Wickedly Dangerous (12 page)

Belinda's startled laughter was reward enough for coming. Damn—this place
really
was getting to her.

*   *   *

THE MAYOR'S OFFICE
was designed to be imposing. It was situated in one of the oldest buildings in town, a certified historical monument to a more prosperous time, when the railroad still ran and Dunville was a hub of commerce and travel. Outside, the marble steps and ornate columns gave way to massive carved wood doors that opened on to a spacious lobby with high, painted tin ceilings. Unlike the sheriff's department, this building was kept in perfect condition, the white walls shining and the oak trim oiled until it gleamed.

The mayor's office was off a side corridor so the hustle and bustle of the mundane business transacted in the county clerk's office up front wouldn't impinge upon the more weighty matters of running the town. The current mayor was more competent than some Liam had worked with in his years with the sheriff's department, although he tended to waffle on issues rather than risk offending one of his more influential supporters. What he lacked in spine he made up for in charm, so he'd recently been elected to a second term.

The mayor's secretary seemed to have stepped away from her desk in the small outer chamber, so Liam knocked on the door to the inner room. A deep voice said, “Come in,” so he did, and was dismayed but not completely surprised to see Clive Matthews standing next to the taller, slimmer form of the town's mayor. Due to the small size of the town and the surrounding area, the sheriff's department had been acting as law enforcement for both since budget cuts had done away with the town police chief's job. Liam reported directly to the mayor, but the country board was technically still in charge of the hiring and firing for the position. He had a feeling Matthews wasn't there to give him a raise.

“Mr. Mayor, you wanted to see me?” Liam nodded at the board president politely, but focused his attention on the man who had called him.

To his credit, Harvey Anderson didn't look any happier than Liam felt. He glanced sideways out of the corner of his eyes, clearly hoping the other man would do the talking. When Matthews just crossed his arms over his chest and stood there looking stern and disappointed, Anderson gave a sigh and said, “Liam, we all know you've had a tough couple of years, but the board—” Matthews cleared his throat meaningfully. “That is, we all have some serious concerns about how you are doing your job.”

Matthews's musky cologne wafted across the space between them, making Liam's breath catch and stutter.
The man must bathe in the stuff
,
he thought, his mind caught by an inconsequential butterfly fluttering of ideas, so it wouldn't focus on the words coming out of the mayor's mouth.
The air conditioning in here is a lot quieter than ours down at the station. That must be nice.

“I'm doing my best, Harvey,” Liam said in a carefully measured tone, trying not to let his anger percolate to the surface. He was so damned tired of Clive Matthews yanking his chain. “My men are working around the clock, trying to find out who is behind these disappearances. There just aren't any clues.”

“Or maybe there are, and you're just not finding them,” Matthews put in sourly. “We're in the midst of a major crime wave, with children involved, and you've accomplished
nothing
. It can't go on.”

Liam opened his mouth to argue, to say that the state guys hadn't found anything either, despite having better equipment and more men, then closed it again as the mayor said, “I'm sorry, Liam, but Clive is right. Maybe you just don't have what it takes to do this job anymore. The board is giving you until the end of the month to come up with something concrete. If not, we'll have no choice but to replace you. I'm very, very sorry.”

Fury bubbled over like a pot on a too-hot fire, despite his best intentions. There was no way some damned mealy-mouthed politicians were going to keep him from doing his job. The people of this town needed him—and his job was all he had left.

“I've been working around the clock,” he growled. “
Nobody
wants to find these kids more than I do. The state cops pop their heads in for a few days, then go back to chasing drug dealers and giving out speeding tickets, saying they don't have enough manpower to spare to stick around. I live and breathe this job twenty-four/seven.

“If you take me off this case, who are you going to give it to? Some guy with no experience who will have to start from scratch? You clearly don't have the slightest idea how police work is done, or you wouldn't be wasting my time with this petty crap. Why don't you just get off my back and let me do my damned job?”

Harvey Anderson's mouth dropped open and he started to sputter an apology, but Matthews cut him off before he could get more than a few words out.

“It is just this kind of attitude that makes you unsuitable for such a sensitive position,” Matthews said, his chest puffed out like a rooster. “You heard the mayor. You have until the end of the month.”

“The end of the month is only two and a half weeks from now,” Liam said from between clenched teeth.

Matthews smirked. “I guess you'd better get to work, then.” He gestured toward the door, and Liam somehow made it outside without punching Matthews into the next county. That in itself was a minor victory of sorts.

Once outside, he closed the heavy wooden door behind him and took a deep breath.
Two and a half weeks.
To find the answers that had eluded him for almost five months.
Hell.

“Hello, Sheriff,” a warm contralto voice said from the desk next to him. The mayor's secretary, Lynette, had a daughter who used to babysit for one of the missing children. “Is there any news?”

He closed his eyes for a minute and inhaled through his nose and out through his mouth, like the grief counselor had taught them. Then he forced himself to smile at Lynette, despite the churning in his stomach.

“Sorry, no. The mayor and Mr. Matthews just wanted to have a little chat with me about the way I'm doing my job, that's all.”

She gave him a sympathetic look, her kind, pretty face colored with concern. “I know; I heard them talking about it earlier.” She grimaced. “Mr. Matthews has one of those voices that carries.”

Liam chuckled in wry agreement. He'd been in enough meetings with Clive Matthews to know that he always talked louder than anyone else in the room, like a steamroller on steroids.

Lynette dropped her own voice and said quietly, “You should know that they've already set up interviews with possible candidates for your job.” Her glance skittered away from his and she looked at the floor. “I'm so sorry, Sheriff.”

He sighed. “Me too, Lynette. Me too.”

BABA WALKED OVER
to the door. Opened it, looked out, glared at the empty green meadow, then slammed it shut and stomped back over to throw herself down on the couch again. A litter of empty chocolate wrappers crinkled as she sat on them, and she disposed of them with an irritated snap of her fingers.

She'd been in a foul mood since waking up from a hideous nightmare, and waiting around for a client who was clearly not going to show hadn't done anything to sweeten her temper. It didn't help that it had been three days since she'd seen the stubborn yet appealing sheriff. Yes, she'd told him to leave her in peace, but for some reason, she found it incredibly annoying that he'd actually done so.

It had taken two hours to mix up that decoction for a local woman who'd pleaded for something to ease her nerves. If she didn't show soon, Baba was going to drink it herself.

She'd spent the last few days treating the folks who lived nearby for everything from third-degree burns to warts. Apparently Bertie down at the diner had taken it upon herself to spread the word about Baba's herbal remedies, and when Bertie spoke, people listened. Of course, even without Bertie, patients would have found their way to her; they always did. But for some reason, Baba had made a little more effort than usual to be helpful. Bizarrely (for her, anyway), she actually
liked
these people.

Except the woman who was currently standing her up.
She
was going on Baba's list.

The antique silver pocket watch she pulled out of her black jeans said it was after two, and Bob the mechanical wizard had sent her a message yesterday to say the motorcycle would be ready by one. She clicked the cover shut decisively and shoved the timepiece back into her pocket—that was it; she was done waiting. Time to go get her baby back.

“I'm going out for a bit,” she said to Chudo-Yudo, who was sprawled on his back in a lemon-meringue splash of sunshine, looking more cat than dragon. “If that lady comes looking for her order, you have my permission to bark at her.” Bah. She hated when people didn't do what they said they were going to do.

“Going to hunt down that yummy sheriff?” Chudo-Yudo asked slyly, cocking one eye open to check out her outfit. He seemed to find the jeans, embroidered crimson cotton peasant top, and clunky motorcycle boots acceptable, since it slid closed again a minute later. He yawned, showing off sharp white teeth. “I noticed he hasn't been around lately. You scare him off already?”

Baba bared her own teeth at him, which didn't make much of an impression since he couldn't see it. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to get my damned bike back; I'm tired of driving around in the truck. It's like being cooped up inside a big silver tank. I miss feeling the wind against my skin.”

Chudo-Yudo snorted, rolling over onto his belly and producing another bone out of nowhere to gnaw on enthusiastically. “You'd think you were some Otherworld creature, sensitive to the touch of cold iron, the way you talk.” He glanced around the Airstream. “Of course, you couldn't very well live in this glammed-up tin can if you were, could you?”

She threw a pillow at him, which he incinerated in midair. The ashes drifted down like volcanic ash. You'd think she'd learn.

“Do
not
insult my hut, damn it,” she said, rummaging through the cupboards to find the stash of hundred-dollar bills she'd hidden someplace clever, long enough ago that she'd now forgotten where. She could magic up some more, of course, but she always worried that the money would crumble into nothingness in typical Otherworld fashion once she was gone, and she didn't want to cheat the man who'd worked so hard to fix her precious motorcycle.

“Aha!” she said, finally unearthing the roll of cash inside an old hand-painted Matryoshka. The set of Russian nesting dolls, each one smaller than the one enclosing it, made a perfect hiding place. If you could remember that's where you put things. The gaily decorated faces of the dolls seemed to mock her, their crooked smiles and rosy red cheeks far too cheerful for her current mood.

Baba grabbed the cash and her keys and headed for the truck, stopping to glare one more time around the empty field and the road that carried neither errant sheriff nor missing client in her direction, and tore off in the direction of town. She'd feel better when she had the bike back. Although, just to be on the safe side, maybe she'd pick up some more chocolate while she was out.

*   *   *

O'SHAUNNESSY AND SON
Auto Service was perched on the outward bend of a hairpin curve on the edge of town, where the motley assortment of cars, trucks, and vans in various stages of disrepair couldn't bring down the property values or irritate the neighbors. Other than the collection of vehicles, the place was neat and prosperous looking, with a row of four open bays lined up in a long, dark gray garage and a smaller office tucked away like a forgotten second cousin at the far end.

Baba pulled the big silver truck into the gravel lot and parked it in front of the office space, where a brick doorstop held the door open for whatever breeze there was. The temperature hovered around the ninety-degree mark, which the locals told her was well above normal, and the air was so humid, it clung to your skin like syrup. She didn't mind, though, and stood for a moment in the hot sunshine drinking in the sounds of hammering and the high-pitched whine of a power tool. The pungent odor of old oil, metal being ground under pressure, and the sharp bite of some kind of solvent drifted out of the nearest bay like a mechanical alchemist's air elemental. The smell made her smile.

As did the sight of her beloved motorcycle, its normally glossy blue paint scratched and scuffed, but upright on two wheels and ready to sail her away down the road at speeds unsafe—and most likely unattainable—on any normal bike. As soon as she paid for it, drove it home in the back of the truck, and did a little quick magic on the paint job. There was no way she was riding it down the road in its current condition. A girl had to have her standards.

Baba walked into the office, which was only a few degrees cooler than the scorching atmosphere outside. Three small fans revolved frantically, trying with futile perpetual motion to cool the space. One of them had a bent blade and clicked irritatingly on every revolution.
Whirr, whirr, click. Whirr, whirr, click.

The room was dim and empty, other than a countertop that separated the waiting area from two small desks and a doorway that led to the garages, and maybe a bathroom. The only decorations, if you could call them that, were posters of tires, a wilted and dispirited spider plant, and an auto parts calendar featuring an improbably large-breasted woman holding a huge wrench, perched on the roof of a red corvette. But the room itself was clean, and the plastic chairs for customers to sit on all bore colorful paisley cushions.

Baba nodded in satisfaction, perversely reassured that all the money and effort for this business was clearly focused on the cars, and not on the people who owned them. Just as it should be.

A tall man with faded red hair, a spattering of freckles, and a receding hairline came into the room and stopped dead when he saw her standing there. He gave a jerking glance over his shoulder, tugging gray overalls into place with a nervous gesture. The name embroidered over his chest said
Bob
, so she assumed this was the wizard she'd come to see.

“Hi,” she said. “You must be Bob. I'm Barbara Yager. I've come to pick up my BMW. Thanks so much for fixing her. I really appreciate it.” She remembered something and pulled a small white porcelain jar out of her pocket. “And I brought you the salve you wanted for your father's gout.”

Bob glanced furtively behind him again, and reached under the counter to grab her keys and toss them onto the smooth laminated surface. Not meeting her eyes, he shoved the jar back toward her and said in a low voice, “Look, just take the bike and go. You can pay me later. And I don't want the salve. His leg is much better.” He looked toward the back of the room again, and an expression of near panic flitted across his face as she stood there, not moving. “Go on, the bike is fine. I didn't bother with the paint job, like you said, but otherwise, she's good as new.”

What the hell was going on here?
Bob had been perfectly pleasant the one time she'd called from a rare pay phone in town and talked to him about the motorcycle; now he was acting like she had some kind of contagious disease—one with unpleasant social ramifications, at that.

She shook her head and pulled the roll of bills out of the front pocket of her jeans, peeling off five hundred dollars' worth and placing them on the counter next to the little white jar. “How much do I owe you?” she asked.

Bob scrambled for a handwritten invoice, almost dropping it in his hurry to get her out of there. But before he could pick it up, a door slammed in the back and a tornado blew in on a wind of bluster and bellowing. A smaller, shorter version of Bob, with close-cropped white hair and the bearing of an ex-military man, he limped up to the counter, grabbed Baba's money, and threw it at her. It drifted down like autumn leaves to rest by her booted feet.

“Is that her?” the senior O'Shaunnessy demanded of his son. Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Baba and said with a snarl, “Get out of here. We don't want your kind here. Take your damned motorcycle and be grateful we didn't put it into the crusher. And don't come back.”

Baba could feel her mouth drop open, and she blinked a couple of times to see if that made the world make any more sense. Nope. No help at all. She looked at Bob for a clue, but he just lowered his gaze, an embarrassed flush spreading across his freckled cheekbones.

“I'm sorry,” she said to his father. “Have I offended you somehow?”

Veins pulsed rapidly in the old man's neck as he glared at her. “You are an offense to all good Christian people. I heard about you down at Bertie's. Taking money off of people who can't hardly spare it, and givin' 'em fake medicines that make them sick. That tea you made for Maddie over at the library to fix her allergies made her sneeze so hard she fell off a stepstool and broke her ankle. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Baba's stomach clenched as if he had punched her. Normally, she would have yelled back. Hell, normally, she wouldn't have cared. But she liked this place, with its open meadows and high pine-covered hills. She liked going into the slightly ramshackle old town and having people greet her by name, and smile at her when she passed them in the grocery store aisle. She liked the folks who'd come to her for herbal remedies. What the hell had gone wrong?

“My preparations
do not
make people sick,” she said through her teeth. “Try the ointment I brought for you, and you'll see.”

The senior O'Shaunnessy picked the little jar up off the counter and threw it into the garbage can at his feet. “Not on a bet, missy. They're saying you're some kind of witch. That maybe all the stuff that has been going wrong around here is your fault. I'm not using nothing you made, no how.”

He turned to his son, somehow towering over the younger man, even though Bob was a good six inches taller. “You're an idiot, Bob. Letting her trade some poison voodoo for your hard work. You're like that boy with the cow and the magic beans.” He shook his head, looking like a bee-stung bear. “Jee-sus. Get her the hell out of here, will you? Idiot.” He limped back out the way he'd come, cursing under his breath the entire way. The door slammed hard behind him, like a death knell in the quiet room.

Bob's freckles stood out in his white face as he bent down to pull the jar out of the trash. The tips of his ears glowed a vivid, embarrassed red. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still not meeting her eyes. “His gout is acting up. It makes him a little difficult.”

Baba swallowed a dubious snort. She thought it was more likely that the old man was more than a little difficult at the best of times. Still, his reaction to her had been fairly over the top.

She bent to pick up the scattered hundred-dollar bills from the floor by her feet, placing them together in a neat stack on the counter top. “I'm a bit crabby on occasion myself,” she said in a neutral tone. “But my medicines
never
make anyone sick, I assure you.”

No point in trying to explain that they were two parts herbs and one part magic, especially if someone was trying to pin the name “witch” on her. She was a witch, of course, but no good could come of folks starting to call her one. But there was no way her mixtures could make someone sick—the worst that could happen was that they simply did nothing. And even then, they'd smell like heaven and feel like a caress.

Bob darted a glance over his shoulder and stuffed the money into a small gray cashbox. Finally, he looked her in the face, his eyes a startling blue framed by pale red lashes. “It's true what he said, though. People seem to be having bad reactions to the stuff they bought off of you.” He gave her a halfhearted smile as he pushed her keys and the ointment onto her half of the counter. “I'm sure you didn't do it on purpose.”

“I didn't do it at all,” she growled, more to herself than to him. “Something is seriously wrong with this scenario.” She bit her lip, thinking madly as she jammed the jar back into her pocket. “Look, Bob, I need to find out what the devil is going on here. Can you tell me the names of some of the people who had problems with my medicines and where they live?”

He looked doubtful, and she added quickly, “If the herbs didn't work, I need to collect them to see why. And give everyone their money back, of course.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, that would be good. Folks around here don't have much extra. If you gave them their money back, then they could go to the drugstore and buy something else for whatever ails them.” He grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper and starting writing down names and addresses. “Are you going to be able to find these places? I know you're not that familiar with the area.”