The Light Who Shines (3 page)

“For Christ’s sake,” Jack says. His swearing is an unusual
development. In fact, there seems to be an exceptional level of swearing with
this case thus far.

“I’m worried because this looks like a standard hit and run
as far as the death goes, and no magic was used at the scene of the death. But
that boy had a magical gift of some sort, and he was tortured, so I want this
case. We are not going to let the boys in blue keep it for themselves.” I say
this last part with a level of confidence I do not feel.

“Who’s working it from the precinct side?”

“Senior Detective Tony Gambino.”

“It will be fine then,” Jack assures me. ”Gambino doesn’t
seem to mind working with SIB. I’ll file the paperwork.”

“Thanks.” I breathe a big sigh of relief, just now realizing
how afraid I had been of losing the case on a technicality. The Supernatural
Homicide Investigation Unit has limited jurisdiction, only working cases where
one of the supernatural breeds was involved to a significant extent. We pick up
cases in which death is caused by a Vampire or someone magically Gifted.
Supernatural homicide hate crimes fall into our ballpark, and unfortunately,
there are far too many of those happening lately. We also get involved if the
death occurs due to motive relating to magical gifts or blood theft. Just a
standard hit and run of a Vampire or the magically Gifted would not get us
involved in a case since that’s all regular work the police could do. In this case,
the death looked like a simple hit and run, but cases of torture to a magically
Gifted individual have a statistically high chance of relating to the magical gift.

Jack voices a warning that brooks no argument: “Keep me
updated on this one. I want daily reports. Whoever you’re dealing with is a real
gentleman.” He practically spits that last bit of sarcasm out, and then his
face fades from the surface of my chimerator.

I snap the lid closed and hook my thumb into my jean pocket while
I take another look around. All the police are gone. The sun is dropping lower on
the horizon, and I have to shield my eyes to look west. Across the street sits
a beige, corrugated steel warehouse with two tall loading docks and a discreet office
door. Next to it is a plain gray stucco warehouse with three steel loading docks
and bright blue awnings over the office door and windows. I look northward, and
more of the same nondescript warehouses line the street. Southward lies a stretch
of unused land, and past that the street ends at Red Wood Cemetery and Half
Moon River.

I look down at the faint stain of blood that remains on the
asphalt. The subtle remnants invite me to reexamine the area with my sixth
sense. With the crime scene tape gone, I decide it’s best to work from the
sidewalk; otherwise, I just might end up joining the poor boy on one of
Nathan’s tables. It’s never a bright idea to stand on the street while
disengaging from your five senses. My sixth sense is always active, but I only
catch subtle impressions of strong emotions or magic until I shut off my other
senses. I can also sense souls, but it appears this boy’s soul has already
passed on.

I close my eyes, pulling my awareness in and tucking it
neatly away. I focus on my sixth sense, letting it grow and take the lead.

With my sixth sense fully engaged, I open my eyes again and scan
the area for any magic or emotions that may linger. My eyesight is dimmed, and
I see the world in a different way. What normally appears in vivid color dims
to muddy shades of gray. And what I normally miss stands out in stark contrast.
I think of the feelings I track as visible scents since what I see is an
element that lingers in the air without distinct form. Magic feels like
vibrations in the air similar to ripples through a pond.

My interpretation of souls usually comes in the form of
colors and more solid characteristics that define the essence of their beings.
Deeper than even personality, it is more a sense of someone’s fundamental
nature that is greater than who they are in this lifetime.

I scan the street where the body had lain, looking for
something previously unseen. Proceeding at an excruciatingly slow pace, I wrap
my awareness around every inch of space in the vicinity. After a few minutes, I
notice a faint trill of what seems like static electricity tickling the air
around the bushes behind me. Like an eagle moving in for the kill, I turn and center
all my focus on the depths of the greenery. A deep, thrumming magic comes from
the middle of the closest bush, something extremely subtle and very old. I try to
focus in, but whatever it is… it’s well hidden.

My full awareness springs to life again when I reengage my regular
senses. Peering curiously at the bush, I wonder what secret it holds. I kneel
and part the branches to view the shady center. When nothing is immediately
obvious, I give the branches a good shake.

A glint of early evening light reflects off a metal object deep
within the bush. With a fresh pair of gloves from my pack and an evidence bag
at the ready, I push my arms into the bush up to my elbows and slowly feel
around until my fingers run into something flat, hard, and circular. When I pull
my hand out, a large, gold amulet is clenched between my slick latex-gloved
fingers.

After carefully dropping the amulet in the bag and sealing
it closed, I begin to examine it through the clear plastic. Its face is smooth
and decorated with a beveled jade triangle. The triangle has an eye-shaped
cutout in the center with a circular hole that goes all the way through the
pendant. A pattern of irregular ridges and grooves radiates out from the hole
like rays of sunshine. Each ridge has a series of tiny, white beads dotting its
edge at irregular intervals. A plain golden chain is threaded through the
pendant, and it holds the greatest treasure of all: a small, dark red thread
caught up in the clasp—a thread of exactly the same color red as the thread
that had been snagged on the boy’s nail. The boy was naked, so where did this
thread come from—or rather whom did this thread come from?

I put the evidence bag in my pack, heft it to my shoulders over
my black leather vest, and hurry toward the Cock and Bull Tap.

Bluebell Kildare: May 26, 2022, Red Ages

The Cock and Bull Tap, otherwise known as The Cock and Bull
Inn and Guest House by those with very long memories, sits on what used to be
the main path out of Crimson Hollow. Of old, those passing over the Smoky Mountains
by carriage would stay in the inn the night before their trip or seek its
comforting embrace on the first day of their return. That old path has long
been paved over, and Cock and Bull’s days of being an inn all but forgotten by
most Crimson Hollow residents. The distinguished stone building sits behind a
deep corner yard with its back against the alley. Between two tall posts hangs
a huge, gleaming white sign painted with a red rooster and a blue bull in vivid,
sweeping brushstrokes to welcome patrons. Leaded glass sidelights flank the heavy
carved and paneled front door. I wrap my hand around one of the ornate iron
handles and heave the door open.

Firefly lanterns cast a soft glow on the tavern’s interior.
The tiny flakes of quartz set alight by magic swirl rapidly inside the
lanterns, glowing and twinkling. The gentle light reflects off the heavily
oiled and waxed oak furniture. Scanning the crowd, I see mostly hard-working
men still dressed in their work uniforms or jeans and flannels. Most are
gathered in small groups at the long trestle tables, but a few lonely souls sit
in isolation on stools facing the bar.

Dozens of pairs of eyes pierce my back as I move my long-limbed
body toward the bar. I feel a few waves of lust flowing toward me from the bar
patrons like a crimson breeze, but even more waves are filled with the dark and
heavy emotions of disgust and hate and the sharpness of fear. Someone murmurs “Aberrant”
under his breath, referring to my being Gifted. My back stiffens at the insult.

You can only tell when a person is Gifted if their mark
shows. My mark is twofold. I have unnaturally blue eyes that could conceivably pass
for simply extra vivid, but the streak of blue running through my hair is
unmistakable. I don’t have time to defend my pride today, so I just keep my
chin up and proceed with strong strides.

When I arrive at the empty side of the bar, I make sure my
Glock is visible to any onlookers by pushing my vest back as I retrieve my ID.
A low murmur rolls through the crowd, telling me the gun is noticed. Good.

The bartender approaches, and I present my ID, which reads “Supernatural
Investigation Bureau (SIB), Homicide Unit, Inspector Bluebell Kildare.” He extends
his large hand and introduces himself. “Hello, Inspector Kildare. I’m Steve
Jamison. That’s really awful, what happened to that boy out there. Some of the
guys here told me what they saw on their way in. I’m happy to help anyway I
can.”

Well, he’s congenial enough, and fortunately he doesn’t seem
to be a breedist. Steve stands medium height with a stocky physique and a kind
face. He’s built well enough to keep people in line and seems empathetic enough
to listen to their sorrows. I take all this in while his warm hand envelops
mine in a firm handshake.

“Thanks, Steve. I’d like to ask a few questions. It should
just take a moment.”

Steve tosses his bar rag in a pail behind the counter and
turns his earnest face and ready ears to me. Taking the cue, I start drilling
into my list of questions. “Now, the incident occurred at 3:47 p.m. Do you
recall anyone leaving the bar shortly before then?”

Steve considers a minute and then shakes his head. “Not that
I recall. The first shift around here ends at three o’clock. Most of the crowd
is just coming in around then, and the place fills up pretty fast. Some of the
police officers who have really early shifts show up around two o’clock and
usually only have a drink or two before heading home. The officers who found
him were the first to leave today. We do have a few lushes who come in with the
early lunch crowd, but they make themselves scarce before the police officers
start arriving.”

My eyes skim over the room, searching for a point of
reference. I spy the perfect thing on a shelf behind the bar. Pointing at a hand-carved
and painted rooster, I ask, “Did you see anyone in here today wearing an
article of clothing that just about matched that color red?”

Steve’s gaze finds the rooster with a surprised look. “Yeah,
I sure did! There was an older guy wearing a red cloak. He left out the side
door just before you came in.”

My head snaps back to Steve as his casual words register. Blast
it! A potential murder suspect was inside the bar while we were processing the
body just outside!

I snatch up my ID and run out the side door with my pack
jostling on my back. One sweeping look across the parking lot tells me none of
the cars looks occupied. I hope the man is still nearby. Flipping open my phone,
I dial Gambino. He answers on the first ring.

Hoping he is still close by, I say “Gambino, a man wearing a
cloak that could match the thread found in the boy’s fingernail was seen
leaving the Cock and Bull Tap a few minutes ago. I’m searching the vicinity
right now.”

Gambino doesn’t miss a beat. “On my way.”

Holstering my phone and unholstering my Glock in one smooth
motion, I step out to the street. It looks still with nothing to indicate which
direction I should take. I follow my gut and run to the right, set on checking
out the entire block anyway. At the first intersection, I check all directions
but see nothing. I round the corner and run down toward the end of that side of
the block with my boots clicking loudly on the sidewalk with each step. Cripes!
I need rubber sole boots if I am ever going to sneak up on someone!

When I’m almost to the second corner, my eye catches a flash
of red disappearing behind a warehouse to my right. I cut across the lawn and
run between two warehouses toward the center of the block. Just before passing beyond
the shelter of the warehouses on either side, I stop. Peering behind them as
much as possible, I assess my options. The warehouse on my right has stacks of
empty pallets in the shipping yard. The warehouse on my left has an empty yard
with only one large, stationary eighteen wheeler. Regardless of which side he’s
on, it’s clear I will be wide open and an easy target while trying to reach
either the truck or the pallets. I pull out my sixth sense, looking for a trace
of a soul to guide me, but I feel nothing. Shoot! Where’s a little help when a
girl needs it?

With my gun pointed ahead, I rush around the corner to the
right. I place my back to the warehouse, feeling the rough bricks scrape my
back through my thin shirt and vest. My thrashing heart feels ready to burst in
my chest. I strain my eyes, looking for the smallest movement. My sixth sense
is still at high alert, and I feel a slight tug from the left. Turning in that direction,
I notice a little spot of red under the truck. As soon as I swing my gun toward
it, a loud noise blasts my eardrums.
Boom! Boom!
Chips of brick fly around
me as two bullets narrowly miss my head.

I aim my gun at the red spot and shoot as I rush to the first
stack of pallets opposite the truck. When I’m halfway there, I hear return
fire.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Three shots echo off the buildings. I dive
through the air as the bullets fly around me. Curling into a ball, I land,
rolling head over foot, but my backpack brings me to a quick stop. Just barely
behind the pallets, I jump up and sideways to take cover. Holy smokes, that was
close!

Ignoring my scratches and bruises, I peer around the right side
of the pallet stack. I want to get this guy so bad I can taste it. From this
angle, I can see more of the deep red cloak peaking out from behind the rear
tires of the truck. I crouch and try to identify the shooter, but all I can see
is the truck’s shadow and the red fabric.

I fire two more shots under the truck. One bullet ricochets
off the bumper, and the other tears a hole in one tire close to the spot of
red. A sharp hiss fills the air, and the truck sinks slightly.

I pull several pallets off the top of the pile I’m hiding
behind and position them on their sides in front of me to afford better
protection. I aim my gun under the truck and shout, “Supernatural Investigation
Bureau! Come out with your hands up!”

Three shots whiz toward me, tearing up the pallets with
splinters of coarse wood flying in all directions. I crouch down again, ready
to aim carefully this time, but as I peer across the space to the truck, I see
Gambino coming from behind the truck with two officers following him. I quickly
shoot two more tires on the right side of the truck, and the hisses tell me I
aimed true. Unfortunately, the semi has eighteen wheels, so three flat tires
lack the desired effect.

Gambino has his gun unholstered and aimed at the red spot.
Hoping to distract the perpetrator, I fire some shots wide into the ground to
the right of the truck. The man returns one oddly wild shot back at me. It
misses the pallet stack entirely. I aim for two more tires toward the rear,
thinking that if I can get the back of the truck lowered, the man will be
crushed or at least trapped.

Gambino yells, “Come out with your hands up!”

I watch the spot of red cloth as Gambino gets closer. Peering
through my gun sight, I aim for another tire, but all of the remaining tires
are behind the ones I’ve already shot. Gambino will have to finish the job. Right
now he’s even with the front set of tires, but obviously he cannot crouch down to
reach the man or he might come back up with a face full of bullets. If the man
wanted to, he could easily shoot Gambino’s foot.

After waiting a few tense seconds for the shooter to
willingly surrender, Gambino gestures his men forward and they move in closer. Ignoring
the wheels now, I fire two more carefully aimed shots, and I’m rewarded by the man’s
scream of surprise and agony. Gambino takes the opportunity to dive under the
truck, and at the same time I see the spot of red disappear.

I hear Gambino yell, “What in the Plane of Fire? He’s gone!”

His companions surround the truck from both directions. One
of them checks in the back of the truck and another checks underneath, but both
apparently find the area empty as well. Gambino climbs up the truck between the
cab and trailer to inspect the top. I don’t know how he thinks the man could
have gotten up there. As he looks in the cab, another futile move, I begin to
walk toward the scene, my gun still at the ready. I check the top of the
warehouse and quickly sweep the entire area with my sixth sense, but I find nothing.
Gambino gets out of the cab and holsters his gun.

“What happened?” I ask when I reach Gambino.

Gambino blows out a deep breath and looks at the truck. Then
he shakes his head. “I know you hit him. He screamed, and I dove under the
truck, but there was nothing there. It was just empty, not even a drop of
blood! It’s like he was a ghost.” Gambino says this last bit while raising an
eyebrow.

I sigh. Sometimes Norms just can’t handle things they can’t
rationalize. “Maybe it was like a ghost,” I respond, “but ghosts can’t actually
fire bullets, and I assure you those bullets were real.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

I frown. “Unfortunately not. All I saw was a glimpse of red
cloak trailing behind him as he ran between the warehouses. He must have dived
under the truck, but I guessed he was behind the pallets, so I went that way.”
After I give Gambino the rest of the details, he and his men continue to search
the neighborhood just in case the man reappears. I hoof it back to the Cock and
Bull Tap to finish my conversation with my friend Steve.

Still cursing to myself for being a minute too late, I
reenter the bar and approach Steve. He’s frowning at my obvious disappointment.
“We heard gunfire, but it doesn’t look like you got him. Did anyone get hit?”

I shake my head. “The suspect probably got one superficial
wound, but he got away from us. So have you ever seen him here before?”

Steve absently wipes down the bar as he answers, “Nope. I’ve
never seen him before. We don’t usually get his kind here. This is a working
man’s bar, and he was dressed in fancy trousers and a white dress shirt with a
tie. He didn’t even order a drink. I saw him snap open his phone and head into
the bathroom. I assumed he was just looking for a quiet place to make a call. He
left out the side door, and you walked in the front door right after.” Steve
pauses to frown for a moment before adding, “I don’t think he saw you coming. I
think it was just poor timing.”

I put my palms on the bar. “What did he look like? Did he
have any distinguishing features or marks?”

Steve puts his thumb under his chin and thinks for a minute.
“He was on the tall side, about six foot. He had a full beard and mustache,
neatly trimmed. His face was narrow with a long, prominent nose.”

“What color were his eyes and hair?”

Steve shifts his weight and frowns. “I can’t say about his
hair. He was wearing the hood on his cloak so I’m not sure I saw his hair. But
his beard was a very dark brown, maybe black, with some gray in it. His
eyebrows were the same and real heavy, you know. His eyes were either a dark
brown or a black. I’m guessing he was fortyish or early fifties.” Steve glances
at the firefly lanterns. “The lights are pretty low in here.”

I agree with Steve that the ambiance is an issue and hand him
my card. “If you remember anything else, please give me a call.”

Steve says sincerely, “I sure will. Good luck with this.”

I thank Steve and leave, feeling the lust, fear, and hatred of
dozens of strangers follow me out the door.