Other Worldly Ways (Anthology 1) (13 page)

Shane replaced the warm cloth on my forehead while I lay flat on my back on his sofa. Children didn't often stay behind to speak with anybody. I figured it was because they were so young—they still remembered clearly the way to the other side.

This one—an eleven-year-old boy who would have gotten a nice game system for Christmas, never got to open his gifts. He'd died at his front door on Christmas morning.

"Did dinner go all right?" I asked as warmth bathed my eyelids. I'd seen too much that afternoon. A blood-soaked child's body, covered by a sheet while forensics collected evidence still seared my vision.

"Dinner was fine, Conner. I know you haven't eaten anything," he added. "If I thought it wouldn't make you sick, I'd bring you soup."

"Maybe later," I mumbled as my stomach roiled at the thought of food.

"Eleven. Fuck." I could picture Shane shaking his head as he said the words—I knew him too well. "Did they match the bullets?"

"Working on it, but it's the same caliber," I said. "Police are telling everybody to check first before answering their door. This poor kid thought it was relatives arriving and just opened the door."

"What if the killer got the wrong person, then?" Shane asked. "Did he live with both parents?"

"And an older sister," I confirmed. "She's sixteen. Ron moved them out of the house, in case any one of them might be targeted again."

"This is really fucked up," Shane said. He didn't often use that word, so I knew he was truly upset. "I hope the killer doesn't find them again, if he missed the intended target the first time."

"Yeah. I don't want to know where he sent them," I shivered. Shane covered me with the expensive throw he kept folded on the back of his sofa. "I love you, Shane Patrick," I blindly held out a hand. He took it.

"I love you, too. It's too bad we both prefer men." He laughed bitterly.

* * *

The news—print and television—was filled with the serial killer and his victims over the holiday. The police had even released information about the gun, how it had been used in the previously unsolved Decatur murder, and that the murderer responsible in that crime was locked up and awaiting extradition from Tennessee when the last murder had taken place.

My cell phone rang on December thirtieth while I was baking peach turnovers. "Detective Glass?" I was almost afraid of what he might tell me.

"Conner, I called to tell you that they're holding that child's funeral tomorrow afternoon," he said. "The Coroner released the body two days ago."

"On New Year's Eve?" I sputtered.

"It's Tuesday. For the family, this has turned into any other Tuesday, without their son and brother."

"This is so awful," I sighed.

"I'm going. I want you to come with me. Shane, too, if he'd like to attend. It looks pretty sparse otherwise, since we're still worried that the family might be targeted again."

"Then we'll come," I said. "Would you like a peach turnover? I'm about to pull some out of the oven."

"That sounds wonderful. I'll grab Agent Ricks and we'll be there in thirty."

* * *

"Shane, what in heaven's name are you doing?" He was clicking away on his cell phone as he walked through my back door. Ron and Ricks were scheduled to arrive any minute and here Shane was, playing with his phone.

"Responding to one of those stupid chain e-mails," he grumped, tapping send. I heard the tiny whoosh as the message was sent.

"Shane, you know better than that," I shook a finger at him. "Those things are garbage and they just seem to go viral every time somebody sends one out."

"What do you do with them?" Shane lifted his eyes off the phone for a moment and studied me.

"Delete them," I snapped. "They're all stupid, and the one who starts them is looking for gullible suckers. What did it say, anyway?" I moved to his side to look at his e-mail.

"It says if I send it on, then I'll gain all kinds of good fortune. If I don't, terrible things will happen."

"You're kidding?" I stared at him. "Besides, you already have a fortune."

"But I don't need more terrible things," he pointed out. "I've had enough, already. I hope the New Year is better than this one." He pocketed his phone with a sigh. The doorbell rang after that, so we went to let Agent Ricks, Detective Glass and Detective Neale into the house.

* * *

"We found nothing when we went through Nina's e-mail," Agent Ricks spoke around a mouthful of peach turnover. "Just the usual. E-mails from clients. E-mails to clients. Messages from friends and family, that sort of thing, plus the usual spam and stuff that comes to anybody with an e-mail account."

"Nothing, huh?" Shane shook his head. "Conner said we could go to the boy's funeral. I want to go. Does the family need any financial assistance?"

"No, everything is taken care of," Ron said. "Grandparents have money, looks like. Terrible tragedy."

"Do you believe this?" Shane's phone pinged again and he showed it to me. "I got the same stupid chain e-mail again from somebody else."

"Shane, just let it go," I pulled the phone from his fingers and stuck it in a drawer at my kitchen island. "It's over. Don't sucker more people in with that crap." Yeah, I usually don't say crap in front of company, but these were seasoned detectives and I assumed Agent Ricks had heard worse over the course of his career.

"Somebody in your husband's office is handling Nina's estate," Detective Glass said in an effort to keep Shane from glaring at me.

"Who is that?" I turned to Ron, choosing to ignore Shane.

"Know Vince Gregg?" Ron asked.

"Yes. He just lost his daughter in a terrible accident," I said. "Shane and I went to her funeral three weeks ago."

"He's handling Nina's will," Ron reached for another turnover. "These are wonderful, Conner."

* * *

Shane and I were cleaning the kitchen after our three guests left when Steven chose to make an appearance. Walking through the back door from the garage, he and Shane exchanged mutual glares before Steven turned to me.

"What were those detectives doing at the house?" he snarled.

"I've been helping them with that serial murderer," I said, daring him to escalate his anger. He knew the detectives would turn their car right around and drive back if I called. I figured they'd arrest Steven immediately if anything ever happened to me other than natural causes.

"I can't imagine you'd be much help with that," Steven muttered.

"I'll have you know, Conner helped solve that seven-year-old murder in Decatur," Shane snapped at Steven. "The same gun was used, but it's not the same killer."

"Hmmph." Steven hunched his shoulders, lifted a peach turnover off the plate on the kitchen island and stalked toward his suite.

"I'd rather have him out with a floozie," Shane muttered at Steven's retreating back. I didn't say it, but I felt the same.

* * *

"Shane Patrick Taylor, I'm gonna smack you," I growled at my cell phone. There I was, trying to stuff my feet into black heels while Shane sent that idiotic chain e-mail out to everybody he knew on New Year's Eve.

"We have to go to a funeral," I reminded the phone, as if that would make any difference to Shane. Determined to delete the message later, I stuffed the phone in my purse and headed for the stairs. We'd be late if we didn't haul our posteriors out of the house five minutes ago.

* * *

"I'm glad you're both here," Detective Glass said as Shane and I hurried toward the chapel. The service was private, so Detective Glass would have to get us inside. The officers guarding the door would let him in for sure, since he was investigating the case.

"Phone on vibrate?" Shane whispered as we were led to a pew toward the back.

"Did that before I left the house," I whispered back. "After I found out you sent me that stupid e-mail."

Shane huffed softly and refused to look at me. As if on cue, I felt the phone vibrate inside my purse.

"Conner," Shane attempted to grab the phone as I pulled it from my purse.

"The funeral hasn't started yet," I elbowed his ribs to get my point across.

"It's from Steven," Shane leaned in to read the e-mail message. "What does he want?" he murmured.

Shane and I read the message in silence.

Stop working on that case, Steven's e-mail commanded. There might be a conflict of interest. Vince Gregg was Carter Michaels' attorney back in the day. I'm handling Carter's murder charge now, since Vince isn't up for it at the moment.

"What the?" Shane lifted his eyes to stare at me. Carter Michaels was the suspect in the Decatur murder.

"Shane, I have a bad feeling," I muttered, scrolling through e-mail until I reached the one he'd sent me. "Damn. No recipient list," I said.

"I got rid of all that," Shane said. "Why?"

"Get out your phone, Shane Patrick, or I'll strangle you where you sit," I snapped.

"Please, put your phone away out of respect for the family," an usher frowned at us from the end of the pew. Shane and I looked up, guilt heating my face. Shane nodded—he never embarrassed easily—and shoved the phone inside my purse.

Things probably would have been all right and I could have explained my theory to Detective Glass after the funeral, but there wasn't time, as it turned out.

Why does tragedy seem to happen in slow motion, while your feet seem stuck in quicksand and your voice is too thick and labored to shout a warning? Shane's arm wrapped around my waist as Vince Gregg walked into the chapel, pulled a gun from his suit coat pocket and fired. I heard muted screams as he emptied his gun, shooting at the grieving family sitting near a small, gray coffin at the front.

Before Detectives Glass and Neale could bring Vince Gregg down, he'd shot all three family members. Ron Glass shouted into a radio for an ambulance and assistance while I struggled in Shane's grasp.

"Shane, let me go," I hissed.

"Conner, no," Shane reached for me as I broke away from him.

"There's still time," I said, coming out of my heels and running toward the front.

"They're not breathing," a woman wept as she knelt beside three lifeless bodies.

"Let me," I knelt beside her. "I only have a minute or two," I whispered and reached out with both hands.

* * *

"Who are you?" she blinked at me. Sixteen is so young. So very young.

"My name is Conner," I reached out to her. We stood in a beautiful meadow, where wildflowers grew and bloomed about us. I only had seconds, now. Seconds to keep her from following her brother and her parents. "Lynn, I have to ask you a question," I said.

"How do you know my name?"

"Honey, when I stand on this ground, I know all sorts of things," I replied. "I have a question for you. Do you want to stay, or do you want to go with your mom and dad?"

"Stay where?" She had no idea her spirit was fading. In a few blinks, it would pass beyond my grasp.

"Here on Earth," I said. "The choice is yours. If you stay, you won't see your parents or your brother again for a long time. If you go, you leave your friends, school and everything else behind. Honey, the choice is yours to make, but you have to make it soon."

"What about Kyle?"

"Kyle?"

"My boyfriend."

"Well, honey, if you stay, you'll see Kyle again. If you go with your parents, you and Kyle will be separated."

"It'll hurt, won't it, no matter what I choose?"

"Yes. I can't lie about that. And I don't know that you and Kyle might not break up tomorrow. The gate is closing. You have to decide now."

She turned from me to look at what I saw beyond her—the gap that was gradually closing on her life.

"I can't stay," she wept. "Tell Kyle I'm sorry, but I just can't stay."

"I'll tell him," I agreed and let her go.

* * *

Dried blood crusted my suit and watch as I sat in a chair before Ron Glass' desk, explaining what I knew. Shane held one of my hands, because I wasn't at my steadiest at the moment.

"Vince Gregg got in because he claimed to be the family attorney," Ron sighed. "You talked to them, didn't you?"

"To Lynn, yes," I nodded wearily. "The others were already gone."

"Vince Gregg is dead—he can't explain himself. What can you tell me?"

"I believe that if you go into Vince's discarded e-mails, you'll find a chain e-mail from one of his victims—likely Nina Shelton. You'll probably discover that all the other victims were connected by the same e-mail, Detective. Vince was already a little unhinged over his daughter's death and became certain that the chain e-mail was responsible. He went looking for those who sent it to him because it brought bad luck to his door. I also have this," I handed my cell phone to Ron, with Steven's e-mail pulled up.

"That message says that Vince was Carter Michael's attorney back when he was involved in petty crime," I continued. "It's my guess that Carter went to Vince after he'd killed Cherie, so Vince took the gun and sent Carter out of the state. Carter likely paid Vince with what he stole from Cherie." Ron read the message before handing the phone back to me.