Demon on a Distant Shore (5 page)

She peered at me. “I remember you.”

She didn’t recall much about her life, but she had not quite forgotten me yet.

“Nice of you to spend a minute with an old slut,” she said in her raspy voice.

I felt awkward. Not only did I lie by omission, but to the shade of a dead woman. I was not here to be companionable. I hoped to observe a paranormal event.

Although I couldn’t tell from her face, the lilt in her voice let me I know she was
happy to see me. She got lonely as she stood in her couple of feet of space with her shopping cart. At most she could take a few steps in any direction. The days were not so bad, when the plaza swarmed with people as they went to and from the theatre and sports center, the restaurants and bars, but she had little to watch at night when Clarion closed down.

She was better off than some. She had Irving. I waved at Irving Prentice where he stood on the corner of Twenty-First and Temple, a skinny, hunched figure in a business suit, the twisted victim of a hit and run. People who milled around me as they left the Megaplex theatre would think I waved at some
living
person across the street.

Irving would miss Brenda.

The event I awaited normally took place late at night on a weekday. I checked my watch. Perhaps they were running late. This particular event couldn’t be rushed.

I plunged my hands in my coat pockets as a breeze slid cool air over my exposed skin, and wished I wore a warmer jacket. The sidewalks cleared as people got in their cars and drove away. Pretty soon just a few automobiles broke the silence of the streets. Restaurant staff came from the back of Murphy’s Tavern and the Mexicali Grill and drove off or walked away to the nearest bus stop. The streets got that chilly nighttime feel typical of late August, even though days were still hot.

The white globes of street lamps shone like small moons which illuminated the facades of the old buildings on Temple and Twenty-First, but left the block-length expanse of dirt and rubble on the north in the dark. They should put up a wall, because when the wind blows strong, it whips dry, powdered dirt into the plaza.

Brenda made a sound in her throat to get my attention. She expected conversation, but I stood there woodenly. I smiled, opened my mouth to speak and instead my jaw dropped.

Not a white light, but silver. It didn’t come
for
her, it came from
inside
her. It suffused her entire body as if emanating from the pores of her skin. I cannot describe it any other way. She
glowed
silver. Tears leaked from her widened eyes.

I couldn’t speak. A shade, one of
my
shades, whose expression never changes - her face reflected an emotion in direct contrast to that she wore when she died. She
wept.
Her hands rose to touch her face. She held one finger before her eyes, a teardrop glistening on the tip.

“You knew.” Even her voice sounded different, gentle, the hoarseness gone. “Thank you.”

She faded inside the silver. She turned to mist and disappeared until the silver shape of a body remained, which feathered at the edges and wisped away in the night sky.

I stood alone outside the Megaplex.

Bill Moore, the man who killed Brenda, had just died of lethal injection in Utah State Penitentiary.

My eyes stung. That neon lighting’s a bitch.

Chapter Four

We were lucky, we got a Thursday flight, and I have to say I enjoyed flying first class. If only the flight were not so damned long.

Five in the morning is a god-awful time to get off a plane when you have not slept for twenty-four hours and the entire day stretches ahead. Because of the seven-hour time difference, it was Friday morning, when my wristwatch told me ten PM Thursday. I felt as if we had lost a day.

Surprise number one: British police were all over the place, inside and outside the airport terminals. They wore flat-brimmed caps, bullet-proof vests and carried automatic weapons. Where were the British Bobbies with their funny knobbed helmets?

When the Immigration officer asked why we came to England, Royal told her we were on vacation. So we were officially
under cover
. But what if one of those gun-toting cops questioned us and we slipped up? Would they shoot us on the spot or drag us off to the UK’s version of Guantanamo Bay?

I tried not to catch their eyes. Just a tourist. An innocent, naive American tourist. Damn, I should have brought along a camera and looked the part.

I didn’t much like Heathrow, which was really noisy and crowded with travelers brutally shoving a path between those in their way, not watching where they or their bags went. We finally got outside to a large, brightly illuminated plaza an hour after landing and stopped to get our bearings. A lot of people and vehicles were around for that early in the morning. Taxis and buses lined up at the far curb. Men and women huddled near ash cans as they frantically sucked on cigarettes before going inside the terminal.

The first impressions to flood my brain were not promising. The air reeked with the smell of gasoline, diesel and damp garbage. The sky seemed too low and all cloud, and a light rain drizzled down. The humidity made me feel dirty and sticky. I
was
dirty and sticky.

“Ah, there we are.” Royal lifted one hand and waved in the direction of the street.

“There we are where . . . or what?”

He pointed. A tall man held a placard aloft as his eyes searched the crowd. Dressed in a black suit, he stood in front of a long, gleaming navy-blue car. The white placard said MORTENSEN in big, black capital letters.

I’d not slept in forever. I felt very tired and very irritable. “Explain, please, before I pick up the nearest Brit and beat you over the head with him.”

“He’ll take us to the car rental agency.” Royal started off, case trundling behind him.

I couldn’t identify the big showy car but it was obviously a classic. I didn’t care, as long as it was comfortable. The driver opened the near passenger door as we approached, then stepped forward. “Marninsur. Oymfranklin. Uryurbagsontway?”

Huh?
I scowled. I thought Brits spoke English.

Royal bent his head close to mine and interpreted in a whisper. “Morning, Sir. I’m Franklin. Are your bags on the way?”

Remembering his snigger when I naively said going to England couldn’t be too bad because we speak the same language, I gave him a filthy look.

“Good morning, Franklin.” Royal collapsed the handle on his suitcase. “No, this is it.”

Franklin grabbed Royal’s case and nodded at my little wheeled bag. “Butmadamsur?”

“But Madam’s, Sir?” Royal whispered.

I unsubtly jabbed my elbow in his ribs.

“Madam prefers to travel light,” he told Franklin.

Franklin didn’t bat an eye. He took our bags and stowed them in the trunk as I slid in the back seat. Royal climbed in beside me. Franklin got in the driver’s seat, the car rumbled to life and pulled smoothly from the curb.

Excuse my ignorance, but I thought an airport called London-Heathrow sat slap-bang in the middle of London. Countryside surrounded the airport complex, with grass, bushes and trees alongside the road, and a smatter of houses here and there.

Royal put his arm across my shoulders, hugging me to his side. His body heat felt wonderful, as if a big, warm blanket cuddled me. I breathed in his sandalwood and amber scent and experienced a tingle which, given our location, was totally inappropriate. I squirmed.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asked.

“More than okay.” My hand fell on his thigh. I squeezed. He tensed, hard muscle bulking to fill my palm.

He cleared his throat, his breath swept over my ear. “Franklin is watching.”

“I’m sure he sees plenty of action in the back of this heap.” I met Franklin’s eyes in the rearview mirror and wiggled my eyebrows.

Unfortunately I don’t possess the audacity to make out in the back of a hired car. With a sigh, I eased away, let my head fall back and closed my eyes. Exhaustion must have gotten the better of me, because I opened them to find myself curled against Royal, my head resting on his chest, my arm over it beneath his jacket. His arm lay over my back with his hand tucked in my armpit to stop me sliding down.

I pulled my head back far enough to make sure I had not drooled on his shirt. “How long was I out?”

“A few minutes. We are almost there.”

The sun was up . . . somewhere. Rain still drizzled down and cast gloom over the streets. With the sky so murky, street lamps here and there shone out a misty golden light which reflected off puddles and pavement. The streets were considerably narrower than in modern cities, more the width of many of our old downtown areas, but had lost any character they once possessed. Tasteless, often garishly painted little shops occupied the ground floors of tall, once stately buildings, to my mind begriming them, robbing them of their dignity.

The car had a glass barrier between the driver’s and passenger seats. The panel slid down several times as we drove, Franklin spoke unintelligibly, Royal nodded sagely or said, “thank you, Franklin,” and up it went again.

I dozed again until we reached the rental agency. Franklin drove between rows of neatly parked cars and stopped beside a small blue sedan. He hopped out and transferred our bags. I felt grateful the agency hadn’t given us a Smart Car. Just the thought of folding our bodies inside one made me want to hoot.

Royal’s cell phone rang and he turned away to answer it.

Franklin said something else totally unintelligible and drove away.

“Bad news,” Royal said as he snapped his phone closed and put it in his pocket. “Paul and Sylvia Norton left Little Barrow two weeks ago. Which would not be a problem, if not for the fact no person knows where they went.”

I should have guessed. Murphy sure works hard on my behalf. “How do you know? Who was on the phone?”

He opened the passenger door for me. “I have a few friends here. I called a couple before we left home.”

I scooted into the car. Royal shut the door and went around to the driver’s side. “But Paul Norton was born in Little Barrow,” I said as he got in.

“And Sylvia.”

“They lived in Little Barrow their entire lives.” I paused to frown. “They had to know most everyone there. I know what it’s like in small communities - how can their neighbors
not
know where they went?”

“Perhaps they did not have a specific destination. People do sometimes just take off. I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation. And how hard can it be to find two people in a small country?”

Yeah, like he believed that as much as I did. I knew, from the tiny frown between his brows, his compressed lips, he was no happier than I for the news. Call us overly suspicious if you like, but in our experience tiny twists often lead to whacking great bends in the road.

“I would like to stay here a few days and show you London, but perhaps another time,” he said.

I would not have minded lingering. A few streets didn’t constitute London. At the same time, I felt the itch to be on our way to Little Barrow and find Scott Norton’s newly discovered nephew. Where were the Nortons? What had we got ourselves into this time?

We drove a little way until we stopped at a booth. Royal showed the paperwork to the lady on duty.

“Enjoy your visit!” she said as she handed back the ticket.

“I’m sure we will,” Royal replied with a smile.

“Cheerio!”

I spoke beneath my breath as we drove away. “Did she just say Cheerios?”