Envy

CHAPTER 30

As the last of the day’s sunlight drained from the sky, Sissy Barten’s remains were carefully bagged up and removed from the cave.

Veck was one of four guys who took the handles, bore her weight, and walked her out into the clean air. He’d stayed close as the afternoon had progressed, but kept his hands to himself, limiting his participation to taking his own photographs with his phone, talking with the coroner when the guy arrived, and helping wherever, and whenever he could with nonessentials.

Reilly had done the same.

And now the only thing left to do here was to get the body up the slope.

“Let’s go this way,” he said to the others. “It’s the best shot we’ve got.”

The four of them headed to the north, taking the least obstructed way—which was a relative term.

And there were plenty of people waiting for their arrival.

Naturally, the news crews had arrived and parked on the rim. God only knew who had tipped them off. No one in an official capacity at the site, that was for sure, but this was a public area and the whole town knew not only about Kroner’s capture and recuperation at St. Francis, but also the victim in that motel, and the other dead girls. The fact that there were a dozen uniforms traipsing around a remote area with a lot of dark places probably didn’t mean someone was having a birthday party at this pile of rocks. Plus now there was a body bag involved.

And God knew every idiot had a cell phone these days.

Which was precisely why, the moment after a positive identification had been made using photographs and birthmarks, de la Cruz had literally run up out of the scene and gone gunning for his car. Although the CPD would not release the name to the press until after the family had been notified, there had been numerous e-mails, texts, and phone calls back and forth with HQ—and there was no way of knowing who might have told their wife, who told her sister, who told someone at the television station.

Sometimes the information age sucked.

And no one wanted the Bartens to find out about their daughter on the evening news . . . or, heaven forbid, Facebook.

As Veck and the other three guys grunted and stretched and pulled and lifted, Reilly was right with them the whole way, clicking her flashlight on and shining the beam to give them something to go on as things got darker. And darker still.

Until it was pitch-black.

Nearly an hour later, they made it to the top and carefully placed the remains in the back of one of the search and rescue vehicles.

Veck and Reilly stood back as Sissy Barten was taken safely back to town.

As the other officers began to disperse and engines were started, Reilly said quietly, “I don’t think—”

“Kroner didn’t kill her,” Veck agreed just as softly.

“The MO does not fit.”

“Not at all.”

And they weren’t the only ones who’d noticed the discrepancy between Sissy and the other victims: This body had been suspended head over heels and drained of blood, and there had been some kind of design etched into the stomach. Further, even though she had been naked and picked clean of personal objects, no patches of skin had been removed and she hadn’t been sexually assaulted—which had been another of Kroner’s perversions.

“I just don’t know how to explain the earring,” he murmured.

“Or why Kroner knew where she was if he didn’t kill her.”

Veck glanced over at his partner. “You want to eat somewhere?”

Bracing her arms over her head, she stretched. “Yes, please. I’m starved. And stiff.”

He took out his phone and texted her: Ur place? Luks like u culd use a bath. Takeout n promise 2 b gent.

There was a discreet bing, and after making some small talk, she surreptitiously got out her phone and glanced down at it.

“Perfect plan.”

His impulse was to kiss her hard and quick. Except he nipped that in the bud, because they were not just not alone; they were around people they frickin’ worked with, hello.

And he wanted to drive back with her, but they were going to have to tandem it, thanks to his damn bike. Shit, to think he used to like that thing.

Then again, it had gotten her to take him home last night.

“See you in twenty,” he told her.

“Are you sure you don’t want an extra coat?”

“I’ll be fine.”

As he walked off across the still spongy, muddy ground, he thought about Jim Heron and the lack of footprints. He’d spent more time looking for evidence that someone other than he and Reilly had been walking around that area, but there had been nothing. Yet he was very sure the man couldn’t possibly have shown up nearly half a mile down the slope, having traversed wet, uneven terrain, without leaving any trace. And it wasn’t as if Veck had imagined the guy’s appearance.

Look down at your feet, Thomas DelVecchio. And then you call me when you get scared enough. I’m the only one who can help you.

Whatever, Heron.

Resisting the urge to shout at the shadows, he mounted up, started his engine, and waited as Reilly stood next to her open trunk and took off her caked, filthy boots. At least that made him smile. He was willing to bet she had either a plastic bag or a rubber mat in there so that she didn’t put the dirty treads on the rug. And she’d take those nasty suckers out as soon as she parked in her garage, and wash them right away so they’d be ready for the next time.

He glanced down at his own feet. His loafers were ruined. The kind of thing that you addressed with a garbage bag, not a scrub brush and a hose.

Hard not to find some other parallels there.

Reilly took the lead, and he was on her all the way into town even though going seventy on a bike on a night like this made you feel like you were back in December. Windbreaker, his ass. He might as well have been wearing a muscle shirt and nothing else, the cold biting into him.

But it wasn’t as if he dwelled on the temperature. In his mind, he went back to the shower he’d taken after that nightmare in the woods with Kroner, back to the dark presence that had wrapped around him and spoken to him and caressed him, back to his biggest fear up close and personal.

It was nothing of this world. Never had been.

And then he heard Reilly’s voice: It’s like he just dropped out of the sky.

Christ, he was losing his mind. Had to be. Because he wasn’t actually thinking Jim Heron didn’t exist.

Was he?

About ten minutes later, they got off the Northway and weeded their way over to Reilly’s neighborhood, and it was a relief to see all the nice-and-normal in the form of houses with lights and TVs on inside, and cars going at slow paces, and corner stores with lottery signs in them.

All things that could be easily and concretely explained. And who’d have ever thought he’d crave that?

When they got to Reilly’s place, he pulled in behind her and dismounted as she eased into the garage, the bright reds of her brake lights flaring and then disappearing as she cut the ignition.

“You should wear a helmet,” she said as she got out, went around to her trunk, and snagged her muddy boots.

Sure enough, she flicked a light switch on, walked them over to the garden hose on the front corner of the garage, and washed off the dirt.

When she glanced back at him, she flushed a little. “What are you smiling for?”

“I had a feeling you were going to do that.”

She laughed and refocused on the cleaning job. “Am I so predictable.”

Eyeing her bent form, he thought “sexy as hell” would also cover it. Man, the woman could turn a mundane chore into something so worth watching.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured.

“Trust me, never that.” Cutting off the water, she shook the boots, dried them with a chamois, and put them back into the trunk.

Together, they went into her cock-a-doodle-doo kitchen and more lights went on. First thing he looked at? The table.

The hard-on was instant. As was the replay of the night before last when he’d done so much more than kiss her on it.

But neither lasted.

Through the doorway into the office, he saw that she had rearranged the furniture in there: The armchair had been pulled into the far corner and angled outward, and a small table was next to it. Extrapolating, he figured that if you were sitting there, you could watch both the front and the rear doors with your back to a solid wall.

“You want to try for pizza again?” she asked from over by the phone.

Cranking his head around, he said roughly, “Why didn’t you tell me.”

“What?”

“That you were being watched, too.”

Jim didn’t wait around to follow Sissy’s mortal remains out of the quarry and into town. Instead, he disengaged from Veck, leaving Adrian to stay with the guy, and proceeded to her family’s house along with a shortish, intense-looking detective who muttered to himself in Spanish.

He said, “Madre de Dios” a lot. And made the sign of the cross so many times it was like his hand had a stutter.

What he did not do was notice that he had a passenger with him in his unmarked: Jim rode shotgun all the way back to Caldwell with the guy. Yeah, sure, he could have taken the fly-by-night route, but this gave him some time to get his shit together.

Plus the Spanish primer was educational.

Twenty minutes after they left the site, the detective pulled over in front of the Barten house, turned off the engine, and got out of the car. As he jacked up his slacks, his face was grim, but then, with the kind of news he had? Hardly time to be flashing your dental work.

Hitting the walkway, Jim stayed side by side with the man, unwilling to invade Sissy’s mother’s house even for a moment, and even though she would never know he was there.

At the door, the guy lifted his hand and put it under his tie, at his chest. There was a cross there. Had to be, especially as the man fell into Spanish as if he were praying—

Abruptly, the detective looked over.

And even though the guy couldn’t see him, Jim met those tired, sad dark eyes. “You can do this. You’re a good man, and you can do this. You’re not alone.”

De la Cruz looked back at the door and nodded sure as if he had heard the words.

Then he rang the bell.

Mrs. Barten opened up a moment later, as if she’d been expecting him. “Detective de la Cruz.”

“May I come in, ma’am?”

“Yes. Please.”

Before he stepped into the house, the detective kicked off his muddy shoes on the mat, and as the woman watched him, her hand crept to her throat. “You found her.”

“Yes, ma’am. We have. Is there anyone else you’d like with you as we speak?”

“My husband’s traveling—but he’s on his way home. I called him right after I got off with you.”

“Let’s do this inside, ma’am.”

She shook herself, as if she’d forgotten she was standing in the open doorway. “Of course.”

Jim went inside with the guy, and then there they were, once again in the living room, with Mrs. Barten taking the same flower-printed armchair she’d sat in the other day. De la Cruz grabbed the couch, and Jim paced back and forth, his rage at Devina making it impossible for him to sit down.

“Tell me,” Mrs. Barten said roughly.

The detective leaned forward and kept his eyes right on her tense, pale face. “We found her at the quarry.”

Sissy’s mother’s lids went on lockdown, closing and staying there. Then her breath left her slowly, until there had to have been nothing left in her lungs at all.

This was the exodus of hope, Jim thought. She probably didn’t even know she’d had any lingering, but here it was, squeezing out of her chest.

“Did she . . . Was she . . . suffer . . .”

De la Cruz spoke slowly and carefully. “We’re not sure that she is part of the recent killings.”

Mrs. Barten’s eyes opened back up, her body going rigid. “What . . . Then who? Why?”

“I don’t have those answers for you yet. But you have my word, ma’am—I will not stop until I find out everything and I get the bastard.”

Jim couldn’t stand it any longer. He went over to Sissy’s mother and put his nonexistent hand on her shoulder. God . . . the pain she was in . . . . He could sense it clearly as if it were his own, and wanting to bear some of her burden for her, he pulled the emotion into himself and held it there until his knees knocked together and he felt light-headed.

Abruptly, as if she were strengthened, the woman squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. In a low, forceful voice, she said, “How did she die.”

“Ma’am, we need the medical examiner to tell us that. She’s going back with him now, and he’s staying up all night to take care of her. She’s in good hands, and after I leave here, I’m going right to her side. I won’t leave her, ma’am. Not until she’s through this part. That’s my promise.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Barten took a deep breath. “How will I know what’s happening?”

De la Cruz took out a card and wrote something on it. “This is my cell. You call me anytime, night or day. My phone’s always on and always with me. And as soon as the examiner’s done, you’ll be the first person I dial.”

Mrs. Barten nodded and then shifted her focus, her eyes training on some infinite middle ground between her and the detective.

What part of Sissy’s life was she remembering? Jim wondered. The birth . . . the birthdays . . . the Christmases or Easters? Was it Halloween or the Fourth of July, or no particular holiday, just some offhand recollection of a sweet moment between the two of them? Or maybe it was something witnessed between Sissy and someone else that showed the girl’s kindness or empathy or humor. . . .

He wanted to see what she saw. Even if it was nothing good. Or nothing at all.

But he didn’t intrude on her. Enough of her daughter had been stolen—

The vibration against his chest wall was not his heart going haywire on him. It was his phone on vibrate.

Taking the thing out, he read the text from Adrian: Ben tryn 2 reach u—need u now.

Jim didn’t want to leave, but he was out of the house in a second. Speeding over to the east, he zeroed in on Adrian—

And flashed right into a fight on the back lawn of Veck’s partner’s house.

What the fuck?

Devina’s minions had apparently boiled up out of the night, their smoky bodies circling Adrian like scavengers over a fresh corpse. But at least his boy wasn’t dead—and wasn’t about to be, given the way his deadly body was poised to do battle.

Jim upshifted immediately into full-on aggression and he didn’t wait for the bell to ring. He jumped right in, throwing himself at the closest minion, tackling it hard. As the bastard screeched, that high-pitched sound was what got things rolling—between one second and the next, everything went shit-wild.

Holding the SOB down, Jim curled up a fist and pummeled the thing with a punch to the “head”—and then he took advantage of the split second of paralysis to look up and summon a visual and audio barrier around this freak show. This was a neighborhood, not a vacant field. And all the hand-to-hand was happening mere yards away from three other houses. All of which had plenty of phone lines that could call the police.

CPD uniforms were not what they needed right now.

Outing his crystal dagger, he offed the minion under him and then stabbed at everything in front of him, slashing and lunging, leading always with the sharp point of the weapon Eddie had given him and taught him about.

Everything came out in the violence, all his pain and his fury unleashed, until he didn’t notice the acid blood from the enemy splashing his face. And he didn’t care that the shit was eating through his leather jacket and beelining for more of his skin. In fact, he couldn’t feel the earth beneath his feet as he powered from demon to demon ; he was at once totally with it and utterly disappeared.

And in his wrath, they couldn’t touch him: These were boys coming for a man’s job, and they were getting served.

After Jim stabbed another black chest cavity, the acidy spray hitting his jaw and throat, he dumped the body and got ready for the next—

The blow across his back was a real tooth rattler, the kind of thing that made you see stars and hear birds chirping. But like the trained solider he was, Jim went with the momentum, letting himself fall to the ground and then curling at the shoulder at the last minute to avoid further injury.

When he stopped his roll and looked over, the minion who’d gone after him was ready for round two.

Well, hello there, yard man, he thought.

The bastard had gotten itself a shovel and obviously used the thing like a tennis racket, swinging and following through with the flat metal end. And it was hard to tell, but it seemed like laughter was coming out of the three-dimensional shadow.

Clearly, the dumb bitch thought he was in charge, and Jim was more than happy to teach Devina’s lackey a life lesson in assuming shit. Staying down and playing like he was compromised, he waited for it to come on over—which it did, sure as if Jim were holding the strings to those oily arms and legs: Moving like a robot with stiff joints, the minion approached with the heavy tool balanced between both hands. Closer. Closer . . .

When it was in range, Jim jacked up his torso, double-palmed the handle, and yanked hard. The minion jerked forward and fell off balance, gravity grabbing that body and pulling it right on top of Jim.

Good thing it wasn’t bleeding.

Jim’s boot met the thing’s pelvic bone to stop the descent, and then it was a case of rolling back and kicking the weight free—while keeping the shovel, of course.

As the minion went for a little joyride through thin air, Jim sprang up, stayed with it, and was the first to welcome it to its new home on the ground: Swinging the shovel around, he drove the business end into the bastard’s shadowy chest.

The scream was satisfying. But even more fun was to step back and watch as it pinwheeled in slow-mo: Apparently, Jim had put so much into the strike, the tool had penetrated right into the ground—about three feet, going by how much of the wooden handle was showing. The minion was locked on its back, an insect mounted.

The thing looked up and snarled.

“Yeah? So come and get me.” Jim gave it a second to get up. “No? Prefer being a welcome mat? Suits you, motherfucker.”

Jim kicked it hard in the head, going soccer ball on that loose skull, and then left the SOB where it was; across the lawn, Adrian was about to get back-doored by a minion that had found a spade and was gunning for him at a dead run.

“What is this—Home fucking Depot night?” Jim muttered as he got out his dagger again. “Behind you!”

Adrian dropped to the grass just as the gardener from hell stabbed forward. Great timing—the minion caught one of his buddies right in the gut. Trouble? All that blood was going to golf-sprinkler Ad.

Jim was just about to pull a breathing tarp when Adrian took care of the problem, going combats-over-cranium and getting the fuck out of the way.

There were only two upright minions left and he and his buddy split the difference, Jim taking the one with the hoe-hoe-hoe and Adrian whipping up onto his feet and circling the other, crystal dagger in hand.

Unwilling to wait for a strike, Jim lunged forward, and grabbed onto the spade’s handle, yanking it vertical and then snapping out so the tool’s hardwood hello’d the minion in the frontal lobe. Cue the duh moment—which Jim exploited by stabbing the thing.

As he wheeled around, he got to watch Ad dust the other fucker by opening a trapdoor in its intestines, and then nailing it in the head.

After that, there was nothing but panting breath and steaming leather and stilled lawn supplies.

Jim glanced around, wondering where all the—Ah, yes, Reilly had a neighbor with one of those backyard shed things, and the squat box had been busted open. Too bad the lawn mower was still nestled in there—that would have been fun.

Coulda given a whole new meaning to a high-and-tight haircut.

“You okay?” he said to Ad.

Ad spit on the lawn. “Yeah.”

They were both bleeding from scratches, but at least on Jim’s side, he was feeling better. The fighting had blown the carbon out of his pistons, and he was more himself. Calmer. More capable of focusing.

Good timing, he thought as he went over and knelt down by the bastard who was nailed to the ground.

“You ever work one of these over for intel?” he said as he measured the thing. It was moving slowly, clearly still alive. Whatever the fuck that meant.

“Yup. They don’t have anything to say. Can’t talk.”

“Probably why she likes them.”

Ad came over and wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. The glimmering red stain left behind looked like something a psychologist would ask her patient to interpret.

To Jim? It looked like the opening of a cave. A dense, dark cave that had the body of an innocent stashed against the back wall.

Yeah, like that interp was a shocker.

As a groaning sound bubbled up, Jim thought, Damn that demon. She was smart. If your subordinates were incapable of speaking about you, either because they were mute, dumb, or pain-resistant, it was damn good strategy—

“That was fun to watch.”

At the sound of Devina’s voice, Jim and Ad locked eyes. In silent agreement, they both made like her appearance was nothing unexpected. And as they rose to their feet and turned to her, Jim put himself in front of the other angel.

He was not losing another one to that bitch. Not tonight.

“Hiding from me, Jim?”

The demon’s eyes all but reached out and grabbed him: They were so intense, it was like being physically struck.

Silly thing to say, though. He hadn’t realized she couldn’t find him.

“Radar not working, Devina?” So that was why Ad had gotten attacked. She’d wanted to draw Jim out.

The demon stepped delicately across the grass. She was wearing heels high enough to make him wonder how she handled the elevation sickness, and her skirt was the size of a napkin and the color of the Vegas strip.

Sounded ridiculous, looked hot—as long as you didn’t know what she really was.

And houghs never going to forget that.

Reaching behind, he put his hand on Ad’s forearm. The other angel was hard as a concrete block, utterly immobile—and he was going to have to stay that way: He was not in the right frame of mind to tackle an out-and-out with the enemy.

Neither was Jim, to be honest. But she wasn’t going to know that.

“Got something on your mind, Devina?”

She stopped when she came up to her undead soldier who’d been shish kebab’d. Staring down at the thing, she put her hand out, and with all the urgency of someone picking up a newspaper, summoned the form into her palm, drawing it up from the ground in a liquid rush and absorbing the stain into herself. When she was through, the shovel remained where it had been left, buried in the ground to the handle.

“How’s Eddie doing?” She smiled. “Smelling like a rose?”

Jim wanted to curse. Of course she led with that.

It was the one thing guaranteed to make Adrian flip out.

Fucking hell—just when he’d thought this night couldn’t get worse . . .