Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow (A Young Adult Paranormal Romance) (The Secrets of Somerled) (5 page)

She thought about resisting, about stubbornly staying in her private little lair until night fell, but curiosity pried her from her pity party. Once on her feet, she walked briskly through the field then shed her clothing just before emerging near the house.

The evening air would have cooled a mortal, but she couldn't feel it as she walked unseen around to the front yard. Two giant oaks, one on her side of the road, one on the other, reached across the asphalt to support each other thirty feet in the air. Their leaves were dulling to a lifeless green. Soon those leaves would be changing, falling, and revealing limbs threaded together like lover's fingers over the road that kept them apart. The autumn breezes would scatter those leaves into borrow pits and blow them across fields, like thousands of yellow and red love letters flung at each others' feet, then swept away.

Skye tip-toed across those lovers’ limbs and settled on a sturdy branch. Her hair was the pale green of drying leaves. Gray slanted across her face to continue the reflection of a branch. Her swinging calves and feet were blue, like the early evening sky behind her, as Jamison and the sheriff would view it beneath the entwined boughs.

She watched Jamison’s face through his windshield. Those wonderful eyes were easy to see from a distance, and his profile showed the high cheekbones and square jaw he’d inherited from Kenneth. She wished she could see his dimples, the long ones that ran down the sides of his face when he laughed and the vague divot in his chin. He didn’t laugh nearly enough.

She heard their conversation clearly.

Jamison was respectful while Sheriff Cooke lectured.

“I know you kids like to cut it up a bit during Homecoming week, but it's stunts like this that have our older citizens afraid to go out after supper.”

“Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

Skye tried to soften the sheriff’s heart a little, bringing up memories from when he had been a teenager, feeling the urge to speed down an empty road.

Yeah, he remembered. A lot.

Apparently, the sheriff had learned early on if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. And somewhere in the sheriff’s office was a beautifully framed copy of his own arrest record, primarily for speeding. Skye couldn't help but laugh.

Jamison's head snapped sharply to the branches on which she perched and she stopped laughing.

There was no possible way he could see her. Even though she was tempted to show herself, she held her wishes in check. And why would he have heard—from inside the car—when the sheriff had shown no reaction? Besides, she was a good distance away. Mortal ears could pick up very little at that distance, and it wasn't as if she'd been loud.

Did the connection work both ways?

“I know just what you're going through, son. New in town and all—well, kind of new in town, I guess. I'll just give you a warning tonight...”

Jamison turned his attention back to the officer.

“...since you're Ken Jamison's and all.” The man leaned on the car roof and lowered his voice. “How's he doing, anyway?”

“He's doing fine. I just saw him a little while ago.”

“Well, we're praying for him. Will you tell him that? And let him know the sheriff's office will keep an eye on his place, and his grandson?”

“Yes, sir. I'll tell him. Thank you, sir.”

“You a Junior?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It might not be too late, you being a transfer and all...”

“Sorry, sir. I don't play football.”

The sheriff looked like he might be reconsidering that speeding ticket after all.

“Maybe next year, though. If someone can teach me the rules.”

The sheriff laughed and dropped his arm. “If someone can teach you the rules. That's a scream.” He started walking back to his SUV. “If someone can teach him the rules,” he muttered and laughed again.

Jamison looked up at her again, or maybe he was just looking up, thinking. But then whatever he'd been thinking couldn't have been good; he jumped out of his car and ran to the sheriff’s vehicle.

The man rolled down his window.

“Sheriff? Hey, uh, would you mind helping me out for a minute?”

“What is it, son?”

“Uh. Uh. I need to go onto the Somerled compound and talk to them, and I uh...uh...”

“And you don't want to go alone? That's silly, son. They're friends of your Granddad's. Been helping him bring in his crops ever since they moved in, and they did the whole season for him this year. They're good people. The best.”

“I know. I know, but, it's just that there's this girl—”

“Skye? You scared of Skye?” The sheriff raised his chin and blinked slowly. “Ah, I see. Well, let's get going, if we're going.”

“Really? Oh, that's great. Thanks.”

Jamison ran back to his car and Skye shimmied down the tree. Two seconds after her feet hit the ground, she was inside the house, leaning back against the door.

Jonathan stood five feet from her, hands on his hips, frowning.

“Not now, Jonathan. The sheriff is coming. With Kenneth's grandson.”

Jonathan looked toward the window.

“Oh? I think now is the perfect time. Dont' you?”

“Perfect time for what?” Lucas came down the hall, filling the space with his wide and generously draped shoulders.

Oh, not Lucas!

Having to confess to Jonathon would have been bad enough. She might have even been able to get most of it out before the doorbell rang, maybe even gotten a gentle reading of the situation from him without having to hear Lucas’ opinion. But now, with Marcus gone, and Lucas in charge, she felt like she'd been sent straight to the judge without first getting to explain to her lawyer.

With the sheriff following closely, Jamison had never driven so perfectly in his life.

He held his breath, as he always had, when he drove under that beloved arch of tree branches that meant his journey was over. The trees had been there since the beginning of time if their size had much to do with it. And even though they were in front of the neighbor's house, not Granddad's, it was still the gateway to home.

The Parker Place, that had turned into the Somerled Compound/Farm three years before, was typical of most farms. The house sat out close to the road with a decent sized lawn in front. The driveway ran down the right side of the house, widened in the rear, then ran back out along the left side. No one with a brain would think about entering down the left side of the house, even without an exit sign.

That's what Jamison liked about his small town. There wasn't a need to mark every entrance and exit to keep traffic flowing. Drivers knew how to drive. People didn't live on top of each other, getting pissed when someone had their music up too loud or on too late at night. In the country, no one was close enough to hear.

Even
Man
Exploding
Ceremonies
could be safely carried out without your neighbors knowing, unless your neighbor was stupid enough to be up at three in the morning, which no neighbor should.

Guilt fell to his shoulders like a heavy horse blanket as he pulled around the back of the Somerled's. Whatever had happened to his friends was his fault. If he'd been a good neighbor, only one person would have disappeared last night, not three. And he wasn't responsible for the first one. Poor idiot.

On top of it all, his grandfather wouldn't be too happy with him being so inhospitable as to drive instead of walking over, let alone bringing a cop for backup. But at least feeling guilty was better that being scared to death that he'd be the next one to disappear—although that hadn't completely been ruled out. Of course, if they did decide to make Jamison disappear in a few days, he'd have his curiosity satisfied; he'd finally know what had happened to his friends.

The back porch was a wide crescent. The concrete still had traces of the red paint Old Man Parker had painted on it. For the first time the dark burgundy paint chips reminded him of dried blood.

No doubt the original owners, Parkers or not, had thought it would look nice if the porch matched the large burgundy bricks of the house. The curb made a nice burgundy border all along the driveway, but it had been repainted sometime in the past thirty years and wasn't chipping like the rest.

Jamison parked about half-way between the first barn and the house, blocking no one. The sheriff once again parked behind him.

No backing out now.

Jamison got out of the car and leaned on the open door for a minute. The sheriff's door slammed heavily in the quiet yard made entirely of gravel and dirt. The chicken coop was quiet. The washed-out barn wood seemed to absorb every sound, and the distant bellow of a cow was the only sign the place hadn't been deserted, like Ray's.

The storm door squeaked open, as it had the night before.

A blond man emerged, his long hair tied together behind his head. His white clothes were spotless, his shoulders wider than football pads. He lingered at the top of the steps and wiggled the door back and forth.

“Jonathan, bring something to get rid of this squeak, would you?” he called over his shoulder, into the dark house. “We don't want to be bothering our neighbors every time we go outside.” He turned and grinned directly at Jamison. “Young Kenneth. Sheriff? What brings you to our place?” He put his hands on his hips and paused on the top step for only a second before he started down.

Jamison's automatic reaction was to back away, hope the sheriff would take the lead and start a conversation that would miraculously end with a signed confession and his friends being dragged out of the basement, a little bruised, but still alive. He fought that urge and stepped forward instead, finally shutting his car door, to keep himself from crawling back inside and driving away like an idiot.

“Actually, I go by Jamison, not Kenneth.”

“Skye around?” The sheriff asked before Jamison could say anymore.

“She's around, but she's not able to join us at the moment.” The big blond folded his arms and continued to grin at Jamison. “Has she done something wrong, Sheriff?”

The officer laughed. “No. Of course not. I just thought maybe Jamison might like to talk to her, but if she's busy—”

The screen squeaked open again and another man stepped out. This one was just as tall, a little leaner, and had dark hair down to his shoulders that waved in all the wrong directions. Jamison's first thought was that someone should knit him a nice white hat. And holy crap, he should wear it all the time.

There was something about his face that made up for the rudeness of the blond. At least he wasn't grinning. And he wasn't fixing anything. The squeak of the tight spring ended abruptly when the door slammed into its casing. They’d been more careful the night before.

“Have you all met?” the sheriff asked.

Jamison shook his head.

“Forgive me. Lucas, this is Jamison Shaw, Kenneth's grandson, as you already know. Jamison, this is Lucas Somerled and that's Jonathan.”

Jonathan nodded. Lucas kept grinning. Jamison wanted to knock that grin into the dirt.

Lucas laughed as if he'd read his thoughts.

“All right, Jamison. We're here. Get on with it.” The sheriff moved a little closer and faced the Somerleds alongside him. Poor guy. He probably thought he was there to ask Skye to the stupid dance.

Jamison was disgusted when his brain started weighing the possible benefits of doing just that, instead of making a fool of himself, like he'd planned.

Please God, he prayed silently, let me be brave this one time, for my friends.

Lucas stopped smiling and Jonathan started. Maybe Lucas didn't like the idea of him asking Skye out and Jonathan did. Who knew what was going on in their minds? He'd never understand these people.

Jamison cleared his throat. Twice.

“Actually, Sherriff, I came to get my friends. Ray Peters and Burke Costley. They were here last night and never left.” He folded his arms and waited. Brave wasn’t so bad. He wished it had been an option in Texas, but it hadn’t.

Lucas was smiling again, but only slightly. “Were they here last night?” His hands never left his hips.

“They were, and apparently they never left. They weren't at school, and the Peters’s house looks abandoned.”

The sheriff grabbed Jamison's shoulder and turned him, looking him in the eye.

“Oh, son. I wish you would have explained what you were up to. I could have told you your friends aren't here. Let's drive over to your place and we'll talk about it, with your mom.”

The bottom fell out of Jamison's stomach and his heart dropped through the gap, to the gravel at his feet. He’d never get the rocks out now; his friends were dead and it was all his fault.

“My mom?” Jamison's mouth moved without his help. “I've got to pick her up at work.”

“That’s all right. You run home and I'll pick her up. She got on at Marsden & Marsden, right? We'll meet you back at the house.” The man headed for his vehicle. “Lucas? Can you see Jamison makes it home, please?”

Jamison headed for his car, trying not to scurry away from the murderers, but then stopped. He wasn't going to scurry anywhere. He stepped up close to the SUV as the sheriff backed up to pull around the car.

“Wait. Sheriff, wait.” The SUV stopped, the window came down. “Don't you want to know what happened here last night?”

The sheriff turned off his engine and looked over Jamison's head, exchanging a look with Lucas. Every horror movie Jamison had ever seen started playing through his mind, or rather, the parts where the main character had chosen the wrong person to trust.

Dear God, please don't let them be in on it together.

The sheriff took off his hat and laid it on the seat next to him, then leaned his arm on the open window. “What's the boy talking about, Lucas?”

Lucas shrugged. “His friends aren't here. That's all I can say.”

Jamison grabbed the sheriff's forearm.

“They...they...they've got a man missing. Ask them.”

Lucas walked closer, the other one, Jonathan, right behind him.

“Yeah, I guess we're short a man, sheriff, but only because Marcus has left us. He's been called away. Other farms aren't doing as well as ours.”