One of Us (17 page)

Her face might be considered pretty but I can’t tell because I’m too distracted by the various metal rings protruding from her nose, upper lip, and eyebrows. Her long, straight, jet-black hair has an iridescent gleam to it and oozes down her back like an oil spill.

“Define ‘real people,’” Rafe comments.

“That’s Bambi,” Billy tells us.

I think of the clean, perky, fiery-haired cartoon Daphne with her lilting voice and pink tights from my youth. I almost want to cry.

“And that’s Brick.”

A hulking brute comes around from the driver’s side. Despite the cold, he’s not wearing a coat. I’m not sure he could find a coat to fit over his massive upper arms and shoulders, one of which is tattooed with a blood-soaked woman being devoured by the undead. His head is shaved except for a spiky black Mohawk down the center. He sports a thick utility belt hung with a walkie-talkie, a flashlight, a hatchet, a water bottle, a crucifix, and a canister of hair gel. He has a skull ring on every finger and his nails are painted black.

A tall, gangly, goateed African American in a purple tracksuit, untied red high-tops, a gold ball cap with the bill worn to the side, dark reflective shades, and a long fur-lined purple trench coat disembarks from the other van.

Troy steps up beside us.

“Z Mac,” he says. “Short for Zombie Master.”

I look over at Rafe, who stares at the ceiling.

I’m afraid to ask but I must.

“Where’s Velma?”

Z Mac joins Bambi, who’s begun combing the air with a device that looks like a cross between a waffle iron and a calculator, while Brick trudges back to the other van and pulls open the side door.

A small, trim man with a perfectly round pink-cheeked face wearing glasses set in perfectly round tortoiseshell frames jumps out. He, like Bambi, is dressed entirely in black. They may in fact be wearing the same leather jeans and combat boots in the same size, but his upper body is differently attired in a turtleneck and a long black suede coat with its hem flapping at his heels.

“There’s Velma,” Troy says.

“Velma is a man?”

“Kind of,” Billy replies.

A crowd of onlookers has already started to gather around the Ghost Sniffers. I don’t know where they came from so quickly, but I imagine the sight of these newcomers to have the same hypnotic pull as an alien spaceship setting down in the town square.

Velma disregards the traffic slowing as it passes by and the gawkers
trickling toward them. He says something to his companions, then turns and marches toward the station and pushes open the doors double-handed like a tiny gay gunslinger.

“Excuse me,” he addresses no one in particular. “Who’s in charge here?”

We all look at Rafe, who doesn’t say anything.

Troy and Billy step forward together and introduce themselves.

Velma gives them an appraising look before pulling off one black leather glove one finger at a time and extending his hand in midair waiting for one of them to shake it. Troy goes first.

“We always make our presence known with local law enforcement before we begin an investigation as a courtesy so there won’t be any misunderstandings,” Velma says briskly.

“We appreciate that,” Billy replies.

“Of course we’re expecting to experience the most activity at the gallows and the jail, but we’d also like to get inside the house where Marcella Greger was killed.”

“That won’t be possible,” Rafe speaks up. “It’s still a crime scene.”

Velma gives him a once-over, too. A slight wince crosses his features as his eyes land on Rafe’s corduroy blazer and skinny knit tie worn with a plaid flannel shirt.

“And you are?”

“The guy in charge.”

“Well, Guy in Charge, can we see crime scene photos?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun at all. Can I bribe you? Can I buy you some doughnuts or a sports jacket from this century?”

Rafe narrows his eyes until they are nothing more than two bright blue slits set among the rest of the lines in his face. His candy chewing has slowed to a contemplative rhythmic clicking.

“The investigation has been taken over by the state police,” he explains, “and I’d pay good money to watch you try and bribe one of them.”

“Where’s Wade?” Troy asks, hoping to change the subject.

“Oh, Wade,” Velma sniffs. “He’s in the van having a drink. The
temperamental genius. He’s still pouting over losing that fan-favorite reality show award to that blond tranny Real Housewife. When he found out he threw up. I kid you not. Blech! All over the couch.”

“He seems way too classy to do something like that,” Billy says.

“Oh, he is. He was mortified. But don’t let his public façade fool you. He has his moments. Once at a party at Woody Harrelson’s house that got completely out of hand he pissed all over Woody’s patio! Scout’s honor. Fortunately he and Woody are good friends and Woody thought it was hysterical. I can assure you he’ll never let Wade forget that one.”

Velma finally notices me.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “Is that the John Varvatos shimmer peacoat? In navy? I didn’t know he did it in navy. He does everything in black and gray, although he does have a prewrinkled black-and-white-checked shirt with a fine line of aubergine shot through it that I’m completely jonesing for.”

“I almost didn’t buy this coat,” I confide in him. “His clothes are a little too rock and roll for me.”

“Nonsense. You look amazing. I should’ve gone with my first instinct and bought one in black instead of this old thing. I’m too short to pull off a duster.”

His gaze finally makes its way down to my feet. He lets out a clipped shriek.

“Laceless wingtips?”

I nod.

“Who
are
you?” he asks breathlessly.

Before I can answer he holds up his hand requesting silence as he receives a communiqué through his Bluetooth ear bud.

“His Highness has finally deigned to grace us with his presence.”

He steps back and holds the door open. Everyone in the station, including the impossible-to-impress Rafe, moves closer and peers outside at the open van waiting for the renowned psychic’s appearance.

A teeny brown and white dog in a green argyle sweater comes flying out of the van and proceeds to high-step jauntily across the icy parking lot until he enters the building, where he rushes crazily from person to
person sniffing at ankles and occasionally pausing to gaze soulfully into someone’s eyes.

“Wade Van Landingham is a rat in a coat?” Rafe asks.

“He’s a fox terrier,” Velma replies with a languid haughtiness, “and that’s a cashmere cardigan.”

The dog comes to a skidding halt in front of Rafe, who towers over him. Their eyes lock. Wade sits up in a begging position, throws his head back, and flails at the air with his little paws like he’s paddling to stay afloat.

“He senses something special about your aura,” Velma explains.

All movement ceases and Wade closes his eyes. The dog holds the position sitting back on his hind legs with his paws crossed in front of him for at least a full minute. No one moves or speaks or even seems to breathe. He finally breaks his trance and addresses Velma with a few high-pitched staccato barks.

“He says you feel guilty about the lives you took during the war,” Velma translates. “He says there’s a Vietnamese soldier who wants to speak to you from the other side.”

Rafe doesn’t respond in any way. He knows how easy it is to research the backgrounds of the local police officers and how anyone knowing he’d been in Vietnam could take a wild guess that he might have killed an enemy soldier. I know all of this as well, but I also know his story of killing a soldier in hand-to-hand combat who was “just like” him, and I’m taken aback for a moment, but the feeling quickly passes. As for everyone else in the room, their awe is palpable.

“Let’s see how good he really is,” Rafe says, breaking the silence. “Let’s see if he can read my mind.”

He places his middle and index fingers at his temple and glowers down at Wade, who holds Rafe’s stare for a few seconds until his entire body begins to shiver. He lets out a loud yelp, turns, and runs away with his tail tucked between his legs.

Rafe grins broadly.

“He’s not bad,” he says.

Velma shoots him a scathing look and chases after his canine charge.

On our way to Rafe’s car we pass Velma surrounded by the rest of
the paranormals. Wade is lying on his back cradled in his arms performing a very convincing dead faint, but turns his head and opens his eyes as Rafe walks by. I swear the dog winks.

“I ALMOST QUIT AFTER
that,” Dave Rosko says, throwing a shovelful of snow off his driveway into his yard. “I walked out of that house and said to myself, that’s it. I can’t ever look at something like that again.

He’s a short, stocky man with a grizzled crew cut, a lightning bolt scar on his forehead from a quad accident, and a bumper sticker on his truck that reads: I Support PETA: People Eating Tasty Animals. When his mother wasn’t able to do it, he identified his father’s remains after the explosion in Lost Creek Mine No. 6. He’s been Barclay’s fire chief for twenty years. Rafe tells me it takes a lot to disturb his sensibilities.

“You think you can handle it because you’ve seen it in movies,” he continues, “although I gotta tell you I never saw anything like that even in the movies. She was . . .” he begins with a grimace, then pauses.

He lets the shovel fall to the ground and crosses his arms over his chest while pulling one knee up into a partial fetal position.

“She was kind of like this, protecting herself from the pain. Her skin was completely charred but she was still recognizable. Her face—”

He stops altogether and stares hard at the sky.

“People don’t burn fast. You could see the expression on her face. It was still there. The agony. Her mouth was open, screaming. Most fire victims die of smoke inhalation. It’s not a good way to go either, but at least they don’t know the pain of being burned alive.”

He shakes his head like he’s trying to get rid of the image.

“Wasn’t there a police investigation?” I ask Rafe.

“Not much of one. We found a suicide note and a gas can and part of a lighter in her room.”

“What did the note say?”

“‘I want to die. I hate it here.’”

“‘I hate it here’?” I repeat the words. “That sounds like something a child would say. Where did you find it?”

“In the kitchen. It was in her handwriting. There were notes from her posted on a bulletin board in the pantry. We compared them. It looked authentic.”

“Still,” I say skeptically, “suicide? The only instances of self-immolation I know of have been related to extreme political or religious protests. Women traditionally commit suicide by taking an overdose or cutting their wrists, but almost always in a bathtub. They’re concerned with not leaving a mess behind for others to clean up.”

“Well, Anna Greger sure as hell wasn’t worried about a mess,” Dave says. “Accelerant fires burn hot and fast. The entire room was a loss. We found her near the windows. She’d pulled down the curtains.”

“She had second thoughts?” I ask.

“Looked that way. Would be hard not to. But she’d poured a whole can of gasoline all over herself. There was no way she could’ve put it out on her own once she lit up.”

“Suicide?” I ask again.

“I admit I never felt right about that explanation,” Dave says, “but there was the note and—”

“There were no suspects,” Rafe joins in. “No motives. She was a single woman with no immediate family who took care of Walker Dawes’ kids and lived with them full time. She didn’t have a husband or boyfriend. Who would want to kill her? And kill her like that?”

“How did the Dawes family react?” I ask Dave.

“The wife was hysterical. Walker was pretty shaken up, too, but he did a good job of concealing it. We never even saw the little boy, Wesley. He was only five, I think. Then there was the daughter, Scarlet.”

He shakes his head again.

“She saw it.”

“What did she see?”

“Her nanny burning.”

“She said that?”

“I’ll never forget it. She said, ‘I saw Nanny burning.’ Cool as a cucumber.”

“She was in the room with her?”

“Mrs. Dawes told us Scarlet had bad dreams and sometimes she got
up in the middle of the night and went looking for Anna. Problem was she also said Anna always slept with her door closed and if the fire had been started when the door was closed and someone came along and opened that door, the back draft would’ve created an explosion. The whole hallway would’ve went up with her in it. The burn pattern was all wrong. The fire started while the door was open.”

“So the night she decides to kill herself Anna leaves the door open? And Scarlet just happens by? No one thought this sounded suspicious?” I say.

Rafe and Dave look at each other.

“What were we supposed to be suspicious of? To think this cute little girl had something to do with it? She was ten years old. We figured she was in shock. Something like that happens, you can’t blame her for getting her facts confused, except . . .”

“Except what?”

“She didn’t act like someone in shock. She wasn’t upset at all. She gave us the facts like she was reading them off a script.”

“How did her parents react to her statement?”

“I got the feeling Walker didn’t want us talking to her at all, which I guess is understandable considering what had just happened. But her mom insisted she talk to us. She was a nervous wreck. Pacing the whole time. Wringing her hands. After Scarlet said something, she’d look at us, not at her, like she wanted to be sure we heard what she said. I have to say she was a creepy kid.”

“You just said she was a cute little girl.”

“Not creepy-looking, mind you. She was beautiful, all dressed up in a long nightgown with lace around the neck. She had these big green eyes and long shiny hair. Looked like a doll. But there was something off about her. I raised five kids and none of them ever looked that good when they just got out of bed.”

“She was too calm,” I state.

“Not just calm. It was like she was bored. When she finished talking to us, she looked right at her mom and asked if she could have some ice cream.”