Message in the Blade, page 1
MESSAGE in the BLADE
Dawn Merriman
Book 7 in the Messages of Murder Series
Prologue
Blood pounds through me as I think of what I'll soon be doing. My hands shake on the steering wheel, small tremors of anticipation.
“Keep your cool,” I tell myself.
I love this part, the knowing what's coming, the waiting for the rush that will fill me when it's done. I relish all of it, the planning, the thinking of the deed. The rush, like now, as I approach the destination where they wait for me.
They wait for my retribution.
They have no idea I am coming, but they need redeeming.
It's my calling to make them pay for their mistakes.
My calling.
I like the sound of that.
My mind drifts, as it often does, to the seven nights before this one. To the satisfaction I've gotten knowing the world is a better place thanks to me.
And I think of her.
I park a few blocks down the street from where tonight's job waits for me.
I know he's sleeping. I've watched him for days, learned his habits. He does his deadly business while the porch light is on. The light is off now.
He sleeps.
He waits.
I tremble with excitement.
I slip on the mask.
Now I feel whole. The mask completes me, more natural than my own skin.
Only in the mask do I feel fully alive.
I flip up the hood of my hoodie and pull the strings. The gun in the front pocket pulls the dark sweater down. The weight of it makes me feel so good, I can hardly stand it. I slip my hand into the pocket and caress the cool metal. Soon the metal will be hot.
A shiver of anticipation slides across my shoulders.
A pair of latex gloves are in my back pocket and I put them on. I wish I could touch things, touch him when he's gone. Wish my bare skin could feel the heat of the gun flash.
But I have to be careful. I know the rules.
The street is dark, the few street lights have been broken by wayward stones thrown by wayward teens.
The entire neighborhood needs redeemed.
I'm working on it.
After tonight this block will be better.
And she will notice.
I walk with purpose, my footsteps matching the beat of blood in my ears. I push past the overgrown bushes on either side of the front walk and climb the steps to the sagging porch.
I dart a look at the neighbor's house. She's not on her porch. She spends all day there, watching, complaining. She goes in promptly at 8:30.
8:30 came and went hours ago and her porch is empty. It would be easy to do her, too. But she is one of the few here that don't need me to send her on. She has no record I could find.
God will take her soon, anyway.
I can barely breathe, I'm so excited. My chest hurts and I take a few steadying breaths. I suck in the night air slowly and exhale. The mask makes a tiny whistling sound as I breathe out.
“You've got this,” I say and take the gun from my hoodie pocket. Goosebumps of excitement break out down my arms, despite the warm air and the heavy hoodie.
I reach for the knob, wrap my fingers around the worn metal and turn.
The knob turns.
The door is unlocked, just as I knew it would be.
I push the door open.
For a moment, it sticks and I fear he has an inside chain.
I shove it hard and it glides into the dark of the living room.
His room is up the stairs to the right.
I take a step into the house, every sense on edge, every nerve in my body full of adrenaline.
Slowly, silently, I creep up the stairs. At the top, I turn down the hallway. His room is at the far end of the hall, at the front of the house.
I hear him snoring loudly. The sound grates on my nerves, another transgression.
I focus on my steps, place each foot carefully.
A board squeaks, loud in the silent house.
The rhythm of his snoring changes slightly, and I freeze.
I count to ten as he falls back into a deep sleep. Only then do I take another step.
I reach the bedroom door, slightly ajar. Through the crack, I can see him. He lies on his back, the moonlight on his wispy goatee.
He must be sent away.
The wood of the door is cool under my latex-covered palm. I push on the door.
Slow steps toward the bed.
He waits.
I lift the gun.
Chapter 1
GABBY
It's been six days since I gave Lucas my necklace back. Six days since I saw Nathan taken away in an ambulance and later taken back to jail. Six days since I came back to work only to find out my shop may not survive the loss of Nathan's fake clients.
It's been a crappy six days.
Each night I see the bridge explode in my dreams. I feel the barrel of Nathan’s gun on my temple. Each night I wake to an empty bed, drenched in sweat.
I sit at my desk and rub my neck, missing my necklace and all it represents. Several times a day, I pray for guidance. Pray for a sign that will let us get back together. For six days, my tattoo has been curiously silent.
I look over the bills that have come in the last week. Even with Grandma Dot not charging me rent on the building, I still have utilities and other overhead to pay. Not to mention my mortgage and credit card payments. The tiny trickle of real clients I've had this week barely covers it.
I may have to look for another line of work.
I lower my forehead to the desk and for the hundredth time wonder what in the world I will do. Why did I think I could do this? Why did I let Grandma talk me into making a living with my gift?
The bell on the front door jingles and I dart upright, embarrassed to be caught with my head down.
A sandy haired man gives me an uncertain smile. “Are you Gabby McAllister?” he asks, running a fingernail across the front of the desk nervously.
“I'm Gabby. How can I help you?” I push thoughts of explosions and necklaces to the back of my mind and give him what I think is a winning smile.
I'm hoping he's a potential client, not someone who's come to see the “freak” from the news. Lacey did her best to keep me out of the story about her sister, but this town knows who I am and what I do. This man wouldn't be the first one that just wanted to see me up close.
“I understand you're a psychic,” he says, working his fingernail into the wood of my desk.
“I suppose so. Is there something I can do for you?” I'm starting to think this isn't a client and am irritated by the interruption.
“Can you talk to the dead?” he asks.
I take a deep breath. I've been asked this before. “If you know about me, you know that's not exactly what I do. I get messages when I touch certain items. If I touch a dead body, I might get a vision of how and when they died, but I don't 'talk' to them.”
“Right. Right.” He stops digging into my desk and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Why don't you tell me what you need and I'll tell you if I can help or not.”
He stares out the front windows into the town square. “It's my uncle. He was murdered a few days ago.”
This is not what I expected to hear. I lean forward in my chair, all ears now.
“Was that here in River Bend? I don't remember seeing it on the news.”
I'm wondering how a murder happened and I didn't know about it.
“You wouldn't have. It was ruled a suicide.”
“I see.” I don't really. “So why do you think he was murdered?”
He looks me straight in the face for the first time. “Uncle Andy would never kill himself. I know he wouldn't.” His voice rises with conviction.
I search his face and he believes every word he is saying. “Do you know who ruled it a suicide?”
“The first officer that showed up, Hawthorne. And then, of course, the coroner made her ruling.”
I stand with a notebook, come from behind the desk and invite the man to sit on the yellow couch. I take my usual place in one of the red chairs. “Why don't we start at the beginning,” I say. “And not to be indelicate, but have you been to my website and seen my fees?”
I hate the words, but the pile of bills on my desk makes me say them.
He shifts in his seat. “I have. I'll pay whatever you want if you can prove Uncle Andy did not take his own life and find the person that killed him.”
“I will do my best, but as for the last part, I am not a cop. I don't catch killers. I just help the police.”
“Whatever it takes to bring him justice.”
“Okay then. Tell me everything. Let's start with your name.”
“Roger Belkin.” He stares at my feet as he tells his story. “That night I was supposed to meet Uncle Andy at the sports club to have a few drinks and play pool. He never showed.”
I interrupt and ask his uncle's full name. “Andrew Tippins. So when he didn't show up, I drove to his house. I was pretty upset that he stood me up and wasn't answering his calls. You have to understand, he's my uncle and I love him, but he's doesn't stay on the straight and narrow. He might have a side job that he runs from home, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you mean he deals drugs?”
Roger looks away, but nods. “So I was pretty upset. I thought maybe he had decided to stay home and partake with one of his clients. It has happened before, unfortunately.” He digs his fingernail into the trim edge of the couch. “Anyway, when I got to his house, everything was dark. I mean everything. He usually leaves the front porch light on to let his clients know he's open for business. That light was off.”
“Did you go in the house?”
“I did. I thought maybe he had partied earlier than usual and had passed out before it grew dark and that's why the house was dark. When I knocked, he didn't answer. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in.”
“Is the door normally unlocked?”
“Usually. He doesn't live in the best part of town, but he has so many people coming and going he just leaves it unlocked. He always says he doesn't have anything worth stealing anyway.”
“So you went into the house,” I prompt.
“I did and turned on the light. I expected to find him on the couch passed out. But the couch was empty. So I searched the house. I found him in his bed. He'd been shot in the head. The gun was still in his hand.”
“That must have been awful.”
Roger looks out the front window and swallows hard. I give him a moment to keep himself under control. “It was,” he finally says. “So I called 911. They sent an officer over. Officer Hawthorne. This officer took one look at Uncle Andy and said it looked like suicide.”
“Did they call the detectives in? Any death in a home like that is at least looked at by a detective.”
“They did. Detective McAllister came. I believe he's your brother.”
“Yes, he is. Detective McAllister agreed with Hawthorne that it was suicide?”
Roger looks away again but nods. “He did. The gun was in his hand, after all. Then the coroner came and she agreed.”
I study the man. These memories are making his hands shake. He digs into the couch trim again.
“Roger, why did you come to me? It sounds like a clear case of suicide. I know that's not an easy thing for family to accept, but it happens more than we'd like to think.”
He turns and looks me straight in the eye. “I know Uncle Andy didn't shoot himself.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He didn't own a gun. He hated them. He did two tours in Afghanistan. When he came home, he was broken. Hence, the drugs. He had a hard rule about guns. Wouldn't even let his clients bring them to the house.”
“So where did the gun come from?”
“Exactly. I know he had problems and the suicide might make sense for a man that had his issues. But I assure you, he would never use a gun. Never.”
Chapter 2
LUCAS
It's been six days since Gabby gave me the necklace back. Six days since the mysterious message I heard in my head, in my heart that told me to go to Grandma Dot's farm.
Was it from God? Is that what Gabby hears?
All I know is the words were insistent in my head and I had to act on them. I told Dustin and we went.
As usual, Gabby had the situation under control already. Seeing her over Nathan's inert body, his gun in her hand shook me. Does she even need me?
I didn't stick around to find out. There was a crime scene that needed me more back at the old house.
Six days later, I wish I had stuck around. I wish I had given her the opportunity to tell me it was all a mistake.
I've checked my phone several times a day, even hovered my finger over the call button late one night. I had it in my head to call and beg for her to come back.
Something held my finger.
The next day, I went fishing at Harper Lake. It felt good to get out of River Bend for the day. Just me and the water and my fishing pole.
If she doesn't want me, I don't want her.
Near the water, I almost believed it.
I had missed an apparent suicide case on my day off, but Dustin had handled it fine without me. He had the new officer Hawthorne at the scene. I'd read the report and it all looked tidy. Coroner Gomez had made her ruling. Another suicide on the south side of town.
So why do I find myself reading the report again?
Nothing in the papers gives me a reason to think there was foul play. I flip the file closed on my desk and look at the empty desk facing mine. Dustin is around somewhere and I could ask him about it. I could, but I won't. He was at the scene and made his determination. I will not question his judgment.
But I can ask the other officer that responded.
I step out of our office and into the bullpen. I scan the blue shirts that are present and find the tight bun of auburn hair that I seek.
Officer Kalissta Hawthorne.
I call her name and she turns in surprise. When she sees it's me calling to her, she beams a smile.
“Can I help you, Detective Hartley?” she says as she approaches.
“Will you come into my office a moment?”
“Of course,” she answers with enthusiasm. “Whatever you need.”
She runs a hand over her hair, smoothing her bun.
Once in the semi-privacy of our office, I close the door. She stands stiff, almost at attention, waiting.
“Did I do something wrong?” the young officer asks.
“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to ask about a case you were recently part of. The Andrew Tippins suicide.”
She relaxes, “Oh. Okay. What do you want to know?”
What did I want to know? I suddenly feel foolish for bringing her in like this. She did her job, it is not my place to question her. She looks at me with large brown eyes a few shades darker than her auburn hair.
“Was there anything, I don't know, off about the scene?”
She tips her head in consideration. The movement combined with her wide eyes makes her look like an adorable puppy. “Nothing I can think of. The gun was in the man's hand so it was pretty cut and dried. Detective McAllister seemed to agree and so did Coroner Gomez.” Those large eyes now narrow in question. “Why do you ask?”
“It's probably nothing,” I say, feeling ridiculous. “Thank you for coming in.”
I open the door to let her leave, then think of one last question.
“You work the south side beat, don't you?”
“Yes.” The large eyes again.
I bite my lip, not sure how to word my question. “Has there been an unusual number of suicides in that area lately?”
She looks confused. “I don't know if I'd say an unusual number. That part of town is rough, people tend to do drastic things in neighborhoods like that.”
I think back over the last months. “I can think of seven suicides in recent months. Not just on the south side, but five of them were in that area.”
She tips her head again. “What are you asking me?”
I rub my buzz cut in agitation. “I'm not sure. Look, forget I asked.”
She smiles widely. “It's no problem.” She tips her head and looks up slightly through her long lashes. “You can ask me anything you need.”
She then turns on her heel and leaves the office.
If I didn't know better, I'd think Kalissta Hawthorne was flirting with me.
Dustin comes down the hall and sees Hawthorne. “What's up?”
I don't want him to know I'm questioning one of his cases, so I say, “Nothing.”
He looks at the retreating officer and back to me, then shakes his head and makes a sound of disgust.
“It's not like that,” I say defensively.
“Hey, your personal life is not my business.” He takes his seat.
“I don't have a personal life. Thanks to your sister.” I try to keep the anger from my voice and manage it just barely. Dustin is my partner and my best friend. But it's a bit awkward being around my ex's brother all the time.
He spreads his hands wide, “Don't blame me for Gabby's erratic behavior. We both know she does what she wants. Or what she feels she needs to do.” He softens and leans forward. “So she hasn't called yet?”
“Nope.” I flop into my chair and push the Andrew Tippins file away. I'm looking for something that isn't there.
I pull out my phone and check it. There's nothing there either.
I shove the phone back in my pocket, irritated that I even care.
Chief Simmons ducks his head into the office door. “Hey, Detectives. We just got a call from the area of that suicide earlier. Someone is breaking into the Tippins house.”
“Why do you need us to go?” I ask. “Sounds like patrol can handle it.”
Simmons's face grows red. “It's Gabby.”
“Crap on a cracker,” I say before I can catch myself. I have picked up the expression from her. I hate that the words escaped my lips.
