Grave Robber for Hire (6 page)

“They hadn’t finished. They hammered his body and head to a large wooden cross set in an inverted pentagram scraped into the ground. Then doused him with some sort of accelerant and tossed a match.”

“After he was dead?”

Tyreal flashed those imperfect teeth, “Decapitated
usually
means dead. The fire snuffed out, and he was only slightly er—cooked. Someone wanted this guy dead, badly.”

“Sounds ritualistic or a tad Devil
worshippy.” And sick, don’t forget sick. I thought of the stuff that had shot up my arms, bubbled and burned inside me. Maybe his death was appropriate.

“I guarantee it either was, or it was deliberately set up to appear that way.”

“When reading Clyde’s journal at Claudia’s house I saw the cold soullessness of his stare.” So very much like Sasha’s after he’d changed. “There’s a certain deadness in a person’s eyes who has an evil soul. Clyde did something to deserve that death.” Of that, I was positive.

“Well whatever he did, it pissed someone off.”

My horses Tina, Willow, Falcor, and Bones came to the fence and whinnied. “Hey guys, dinner will be soon.”

“I felt his evil, but I don’t know what he did.” And hoped to remain ignorant.

Tyreal raised a single black brow, “Felt it? Intuition?”

“No. Through my gift. While touching Clyde’s journal, I felt a viscous slime or ooze,” I bit my lip. How much could I explain this? “I’ve felt ooze before, and it’s always a good indication of the evil dead.”

I looked at Tyreal to catch his reaction. Not only was he listening, he appeared to believe me. “On Monday, just before we met, I’d been to Clyde’s grave. I never enjoy grave reading, but in Clyde’s grave, the evil felt so deeply enmeshed it err, shocked me.”

I still needed to find a protection spell. To look the part, I’d have to make a purple cape plus a wand. A witch had to have a wand.

Tyreal watched a couple of black hens wander past, then a white duck. “Everything country. Did you find anything out today?”

Coffee machines are really expensive. “Claudia gave me a box of stuff. It’s in my living room waiting for me to read.” First, I needed to dig bowel deep for some brave. And I’d find it, even if it was tainted with chicken feces. I wanted that Rembrandt.

“Do you mind company? I’m curious to see what you do. I could make dinner. I cook a mean steak.”

“Actually, I’m a vegetarian so steak would be mean. But you can watch.”

He viewed the horses, the dogs, and cats sitting around. “I can cook other stuff. Vege risotto, vege lasagna, vege quiche, vege, salad, baked potato. Boiled egg … toast?”

I laughed at his fading voice. “How about mushroom risotto? It’s what I planned to make for my own dinner, and I’ve bought heaps.”

“I could cook a mean mushroom.”

“Do
you
eat mean mushrooms?”

He grinned, “Usually with steak.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ll live. I have three types of mushrooms in the fridge, white wine and goat’s cheese. Herbs are in the pots over there acting as the veranda’s rail.” I pointed to dozens of large rectangle terracotta pots. “Herb type is marked with pen on those white labels.”

Inside the house and on my dining table, I spread the journals and letters and sorted them into date order. Tyreal picked up a letter addressed to Clyde from England. “This is written by someone else and addressed to him so this won’t help will it?”

“No. Mrs. Reese-Jones is desperate enough to give me anything written near that time.” I pointed to a fan spread of eight letters, “But these were penned by the man himself.”

I picked up an envelope from the set and pulled out the enclosed letter. The paper was powdery at the edges, thin and splitting in the folds, and freckled with age spots. “
Oooh, good score, this one’s from two months before his murder. He might have been feeling the need to hide that Rembrandt by then.” The less I had to face Clyde the better for my sanity and Vig’s safety.

With my heart jumping around like a bug on a bar-b-
que, I sucked in a deep settling breath, pulled up my big girl thong and pressed my hand to the frail paper. I opened my sixth sense and melded the ether into two overlaid time dimensions.

Lost time unfolded to what appeared to be a hotel or a gentleman’s club. A brandy bottle sat alongside a half full tumbler and a top hat. Clyde, looking relaxed in a dark gray topcoat and tan leather gloves, sat near a crackling fire. A traveling writing desk and sheets of paper waited for the application of his gold quill. On the rough-hewn table, a tiny engraved silver ink pot sat uncapped.

Clyde turned and peered over at me, sneered and gripped his quill firmer. A young pretty lady came to mind. Someone he loved. His daughter, Jessica who’d recently married and relocated to Sydney. A slight unsettling anger told me daddy didn’t like her clergyman husband. Considered him beneath the Jones family name. Then, he turned back to me and shook his fist.

My body tensed, and my mouth turned into the Sahara. Holy crap. He
could
see or feel my presence. Time to dash or flash out. I pulled everything I possessed in dimensional strength and sucked my body out of the room fast. The two times shimmered, head spinning from my speedy exit, breath hitching, I closed the link in a blur of ether that should leave skid marks in my thong. In trembling hands, I refolded the letter and slid it into its aged speckled fragile envelope.

I needed alcohol.

Viggo flashed to my side. He ran his gaze over me, sneered at Tyreal then looked at the letters and journals spread over the table. “Clyde?”

I gave him a faint, hopefully unseen by Tyreal, nod. Vig sighed and looked at the seat beside me which was pushed into the table. I casually pulled the chair back as if it was in my way, and Vig dropped into the seat.

Tyreal touched my arm. “You okay?”

“Yeah, great.” If I told myself that enough I’d almost believe it.

“So did it tell you anything?”

Well, Clyde can see me, and he doesn’t like it. “He didn’t like his daughter’s husband. Otherwise, I found nothing.” Which meant, much to my increasing horror, I’d have to read and face more of Clyde.

“Mind if I read the letter’s contents?”

Using a freshly red painted fingernail, I pushed it over to him. “Go ahead.”

I continued reading. Vig leaned back with one arm looped over the back of my chair. He kept a keen gaze on Tyreal, but that was nothing new. Vig never liked men around me. But this one was safe. I wasn’t going to have sex with Tyreal.

In each letter, I found nothing more than love and concern for his daughter, and in each letter I faced his cold time-penetrating eyes of hatred.

At the end, I sucked on the bitter truth that I found nothing about the Rembrandt and that I had to find bowling ball sized nuts to read the journals. I glowered at the aged books with loathing. If it wasn’t with the hope I’d one day be able to help more animals, I wouldn’t continue. It freaked me out Clyde could either sense or see me, I didn’t know how far that two way connection could go, and didn’t fancy finding the answer.

I closed the final letter and pushed it away. Tyreal headed for the kitchen and dug around for the ingredients of our promised meal.

I selected a journal from the pile. The tang of chopped onion wafted into the room.

Hand resting on the open journal, I blended ether until I gazed around the inside of a small cabin or shack. A faded blue dress lay discarded on a three legged pine stool. Clyde, naked, pale skinned, and surprisingly well muscled thrust himself into someone from behind. Flesh slapping flesh, he rammed into the woman as if in punishment.

Disgusted and way beyond my personal boundaries, I tried to slam shut the connection. Something locked my mind in a steely grip, forcing me to stay. The muscles in my neck strained and cramped as I tried to turn my head to the side to look away, but my neck acted as if it were held in a vice. Trapped, I was trapped. My stomach feeling as if suddenly made of rock, plummeted into my pelvis. What the hell? Why was I being forced to watch Clyde have sex with a prostitute?

TMI,TMI,TMI
, I chanted in my mind. Watching other people fuck is just sick.

Clyde Jones started to jerk and grunt. His hand flung out and snatched up a knife from the table beside the bed. He threw his other hand onto the woman’s shoulder, dug his fingers into her flesh in a cruel grip making her cry out.

Long red tresses flew as she tried to turn, the movement emphasizing the bones of her shoulders and ribs. “Have a care Sir.”

“Shut your mouth whore.” The silver of the knife glinted in the air as he rammed the blade into her back. My scream met hers in a symphony of shock, horror, and pain. She thrashed and screamed—again and again.

I threw myself forward, desperate to help. Locked in the ether, I couldn’t move. I sobbed at my inability to save her, at the futility of trying. I can’t step through time. I’d alter the past and become imprisoned in another time. Things I instinctively knew must never happen.

Clyde’s arm lifted and thrust, lifted and thrust, and the blade sliced into her over and over. With each stab of the blood covered knife, he pumped his hips harder.

With a last jerk of his hips, he moaned in satisfaction.

My eyes rolled around, trying to focus my mind, trying to escape this nightmare, trying not to see the woman’s hemorrhaging wounds, her slumping body in its desperate struggle for life.

He grunted, “Whore,” pulled out and shoved the bloody woman’s body to the floor. He snorted in obvious derision when she landed twisted on her side with her legs spread.

Gory knife in hand, still sporting a purple moisture slick erection, he turned to me, sneered, and sprang.

Red covered blade aimed for my throat.

Chapter 6

Swung in a madman’s blood covered hand, the blood slick blade flashed through the air in a neck slashing arc. In a moment of holy-fucking-shit, instinct threw me backwards.

The dimensional fabric stretched and groaned behind my back, but didn’t tear. Something tackled me side on, and together we fell. Under the assault of my falling body, the dimensional fabric strained and split.

I twisted my face in panic as the knife and madman warped as if viewed through water poured on glass. Clyde and time flickered. A whoosh of air. The glint of metal millimeters from my neck.

Broken arm down, I hit the floor and squealed.

“Angel!” someone yelled.

I rolled to my side, pulled my knees and arms into my chest, and cursed the laws of physics that demanded sore bits, like the buttery side of toast, always landed floor first. I gave myself a mental body check. No stinging or bleeding throat. Good. No warm pee patch in my shorts—amazing.

Sweat beaded my face, and cold chills shimmered down my back. My rolling stomach wanted to hark up the lunch I hadn’t eaten. But I wouldn’t. I hate throwing up. And no dead bastard, especially Clyde, was making me spew.

Viggo kneeled beside me on the floor. He brushed the hair from my face, studied me with a worried scowl and babbled in loud ancient that ended with the word Amon.

Tyreal lifted me to a sitting position and held me. “Angel, what the hell happened? Are you okay?”

His body warmth soaked into me. I looked into Tyreal’s black eyed concern and burst into tears. Never in the many years I’ve jumped time have I become trapped or held against my will. Who knew I could be seen and attacked in time gone?

No one highlighted that
small
print when I signed up for this gig. I needed a lawyer. I was so suing the universe. If this is the gig Satan toasted my coffee maker for, I’m surprised the whole house hadn’t exploded.

“Clyde’s a murderer,” I sobbed into Tyreal’s hard and slightly onion scented shirt. “I saw him f-f-fucking someone from behind, and I couldn’t break the connection—I wanted to pull out—but couldn’t. I’m not a pervert. Something trapped me, making me witness his depravity.” I sobbed a few times. “He stabbed her. Stabbed the woman, over and over and over and…” I sniffed loudly, “
while still fucking her
.”

Tyreal squeezed me closer. “Jesus.”

My brain cells terror-blind skittered around trying to find paths of reason for what happened. It was as if Clyde wanted me to know what he’d done and reveled in revealing his evil. Viggo rubbed my back in steady circles and crooned in a soft chant. Tyreal stroked my hair. Beneath my ear, his heart beat steady and even, showed mine the rhythm it needed to mimic.

“When the girl was dead, Clyde dove for me.
To—kill—me
. He can sense or see me and that’s never happened before.”

Tyreal stopping stroking. I rubbed my cheek on the soft knit of his t-shirt. He tipped his head to look at my face. “If what happened isn’t normal, what’s different about these journals to the ones you normally read?”

I pulled away and sniffled and looked at his shirt, shook my head and wiped my nose on my hand. Using his shirt as a tissue might not be a great start to our business relationship. His yuck factor might not enjoy biological fluid sharing. I was fine with it, unless he wiped
his
nose on
my
top, then I’d deck him.

“Clyde’s?”

“Who else?”

“Nothing. Other than feeling more oily by an oil-well-mile with evil.”

With Tyreal’s help, I sat in one of the unmatched, multi-hued dining chairs, the sunny yellow one.

Tyreal tapped a finger under my chin. “You’re milk white and look pretty spaced. Don’t touch anymore journals. I’ll finish making food, we’ll eat.”

“Touching them is the only way I have of finding the Rembrandt.” I rubbed my temples with my fingers. “Why didn’t he hang for that girl’s murder?”

“Never caught or suspected. Or maybe he did find himself caught, and that’s why he was hacked to pieces. Vigilante style, eye for an eye, revenge. It’s always been popular. Now promise me, no more searching until you eat.”

Vig sat opposite me, keeping his gaze on my face he reached over and put his hand on top of mine.

Tyreal went to the kitchen and started rooting around in my cupboards. A minute later he plonked a very, very, large goblet of red wine on the table in front of me. “I can’t find any other alcohol other than this cheap red and a couple of beers. I presumed you need a belt of something.”

Vig removed his hand, and I gulped half the red elixir down. “Bring me the bottle. This cheap red is the only wine I like.” I slammed the rest down shot-glass fast. The bottle arrived beside my hand, so I topped up and guzzled and refilled. I didn’t drink water this swiftly on a summer scorcher.

Viggo covered the glass with his hand and pressed down hard enough that I couldn’t lift it. “Slow, Hayyel.”

No, the wine was mine, all mine. Mine-mine-mine. I did that kiddy thing where you mimic the person in a high voice. “Slow, Hayyel, slow, Hayyel.” Jeez. Uptight Guardian.

He stood and leaned over the table. “Hayyel! No be fool.” His face an inch from mine, his breath seared my cheek.

I stuck out my tongue. “Fine.” I whispered so Tyreal didn’t think I’d gone mad. Vig nodded and released my goblet. I picked it up and sipped the wine politely with my pinky sticking out, lifted my brows at him in a, ha up yours, then chugged.

Viggo slapped the table, pushed his face into mine and growled.

“Piss off, Vig. It’s medicinal.” Oh God, I’d just sounded like Aunty Glynnis. I eye rolled at myself like I would have at her. My head whirled, so I grabbed the table to stop myself from falling off my chair. Head still spinning, all edges blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors. Aunty Glynnis’ Buddha appeared to dance with my carved wooden zebra. I giggled. Tyreal better cook fast, because I was going to pass out cold in about ten minutes.

Or seven.

#

I woke and blinked into the sort of darkness where you can only make out vague shapes. Someone was stomping on my head, and they’d stuffed a sock worn by a footballer for a week in my mouth. I rolled to my side, and
Kapow
—my brain exploded. Nothing but agony and mush remained.

A door opened, allowing blinding light to scorch my retinas. “
Augghhh.” I flung my arm over my face and smashed the top of my nose. “Shit, shit, shit.” Bloody rock hard cast.

“Great vocab. Sorry about the light, but I heard you moan and figured you’d recovered from your coma. The risotto’s cold, but it was delicious, although probably better with a T-bone. Can I nuke you a bowl?”

My pupils, soaking up way too much light, could make out nothing but blurry shapes so I glared around my headache red haze.

“I’ll add a sprig of parsley to posh it up.”

Posh is good. “Yeah, thanks.” Who was that masked silhouette man?

Oh, yeah right, brain function on—Tyreal. Hang on, why was I in bed? I glanced down. Shoes off, but still dressed. Well at least I hadn’t forgotten something that would surely have been spectacular—for him.

I slithered over my crisp thousand percale sheets, and pretending to be butter on toast, melted to the floor. Cushioned on my white silky rug, I wondered why I was sitting on my floor. My bedside table was nice enough to let me use it to lever myself semi-erect, which normally sucks, but since I wasn’t talking willies, tonight it was great.

Imitating a hundred year old woman with
osteo, I hunched and shuffled my way to the bathroom, drowned my face in water, brushed my teeth, re-drowned my face and … yeah still felt like death. I staggered down the hall, running the words,
food, two liters of orange juice, and headache tablets
in my head so I wouldn’t leave one out.

The
beep, beep, beep
of the microwave, the
pop
of the door and then the rich and mouthwatering aromas of mushroom, garlic, and parmesan drifted down the hall. Why wasn’t this guy married? A small wiener? Nah I’d seen the bulge, unless he had orange size nuts and no dick. That could happen couldn’t it? Yeah in the Freak Circus, besides I had a feeling there’d be nothing but perfection in those jeans.

Perfection or not, he’d better keep his promise. I wanted that parsley.

At the dining table, I selected the lilac chair, slid into it and rested my pounding head on the table’s cool painted wood. A bowl of risotto was put in front of me. Pepper and salt grinders, a large glass of orange juice and two headache tablets joined the fray. You’ve gotta love a mind reader. He turned, and I got a view of ass. A mind reader with a great ass? I loved that more.

He returned with a sprig of parsley, placed it on the top of the risotto and gave me a shit eating grin.

I giggled, and my head pounded. I gripped my forehead with my thumb pressing into one temple, while my middle fingers pressed into the other. “What time is it?”

“Ten thirty.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. You should have gone home.” And I shouldn’t have guzzled a whole bottle of wine, and passed out like a sixteen year old binger. Bet that act impressed him. At least I hadn’t sung any toilet bowl opera. Yet.

“After you pitched to the floor for the second time in about twenty minutes I guessed I’d better stay in case you fell again, and broke something fresh.” He pointed to my huge wall mounted T.V. “Love your T.V. I thought only guys like screens that large.”

“That’s sexist.” I bought it a year ago when my two year old television burst into flames whilst bearing Satan’s insane sneer. Fusion insurance—love it. The evil I’d found and met through that warning had been a dripping tap compared to the torrent I’d already faced with Clyde. Obviously size of appliance didn’t correspond to level of evil. Shame, it would have been nice to have an indicator. Oh there goes the toaster, only a bit yucky, there goes the freezer, I’m not touching those books ever.

Tyreal sat across the table. “I didn’t want you waking and trying to read more journals alone.”

“I’ll eat and try one more. I’ll be alright if you want to go home.” I wasn’t used to having anyone care for me except for Vig. It felt foreign and unsettling.

“My bed will wait.”

I popped the two tablets because that person kept stomping around on my head, drank half the juice and shoveled in a mouthful of food. The risotto, in an explosion of perfect tactile and taste symmetry, exploded in my mouth. Creamy and rich with just the right amount of herbs added. “Jesus, this is wonderful. Where’d you learn to cook?”

“After the army, I lived alone and nearly starved to death. So I took a few classes.”

“This is restaurant quality. I’ll let you cook again.”

“Generous.”

“Yeah, generosity is one of my weaknesses.”

Viggo morphed in, glared at Tyreal, sat on the couch and picked up the remote. He looked at Tyreal blew out a well crap sigh, dropped the remote and morphed out. Tyreal glanced at the couch and frowned.

Crap, I hate trying to explain floating objects. I got ready to use my standard Aunty Glynnis is a ghost, bullshit story. Still freaked people out, but they were more likely to accept a ghost story than a guardian angel.

Tyreal sat back and sipped the orange juice he’d poured for himself.

Good, no need for more Viggo lies. “I want to do some research on murders in Brisbane around the date of the page I was on.” I forked in more food, let it glide over my tongue. I was warming to the idea of Tyreal cooking for me more often. Maybe hire him as a permanent in-home chef. Of course, first I’d have to find out if he could make cheesecake.

“The woman he murdered was young, no more than twenty. Long red hair, and since he called her a whore, probably a prostitute.” I pictured the sparse cheap furniture, the unpainted shack walls, and her protruding ribs. “And poor.”

“Why?”

“If we find who he killed it could lead to other evidence, like who may have killed Clyde. Clyde’s murderer could have stolen the painting.” Plus I wanted to know why I’d been forced to witness that woman’s murder.

“I’ll start. Where’s your computer.”

I pointed to my laptop sitting on my desk. “Use that. Bring it over here and we can both do some hunting.” I hate getting info second hand.

Tyreal grabbed and cranked up the laptop. “Password?”

“Just hit enter.”

He looked from the screen to me with a look of horror. I had a feeling we were going to share many similar moments.

“That’s not very safe.”

“Who the hell is going to sneak in and use my computer? I don’t even own a key to this house, leave everything unlocked. I’m in the country. Live alone and I’ve yet to find a horse or dog interested in Googling porn.” Yep, I had just told someone I barely knew that I never locked up—sensible.

His horrified frown intensified until he gave up and turned back to the screen. Tyreal did exactly what I thought a straight down the line guy would do. He surfed for old Courier Mail newspaper pages that had been scanned,
PDF’d, and uploaded into cyber space.