Never Again (20 page)
The driver was the Archers’ youngest son, Lennie. Henry and his wife, Maureen, maintained a home in Daisy Estates. The Archers had five children; four had moved to other states. Lennie hadn’t been the most motivated young man, choosing to leech off his parents in between drunken bar fights and losing jobs. Still, no parents should have to bury their child. And the Archers had been devastated . . . even if they hadn’t been surprised.
Everyone would be attending another wake soon, and it was a damned shame.
Unlike most folks around Nevermore, the Archers had never been farmers. Once upon a time, Nevermore used to have Archer’s Dry Goods and General Store. It had closed down decades ago because Henry’s grandfather had a gambling problem, and he managed to throw away his family’s fortune on the ponies. All the Archers had left was their family home and some investments that paid out enough for them to cover their bills.
April through October, every Saturday, there was a farmers’ market in the town square. That was how everyone supported themselves and the local economy. Whatever couldn’t be grown or bought in Nevermore was ordered online. Sometimes, folks got together and took a trip to Dallas, loading up on bulk items for anyone who put in a few dollars.
It was just the way things were, even though he wished they were different. Having a local store again would be nice. Maybe folks would come to town more often, and Nevermore would start to feel like a community again, rather than a refugee camp.
Taylor studied the pictures, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him. The tires were brand-new, which struck him as odd. He didn’t know why. Lennie took really good care of that car, treating it better than he did his own mother. No, something else niggled at him. He didn’t like the timing of the two deaths. No doubt that Lennie’s stupidity had finally killed him. But so soon after Marcy’s murder? Probably wouldn’t mean much, but he’d still check with Thomson about the tires. Like most other families in Nevermore, the Thomsons could trace their roots all the way back to the founders. There had been a Thomson in charge of the local garage since the days of horses and carriages—from blacksmiths to mechanics and all in the same location.
Poor Lennie. Nevermore didn’t have a doctor, not anymore, much less a coroner. They had a mage healer—Miss Natalie, but she was getting on in years and had no kin or apprentices. It was rare she came to town anymore. Most folks who needed her services went to her house in Daisy Estates, or they waited to talk about their complaints during Dr. Green’s monthly visits. Next door was the old clinic, which still had working cold storage and a surgery. Dr. Green rotated among the smaller towns, and he couldn’t come back to do the death certificate for Lennie right away. The doc had been surprised to be called so soon after doing Marcy’s autopsy, and promised he’d try to return in the next day or two. So, Lennie was tucked into the clinic’s freezer.
And Marcy was in the ground in a plain pine coffin.
His head started to throb, and his eyes hurt. He pushed the photos along with the report into a crisp, new folder. He put it on top of Marcy’s file and aligned them both with his desk planner.
Then he pulled the red bag out of his front pocket. He was annoyed that Gray had withheld evidence from him.
“I found it on the ground that night. I’m sorry, Taylor. I forgot about it. It must’ve fallen out of my jeans when I took off my clothes to shower.”
He knew Gray wasn’t quite telling him the truth, but he wasn’t sure which part was the fib. He also wanted to know why the hell the Guardian would intentionally interfere with an ongoing murder investigation. Not even Gray was that damned arrogant.
“She died for whatever’s in here,”
said Gray.
“I figure this is the reason she was leaving Nevermore.”
said Gray.
“I figure this is the reason she was leaving Nevermore.”
Then Gray had told him about finding Marcy in the alley crying in the rain. She’d had a black eye and split lip, and she’d run away rather than take the help Gray had offered. She must’ve been scared as hell—and who could terrify her more than the Guardian? Gray had been like an absentee father around Nevermore, and everyone knew it. Hardly anyone relied on him to do more than what was required to keep the Dragon protections. It was a sad fact, one he hoped Gray would rectify. Nevermore needed its Guardian. All the same, he was a powerful wizard, and everyone knew that, too.
“She told me Lucy was in trouble, that everyone was. What the hell is going on?”
Taylor didn’t know. All he had were bad feelings making mincemeat out of his guts, two people dead inside a week, and a mysterious bag that obviously didn’t belong to Marcy. And he hadn’t asked Lucinda a single question because he’d been too busy marrying her off to Gray—and then getting hustled out the door.
He opened the bag and dumped the contents.
It was an eyeball.
At least, it looked like one. It was oval shaped, made from smooth, clear glass, or maybe a crystal of some kind. In the center was a red circle, and within that, a black dot.
He didn’t like holding it. Or even looking at it. He knew the thing was magical, because it made his fingers tingle. That bad feeling worming around inside him turned into a nest of rattlesnakes.
How had Marcy gotten hold of something like this?
And why had she taken it?
He’d show it to Ember. At this point, he should deputize the woman and be done with it. For now, he’d lock it in the floor safe. Gray himself had added the protections to the metal box inlaid beneath his desk. Only the sheriff could access the safe. Until he had a better idea what it was—and what it did—the eye was better off being locked up.
He stuck it back in the bag. It took less than a minute to secure the object within the safe, and if his back twinged and his knees creaked as he got up from spinning the dial . . . that didn’t mean he was getting old, did it? He was only thirty-five, but some days, he felt ninety-five.
Taylor promised Gray that he would finish the marital paperwork tonight. Gray sure was eager to close up every loophole. Even though all newlyweds required a certificate to legalize their union, marriage for magicals worked a little different. When magicals declared their vows, their powers wove together. It worked almost like a spell except it was automatic. Some scientists thought it was a primal response, an ancient code that activated to strengthen the bond between mates and increase their breeding potential. Yep. It was always about perpetuating the species. They could get divorced just like anyone else, but it was called “absolution,” and unbinding oneself from another magical took the help of other wizards and witches. It was only magicals marrying each other that sparked the response, too. A mere century ago, there were still laws that made marriage between magicals and mundanes illegal, even though it was widely known that magic-bonding didn’t occur with mundanes. It didn’t mean people didn’t get married in secret or buck the traditions of their societies. That was the human race for you, always seeking to bridge the gap . . . and then burning down the bridge.
It still stunned him that he had married Gray to Kerren’s younger sister. Kerren was Kahl’s go-to girl for getting his dirty work done, and word was, she relished every depraved act. It wasn’t like people hadn’t tried to stop her, but being half demon had made her immortal. Attempts to kill her never worked and the few times she’d been captured, she’d escaped.
Taylor wished he knew the whole story between Lucinda and Gray, but he doubted he was gonna get it anytime soon. He imagined when Gray’s mama found out what her son had done, they’d be able to hear the explosion all the way from Washington, D.C. He wasn’t sure what he might have done in the same situation. He had no doubt that Lucinda was in trouble, ’cause, hell, she was a Rackmore, but there was something else, too.
Damn, he was getting tired of puzzles.
He heaved himself up from the desk. If he laid his head down like he wanted to, he’d probably sleep the whole night. Criminy. He really was getting old.
He needed to rifle through Arlene’s desk for the marriage certificate, because she kept the originals. She was just as organized and anal as he was, and he didn’t mind if she wanted to rule over all those headache-inducing forms.
Yawning, he walked from his office to the small lobby with its black-and-white checkered floor, and flipped on the light. He stared at Arlene’s desk.
It was a mess.
Paperwork overflowed her in-box. Files were left open. A half-filled mug sat on the corner.
Arlene’s purse was under the desk, where she liked to keep it in case she had to get at her gun. He didn’t like it, but she wouldn’t give up her .45. He made her get certified with the weapon, and had gotten her a concealed permit.
She would never leave that monstrosity. The woman kept a rolling pin in it, for Goddess’ sake.
But someone had shut off the lights and locked up.
He unholstered his Colt. His office was the largest room in the building, unless you counted the jail cells on the basement level, and the single magic-dampening room used for either short imprisonment or magical quarantine. He hardly ever had to use them, though. Behind Arlene’s desk was the hallway that led to Ren’s smaller office, the break room, the supply closet, and the archives.
The bathrooms were at the very end, right next to the emergency exit.
What had happened to Arlene? His heart was thudding in his chest as fear ghosted through him. His training kicked and he began checking the building. He couldn’t help but think about Arlene unconscious or . . . No. She was too stubborn to die.
Ren’s office was empty, and the break room clear. In each room, he flipped on the lights. No intruder. No Arlene. He knew the supply closet was too full to hide anyone, but he checked it anyway. Nothing but a tower of toilet paper, shelves full of cleaning supplies, and seven more brooms than they needed.
As he moved toward the back door, he noticed the chair butted underneath the old iron doorknob to the women’s restroom. Relief trickled through him.
He knocked. “Arlene?”
No response. Had she hit her head? Or had someone taped her mouth and tied her up? He moved the chair out of the way and reached for the knob.
The door swung back.
Arlene stood there, her clothes wrinkled, her face puffy with sleep. Only she could take a nap while waiting for rescue. “About time you got here. I’ve been locked in here for hours!”
He was so relieved she was alive and ornery he swept her into his embrace and squeezed the breath out of her.
“C’mon, now,” she huffed as she squeezed him back. “I’m all right.”
“What happened?”
He hustled her into the break room, and made her sit down. Then he got Arlene a cold bottle of water from the fridge and started rustling her up a sandwich.
“It was almost four o’clock, and I decided I wanted some jasmine tea. Made myself a cup, but it tasted funny. Hoo-boy, I got sick. Barely made it to the toilet before I almost barfed up my lungs.” She looked at her watch. “Nearly seven o’clock. Goddess! I haven’t gotten locked in a bathroom since Little Jimmy put superglue in the keyhole. He was eleven.”
She sounded proud. Arlene had always appreciated the cleverness of her children, even if it was to her own detriment. Little Jimmy grew up to join the military. He was in some special ops unit doing missions that he couldn’t talk about, but no matter where he ended up in the world, he called his mama every Sunday night.
“Who the hell would lock you in the bathroom?” asked Taylor.
“Kid’s prank more than likely.” She didn’t exactly sound convinced, and neither was Taylor. He couldn’t think of a single kid stupid enough to come in his office and do something like that to Arlene. If it was a prank and he found out who the moron was, that person would be cleaning up every piece of trash off Cedar Road for the next month.
“Anyone come in before four?”
“Ren. He dropped off those photos on your desk, checked his e-mails, and left. I fielded some phone calls about Marcy’s wake. Folks weren’t happy Cathleen didn’t invite no one to the funeral.”
“I don’t think there was one,” grumbled Taylor. “Bet she just put her in the ground without any prayers at all.”
“Humph.” She frowned. “Trent came by, too. Atwood sent him over to file a complaint about Cathleen’s illegal disposal of her garbage.” She waved her hand. “Ant stopped by to talk about my new rose garden. That was much earlier, though.”
“You hired him to do a rose garden?”
“Sure did. That boy has a real talent. And I’ve always wanted a rose garden.”
Taylor resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His brother’s obsession with gardening was the least of his worries. Taylor knew about the café’s overflowing Dumpsters, because Gray had told him. And he knew Cathleen had pissed off Atwood by refusing to pay the service fees. “What’d she do with the garbage?”
“He doesn’t know. He says she got rid it of somehow and it wasn’t his boys who’d done it.”
“You got a form for that?” He put the plated ham sandwich in front of Arlene and she dug in with gusto.
“Of course I do. Gave it to Trent and told him Atwood would have to file a formal complaint in person. He runs that nephew of his ragged ’cause he’s too lazy to do his own work.” She eyed him. “All right. What happened?”
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