Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 1 - Combust the Sun (26 page)

"No
seams," she said of the stone. "How could a note for the dead get put
in this stone?"

"Maybe
the note is somehow written on it," I said absently.

"How's
your lip?" She reached up and gently touched it with her fingertips.

"Stitches
dissolved. All is well."

She
leaned in to take a look and then gently kissed me. "Does that hurt?"

"No,
it feels good," I breathed, as she took the script out of my hands and
tossed it onto the couch.

"Now
is this a sympathy thing?" I whispered.

"This
is an I'm-crazy-about-you thing and I-thought-I'd-lost-you thing." She
slipped my shorts and T-shirt off me and shrugged off her own.

"My
favorite things." I pulled her onto the couch and we lay wrapped in one
another's arms. I reached down her small, firm thighs and rested my hand
between her legs. I was void of expectation, wanting only to be near her. I
closed my eyes as she snuggled closer and slid gently onto my fingers, allowing
me inside her. I held my breath, not wanting to want, but that was impossible.
She clutched me more tightly now, uttering soft sounds of pleasure, and began
slowly pressing her body into mine. Blood rushed to my groin and to my head in
sudden recognition of this moment, and my mouth devoured her, creating a wet,
hot, rhythmic kissing that matched the rhythm of our bodies. Her fingers dug
into me, as if she were afraid I'd let go of her before she had let go. The
heat from our bodies was so intense that we were wet inside and out; her skin
hydroplaned across mine, arousing in both of us a frenzy that was out of
control. Unable to hold back any longer, Callie stiffened and thrust herself
into climax, moaning wildly and collapsing against me, her damp hair lying on
my pounding chest as I kissed the back of her neck.

"That
was phenomenal," I said.

She
began to cry softly.

"What's
wrong?"

"Nothing,"
she said.

"It
doesn't seem like nothing." I wiped away her tears. "That was magical."

She
held me tighter, her arms encircling my waist, and said nothing for a long
time.

"Can
you talk to me a little bit?" I asked.

"It's
just.. .I don't know how to describe it..." She broke off the words and
became quiet again. "It's as if I kept this coin—this gold coin—like the
currency of my resolve, and I wouldn't spend it on anyone until I knew that
person was worth it. Then I met you..." She stopped and I buried my lips
in her hair, holding her, smelling her, touching her, and waiting. "Then I
met you, and I knew that you would take care of me, of my love and my emotions.
I made a decision to give myself to you physically, but more importantly, to
give myself to you emotionally. When you're physically naked, your body is
exposed. When you're emotionally naked, your soul is exposed. And there is nothing
more vulnerable than that."

And
suddenly, I felt something deep inside me shift ever so slightly. As if there
had been an energy transfer of sorts between us that even I could feel. She had
entrusted me with her vulnerability, the most fragile part of herself, trusted
that I would do my best not to hurt her—me, the most jaded, blunt, sarcastic of
people—entrusted with her, the most loving, joyous, and light-filled person. My
job was not to dim the light, but to give it space to glow.
And what if I
fail at that? Callie was afraid, on the front end, to give it up, but I'm
afraid on the back end.

I
sucked in my breath and said, "I'm not really what you deserve, Callie.
You're so pure and trusting and cosmic, and I'm just.. .not. You saved yourself
for this perfect person, and I don't want you to think that's me. I don't even
come near being perfect. I mean, if it's true that I was promised to you, then
somebody might be playing a cosmic joke on you. I'm not ethereal, spiritual,
cosmic.. .I just don't want you to expect too much. What I'm trying to say is
that I don't want to disappoint you. I mean, you waited twenty years, for God's
sake, and you got me? Just the surface stuff could drive you nuts: I swear, I'm
moody, I eat food if it drops on the floor, and I'm on my best behavior right
now! Imagine what I'm like when I'm comfortable and not trying!" I was
tearing up trying to get the words out, afraid of what she would think or say.

I
saw the love dancing in her eyes. "You're right, you're not perfect.. .but
I think you're perfect for me," she said gently and kissed away any
further protest from my lips.

She
made love to me slowly and deliberately, maintaining eye contact, letting me
know she loved me as she moved inside me with each stroke, teasing me with her
luxurious kisses, and then finally laying across me, her body in rhythm with my
own, in a timeless orgasmic dance that left us further soaked and sated.

We
lay in each other's arms, breaking the silence with nothing but our breathing.
Had I been able, I would have merged my very being with hers, in one skin, and
one soul, and one mind, so that this moment would never end.

At dawn,
I held Callie in my arms, savoring her softness and the light on her hair while
Callie studied the photo of Talbot. With her other hand she stroked Elmo, who
had managed to work his way into her heart and onto our bed, albeit on a
separate sheet Callie laid out for him and washed daily.

"You
weren't married to Talbot for ten minutes, were you?" I asked.
"You're obsessed with that photo of him."

"It
just gives off the strangest vibes," Callie said, and Elmo chimed in with
a low sob. I went back to kissing her neck. I'd looked at the photo before and
far preferred looking at Callie's naked body. The photo was a shot of Talbot in
the foreground, his foot resting on a shovel as he broke ground on a new film
archive building on the Marathon lot. In the background, a throng of people who
played a role in making the building possible stood around, smiling and
applauding.

Callie
got up and wandered over to a desk retrieving a magnifying glass. “Tell me who
that is," she said, putting the 8x10 glossy on the bed and laying the
magnifying glass over a group of faces.

"From
their uniforms, I'd say maintenance men, maybe gardeners."

"Third
guy from the left."

I
sighed and looked again, far preferring just to look at her.

"And
the guy to his left," Callie persisted.

My
jaw must have gone slack. "Spider Eye! And the guy to his left is the
Rastafarian who was shot in Tulsa at the Memory Park Cemetery. My God, two rows
back, it's Gigante and Curtis! Studio maintenance guys are the hit men
responsible for all the attacks!"

"Teague,
do you remember when we went back to the studio guard gate, and there was this
man they called over? He was a supervisor."

"Aaaarnold,"
I said, imitating the guard who'd summoned him.

"The
guard said he had friends in high places. That line stuck with me, and he had
this little trickle of blood on his chin. His skin was so thin you could almost
read a paper through his face," Callie said. "But his upper face, his
forehead, seemed okay."

"What
are you saying?"

"My
dad once told me that welders get thin skin like that from having the flame hit
the lower part of their face and cheeks. If they've been doing it for years,
their face is like paper. That guy was welding a metal sign when we drove onto
the lot."

"He
would be good with a blowtorch!" I exclaimed.

I
felt a cold ripple of excitement traverse my skin as I called the studio guard
gate and asked for landscaping and maintenance. The operator said no one would
be on duty until the five a.m. shift.

"Who's
on?" I asked casually, as if I knew them all.

"Just
Talbot this morning."

"Talbot,"
I said casually. "You know, I always wondered if he's related to the
deceased Lee Talbot."

"Yes,
ma'am, sure is. Arnold's his son," the voice replied.

I
hung up and shrieked, "Spider Eye was telling the truth. Talbot did hire
him. Arnold Talbot. You were right. A man who isn't powerful but has
power."

"It's
like the chart said. Combust the
Son.
The horary was telling us that the
son was at the root of the murders, and the murders involved fire! And, oh my
God, it was Cazimi—the heart of the Sun. Maybe the son had no heart when it
came to his father, or maybe the father had scorched his son's heart,"
Callie marveled. We both sat staring at one another, knowing we had gotten to
the source. Arnold Talbot was definitely the man we had to talk to. He
obviously answered to Caruthers and Isaacs, and he probably did the torch work
himself or deployed whoever did it. Callie and I were so nervous neither of us could
sleep.

I
took the stone out to have one last look at it. "I'm feeling like things
are heating up. Somebody could knock us in the head and take it. How do we
protect it? There's no bank vault open at this hour."

"If
I get knocked in the head again, the last thing I'll be worried about is that
stone," she said, holding out her hand for it. We missed the hand off, and
the stone clattered to the tiled pavers along the hearth as we both held out
breath. Callie reached down and quickly grabbed it. "Barrett's stone has a
crack right across the face. Was that there before?"

"We
cracked it?" I was incredulous. "The thing makes it through fifty
centuries and we crack it on my fireplace? Let me see it."

I
pulled a light over to have a closer look and used the magnifying glass to
examine it. "This crack is perfect. I mean, it goes all around the edge of
this petroglyph, like a diamond cutter did it," I said.

"Let
me see." Callie edged in closer to share the magnifying glass. "Teague,
it's not a crack. This thing opens up, just like Barrett said. Get my
fingernail file and a razorblade."

I
hustled around gathering equipment like I was working for Dr. DeBakey as Callie
kept staring under the light. When she had all the tools assembled on the
coffee table, she placed the razor's edge inside the cracked line.

"Here,
hold the stone steady," she ordered. "I need something to tap the end
of the razor. Never mind, I'll use the end of this file to tap it. No wonder we
couldn't find out how this thing opens. We were looking along its edge,
expecting it to swing open like a book, when it literally breaks in half like a
cracker along this hieroglyphic symbol."

Three
taps and the stone fell open into two perfectly fitting halves. We both
squealed. A tiny sheet of paper jutted out of the hidden compartment, the
writing so precise and so minute, we had to put it under the magnifying glass.

"Will
you look at this," I breathed. "We have the list, and Hank Caruthers
is right at the top. Why all this killing because you're on a list made by a
dead guy who couldn't testify against you anyway?" I wondered.

"It's
not just names," Callie said. "Safety deposit box number 737 at the
B.H. bank, box combination 24-57-16-32. Records verifying embezzlement."

"So
Caruthers needs to destroy those records," I said.

"We
should make a copy of this note and hide it in the house, so it's safe while
we're gone." Callie scanned the room.

"They
tore this place apart looking for the stone. They could break in again and
maybe beat us to the bank. It's safer to keep it with us," I said and
handed it to her.

"I
can't wait for the day when the only thing I have on me that someone wants is a
great tan," Callie sighed.

At
four a.m. I kissed Elmo goodbye and told him to "guard the joint and
think good thoughts." Callie and I drove by the North Hollywood Hotel and
loaded half a dozen hotel planters into the backseat of the Jeep, Callie doing
the bulk of the lifting because my ribs were still killing me. Callie insisted
we call the motel office later and pay for them. Theft was bad karma. I
promised her we'd take care of it. It was just that no nurseries were open at
this hour.

At
five a.m. we drove up to the Marathon guard gate where the late shift was still
on duty. A sleepy-eyed man stuck his head out the window.

"Muirfield
with a delivery ordered by Arnold Talbot," Callie said.

"He's
a maintenance supervisor," the guard said, staring at the flowers.

"I
don't know what he is. I just know who I am, which is the person told to
deliver plants if they get ordered. Talbot said they needed to be here by 5:15
a.m., so I've been up since forever."

The
guard punched a buzzer trying to reach Arnold as Callie held her breath.
Finally the guard said, "He must be walkin' around. Drive up to that
building, go right around Soundstage Two, and his office is the maintenance
building to your right."

Callie
pulled into the lot and parked behind a large van. In minutes we were standing
in front of a door with a gray plastic nameplate. The white letters read:
Maintenance Supervisor Arnold Talbot.

The
door was unlocked, so I pushed it open a few inches. No one was in the office,
which was entirely concrete except for a small window behind a wooden desk that
looked out onto a brick wall. Arnold came around the corner dragging a fifty
pound bag of concrete.