The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) (20 page)

The scent of decay and rotting things overwhelmed her.  She felt her gorge rise.  A dark mist formed, rising from the fissure.  The darkness thickened, and Pen wondered wildly if the darkness was in her head or outside of it.  She thought what Riga would say, that there was little difference, and hysterical laughter bubbled from her throat.  The sound, however, was no more than a croak.

The mist was something now, something large and terrible and suddenly Pen knew its name as well as if it were an old friend.  It was Death.

Chapter 31: Six of Swords

Riga had brought Donovan to the track to shake Aaron up.  She was using him, and might have felt guilty about it, but she knew Donovan would enjoy the role. 

Aaron had invited hundreds to the demolition.  Minor dignitaries mingled with construction workers and reporters, beneath a marquee penned in by a green picket fence.  Folding chairs had been set in rows, forcing people into awkward groupings around the edge of the fence and in the aisles.  The chairs were positioned to look across an oval field of dead grass, and at the half-stadium slated for demolition.  The building sagged, as if resigned to its fate. 

Riga spotted Aaron Cunningham talking to a mayor, a fire marshal and a police captain.  She’d wait rather than try breaking in.  Aaron had invited her for a reason.  No doubt he’d find her or she’d find out why soon enough. 

An unpleasant shiver ran through her, cold and dank.  Uneasy, she scanned the crowd and spotted Dora, standing beside a cameraman at the front of the viewing area.  The editor caught her eye and winked. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Dora said dryly, once Riga had tunneled through the crowd to reach her.  She was a slight woman with close cropped gray hair and a craggy face. 

“Did you come to see the big boom or are you on the hunt as well?” Riga said.

Dora glanced around, smoothing the front of her navy blue dress, checking to see who was in earshot.  She lowered her voice, forcing Riga to lean closer.  “What do you think?  The cops don’t believe Faye’s death was random – they’re not saying it publicly, but I can tell.”

“Any details on the killing?”

“The killer hit an artery.  She bled out fast – bad luck for her or he knew what he was doing.  Faye’s husband had someone on the side – the police love that – and Faye had $95k in her safe deposit box, which the cops are less happy about.  Her husband says he had no idea.”

“Awkward.”  A rivulet of sweat trickled down Riga’s back.

“What about you?  Find anything?”

“I gave you Faye and Herman.  What more do you want?”

“You mean you’ve got nothing since we last talked?  Come on, Riga!  What have you been doing?”

Donovan materialized at her side with two glasses of champagne.  “Ladies, I couldn’t help but notice your hands were empty.”

Dora goggled at him.

“Dora, this is—“

“I know who he is,” she rasped. 

“And Donovan, this is the editor of the Peninsula Times—”

“Dora Corinth.”  Her voice dropped an octave.  Her gaze ping ponged between him and Riga, rapidly assessing. 

“And what brings you to the Peninsula?” Dora asked.

“I’m in San Francisco on business.  Riga thought I’d enjoy the demolition.”

Dora rummaged in her purse, withdrawing a notepad and pen.  “Would you mind – just a few quick comments on the local business climate for my readers?”

He smiled.  “Any friend of Riga’s…”

As the interview went on, Riga found her attention drifting toward the building to be demolished.  A vision rose before her of its glory days, its stands filled with spectators – men in Fedoras, women in hats and gloves.  They surged to their feet, roaring, as the horses were released from the starting gates, and the vision dissolved.  The empty stands stood broken and forlorn.  Even from this distance, Riga could see the peeling paint.

“Ms. Hayworth?” A voice at her elbow startled her from her reverie. 

She glanced about, her gaze falling on a young Tongan man, wearing a black t-shirt. 

“Have you seen Pen?” he asked.

“Pen?” she repeated stupidly.  What was he talking about?

“She went back to the van for some duct tape.  I thought you might have run into her.”

“Everyone!”  Aaron called out over a tinny sounding speaker.  “Please take your seats.  We’re going to have a moment of silence…”

Riga remembered the boy now.  Pen had brought him by the office to film some interior shots for… some project or other they’d been working on.  Aaron’s speech continued – something about progress and sustainability.  Riga ignored it.  “What is Pen doing here?” she asked, her alarm growing.

“We’re filming the demolition.  I got press passes.”  His voice was tinged with pride.

“…countdown,” Aaron said.

Riga took a gulp of her champagne, her unease growing.  Something Pen had said jostled her mind.  “The three little pigs,” Riga muttered.

Someone touched her elbow and she looked up.  Donovan. 

She clutched his arm.  “The three little pigs were builders!  Construction workers!”

“Huh?”

“What the hell?” Dora said.  “Is she running a race?”

Riga followed Dora’s gaze across the field.  A slim figure sped along track, beneath the shadow of the stands.

 “Isn’t that Pen?” Don said.

Riga’s champagne glass fell from her nerveless fingers.  “Pen,” she gasped. “Pen!”

Riga grabbed Donovan by the lapel of his suit jacket.  “Stop the demolition.”  She vaulted the fence and began running across the field.  Someone shouted behind her. 

Riga’s leather bag had been slung crossways over one shoulder and now it bounced at her side.  She shoved it to her back, unwilling to slow to take it off.  Riga raced on a course to intercept Pen, but the girl was so far away.  “Pen!  Stop!”

Pen kept running, too close to the stands for safety. 

Riga was closing the gap – one hundred yards, fifty.  There was a rumble and the ground shifted beneath her.  Riga fell, more from instinct than need, rolling at the last minute into a semi-crouch, one hand bracing herself against the ground.  She blinked, not understanding.  The building stood undamaged, but Pen was gone.  A cloud of brown dust billowed lazily upward where Pen had been moments before.

Riga scrambled to her feet and sprinted towards the spot, skidding to a halt when she saw the large maw in the earth before her.  The ground had collapsed.  She lay on her belly, and craned over the opening, screaming her niece’s name.

A faint, wavering cry rose from the earth.

Riga got to her knees and pulled her purse forward, rummaging in it until she found her tactical flashlight.  She shone its beam downward, and through the dust saw clots of earth and chunks of concrete and linoleum. 

“Riga.”  Someone grabbed her shoulder – Donovan.

She looked up at him, then back towards the viewing area.  She saw people pointing, then two big Tongans – Pen’s friends – clambered over the fence and jogged toward them.  “She’s alive down there.  I heard her.  Help lower me down.”  She put her flashlight in her pocket.

“Riga, it’s too—”

But she’d already spun around and slid her legs over the side. 

He knelt and grabbed her wrists.  “Wait for the emergency crews.  You don’t know what’s down there.”

“I know Pen’s down there!  She needs help.  Lower me down!”

He looked at her, worried. 

“She’s my family,” Riga said.

He nodded, getting on his stomach, holding her by the hands as she slid over the side and into the gloom. 

Their eyes locked – he wasn’t arguing, he understood.  She blinked back tears of mingled fear and gratitude.  Now wasn’t the time.

Donovan lowered her as far as his arms could extend.  “I’m going to let go now,” he said.

“Do it.”

He released her and she dropped another foot, stumbling over a loose bit of concrete when she landed.  “I’m okay!” she shouted up to him.  She pulled out her flashlight and swung the beam, illuminating a narrow arc of cinder block walls.  “Pen?   Where are you?”

She stood in a corridor.  A bank of darkened lights dangled from the ceiling and she gingerly stepped over another which protruded beneath a pile of dirt on the floor.  “It’s a tunnel,” she shouted.  “I don’t see her.”

There was a light thud behind her and she whirled.  Donovan straightened, dusting the knees of his slacks.  “Others are on the way.  They don’t need me up top.”  He looked around.  The dust was settling now, the sun weakly illuminating its dark spirals.

A faint scream echoed from one corridor.

“That way,” Riga said, pointing with her flashlight. 

They hurried forward.  Once past the cave-in, the way was smooth linoleum but the path became darker.  They turned a corner and the only illumination was the beam from Riga’s flashlight.

“This makes no sense,” Donovan said.  “The cave-in was back there.  Why would Pen be this far in?”

“She was running from something.  Maybe she’s confused or—”  She felt fear clutch at her.  Or maybe it was down here with her.  Riga hadn’t seen anything chasing Pen.  And then she wondered why she kept referring to it as “it” rather than “he.”  She pushed that aside.  They had to find Pen.  That was the most important thing.  She called Pen’s name. 

Silence.

“She has to be down here,” Riga said.  She surged forward, the beam from her flashlight sweeping back and forth, illuminating file cabinets, a broken chair, cracked linoleum, a wall.  They’d reached the end.  Had she missed her somehow?  “Pen!”

“Riga!”  The cry was faint. 

“There,” Donovan said, pointing.  A piece of the far wall had collapsed, leaving a gap.  Riga hurried forward and aimed her light inside.  The narrow beam illuminated a rough cave.  She thought she could hear water running.  “Pen, are you in here?”

“No!” Pen’s cry echoed through the chamber. 

Riga wriggled through the gap. 

“Riga, d—”

Donovan’s voice was cut off as if a door had been closed upon it.  Her flashlight illuminated a narrow band of rock and earth at her feet.  When she shone the light at shoulder level and then upward, all she saw was dark.  The cavern must be huge, she thought.  She didn’t take time to wonder how it was possible.  She had to find Pen.  Riga scanned the floor with her light, looking for footprints, some clue to which way Pen had gone. 

“Riga.”  Donovan had come to stand beside her.  “There’s something you need to know.”

“That’s a footprint,” she said.  She knelt beside it.  The sole was flat, not Pen’s usual hiking or army boots, but it looked about her size.  “I’m not imagining it, am I?”  She looked up at Donovan.

In the gloom she saw him shake his head.  “It’s real.  I see it, too.”

She scanned the ground ahead and the beam of her light picked up another footprint.  “There!”  The dirt was loose packed, the prints easy to find once she knew what direction they were headed in.  There was a moment when they disappeared over rocky ground, but she picked them up again on the other side.  Riga focused on the moving circle of light in front of her.  The sound of water grew louder.  It was either a sewer or an underground stream, she thought, caring little which as long as she found Pen.  She heard barking in the distance.  “Rescue dogs,” she muttered.  “Good.”

Donovan cleared his throat.  “I don’t think that’s—“

She gasped and grabbed his wrist.  Her flashlight had illuminated a leather shoe.  She moved the beam forward: two shoes and cuffed trousers.  Riga raised the light slowly: belted slacks.  A cheap brown suit.

Vinnie reared back, squinting, shielding his eyes with one hand.  “Watch it, will ya?”

Riga blinked.  A shadow snaked across the uneven ground behind him.  He was a ghost.  He shouldn’t cast a shadow.  She stretched out her hand, touched his lapel.  The fabric felt cheap.  Vinnie felt solid. 

“Oh, crap,” Riga said.  “We’re dead.”

And for the last time in her life, Riga fainted.

Chapter 32: Underworld

Riga’s face was wet.  And warm.  She blinked but the dark was so complete she wasn’t sure if her eyes were open or shut.  A dog whined beside her, nudging her head with its damp nose.  A rock pressed into her back and she rolled over, stretching her hands along the earth for the flashlight she’d dropped.  She didn’t feel dead.  The dog yipped and licked her face.  Her hand touched metal and she flicked the light on, aiming it at the ground so as to not hurt the dog’s eyes.

The dog bumped her elbow, pushing its head under her arm. 

“Dog!” Riga cried.  Even in the dim light she could see its unmistakable black and white markings.  Its whole body vibrated from its violent tail wagging, nearly knocking her over.  She scratched it absently, wondering how it had gotten down there but comforted by its warm presence.  “Donovan?” she called out. 

“Over here!” 

She swung the light towards the sound of his voice.  He and Vinnie stood on the banks of an underground river, about one hundred yards away.  Vinnie waved his arms wildly, motioning for her to come over.  The dog’s head bumped hers from behind. 

“What are you doing over there?” she asked them.

“Riga,” Donovan said, his voice tense with anxiety.  “Listen to me carefully.  You need to do exactly as I say.”

Riga froze.  The dog growled low in its throat and bumped her from behind again.

“Get up slowly, and walk to me,” Donovan said.

Riga let go of Dog and rose to her feet.  Dog barked.  The sound echoed through the chamber, like a pack of hounds. 

Riga turned, admonishing him.  “Shh!”  The beam of her flashlight was at chest level – hers and the dog’s.  That wasn’t right.  She raised the light.  A monstrous, three headed dog stood before her, its multiple tongues lolling.  Each head was different – the black and white head of her friend, Dog was on the left, a slavering Caucasian sheepdog in the center, and a Doberman on the right.  It was outsized—four times the size of a normal dog.  “Cerberus?” she whispered.  “Oh, my God.  We really are dead, aren’t we?”

She took a step back.  “Nice, dog.  Nice doggy.” 

The heads barked, a shattering sound that echoed through the cavern.  The creature lowered its chest to the ground, tail wagging.  It (they?) looked playfully up at her, panting.  Something shined white near Riga’s foot.  It looked like a human bone.  Riga picked it up.  “Fetch?  Want to fetch?”