Hell Fire

Unearthed Secrets

In the end, Shannon found what we were looking for.

“Mark 8:36,” she called, excitement thrumming in her voice. When we gathered in the living room, she read from the book in her hands. “ ‘For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?’ This passage is highlighted.” She showed us the Bible, where someone, probably Curtis Farrell, had marked the verse scrawled on his door.

“Sounds like a threat,” Chance said quietly.

“Somebody knew something,” Jesse agreed. “But were they blackmailing Farrell or trying to get him to stop?”

An excellent question. Farrell hadn’t displayed the confidence of a career criminal. He’d seemed hesitant, like he didn’t know what to do when confronted with resistance. His job had been spelled out for him—and I still wasn’t sure what he’d intended to do to Miss Minnie—and once things went wrong, he didn’t know how to respond.

“Is this a religious thing?” I asked. “Or someone just using the Bible for a convenient code?”

“Impossible to say.” Jesse took the Bible from Shannon and flipped through it. As he gave the book a last shake, a scrap of paper tumbled toward the floor.

With his preternatural reflexes, Chance snatched it before it touched. He scanned it and then looked at me with a half frown. “Robert Frost? It’s that ‘Two roads diverged in a wood’ poem.”

“ ‘The Road Not Taken’?” I took the torn yellow sheet from Chance; it looked as if it had been pulled from a legal pad. “Wish we had a sample of Farrell’s handwriting. Then we’d know whether he wrote this down himself or someone else gave it to him.”

“Can I?” At Shannon’s question, I passed it along. Her eyes widened. “This is John McGee’s writing. I’d recognize the crabby little letters anywhere.”

“So Farrell had been talking to McGee,” Jesse mused. “And they both ended up dead.”

I wondered aloud, “Could that have been the point? Someone may have sent Farrell to Miss Minnie’s house right then, knowing we were there.”

A thundercloud frown knit Chance’s brow. “Knowing we wouldn’t react well to a robber threatening an old lady.”

“If that’s the case,” Shannon said, “then the guy on the roof wasn’t working with Farrell. He was there to keep us pinned down until we noticed something was wrong inside.”

Jesse gave her an approving nod. “Good thinking, Shannon.”

She flushed with pleasure. “Just makes sense, right? He didn’t try too hard to hit us. He might’ve been trying to drive us back inside the house, and then Butch heard the intruder.”

It would’ve taken a dog’s hearing to notice someone jimmying the back door with the varmint rifle pinging away. But then, everyone in town knew I took Butch everywhere. As theories went, this one seemed to make sense.

That put a scowl on Saldana’s face. “If that’s true, it makes it even more embarrassing that he got me.”

I didn’t look at him. He’d been shot trying to protect me. I couldn’t make light of that, even if it hadn’t been strictly necessary, but there was no evidence to support any of our hypotheses, anyway.

“We sound like crazed conspiracy theorists,” I said in disgust. “It was this; it was that; it was—”

“Bigfoot,” Chance said, deadpan.

He startled a laugh out of me. “Definitely.”

“Nothing else was underlined,” Jesse murmured, getting us back on track. “I think it’s safe to say our guy isn’t a scholar or a church-goer.”

Shannon nodded. “No shit. I expect to find a closet weed farm somewhere in here. But if you want to scope out the church scene, there’s a potluck dinner every Saturday night.”

“That’s your grandfather’s territory,” Chance pointed out. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”

She shrugged. “Up until we leave, everything here is going to cause problems for me. I’m just waiting for it to hit the fan.”

At that point, Butch jumped out of my bag into her arms. She caught him with a startled laugh. He was simply the best dog ever; he seemed to sense that she would derive comfort from snuggling him instead of thinking about her troubles.

I rubbed my hands against my denim-clad thighs, trying to scrub away the residual filth of poking around that bathroom. To me, Farrell’s home hygiene suggested he didn’t believe he had long to live, and thus, saw no point in keeping up the place. But I wasn’t sure I could profile someone, based on slovenly ways.

“Then I’d say a church social is what we need to scope out the local color.”

“This won’t end well,” Jesse predicted.

We didn’t find anything else of interest, not even that closet weed farm Shannon expected. I was starting to get frustrated with all the separate pieces not coalescing into a recognizable shape. There’s a reason I hate jigsaw puzzles. I don’t have the patience to find all the border pieces, especially when they’re all the same shade of gray.

When we left Farrell’s house, we took the Bible. I’d handle it later, but it didn’t seem wise to hang around Farrell’s place longer than necessary. If Sheriff Robinson found us here, the consequences would be unpleasant.

“Let’s take one last look around,” Jesse said.

Shannon cocked a brow. “What’re we looking for?”

“Anything that offers a hint at who’s been hanging around,” he answered. “Corine learned a lot from a button, as I recall.”

That much was true. Any small object that might’ve dropped when people were coming and going might tell us something. Right now we had no clue why Curtis Farrell had decided to trade a life of petty drugs and making change for one big felony.

Chance nodded. “Better to be sure we don’t miss anything. Somebody will be along to shovel this place out, so we probably won’t have another shot at this. Corine, you want to take a look around back?”

I nodded as they divided up the rest of the small yard. Shannon kept Butch, and he showed no signs of minding the attention. I circled the house. Near the back door, I found some weird impressions in the dirt behind Farrell’s garage. It would take a tracker to make anything of the morass of churned mud, unless—

I’d never have attempted, or even considered anything like this in the past, but since dying, my gift seemed to have stretched into unknown dimensions. Before, I wouldn’t have tried to read a whole house. I knelt, studying the ground: torn earth and grass pulled up by the roots. I wouldn’t be able to do anything with the plants, but what about dirt?

The others were searching the front and sides. If Chance or Jesse had been there, they probably would have tried to talk me out of it. I gazed at the new brand on my palm, the smooth, unscarred skin around it, and felt a cold, eerie certainty. I could do this. I didn’t know what the mark portended, but it signified change. Though I had no way to prove it, I suspected I’d received more of my mother’s power. Instead of passing to me cleanly during her spell, something must have gone wrong and it had wound up in the necklace instead. Now that I’d touched it, I’d absorbed the rest, but there was no way to know how it would affect me down the road.

But it had made me a more powerful handler, no question.

Without hesitation, I sank my fingers into the dirt. It felt like bathing my hand in chemical fire, but I gritted my teeth and held on. Nobody died here; it wasn’t that bad, but it was awful enough.

I became two men at once, locked in a life-or-death struggle. That had never happened to me before because objects belonged to one person. Not dirt—it belonged to everyone, no one, or whoever trod upon it.

Their conflicting emotions swamped me: greed, anger, terror, exhilaration, desperation. I seesawed between the apogee and the abyss while they grappled and tore the earth. I’d have given a lot to hear what they were saying, but it never worked like that for me. I imagined the grunts and gasps of breath while pain washed over me in waves of red fire. Though I tried, I couldn’t jerk my hand out of the soil until the vision ended. Immersion, immolation; I hovered but a half step away from one or the other.

Finally, the older man shoved the younger to his knees, both hands on his throat. He spoke, saying something I couldn’t hear. I strained to read his lips and failed, not for the first time. For a heartbreaking moment, the man on his knees clawed at his captor’s hands, desperate. His fear poured through me, sour and rancid. He didn’t want to acquiesce, but he’d die if he didn’t. He felt it, believed it, and so did I.

When the beaten man turned his face upward, I recognized him. Farrell. Whatever the old bastard wanted, Curtis had been forced to it—throttled into submission. He managed a nod, and the other man’s hands fell away just before Farrell blacked out. And I went with him.

I came to on my side, gasping for air. My throat burnt as if someone had been strangling me, and my right hand throbbed with an agonizing pulse. Jesus. Well, that’s new.

Through sparks in my vision that meant I was close to passing out again, I stared at my fingers, focused on wiggling them, and saw they were fire engine red but possessed no new marks. I lay there, breathing and reflecting. It was all I could do right then.

Dirt was less dangerous than metal. But no wonder the tracks didn’t look like much of anything. Two men fighting over the same space created the look of a monster rampage.

Jesse came upon me a few minutes later. “What the hell, Corine—did someone attack you? What happened? Can you talk, sugar?” He did a visual inspection of my injuries, lingering at my throat.

Christ, did I wear marks there too?

I managed to push to a sitting position, but standing was beyond me. Oxygen deprivation sent tremors through my limbs; I couldn’t seem to convince my body I hadn’t been choked. He swung me up into his arms before I could tell him not to, and my stomach whirled in response.

“Slowly,” I whispered, sounding hoarse to my own ears.

Jesse called to the others and carried me to the Forester, but he modulated his step so as not to jar me. He smelled of plain Ivory soap and a tangy citrus scent. I breathed him in, trying to identify the cologne, and then gave up, closing my eyes.

Jesse slid into the vehicle with me on his lap, and I didn’t try to get away. Then again, I wouldn’t have tried to escape unless a killer had a hold of me; I was that tapped out. Two doors slammed, and Shannon and Chance got in the front.

“Drive,” Jesse told Shannon, who started the engine on command.

She pulled out, gravel spinning beneath the tires. In making our getaway, we didn’t encounter any law enforcement types who’d ask awkward questions about why Chance was hanging around the house of the man he’d killed last night.

“What’s going on?” Chance asked.

Jesse answered, “At this point? I’m not sure. But take a look at this.”

I felt him angle my head, and then I did open my eyes. Chance swore in an entertaining mix of English and Korean. Mildly curious now that my nausea had started to subside, I lifted my left hand and touched my neck. Ouch.

I couldn’t remember ever taking an injury apart from my hands. Unless you count dying, a cynical voice said. My mother’s necklace might well have changed everything I thought I knew about my gift, both its boundaries and its dangers.

“Did someone attack you?” Chance demanded.

I shook my head slowly to make sure that much was clear. There would be no point in Shannon stopping the SUV so they could comb the area for someone long gone days before. Concentrating, I mimed writing.

Chance got it right away. He delved into Jesse’s glove box and found a pen and scrap of paper for me. I scrawled what I’d done, what I’d seen, and then passed it to my ex. His jaw tightened as he read, and he slanted a look over the seat that could’ve cut glass. Before he said a word, I could tell what he thought of my pushing my power.

“You’re out of your mind,” he bit out. “Are you determined to die here? Because I see you taking risk after risk and you don’t seem to—”

“Stop,” Jesse said quietly. “She’s been through enough at this point. She doesn’t need you yelling at her too.”

Chance’s eyes glittered like amber with ire frozen in their depths. “Don’t tell me what to do where Corine’s concerned.” He looked as if he would break Jesse’s fingers and pull them away from me by force.

“Every time I handle, it’s a risk.” I pushed the words through a raw throat. “I made the choice; I’ll live with the consequences.”

“Where to?” Shannon cut in, diffident.

I silently thanked her for the change in topic. I struggled off Jesse’s lap and belted myself with some difficulty into my own seat. My fingers stung like hell.

“I need a drink,” I told Shannon. “Strong enough to burn off the clouds. Is there a bar anywhere nearby?”

In answer, she cut right on the county road and headed toward town.

After a short drive, she pulled up outside a roadhouse that sat just outside the city limits, a little way past Ma’s Kitchen. No signs revealed the name of the establishment, but small orange neon lettering proclaimed CHEAP COLD BEER. That was probably enough for local clientele.

Refusing Jesse’s aid, I slid out of the SUV. I brushed myself off as best I could and then gave up, figuring people who hung around in bars this early deserved my dishevelment. My knees felt shaky for the first few steps, but I declined to take anybody’s arm. They would just argue I shouldn’t be drinking if I couldn’t walk straight before I started, and they would have a point.

Chance opened the door for me and I stepped in, squinting at the dim interior. There were no lights on at this hour, just the uncertain light filtering through dirty windows. The place was open for business, though, and decorated with liquor store paraphernalia. Beer signs and old advertisements littered the walls.

There was nobody at the bar, nobody in here at all. A guy in a dirty yellow ball cap paused in stocking the bar when we came in. Did they even have tequila here? Drowning in a sudden onslaught of homesickness, I wanted some.

This place was nothing like the warm, inviting cantinas at home. It wasn’t even as nice as Twilight in San Antonio. Still, my nerves needed steadying, and I could use something to numb the pain.

The proprietor tried on a smile, as if he hoped we were there to spend money and not just use the toilet or telephone. At a glance, the place didn’t seem to have one—a public phone, that is. A handwritten sign pointed toward the rest-rooms.

“What can I get you folks?” His voice boomed out, jocular and forced.

Shannon asked for a Coke. Smart girl. I hadn’t even thought of her being underage when I suggested this; I wasn’t used to hanging around kids. Chance and Jesse both requested beers, but Jesse said the can was fine for him.

“Hell Fire,” I said aloud, my voice low and husky as a phone-sex operator.

He blinked at me. “I reckon I have no idea what that is, but if you tell me how, I can mix it for you.”

“Equal parts tequila, vodka, Red Aftershock, and a dash of Tabasco. Mix well, pour over ice.”

Their drinks came quick. Mine he had to think about. “I got the tequila and vodka,” he muttered, more to himself than me. Cheap stuff it was too. He dumped some ice in a glass, anticipating success. I watched, feeling almost cheerful about his uncertainty. He finally glanced over at me. “I don’t have no Red Aftershock.”

“Cinnamon schnapps will do,” I said, easing down at the bar.

Something spicy might clear my head and burn away the confusion. If nothing else, I needed to hold a drink that reminded me of home, one that burned as it went down. I missed Mexico. Georgia had been my home once, but it wasn’t anymore.

After I told him what to substitute, it went quickly for him: tequila, vodka, cinnamon schnapps, a dash of hot sauce. With an expression that said yuck, he slid it my way. The bar-tender studied me as I drank the concoction, as if expecting smoke to rise from my mouth. But I was used to stronger stuff.

I was made of stronger stuff.