In the Dead of Night (6 page)

Chapter Six

Ever since Tom Gaither moved to Nashville from Paducah, Kentucky two years ago, after Fiona successfully recruited him to join our paranormal investigative group, he wanted to find a small Craftsman to live in. Not an easy task, since unlike Paducah, finding such a place in middle Tennessee turned into an arduous adventure. Finally, last month he found what he was looking for in South Nashville, near the Grassmere Zoo and not far from where I work.

This brings us to a balmy Thursday evening.

Fiona and I drove out to see him along with the rest of the gang, just before dark around eight o’clock. It’s the first time we’d been in Tom’s new home since the house warming party Jackie and Fiona put together for him a few weeks ago. Tastefully decorated, I might add. If not for Tom’s consistent admiration of the fairer sex, I’d swear he’s gay. Nothing wrong with that, but I’ve honestly never met
any
male who could put a house or wardrobe together with ‘Project Runway’ flare that isn’t.

Anyway, tonight Tom planned to unveil his new paranormal investigation studio, which he built inside a converted storage building behind his house. We couldn’t wait to see it. I hoped it’d take the edge off of what happened earlier that afternoon, when Fiona told me what she discovered inside Dickey Rollins’ office.

After leaving Dickey’s place, she and I stopped at one of our favorite diners, the Elliston Place Soda Shop—another famous Nashville fixture from yesteryear. An authentic soda shop from the late 1940s, very little has changed in the building. One can even enjoy the unique pleasure of sipping on a genuine chocolate soda, almost unheard of in the progressive landscape of twenty-first century America.

We planned on grabbing a bite, but the horror of what Fiona witnessed—both real time and the psychic images she picked up from the other side—dampened her appetite. Significantly, to where an iced tea was all she could handle. I didn’t want to seem insensitive, so I did my best to ignore my raging hunger. Just as well in light of what she revealed to me inside the restaurant.

“I told Ed that I didn’t sense two killers, which is the most popular assertion, based on most of the evidence,” she told me, after adding a dash of lemon and artificial sweetener to her tea. “I see just one murderer…slender in build and with a lust for cruelty. Definite male energy with red hair….but I can’t see the guy’s face.”

“So, I take it you think this is the same dude who murdered Candi, Brenda, and Johnny,” I said, sipping on a cold Killian’s Red. I rarely get the opportunity to drink during daylight hours, and felt damned grateful for this chance. Just too bad it couldn’t be under better circumstances. “Can you tell his race?”

She frowned and looked beyond me to the soda counter, and shook her head ‘no’.

“Not yet,” she confessed. “The hair would normally point to a white guy, but he might be Asian. He likes to dress in dark clothing secured by straps…like some modern day ninja—that’s how he sees himself.”

She grabbed her left wrist with her right hand to illustrate her point, and I could almost sense the strength, determination, and worse—the killer’s cunning discipline in carrying out his debauched brutality.

“His face is covered with a mesh mask that allows him to breathe and see through it clearly, but won’t allow anyone to discern his facial features,” she added.

“Like that silly ‘Death’ Halloween get-up you made me wear at Cynthia’s party last October?”

I was only half-kidding—both in the seriousness of what we were dealing with and how I hated any masquerade unless attending a KISS costume party. Again, just the way I roll.
Rock
n’ roll, that is.

“Yeah…I guess it is, sort of,” she agreed.

But the look on her face said she had either caught a glimpse of my hidden contempt in word or picture, or that she literally heard my unfiltered thought. Pick your poison. Either option wasn’t good, and it could be days, weeks, or even months before she’d share what just now happened—long after I’d forgotten the incident and would be helpless to defend any of it.

I should’ve stopped there, but then I asked her about the office’s condition and a semi-vague question about blood spatter and where Dickey was found—all based on what Freddie told me. Bad move again, and probably another instance of her knowing more about my hidden agenda than I did.

She went for a direct hit. Suffice it to say his office looked even more like a gore fest than Johnny and Brenda’s place had the night before. The floor, walls, and furniture were covered in a collage of crimson and various organ, muscle, and vascular bits thrown in for good measure. Very few surfaces in the room were spared a splattered portion of Mr. Rollins.

I’m sure she hated telling me this, but her eyes bore a glint of satisfaction, too. Nothing like a punch to the gut to get your horror-loving husband to back off and find something much more pleasant to talk about. Nausea kept me from finishing the rest of my cherished Irish ale….

“So, you decided to come after all!”

We had just pulled into Tom’s carport that evening, and Jackie ran over to Fiona and threw her arms around her before my wife could close the Camaro’s passenger door.

“I’m so sorry about what happened to Dickey,” she said, her expression pained. She hugged Fiona even tighter. “Well…let’s see if we can cheer you up. Just wait until you see Tom’s new studio!”

Jackie glanced back at Angie, standing near the back door, at the edge of Tom’s covered carport.

“It’s really bad-ass!” Angie enthused, grinning wryly as she stepped over to my wife and Jackie, offering her own warm hug to Fiona and a soft kiss on her forehead. “And, he showed us some of the infrared pictures from last night—you’ll be quite surprised!”

Dressed in jeans and near-identical tie-dye t-shirts, their hair was pulled back in ponytails not unlike the one I wore. Ready to do some more investigating later tonight, or maybe hit a club or two? My only concern was for Fiona, since she’d expressed a desire to get home at a decent hour, and Jackie or Angie would be her ride home tonight. I’d get home much later, since I had rehearsal with my band mates after tonight’s review of the evidence we gathered last night from Charlain Thompson’s place.

“Is everyone ready to eat yet?” Tom peered over the backyard’s wooden fence, a beer bottle in one hand and a spatula in the other. The aroma of roasted hot dogs and hamburgers wafted toward us, stronger now than earlier. “Hey, Jimmy…Fiona. I can’t remember if you like your burgers well done or with a little pink in them.”

“Either way is fine,” said Fiona, usually agreeable unless a burger bore burnt edges.

“Nothing that looks like shoe leather,” I said, not so agreeable when it comes to the version of roasted cow I prefer.

“Did you remember Fiona’s dessert pizza?” he asked, nudging his glasses toward the bridge of his nose with his grilling mitt. “You can’t enter the back yard without it!”

Despite the glare from several tiki torches reflecting off his wired lenses, I caught a glint of amusement, his eyes twinkling for a nanosecond.

“I almost forgot,” I said, nudging Fiona to go on without me while I went back to the car for our contribution to tonight’s grill potluck.

A recipe of my mom’s, the pizza is a concoction of fresh strawberries, blueberries, peaches, kiwi, and banana slices laid out on a pastry crust and covered with a light cream-cheese icing. I have to say it’s a hell of lot better tasting than it may sound, and something easy to whip up on short notice. It was perfect for tonight’s get-together, after Tom had called that afternoon with the news he’d finished developing the video and still-frame shots from last night’s investigation.

“Umm that looks really yummy!” said Angie, once I rejoined the females gathered just inside the back gate.

She’d never had the pleasure of sampling the dessert dish before. Fiona hadn’t made it since last summer. If not for Tom asking for it today, we probably would’ve picked up a pecan pie from Kroger on the way.

“It tastes awesome!” I told her, sliding by on my way to a long redwood picnic table. Yeah, I guess I’m a little proud of Mom and Fiona’s party delicacy. “The only thing sounding better than this right now is an ice cold brew!”

“Think fast, Rock Star!”

I turned just in time to catch a Miller Lite can flying through the air toward me, while Tom and the girls held their collective breath. Justin high-fived Tony, so I knew one of them threw it. I think if I’d failed to catch the damned thing, Tom would’ve had a massive coronary on the spot.

“Do you mind acting a little
older
than high school, you two?!” he scolded them, his normally deep voice carrying a shrill edge. “I doubt either of you make enough in a month to pay for a window if that had ricocheted through Jimmy’s grasp!”

He pointed to the ornate stained glass panels on either side of the backdoor, while both Tony and Justin shrugged and quietly mouthed ‘sorry’. Such feigned remorse, though they both had a ‘oops’ look on their faces. They turned their attention to the cooler, reaching in to grab a pair of longnecks.

I can see why he’s protective of his place. The property reminds me of a park setting, with lots of trees and such. And the house…it’s really nice. Built in the late 1920s, it looks like the Craftsman homes you sometimes see in movies, with lots of handcrafted oak paneling and millwork throughout. Frigging beautiful work, man. Of course, as my wife points out, it’s why they call this type of home a ‘Craftsman’ in the first place. Named after some homebuilder magazine from yesteryear.

“What? Better not be any Heinekens in there,” I said, feigning irritation. “Hording the good stuff is totally unacceptable, you guys!”

I hoped it’d take the edge off the morgue-feel suddenly permeating the air around us, since I could tell Tom was still fuming a bit. I’m not one for dull parties, and I definitely can’t tolerate a sour-puss gathering. The hell with that shit, I’d be just as happy getting an early start on rehearsal before the wounded puppies and Foghorn Leghorn turned tonight’s paranormal review into a pissing contest.

“Hell, I’ll take a Heiney if there’s some extras in there,” said Angie, sauntering over to where the guys stood guarding their treasure chest.

Like a pair of tin soldiers from Candy Land, they stepped aside to make way for her, so obviously intimidated by the pretty girl’s moxie. Sure enough, once she fully opened the cooler’s lid, a dozen green bottles peered out through crushed ice. She grabbed a handful and began her strut to the picnic table.

“Throw me that can of cow pee and I’ll bring you a real beer, Cracker Jack,” she taunted, playfully, to which I immediately tossed the can without thinking first.

More gasps—this time from nearly everyone including me. But Angie smiled naughtily, balancing the bottles between one arm and her bosom while she effortlessly caught the can and flipped it back toward the open cooler. The can careened off the lid and into the ice. No harm, no foul—unless Tom’s labored breathing counts for anything.

While the rest of us marveled at Angie’s party trick, she moved over to the table. Tom hurriedly motioned for Tony to help him carry a platter filled with burgers and weenies to the table. Justin picked up the condiments from a small table next to the built-in grill on Tom’s deck, while Jackie grabbed a bowl of potato salad to go along with another one filled to the brim with baked beans.

That left Fiona, who paused by the cooler until she fished out a bottled Coke, since a sinus headache’s onset was upon her. She joined me near the end of the table, and everyone else found an open spot. Jackie and Tom joined us on the side closest to the grill, while Tony and Justin hesitated for a moment on the other side, as if silently debating between them who’d get the frightful pleasure of sitting next to Angie. Justin won the honor, as Tony found an excuse to revisit the grill.

“So, where’d you learn the over-the-shoulder bank shot, Muscle Mutt?”

Hoping to further lighten the mood, I voiced the first thought that popped in my head. Angie really hates my pet name for her, since it brings to mind some muscle-bound body builder—which she’s not. ‘Body sculpting’ is the way she likes to refer to it, and recently Fiona and Jackie have been letting her teach them the basic initial exercises to help firm their thighs and legs, though I can’t really see where Fiona needs the help. Maybe she’s just trying to help Jackie not feel like the ugly duckling in our group. But Jackie’s not bad looking at all. The way the other guys’ eyes linger on her from time to time tells me they’d readily second that notion.

“I grew up with three brothers—all older than me,” she replied, pausing to pass the potato salad to Justin, who then handed off to Tony at the table’s end. “The oldest was all-city basketball in Hartford, and my other brothers lettered in high school. So, along the way, I guess they showed me a thing or two on how to shoot deceptively, since I’m the ‘shorty’ in my family.”

They must be frigging giants. Hell, Angie stands at least an inch taller than Fiona, who is considered pretty tall at five-nine. Since she grew up in Connecticut, Angie’s the second friend of Fiona from the east coast. Candi was the first, hailing from Trenton, New Jersey.

“You must be pretty good, then,” said Jackie, nodding approvingly. “And here I thought your favorite sport was Taekwondo.”