Foul Play, page 6
part #1 of BOOK SIX Series
He just needed to figure out by who, how, and why.
“What happened next?” he asked.
Peri shrugged. “I went to get help, and when I came back, he was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes–gone! As in no longer present.”
Soren looked at her. “Where does a dead man go?”
“I’m not crazy,” she muttered. “He was there–and then he wasn’t!”
Which meant someone had removed Jorgen Bernason’s body from a theater filled with people.
A darkened theater bombarded by deafening sound effects, explosions and gunfire.
Difficult but not impossible, especially when people were often engrossed in their phones, even while watching a movie. “You’re absolutely certain he was dead?”
“I know dead,” Peri retorted.
He couldn’t argue.
She’d learned it even younger than he had.
A realization that made Soren feel something he hadn’t experienced in a long time.
Empathy.
“Why would someone target you?” he asked. “If you didn’t see anything, and you had no connection to him?”
“How in tarnation should I know? Sometimes people fixate on me, but if it’s because of this…I don’t know why!”
“What does that mean? Why would people fixate on you?”
She only shook her head.
“Peri,” he said, annoyed.
Why the hell would anyone fixate on her?
But he knew. Her father had been The Diviner. No doubt Josiah’s disciples still sought her out.
A realization that disturbed Soren. As if the price of being that murderous bastard’s kid hadn’t been high enough.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” Peri told him shortly. “Your turn, G-man.”
But Soren was saved from having to respond to that statement by turning down the street on which she lived, where a Pine County Sheriff squad car was parked askew in front of her house, its lights flashing in a whirl of blue and red. Beside the car sat a bright yellow ambulance. A fire truck brought up the rear, surrounded by half a dozen onlookers.
Shit.
“Stop the truck!” Peri cried and swung open the passenger side door.
He slammed on the brakes. “Goddamn it, wait–”
But she was already gone.
SEVEN
Magnus Murphy sat on his front step, looking uncharacteristically pale and shaken. His cockatoo Bertie was perched on the handrail beside him, her white head bobbing frantically, her dark gaze darting around the small crowd of people that stood gathered along the sidewalk.
Nothing appeared to be on fire, and Magnus didn’t look hurt, but Peri’s heart refused to slow its thunderous pace as she raced toward the place she called home.
The only true home she’d ever known.
Magnus wasn’t just her landlord; he was her friend. A retired logger in his late sixties, the old man was gregarious, opinionated, and fiercely protective of those he considered family. In the three years she’d known him, Magnus had proven to be the one thing Peri hadn’t truly believed existed: a man worthy of trust.
If he’d been hurt because of her–
“Easy, Peri.” Sheriff Nate Rayburn stepped abruptly into her path. “He’s okay, just a little banged up. Takes more than a bump on the head to bring down a fella like Magnus.”
He smiled gently and reached out to touch her, but she veered around him and continued toward Magnus. The EMTs were climbing back into their rig, and the fire truck was pulling away, but the small crowd lingered. Neighbors, mostly; no one Peri didn’t recognize.
“Peri,” Rayburn repeated from behind her, but she ignored him.
She hated badges. Town badges, county badges, state badges.
Federal badges most of all.
“Oh, I’m alright,” Magnus said, his voice full of disgust when she sank to her knees before him. “Bastard got me from behind.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his head. “Heard someone moving around your place right after you left, so I went up to take a look.”
Dread made her feel sick. “And?”
“He clocked me before I could get a look. Sorry, kid.”
There was concern in his gaze, but it wasn’t for himself. He’d been bashed in the head by some unknown assailant, and he was worried about her.
Emotion sliced through Peri. Fear for him; fury that someone had dared hurt him.
Ugly, suffocating guilt.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t you apologize for that son of a bitch.” Magnus scowled. “He comes back, and I’m gonna feed him to my woodchipper.”
“Magnus,” Rayburn chided.
Magnus didn’t bother to spare him a look. Instead his gaze took in the abrasion on her cheek. “You okay, kid?”
Peri nodded, even though nothing was okay.
“Houston, we have a problem!” Bertie intoned, watching intently from her perch.
The Sheriff moved to stand beside Peri. “Do you have any idea who would do this?”
He quirked a sandy brow at her, his gaze dark in the dimming light. Handsome and charismatic, Nate Rayburn was more politician than lawman. Tonight he wore plain clothes: black jeans, a button-down henley, and hiking shoes.
He must have been off-duty–which begged the question of why he was there at all.
But Peri knew. Rayburn had an unhealthy fascination with all things Josiah Dearing–his daughter most of all. He wasn’t the first fanboy she’d encountered, but he was the first to wear a badge, something Peri found deeply disturbing.
She’d made it her mission in life to fly under the radar, but when she’d applied to teach at the elementary school, she had to submit to a background check–a background check that had been conducted by Nate Rayburn. No doubt her identity had caused quite a stir, but to his credit, the Sheriff kept her relation to The Diviner under wraps, and the school district had never made an issue of it.
Rayburn, however, seemed to think she was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and his endless fascination with the man who’d spawned her–and the warped congregation who’d followed him–made her skin crawl. The man didn’t seem to comprehend that she’d barely survived her daddy’s madness; the last thing she wanted to do was dive in and swim around in his crazy.
“No.” She pushed to her feet. “No idea.”
“Peri.” Rayburn moved closer. His gaze snagged on her cheek, and he frowned. “Has someone been giving you problems?”
Only a big, grim G-man who didn’t seem to like her any more than she liked him–and she was very likable, so she didn’t know what his dang problem was–and an Albino bent on carrying her off. Or running her over.
She wasn’t really sure which.
“You can talk to me, you know,” Nate murmured. “It’s my job to protect you.”
He moved to wrap an uninvited arm around her shoulders, but Peri stepped back and smacked into Soren, who she hadn’t realized stood right behind her. His face bore that flat, unmoving expression, but his body was hot, hard, and far too real. The intensity he wore was like a slap in the face, compelling and formidable, and for the first time she understood the allure of a dangerous man.
No! No, no, no!
“You forgot your bike,” he said.
She only blinked at him.
“Who’s this?” Rayburn gave her a sharp look. “Is he responsible for the mark on your face?”
Soren’s gaze swiveled to stab into him, and the Sheriff seemed to wilt a little. Peri couldn’t blame him. Soren Blackbird was a scary looking dude, especially with the dark, roiling energy that seethed in his wake. His palpable menace. Not to mention his size.
Another giant.
And that icy, black obsidian gaze and hard, unsmiling mouth.
Still the most amazing face she’d ever seen.
Stupid. Stupid! Gah!
“You should go up and see if anything’s missing,” Magnus told her, watching the interaction with interest.
He shifted on the step and winced, and Peri’s chest went tight. She reached out and gripped his hand. “I’m really sorry, Magnus.”
He patted her arm. “I’m a hard-headed bastard, kid. Don’t sweat it.”
But she knew it was her fault. The Swede, the black town car, the Albino…she’d stumbled into something, something sinister she didn’t yet understand.
You must save her…
Ice slid down her spine.
“C’mon,” Rayburn muttered. “I’ll take you up.”
But Peri shook her head. The last thing she wanted was his nosy butt in her business. She already had one obnoxious man following her around; she didn’t need another. “That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is,” he insisted. “You have to file a police report.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” she retorted.
His gaze narrowed. “You know who it was.”
She said nothing, unwilling to lie.
He stepped closer. “Is this about your family?”
Fury burned through her. “I don’t have a family.”
She stepped past him and climbed onto the porch.
“Peri,” he muttered.
Again, she ignored him.
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!” Bertie cried.
Peri stepped into the house and pulled the door shut behind her. It opened immediately, but it wasn’t Rayburn.
It was Soren Blackbird.
“If you could leave my bike on the front porch,” she grated. “I’d appreciate it.”
Then she turned and headed upstairs to her second-floor apartment.
But he only followed, silent.
Because of course he did.
She halted and turned, prepared to tell him to scram, but the Sheriff stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching intently, so she just gritted her teeth and stomped up to her apartment in silence.
At the top of the stairs, she halted and stared through the open doorway. The tightness in her chest expanded, and her eyes burned; rage like none she’d ever known burst through her.
She didn’t own much. As a child, she hadn’t been allowed to lay claim to anything–not her clothes, not even the battered cloth doll that was her sole friend–because everything within the Southern Sons of Liberty compound “The Nest” belonged solely to Josiah Dearing. Anything brought to The Nest was instantly and irrevocably claimed by him. It didn’t matter if it was pots and pans or a new car; a flour tin or a smoked ham; gold jewelry, tennis shoes, or a bolt of flowery pink fabric. Josiah claimed everything, and he’d lorded over his possessions like Midas over his gold.
Foster care hadn’t been any different. Whenever she’d managed to secure something that was hers, someone either stole it or destroyed it. She’d learned young to live a minimalist life, and all the years she’d spent living and working in the field had only solidified that existence. It was only when she’d settled in Hidden Hills that she’d allowed herself to splurge.
A new couch; a nice desk. A handful of paintings by local artists. She was picky and conservative and had zero interest in owning a bunch of things she didn’t want or need.
The only exception to that rule was her plants.
Her orchids and cacti; the massive bird of paradise she’d discovered at an estate auction. Spider plants, snake plants, aloe, geraniums, and delicate African violets. A leafy begonia, a towering jade plant; succulents and vines, a temperamental Ficus tree. Rows of herbs; a carefully sculpted Bonsai. Bushy bamboo and hanging planters overflowing with ferns.
The only family she had.
The single thing she treasured. Loved.
And someone had destroyed them.
Broken shards of porcelain and terracotta created a massive mosaic of destruction atop the hard wooden floor; piles of dirt, bark, and moss painted the wide oak planks. Leaves and roots lay bedraggled and dying, strewn from wall to wall. Broken stems, crushed flowers, a brutally smashed prickly pear.
And her proud, majestic jade had been slashed to pieces.
A raw, irretrievable sound broke from Peri as she surveyed the damage. Part heartbreak; part fury . She couldn’t help it.
Someone would pay for this.
Emotion flooded through her veins like lava . She moved to the fallen Ficus and lifted it. The branches swayed; the leaves fluttered. It seemed to sigh as she set it right.
“Sons of bitches,” she choked.
Tears filled her eyes, and the pressure inside her grew until she could hardly breathe. Four years ago, she’d lost everything. Her work, her reputation, her purpose. And she’d rolled with those punches, dusting her butt off and getting back up. But this…
This fucking hurt.
She gathered badly bruised leaves and fallen petals, strands of crushed vine, and torn blades. Her hands shook; sobs welled her throat. She couldn’t even bear to look at the jade. She wanted to scream as she hadn’t done since she was a child watching the only home she’d ever known burn.
“I’m sorry,” Soren said, and Peri realized he stood beside her, taking in everything with that piercing onyx gaze.
“Get out,” she whispered.
He didn’t move. “They were looking for something. Did the Swede give you anything?”
She stiffened. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
Her hands flexed around what remained of her plants. “Yes. Please go.”
He said nothing. Still didn’t move. Then, “I can help you clean up.”
Hot, angry tears slid down her cheeks. “Just go.”
“We have to talk about this.”
“Not now.”
For a long moment, he remained, and Peri almost turned and shoved him. She wanted him gone. She didn’t care that he’d offered to help, or that he was probably right—someone had obviously been looking for something–she just wanted to be alone with her plants and save the ones she could.
“Peri,” he said, and something in his voice finally made her look at him.
Something human.
For the first time, she glimpsed the soul who lived within the stone-faced agent, the person in existence beneath the impatience, and arrogance, and unmoved apathy.
A man who looked at her as if her pain touched him.
And fat dang chance of that!
She knelt to gather another handful of crushed leaves. “Go away, Blackbird. Please.”
Still, he lingered. And she continued to collect what remained of her precious plants, fighting the storm of fury and sobs welling within her, ignoring him with the same chilly demeanor of which he was so fond.
Until, finally, mercifully, he left.
EIGHT
…it wasn’t until a journalist hired by Brinton Clean Energy named Andrew Garber dug into Dr. O'Brien’s past that the truth came to light, revealing that Peri O'Brien was none other than Persephone Dearing, daughter of late cult leader and anarchist, Josiah “the Diviner” Dearing. Dearing founded the infamous Southern Sons of Liberation, an anti-government collective of militant homesteaders whose enclave covered nearly a thousand acres of forest and swampland in southern Mississippi. From all reports, Dearing was a strict and exacting luminary, known for his propensity toward violence and the often fatal punishments he delivered as recompense for any perceived breach of his covenants. After claiming credit for several homegrown terror attacks, Dearing was killed in a raid on his compound conducted by the FBI in 2010.
None of this should have mattered. Persephone O'Brien had more than earned her stripes through sheer dedication and hard work, spending countless hours on the ice and in the lab. She wrote several New York Times bestsellers on climate change, published highly regarded research papers, lobbied international bodies to recognize and understand the imminent threat of climate change, and conducted research that changed the entire trajectory of climate science—the heart of which was her discovery of the Fire Flow.
Dr. O'Brien was a well known, highly respected, and often lauded scientist when Garber’s article revealed her identity. What should have been nothing more than a salacious side note became O'Brien’s sole definition—because even in the world of science, optics matter. At a time when opinion counts more than fact, the scientific community must be vigilant against being viewed as imperfect in any way.
And being the daughter of an infamous and exceptionally murderous cult leader made Persephone O'Brien very imperfect.
Few were surprised to discover the expose was undertaken on behalf of Brinton Clean Energy, but the public was too busy salivating over O'Brien’s story of darkness and tragedy to care. To their credit, O’Brien’s employer, BioSphere Climate, did not respond to the media circus Garber’s article set loose, nor did it terminate her employment.
But Peri left anyway.
In order to preserve what was left of her legacy—and to mitigate the damage already done to the field—she walked quietly away.
The loss is incalculable. As global temperatures continue to rise, humanity’s arsenal to understand the change taking hold of our planet—perhaps even neutralize it—has lost one of its strongest weapons.
And the fight will never be the same.
Peri O’Brien continued to smash through every one of Soren’s assumptions. He’d read everything he could get his hands on about her, and all of it had surprised him.
But none of it had shed any light on how she fit into the puzzle of Jorgen Bernason’s death.
Being in the dark was not an experience Soren relished. He had no idea if he should trust his gut, and no idea if he could trust her. And meanwhile, the pull he felt toward her only continued to grow.
But she was a suspect. His only suspect. And even if he didn’t want to be working this shitshow of a case, he would damn sure see it properly through and nail whoever was responsible.
Because that was the job, and he took the job very seriously.
Which made whatever he was beginning to feel for Peri O’Brien very goddamn inconvenient.
Watching her with Magnus had revealed something Soren hadn’t expected, a vulnerability he knew she wouldn’t have willingly shared: that she cared deeply for the old man. That she felt responsible for him.
