Page 21

21

Tallus

D iem was not getting cigarettes or whiskey if I had any say in the matter, but I managed to convince Ivory’s near-dead husband Herbert to find an ice pack and a box of the strongest painkillers available over the counter. My stubborn boyfriend would not go to a hospital, and short of knocking him out—which didn’t feel right after a tree fell on him—I wasn’t going to win the argument.

He collapsed onto the bed, cursing a thousand times worse than usual, his features contorted in pain. Considering he kept one hand clamped to the juncture between his shoulder and neck, I assume that was where he’d taken the brunt of the impact.

“You probably have broken bones.”

He growled in response, teeth gnashing, and I wasn’t about to reprimand him for his incommunicado response. He’d been vacillating between spitting profanities and moaning like a wounded animal. A large animal. A dying grizzly bear, to be precise. He deserved grace.

I removed his boots, fearing his pain would shoot to a level that he might kick me by accident. I didn’t think they were steel toe, but I wasn’t taking chances. The coat came off before I got him on the bed, and it was a song and dance, considering it required him to move his arm in a way that hurt him more. I didn’t argue about leaving the T-shirt in place, but I shucked his jeans for comfort, tossing them on his travel bag.

“Can I look at it?” I asked, kneeling beside him, wondering what the fuck was taking Ivory’s husband so long. The man was likely zombie-walking to the store, arms outstretched and groaning like they did on The Walking Dead . At this rate, it would take forever.

Every exhale came out of Diem with a rumbly growl, but he removed his hand from his shoulder and let me examine him. An ugly dark bruise had already bloomed to life, and swelling had set in. “Can you move your arm?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

“No. It fucking hurts.”

“Show me, Diem, or I’m calling an ambulance.”

“Tallus—”

“Do not fight with me. Move the arm, or I’m calling 911.”

He lifted the injured arm from where he’d tucked it against his chest. It trembled, but he maneuvered it slowly, proving the joint wasn’t compromised. The action caused him to lose a few shades of color, and tiny beads of sweat popped out across his forehead.

“Wiggle your fingers.”

He bared his teeth instead and showed me the middle one, which was technically dexterity and demonstration enough.

A knock sounded at the door. I sprung from the bed and met the corpse of an old man who had come bearing gifts of ice packs and painkillers. Tucked under Herbert’s arm was an unopened bottle of whiskey.

“We don’t need that.” I pointed at the bottle.

“I heard him mention wanting alcohol,” the dead man said in his monotone voice. “In the war, we used alcohol to bandage the worst of the pain.”

“You weren’t in the war.”

The corpse blinked. “I could have been.”

“You probably weren’t born until it was over. Stop lying.”

“He wanted the alcohol.”

“He doesn’t need it.”

“Yes, I fucking do, Tallus,” Diem snarled from the bed. “Bring that fucking bottle over here, or so help me god, I will show you how well I can move my arm.”

I darted a glance over my shoulder. “Diem whatever-your-middle-name-is Krause, you can be in all the pain you want, but you do not get to threaten me, or I will find whoever did this and ask them to drop another goddamn tree on your head. Got it? Now shove a sock in it.”

I took the bottle from Ivory’s husband, muttering, “Fuck it. He’s cranky. Trees are falling from the sky, and a rabid Toto haunts the woods. I can hardly blame him for wanting a drink. I want a fucking drink at this point too.”

“When I was in the war—”

“You weren’t in the goddamn war, Herbert. It would make you over a hundred, and you’re not over a hundred.”

“I have to polish the silver now.”

“Good. Go. Thank you for this.”

I slammed the door as Diem spat, “He could have been in the Korean war, or, if he joined at seventeen like most idiot teens, he could have been in World War II. It would make him ninety-seven, not over a hundred.”

“Whose side are you on? And if that man is ninety-seven, I will—”

“Give me the fucking bottle, Tallus.”

Begrudgingly, I handed him the bottle, the meds, and the ice.

Diem took four pain pills with a long, long pull of whiskey. I capped it as he collapsed back on the pillow, huffing and puffing like he’d run a marathon. The creases of pain that had riddled his face since the tree branch had fallen eased, and he closed his eyes.

I gently laid the ice pack over the bruise. He didn’t resist and sighed in what felt like relief.

“We should call Delaney and tell her what happened,” I said.

“No.”

“We should report it at least. Diem, someone did that to us on purpose.”

“I know. Someone doesn’t want us investigating this fucking case.”

“Do you think that’s what it is?”

“Yes.”

His breathing calmed, and he cracked an eyelid, motioning with his good arm for the bottle. I wanted to protest but handed it over, choosing my battles. With a stitch of pain marring his brow, he levered himself upright enough to drink, ingesting at least as much as the first time before collapsing again.

He lay still for a long time, and I thought he was asleep when he mumbled, words partly slurred, “Someone killed Weston. Someone doesn’t want us to find out the truth.”

I pondered everything that had happened as Diem fell asleep under a spell of painkillers and alcohol.

He hadn’t told me not to call the police, so when he was out cold, I found my phone and escaped into the hallway. I reported the incident and was told that someone would contact me or swing by the B&B shortly to take a proper statement. The receptionist recommended a local garage that might be able to repair the Jeep in a timely manner, but I was advised not to have it towed until the police had been to the site to evaluate the scene, especially after I’d explained about the rope and our suspicion that someone had done it on purpose.

Diem had said not to call Delaney, but I waffled. The cost of repairs would be beyond Diem’s budget, and since we were investigating her suspicions when it happened, it should be her expense.

I didn’t call, figuring it would be safer to translate that to Diem and let him make the decision when he felt better.

He slept all afternoon and well into the evening. I checked his injury numerous times, changing the ice pack when Zombie Herbert brought me a fresh one. The swelling hadn’t worsened, but the bruising had deepened and spread. I didn’t see protruding bones or odd lumps to indicate a break, so maybe Diem was right. Using a frilly pink washcloth, I wiped the blood from the scratches on his face, but no amount of scrubbing would erase the strain that lived beside his eyes, even in sleep.

I sat with him, my stomach a worried knot, wishing he would wake up, growl, and snarl because then I would know he was okay.

A burly police officer showed up at five. I spoke with him in the hallway, giving him the gist of our investigation and everything that had happened. He wanted to talk to Diem, but I put my foot down. The man scribbled on a notepad, asked several questions, and when he finished, informed me of his findings when he’d gone to the scene.

“I didn’t find a rope.”

“What? There was a rope. We both saw it.”

The man shrugged. “I looked. The branch was cut. I agree with that much, but there was no rope. The town had a company out there in the fall, trimming trees and whatnot. Could’ve been cut then and missed. Maybe the wind blew, or the ice weighed it down, and it fell.”

“Are you serious? That is some bullshit reasoning.”

“Don’t know what to tell ya. There was no rope. We’ll check things out, but I can’t see someone doing that on purpose.”

I blinked, dumbfounded by his stupidity and cursing myself for being so frantic at the time that I’d forgotten to take pictures.

More things to relay to Diem. More things he wouldn’t want to hear.

I made a phone call, arranged for the Jeep to be towed to the suggested lot, and returned to the room.

Around six thirty, Diem stirred, asking for more pills. He sucked back loads more whiskey and was out again in under ten minutes.

Night fell. Unsure what else I could do to make him better, I undressed and lay on his good side, stroking his forearm over the Chinese letters tattooed down its length. His dark arm hair made them hard to see, but I’d studied them for months in wonder.

“I’m touching you, D. I hope you don’t mind.”

He hummed with something resembling pleasure, and I stilled.

“Are you awake?”

Another hum. He rolled his head to face me and cracked his eyelids, peering through slits. “When did it get dark?”

“When the sun went down. Do you want the light on?”

“No.” He wet his lips. “What time is it?”

I glanced around for a clock, but they were all buried under a blanket in the corner. I chuckled. “After nine. Not sure. Do you need more pills?” It hadn’t been long enough, but I was desperate to do something.

“No. Did you eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Another hum, this time of disapproval. His eyes fell closed.

I continued to stroke his forearm, figuring he’d fallen back to sleep when he spoke again, his voice quiet in the still room.

“This too shall pass.”

“What was that?”

He smacked his lips and opened his eyes to slits again. “That’s roughly what it says. The tattoo. This too shall pass. It’s a… Persian phrase. It means everything is impermanent. It talks about the temporary nature of the human experience. Sorrow. Pain. Discomfort. Positive experiences, too, but that’s not what I focus on.” He lifted his arm, displaying the ink. “Got it when I was eighteen. It reminds me that there will be an end to the bullshit. It doesn’t last forever. It won’t always hurt.”

I found his hand and weaved our fingers together. “There’s always a light at the end of the tunnel.”

His eyelids fluttered closed, but he opened them again. A faint smile touched his lips. “You’re my light, Tallus. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

My heart squeezed as Diem’s fingers grew lax. He drifted and left me with the profundity of his declaration.

I let him sleep and curled up beside him, leaving a generous few inches to respect his constant need for space. I wanted to be close to this emotionally compromised man who had come into my life unexpectedly. Every day, I fell harder under his spell. Sooner or later, I’d have to tell him the truth about how I felt and hope the honesty didn’t make him run for the hills.

At some point during the night, Diem woke and adjusted himself on the bed. In a shocking display of affection, he urged me closer, insisting I rest my head against his chest. Then he wrapped his uninjured arm around me, keeping me close. I didn’t complain, and we stayed like that for the rest of the night, his steady heartbeat under my ear a comfort I didn’t know I needed.

***

Neither of us was prepared for the house-shaking clamor of Ivory’s seven-a.m. wake-up call. Diem jolted, then shouted in pain, arching his back off the bed. I tumbled to my feet, ready for battle and blind without my glasses, wearing nothing more than underwear. Like the previous times we’d been tossed into the fray, it took a second for me to figure out what was happening.

My first instinct was to go to Diem, but with the vitriol of curses spilling from his mouth, I thought it best I find a way to shut off the noise, but there wasn’t a way. The clocks under the blanket in the corner vibrated and sang, fighting for dominance over my boyfriend’s caustic threats. I truly thought if he could have gotten off the bed without trouble, he’d have smashed them to bits.

So, I did it for him.

As fast as a cheetah, I snagged one of his lead-weight boots and brought it down on the moving pile of blankets, over and over and over, with all the force I could muster, screaming, “Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” I hammered them, channeling Diem while spitting my own slurry of foul words at the offense.

Only when the pile stopped moving and singing did I quit. Chest heaving—it was more cardio than I expected—I stared at the unmoving mountain, ensuring there wasn’t a sneaky bastard playing dead who would chime again the second I got to my feet. All was quiet. In fact, the entire house had gone silent.

I tossed the boot aside and brushed my hands together. “See you in hell, motherfuckers.”

A low, rumbly laugh, laced with threads of pain, sounded from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and found a blurry Diem, half propped on an elbow, clutching his injury and chuckling.

“Ah fuck, it hurts.” But he kept laughing, seemingly unable to stop. He fell onto his back again, chest bouncing like I’d never seen before. “Jesus fuck. You can’t make me laugh when I’m in pain. Oh shit…” More chuckling. “That was the best fucking thing I’ve seen in my life… Oh god, it hurts.”

But still, he laughed.

I rose to my feet and stood with a high chin of pride until I realized how ridiculous I must have looked going apeshit on a pile of timepieces with no glasses, my hair mussed from sleep, and wearing only underwear.

“D?”

He held out a hand, urging me forward. His laughter waned, and the full effect of his injury dug creases into his brow. I sat on the bed beside him, evaluating his state of being.

“How are you feeling?”

With a pinch of agony marring his features, he moved the arm in question up and down, rotating the joint as he hissed air between his teeth. “Hurts like hell, but it’s not broken, so that’s something.”

“It could be cracked.”

“Same difference, and it’s not. It’s mobile. I’ve broken enough bones to know how it feels.” He lifted his head and scanned the bedside table. “Are there any more painkillers?”

I handed him the bottle, but when he fumbled, trying to get the lid off, I helped. He took four pills, which seemed like a lot until I considered his size.

“Whiskey?”

“D…” But I swallowed the argument and handed him the bottle. “Go easy. We need to chat.”

He took only enough to get the meds down, then lay back on the pillow. I found my glasses and sat beside him, stroking my fingers through the short amount of dark hair he’d recently grown.

“The rope was gone,” I said when he seemed more relaxed.

“What are you talking about? What rope?”

“From the tree. I made a report. Last night. The police went out to the scene to investigate. The rope was gone. Other than the branch being partially cut, there was no evidence someone purposefully set a trap for us.”

“The branch being cut isn’t enough?”

“That’s what I said. I guess the town paid a company this past fall to trim dead branches from the trees out in that area and along the trail, so the officer—”

“He thought one branch got partially cut and left behind?”

“Yep.”

“Bull-fucking-shit. There was a goddamn rope, and that cut was recent. Was he a fucking moron?”

“He claims he was tossing theories around.”

“Well, they’re shitass theories. They ought to take his fucking badge for that. Lazy fucking cops. I’m guessing they aren’t looking into it further?”

I shrugged. “Didn’t sound promising. I wish I’d taken pictures. I can’t believe I didn’t.”

Diem heaved a heavy sigh and closed his eyes. “It was chaotic. Not your fault. What about the Jeep?”

“I had it towed to a local garage. It’s going to be a couple days at least.”

“Did you call Delaney?”

“You told me not to, but…”

“I know.” He grumbled something indecipherable, deep marks of pain all over his face.

Nothing seemed to help. The pills. The alcohol. Ice packs. Sleep. I wanted to take charge and drag him to a hospital, but I knew the kind of battle that would cause. Better yet, I should have taken the lead with the investigation since Diem was compromised, but I didn’t know where to go from there. My forty hours of online training hadn’t taught me much with regard to particulars.

“Tell me what to do, D. What’s next? Are we quitting?”

“Fuck that. We’re on the right track. Someone is afraid.”

“And trying to kill us.”

Diem wouldn’t be deterred. Shaking his head, he adjusted himself on the bed. “No. We aren’t quitting. This is the big break I needed. We’ve got something here. Delaney is right. If we quit now…” He hesitated, eyeing me like he had more to say but didn’t want to say it.

“What?”

“We need the money, Tallus.”

I felt the weight of his statement, reading clearly between the lines. The bills in the glove box. The comment about his rent. How bad was bad?

“Okay. We stay.” Danger or not. “I told the constable about the man in the woods. How he pointed a rifle at your head and sicced his dog on me. The officer laughed in my face and told me McConaughy is a harmless drunk who still considers himself an important figure even though he hasn’t worked a steady job in years. He said he’s notorious for stirring shit, and we should ignore him.”

Diem seemed to absorb that, but I didn’t think the police officer’s dismissal surprised him. It emphasized Diem’s point that all cops were lazy pricks who didn’t give a shit half the time.

“Find the iPad. Let’s write some stuff down and see what we’ve got.”

A knock sounded at the door while I searched his bag for the device. I poked my head out, still dressed in nothing but underwear, and was greeted by the undead man himself carrying a tray of covered food and a carafe of steaming coffee. My mouth watered when the savory aroma hit my nose.

“The missus said to bring this up. Is your man still alive, or should I call the coroner?”

Was that a joke? “Believe me, the wake-up call was enough to raise the dead.”

Ivory’s husband didn’t seem to know what to do with that statement and stared unblinking as he held out the tray. His gaunt face and pasty skin tone were concerning.

Instead of explaining, I thanked him and brought the breakfast tray to Diem. With assistance, he shuffled upright and propped his back against the headboard. I located the iPad and joined him, opening a fresh page in the Notes app.

Diem offered me a fork and uncovered two heaping plates. An astounding amount of food awaited us. Waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage, ham, toast, strawberries, melon, and a heap of home fries grilled to perfection. Ivory had included ketchup, salsa, syrup, and an assortment of flavored creamer cups for the coffee.

We ate as we discussed the case. Diem’s color improved with food. The longer he was awake, the more mobile he seemed. He wasn’t without pain, but I relaxed, no longer fearing we’d made the wrong decision by not taking him to a hospital.

“Give me your phone.” He motioned to where it lay on the far bedside table. “I want to see the pictures you took inside the cabin.”

I handed it over, and as Diem listed what I’d photographed, I wrote it down.

“How are they getting away with such an extravagant setup in the middle of the woods?” I asked. “It was better furnished than my apartment.”

“You saw their house. We’ve got a pair of rich twins whose parents likely give them whatever they want.”

“Including a cabin in the woods? Fuck me.”

I stabbed a piece of waffle and stuffed it into my mouth, chewing as I thought. “You know, if Weston was part of this club and dating Londyn, that gives him two possible reasons for being out in the woods that day. Either the club had a meeting, or he and Londyn had a hookup. I’m leaning toward the latter. Either way, he went into those woods and didn’t come out again.”

Diem grunted his usual unhelpful affirmation as he awkwardly spread jam on a piece of toast.

“Do you think Londyn’s capable of murder?”

“Anyone’s capable of murder.”

“I’m not.”

Diem eyed the dead mound of covered clocks in the corner and hitched a brow.

“That’s not fair. I was triggered.”

“And a woman put in a potentially compromising situation by a horny teenage boy could also be triggered.”

“True. I have a few thoughts.”

Diem flashed his attention from his toast to me, wordlessly telling me to go on.

“Let’s say it was a club meeting for the sick and depraved. Delaney didn’t know Weston was part of this secret club. Hence, she wouldn’t have had a clue he was meeting these kids from school in a hidden cabin in the woods far from the library where he was supposed to be with his girlfriend. It’s possible they were working on the story that illustrates the… accident .” I added air quotes. “What if they went out into the woods to reenact it? What if Weston falling into the river was unexpected and they panicked.”

“You’re saying his friends watched him fall into a racing river and didn’t try to save him.”

My shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. But hear me out. If he was dating Londyn, why was Delaney so positive he had no reason to be out that end of town? Londyn lives out that way. Ergo, why not consider they were at her place instead of the library? They could have been in the cabin or in her bedroom. Weston could have used the trail as a shortcut to get back to town and attend his newspaper meeting.”

“And maybe a pissed-off brother caught them fooling around?”

“Maybe. Or a jealous boy who wished he was dating her instead.”

“Duke.” Diem tossed me my phone and retrieved his from the bedside table, opening his contacts.

“Who are you calling?”

“Fucking Delaney. She’s paying for my goddamn Jeep repairs. Plus, we need a rental if we’re going to do anything today.”

“D, you’re hurt.”

“And I’m not sitting in this godforsaken B&B all day. Between the flowery smell and the pink frills, I’ll slit my fucking wrists.”

“At least the clocks are dead.”

The corner of his lips twitched as he connected a call. I loved making him smile.

“Ask her why she didn’t tell us Weston’s girlfriend lived out by the trail.”

“I will.”

“Ask her if—”

“Tallus, shut up.” Diem focused on the phone call, saying hello to whoever picked up, his voice low and mumbled.

I ate more breakfast while scanning the photos I’d taken. Curious, I used the iPad to look up the author of the fiction novels we’d noticed by the desk.

According to Google, Ambrose Whitaker was a best-selling mystery-thriller author with eleven published titles to his name. Eight of them were part of an ongoing series. I pulled up his profile on Amazon and confirmed that the titles we’d seen in the cabin were the same books. I wasn’t a reader, nor did I have any interest in becoming one, but for curiosity’s sake, I skimmed the blurbs of the few we’d discovered.

The main series seemed to follow two detectives investigating a serial killer who always stayed one step ahead of them. By the sound of it, each book presented a different case, but the killer had yet to be caught. He was too clever for the detectives, and apart from a few hints that strung the series together, bringing the authorities closer and closer to an arrest, none of the cases had yet been solved. Each book left off on a cliff-hanger.

I could see why the Murder Club was so interested in this Ambrose guy’s work. He’d written clever mysteries about crimes that stumped the police. In essence, the teens had been trying to do the same. This Ambrose guy seemed to be their hero.

“Who?” Diem’s raised voice drew my attention from a world of fiction I would never explore.

A scowl pinched his brow, and I mouthed, “What?” knowing he wouldn’t answer.

“Hang on. Say that again.” Diem’s frown deepened.

He disconnected the call a minute later, but the deep groove between his brows remained. His gaze shifted left and right several times as though he was trying to see an unclear image inside his head.

“What?” I asked again.

Diem pointed at the iPad. “Are you using that?”

“No.” My search was done, so I handed it over.

Diem’s unshakable concentration meant that it didn’t matter how many times I asked what he was doing, he wouldn’t answer. So I waited. He typed furiously at the attached keyboard for five or six minutes. Typing and reading, reading and typing. He must have found what he needed.

Huffing, he flopped back against the headrest and scrubbed a hand over his head. “Motherfucker.”

“What?”

Again, nothing.

Diem continued to stare at the iPad. I had a mind to tear it from his hands and see for myself.

“Diem, do not go into incommunicado mode. You know how I feel about that.”

He scratched the thick scruff covering his jaw and shook his head. “I asked Delaney about the girlfriend. She claims she had no idea where Londyn lived. She only knew her as a flighty girl Weston met at school. The Mandels moved to this town less than five years ago, so they haven’t been in the area long enough to get the lay of it. They don’t know everyone like most residents might.

“Delaney met Londyn twice, both times when Weston brought her to the house. Delaney said the two hadn’t been dating long, and no matter how much she poked and prodded, her son wasn’t eager to share details about his first girlfriend with his mother.

“When I told her Londyn lived in a three-story house on Hope Street, and her property backed onto the woods and trail, she told me I was wrong. She claimed only two properties butted close to the trail. The Wilsons in the beige brick house on the corner, and the Abercrombies next door in the three-story house with the white siding.”

I frowned. “Wait. Abercrombie? As in—”

“Hugh fucking Abercrombie.”

“But that doesn’t make sense. We saw the twins coming out of—”

“I know.” Diem turned the computer. “They’re his fucking kids.”