Authors: Jana Oliver
Tangled Souls (42 page)
“Why am I surprised,” she said, struggling to keep the tears inside. O’Fallon could find anyone if given enough time.
“Yo, baby!” she hollered, startling the birds which took flight in a rush of wings.
There was a pause and then hurried steps above her.
“Gavenia?”
“In the flesh,” she called back, taking a few steps into the open. She looked down at her clothes and rolled her eyes. Definite
wrath of the Goddess
material. If O’Fallon could handle her like this, he was a keeper.
“Gavenia?” he called again.
“Down here. Tell me you brought a bag of cinnamon rolls,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Taylor’s ghost rise from the rubble. He stared upward, frowning.
O’Fallon’s face appeared at the edge of the pit.
“Oh God,” he said. “It’s her!” he shouted to someone behind him. “We found her!” He turned back and blew her a kiss. The smile on his face seemed brighter than the dawn. A young man appeared and gave a satisfied smile. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Hi,” he said, “I’m Adam,” and waved the hand that wasn’t in a cast.
“Good morning. Welcome to my humble . . . pit,” she ad-libbed while executing a sweeping gesture to encompass the mess.
“Very nice. I love what you’ve done with the decorating,” Adam said, grinning in O’Fallon’s direction. “The rats are a very . . . interesting touch.”
O’Fallon chortled as if it was an inside joke. Gavenia didn’t get it.
“Well, the dead body is a bummer,” she said, pointing toward Taylor’s remains.
The humor up top withered.
“Oh, great, another one,” Adam grumbled. “Two in a night. This will really piss off the crime-scene techs.”
“Is it Taylor?” O’Fallon asked, squinting in the dim light.
“Yup. How’d you know his name?”
He ignored the question. “You kill him?”
That earned the Irish guy a stadiumful of brownie points. “No. Someone else.”
“Well, don’t go anywhere,” O’Fallon said, winking. “We’ll get some help to get you out.”
“How’d you find me?”
“I used my God-given talents.”
She nodded approvingly. “About time.”
Taylor’s ghost surged upward, his kinetic energy rising.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
It’s him!
he shouted.
“Who?”
The cop who killed me.
She flipped her gaze upward to find that only her lover remained in sight. Could she have been wrong about O’Fallon? Had he played her like Winston had?
Maybe Taylor meant the one named Adam.
Which cop?
she demanded.
Taylor halted and a grim smile formed on his face. He pointed.
That one
.
A man stared down at her from the rim of the pit, his eyes widening in surprise. Like Taylor’s, his aura was muddy gray, and Gavenia couldn’t see his Guardian.
I told him you were dead
, Taylor said.
Now what’s he going to do?
Who is he?
The ghost moved upward, hissing a name in anger.
Glass.
O’Fallon gave Adam a warning glance, then addressed the other cop. “Your timing is good. We need to get the lady out of there.”
Harve Glass kept staring into the pit, fixated on the witch. O’Fallon’s hackles rose.
Why is he here?
Gavenia she stood on a mound of concrete, frowning in concentration. He knew that look; a ghost was talking to her. His eyes moved to the body.
Taylor.
What did Glass and the dead dealer have in common?
“How’d you find us?” Adam asked, keeping his attention on O’Fallon while he asked the question.
“Heard you were at that OD scene. Wanted to know why,” Glass murmured. “I saw the PI’s car outside so I thought I’d find out what you two were up to.”
How do you know what my car looks like?
Adam opened his mouth to ask a follow-up question but halted when O’Fallon shook his head.
“Did you call it in?” Glass asked, his tone clipped, his attention still in the pit.
“No, we just got here,” Adam replied, shifting uneasily.
“Hello! Thanks for finding me,” Gavenia said, her voice tighter than normal. “I’d really like to get out of here.”
“What happened to him?” Glass asked, pointing toward Taylor’s body.
A telling hesitation, and then she shrugged. “No idea. He just came with the place.”
O’Fallon clenched his jaw. He heard the lie and he wondered if Glass did, too. The detective turned his back on the pit as if no longer concerned with the occupant.
“I’ll call it in,” Glass said. He reached for his cell phone, punched in some numbers, and reported the situation.
Adam remained near the hole. He knelt and then gave a nod as if some message had passed between Gavenia and himself. As he rose, Glass hung up the phone and clipped it onto his belt.
“They’re coming. Now why don’t you tell me exactly why you’re here.”
Adam took the lead. “O’Fallon’s been investigating a hit-and-run in Bel Air. The guy in the pit is LaRue Taylor, and West Hollywood is looking for him on kidnapping charges.”
“So you found him. How convenient. What about the woman?”
Adam glanced downward. “Taylor carjacked her last night. We’ve been trying to find her.”
“And you just knew she’d be here?”
O’Fallon jumped in. “Just call me psychic,” he said in a joking tone, and spread his hands.
Come on, come, let’s take it outside.
Glass frowned and then gave a quick look into the pit as if something had just occurred to him.
“You’re the psychic that’s been in the papers, aren’t you?”
“Yes? You want your fortune told?” was the swift reply.
“Can you really talk to the dead?”
O’Fallon’s gut lurched.
Oh Jesus, he made the connection.
“Not on your life,” Gavenia shot back. “But I make a good living off those who think I can.”
The lie was better, but would it convince Glass?
The detective sighed and shook his head. “Just my fuckin’ luck.”
He reached under his jacket, pulled a gun from the small of his back, and pointed it into the pit.
“What are you doing?” Adam demanded, taking a few step closer.
“Got a rat problem,” was the curt answer. “I’ll take care of it,” Glass added.
Instinct took over and O’Fallon charged across the debris with a bellow. At the sound of his charge, Glass turned and fired, the first shot catching Adam in the shoulder, hurtling him backward. Glass was out of position when O’Fallon tackled him. They wrestled for the gun, rolling across the brick-strewn floor. O’Fallon’s injured ribs caught a solid blow, allowing Glass time to regain his feet, the gun in his possession.
“Wonder how the papers will spin this one,” he said, pointing the gun directly at O’Fallon.
“No! Stop him!” Gavenia commanded. Another shot. The air filled with soot as the pit birthed a windstorm and she staggered backward, covering her eyes from the onslaught.
Pummeled from all directions by bits of wood and brick, O’Fallon fought his way to Avery’s son. A piece of timber sailed toward him and he ducked at the last moment and it impacted behind him with a jarring crash. Adam lay on his side, blood seeping down his arm and around his fingers as he clutched at the wound.
“Glass,” he said.
O’Fallon sought their enemy. He hung in midair in the maelstrom, flailing at an unseen opponent. Could it be Taylor’s ghost?
In the pit below, debris seethed as if alive. O’Fallon couldn’t see Gavenia and he forced down a cry of despair. He gave a tug and pulled Adam to his feet. “Come on!” he shouted, and dragged the injured man toward the entrance in staggering steps. Behind him, he heard Glass shriek like a tormented soul.
Adam collapsed near a concrete barrier just outside the fencing. O’Fallon helped him sit upright and pressed a handkerchief against the shoulder wound. The blood soaked through, anointing the cast.
Adam’s face paled. “Glass . . . killed . . . Taylor,” he said in hoarse gusts.
“Gavenia told you?”
The detective nodded.
O’Fallon looked back toward the building. Brick dust billowed out the entrance in torrents. Before he could thread his way through the fencing, the east wall leaned inward and, with a dull roar, collapsed in a hailstorm of broken bricks and snapping timbers.
“Sweet Mother of God.” He shoved through the fencing; it tore at him, ripping his pants near the right knee.
As he reached the entrance, a figure appeared in front him, forcing him to halt.
Don’t go in there
, Benjamin Callendar warned.
“Get out of my way!” O’Fallon shouted as he tried to push past the ghost.
You must trust me
, Benjamin said.
Don’t go in there; not yet!
O’Fallon jammed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. Inside the building he heard a woman’s scream. He shoved past the ghost in blind fear.
Kinetic energy ran rampant inside the pit, like a demented toddler. Taylor’s anger powered a hellish dance of bricks and timber shards. His laughter rose above the ambient noise as he swirled in the center of the chaos above the pit, Glass entombed in his arms. Gavenia tried to shelter her eyes, her hair swirling around her, electrified.
Run for it!
a voice urged.
“Bart?” she called. A low growl ensued from the remaining walls as the ground around her trembled.
“Oh, Goddess.” She scrambled for the debris channel, crawling on all fours as the ground heaved beneath her as if made of molten lava. Masonry flooded downward, tumbling and bouncing like a child’s blocks.
As she reached the channel, she gave one last upward glance and gasped in horror as the remaining three walls arched downward, bending like the petals of a dying flower. A massive roof timber hurtled toward her and she screamed as she dove into the tunnel, kicking her way inside like a squirrel fleeing an owl’s talons. Dust flooded the cavern after a jolting impact. She crept forward, hand over hand. Something landed across her knees, pinning her, and she fought herself free. Elbowing her way down the narrow passage, she choked on the fetid stench of scorched wiring and rotten produce. A rat clawed its way over her shoulders and ran ahead, fleeing the symphony of destruction.
* * *
As the building collapsed, O’Fallon retreated to the street, near his injured companion. Tears flowed down his face, leaving thick tracks in the crimson brick dust. He crossed himself and murmured a prayer for his lover. When he’d finished, Benjamin’s ghost appeared next to him, his powder-blue eyes calm and reassuring.
Have faith
, he whispered.
It’s a day for miracles.
A racking cough pulled O’Fallon back to the present. Adam was leaning over, spitting up dust, his face contorted in pain. There was nothing O’Fallon could do for Gavenia, but he could help Avery’s son. His police training kicked in. Dial 911. “Explain the nature of the emergency,” the voice said.
“Officers down; repeat, two officers down.” He gave the address and his name and then explained the situation. Then he flipped the phone closed. All business, no emotion, no sense of loss. Not yet. Later the loss would strike like a sledgehammer blow.
As he dug in the car trunk for a blanket, his voice recorder fell out of his pocket and landed with a thud. He picked it up to find it was recording.
“Dammit.” O’Fallon started to turn it off and then hesitated. He rewound it and held the device to his ear and he heard his own voice, followed by Glass, then the sound of gunfire. O’Fallon clicked off the recorder, fiddling with the settings until the LCD display asked him if he wanted to password-lock the file.
“Yes,” he said, tapping in a numeric code, the same one that unlocked Seamus’s cage. For half a second he thought he’d done it wrong, then the screen blinked FILE LOCKED. He let out a whoosh of pent-up air and dropped the recorder into his coat pocket.
“Insurance, for when the shit hits the fan,” he muttered. His gut told him it was going to be a virtual monsoon.
After he’d nestled the blanket around the shivering young cop, he dialed Avery. The man deserved to hear about his son from someone he knew.
“It’s . . . Easter,” Adam said as the phone rang. “He’ll be . . . at mass.”
O’Fallon looked up at the sunrise in wonder.
That’s what Benjamin meant—a day for miracles.
To his surprise, Avery answered, and O’Fallon delivered the news. The line went dead immediately. After seeing to the wounded man, he removed his rosary from his pants pocket.
“I’ll have faith you’ll do the right thing,” he said, kissing the crucifix and then crossing himself. God had wrought a miracle for his Son; perhaps he’d do the same for the woman O’Fallon loved.
It quickly became a sea of uniforms, and O’Fallon did his best to stay out of the way as paramedics swarmed all over Adam. Soon the young cop had oxygen flowing and an IV in place. The care did wonders; his color improved and he even managed a smile when one of the paramedics joked about his broken arm.