The Lost Page 5

  Jeap lifted his chin. “—is so great, then why are you here?”

  Grif sighed, wishing the kid wasn’t quite so alert now. “I’m looking for the guy who killed me,” Grif finally said, then mentally corrected himself. Guys.

  Jeap slumped. “I guess I don’t have to do that.”

  Nope, and again, Grif wondered what Sarge thought he had in common with this gowed-up kid over half a century his junior. Jeap must have wondered the same thing, as he stared at Grif’s wings, then back at his mortal remains. “And that other thing? The one that was pulling on me?”

  “Once Pure.” Grif shrugged. “Now Pure evil. But don’t worry. It can’t ascend.”

  “It called me lost, but I don’t feel lost. In fact, I actually feel . . . good.” Jeap tilted his head, and took a moment to think about that. “For the first time since I can remember, I don’t feel like hiding.”

  “Good. Then you should get through incubation just fine.”

  “She should hide, though.”

  “What?”

  “That girl. She needs to run, something. That . . . thing. It’s going to circle back for her.”

  From far away, it seemed to Grif that he heard screaming in the night. He managed to control his voice as he spoke. “How do you know that?”

  “It was in me, right?”

  Grif gave a jerky nod.

  Jeap tried for a nonchalant shrug, but it morphed into a shudder. “So I was in it, too.”

  Grif’s mortal blood took up the scream, zinging through his veins, forced by his frantic heart. God, he thought. Not Kit. Not again.

  “Let’s go,” Grif managed, needing to get this duty over with so he could get back to Kit.

  But Jeap gave his earthly remains a final sad, lingering look.

  “What?” Grif asked impatiently.

  “I don’t know. Now that I think about it, maybe under the weight of flesh and blood and, you know, free will, maybe we’re all just a little bit lost.”

  Grif froze, staring at the kid. “C’mon,” he finally said, hoping Jeap hadn’t noted his hesitation. “You’re beginning the Fade.”

  And he led Jeap toward the adjacent bathroom, where he shut the door. Jeap stopped him with a hand on his arm before he could open it again.

  “You sure they’ll take me? I’m . . .” Jeap looked back at his destroyed body. “Unclean.”

  Grif held out his hand, and because the kid needed it—because they both did—gave him a little smile. “The place would be empty if they only accepted the pure. Now come on.”

  And he reopened the door so they could step directly into the Everlast. Jeap gasped, sucking in stardust and solar wind, and as horns heralded his arrival, Grif led him into the Universe’s welcoming arms.

  Kit was neither ashamed nor surprised that she had a little breakdown before calling the cops. What the hell was she supposed to do after stumbling upon a man who was both rotting and alive, not to mention possessed by some sort of malevolent spirit? Of course it’d freaked her out. She was a reporter, not a crime scene technician. Not a clairvoyant.

  Certainly not a D-E-V-A.

  Shuddering at the memory of leaves whipping along interior walls, Kit gave in to tears that scalded her cheeks in the dawning light. Duty eventually got the best of her, and so her hiccupping sobs were gradually replaced by deep, cleansing breaths. Still, she didn’t dial 9-1-1 like a normal civilian. Instead she invoked one of the perks that came with her job, and called Detective Dennis Carlisle.

  “I like you, Craig,” he said, voice dusted over with sleep. “But I’m hanging up.”

  “Don’t you dare, Dennis. I need you,” she said quickly, tucking the phone between chin and shoulder so she could shakily light a cigarette. Her hands were almost steady. “You specifically at a crime scene.”

  “Call O’Connell,” he said, and Kit heard bedcovers rustling as he rolled over. “You can trust him to do the job.”

  Kit was as trusting of the law as anyone who reported events on both sides of it, but that wasn’t the point. “I need someone who is going to care as deeply as I do.”

  Even over the phone, he saw right through her. “You mean who will listen to your opinion and feed you information in return.”

  “No reason we can’t turn this investigation into a two-way street,” she said lightly, and inhaled.

  “Investigation?” Now he was awake. The covers rustled again as he shifted in bed, and Kit briefly found herself wondering if anyone was lying next to him. “What makes you think—”

  “You’ll want to bring the CIS unit, too,” she said, cutting him off.

  “Dammit.” A pause, and the silence made her wince. “Are you okay?”

  She warmed at the question, the way it was asked, and answered affirmative before giving him the address. Dennis hung up without a good-bye, but Kit smiled anyway. He’d moved to town a handful of years ago from Southern Cal, another locale with a strong rockabilly contingent, and as theirs was a small subculture, they’d met within weeks. They bonded over a common love of beach bands and car parks. Dennis was a cop, but more than that, he was a true friend. He’d come.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so slapdash” were his first words to her, and she pushed herself from the side of her Duetto as he stepped from his unmarked car.

  Glancing down, Kit made a face. Her shoes and bag were all right—hard to screw that up when all you had in your closet was vintage perfection—but the capris and sweater set were boring at best, and she was barefaced, hair untidily pinned. “I was in a hurry.”

  Dennis frowned. Everyone in the scene knew how fastidious Kit was about her appearance. “Tell me,” he said, as he made to sit next to her.

  Kit jerked her head at the foreclosed home’s open door. “See for yourself.”

  After that he was too busy to talk at all.

  As hoped, Dennis gave instructions to the beat cops that he’d be doing the interviewing, so they left Kit alone while they secured the crime scene and started the door-to-doors. Kit propped herself on the hood of her car to observe the comings and goings, and to eavesdrop on the officers’ conversation while she waited. She wasn’t given this leeway because of him, or because she was a witness, or because she was a reporter.

  Kit’s father had been a cop, killed in the line of duty. The circumstances surrounding Martin Craig’s death were every cop’s unspoken fear: an anonymous call, a botched robbery, a masked thief who simply didn’t like men in blue. It also remained unsolved.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Kit jumped as Grif materialized behind her in that way he had, as if dropped like a star from the heavens themselves. He could reappear on the Surface any time he chose after returning from a Take—whether it was one second after he’d left, an hour, or a week—as long as it was in the future. He’d clearly chosen this point in time because the cops would be too busy to question his appearance . . . and wouldn’t even know he’d been here earlier.

  Kit took in his clenched jaw, stony gaze, and hard frown, and pushed to her feet. “I’ve been waiting to ask you the same thing.”

  He came around the car to stand with her, toe to toe, which wasn’t as romantic as it sounded. “You snuck out while I was sleeping.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t sleep for long. And I left you Jeap’s address.”

  “You left me to find my own way,” he corrected.

  “I left you a hat with a built-in compass.”

  He narrowed his eyes beneath his old fedora, and, swallowing hard, Kit took up the offense. She crossed her arms. “You didn’t tell me there were angels masquerading as monsters.”

  He opened his mouth like he had something more to say about that, but then shook his head and changed the subject. “Don’t you realize what you could have done?”

  “Nothing, apparently.” Sighing, she stared east where the sun had begun its stretch into the sky, its yellow yawn wide behind the lavender-draped mountain range. Nothing she did ever seeme
d to matter against fate’s heavy fist.

  Grif stepped forward, into Kit’s personal space . . . and not in a good way. “You got yourself gummed up in something you shouldn’t have, Kit. Your name’s going to be attached to a death you never should have touched. Again.”

  Kit understood his worry. She’d been targeted for death the last time she’d had an inadvertent run-in with fate, but hey—they’d come through that okay in the end. Besides, done was done, and Kit knew she’d try to save Jeap again, given the chance. It wasn’t the human element she was worried about anyway.

  “That thing had black stars for eyes, Grif. It had a voice that sounded like a hurricane. It could see me.”

  And as soon as she said it, Kit could see that was why he’d been worried. His jaw clenched as he jerked his head. “It shouldn’t have been able to. You’re alive. You’re Chosen—”

  “And angels can’t harm the Chosen,” she said quickly, though it was really a question. “Those are the rules, right?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the fallen ones have a history of breaking rules.”

  Kit froze. She’d have reached for another cigarette if she could have moved. “But they’re weaker than you guys, right? Like, neutered and scared with their tails tucked between their legs?”

  “The fallen angels hate God and everyone on His Christmas list. They especially hate humans.”

  Kit held up a hand. “I appreciate the theology lesson, but right now all I want to know is why. Could. It. See. Me?”

  “Better question: why could you see it?” Grif shook his head, but still tried to answer. “I think it’s because you know so much. Too much.”

  The EMTs emerged just then, carefully rolling Jeap’s body from the abandoned home. Watching them go, Kit was glad Grif had Taken the boy. Jeap Yang had suffered enough.

  “Dennis has no idea what that drug is,” she said, lighting another cigarette. The sight of the body grounded her back in this world, but her nerves spiked all over again. “He’s seen heroin, roofies, X, meth, GHB, and one or more of them combined into a lethal cocktail, but he’s never seen a drug made with paint thinner and lighter fluid.”

  Grif glanced back at the house, and Kit watched the memory of thickly clogged needles flash in his dark gaze. The recollection of the cleaners and solvents in the corner made Kit wince, too. “He shot industrial cleaner into his body?”

  “Among other things.” Blowing out a skein of smoke, she pulled out her Moleskine. “Dennis did a check on the kid. He’d been going to a trade school for culinary arts. Jeap wanted to be a chef at one time, can you believe that?”

  “Well he cooked up a hell of a recipe here,” Grif said.

  “Someone else gave it to him, though,” she said, flipping the notebook shut. “And I’m going to find out who.”

  Tapping out his own smoke, Grif eyed her as he tucked the pack in his pocket. “Kit—”

  “Don’t even try—”

  Grif grabbed her by the arm, cigarette forgotten. “You read a private file. You weren’t even supposed to be here.”

  She stomped her foot. “You weren’t going to do anything!”

  “I was going to do my job!” Clenching his fist, he busted his cigarette, which was how she knew he wanted to grab her again.

  “It’s not a job,” she said anyway. “Jeap is a person!”

  “Not anymore.” Grif held up a hand, sighing immediately, taking the sting out of her shock. He knew how it sounded. “Just so you know, he was fine when I left him in the Everlast. Happier than he’s been in over two years.”

  Kit goggled, but not for the reason Grif would expect. “He’d been living like that, with that fate, for two whole years?” She rubbed her free hand over her face. “And you still don’t think I should have intervened?”

  “Interfered,” Grif corrected. “Living that way was Jeap’s choice. He said as much himself.”

  Kit’s jaw clenched reflexively. “What else did he say?”

  “He said his girl introduced him to it. Recently.”

  Kit brightened at that. “Good, then we find out who he’s been seeing recently and we have our first lead.”

  Grif shook his head. “We don’t have a lead, because this isn’t an investigation.”

  “Actually it is.” The voice came from behind Grif, and even Kit hadn’t seen Dennis’s arrival. She’d been too focused on Grif’s stubborn face. Grif turned, and suddenly both men were silhouetted against the rising sun, just like the mountains at their back, both formidable and unmovable as they squared off against each other.

  “We’re extremely interested in finding out who’s dealing this drug,” Dennis said. “For obvious reasons.”

  Kit wondered how much he’d heard of their conversation, but his face remained professionally blank.

  “Obvious to some of us,” Kit replied hotly, ignoring Grif’s glare.

  Dennis ignored it, too. He and Grif liked each other well enough, but neither of them would let that get in the way of their respective jobs.

  “That’s fine,” Dennis said, turning to Kit. “Because you’re the one I need.”

  “Me?” Kit said, surprised.

  “Her?” Grif said, wary.

  Dennis looked at Kit and cocked his brow. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

  “Done,” Kit said immediately.

  “Kit—” Grif tried to edge between them.

  Kit stepped to the side, bringing Dennis into view again. “What do you need?”

  “Like crimes,” said Dennis.

  “It wasn’t a crime,” Grif tried again. “It was a—”

  “It was awful,” Dennis said sharply, his glare just as honed. He turned back to Kit as Grif clenched his jaw. “Worst I’ve ever seen. So I’m willing to trade. But I need names, dates, anything you can get from reporting sources.”

  “You mean anything that might not have made it into print in the past,” Kit said thoughtfully, biting her lip.

  “You got stuff like that?” he asked.

  Kit thought of her aunt’s personal files at the paper and smiled. “And in return?”

  “Interviews with Jeap’s immediate relatives, if he has any. Barring that, friends.”

  “Doesn’t seem like he had any real friends,” Kit commented.

  “Associates, then.”

  “You want this in print?” she asked, as he ran a hand over his head.

  “Anything you gotta do to shine a light on what happened in there. I want to find out who’s dealing this shit.” For a moment, his face crumpled. “His flesh was falling from his bones.”

  “I want in with the coroner,” she said, while his defenses were still down.

  Up they went again. “Kit . . .”

  “Dennis,” she said, her voice carrying the same warning. But she was distinctly aware that he was holding all the cards here. Just as she was aware that Grif had yet to speak. That was just as worrisome.

  Dennis finally sighed. “I should be able to swing it. But I’m calling in a big marker.”

  “I’ll do the same,” she said, thinking of her aunt’s files again. “Then we’ll hit the major wires together and hit them hard.”

  “Deal,” he said, and they high-fived to seal it.

  “Damn,” Grif said under his breath.

  “Stay by the phone.” Dennis threw a look behind his shoulder as an officer called him over, then began backing away. “I’ll call you as soon as I get a lead.”

  Then he was gone, and she was left with Grif’s heavy silence spoiling the morning air. It was only marginally better than the stench inside the house, Kit thought, and set her jaw before looking at him.

  “You know,” she told Grif, leaning against her car as he glared at her. “You could help me. Dust off your detective’s hat.”

  “I don’t have a detective’s hat,” he snapped. “I have a hat that beeps.”

  But Kit’s mind was made up, so she just ignored his anger and his glare, and glanced ba
ck at the abandoned home. “How the hell did that thing get inside Jeap?”

  As annoyed as he was with her, Grif joined her against the car, and eventually slipped his arm around her waist. “The Pures can possess the bodies of those who are . . . closer to God’s mysteries than the rest of us. Usually very old or young.”

  “Sometimes a sleepwalker?” she asked, recalling what he’d told her of his vision.

  He nodded. “And sometimes those weakened by drugs. I guess the fallen angels can do the same.”

  “I drink alcohol,” Kit pointed out, then looked at the cigarette burning low in her hand. “And I smoke.”

  “Not to the point that you black out. Or allow the flesh to fall from your living body.”

  She gave him a tight smile, but flicked the cigarette away anyway.

  “Hey.” Grif shifted to cup Kit’s face in his palms and locked his gaze on her own. “You’re more alive than any person I know. And I swear on my life, I won’t let that thing near you again.”

  It was exactly what she needed to hear. Blowing out a long breath, she leaned forward and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. For the first time since she woke in the middle of the night, she settled and smiled.

  “Come on,” she said, opening the driver’s door. “We can’t do anything for Jeap until Dennis gets back to us with sources. Let’s roll.”

  Grif just crossed his arms.

  “We have an appointment this morning, remember?”

  She held out for the length of his blank stare, then smiled when he finally jolted, and edged around the nose of the car. “That’s right. Mary Margaret.”

  They’d finally tracked down Mary Margaret DiMartino, a woman Grif believed could provide information that would help him unearth who exactly had murdered him and Evie in 1960. Unfortunately, the past fifty years hadn’t been easy on Mary Margaret, which was why she’d been so hard to locate.

  Still, Kit refrained from pointing out that he didn’t seem to mind her investigative bent when it came to his old mystery. Mostly because it was the greatest mystery of both of his lives.

  But also because Kit, too, had a vested interest in knowing who killed Griffin Shaw.

  The pad was raided.”

  “What?” She allows the word to curl softly at the end, like the steam rising from her cup, the first of the day. And like the steam, there’s no mistaking the heat from its source.