Broken Elements (14 page)

Suddenly, a burst of flame flew from her fingers, hitting an artificial plant in the corner and setting it alight. It was a deliberate hit, a desperate attempt to let off steam, but it also showed how tenuous her grip was on her own control.

Without a word, Josiah pulled the fire to himself, warming his hands briefly over the flames before extinguishing it altogether. A moment later, he stood and moved about the room. He pressed one hand to Brian’s shoulder. It was likely intended to comfort him but, if possible, Brian’s muscles only tensed further. Josiah shrugged, unbothered, and leaned against his desk.

“We thought we’d prevented this. We thought we’d done whatever we could,” I said quietly.

“You’re convinced you have no other ex-boyfriends lingering in the area?” asked Josiah. We both nodded. “Good. Then we only have one person unaccounted for, and we have to hope Richard Hill turns up soon. Even if we are unable to find him in time, there is a bright spot.” He smiled happily at us, waiting for us to draw the same conclusion.

We stared at him blankly before I realized what he meant. “He’ll have to change his pattern,” I said dully, wondering how the bright spots still involved dead bodies. “How is he alive?” I asked, returning to the salient point.

“There has to be a partner,” said Brian. “The second gunman theory is the only one that explains how he escaped the warehouse in the first place.”

“And the fourth body?”

“He killed someone else and planted it,” he said.

I shook my head. “Not possible. We passed the fire trucks on our way into town. He wouldn’t have had time, especially not with the fire still burning like that.”

“Could someone at the police station have doctored the report?” Mac asked Brian.

“It’s always possible. It would be a small change to make. But that gives us what, three conspirators? And one a cop? I know these guys. They’re over at my uncle’s every Fourth of July. Not one of them is an elemental, other than my uncle.”

“Unlikely,” agreed Sera, “but it is an option, and a far more logical one than any of the others we came up with. We need to explore every possibility. Can you get us the name of the cop who signed off on the report? We should have a friendly conversation with that particular officer.”

Josiah thought for a moment, then nodded. “I must have a copy in my files somewhere. I’ll get you the information later today.”

Vivian held up her tablet, several steps ahead of the rest of us. “Got it. It was signed by… Stephen Grant.”

Everyone turned to see Brian’s reaction. He was pale and shaking his head vehemently. “No way. This is my uncle. The man who basically raised me. There’s no way he could be a dirty cop.” He crossed the room and joined me on the sofa.

Dirty cop was the smallest of our concerns, but Brian’s thoughts hadn’t followed the same path the rest of ours had. He was still loudly explaining all the reasons his uncle had more integrity than the rest of us put together when I cautiously asked, “But your uncle is an ice, too, isn’t he?”

Brian opened his mouth to respond, then found he had nothing to say. He opened and closed it several more times, trying to articulate a thought that seemed stuck in his throat. If it hadn’t been so sad, his utter speechlessness would have been comical. I wrapped my arms around him, and he leaned into me, still shaking his head. “No,” he murmured quietly. “No.” It was his only word, a steady denial of what we were suggesting.

“No one’s making any accusations,” soothed Sera. “But this is the only lead we have right now. We need to explore it.”

“Not the only one,” I said, squeezing Brian’s hand. “We don’t know why there were no killings for ten years, and we don’t know why the partner is committing the murders this time.” Even if Stephen Grant was somehow involved, there were still far more questions than answers. “Could we check prison records? See if anyone just got released from a ten-year term? He might have been incarcerated for something unrelated? Or check housing records? This could be someone who used to live here and moved back a couple months ago.”

Vivian was already working her electronic magic. Her fingers moved assuredly across the board. Five minutes later, she had the name of every recent parolee in the area, the address of their parole officer, and a list of their crimes.

Josiah blinked at her. “I assume that information was acquired in a wholly legal fashion, Ms. Charles.” I could almost swear he sounded impressed. I’d never heard him use that tone before.

Brian managed a shaky grin. “Her Google fu is mighty.”

Vivian simply offered a small, serene smile. I reminded myself to never trust Vivian’s innocent smiles.

Sera swiped her finger across the tablet, skimming the list of names. “Got one,” she said excitedly. “In for eight years, out three months ago. Convicted of aggravated assault. He’s a white dude, about the right height and weight. Worth checking out. Brian and Vivian, you’re with me. You might be able to sense if he’s earth or ice. Mac, will you go with Aidan to talk to Brian’s uncle?” I heard the words she wouldn’t actually say. Protect Aidan, just in case.

A few weeks ago, she had insisted that I was the strongest water she knew. Now, she was sending me off with a bodyguard. I was working on that whole personal acceptance thing Simon had suggested I try, but moments like this made it difficult to be happy just being me.

“He’s off work today,” said Brian. “You’ll probably find him at home. And Aidan... no snark, okay? Don’t push him too hard. He’s a good man. I know it. He’s such a clean cop, he doesn’t even feed information to other elementals.” He looked directly at me, his blue eyes pleading.

I nodded. “Damn, Brian. A girl could be offended, the way you ask her to hide her best quality. Next you’ll be telling me not to scowl at him or astound him with my vast knowledge of 70s cinema.” I kissed him solidly on the forehead. He knew I didn’t mean a word. Except for the 70s cinema part. Anyone who gets me started on the relative merits of early Coppola vs. early Scorsese better have several hours to kill.

He squeezed me, accepting my assurances. Minutes later, we all left, splitting up in search of information that might, for once, lead us closer to this bastard rather than continue to steer us in giant, hopeless circles.

Chapter 13

Brian’s uncle lived in a small ranch house a few miles south of the interstate. The house had clearly been built sometime in the 50s, but it was well-maintained. The yard in front held neatly cut grass and carefully ordered shrubs, and the house’s exterior was a pristine white. Hanging by the front door was a cheerful sign made of colored wooden letters that proclaimed this the home of the Grants. We pulled up the circular driveway and stared at this suburban dream for several long moments.

“Well, they do always say that serial killers seem like such nice people,” said Mac doubtfully.

“For the moment, I’m working on the theory that he is exactly what he seems, and I need you to do the same. This is Brian’s uncle, and he’s innocent until proven guilty. Treat him like you’d want your own family to be treated.”

Mac cast a look that was simultaneously pained and amused my way. “You’re really not setting the bar very high with that request.”

When we knocked on the door, it only took a moment before a middle-aged woman opened it. She was slightly plump, and her brown hair was threaded with grey. When she smiled, crow’s feet framed her eyes. And yet, she was remarkably pretty, the sort of pretty that depended more on the expression in her eyes than the color itself, and the smiles that caused the wrinkles mattered far more than the resulting lines did. “You must be Aidan! Brian called to say you were coming. And Mac, is it? Come in, come in. Let me get your coats. Stephen is just in the kitchen. Go see him. I’ll join you shortly.” She urged us toward an open door and bustled off.

Mac mouthed at me, “Who is that?” I shook my head. When I’d lived here before, Stephen Grant had been a bachelor.

The man himself stood in front of a white mixing bowl, a set of electric beaters cutting through pink dough. He wore a faded pair of jeans, an old flannel top, and an apron. He didn’t look like a killer. For that matter, he didn’t look magic. He looked like a middle-aged father relaxing on his day off.

“Aidan!” he cried, putting down the mixer and dusting flour from his hands. “I haven’t seen you in years. How are you, my dear?” He kissed me on the cheek and offered a tentative hug, trying to avoid covering me in dough.

“Wonderful, Mr. Grant. It was Thanksgiving, about 12 years ago, I believe.” Twelve years was still a significant passage of time for this man. Like Brian, he possessed a mere sliver of magic and could only control small items. More importantly, it lessened his life span considerably. He’d be lucky to reach one hundred forty. Another generation removed would be, for all intents and purposes, human. Based on his own wrinkles and grey hair, I guessed that Stephen Grant had already passed the halfway point in his life span, though his body still looked young and fit. He was the sort of cop who spent more time in the community than he did sitting in a patrol car, and it showed. Unfortunately, it also meant he had the same height and build as the ice on the video. I put that thought firmly out of my mind. Innocent until proven guilty, indeed.

“Goodness, that long ago? Brian told me you up and left one day. He was quite upset about it, I remember. He was always so fond of you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” I assured him. “It looks like a few things changed around here since my last visit,” I glanced at his wife, who had returned to the kitchen with a stack of clothes in hand. She shook them out, and I saw that they were two aprons.

“Anyone who comes to this house is family,” she informed us. “We need four dozen Easter cookies ready for tomorrow, and family would help with that, wouldn’t they?” Mac and I dumbly agreed. “Wonderful. Half bunnies and half chicks, please.” She handed us each an apron. Mine was a black and white cow pattern. Mac’s was pink and read, “It’s not easy being a princess,” in a large, sparkly font. He put it on without batting an eye.

“Thank you, Ellie darling. I’ll put them right to work. Now, I’m afraid these two have come to discuss some terribly dull business that you should avoid at all costs.”

She looked at us, her expression mock stern. “I give you an hour. No more. It’s his day off, you know.” Although her tone was light and her eyes continued to sparkle, I knew she meant every word. She left the room, humming happily to herself, and a moment later we heard the sounds of the vacuum running down the hallway.

He watched her leave, an unabashed smile on his face. “Isn’t she grand? I am a lucky man. Not many get a chance at love as late as I did. She didn’t even panic when I told her what I was. She’s human, you know.”

I was surprised. Most elementals kept the secret of their existence to themselves, but over the years a few show-offs and besotted fools had told the humans. It was highly discouraged, of course, and those that trusted indiscreet humans often paid a steep price. Many were shunned by their families for decades, or at least until enough time passed that the elementals were distracted by a new scandal. If the human went public, it was worse. They didn’t just get a valid excuse to avoid the next several family gatherings—they’d be ostracized, indefinitely, by all elementals who learned of their mistake. It spoke volumes about Stephen’s devotion to his wife that he so freely admitted her knowledge of what we were.

Also, he’d spoken of his wife’s humanity without a hint of rancor or apology. If this man felt any abhorrence for non-elementals—particularly those that mingled with elementals—he’d devised a most ingenious cover.

I realized he’d also spoken quite openly in front of Mac. “You know Mac’s not human, then?” How had everyone but me known about shifters? My ignorance was getting embarrassing.

“Of course. I’ve worked crime scenes in the greater Tahoe area for thirty years now. Hard to stay ignorant for that length of time.” He turned to Mac. “Not all of yours behave themselves, you know. Roll that out, would you?” he asked, indicating a cutting board covered with yellow dough.

Mac quietly replied, “Not all of any people behave themselves.” While he spoke, he grabbed the rolling pin and started awkwardly flattening the dough into a lumpy mass.

“Fair enough, fair enough. I can’t say suffocation by earth is any less brutal than a claw swipe that nearly removes a man’s leg. Both are horrible ways to go. No, use the baby chick cookie cutter, not the chicken one. And this elemental roaming the area is bad news. I know I need to find him, and I’m looking, but I can’t help hoping we never meet. The man is dangerous.”

That was my opening. “I’m sure Brian told you why we’re here. We know you’re the only elemental on the force. You guys can’t handle this, and you shouldn’t have to. We’re looking at finding him ourselves. Josiah Blais is helping, of course.”

Stephen nodded slowly. “I’m glad we have Blais on our side. We need that kind of power. And I remember you and Sera well. The two of you were walking, talking bundles of pure energy. I can’t imagine there’s anything you can’t do, you put your mind to it. So tell me, why are you here? How can I help?”

I outlined our belief that the current killer was somehow related to the previous killings. I was finding it hard to treat him as a suspect. Even Mac wasn’t throwing any suspicious glances his way. He was more focused on scraping distorted, uneven chicks off the cutting board than in urging me to be cautious with what I shared. Besides, most of my knowledge was shared by the killer, so I wasn’t concerned I was giving away too much. To be safe, I only glossed over Sera’s and my involvement in the fire—after all, he was still a cop—but the shrewd eyes peering at me let me know he heard a lot more than I was willing to say.

“So, that’s where we stand at the moment. We need to know whether there were really three or four bodies in that fire. You signed the report that said there were four, and we want to confirm that with you.”

While I spoke, he lifted small bunnies from the cooling rack to a tin. He was relaxed throughout the story, and didn’t interrupt me once, but my final words brought him sputtering to life. “Four? Nonsense. Let me see that report.” I dug my newly acquired cell phone out of my purse. After a few awkward minutes touching the screen, I finally stumbled on the correct sequence to pull up the file Vivian had forwarded. I’d grown up on an island surrounded by people whose very auras were made of magic, and this tiny, wireless computer felt like the most mystical thing I’d ever seen. I gingerly held it out for him, and Stephen peered intently at the screen. “Can you make it bigger? That’s better. Yeah, that’s my signature, all right. And it does say four, though that doesn’t make a lick of sense. It’s not like you can make a simple typo to get from three to four. We write numbers out just to avoid this kind of mistake.”

He was clearly agitated. When we’d entered the room, he’d been chipper and comfortably domestic. Now, he looked like a cop, one who was more than willing to chase down the person responsible for this mistake.

“Damn. This better not have been me. Sure, my mind wanders sometimes, but not so much that I can’t remember how many dead people I saw the night before. I don’t know what to tell you, Aidan dear. I remember that night clear as can be. I was the one who told Amanda’s parents about their daughter’s death. And I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that there were only three bodies in that warehouse.”

The ride back was silent for several miles. I was digesting the information, and I suspected Mac was still digesting the bunny cookies Mrs Grant had pushed on us when she finally deemed our kitchen duties complete.

Suddenly, I was done digesting. “Pull over. Pull over. Now!”

Mac looked at me, startled, then eased the Bronco to the side of the road. Before it fully stopped, I was out of the car and tearing through the trees, heading for the river I could feel a couple hundred feet ahead. Minutes later, he found me, waist deep in the freezing water. It was all runoff from the mountain snow, but I didn’t even feel the cold. I just needed the comfort of my element. I needed to feel the water’s power seeping into every pore. I needed to feel whole.

Mac stood, watching me, waiting for an explanation. I didn’t want to give him one. I didn’t want to say the words out loud, lest they become even more real than they already were.

Instead, I sank fully into the water, immersing myself. My knees bent, and my long hair floated around my face. The river flowed quickly, so quickly. It would have been dangerous for anyone else, but not me. I knew this water, and I loved it as it loved me. While the rest of the river rushed eagerly downstream, impatient to reach the lake, close to me it whispered quietly, circling me and holding me still in its sure embrace. I breathed it in, the smell of the water, and ran my hands through its currents. The spray tickled my face, greeting me, telling me that it had been too long since I had last visited. I found the purity at the heart of the river and absorbed it into my very soul.

I heard Mac leaving. I didn’t open my eyes, and not when I heard him return, either. I remained in the water, seeking balance.

Minutes later, I finally climbed onto the river bank. Once I was out of the river and standing in the frigid air, I felt the chill for the first time. Mac handed me a blanket and a spare flannel shirt he must have found in his car. Without saying a word, he turned his back to me and studied a branch on a nearby tree with great interest, giving me the privacy I needed.

I stripped out of my wet clothes, shivering the whole time. The shirt smelled lightly of Mac, a soft musky scent, but it was otherwise clean. As tall as I was, it still nearly fell to my knees, looking like the least fashionable shirtdress ever. I wrapped myself in the blanket and sat on a nearby rock. “You can turn around now,” I said quietly.

He did, but didn’t move any closer. Instead, he leaned against a pine tree, crossed his arms and merely waited. He did not appear the slightest bit impatient. He could wait for hours, if that’s how long it took.

“He’s alive,” I said. Mac continued to say nothing. I was stating the obvious, so his agreement was unnecessary. He seemed to know that. I repeated, “He’s alive. I’ve spent the last ten years hating myself for what we’ve done, and the only thing that made it slightly bearable was the belief that the three deaths weren’t completely meaningless. Horrible, inexcusable, but not meaningless. Because of the fires, because of the lack of control, I thought we’d killed him. He was supposed to be dead,” I stated. Before me, the river roiled and churned, echoing my anger.

“If he’s not dead, how do I live with myself? How do I live with what I did? I killed three people, and he lived. He lived, and then he killed—or helped kill, it doesn’t matter—a friend I love dearly. I did everything wrong, and now Chris and Mark and all the rest are paying the price.” The water, sensing the slow shift from anger to despair, slid up the bank, wrapping around my bare feet in a consoling motion. “He’s getting away with it, and he’s laughing at us. He’s having a grand old time, while I still have nightmares and live in fear that my lack of control will hurt someone else.”

Mac gestured to the water, still curled around my feet. “That doesn’t look like lack of control to me.”

“This isn’t control. It’s the water responding to me, to my emotions. It’s just what happens.”

“Can you control it now?”

I easily pulled a strand of water to my hand, creating a reverse waterfall between my fingers and the river. It was child’s play, the sort of thing I did all the time at my house.

“But you’re having strong emotions right now. I thought that’s what got in the way of your control.”

I mulled over his words. “I’m miserable, yes. I’m horrified. But I’m not scared.” Once I said the words, it all seemed painfully obvious, something I should have realized long ago. “I was always scared before, when I had trouble. Scared of people dying, scared of the killer, scared of never getting the answers I needed, scared of Vivian learning things I didn’t want anyone to know. Sometimes I was just plain scared of losing control.”

“Well, that’s easy then,” said Mac. “We just need to make you fearless. I could shout ‘boo’ at you at random moments until you no longer jump.” It was a joke, but he didn’t really mean it. He took this seriously.