First Grave On The Right Part 14

Uncle Bob chuckled. "What the h.e.l.l Sp.a.w.n of Satan are you wearing?"

What Ubie was so indelicately referring to was the outfit I'd changed into, carefully picking out my most comfortable black-on-black attire and meticulously applying black greasepaint to my face to complement a desert-at-midnight look. Naturally, I had to struggle through several costume changes as Garrett sat out in his leather-seated truck waiting for me. I sure hoped my time-consuming endeavor didn't annoy him.

"I'm blending," I said.

"With what? Evil?"

"Laugh it up, Uncle Bob," I said before pausing to take a noisy slurp of my soda. "Just wait until someone has to go traipsing through the desert for a closer look. You'll appreciate my forethought."

Garrett chose that moment to join the conversation. "I appreciate your forethought," he said, his tone distant, as if his mind were elsewhere. "Not as much as your fore-parts, but still..."

I twisted around in my seat to face him. "My fore-parts, as you so ineloquently put it, have names." I pointed to my right breast. "This is Danger." Then my left. "And this is Will Robinson. I would appreciate it if you addressed them accordingly."

After a long pause in which he took the time to blink several times, he asked, "You named your b.r.e.a.s.t.s?"

I turned my back to him with a shrug. "I named my ovaries, too, but they don't get out as much. Did you ever think that this whole operation was blown when they tortured Carlos Rivera?" I asked Uncle Bob. "If these guys are anywhere near intelligent, they would have cleared out any incriminating evidence the moment they figured out what Rivera did."

"True," Uncle Bob said. "But there's only one way to be certain."

"Why don't you just get a warrant, gather a small army, and storm the place?"

"Based on what probable cause? Anonymous tips aren't enough to obtain a search warrant, pumpkin. We need that flash drive."

He had a point. Not a particularly pointy one, but a point nonetheless. And he called me pumpkin. I slurped as loud as kinesthetically possible in response. It would help if we knew what we were looking for. I sighed to emphasize my impatience-slash-boredom. Stakeouts were nothing if not boring. I felt it my civic duty as a certified connoisseur of sarcasm to liven it up a bit, so I slurped some more.

"Why don't you go keep Taft company?" Uncle Bob suggested from behind his binoculars.

"Can't."

He lowered them. "Why not?"

"Don't like him."

"Perfect. I don't think he likes you either."

"Also," I said, ignoring my unappreciative uncle for the moment, "he has the h.e.l.l Sp.a.w.n of Satan following his every move. Remember?" Then I realized what Uncle Bob had said. "He doesn't like me?"

Ubie shrugged with his brows.

"What have I ever done to him?" I glared at Taft's stupid car. "Little punk. See if I help him when demon child starts making her presence known."

An electric hum sounded behind me as Garrett rolled down his window. "Movement."

We all looked toward the warehouse, where a vertical shaft of light appeared. The ma.s.sive doors slid open, spilling light over a waiting van. It rolled inside before the doors closed again.

"At this rate, we'll never solve the case and Mark Weir will grow old in prison. This stakeout sucks," I said, whining into my calorie-free beverage. "We can't see a thing. We need to get closer."

"Send in your people," Uncle Bob said.

"I don't have any people with me."

"What?" he asked, suddenly panicked. "What about Angel?"

I shrugged. "Haven't seen that little s.h.i.+t in days. Why do you think I'm dressed like this? Greasepaint wreaks havoc on my complexion."

"I am not sending you over there, Charlotte Jean Davidson."

Uh-oh. Ubie seemed uberserious. I gave it two minutes. Sixty-seven seconds and three long slurps later, he changed his mind.

"Fine," he said with a heavy sigh.

Finally.

"Go do your thing."

I knew he'd cave.

"But for G.o.d's sake, be careful. Your dad'll shank me if anything happens to you."

He handed me a radio, and I traded him my soda. "No backwash," I warned.

"No getting caught." He turned to Garrett. "Watch her close."

"What?" I squeaked into the radio, having been surprised in the middle of my sound check. Uncle Bob scowled. "I am so not taking Swopes. He's in a bad mood."

Garrett eyed me, his expression expressionless.

"Either Swopes goes with you, or you don't go at all."

I s.n.a.t.c.hed back my diet soda and slumped down in my seat. "Then I guess I'm not going."

"Be careful."

I scowled at Garrett through the chain-link fence as I dropped to the other side. Well, not the other side. The other side of the fence. "Yeah, I got that much from Uncle Bob," I said, my voice acidic. I'd lost the argument. Despite the fact that I'd had lots of practice, losing wasn't my forte.

Garrett followed suit, climbing the eight-foot chain-link fence with way more upper-body strength than I had and dropping beside me. But could he tie a knot in a cherry stem with his tongue?

We started out across the open field toward the warehouse. It took most of my concentration to keep from falling, and even more of my concentration to keep from clutching on to Garrett's jacket for balance.

"I read that grim reapers collect souls," he said, jogging beside me.

I tripped on a cactus and just barely managed to catch myself. Night was so dark. Probably because of the time. The moonlight helped, but traversing the uneven ground still proved challenging.

"Swopes," I said, breathing slowly so he wouldn't realize I was getting winded, "there are oodles of souls running around, wreaking havoc upon my life. Why would I collect the darned things? And even if I did, where would I keep all the jars?"

He didn't answer. We sprinted across the parking lot to the back of the windowless building. Luckily, it had no security cameras. But I could tell from the soft glow illuminating the roofline that it did have skylights. If I could get to the roof, I might be able to see what they were up to. No good, surely, but I did need some kind of evidence to back that up.

When Garrett pulled me behind a grouping of garbage bins, I b.u.mped into a metal pipe that led all the way up and over the roofline with brackets every few feet for stability. Perfect footholds.

"Hey, give me a boost," I whispered.

"What? No," Garrett argued, eyeing the post faithlessly. He shoved me aside nonetheless. "I'll go up."

"I'm lighter," I argued back. "This pipe won't hold you." Even though I was pretty much arguing for argument's sake, the pipe did look a tad flimsy. And it had more rust than a New Mexico sunset. "I'll go up and check out the skylights. Odds are I won't be able to see in, but maybe I can find a hole. Maybe I can make a hole," I said, thinking aloud.

"Then the guys inside will make a hole as well. In your obstinate head. Probably two if history is any indication."

I studied the pipe while Garrett ranted something incoherent about holes and history. I'd chosen that particular moment not to understand a word he said. When he was finished, I turned to him. "Do you even know English? Give me a boost," I added when his brows furrowed in confusion.

Shouldering past him, I gripped the pipe with both hands. He let an annoyed breath slip through his lips before stepping forward and grabbing my a.s.s.

Thrilling? Yes. Appropriate? Not on your life.

I slapped his hands away. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?"

"You said to give you a boost."

"Yes. A boost. Not a cheap thrill."

He paused, looked down at me a long, uncomfortable moment.

What'd I say? "Cup your hands," I ordered before he got all mushy. "If you can get me to the first bracket, I can take it from there."

Reluctantly, he put one hand in the other and bent forward. I'd brought my gloves to go with my black-on-black ensemble, so I slipped them on, placed one foot in Garrett's cupped hands, then hoisted myself up to the first brace. Easy enough with his upper body strength and all, but the second was a tad trickier. The sharp metal of the brackets tried to cut its way through my gloves, making my fingers ache instantly. I struggled to hold on to the pipe, struggled to keep my footing, and struggled to lift my own weight to the next bracket. Surprisingly, the worst pain centered in my knees and elbows as I used them for leverage against the metal building, slipping and squirming far more often than was likely appropriate.

A decade later, I pulled myself up and over the roofline. The metal cap sc.r.a.ped agonizingly into my rib cage as if mocking me, as if saying, You're kind of dumb, huh? I collapsed on the roof and lay completely still a full minute, marveling at how much harder that had been than I thought it would be. I'd have h.e.l.l to pay in the morning. If Garrett had been half a gentleman, he would have offered to climb the pipe in my stead.

"You okay?" he whispered into the radio.

I tried to respond, but my fingers were locked in a clawlike position from clinging on to the brackets for dear life, and they couldn't push the little b.u.t.ton on the side of the radio.

"Davidson," he hissed.

Oh, for heaven's sake. I pried my fingers apart and pulled the radio out of my jacket pocket. "I'm fine, Swopes. I'm trying to wallow in self-pity. Would you give me a minute?"

"We don't have a minute," he said. "The doors are opening again."

I didn't waste time with a response. After rolling to my feet, I hunkered down and crept to the skylights. They were actually greenhouse panels, but they were old and cracked and had more than one peephole I could see through. To do so, however, to be able to see down into the warehouse, I'd have to almost lie across a panel. A thin beam of light shot up through one of the cracks and I leaned into a push-up, my wobbly arms braced on either side. As long as the metal frame held, I figured I wouldn't fall through the roof. Which would be a plus.

The van was driving out of the warehouse when I peeked down. Two men were boxing up papers and files from an old desk. Other than the desk, the warehouse itself, at least fifty thousand square feet of s.p.a.ce, was completely and startlingly empty. Not a candy wrapper or cigarette b.u.t.t in sight. My concerns had been well founded. Whoever owned this warehouse cleaned it out the moment Carlos Rivera met with Barber.

My arms still shook from the climb, and I was deeply regretting the tacos and forty-four-ounce soda I'd inhaled. Forty-four ounces was forty-four ounces. Calorie-free or not, it weighed the same. Time to make like a sheep.

As I inched back on the metal frame, I rehea.r.s.ed my told-you-so speech to Uncle Bob. The warehouse was empty. Yes, just like I said it would be. I know I was right, but- Really, Uncle Bob, stop, you're embarra.s.sing me. No really, stop it. I'm not kidding.

It was about the time I was imagining my reluctant appearance and off-the-cuff speech at the Really, Really Right Awards Ceremony that my mind processed movement. Something flashed in my periphery, a fist possibly, and was quickly followed by a burst of pain in my jaw. Then all I could think as I fell through the skylight was, Holy c.r.a.p!

Chapter Nine.

You know you have ADD when-

Look! A chicken!

-T-s.h.i.+RT I first saw him the day I was born. His hooded cloak undulated in majestic waves like the shadows cast by leaves in a soft breeze. He'd looked down at me while the doctor cut the cord. I knew he was looking down at me, even though I couldn't see his face. He'd touched me as the nurses cleaned my skin, though I couldn't feel his fingertips. And he'd whispered my name, husky and deep and soft, though I couldn't hear his voice. Probably because I was screaming at the top of my lungs, having recently been evicted.

Since that day, I'd seen him only on the rarest of occasions, all dire. So it made sense that I would see him now. The occasion being dire and all.

As I fell through the skylight, the cement floor rus.h.i.+ng toward me at the speed of light, he was there, looking up at me from below-though I couldn't see his face. I tried to stop in midair, tried to pause my descent, to hover for a better look. But gravity insisted that I continue my downward journey. Then somewhere in the dark and scary-and some would say psychotic-recesses of my mind, I remembered. I remembered what he'd whispered to me the day I was born. My mind instantly rejected the idea, because the name he'd whispered wasn't mine. He'd called me Dutch. On the very day I was born. How did he know?

While I was busy reminiscing about my first day on earth, I'd forgotten that I was falling to my death. d.a.m.ned ADD. I was reminded quite effectively, however, when I stopped. I hit hard, and the air rushed out of my lungs. Yet he was still looking up at me. That meant I hadn't made it to the ground. I hit something else, something metal, before flipping back and cras.h.i.+ng onto steel grating.

An excruciating pain exploded in my midsection and ripped through me like a nuclear blast, so severe, so startlingly intense, it stole my breath and darkened my vision until I felt myself liquefy and slip through the grates. And as darkness crept around the edges of my consciousness, I saw him again, leaning over me, studying me.

I tried so hard to focus, to block out the pain watering my eyes and blurring my vision. But I ran out of time before I could manage it, and everything went black. An inhuman growl-angry and full of pain-echoed off the walls of the empty warehouse, shook the metal of the building until it hummed like a tuning fork in my ears.

Though I couldn't hear his voice.

It seemed like the moment I lost consciousness, I found it again. It certainly wasn't where I'd left it. Still, I was breathing and coherent. Amazingly, the old saying was right: It isn't the fall that will kill you, but the sudden stop.

I tried to pry open my lids. I failed. Either I wasn't really conscious or Garrett had found a tube of Super Glue and was getting even for the salsa incident. While I waited for my eyelids to realize they were supposed to be in the upright position, I listened to him babble into the radio, something about my having a pulse. Always a welcome observation. His fingertips rested on my neck.

"I'm here," Uncle Bob blurted breathlessly through the radio. Then I heard footsteps on metal steps and sirens in the background.

Garrett must have sensed I was awake. "Hey, Detective," he said to Uncle Bob, who was now trudging across the grating toward us. "I think we're losing her. I have no choice but to perform mouth-to-mouth."

"Don't you dare," I said, my lids still in lockdown.

He laughed under his breath.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Charley," Uncle Bob said in a wheezy voice that sounded more concerned than angry. Maybe the rubber band at his wrist was working after all. "What happened?"