Part 3 (1/2)

None of it was of much help, but Ric strove to keep his breathing steady. It would accomplish nothing to lose control and take out his frustrations on Tuxbridge. ”Tell me about yourself, Tux. Where are you from?” Now was as good a time as any to learn more about his adjutant.

Tux smiled. ”I'm from 'G.o.d's Country'-that is, if I still believed in a G.o.d. The Upper Peninsula. My father was a Frenchman. Did you know that?”

Ric shook his head.

Tux's grin spread. ”Unlike yourself, he was typical of the courouers de bois, the French fur traders, jovial and happy-go-lucky. It was a period of great romance, but also of hards.h.i.+p. The traders were fettered by laws as harsh and biting as the jaws of their steel traps, but my father and his cronies were notorious in their disregard of the decrees. They cared only for one thing, and that was the hunt. By the time I was born, markets were overstocked, prices fell, and the decline of the fur trade had begun. My father died, as did I, but I pa.s.sed to the Other Side, and he did not. Still, all in all, I feel a kins.h.i.+p to him to this day. He enjoyed the hunt, and so do I.”

”When I lived in Eidolon Lake I heard about the fur traders. There were old men in town who loved nothing better than to relate the legends of the fur traders, miners, and lumberman, and of the ghost towns that are all that's now left of them.”

Tux pulled a matchbook out of his pocket and lit a match. ”Have you ever heard the French legend of the feu follet?”

”The will-o'-the-wisp. The friar's lantern. Of course. Strange, glowing orbs of light that flit through the woods, luring weary travelers not to safety, but to their deaths in a marshy bog or down a steep ravine.”

”Umm. A phenomena the scientists have dubbed ignis fatuus, the phosph.o.r.escent light caused by spontaneous combustion of gases emitted by rotting organic matter. But when I lived near what is now L'Anse it was myself and my brothers carrying lights in the forest to lure the humans to their doom. We fed well, and if we killed our victims, it didn't matter. The missing were always blamed on the feu follet. It was great sport. I miss those days.” Tux stared at the flickering flame.

”Not enough to go around killing humans, I hope.”

Tux blew out the match. ”Of course not. We're more civilized now, and even we French no longer flaunt authority, do we?”

One side of Ric's mouth twisted downward. ”Civilized, yes.” He looked at his watch and sighed. ”I have to finish the autopsy.

We'll talk more tonight. Two o'clock. Be early.”

Tux nodded as he drew a long breath. The gesture summed up Ric's own feelings. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer night.

* * * *Shelby arrived home at nine o'clock in the evening, dead to the world except for the tireless little gremlins who kept her and her headache alive with the merciless pounding of tiny hammers against her temple.

A familiar greeting welcomed her. ”h.e.l.lo, baby.”

She smiled in spite of her exhaustion and throbbing head. ”Hi, Flash. Did you miss me?”

”h.e.l.lo, lover. Lover boy. Lover boy.”

”I wish.” She opened the door of the cage, and the blue and white budgie hopped onto the lowered door and then onto her finger.

She brought Flash to her face, and the tiny beak stretched out to peck at her nose in a bird-kiss. ”Go on, now. I'm too tired to play.”

She raised her hand with a jerk, and the bird took off, flapping noisily around the room.

Flash had been named after the first partner she'd had as a patrol officer in Milwaukee eight years ago. At first Flash had been exciting to work with. He had loved nothing more than to chase stolen cars through the streets and alleys of Milwaukee's north side, and hardly an evening had gone by that Shelby and Flash didn't engage some hapless slug in a foot or car pursuit. She had even dated Flash for a while, but his nickname was just as appropriate in the bedroom as it had been on the streets. Gradually Shelby began to see Flash as conceited and unsafe, and she was glad for the next squad change in which he was paired with a guy dubbed ”Crash” for his propensity for getting into squad accidents. Flash and Crash. It was a match made in heaven.

Suddenly she was angry with herself. It must be the exhaustion, because she knew better than to think about her ex-partner Flash.

He made her think of the next cop she had dated, Curt Van Allen, and Curt had been the ultimate heartbreaker. V. A., as everyone had called him, had been on the early s.h.i.+ft with her. Tall, with blue eyes, blond hair, and a body sculpted to perfection by hours in the gym, he had caught her eye from day one. And the attraction had been mutual. Maybe it was his air of authority that had made her think he was responsible. Maybe it was his smooth words, so coated with sincerity. But when he had told her he loved her, she had believed him. Not in a million years would she have guessed that V. A., as full of charm as his file was full of merit arrests, would be the one to destroy her life so thoroughly. Betrayal. Gossip. The hara.s.sment suit. Lies.

No! She had vowed long ago not to waste any more tears, thoughts, or time on Curt Van Allen. She forced the memories aside, and swept the room with her gaze, searching for some distraction.

The phone. The red message light was blinking. Well, the calls could wait a few moments longer. She needed to relax, and she wasn't quite ready to trade the painful recollections of the past for the pressures of the present. She shook her head, raised her hands with her palms facing the phone, and slipped into the sanctuary of her bedroom. The world could wait. She dropped the heavy Sam Browne belt onto the floor with a thud. Her sweaty uniform s.h.i.+rt was next to hit the floor, followed by an even sweatier white T-s.h.i.+rt. The brown uniform trousers topped the pile.

Shelby took a cool shower, pulled on cotton shorts and a baggy T-s.h.i.+rt, and poured herself an iced tea. The red light on her phone caught her eye again. She sighed and played back her messages. One was from a reporter from the Harbor-Bay Light, the small, weekly newspaper that covered Shadow Bay and neighboring Snoshoe Harbor, and one was from a reporter from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel who had obviously found out she used to work for the Milwaukee Police Department. Christ!

What's next? USA Today? Requests at home for interviews were bad enough, but the last message was a lengthy tirade from one of Cristallia County's District Commissioners.

”Young lady, I know you're not a native of these parts, so let me remind you that our number one industry is tourism, and that the bulk of the dollars generated through that tourism comes during the summer months. I hold you and your department personally responsible for solving this atrocious crime and seeing that nothing like this happens again in our community. There were those who thought we were taking a risk electing you, and others who thought your experience and skills outweighed your youth and unfamiliarity with the area. I certainly hope that the trust put in you was not misplaced.”

Shelby closed her eyes for a long moment, but instead of relaxation, all she felt was the persistent pounding in her head, as though some evil taskmaster was hammering out a beat for her racing thoughts to follow. She put Flash back in his cage, picked up her iced tea, and went outside to the rear deck to stretch out on her padded chaise lounge.

It wasn't unusual for Milwaukee to record fifteen homicides in a single summer month, but it was unheard of for Shadow Bay to have a single homicide in a decade. She was used to responsibility, and the fact that she had been a female put into a position of command at a fairly young age had put her into the spotlight years ago. She was used to it, but that didn't make it easier to bear.

She took a long swallow of her cold drink, then leaned her head back and stared at the dazzling display above. Even after two years she was still amazed at how different the night sky looked in the country as opposed to the city. With the tall trees, taller buildings, and artificial lights of Milwaukee, the sky at night had always been a small patch of gray, populated by the moon and a handful of only the brightest stars. Out here the sky itself was a city of stars against a vast landscape of black shadow and shape.

But instead of calming her as it usually did, the sight overwhelmed her, making her feel small and insignificant. She longed for someone to listen to her, to rub the tension from her neck and shoulders, but there was no one. She seldom indulged in regrets and ”what ifs,” but tonight the lack of sleep, headache, and memory of the angry phone message fought and won out against her fort.i.tude. She closed her eyes and let the silent tears trickle down her face. What did it matter? There was no one to see her.

Ric arrived at Dory Kreech's house well in advance of the scheduled meeting time. He had managed three hours of sleep after finis.h.i.+ng the autopsy, all the reports, and a visit to the sheriff. The body had been identified late in the afternoon via dental records.

The victim turned out to be a young man named Kyle Carver from La Pointe, two hundred miles to the south, who had been unemployed and in and out of trouble with the law. Ric was glad the body had been identified so quickly. It would be s.h.i.+pped back to the family now for burial instead of to Was.h.i.+ngton for further scrutiny, and the secret of his death would be buried with him.

The body would be no more of a problem, but Ric still had two very big problems remaining. The sheriff and the killer. The sheriff would go on digging, and the killer would go on killing. One of them had to be stopped.

Ric looked again at the house before him. ”House” was kind. The sprawling abode could easily vie with and beat out the Chicken Palace for the t.i.tle of Architectural Nightmare of Cristallia County. As Ric eased his bike all the way to the end of the driveway he was able to see the side and rear of the building. Doors and windows sprouted all over the structure like eyes on a potato, and they were all open, spilling light out into the night like water through a sieve. The ground floor had both conventional doors and patios with sliding doors on each side of the house. The upper story had a door with a small deck on both the front and the side, and a larger deck to the rear with a staircase that descended to the ground.

Ric pulled the band from his hair and shook his head. The breeze caught the long strands and styled them into the type of tempestuous array that a mother would frown upon, but Ric didn't care. There was no pretense of the mild-mannered human here, no gla.s.ses and no khakis. He wore his leather jacket, worn jeans, and motorcycle boots.

A slightly built man, as una.s.suming as the house was eccentric, stood in the rectangle of light formed by one of the side doors. He had limp, shoulder-length, dark blond hair that any woman, and even a good many men, would have lightened to a more flattering shade.

”You must be the Doctor. I'm Dory Kreech. Welcome to the Deanery.”

”Ric De Chaux. The Deanery?”

”That's what it was before I bought it and made a few modifications. Come on in. I heard you bought the Chicken Palace. A great house, yours is. Not enough doors, but still a great house.”

”Hmm. Do you know why everyone calls it the 'Chicken Palace?'”

”Sure. The name dates all the way back to the Second World War. See, the upstairs wasn't finished, and the owner couldn't get any more materials because of the war. The family slept up there in the cold, sometimes in zero temperatures. Finally they declared the place a 'farm' and obtained enough cedar for a 'chicken coop' which they promptly used quite illegally to finish off the upstairs. The government would allow materials for something like a farm, which they felt was useful, but not for a kid's bedroom. Humans, huh? Go figure.”

Humans, indeed. Dory led them into his living room, where extra chairs had obviously been squeezed in amongst a rustic sofa and matching armchair. ”Make yourself at home, Doc. You don't mind if I call you that, do you?”

”No.”

”I know who you are. We all do. Le docteur la mort. Doctor Death. You're quite famous, you know. We're honored to have you here.”

Famous? How diplomatic that you don't call me notorious. Ric slid his gaze from the furnis.h.i.+ngs to the smaller man. ”Are you?

What else do you know about me?”

Dory smiled. ”I know that you worked for the Coterie as a Paramount and that you even made a bid for Patriarch.”

And you've probably heard two percent truth and ninety-eight percent rumor, Mr. Kreech. Still, rumor and reputation could often be used to the good. ”Hmm. I suggest you forget everything you've heard, Mr. Kreech.” No doubt you'll not only remember everything you've heard, but I'm sure you'll spread it around to everyone who hasn't heard the rumors.