Chapter One
Cathedral Street
5:20 AM
“Maitland, this is Tabitha. I know you’re not really into this stuff, but I think you might want to make an exception this time. Well, I’m out by Rockport off Old Cathedral with Camilla and Don, and I think we’ve got something for you. It’s…wait— What are—” The voice stopped. “End of new messages. If you would like to listen to your messages, press One.” An electronic beep sounded and the voicemail started again.
The taste of wet concrete and a throbbing headache made me roll onto my back and open my eyes to a dark mass overhead. It was too dark to make out anything more than vague shapes without a flashlight.
“Ow.” I managed to sit up while the wireless headset continued to repeat the voicemail in my right ear. A few feet away, my flashlight blinked at a stack of wet pallets. I reached across the concrete to retrieve the flashlight and twisted the end to get a steady beam. A quick survey of my surroundings revealed a number of pallet stacks, the red metal pipe-railing I had just hopped over, a pile of heavy rope tangled around my feet, and a low-hanging pulley block. This is why they say you should not be fussing with your cell phone when you investigate a potentially dangerous environment.
“Crap.” I scanned the floor for my lousy phone and found it lying with its touchscreen against the corner of a pallet. I shut off the voicemail and wiped off the grime to tuck it into my gray pea coat.
I forced myself to my feet only to stagger and lean on the nearest stack of pallets. Between the weather and that pulley, I would need a heavy dose of aspirin. I shook my head to clear my mind, but the phone screamed for attention. I groaned and hit the button on my headset.
“Yeah?”
“Everything is all set for you tonight,” a woman announced from the other end with a touch of nervousness. Her again.
“All right. We’ll check into that and then hit the place this weekend.” I swept the light across the stacks of pallets. Through one of the dirty skylights, I saw a flash of lightning. Can’t the weather ever cooperate?
“I can’t thank you enough.” Her voice trembled.
“Right, see you then.” I tapped the headset and rubbed my temple. The woman had been nothing but trouble since I had agreed to help her. I was not in the mood to deal with anyone indecisive enough to keep rescheduling a project because they were terrified by what I might find. When a client is constantly rescheduling a site analysis, it means one of two things: either they couldn’t afford the work or they were afraid I might find something illegal. Either way, the job had eaten up my time and my patience. I had more important issues than a simple security analysis.
I walked around a stack of pallets, stooped down and checked the strange scratch marks in the concrete floor. I focused my light on the corroded tin-and- wood wall ahead of me. Various bundles of rope and rusted tools hung from the exposed wall supports. Using the flashlight, I followed a taut rope to a large rowboat suspended from the rafters. Everything was damp and reeked of stale seawater. I followed the path between the stacks of pallets and stepped around the odd tool in my path. The winds rushed the structure; the walls creaked as waves crashed outside. I rounded another stack of pallets and spotted the doorway to the office. It didn’t bode well.
As I approached, my light revealed the remains of a modified digital camcorder still attached to a tripod. I knelt down to check the camera only to find that even the hard drive was smashed to bits. Completely unsalvageable. I stepped past the remains and pushed open the worn, blue door. The office was in no better shape.
The office had not been used in years, but on the far side of the room were a couple of open cases of electronics. A battery-powered lantern flickered on the floor and illuminated the destruction with a pale fluorescence. Clumps of old tools covered the walls, and boxes left only a narrow path to a stack of old desks under a fenced window. Pages from a spilled file folder were strewn about the floor with various electronics.
It doesn’t take a professional investigator to recognize a crime scene, but a professional knows what to look for without compromising the scene. I craned my neck to look at the top of the equipment case that had been knocked on the floor. RPS. It was Tabitha’s, all right, but where were they?
I tried to spot anything that screamed out what could have happened with their investigation. Amateur investigators are prone to panic when they take on the wrong case, but professionals like Tabitha wouldn’t just abandon thousands of dollars worth of electronics. Mixed in with the equipment were a number of ritual tools for protection that included a silver dagger, several bundles of incense, and candles. What had they attempted to protect against? I pulled out my camera and snapped a couple of pictures of the scene before I switched to video.
I shut off the camera and moved through the partially open exterior door. The winds rushed me and rippled my coat. The fresh air felt good but also unsteady with the storm that approached. Waves sloshed against the wharf on both sides under a thin mist. In the distance I could just make out a figure on the beach, rapidly moving away.
“Oh, no.” Further up the wharf at a smaller boathouse, a white SUV was crumpled against a broken telephone pole. The wires that kept the broken pole up had snapped and dropped the upper half on the roof of the car. I had received the call from Tabitha at two this morning, and it had taken the last three hours to locate this scene. It was not what I wanted to find.
I jogged to the vehicle to examine the extent of the damage, but I already knew it was fatal. The telephone pole had found its way to the engine block, crumpling the entire front end and shortening the vehicle dramatically. The other portion of the pole had fallen on top of the car to crush the roof. All of the front windows were fractured. Partially dried blood covered the glass. In the humid air, the car reeked of a potent mixture of chemicals, gasoline, and burnt rubber. I choked on the smell. Tabitha, Camilla, and Don all accounted for, mostly.
“Ugh.” I coughed, attempting to keep my lunch down as I looked through the shattered driver’s window. The odor of chemical explosive and the sight of a blood-soaked interior forced me to back away.
No matter what anyone says, you never get used to the smell of death. Despite a nauseous stomach, I switched the camera on and proceeded to fire off a series of shots of the scene. I turned my attention to the skid marks on the concrete that intersected with the unusual scratch marks. The police would readily decide it was just another tragic accident. I knew better. Over the years I’ve learned to recognize when something is more than it seems.
Thunder rumbled and drew my attention to the dark clouds on the horizon. We could never catch a break. This entire summer was either too hot or rainy, neither of which made fieldwork easy. I returned my attention to examining the scratches. Judging from the large marks, it could have been heavy machinery, but the striations made me think of ricochets. I took several pictures before the thunder rumbled again.
Veronica.
I faltered, and her memory threatened to drop me even now. Three years since that night, that alley. It felt like another lifetime. So much had happened since then. Every horror I tracked, survived, or witnessed had left its mark. I turned over my right hand to look at the thick scar crossing my palm. It had been my first encounter with the darker side of the world, and it had cost me dearly. I still remember how I had climbed into the car, soaked in blood, and heard the scanner announce the deaths. I had lost everything that night.
“No.” I shook my head. I thought I had blocked out those memories. I rubbed my brow and willed the thoughts away. It was time to leave. The police scanner in the SUV sputtered out a radio call that the sheriff would arrive shortly. I really couldn’t do anything more for them here. I tapped my headset to redial the last number.
“Alison!” I shouted. Where was that girl? “Alison!” I shouted again before she finally picked up her phone.
“Yeah?” her sharp voice answered.
“Time to go!” I snapped at her and started back to the main building.
“Hold on, I think I might be on to something,” Alison pleaded over a gust of wind. I took the first door into the main storage area and held it open. I could see the lights of a police cruiser heading in our direction. The broken telephone pole had probably blacked out a section of town.
“Not now. The sheriff is almost here.” I jammed a rock under the door to keep it open for her and headed back through the maze of pallets. “Let’s go!” I called to her again.
“I’m coming!” she shouted back in my ear.
The police have a direct purpose, and two strangers at a fresh accident scene tend to make them want to question you, especially when you have recently collected evidence from that scene. When you’re a normal citizen, that’s fine, but when you work on the fringes of the legal system and it looks suspicious, they can cause more problems than you need. I dodged the heavy pulley and vaulted over the railing onto a sorting bed. I jumped off the other side and slipped on the wet concrete into a couple of pallets.
I hit the door next to the loading chute, stumbled for a few steps, and took off jogging down the length of the building to the sailboat moored near the end of the wharf. I quickly untied the stern and bowlines on the white twenty-seven-foot daysailer before I leapt to the deck. I pulled in the lines and darted back to the wheelhouse to start the engine.
“Alison!” I shouted at the building. The engine turned over with a rumble.
As an investigator you need to know when to let things go. Once you have gathered all the information you can from a scene, there is really nothing more you can accomplish on site. It’s best to get someplace quiet and go over everything you’ve collected.
“I hear you, I’m coming!” she called back in my ear. There was a time when I used to watch ghost-hunting TV shows and laugh at their experiences. Unfortunately, belief is more dangerous than any weapon, regardless if there is truth behind it or not. When reality crashed in that night, I found just how destructive people could be when they were obsessed with a belief. I could still feel the blood on my hands, and nothing would ever make those memories go away.
A police cruiser parked in front of the building and swept the light across the area.
“Crap.” I throttled up the engine to full before I cut it back to an idle so the noise wouldn’t draw attention. I drifted along the wharf and away from the searchlight. The officer still hadn’t seen me, but my luck was never that good. “Alison get over here now!” I snapped into my headset.
“Here!” Alison’s sharp voice called out as the door flew open to reveal a brunette in a tight, purple halter-top and equally tight jeans. She ran down the dock and leapt onboard. “What?” She glared at me. “Just going to leave me here?”
“Curious trespasser is an easy sell.” I watched her shift. After the events of Nightlife, I was more of a loner than ever. Yet somehow, I had gotten involved with Alison last year and still hadn’t managed to drive her away.
“Nice to know I’m appreciated.”
The searchlight swept across the water to our stern. Not the time for a fight with her. “Alison.”
“Got it.” She pulled a small bag from her purse and sprawled across the deck to hang over the side. “I fall overboard, you are going to regret it.”
I smirked and pushed the throttle to full. She squeaked and slid on the deck. I aimed us for open water before I reached down and grabbed her legs. She twisted in my grip to sprinkle the powder from the bag into the bottle of water held in her other hand. When the powder started to react, she poured the rest of the substance into the water. A dense fog rose from the water to hide us from the police.
“Nice one.” I dragged her back from the edge, and she rolled over to face me. There are significant advantages to working with someone with an extensive knowledge of chemistry.
“You were going to leave me?”
I smiled and patted her knee. Alison glared at me and sat upright. I took her hands and helped her hop to her feet. Behind us, flashlights and searchlights swept across the fog bank. It was a close one.
A rogue wave made her stagger into my arms. Alison looked up into my eyes for a moment before we pushed away. She grabbed her short, black denim jacket and slipped it on. She sat on the wheelhouse and crossed her legs. “Couple out for a stroll that had a fight would be more like it,” she muttered.
“I’m sure the water is warm enough for a swim,” I snapped back. She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to pull out her leather field journal from the center console.
“Let’s get out of here.” She made a few notes and tucked a blue ribbon between the pages before she sank back against the window. I pushed the throttle to full and spun the tiller so we were headed south. We could see more police lights pull up. A large state police SUV came to a stop at the end of the wharf just when we passed. The red and blue lights pulsed across the deck, but we were low enough on the water that the officer didn’t see us. We watched another flashlight appear and head back toward the building. I shot Alison a concerned look. This was too close.
“I’m sorry about Tabitha.”
“Thanks.” Alison reached down and picked up a dark backpack to take out my camera and her netbook. I brought us around the point and out of site of the wharf. “I think we can safely assume she got in over her head.” I could hear the pain in her voice. They had been good people—friends. She started to download the pictures to add them to the file.
“The B&B people want us there tonight, so…”
“Because that’s at the top of our list.” Alison shook her head.