a baby, not like he remembers any of it.”

“We believe our suspect may have contacted him, years later, or might be keeping him under surveillance. He may be in danger.”

Barry slumped in his chair and rubbed his forehead.

“Great,” he said. “More trouble. Yeah, he still lives in town. Any given Friday night, you could probably find him down the hall, in the drunk tank.”

“He’s got a drinking problem?” Jessie asked.

“He’s got a
life
problem. Willie’s . . . never really lived up to his potential, let’s just say. His mom’s a doctor, dad went to Harvard, they gave him every advantage, but his life pretty much revolves around cheap takeout and cheaper whiskey. He’s not malicious, not what I’d call a hardened criminal, but I have to pick him up once or twice a week. He drinks, he picks fights—loses, every damn time, like he
wants
his ass kicked. I toss him in a cell to sleep it off and let him go in the morning.”

“Have you ever tried to get him help?” I asked. “Counseling?”

“Sure. He doesn’t want any part of it. I asked him once, I said, ‘What are you doing with your life, son?’ He tells me, ‘Just marking time, boss. Just marking time.’ Seems like some people are cursed from the day they’re born, you know?”

Or the day they’re taken,
I thought.

“That’s Willie Grandeen,” Barry said, “not Kite, by the way. His mom was Jeremiah Kite’s first cousin.”

“Do you have an address for him?” Jessie asked.

Barry reached for his notepad and a chewed-up ballpoint pen.

“Sure,” he said, jotting it down, “but this time of day, assuming he showed up for work, you’ll find him at Sutton’s on Main Street. Only grocery store in town, he’s a bag boy or something—”

The bulky old phone on Barry’s desk let out a faint click. Barry paused. A little amber light glowed on the bottom extension.

“Huh, intercom’s on.” He leaned in and smiled. “Mabel? You up there? You eavesdroppin’ again? Aw, I’m just teasing, hon, but you left the comm on again. Hello?”

Jessie and I didn’t need to say a word. We just shared a glance, and that was enough to send us charging out of Barry’s office, up the hall and into the lobby. The empty lobby, with its empty front desk, and a freshly emptied space in the parking lot.

“Fontaine,”
Jessie snarled. “Skeevy body-jumping son of a bitch. That whole routine when we walked in—he was
playing
with us.”

“Wait, what?” Barry said, bringing up the rear. “Who’s Fontaine? Who’s getting jumped?”

“We’ll handle this,” I told him. “Stay here.”