Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

As they neared the entrance, the outside light flickered on, then went off again. Elliot shook his head. “I’ve been meaning to have that fixed. There’s some kind of sensor built in so the light will only come on when it’s dark. That’s the idea, anyway. It doesn’t work very well.”

Once inside, Elliot showed his guests to the living room. “Sit anywhere you like,” he said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He went into the kitchen to start the hot chocolate for Joey and coffee for himself and Joey’s mother, but a few seconds later the conversation had already started.

“How long have you been a . . . police officer?”

It was Kelly Anderson, still in the living room, her voice carrying between the rooms.

Elliot thought about correcting her. He was a detective, not a police officer, but he dropped it and said, “I’ve been with the department about four years.”

When he turned to get the milk from the refrigerator, he saw that Kelly had come into the kitchen.

She looked at the floor then glanced at the countertops. “It’s certainly not what I expected.”

Elliot thought for a moment, then realized she must be referring to the floor plan, specifically the inadequate size of the kitchen. “Interesting layout, isn’t it. I’ve thought about moving the counter back, taking some of the breakfast nook. That’d give me more room. I really don’t use that space anyway.”

She ran her hand across the top of the stove. “That’s not what I meant. It’s . . . well, clean, everything in its place. Most men don’t do that. I guess you have a housekeeper.”

Elliot poured some milk into a small pan and placed it on the burner. “No. I just like to stay organized.”

She stared at Elliot for a moment, her face blank, unreadable. “Joey’s certainly impressed. You’re all he talks about.”

“I’m the new kid on the block, that’s all.”

“It’s more than that. He admires you, looks up to you. It’s my job to make sure his trust isn’t misplaced.”

Elliot poured a cup of coffee and handed it to Kelly. “You’re a good mother.”

“I try. But it’s difficult with Joey. It seems to be getting worse.”

“He’s just trying to stretch his wings,” Elliot said. And then, as he often did, he said what should have been left as a thought. “I suspect it isn’t easy to let go of a child, and, in Joey’s case, you can never do that, not completely. You might want to consider loosening the reins a bit, though. He just wants to be treated like an adult, an individual.”

She bristled visibly, and Elliot immediately wished he had put that a little more tactfully.

“Did Joey tell you that?”

“No. It’s intuition.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s what all children want, eventually.”

Her face was no longer blank. It was angry. “What all children want? And what makes you such an expert on the subject? Do you have children, Mr. Elliot?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Then I guess you don’t really know what you’re talking about, do you?”

Elliot put some chocolate into a cup, then poured the hot milk into it. “About being a parent, probably not. But that’s only part of the equation. The other half is children, being a kid. And I do know a little bit about that.”

“I see. And how, exactly, did you come by this knowledge? Do you like to hang around kids, Mr. Elliot?”

“No, but I used to be one, Ms. Anderson, something I remember quite well. Perhaps you could, too, if you tried.” Elliot opened the bag of marshmallows he’d pulled from the pantry and put a few into the chocolate.

The action seemed to diffuse the situation momentarily. Kelly Anderson watched him do this, and her face softened a bit. She sipped her coffee. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I should lighten up. Joey gets by. He always has. It amazes me at times. I mean, life is hard enough, isn’t it. But I think others realize his weakness and leave him alone. It seems even the worst sort of people won’t cross that line, like it’s taboo of the deepest level, a code of humanity that even they aren’t willing to break. There’s just something about complete honesty when it’s wrapped up with defenselessness. I guess I should be thankful for that.”

Elliot had neither the heart nor the desire to tell Kelly Anderson that there were people out there who would do Joey harm, if they thought they’d gain by it, or simply get away with it. Thankfully those types, the ones who’d smile and tell you how sorry they were for dirtying up your clothes while they stuck a knife in your gut, were few and far between but they were out there. Elliot knew because he’d met a few of them. What’s more, he suspected the John Doe’s killer was one of these.

He had no more than completed that thought when both he and Kelly turned toward the sound of footsteps coming into the kitchen. It was Joey, arms outstretched in front of him, holding something with both hands. It was a .38 Smith and Wesson, the one Elliot kept in the top drawer of the nightstand beside his bed.

At that moment, as if a membrane had been torn, a barrier between realities penetrated, Elliot caught a glimpse of a Joey who was not so encumbered; one who knew enough to deduce the situation and conclude, in his way of thinking, that his unfortunate double might find salvation in the instrument of his death, the weapon he now held in his hands, for it was at Joey that the threat was aimed.

Kelly Anderson was caught in the limbo of a parent paralyzed into doing nothing by fear of what the opposite might bring.

Elliot stepped between Joey and his mother, holding out his hand in a gesture he prayed would work. “Give me the gun, Joey.”

Joey answered, though Elliot had the distinct impression that it was the alternate, the one who could see things for what they were, that was pulling the strings. “Look what I got, Mr. Elliot.”

“Yes. I see it. Could I have it, please?”

“I found it.”

“I know. But it’s mine. And I need it back.”

Joey shook his head, the movement sending chills along Elliot’s spine. “It’s not nice to take people’s stuff.”

“That’s right,” Elliot said, wiggling the fingers of his open hand.

A struggle played across Joey’s features. The real Joey wanted to comply, but the alternate would not relent. He ran his finger across the trigger. “It loud?”

“Very loud. It’ll hurt your ears.”

Elliot knew Joey wasn’t going to give him the weapon. He would have to take it. He edged forward. “You’re scaring your mother, Joey. You don’t have to give the gun to me. Just put it down. Lay it on the floor.”

Joey dropped his head and nodded, surely aware on some level of the stress he was causing. It was the moment Elliot was waiting for, he took one large but careful step towards Joey; then slid his hand around the .38 and pulled it free. “Thank you, Joey.”

For several seconds, Kelly Anderson looked as though she might faint, but then she came to life, legs pumping like pistons as she propelled herself out of the kitchen, her son in tow via a stern hand clamped around his wrist. She didn’t look back and she said nothing as she crossed the living room and exited the house through the front door, slamming it shut behind her hard enough to jar a picture from the wall.

Elliot poured himself a cup of coffee, then slumped down in a chair in the living room.

Three hours later, when he could no longer take the silence, he went downtown. He wanted to be alone, listen to some music, and get his thoughts together, and he’d chosen the Hive, a place packed with people in which to do that. It usually worked quite well. But not this time. He’d taken only a few sips of cold beer when he felt someone watching him. He looked across the room and saw the guilty party gliding toward him out of the smoky haze.

She stopped a few feet away and, with a playful gesture, raised a portion of the gold chain she wore around her neck and slid it seductively into her mouth, where she held it momentarily, clinched between her teeth, before letting it slip away allowing it to fall across her neckline, drawing Elliot’s attention to her slightly low-cut blouse.

If the action was meant to rattle Elliot, it had done its job. “Oh,” he said, “it’s you.”

“Yeah. . . . It’s me.”

Her words came out softly sarcastic, mocking him.

“We keep running into to each other,” she continued. “Are you following me, Detective?”

“I’m sure it looks that way.”

She raised her eyebrows, but remained silent.

“When you saw me at the restaurant earlier, I was having lunch with another cop, discussing business. It’s the only reason I was there.”

Cyndi Bannister pulled out a chair and sat across the table from Elliot. “What about now? What brought you here?”

The sincere nature of her question brought a fire to her eyes that Elliot found nearly irresistible. “I come for the music. Ask around.”

She glanced around. “It’s one of your regular haunts, then?”

“I guess you could say that, which brings up an interesting point. I don’t recall seeing you around here. Maybe you’re following me.”

She smiled. “If I decide to do that, you’ll never know it. But you’re the detective, aren’t you? Maybe you should take a few lessons.” Her low chuckle entranced him.

Elliot took a sip of beer. A few seconds later, he said, “Are you offering?”

The fire blazed in her eyes again, but before she could respond Elliot said, “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.” He took another drink, a long swallow then set the bottle on the table. “Where’s Cunningham?”

She fussed with her purse, then put it aside, as if she wanted to smoke but had changed her mind. “We don’t keep tabs on each other. It’s not that serious.”

“I’m not sure Cunningham feels that way. Is he still miffed at you for the other night?”

She took a while to respond, and when she did it was just a small nod.

Elliot twirled the beer glass around with his fingers but left it on the table. “Look, I’m sorry about the way I acted. I was completely out of line. Cunningham had a right to be angry. He’s not a bad guy. You could do a lot worse.”

Cyndi reached across the table, her hand brushing against Elliot’s as she took the beer from him. She took a long, slow sip then put it back on the table and slid it across to Elliot.

Elliot wanted to run the bottle across his lips as though he could capture some ethereal part of her before it disappeared, but he resisted the urge.

“It’s all right,” she said, pushing back from the table and standing. “A girl likes to be noticed. You just need to be a little more subtle about it next time.”

With that she turned and walked away.

Elliot watched her cross the room and leave the bar, but he figured he hadn’t seen the last of her. That thought was solidified when he glanced down to see a folded scrap of paper on the table. He opened it to find a phone number, Cyndi’s, probably. He wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. In fact, he knew that it was not.

Chapter Fourteen

Carrying a folder containing photos of various occult objects, Elliot entered the Brookwood United Methodist Church. A finger of guilt snaked through him, and he tried to rid himself of the lingering thoughts that lay at the root of it: He hadn’t slept well, falling in and out of dreams, all of which involved Cyndi Bannister in one way or another. He took the first hallway he came to, as instructed, and stopped at the third door on the left.

The door was open, and Doctor Thomas Meadows rose to his feet when he saw Elliot. His handshake was light but honest, and he was a small man, his demeanor blended and understated, like the natural and muted colors of the church’s interior. Elliot felt at ease in his presence.

“David Conley speaks highly of you,” Doctor Meadows said. “He’s a good man, and I value his opinions. How might I be of service to you?”

Elliot opened the folder and pulled out the photos from both crime scenes plus the shots from Brighid McAlister’s bedroom, but before he displayed them he said, “I’m sorry to bring such disturbing matters to a church, but I’m involved in a rather unusual investigation. David said you might be able to help me identify some symbols.”

Doctor Meadows lowered himself into his chair. “Thanks for the warning. May I see them, please?”

Elliot spread the photos across the minister’s desk, placing them in sequence. He indicated the baphomet. “This was carved into the tabletop where the first victim was found. It had been done recently.” He moved down the line. “A similar symbol was painted on the wall of the second victim’s bedroom, yet it appears to have been there for a while.”

Doctor Meadows studied the material briefly, then took off his glasses and looked up, but before he could speak, a phone call interrupted him. “I understand,” he told the caller. “This will only take a moment.” He placed the phone in its cradle and leaned forward.

Elliot wondered if he had actually seen a flicker of concern cross Doctor Meadows’ face as he studied the first photo. Yes, he thought maybe he had.

“The five-pointed star,” the doctor began, “which is commonly referred to as a pentagram, is an old symbol, even being found scrawled onto the walls of caves. Needless to say, its history is complex, nebulous. Some scholars claim the design was inspired by the star-shaped pattern formed by the path of the planet Venus as it moves across the sky. For medieval Christians, it symbolized the five wounds of Christ. However, in pagan terms, the symbol is used to represent what’s thought of as the four elements—earth, air, water, and fire—with the fifth point symbolizing spirit.”

Someone knocked at the door, then opened it slightly. Doctor Meadows waved his hand, indicating his dismay at being disturbed, and the intruder retreated, closing the door once again.

The doctor traced along the first photo with his finger. “With a circle around it, which represents unity and wholeness, it becomes an entirely new symbol, that being a pentacle.”

Elliot leaned forward. “So the pentacle, with a circle around it, like we have here, might indicate that we are dealing with more than one individual, perhaps even a group?”

“Not necessarily. The meaning of unity, as it’s used here, has more to do with the search for divine knowledge, unifying body and spirit. That being said, if your suspect is a true pagan, it’s highly probable that he would be associated with like-minded individuals, a group as you put it. That’s not to say that the group would be responsible for any one individual’s actions.”