A Song for the Dead

A Wray Mallory Novel

H.P. Bayne

Copyright © 2024 by H.P. Bayne

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by H.P. Bayne with art licensed through depositphotos.com and CoverKit

One

Harry Rugg’s country property was a maze of outbuildings and trees and junk. More junk than Rich Lewison could—as his grandfather used to say—shake a stick at.

But all that junk was exactly why Rich was here in the first place.

Twelve years into his career as co-host of the Antiques for Two television series, he’d never picked through a place as incredible as Harry’s farmyard. Rich and his wife and co-host, Ruby, had been angling for a visit to Harry’s for the past three years, but each time, they’d been turned down.

Until now.

While Harry had granted multiple media interviews, was listed in the local travel guides as a must-visit, and welcomed hundreds if not thousands of tourists each year, he’d refused to be featured on the Antiques for Two program. Why, he’d reasoned politely but firmly, would he have a pair of antique buyers come through his property when he had no intention of selling anything?

But the situation had changed. Harry had died. Where he’d shown reluctance, his son was all enthusiasm.

“I’ve got no clue where to start with all this,” Phil Rugg said on camera almost immediately upon beginning the opening interview with Rich and Ruby. “Place is a mess, and I can’t begin to tell you what my dad even has here. He wasn’t one for keeping an inventory.”

It appeared true enough. With Phil bumbling through the place, tripping on machine parts, old bed frames and all manner of items, Rich had to admit he’d begun to question whether he and Ruby had finally bitten off more than they could chew.

But Rich loved a challenge. Anyway, if the goodies here were as great as Harry had made out in the press, this might turn into a two-parter. The show’s producers would love that.

Even so, this would have been far easier with Harry here to act as a willing guide. He’d been a collector’s collector, the extreme antithesis to the minimalism movement Rich had seen touted so frequently on social media lately. Harry’s century-old brick house was loaded basement to attic with all manner of items. When he’d run out of room there, he’d bought up old buildings and granaries, transforming those into storage places for his antiques.

Harry might be what many would term a hoarder, but he was also an astute man of business. He’d recognized opportunity when it presented itself, spotting the possibility of earning more money for his beloved antique purchases by opening up his home to tourists. He’d transformed his heavily treed yard, cutting swaths through and organizing his buildings on either side to give it the appearance of streets. He’d then set about fashioning the buildings into approximations of various old-time businesses. As a result, he now had a total of twenty-four structures, including—among others—a saloon, a barbershop, a general store and a church. He’d even opened up several cabins, allowing visitors to stay over—for an added fee, of course.

Harry had been a staple around here, something of a local legend. And so, of course, whenever Rich and Ruby were in the area, they eagerly sought an on-camera visit.

It struck Rich as sad he wasn’t able to have a face-to-face with Harry. Not only had the man been more knowledgeable about antiques than most anyone Rich had ever met, but he would have been a real gem on camera, what with his trademark cowboy hat, thick beard and quirky sense of humour.

Instead, Rich and Ruby had Phil, and while he was pleasant enough, he lacked his father’s style and charisma. Better than nothing, Rich reminded himself as he wound his way through what had proved to be a particularly cluttered room. If Harry were here, Rich and Ruby most certainly wouldn’t be.

Three hours into their visit, Rich was no longer convinced even a two-parter would be enough. He’d located and purchased three perfectly preserved metal gas station signs, a pair of beautiful wooden carousel horses with the original paint still intact, and a complete coin collection Rich was certain was worth more than a pretty penny. Phil was still mulling over an offer for a classic motorcycle Rich had no doubt would run just fine with the right sort of work, as well as a leather jacket said to have been worn by a long-dead movie star during one of his most iconic on-screen roles.

Speaking of celebrity, it seemed Harry had had a penchant for this too. Phil said he couldn’t recall his father listening to anything but old-school country or watching anything on TV but news programs and documentaries. Yet he’d accrued a surprising amount of memorabilia related to musicians and screen stars of all stripes. Rich and Ruby secured a handful of autographed movie posters and record albums, a sock puppet once belonging to a highly regarded TV children’s entertainer from the nineteen-sixties, and an original manuscript for an Oscar-winning film.

All this, and they’d barely left the house and garage.

The mock village would have to be tackled on the second day, and Rich was pleased with Ruby for having had the foresight to cancel their travel plans for tomorrow. They’d need to fly instead of drive to their next location, but it would be worth it should they locate even more gems like those they’d already picked.

“Hate to say it,” Phil told them as he led them out into the sunshine. “But you think the house and garage are cluttered, wait until you see the barn. Got a bunch of old vehicles and parts stored there, plus loads more of those tin signs you were looking at in the house.”

Playing to the camera, Rich rubbed his palms together and gave a wide smile. The face of camera operator Sid Davies was impossible to make out with the equipment in the way, but Rich was pretty sure he was rolling his eyes.

Two more hours passed before they’d finished in the barn. Rich and Ruby secured two vehicles and five more signs, all of which Rich was certain would draw a decent sum once they’d gotten them fixed and cleaned up. A few more items had caught their collective eye, but the barn had played host to bats, birds and squirrels, meaning plenty of damage to plenty of objects.

All in all, a great day. As Rich and Ruby trailed Phil back out into the sunshine and took a narrow path to an overgrown space immediately behind the barn, Rich abruptly realized it was about to get even better.

“What is that?” he asked Phil, straightening and craning his neck to better make out the details of what had caught his eye.

“What’s what?”

Rich pointed to better indicate. “The bus over there. It looks like … It can’t be. No way.”

While Sid shifted the camera to capture the expressions on their faces, Phil squinted at the vehicle in question. “That old thing? I don’t know. Looks like it’s been sitting there in the bushes for a while. Never came out this way myself before.”

Rich held his tongue, keeping himself from uttering his frustration and amazement. How anyone could see what he was seeing and not comprehend was beyond him.

“Alban Ezra?” Rich supplied. He turned to locate Ruby, coming into view on the path from the barn, toting a small handheld camera. He pointed again for her benefit. “Alban Ezra!”

Plenty of comprehension on Ruby’s part. A moment of confusion as she stared at the bus while directing her camera there. Bemusement gave way to a beaming grin, lifted brows and a light shining from her eyes.

“No way!” she exclaimed, rushing forward. She didn’t stop at Rich’s side, instead passing him and making for the bus, her camera work temporarily forgotten in her excitement. “No friggin’ way!”

Sid would be annoyed having to chase them, but as far as Rich was concerned, it made for good TV. Rich took off after his wife, leaving the others to follow.

Rich had recognized the paint job immediately. Hard rock group Alban Ezra had travelled everywhere on the continent on their tour bus, reserving air travel for overseas tours. They’d been old school that way, travelling on the same bus as a group, using the time to write or jam or simply bond as a band.

It had been painted with the band’s initials in huge letters along both sides, but the bulk of the space had been taken up by elaborate paintings of Vikings and busty maidens and, behind it all, a massive dragon’s body running from back to front. Those side-panel images had largely faded, Rich noted as he reached the bus, but it had been the rear of the vehicle he’d first noticed, and the paint on that portion had, for whatever reason, remained in better condition. A dragon head, the large rear window its mouth. At one time, the window had been painted in bright red and orange flames, but that part had washed away.

A spark of anger lit inside Rich as he regarded the vehicle. Unquestionably, this was the original bus—not just the faded paint job marking it as such, but the unusual addition for the time of sunroof windows. This was the band’s old bus. Had to be. That it had been left out here to the mercy of the elements was, in Rich’s view, tantamount to a crime.

“You don’t know anything about this bus?” Ruby asked Phil.

A head shake. “Nope. Been out here a long while, by the looks of things. Honestly, I didn’t spend a lot of time poking through my dad’s stuff.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve got here?” Rich asked him.

“I’ve heard of Alban Ezra, but I was barely walking around when they split up. Can’t say I ever listened to their stuff.”

Rich directed his explanation to the camera as much as Phil. “Alban Ezra was regarded as one of the biggest names in hard rock during the mid-eighties. Got their start in the UK before moving to the US to really build their career. They became massive in the Los Angeles music scene and landed a record deal. The rest was history. They were the quintessential touring band, all about big pyro and big sound. These guys knew how to put on a show, man, and while their music was awesome, it was the shows that really made them.”

Phil nodded along politely, arms folded, a small smile playing on his lips. Listening but nothing quite sinking in. “Never much listened to their stuff. Guess I’m more into country.”

Rich wasn’t done though. “Thing is, though, Ezra’s legend springs from more than the music or the concerts. It was the way they ended. Their drummer vanished following a show—right over in nearby Kimotan Rapids, actually. Went by the stage name Havik. He played the concert as planned, all good. Next day, they were supposed to pull out of town to head to the next gig—only there was no sign of Havik. And no sign of the bus.”

Rich nodded with his chin toward the weatherworn vehicle. “Far as I’m aware, there’s been no sign of it since—until now.” He peered meaningfully into the camera. “If this is indeed the same bus, we just might be about to solve one of the biggest unsolved mysteries of our time, right here on Antiques for Two.”

Pleased with the timing of his plug, Rich turned toward the bus. Ruby stood next to the closed main door, playing her camera over what she could see of the interior through a patch she’d rubbed into the dust and grime coating the glass.

“We have to get in there,” she said.

Rich wholeheartedly agreed. After a failed attempt at tugging the door open, he turned to Phil. “Any opposition to us prying this sucker open?”

“Go for it, buddy.”

Rich flashed a grin and a thumbs-up at the camera, then began scanning the ground for anything he could use as a pry bar.

Phil solved the problem, tugging a long piece of rusted metal from where it had been mostly concealed beneath a net of grass and weeds. Rich took it, found it to be just right for the job and set to work. A moment later, the door jimmied open a crack, he and Ruby were able to slide it open the rest of the way using only their hands.

The interior was coated in a thick layer of dust and smelled like it. Probably a good thing they’d had to jimmy the door, Rich decided; it had probably been just as problematic for animals to get inside, and as a result, the bus didn’t stink of piss or rot. A leak or two from gaps in the windows likely, but at a glance, he didn’t see anything broken or gaping so as to allow in anything larger than smaller insects.

Rich stepped to the side to allow Sid inside with the main camera.

“Incredible,” Ruby breathed as she used her camera to track her gaze over the scope of the interior. “Just think of the memories this bus holds.”

“It’s like finding the Holy Grail of rock music,” Rich said. He held up an index finger, a call for pause. “If we can prove this is the actual bus, of course.”

Therein rested the challenge. With Sid and the bigger camera bearing witness, Rich and Ruby set to work. A compartment next to the driver’s seat seemed the sort of place to stash a registration or other identifying information, but nothing was inside except an unopened First Aid kit. A small metal plate in the window must have held the vehicle identification number, but it was impossible to make out from this angle—and certainly would remain so without a proper clean. They located a few other cubby holes, but again, they were bare.

No, check that. Glove compartment. An envelope had been placed inside, the sort of cheap business envelope that came in those packages you could find in virtually every store. Rich peered inside, just for a moment. A moment was long enough.

Glancing around, finding no one watching, he slipped the envelope into his inside jacket pocket. He’d take a better look later, figure out what best to do with it.

For now, Rich lowered himself carefully into the driver’s seat, brushing his palms over the steering wheel. A coating of dust and cobwebs was no doubt attaching itself to his hands, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the places this steering wheel had taken the bus and its passengers, on the hands that had once controlled it.

He lifted his gaze to the rearview mirror. Dusty too. He used the sleeve of his jacket to brush at it, then peered into the newly cleaned reflection. There was Sid’s back as he set up a shot of the seats. Ruby right behind, giving him a quiet suggestion.

Wait. Who the hell was that man sitting at the back of the bus?

Rich spun in his seat, eyes darting to the back. No one there.

What the hell? He pivoted forward again, staring back into the mirror, but this time, nothing showed. Definitely no strange guy.

As Sid edged toward the rear, Rich shifted toward Ruby. “Is there anyone back there?”

“Back where?”

Rich jutted his chin toward the spot. “There. In one of the back seats?”

She tilted her head, expression telling him she was questioning his sanity. “No.”

“Thought I saw someone in the rearview mirror.”

She eyed Sid, ensuring he wasn’t annoyed at their conversation in the background as he filmed. He wasn’t. This sort of B-roll always accompanied voiceover anyway.

Satisfied, she turned a playful smirk on Rich. “Maybe it was a ghost.”

Privately, Rich had begun to wonder the same, only he wasn’t about to say it out loud. All the old stuff he’d handled, he’d had a weird experience now and then. He tried not to think about those things too much.

Safer to respond with a deprecating laugh. “Guess I should be trying for more sleep at night.”

“I keep telling you.”

Doing his best to put the disappearing man out of his mind, Rich returned his attention to what he did best, searching for items that might tell him a story. But whatever this bus had once contained seemed to have been removed long ago.

Except for one thing. One thing Rich noticed while Sid got shots of him searching the rear of the bus—right around the location where the strange man had been seated.

Rich squinted into the shadows making up the bulk of the floor back here, straining to make out the detail of whatever it was he’d spotted. All he could make out was dull blue and something longer and paler connected to it. “Hey, Sid, want to shine a light back here for me?”

He stood aside as Sid approached, but positioned himself to maintain his view as the camera’s onboard light focused in on the spot.

“It’s a ring,” Rich said. He stretched past Sid, reaching toward it where it lay on the floor near the wall.

A gasp from Sid and a hand on Rich’s arm stopped him.

“Wait,” Sid said. “Not just a ring, man.”

Rich peered closer. Not touching, just looking.

Until he had cause to suck in a sharp breath of his own. Sid was right. Not just a ring. There was something inside it, that long, pale thing he’d observed.

Rich was no medical expert, but he knew bones when he saw them, and these were definitely bones.

The bones of a human finger.

Two

Sergeant Mars Donovan zipped up a set of disposable coveralls and snapped on a pair of elastic booties. Stepping away from the forensics van belonging to the Kimotan Rapids Police Department, he peered at the expanse of trees, shrubs and undergrowth, seeking out a familiar face.

Any face really. He’d signed in at the perimeter with the patrol member tasked with manning comings and goings from the scene, but he hadn’t spotted anyone since walking in here. Hard to make out much when the whole site was littered with vegetation, old structures and junk.

“Mars.”

At the sound of his name, he made a quarter turn until he spotted Staff Sergeant Vaughn Petrenko making his way over, clad head to toe in his own set of protective gear.

“Thanks for coming,” Vaughn said en route.

“You’re my boss. You told me to come.”

Vaughn smirked. “Thanks anyway.” He made it the rest of the way, stopping in front of Mars. “Sorry I couldn’t say much over the phone. Didn’t have a lot of detail yet.”

Mars cocked his head. “Surprised you took it yourself.” Ordinarily, the staff sergeant’s role was to delegate others to attend matters like this. As head of Major Crimes, Vaughn would typically have sent one of his team to check into this—whatever this was.

For that matter, Mars wasn’t typically the go-to guy on fresh calls. As the sergeant in charge of the one-member Historic Crimes unit, Mars reported to Vaughn but didn’t usually attend to anything besides those cases which clearly fell under his umbrella. Fresh calls were left to the usual contingent of Major Crimes cops.

All of which left Mars in head-scratching mode.

“Didn’t really know what we were looking at,” Vaughn said. “Most of the team is tied up, dealing with the Landry homicide. Watch command notified me about this, wasn’t sure how best to handle it. I did a quick search based on the info I received and figured this would be in your wheelhouse.”

Mars crossed his arms. “What are we looking at?”

Vaughn’s chin jutted in the direction from which he’d come. “Pair of TV antiquers were hitting this place up with the deceased owner’s son when they came upon a bus. They were searching through it when they spotted a ring.”

Mars had known Vaughn a long time. The guy was clearly building up to something. “And?”

A grin cracked Vaughn’s face. “There was a finger inside it.”

Mars wrinkled his nose. “Recent?”

A head shake. “Pretty old. Full decomp. We’ll need to get a pathologist to do a proper workup, but I’ll tell you what I think. I think this dates back to nineteen-eighty-five.”

Mars gave a slow nod. “Pretty specific there, Renko.”

“There’s a reason. The bus I mentioned appears to be one that vanished that year along with one of the members of Alban Ezra. You know them?”

“Not personally.”

Vaughn rolled his eyes. “Know of them, then, asshole.”

Mars chuckled. “Of course I know of them. Bit before my time, but they were huge.” His eyes flashed wide as the full reality of the situation dawned. “Hang on. You’re thinking the finger you found belonged to the drummer?”

Vaughn shrugged but smiled all the same. “Bit soon to say, but hell, chances seem decent, don’t they? At any rate, we’ll need to explore the possibility very seriously. That’s why I called you.”

“Not Missing Persons?”

“You’ll have to liaise with Lilian, but I figured what with the severed appendage, it’s more likely yours than hers.”

Sergeant Lilian Danvers was the Missing Persons coordinator which, like Mars, meant she was coordinating herself in a one-person unit. She wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, even for someone as easygoing as Mars. Nothing, after all, was easygoing about Lilian.

Difficult to say yet, though, how much this case would involve her. It depended on what Mars could accomplish on his own or with the other resources typically at his disposal.

“How’s Ident making out?” Mars asked. “You been in yet to take a look?”

“Not yet, but they should be sorted enough for us to take a quick look in a few minutes.”

“What about the property owner’s son? He around?”

“At the house with the TV crew. Patrol grabbed some initial statements for us, but we’ll want to get the son into an interview room, get it video-recorded. No idea how this bus or the finger ended up on the father’s property, but it sounds like the only one left to answer that question might be the guy sitting in the house.”

“What about the son himself? Potential for involvement?”

Vaughn smirked. “Not unless he was the sort of six-year-old to go around lopping off appendages.”

Mars shrugged, facial hair concealing the bulk of his amusement. “Kids bite.”

Vaughn snorted. “Whatever, moron. Anyway, guy seems pretty clueless to me, but you can have a chat with him later, make your own assessment.”

Mars fell into step next to Vaughn as they headed across the property toward the bus in question. Mars treaded carefully, no telling what the matted grass concealed. “We need to get the grass trimmed down, you think? See if there’s anything underneath?”

“I had the same thought. Tell you one thing: gonna be a nightmare searching this place for additional evidence.”

“Got the search warrant sorted out?”

Vaughn nodded. “Given the fact our current evidence consists of bones from a disembodied finger and a ring, we’ve got the go-ahead to turn the place over top to bottom. Could be other small bits and pieces hidden around the place.”

Mars stubbed his toe on something beneath the grass. He checked what it was and found a half-buried cultivator shovel to be the culprit. Thankfully, his shoe covering hadn’t torn. “Guess canine’s not an option, huh?”

“Given the state of the remains we found, not sure how they’d manage to locate anything. I’d keep the option open, just in case we come up empty.”

Mars nodded, pausing the conversation there. They’d taken the corner around the edge of a barn, enabling him to see the back end of what appeared to be a painted bus.

“That’s the one,” Vaughn said. “Hold here a sec.” He pulled out his cellphone and tapped at the screen before lifting the device to his ear and waiting until someone picked up. Mars heard a muffled voice on the other end before Vaughn asked if they were okay to come through.

A few seconds later, a woman clad in police-issued protective gear appeared from behind a bush next to the bus and waved them over.

Vaughn tucked his phone back into his pocket. “Let’s roll.”

He didn’t bother lifting the hood of his coveralls to cover his head; no need given he routinely shaved his head. Mars had to use the hood, though, so he got it in place over his head of dark hair as he walked.

As he reached the Ident officer, he recognized her as Sergeant Ella Stewart. She was the officer in charge of the unit and its most experienced member besides. Given the nature of the find and the possible identity of the victim, it made sense this was being treated with supreme caution. Once this got out, it would make international news.

Which gave Mars something else to consider. “That TV crew, they have access to their phones?”

Vaughn snorted. “No bloody way. Last thing I want is this all over social media until we’re ready to release the details. To be fair, though, they did call this in right away. And they didn’t seem eager to break the news online. My guess is they want to keep this to themselves for a little longer. As soon as this goes public, reporters and Ezra fans will be crawling all over the place. Wouldn’t be surprised if it attracts a hefty share of gawkers and ghouls as well.”

“You find anything else inside?” Mars asked Ella.

She shook her head. “No, which might not be a surprise given how many decades we’re thinking have passed since this happened.”

“What about identification?” Mars asked. “Anything you can give us on that?”

“Not yet. I mean, we can’t use fingerprints or tattoos or dental to ID the bones, so we’re going to have to hope the pathologist can extract some usable DNA from whatever marrow exists. It’ll take time though—and that’s depending on if there’s enough in there to test. Not what you want to hear, I know.”

“What about the ring?” Vaughn asked. “Anything you can tell us about that?”

In response, Ella motioned for them to join her at the bus’s main door. There, a second Ident officer—Constable Garth Otway—stood, packing away some camera equipment inside a padded bag.

“Hey, Garth, hand me the ring?” Ella asked.

Garth passed her a plastic evidence bag inside which the ring had been placed. Ella, in turn, handed it to Vaughn. Vaughn squinted at it a long moment but ultimately frowned.

Mars’s lips twitched in amusement. “Forgot your readers, huh?”

Vaughn shoved the bag at Mars. “Piss off.”

In truth, Mars figured he himself was only a few years away from needing to think about reading glasses, but for now, he could still make out the finer details easily enough as he held the object near his face. In his case, it wasn’t his eyes but the thick plastic sheathing getting in his way.

“Looks like something etched into the band,” he said. “Might be some markings on the stone as well.”

“Saw that too,” Ella said. “We did the best we could with the camera and magnifying equipment, but it didn’t help much. Next thing will be to take it into the lab and see if we can get this cleaned up a bit. Need to run the other spate of tests first though—namely, making sure there’s no DNA left behind on here or any fingerprints.”

“Other than our TV people or the property owner’s, anyway,” Vaughn added.

“Right. Which, again, given the assumed age of this thing is likely to be a stretch. I mean, DNA can absolutely be located many years after an event, but I’m not sure how much I’m likely to get from an object like this. Best bet will be in the edges along the stone’s setting.”

“What about the bus itself?”

“I’d like to get it hauled into the garage to take a proper look, but that’ll be a tall order. First off, given the size, our usual towing company won’t be able to manage it on their flatbed, so I’ll have to sort something else out. Then there’s the problem of how to get a truck in here at all—particularly since we might need to do a larger ground search. Big truck coming in, along with any other equipment they’ll need to get this beast loaded up—it could really mess things up should they drive over something we need.”

She tweaked a thumb toward the bus. “Then there’s the other problem. Far as I can tell, this bus has been sitting here for a really long time. I’m not convinced it’s structurally sound enough to survive being hoisted onto a flatbed and transported out of here. Even without getting right underneath, you can see the rust buildup on this thing.”

Mars checked. She was right. Last thing he wanted was the bus snapping into pieces and taking valuable evidence with it. “Are you comfortable processing it out here?”

“I’ve been debating that, and yeah, it might be our best bet—at least to start. Not ideal, but when is this job ideal anyway, right?”

“Tell me about it,” Vaughn said. He turned to Mars. “Listen, I need to get back. That Landry thing is moving, and I need to be around for whatever’s needed. Can I leave this with you?”

Mars nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll talk to the TV people and see about getting the son—what’s his name?”

“Phil Rugg.”

“Right. I’ll get that sorted. Any chance you can have someone run a check, see if there were any complaints in the past few decades about people losing fingers? Maybe a DB that came into the morgue or someone who visited one of the hospitals?”

“I’ll find someone to run it down. Might be a bitch, though, locating something like that. Don’t forget, we’ve had a few people who’ve had digits lopped off for failing to pay their drug tabs. They aren’t always what I’d call forthcoming with investigations.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” Mars said. “I don’t know much about Alban Ezra, but combine the eighties with rock music and it seems the perfect setup for drug use. Maybe our drummer got in over his head.”

“Maybe. In the meantime, let’s see what we can do about figuring out what’s etched onto that ring, huh? Could be that’ll pave the way for us getting confirmation on ID.”

Mars had the same thought, but he also had another. If Ident couldn’t clean things up sufficiently to read the ring, he had a separate and far more unorthodox option.

Someone who could read the ring in an entirely different way.

Three

Late afternoon, mid-week. Warm but not hot, the sun no longer beating down and turning the asphalt into something just this side of lava.

It was the perfect time for a run, and Wray Mallory was taking full advantage.

She didn’t often take holiday time from her job at the Golden Hand Pawn Shop, but her boss had insisted—despite the fact she’d been forced to take time away more than once over the past year due to a need elsewhere for her particular skill.

This wasn’t the time to think about it though. Best part about running was it forced her to focus on basic things like breath, pace and surroundings—a perfect recipe for keeping her mind pleasantly occupied.

Sometimes she ran in her own neighbourhood for convenience sake, but today, she’d borrowed her aunt’s car to drive further west, past the New Downtown to where a series of walking and biking trails wove along the banks of the Kimotan River. Not quite five o’clock, the trails were reasonably populated but not busy; they’d become busy shortly, as soon as the folks working in the nearby business towers finished their day’s work.

For now, Wray had time and sections of the trails more or less to herself, the thick stand of trees and bushy undergrowth providing moments of solitude and a muffling of the city noise. Another few hours, and most lone women would give these pathways a wide berth, sticking instead to the more populated streets nearby. While Wray was confident she could make most would-be assailants regret targeting her, discretion remained the better part of valour.

She ran on, turning her gaze to the river as it came into view during a break in the trees. A few people sat on park benches—a couple sharing a meal, a woman talking on the phone, a man tossing breadcrumbs to geese. The breeze felt nice on Wray’s sweat-dampened skin, lending a cooling effect that had her slowing her pace a little to better enjoy it. The breadcrumb man cast her a smile. Wray smiled back. Kimotan Rapids at its finest, nothing like her years in London where smiles from strangers bred suspicion.

Her smartwatch trilled with an incoming call, the face giving her the caller’s name. Mars.

She ground to a halt, seeking a spot to talk. The benches all taken, she settled for a nearby tree, tapping the screen on the way to accept the call.

“Hey, Sarge.”

“Hey yourself.” His voice came through her earbuds, a little too quiet. She readjusted them as he continued to talk. “Where you at?”

“By the river.”

“You sound out of breath.”

“Running.”

“On purpose or chasing someone?” The tone was joking, friendly.

“The first—this time.”

“Haven’t talked in a while.”

They hadn’t, it was true. Wray hadn’t gone out of her way to change that. “Been busy.”

“Everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Answering a question with a question is a red flag, you know.”

Another truth, one that had Wray gritting her teeth. Playing things cute with an experienced cop didn’t often work out. She settled on a direct approach, cutting out the chitchat. “What’s up?”

A pause. She read his expression without seeing it, imagining him frowning as he tried to work out what she was thinking. “Uh, sure everything’s okay?”

It was until now, she thought to herself. She didn’t say it out loud—partially because she didn’t want to blast a guy she considered a friend, but also because, come right down to it, everything wasn’t really okay. It hadn’t been for a while, not since the last job she and Mars had worked together. Her head had been spinning ever since, not over the good things she’d been left with but the bad. And man, was she on a first-name basis with the bad.

She leaned up against the tree, using it for balance as she stretched out a quad. “All good, dude. How about you?”

“Okay. I won’t keep you. Just had something I wanted to alert you to. Had a call today about something I might need a consult on. Have to chase down some other stuff first, but I wanted to make sure you were around, just in case.”

It was weak. “Where would I go? Not rolling in dough here, right? I’m not about to disappear to a desert island to sip piña coladas or something.”

“I think we need to grab a drink. Tonight?”

“What, a piña colada?”

“Whatever you want is fine by me. I’ll probably stick to the hard stuff though.” Amusement coloured his tone.

It had Wray voicing the obvious follow-up. “Is this business or personal?”

“With us, it’s usually both.”

Fair enough. Wray gave herself a moment to search for a valid excuse while going to work on her other quad. The muscle’s response was adequate, but Wray couldn’t come up with a decent verbal one.

“Need to head home to shower and change,” she said.

“I’ll be a while here, anyway. Need to do a few things before I bail. Red Swan?”

Wray hadn’t been there since she’d met with Mars following their last work-related overseas trip. Their conversation at the time was the main reason she’d been avoiding him since.

“How about Salty’s?” she suggested. “You can text when you’re off work and I’ll meet you.”

“Sure, that works. See you in a while.”

Wray disconnected the call, dropped the leg she’d just stretched and heaved a sigh. She hadn’t been listening to music as she ran, preferring to keep her senses attuned to her surroundings at all times—a habit dating back to her military days. Suddenly, though, she needed the thrum of a steady rock song in her ears.

Locating her favourite playlist, she tapped to turn it on. With the drumbeat sounding, and satisfied she could still make out sufficient sounds around her, she returned to her run.

If asked to explain why she was dreading the meeting with Mars—and she had every expectation she would be asked—she wasn’t sure she could adequately do it.

Standing under a blast of warm water—the best her building’s water heater could manage this past week—she gave it some thought, trying to decide how best to address it should Mars bring it up.

Problem with cops: they asked a lot of questions and were rarely content with a bullshit answer.

The real answer, Wray knew, was twofold. She liked Mars. Really liked him. But given the crap she’d gone through during her failed marriage, she wasn’t eager to get back into the dating scene—maybe not ever.

Didn’t help that Mars had his own baggage. Not that two young daughters counted as baggage, but they came with a mom—one from whom Mars was separated but to whom he was still legally married.

But if Wray were being really honest with herself, it wasn’t just her suppressed feelings for Mars bugging her. During that evening at the Red Swan a few months back, she and Mars had gotten real with each other. They’d talked. Really talked. Wray had told him things about herself she rarely discussed with anyone. Usually, no one but her great aunt Emily bore witness to Wray’s feelings or was invited to discuss the topics closest to her. The only other person Wray had fully allowed in was her ex-husband, Carter Pryce. And that had proved her life’s biggest mistake.

While Wray cared about and trusted Mars, life had shown her that sometimes she herself wasn’t to be trusted. She’d been let down too many times, and the reason she’d been so badly hurt was because she’d allowed it to happen. Letting people in meant granting them the ability to help, but it also gave them the power to harm. At this point in her life, Wray wasn’t sure it was worth it.

So she’d kept Mars at a distance, relieved when he hadn’t bombarded her with calls or texts requesting they hang out or chat. He had his hands full with his girls, and that was a good thing for all concerned. Hell, if Wray had had a parent as present as Mars tried to be for his kids, her life would have turned out a whole lot different.

Another reason to despise her parents. Wherever they were.

By the time Wray arrived at the bar, Mars was already there, having managed to pull off the near-impossible by securing a table next to the window. Situated in the corner and on a slight platform, it would afford them a little privacy, enabling them to talk about the case Mars was working.

Unfortunately, it would also allow him to get into more personal topics, but Wray would worry about that should they come to it.

Mars had a drink in front of him, alcoholic judging by the shape and size of the glass. Mid-sip, he raised thick, dark brows and smiled around the rim as he noticed her.

“Hey,” he said. “Glad you could make it. Drinks are on me if you want one.”

She settled into the chair opposite him, returning the smile. “Damn right I do.”

A server was already on her way, weaving between tables while wearing a polite but cool smile marking her as someone who’d been at the job a while. “What can I get you, hon?”

One of these days, Wray would ask for something more interesting and creative, but today, she settled on a rum and cola.

As the waitress departed, Mars lifted his glass. “Great minds.”

“And all that,” Wray said. “So, what’s happening?”

Mars took another swig before returning the drink to the table. “Down to business then.” Something flashed across his face. Hurt or confusion. Probably a little of both.

Wray felt bad for putting it there, but rectifying it would prove awkward.

Mars shifted, one arm on the table, back leaning into the spot where the armrest met the back of the chair. Trying for cool and laid back. He was cool enough, sure, but there was nothing laid back about him at the moment. Didn’t take a psychic to see that.

“Got a call out to an acreage not far from Whitlow,” he said. “You familiar with the show Antiques for Two?”

“Not really. Don’t watch much TV.”

“You used to be on TV.”

“Exactly. Had my fill of it back then. So, what, they were picking the property and found something, right?”

“Right. A ring, with the bones of a finger inside it.”

“Definitely human?”

Mars nodded. “Had a quick assessment from the pathologist already, and yeah, adult human.”

“And you’re wondering now who the bones belonged to.”

“Among other things.”

Wray paused in her questions as the server returned with her drink. “Anything to eat for either of you?”

“I could eat,” Mars said, casting upraised brows in Wray’s direction as if seeking permission.

“Sure,” Wray said. “Give us a sec with the menus?”

“Be back in a couple,” the server said and left again.

Wray settled into silence for a minute as she plucked a menu from its holder on the table and gave it a read. Mars chatted away as he did the same, commenting on how this or that looked good and debating which item to order. He sounded nervous, uncomfortable even. Again Wray felt a flash of guilt for presumably being the cause. She wasn’t an easy person, she knew that. Then again, maybe it would be best if he found that out now.

Wray settled on a taco salad while Mars went with a burger and fries. Orders given, Mars returned to his explanation.

“We’ve got Ident out at the property now, picking through the mess to see if they can find any more evidence.”

“Such as the rest of this dude,” Wray said.

“Possibly. Equally possible the rest of this person isn’t out there.”

Wray tilted her head. “Think this was a debt repayment thing? Drugs maybe?”

“It’s one working theory. I’ve seen it before, a number of times.” He changed position again, leaning in. “We’ve got a guy in town. Known only by the street name Barber. He’s built a rep as a sort of freelance enforcer. He’s said to take contracts from better-established street gangs or larger-scale organized crime groups when they want certain kinds of wet work done.”

“Don’t they usually have their own enforcers for that? Safer than trusting an outside guy.”

Mars snorted. “Maybe in the really big cities. Kimotan Rapids’s criminal element isn’t always so sophisticated when it comes to planning and executing these things. Plenty of cases where we’ve hauled in some kid on a murder or aggravated assault and had them singing inside of an hour. Certain types of work is best left to professionals, and some gangland highers-up get that.”

“So, what, they pay this Barber guy to go lop off limbs? Great name, by the way. Very apropos.”

Mars chuckled. “Right. And yeah, that’s the word on the street. Lots of stories about him carrying a duffle bag into jobs. Supposed to contain a variety of implements he uses to remove parts of people; the bigger the problem, the bigger the body part. That’s the story, at any rate. We think he might be good for a homicide or two as well.”

Wray took a drink, letting it swirl a moment before swallowing. “You used the word ‘story.’ You don’t know for sure?”

“You’ve been around bad stuff and bad people. You know how it goes. The badder the baddie, the harder it is to find people willing to talk. Folks on the street will share anecdotes, but they outright refuse to name names. Claim not to know. Hell, maybe they don’t. Thing is, someone out there knows who this guy is.”

“How long’s he been at it?”

“There have been stories for decades—long before I became a cop.”

Wray frowned. “Seriously? How’s it possible this has been a thing that long with no one ever putting a name to him?”

Mars tapped his fingers against the side of his glass. “Couple of theories about that. One is that he’s an out-of-towner, only comes in when a job needs doing. Plenty of other cities have similar types of offences—also unsolved. Mind you, it’s not exactly a novel approach, amputating fingers or toes—or worse—to punish people for racking up unpaid drug debts and the like. Which brings me to the second theory: there could be multiple people who’ve used the name ‘Barber’ while taking these contracts.”

“Like a secret society of enforcers?” Wray had been joking but only just. Mars was right. She’d been around bad stuff and bad people, enough to know there was nothing so weird it couldn’t exist.

“In a manner of speaking, maybe,” Mars said with a shrug. “Could be family members, friends, fellow gang members. Hell, I’ve even entertained the possibility of ex-military-turned-mercenaries. People will do some wacky stuff if the payout’s decent enough.”

“Okay, so you’ve got a severed appendage,” Wray said. “Where do I come in?”

Mars paused for a drink. “Honestly, I’m not sure yet. Just wanted to get you cued up, just in case. I mean, maybe Ident manages to find something in all that mess, but I’m not banking on it. To me, this reeks of a Barber-type scenario, which would explain why we’ve got no local unsolved murders or assaults with unexplained missing parts. People who’ve lost a digit don’t always report it to police. They don’t always even go to the hospital. I’ve heard of people undergoing some questionable self-treatments just to avoid coming into contact with the authorities.”

Wray shifted forward. “I don’t read biological matter, just objects.”

“You don’t or you can’t?”

“Not saying I can’t. Just that I don’t try. When objects carry energy, it’s usually one thing, maybe a few, depending on the intensity of the connected memories. People are one huge bundle of energy and memory. It would be overwhelming, trying to get something out of all that. Like a needle in a haystack.”

Mars regarded her for a long moment. “Huh. Never thought of it that way, but it makes sense on some level, now you say it. Anyway, I wasn’t actually suggesting you read bones. I was thinking more about the ring.”

All the talk about severed appendages and enforcers, Wray had forgotten that detail. “Right. Where is it now?”

“With Ident, likely back at their lab. They’re processing it now, looking for any usable evidence that might still be on it.”

“We’ve been here before,” Wray reminded him. “Your people aren’t so crazy about me swooping in and putting my hands all over their evidence.”

“I know. But there’s only so much they can do on their end. The pathologist is going to extract some bone marrow if possible so we can try to test it for DNA. If anything exists in the system to match it to, it’ll get us some answers. Thing is, though, it’ll be at least a month or two before we get results.”

Wray wrinkled her nose. “With those timelines, I can see why you’ve come to me. What about the ring? Anything there?”

“They’re checking for the usual fingerprints and DNA, but so far, nothing’s turned up,” Mars said. “The ring and the finger were found on an old bus, and it’s likely it’s got a leak or two. Ring’s got damage consistent with exposure to the elements, which typically means nothing usable from a biological perspective left on its surface. Sometimes we get lucky with jewelry when blood seeps beneath a setting, so that’s probably our only chance right now in terms of DNA.”

“Any engravings on the ring?”

“As soon as they’ve finished swabbing for DNA and ensuring they’ve gotten all they can from the surface as it is, they’ll clean it up. Hopefully, it’ll reveal an engraving or a maker’s mark. If we can tie it to a specific jeweller, we might be able to find some info that way about the person who bought it. Time will tell.”

“And the bus? Sounds like a pretty decent piece of evidence there too.”

“We haven’t been able to remove it from the scene, at least for the time being, so they’re processing it there. One benefit to the dry weather lately is that our folks shouldn’t get rained out while they’re working in and around it. Problem is, like I said, the bus has been exposed to the elements for a long time. Water damage to the ring tells us it’s going to be tough locating usable evidence inside. They’ll no doubt check the more protected crevices where blood might have seeped, but otherwise, I’m not holding out much hope for evidence there.”

Wray folded her arms across her chest. “Getting my hands on the ring will be a challenge, but the bus might be an option.”

“Sure, eventually. For now, though, the place is crawling with KRPD members searching for evidence. I can’t get you in there. Not yet.”

“Sounds like a hopeless case.”

A quirk of Mars’s lips suggested he didn’t agree. “Not entirely.”

Wray canted her head. “How’s that?”

“The TV crew I mentioned? I don’t think they’ve been entirely forthcoming with us.”

“As in?”

“As in, I think they might have pocketed something they shouldn’t have. I had a chance to talk to them individually at the scene. I’ve been at this job a long time, long enough to know when I’m being bullshitted. And one of the two hosts, Rich Lewison, was doing some serious bullshitting when I asked if they had taken anything from inside the bus.”

“Why would he do that?”

“When they found the bones and the ring, they knew they’d need to report it, and they did. Only, they also realized reporting it would result in the bus and anything on it being used as evidence. Now, I’m not saying the Lewisons are dirty or that the business they run isn’t legit. But there’s a sizeable black market for items connected to celebrities—particularly those with a dark past. Alban Ezra is directly connected to a pretty legendary unsolved mystery. Any item connected with that mystery is going to draw a hefty price.”

Wray gave a slow nod. “So you think this Rich guy might be holding out on you because he’s planning on hocking whatever he pocketed.”

“It’s a possibility.” Mars shrugged. “Also a possibility I’m reading too much into this.”

Wray cast him an amused smile. “Another trait that comes with being a cop a long time. Want me to meet with these people, see what I pick up?”

Mars rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “Until I can get you into the bus or near the ring, it might be my best bet. I trust my colleagues, but there are things you can do they can’t. So what do you say? If I give you a hint on where to find these people, could you do some quiet asking for me?”

“I can do some asking,” Wray said. “But you know how things tend to go with me. Quiet’s not always in the cards.”

Four

Mars provided Wray with the name of a motel on the eastern edge of town, located along one of the major highways which transected the city.

Providing the accommodation location of a pair of witnesses was, Wray knew, a major no-no for someone on the police force—a fact which Mars made sure to accentuate as he gave up the motel name. Not like Wray needed the reminder, but it seemed to make Mars feel better for saying it.

“You’ll keep me posted,” he told Wray as the two of them stood outside the pub, the dropping sun casting an orange glow over the street and the buildings sandwiching it.

Wray squinted against it, hoping Mars wouldn’t take it as a glare. He was sensitive enough these days.

“I’ll keep you posted,” she agreed. “And no, I won’t say a word about you unless they happen to bring something up. Even then, I won’t rat you out, Sarge.”

“Thanks. Any plans on your approach?” Hands in pockets, head cocked, brows lifted. Going for nonchalant but not quite getting there.

“You know me,” Wray said. “I make it up as I go.”

“I thought the military was all about planning.”

“I’m ex-military. Anyway, half the battle, so to speak, is the ability to pivot when the plan goes to shit. So, yeah, I’ve got this. Leave it with me.”

Mars shrugged. Another sorry attempt at indifference.

They parted ways, Mars thankfully keeping any more talk of a personal nature to himself. For her part, Wray was relieved to have something else to think about, at least for the time being.

She checked the time. Getting late. Too late to take a drive out to the edge of town to set up an “accidental” encounter with the TV hosts. She’d work it out first thing.

For now, she’d head home and go to bed. For the plan to work, she’d need to be out the door early.

The Sunrise Motel was aptly named, situated as it was on bald prairie, nothing standing between the single-storey building and the horizon where the sun was beginning its daily ascent.

Wray had arrived in the area at daybreak and was now sitting behind the wheel of her aunt Emily’s car, a medium cup of coffee in the cupholder beside her. She would have preferred the larger version, but with no certainty as to bathroom facilities, she hadn’t wanted to chance it.

Turned out the motel featured an attached restaurant, the sort truckers frequented based on the number of semis parked on the other side of the lot. The place would no doubt have a bathroom, so Wray went in to buy herself an extra coffee along with a bagel. Impossible to say how long she’d be waiting before the door to Room Three opened and one of the Lewisons emerged.

She’d dressed in workout gear—runners, track pants, sleeveless top, a zip-up hoodie and a ball cap. The final part of the get-up would be a layer of sweat, but having left the car once already, Wray was reluctant to get out again lest someone exit the room while she wasn’t there to see. Besides, as open as the immediate landscape was, unlikely she’d get away with running back and forth repeatedly without someone noticing. And this wasn’t exactly the sort of place people came for a run.

Her fault for not checking out the area using the street view feature of her map app. Sometimes she worried she was losing her touch.

As she’d told Mars, one thing she’d learned in the military was how and when to reformulate a plan. She constantly thought in scenarios, picturing out different ways of approaching a situation. She’d hoped to feign a serendipitous meeting with one or both of the Lewisons by bumping into them during a morning run. With that scenario now less than ideal, she was considering instead tailing them until a better opportunity arose to talk to them. Maybe that meant a return to the restaurant should they go for breakfast. Maybe it would involve following their vehicle should they opt for a trip into the city centre. Time would tell.

Regardless, the initial plan was seeming more and more hopeless. Already, a pair of truckers had noticed her in the car, each casting grins and raised brows in her direction. Wray tugged the brim of her cap further down her forehead and pretended not to see them.

Shortly before nine, the door to the couple’s room opened and a woman stepped outside. A glance was enough to tell Wray this was Ruby; she’d memorized her face, most recent hairstyle and body size and shape from images and videos easily found online. She’d done the same for Rich, but he didn’t emerge alongside his wife.

Wray straightened in her seat, shifting for a more comfortable position as she watched Ruby. Slightly built and blonde, she’s applied a sweep of makeup to naturally pretty features, and she’d dressed neatly in jeans and a crisp, white button-down free of noticeable wrinkles. Most people Wray had observed this morning hadn’t bothered much with their appearance, but Ruby was in television. Wray knew how it worked, how even a small measure of fame brought with it a certain level of concern regarding one’s appearance, both on and off the air.

Back when Wray’s former show, Paranormal Pryce, was considered prime viewing, she’d once been snapped by a tabloid photographer in London without makeup and wearing her grungiest clothes. A quick grocery run had turned into a write-up about how her then-marriage with Carter must be breaking down. In all honesty, it had been—only that fact certainly hadn’t been public knowledge. Hell, even Wray hadn’t fully realized it at the time.

Regardless, she’d never left home again without ensuring she was prepared for a sneak attack by a member of the tabloid press.

It wasn’t lost on her this commonality would be a pretty great entry point into a conversation, one which might eventually ease into what the Lewisons had discovered out at the country property they’d searched. Maybe Wray could even convince Ruby to reveal what she or Rich had illicitly pocketed.

If anything. Possible, of course, Mars was imagining wrongdoing where none had occurred. Yet Wray didn’t think so. Mars was a steady cop—a steady guy—not one prone to inventing alternate realities. If he believed something, he had reason. That was, after all, why Wray was here.

Ruby made her way to the restaurant, leaving Wray to debate whether to follow. In the end, she didn’t. The two truckers who’d been eyeing her up earlier had both gone inside a while back, and it had only gotten busier. Chances were since Ruby had gone alone, she was merely picking up breakfast for her and Rich to share in their room.

True enough, not three minutes passed before she stepped back out into the morning sun, large paper bag in her hands. She moved purposefully back toward Number Three and knocked. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Rich’s face in the gap. No smile graced his roughly handsome face. Maybe it was Wray imagining things now, but it struck her he appeared strained.

Another point for Mars if that strain was related to guilt over withholding potential evidence from the police.

Satisfied the couple would be busy for at least twenty minutes with their breakfast, Wray slouched back in the seat, letting her eyes slide shut for half a minute while the shifting sun warmed her. It was going to be a hot one, and Wray thought she might have to change sooner rather than later into the other set of clothes she’d brought along. She’d do so now were it not for the continual comings and goings from the dozen or so trucks parked nearby. Last thing she wanted was someone mistaking her purpose here—particularly should one of the truckers prove the seedy type who was looking for action.

As the sun climbed higher and its warmth pressed with more intensity into the car’s greenhouse-like interior, Wray slipped out of her hoodie, depositing it on the passenger seat. Half an hour had now passed since Ruby had returned to the room with their food. No telling what they were up to now or whether they intended to go anywhere. Wray was attempting to restructure her working plan once more when the door reopened.

Ruby again. This time, she was the one appearing strained. It was a guess but an educated one: Wray was pretty sure the Lewisons had been arguing.

Wray pulled the cap from her head, fully exposing her facial features. Her hair colour had changed radically from her own days in television, but she’d nonetheless been recognized more than once based on her face alone. Time to put herself out there, see if Ruby picked it up. Plan of action decided, Wray opened the door and stepped from the car.

She crossed the lot quickly, reaching Ruby just before she climbed into a four-door sedan, a sticker on the trunk’s exterior marking it as a rental. Wray formed what felt to her like a stupid smile, striving for an expression of recognition.

“Ruby Lewison, right?” Wray asked.

Ruby’s head snapped up, and her mouth popped open a little.

“Sorry,” Wray said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I was over in my car there, and I happened to see you. Hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your show.”

In actuality, Wray had seen only three episodes, each watched last night as she was getting ready to go to sleep. Ruby didn’t need to know that.

A tentative smile broke over Ruby’s face. “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment.” Her head cocked to the side, her eyes narrowing with the movement. Recognition slowly forming. “I don’t know you, do I?”

“Not personally, no. You might have seen me on TV, too, though. My hair’s different, but it used to be close to your shade.”

The grin broadened, no longer uncertain. “I do know you. Paranormal Pryce. You’re Wray! I loved that show!”

“Thanks. Means a lot.”

“I read somewhere you and Carter split up.”

Wray snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

Ruby gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry. Awkward.”

Wray shook her head. “Forget it. Nothing you say could be anywhere near as awkward as the stuff I’ve been hit with the past few years.” Time to push this conversation forward. Wray jutted her chin toward the restaurant. “Listen, I was just about to head in for a bite. Place makes a pretty decent breakfast.”

Ruby returned a dry laugh. “Could’ve fooled me. I’ll be lucky not to come away with food poisoning.”

“Must be a different cook working today. So you ate already?”

“Yep. Could be talked into a coffee though. I’d love to get away from this dive for a while—long as you can suggest someplace better.”

Wray flashed a grin. “You’re on.”

Five

Five minutes into their drive, Ruby’s phone rang. She heaved a sigh, and Wray caught her in an eye-roll.

Ruby shifted until she could dig the device from the front pocket of her jeans, needing to temporarily unclip her seatbelt to complete the task. Wray suspected the call was an inch from being pushed to voicemail when Ruby finally tapped the talk button.

“Hey,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Just out for a drive … Don’t worry. Not a serial killer or something. It’s Wray Pryce. You remember her, right?”

Judging by the raised, excited-sounding voice emanating from the handset, Rich did indeed remember. Wray could just make out the sound of her own name before Rich quieted again.

“Bumped into her in the parking lot,” Ruby said. “As luck would have it.”

Wray maintained a straight face. Luck, of course, had nothing to do with it.

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a bit. Just wanted to go grab a decent coffee, not like that sludge we had yesterday. I’ll bring you one, okay? … Absolutely, I will ask. Talk later … Yeah.”

Ruby disconnected, dropping her phone into the spare cupholder between the seats of Emily’s car before re-securing her seatbelt.

Wray sensed marital difficulties between the Lewisons. Lord knew she had the personal experience to detect such a reality. It didn’t seem like a great idea to bring it up herself though—at least not directly. Fortunately, she now had access to a decent indirect approach.

“I’m not Wray Pryce anymore,” she said. “It’s Wray Mallory. I went back to my former surname following the divorce.”

Ruby, who had been wearing a scowl since the phone call ended, turned a sympathetic smile on Wray. “So it’s totally over between you then.” More statement than question.

“Thought you knew that.”

A shrug. “I did, I guess. At least, that’s what various sites were reporting a while back. Thing is, in this biz, you learn fast not to believe everything you read. Lots of crap in the tabloids, right?”

Wray returned a dry laugh. “Tell me about it. You get any of that yourself?”

Ruby’s gaze pivoted to the window, to the stretch of colourless, low-rise businesses flashing past. “Not like you did. We had an episode where we were accused of ripping off a guest on the show, undercutting him on various items we picked. And another guest tried to accuse us of stealing an item he wouldn’t sell.”

Uh oh. “Really? What happened with all that?”

“The point of what we do is basically to undercut people a little on the full value of their antique items. I mean, we need to turn a profit, right? That’s the whole point. We pay a fair price given we’re the ones needing to transport the items, fix them up when needed and locate a market for them. All of that takes time, and time is money—never mind the cost associated with cleaning and repairing these things in a way that maintains their authenticity as a period piece. You can’t use knobs from a hardware store on a Chippendale cabinet.”

“I understand. I work in a pawnshop now, so I handle my share of antiques as well. And I had a decent-enough working knowledge of old stuff thanks to the places we filmed the show.”

Ruby turned widened eyes on Wray. “Pawnshop? Really?”

Wray cast her a sour smile. “Things took … let’s say, an interesting turn after all that bullshit with Carter.”

A scowl crossed Ruby’s face. “Men, right?”

“Men.”

“I heard he ripped off some people. Were you one of them?”

There was one of the biggest issues Wray had with the whole debacle. She’d initially faced blame for Carter’s thefts and frauds as well, and her name had been tossed around in the news because of it. She’d been cleared eventually, but for some reason, that news hadn’t made the front pages or the supper newscasts. As a result, plenty of people remembered her only for the fact she’d been hauled in alongside her guilty then-husband. Hell, plenty didn’t even know they’d split up.

“I was one of them,” Wray acknowledged. “I got out of that marriage with little more than the clothes on my back—literally. What little else I had I ended up selling or pawning for the airfare here.”

“Why Kimotan Rapids? Are you from here originally?”

“Not really from anywhere, to be honest.” There was a long, convoluted and depressing tale, so Wray quickly added, “My great aunt lives in town here. She’s the only family I’ve got.”

Ruby frowned. “I don’t have much for family either. I’ve got two sisters, but we don’t get along. They hate Rich.” Another wry laugh followed. “Sometimes I can’t totally blame them.”

This seemed the opportune moment to delve more deeply into the fact-finding mission. Wray jumped on it, carefully measuring her tone as she did. “Why? I mean, I of all people understand how TV paints overly rosy pictures or even outright fakes reality. But you and Rich seem tight on air.”

“Like you said, TV paints a rosy picture. I know what we do is reality TV, but we play certain roles regardless. Our roles are of the happily married, bubbly antique treasure hunters. Wouldn’t sell much ad space if we showed up as a bickering, grumbly pair of jerks.”

“I hear that. Been there.” Had she ever. Oh boy, had she ever. “Can’t imagine much of it comes from you. You seem like a nice person.”

“People say the same about him. Sometimes the roles we play don’t stop when the cameras stop rolling.”

Wray nodded. “Carter’s like that. He’s what you’d call a twenty-four-seven charmer. Except with me. I got the real deal, and let me tell you, he’s not always like that.”

“Rich too.” Wray’s peripheral vision revealed Ruby’s head turning in her direction once again. “It’s nice talking about this with someone. I don’t really have anyone to talk to. Not like we’re super famous or anything, but it would still end up on a blog or in a subreddit if what I just told you got out there. I don’t want that—not for me or for Rich.”

“I won’t be talking to any bloggers or subreddit types,” Wray assured her. She’d worded it carefully; she would, after all, need to report in to Mars at some point, and she wasn’t keen on lying unless totally necessary.

“Given your own history, I didn’t think you would,” Ruby said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be telling you any of this. But, my God, sometimes I think I’m going to explode on the jerk—just totally blow up, like a bomb or something.”

“Don’t do that,” Wray advised with a smile. “Better for your case if you can show the court you’re the rational, cool-headed one. Believe me.” She snapped her gaze to Ruby for a moment. “Not that I’m suggesting you get a divorce. Just saying.”

A coffee shop was coming up, one Wray had been to before. It made a good brew, but stopping now would interrupt the flow of this conversation, and that seemed like a bad idea. If Ruby was talking, best to keep it going.

“That whole accusation thing you mentioned—what was that about?” Wray posed the question carefully, planting an incredulous tone in her voice which would hopefully encourage an explanation.

“It was stupid. A piece of jewelry, something which could have just fallen into a dusty corner in the people’s house or become lodged between floorboards. It was this pendant which was said to have belonged to Cora Benn.”

“The singer?”

“Yeah, that one. Since her death, it’s like anything she touched has been spun into gold. It’s worth a fortune.”

“Did the police investigate?”

“Yeah. They had us and our crew in to interrogate us over the whole thing. As I understand it, they had a couple of officers search through the clients’ place themselves. Didn’t find the missing pendant there—at least, not that I ever heard.”

“But you weren’t charged.”

“They searched our property too. And we all denied up and down having anything to do with its disappearance. As I told the police at the time, we make enough on the items we buy; we don’t need to do stupid stuff like steal.”

Wray thought through how best to ask her next question, wording it as carefully as she could. “And you’re sure Rich and your crew feel the same way?”

Silence had Wray shifting her gaze to Ruby. As feared, she was eyeing her with suspicion. “Why would you ask that?”

Wray forced a chuckle. “Seriously? Given my own life’s situation, of course I’m going to ask. I don’t trust anyone, Ruby, and I don’t actively encourage it of others. Too many scumbags out there to count, and you don’t always know who they are until it’s too late.”

Ruby studied her another couple of seconds. Then her shoulders slumped and her head dropped. “God, you’re right. Ever since it happened, I just—I don’t know—part of me … I’m ashamed to say it.”

“Don’t be.”

Ruby leaned toward her as if preparing to impart a secret. “Part of me thinks maybe he did it. Rich, I mean. What’s more, I think it’s possible he just did it again.”

Six

They were nowhere near a coffee shop. Didn’t matter. The admission—which promptly led to Ruby lowering her head into her hands and uttering a pained groan—had Wray pulling into the nearest parking lot.

Locating a parking spot close to the exit, Wray shoved the stick into park and turned fully to Ruby. “You think he stole something?”

Ruby grasped handfuls of her hair and tugged, not lifting her head. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I just said that. What’s wrong with me?”

“Same thing that was wrong with me when I was going through this—absolutely nothing. I’m not going to sit here and say your husband’s stealing stuff, but it isn’t wrong of you to question the situation. You’re human, and if you’ve got suspicions, it could be they’re coming from a real place. I didn’t listen to my gut when it came to Carter. If I had—if I’d told someone I had the feeling something was off with him—I might have spared myself being dragged down into the shitstorm with him. I got out eventually, but I got burned bad just the same. If you think Rich is involved in something shady, maybe you should consider going to the police.”

“I can’t. I can’t do that to him—not based on just some feeling. What am I supposed to say? Woman’s intuition? They’ll laugh me right out of there. I’ve got no proof.”

“So why do you think he stole something?”

At last, Ruby lifted her gaze back to Wray. “This is between you and me, all right? No further.”

Wray had reached the point where honesty would need to take a back seat. “Fair enough.”

Ruby exhaled heavily, then drew in a deep breath before launching into it. “We’re in town because we got the go-ahead to check out this fellow’s place near here. We’d been requesting an on-air visit for a long time, but the owner didn’t want us around. He passed away recently though, and the fellow’s son doesn’t share those same hangups. He doesn’t know what to do about a lot of the stuff there and doesn’t have any interest or knowledge regarding antiques or collectables.”

Wray sat back in her seat, went for as relaxed a posture as possible—all the better to feign ignorance. “Enter you two.”

“Right. Anyway, we spent a full day at the property and expected we’d need to return the next day—possibly even a third. But right before we were going to pack it in for the day, Rich spotted this old tour bus. You heard of Alban Ezra?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“It was their bus—the one which hasn’t been seen since the band’s drummer vanished during a tour in the mid-eighties. Whole thing unfolded right here in Kimotan Rapids. It was a huge deal at the time.”

“I wasn’t born yet, but I’ve heard the story.”

“I was a kid, but it was a bit before my time too. That said, I’d seen numerous news clips and true-crime documentaries about it over the years. Probably would have to live under a rock to miss hearing about it at some point.”

“So you seriously found the bus?”

“That’s not all. Rich and our camera operator, Sid, found the bones of a finger inside, along with a ring. Obviously, we called the police, and they took charge of the whole thing. Seized our footage too, ordered us not to air the episode until they cleared us to do it. We had a call from the network, and they received a similar order. I thought, fine, no biggie. So we’ll just wait on airing it. It’ll be the most watched episode ever, no matter when it airs.”

Wray nodded. “I’ll bet.”

“Only that wasn’t the end of it. Rich has been acting weird ever since, like he’s hiding something. We always share a room, and when we pack up to leave a place, we ordinarily just stuff our belongings into whichever of our bags is handiest. Except he’s been guarding his duffel like a dog protecting a bone. Whenever I’ve made a move toward it to look for something, he quickly rushes over and asks what I need, acting all helpful and everything. After nearly fifteen years of marriage, let me tell you, he’s not nearly as helpful as he used to be. Not under normal circumstances anyway.”

Wray crossed her arms. “Which tells you he’s hiding something.”

“Seems that way for sure, doesn’t it? I mean, maybe he just picked up a porn magazine somewhere and doesn’t want me to find it. But it’s got me wondering.”

“Can’t say I blame you.” Wray tapped her fingers over her triceps. “Any chance you can get a look inside?”

“No idea. Maybe, if I had a way to distract him. But he even took the bag in with him to the shower this morning and locked the door. He made a thing of telling me he needed to look for a replacement head for his electric toothbrush, which was why he needed the bag, but it struck me as weird.”

“You know him best. If that’s what you think, you should trust your instincts. Can I help somehow?”

Ruby slouched down in the seat, pushing her head back into the cushion. “You’re probably helping just by listening. Honestly, I don’t know what I should do—or even if I should be doing anything.”

“Let me ask you something: if you don’t clear this up right now, are you going to be able to have a normal relationship with him going forward? Or is this something that’s going to be stuck in your head all the time, sitting there at the back of every moment you two have together? Suspicion is a powerful thing. It can ruin relationships all on its own—even when it’s based on something false.”

Ruby frowned. “I’ve been slowly coming to that conclusion since the pendant episode.”

“So for the good of your future with Rich, maybe it’s important for you to find out for sure. If you can’t trust him to tell you, maybe you need to trust yourself and look.”

“I don’t know if I can or how I could actually do it even if I wanted to.”

“I could do it for you.” There it was: the offer that, if things went according to Wray’s current plan, could end with the possibly stolen evidence in Mars’s possession by the end of the day.

“I’d be going behind his back,” Ruby said.

“And watching your own in the process,” Wray reminded her. “Anyway, you wouldn’t be doing it directly. Technically, I’d be the one going behind his back.”

Ruby stared at Wray a long moment. Then she redirected her gaze out the window, craning her neck left, right and back. “No coffee shops right here.”

“I can find us one.”

“Good. I’m going to need a bit of time and a whole lot of caffeine before I can make a decision like this.”

Seven

The investigation into the amputated finger was barely underway, and already Mars’s neck and shoulders were tight as hell. It had worked up into his head by late morning, causing a throbbing that left him periodically nauseated.

No help then when, shortly after a brief coffee break, Mars returned to his tiny office to find Sergeant Lilian Danvers awaiting him.

Seated tight-lipped in the extra chair with arms and legs crossed, Lilian was the perfect picture of displeasure. Then again, Lilian was almost always the perfect picture of displeasure.

Mars put on his most charming smile. Probably wouldn’t do much good, but he was still best served making the effort. “Hey, Lilian.”

“What’s this I hear about a finger?”

“Talked to Vaughn?”

“Is it Havik’s?”

Mars squeezed past her to access his own chair on the opposite side of the desk. He dropped into it, listening to the complaints of the springs as he sought a more comfortable position. Definitely time for a new chair—once he could convince the department to cover the expense.

“I don’t know yet,” Mars said. “Too early to say. You know how it is.”

Lilian uncrossed her legs, dropping her foot to the floor with a thud. “Not asking for a definitive finding here. Just your gut instinct.”

Mars frowned. “Maybe. I hate to say for sure. We’ve got a finger and a ring, neither of which we’ve managed to trace back to anyone yet. Both are with Ident. They’ll let us know what they find.”

“Let you know, you mean. No one looped me in on this.”

Mars’s turn to cross his arms and work on his annoyed face. “Vaughn must have. You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Would’ve been nice to be consulted yesterday. I look like an idiot.”

“Why?”

“People are talking around here. Something like this doesn’t stay quiet for long. You know that. Someone in Major Crimes or Ident or patrol talks to a buddy or two on another unit, next thing you know, everyone’s in the know. Everyone but me. I had to call Vaughn for the details.”

Mars felt a pang of guilt. She was right. Police departments like theirs were akin to small towns, everyone in everyone else’s business. Members asked other members for help or advice; they shared details of crimes or situations they encountered. At least, they did with those they shared company with. Few, to Mars’s knowledge, shared much with Lilian. Sure, she was generally disagreeable and taciturn, more likely to bite someone’s head off than join in a laugh. But she deserved to know the details of the recent find, and she’d deserved to hear it from Mars or Vaughn.

“I’m sorry,” Mars said. “You’re right. You should have been informed. I know it’s early days here, and no, we have no direct proof to say this might be related to the Havik disappearance, but I should have looped you in right away. It’s my fault, and I’m sorry.”

Lilian studied him a long moment as if searching for anything disingenuous in his apology. He supposed he’d passed her sniff test when she harrumphed and settled back into her chair.

“So where are we at?” she asked.

It was a good question, one Mars couldn’t fully answer. He could fill her in regarding the police side of the investigation, but no way in hell could he tell her he’d involved Wray. Lilian was the biggest stickler for the rules as Mars had ever encountered. Not only would she deem him unprofessional for getting an outsider involved—even one Mars regarded more as an experienced informant—she might well take things over Vaughn’s head and demand Mars be sanctioned. Everyone knew Mars and Vaughn had been partners and that they remained close friends; Lilian wouldn’t be convinced Vaughn would act against Mars in something like this.

No, there had to be things Mars would keep to himself. Just like any cop with a confidential informant, only a very specific set of extreme circumstances would make him divulge Wray’s involvement—and even then, not without letting Wray know first.

Mars gave Lilian a detailed rundown of the investigation to date, from the find by the TV crew to the steps being taken regarding the evidence seized and the ongoing search of the scene.

“The canine unit’s been through there with a dog trained in cadaver location, and nothing,” Mars told her. “We’ve got Ident down there now with some patrol members, working a grid to see if they can find any other evidence that might be hidden by all the grass, weeds and junk. I checked in an hour ago, and nothing yet.”

“Ground penetrating radar?”

Mars nodded. “And a couple of metal detectors. Problem is, it’s a large piece of land and there’s loads of metal all over the place, so the detectors are pretty useless. As for the GPR, they’re searching for the usual signs of unmarked graves, but I’m skeptical about them finding anything. Whoever that finger belonged to, they’re not likely to be out there, are they? If so, why not dump the finger in with them?”

Lilian pressed her lips together and nodded. “Fair point. What about the ring? Anything on there we can use?”

“Once they tested for prints and swabbed for DNA, they cleaned it up as best they could. Something was etched into the central stone. Bit hard to make it out, but it appears to be a symbol of some sort. As for the band or the backing, if there were any words engraved on there, whether personal or by a maker, they’re long gone. There’s corrosion even under the setting. Nothing usable.”

“So no chance of DNA then.”

“Not likely. They’re sending off a swab or two anyway, just in case. But they’re not hopeful, which means I’m not either.”

“Add me to that list,” Lilian said. “Anything else unique about the ring? Certain companies specialize in certain types of jewelry—sports memorabilia or school rings, for example.”

“Thought of that, but this doesn’t seem to fit either of those. Nor, from what I can tell, fraternity or sorority either. Given who we think this could be, we’ll need to explore jewellers who might do business with people in the music industry, but that seems like a stretch—not least of all because Alban Ezra were from the UK originally.”

“What about family? Former bandmates? One of them could ID the ring if it was his, right?”

“On that now,” Mars said. “I’ve been digging into some of that. I’ve tracked down a number for their old management company, and I’ve traced the band’s then-manager to London, England. Still no clue where the last surviving member’s at, but I’m working on it. Still trying to determine where Havik’s next of kin are as well. We had a number for his wife, but when I tried it, it came back as out of service.”

“Let me see what I can do about that,” Lilian said.

Mars started to gnaw on his lower lip but quickly stopped himself. Given how she’d been kept out of this initially, there was no telling how likely Lilian was to quickly share whatever she discovered. Hell, maybe she had every right to hold back. Then again, this investigation was underway now, and it required a team approach to unfold as it should. That meant everyone on board needed to be up front with each other.

Which also meant Mars would no doubt need to let the others know at some point how Wray was helping out—particularly if it turned out she uncovered something useful.

He wondered how she was doing on that front. Had she made her approach? If so, had she found the Lewisons or a member of their crew to be receptive? He’d need to touch base with her as soon as possible.

After all, while Mars held back info from time to time, Wray could too. If she got going with an investigation of her own, she sometimes got so wrapped up in it, she forgot to check in—or conveniently forgot. Regardless, a case like this would draw attention from multiple corners of the world. With that many eyes on it, Mars couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

Hopefully, he thought as he studied Lilian’s persistently severe countenance, his biggest one wouldn’t be involving an outsider in the first place.

Eight

Three cups of coffee later, Wray was beginning to regret not suggesting alcoholic beverages instead. The last thing Ruby needed was to be more jittery; some liquid courage would have been a helpful alternative—from Wray’s perspective anyway.

Wray let Ruby ramble during their couple of hours at a patio table outside the coffee shop, hoping the chatter and the sunshine would help to relax her. It didn’t—or at least it didn’t seem to. Despite this, Wray was quietly thrilled when, as they approached the car afterward, Ruby puffed out a defeated-sounding breath.

“All right,” she said.

Wray lifted a brow. “All right?”

“All right, you can check through Rich’s stuff.” She held up a cautionary finger as she reached the passenger door. “But if you find anything, you need to let me know before anyone else, okay? And the only reason I’m agreeing to this is that if it turns out he’s doing bad stuff behind my back, I don’t want to wind up in your situation.”

“Smart move. Shows you’ve been paying attention.”

“I have. Lord knows I’ve questioned more than once why I married him in the first place.” She pinched at the corners of her eyes. “Can’t believe I said that out loud.”

“Between us. No further. You’d have to look long and hard to find someone who gets it the way I do. It’s one thing being married to a guy who can be a real jerk sometimes. Quite another when you’re chained to the guy career-wise besides.”

Wray unlocked the doors and slid in behind the wheel while Ruby dropped in next to her. Wray started the car and was about to pull away from the curb when Ruby interrupted.

“You know, I feel like I need to make something clear. I don’t hate Rich. Truth is, I still love him. But that doesn’t mean I like him all the time.”

Wray cast her a wan smile. “Preaching to the choir there, sister.”

By the time they were nearly back at the Sunrise Motel, Wray and Ruby had arranged a plan. Had circumstances unfolded as originally planned—without yesterday’s disturbing discovery—the TV crew would have been back at the Rugg residence today. With this no longer possible, Ruby would persuade Rich and Sid to head out in their van to shoot some B-roll. She would sneak her room key to Wray before they headed out, leaving her to do as she needed.

They’d also considered the possibility Rich had secreted his ill-gotten goods inside the van. If so, it could complicate things, but Wray thought she might have a fix for this too. Rich wanted to meet her, and Wray could make like she was desperate for a glimpse inside the team’s transport. Once in, she’d be able to use her gift, honing in on any bad energies connected with objects inside. Hell, maybe Rich would even ask her to do it, see if she was all Paranormal Pryce had made her out to be.

Then again, if he did have something to hide, letting Wray get close would be an exceedingly dumb move on his part.

Not that she hadn’t dealt with dumb before. Sometimes she felt like life had made her an expert. Lord knew she’d fit the description a couple of times herself.

The van was parked where Wray had spotted it earlier, in the expansive parking lot near the door from which Ruby had emerged earlier. No sign of the rental car though.

“Huh,” Ruby said. “Looks like someone’s gone out.”

“Is he it? For crew, I mean.”

“We have a second— a camera op-slash-sound tech—but he got held up. Family thing. He was supposed to join us today for day two at the Rugg property, long as everything was okay. Rich called him last night to tell him what was happening and to not bother coming. Sid can handle the sound tech fine anyway.”

Seemed a good time to ask the next obvious question. “So you have just the two crew members? For a show like yours?”

Ruby’s face formed a light scowl. “I know, right? I mean, our network’s not as big as yours was or anything, but still, it’s ridiculous how small we’ve become. We used to have a location scout, a pair of researchers, a full-time sound guy and a lady who did makeup and hair, but they all got cut over the past two seasons. Now it’s just our two camera-tech guys, and when one of them’s not around, Rich and I have to pick up handhelds to help out with shooting. Budget’s not there anymore, what with some key advertisers pulling the plug. It was drop some team members or axe the whole show. Network made the decision for us.”

Wray nodded. “We actually ran with a small team too. It helped it was just Carter and I shooting our own stuff and posting on social media before we were discovered by the network that picked us up. We knew how to put together a good show without a load of people around.”

“Us too, I guess. Hard to go backward, though, once you get a taste of the other side.”

“Fair enough.”

Wray pulled up next to the van and parked. As she stepped from the car, she turned over Ruby’s more recent comments in her mind. It was hard to go backward when, even for a little while, the universe had propelled you forward. Finding yourself on the career equivalent of a bungee cord wasn’t much fun. Had Rich reacted to the situation in the same dishonest way as Carter had theirs?

At least Wray now knew she didn’t have an abundance of crew members to contend with. Not only would that have meant needing to sneak behind more backs, it would also mean more suspects. As it stood, Wray had three people to consider as possible evidence thieves; while she didn’t get a sticky-fingered vibe from Ruby, it was too soon to rule her out entirely.

In case Rich or Sid were watching, Wray made like she was studying the show name and logo printed on the side of the van, passing a hand over it while she walked. Sometimes, when the energy inside was particularly strong, Wray could get a sense of it even through walls, glass or metal.

Not this time. Despite keeping her psychic walls down, nothing stretched forward to meet her.

“You’re doing your thing, aren’t you?” Ruby asked.

Wray shrugged. “Trying to. Nothing’s hitting me from the van.”

“You can feel things without actually touching them?”

“Not exactly. I can sometimes get a sense of stronger energies—particularly when they’re connected with a really emotional event. Still need to put my hands on it to read it fully.”

Ruby touched her fingers to her lower lip. “Guess anything connected with an amputated finger would count as really emotional.”

“I’d expect so.” Wray jutted her chin toward the room. “Maybe I’ll have more luck there.”

Ruby leaned in. “So I’m clear, I’ll get whoever’s here away and pass you the key, right? And you’ll leave it on the table when you go out again?”

They’d been over this a few times. Wray supposed she couldn’t blame Ruby for being nervous. “You got it.”

A shaky smile was all the answer Wray received before Ruby fished a key from her pocket. Wray eyed it. Most of the city’s hotels and motels seemed to have moved on to keycards or at least a more secure keyed entry system. Not the Sunrise. As they drew nearer, Wray noted the doors weren’t even equipped with deadbolts. The place seemed to do decent business with the restaurant, service station and truck stop. Apparently, that income wasn’t filtering down to the motel.

Ruby must have caught her eyeing the lock because she said, “I know. Not the best setup. I stuck a chair under the doorknob last night.” With a whisper, she added, “Rich couldn’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag.”

Wray honoured the joke with a snicker and stood to the side as Ruby keyed the door open. Wray’s gaze swept the room. No sign of Rich anywhere, unless he was in the bathroom.

“Rich?” Ruby called out. “You here?”

No response. Not from inside the room, anyway.

“Hey, Ruby.”

The male voice, spoken from outside, had Wray turning to see who it was. She was looking at a middle-aged guy with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, short but unkempt facial hair and a plaid shirt with jeans ripped at one knee. Definitely not Rich.

Ruby’s head poked from the doorway until her eyes locked with the man’s. “Oh, hi, Sid. Have you seen Rich? I thought he’d be here.”

“He was, but he left.”

“He didn’t text me he was leaving.”

“Seemed kinda last minute. It was weird. He just kind of bailed.” Sid shrugged and smirked. “Thought maybe the cops were on their way to pick him up.”

Ruby’s laugh sounded a little too high to Wray. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

Sid shared in the chuckle, such as it was. “Jail wouldn’t be the worst place for that bum.”

Wray couldn’t tell if he meant the words or not. His tone was laid back and light, but something more seemed to lie beneath. Maybe it had something to do with the twinkle in his eye as he watched Ruby.

“Seriously, though,” Ruby said. “He didn’t say anything to you?”

“Nope. Nothing. Like I said, he just bailed. Took the rental and off he went.”

“I thought you must have taken it.”

“He took the keys last night, remember? Gave me the ones for the van.”

“Oh. Right.” Ruby scratched the side of her head. “Guess with everything going on yesterday, I forgot.”

At last, Sid’s gaze flicked to Wray. Ruby made a little noise and straightened, a sign introductions were forthcoming. “Oh, sorry! Wray, this is Sid Davies, our videographer. Sid, Wray Mallory.”

“You look familiar.”

Wray fielded this one. “Used to be Wray Pryce.”

Sid’s brows shot up. “No way!” He squinted a little, making Wray wonder whether he needed glasses. “Oh, yeah, I can see it now. Your hair’s different.”

“Red,” Wray supplied.

“Yeah, red. Looks good on you. What are you doing here? Thought you lived in England.”

Wray wasn’t in the mood to enter into the explanation all over again. “Long story, Sid.” She eyed Ruby. “All right if I use your bathroom?” She was changing the plan. Now she had to hope Ruby would catch on without blowing it for them.

Ruby blinked heavily, but only the once. “Oh, yeah, sure. Go ahead. Sorry about the mess. Rich is a slob.”

Sid liked that one judging by his chortle. Then again, he’d probably laugh at anything remotely humorous if Ruby was the one saying it.

Wray nodded politely at Sid and patted Ruby on the shoulder before pivoting back into the Lewisons’ room. Time to get to work.

Wray had been inside the room less than ten seconds when the feeling struck her—not the presence of an object with a strong energy signature but rather the lack of one.

She went through the usual steps anyway. Sometimes people placed important objects inside protective cases. Some of those cases—particularly portable safes—acted as a barrier between her and the items they held. If she came across something like that, she’d need to find a way inside if she was to know for sure whether Rich had taken anything.

Great thing about motel rooms—for the most part, they weren’t large and didn’t come with an abundance of hiding spots. This one, she noted, didn’t have a built-in room safe—not that she’d expected one given the less-than-desirable door locks.

She checked everywhere, including under the beds, inside the closet and drawers, in the toilet tank and inside the couple’s bags. She even patted down their clothing to see whether anything was inside the pockets or concealed in the lining or seams. Nothing. Certainly nothing with a notable energy signature. And definitely no portable safes or other storage devices.

Wray gave herself three minutes, moving through the room with practiced speed while keeping an eye on the time. Any longer, Sid would start to get suspicious, pleasant conversation with his crush notwithstanding.

The reason for the futile search seemed clear enough to Wray. It wasn’t so much about Rich being innocent of shady practices; rather, it was likely he’d just added an extra layer of shade. If Wray were a betting woman, she’d bank on it he’d already lined up a potential buyer for whatever it was he’d taken. Given the likelihood this wasn’t his first go-round with this type of activity, he probably knew exactly how to find the resources he needed.

Luckily, Wray wasn’t without her own resources.

Leaving the room, Wray made her way back toward Ruby and Sid, dangling the room key in front of her for Ruby to take.

“Thanks for that,” Wray said.

Ruby pocketed the key. “No problem.”

The expectant but uncomfortable expression on her face revealed Ruby was desperate to know whether Wray had found anything. With Sid’s body language giving no indication he wanted to cut short his time with Ruby, there didn’t seem a good way to have the conversation.

Just as well. If Wray got the lead she was hoping for, she didn’t want Ruby anywhere nearby. In the black market world of high-priced stolen goods, things could turn sour in a hurry. As it stood, chances were Rich was digging himself into an early grave—perhaps more than figuratively.

“I’ll call you in a bit,” Wray told Ruby, keeping her tone light.

With that, she left the pair to their conversation and cut a brisk pace back to Emily’s car, feeling Ruby’s eyes on her back as she went.

Inside, Wray located the number she needed in her phone. There was a time zone difference of a few hours to contend with, but the woman she needed to reach would be awake for a while yet.

Callen Pryce answered on the second ring. “Wray? How are you?”

Carter’s sister was the only good thing that remained from Wray’s former marriage. Callen and Wray had remained in touch and were even what Wray considered friends. Great thing about Callen: she knew exactly how crooked Carter was and therefore who to side with during the whole fraud situation. Callen had remained a support to Wray throughout the whole miserable situation, and she still made herself available whenever Wray needed anything.

Another great thing about Callen: her line of work made her a really awesome resource for things like this.

“How’s the recovery business going?” Wray asked.

“Busy. Thefts of big-ticket items has been off the charts in the UK recently. Keeps me on my toes. My bosses always have something new for me. I’d imagine you do too, if I’m reading your tone correctly.”

Callen was no dummy. She was also one of the best in her business, employed to recover expensive items on behalf of the insurance company she worked for. The company boasted a wealthy clientele, people with all manner of pricy and sought-after items. When those items were stolen—or when a suspected fraudulent claim was made—Callen was among members of a small team of investigators who both ensured the claims were above board and recovered the items before the company needed to make the requested payouts.

Their work sometimes took them to various corners of the world. It meant Callen was well-placed to either have info on black market dealers or would have contacts who could obtain that information. Exactly what Wray needed right now.

“As it happens, I do have a situation here I could use your help with,” Wray said, “Have a few minutes for me?”

Nine

As cities went, Kimotan Rapids was big but not huge. While it came with its share of organized crime, it didn’t approach the scale Wray had known of in London.

Callen had no immediate knowledge of the black market scene in KR, but it didn’t take her long to find out. Within half an hour of their ending their initial call, Callen called Wray back with a name and last known address for an individual potentially involved in fencing high-end stolen goods. Jimmy “Greenback” Gibson had been in operation for a while—a suspiciously long while.

“The fact he remains in business makes me wonder whether he’s either got mates in high places or if he’s supplying information to a police agency or two,” Callen said. “If I found the info as readily as I did, I’m sure your local police can too.”

“Makes sense to me,” Wray said. “Anything else?”

“One rather important detail. Gibson is a known associate of a man by the name of Kenton Barwell. Barwell has something of a reputation around there, according to what I’ve found—definitely some significant activities of a particularly bleak nature.”

“Organized crime-type activities?”

“Absolutely. I’m talking guns, drugs, human trafficking—those sorts of things.”

Wray grimaced. “Good lord, Rich, what have you got yourself involved in here?”

“Tell me you’re not planning on taking on Barwell and Company on your own.”

“Hey, if I can avoid Barwell, yay me. Ideally, I’ll just set up outside the address you’re about to give me for this Gibson guy and see if the guy I’m looking for is there.”

“Listen, mate, you and I both know how often situations run to the ideal.”

Wray snorted. “Right. My problem remains the same though.”

“Which means a few people in Kimotan Rapids are about to face a problem or two. Am I right?”

“Fair enough, Cal,” Wray said. “You know me too well.”

Wray had been on her way home when Callen’s call came in with the info on Greenback. Timely, as it happened, given the address Callen provided for him was within a ten-minute drive of Wray’s building.

Wray stayed where she was a moment, parked next to the sidewalk on a street lined by struggling mom-and-pop businesses and shuttered shops. There, she searched out Greenback’s address on her map app and clicked onto the street view feature.

Nothing in particular stood out about the house which appeared on the screen. The place was one of those places built in the nineteen twenties or thirties, the sort with a glassed-in porch and the kind of upper floor where low, slanted ceilings made getting out of bed treacherous.

The house might have been old and generally unimpressive, but it seemed Greenback had a little extra money to invest on the place. Despite the poor quality of the street view image, a pair of pricy security cameras mounted on either side of the house were clear enough for all to see. A doorbell camera positioned near a serious-looking locking system provided further evidence this was a guy with a paranoia problem.

Or rather, given what he was said to be involved in, necessary caution.

Wray wondered whether this was Greenback’s private residence or his place of business. It wouldn’t make sense for him to deal in stolen goods out of his own home; a quick walkthrough would prove it either way. Wray thought it more likely Greenback stashed his ill-gotten gains in a larger structure—possibly a storage rental facility or an out-of-town property.

Property, perhaps, like the one recently visited by the TV crew.

Wheels spinning in her brain, Wray set the ones on the car to turning as well. A few minutes later, she pulled onto Greenback’s block.

A couple of years had passed since the street view images had been captured, but little about the house had changed. If anything, it had become more secure, the doorbell camera upgraded to the latest model and the porch windows bearing an appearance that made Wray suspect they might be made of a bulletproof material.

She drove past the place, slowly enough to scope it out but quickly enough she wouldn’t draw suspicion from anyone inside. Reaching the end of the block, she turned left, then left again into the alleyway. Counting houses, she slowed as she approached the Greenback place. At least she should be able to get away with a snail-like cruise-by here; given the abundance of junk strewn about in this neighbourhood’s alleys, anyone worried about their tires would drive cautiously.

The back of the house was similar to the front, except the rear door was made of steel and boasted an industrial-grade knob and lock. Even from the alley, Wray could make it out, the backyard small and free of obstructions. She kept driving, not wanting to give Greenback the opportunity to notice her. The open space might be partially about sight lines for Greenback’s benefit, but just as likely he kept it this way to allow for deliveries and pickups. Even if he stored items off-site, it was possible he did business here too. Certainly, the security he’d installed told her he was prepared for potentially dangerous visitors.

Wray left the alley, circling once again to the street side and parking a couple of houses down. Callen hadn’t provided her with other potential addresses for Greenback, so for now, this was the best lead. No sign of the Lewisons’ rental car. Maybe Rich had been given another address to meet with Greenback. Just as possible, of course, Wray was completely out to lunch on this, and Rich wasn’t meeting with Greenback at all.

Wray had taken to keeping a couple of pieces of useful equipment in Emily’s car, having been called upon more than once to help with tricky situations. Emily had bought herself a decent set of binoculars a while back, ostensibly for bird-watching but more likely because she liked to keep an eye on the people in her neighbourhood. Having bought a better pair, she’d gifted the smaller ones to Wray, who’d promptly tucked them into a small go-bag she kept in the car.

Wray reached into the backseat for the bag, rifling through the contents until she came up with the binoculars. She’d parked so she had a decent view of the house without being too close, enabling her to surreptitiously scope the front of the property. Binos in hand, Wray studied the windows and locks in better detail, searching for signs of life or points of access. She’d attempt a conversation with Greenback at the door first, of course, but if it came to requiring quick access—such as if Rich was, in fact, here and in serious trouble—she needed a Plan B.

The ground floor was a no-go. Given planning, the right equipment and the cover of darkness, Wray was certain she could disable the cameras and get inside easily enough. Not so easy in full sunlight while lacking appropriate gear for the job.

In her favour was the fact most houses in this neighbourhood had been built close together. It made for one hell of a fire hazard, but for her purposes, it might serve her well if she could find a neighbouring house to climb. A scan of Greenback’s upper-storey windows revealed that floor wasn’t as well guarded, no sign of reinforced windows or inconveniently placed cameras.

Alternate plan gradually forming, it was time to put Plan A into action: try for a conversation with the man and see where it led.

She was about to step out of the car when her phone rang. She and Ruby had exchanged numbers at the coffee shop earlier; now Ruby’s name was there on the screen.

Wray briefly considered not answering but decided she’d need to. Best case, Rich was back at the motel. Or maybe he’d contacted Ruby with details on his current whereabouts. Both scenarios would make Wray’s current situation a lot simpler.

“Hey, Ruby,” she said upon answering.

“Where are you?”

“Running down a lead. Anything your way?”

“No. I’ve tried Rich’s phone half a dozen times, and he’s not answering. It’s not like him. I’m worried. Did you find something? What kind of lead are you following?”

The kind I don’t want to talk about just yet, Wray thought to herself. Out loud, she said, “I’ll fill you in soon. Need to get on it now though, so …” She trailed off, unspoken meaning injected into the silence.

“Okay,” Ruby said. “You’ll let me know though, right?”

“As soon as I have something for you, absolutely. Text me if you hear anything from Rich.”

“I will.” The way she dragged out the two words told Wray she wasn’t eager to get off the phone without further answers. Too bad. Wray didn’t have them yet. The longer she sat out here in her car, the better her chances of being spotted and identified as suspicious—if not by Greenback himself, then by a nosy neighbour who might call the police. One thing about having a guy like that in the neighbourhood: at least one person on the block must hate having him there. They’d probably reported comings and goings from the house more than once, and chances were they’d eagerly make a similar call if they felt Wray was equally suspicious.

It meant Wray needed to get moving now, so she hung up on Ruby without a goodbye, then made sure the phone was set to silent before slipping it back into her pocket.

She was about to slide out of the car when a car turning the corner ahead had her stalling. She knew the car, had seen it earlier today.

It was the Lewisons’ rental. And it was pulling up outside Greenback’s property.

Ten

Plans A and B had just gone out the window.

Wray had a decision to make and fast. Should she try to stop Rich, intercede before he got to the door and, if necessary, wrestle his stupid ass back into a vehicle to get him away from here? Or should she let this play out and see where it went?

The first option might be the best one for Rich, but it might also come with the most risk overall. If Greenback or an associate were waiting inside for Rich, they were no doubt well-prepared. In this line of work, it would mean having a weapon near to hand and ready for use—probably a firearm.

Wray knew nothing about Greenback, and she didn’t have time to start researching now. She had no way to find out whether he was crazy enough to fire on Rich if he thought he’d failed to obey instructions. And while Wray was no expert, she expected a common directive in these sorts of scenarios was for the seller to come alone. People like Greenback recognized there was always a chance that if the seller brought another person along, that person was an undercover cop. Wray didn’t think she looked like an undercover anything, but chancing a misunderstanding seemed like a bad idea.

On the other hand, letting Rich go in alone might be the wrong move too. He’d already proven he wasn’t overly bright by showing up here in the first place. It was possible he’d do or say something equally stupid once inside—maybe stupid enough to get himself hurt or killed. If he thought his minor celebrity status would save him with someone like Greenback or his people, Rich might well find himself sorely mistaken.

There was also the problem surrounding whatever item or items he’d taken from the Rugg place. Once it was in Greenback’s hands, it would be harder for Wray to get hold of.

Harder, but not impossible. Wray pinched at her lower lip as she thought it through a brief moment more. Maybe letting the illicit deal play out was a good thing for her, giving her leverage over both men and ensuring she knew exactly where to direct the police regarding any missing items.

Mind made up, she settled back into the driver’s seat, pulled the binoculars out of her go-bag and waited. As the rental car pulled to a stop outside the property in question, Wray lifted the binoculars to check out the car’s lone occupant. Yep, it was Rich, the ball cap and turned up jacket collar not sufficient to hide the recognizable details of his face. The lame disguise also failed to conceal the anxiety present in his expression—tight lips, clenched jaw and darting eyes.

Were he not a thief and a complete idiot, Wray might have felt sorry for the guy.

“Carter Pryce two-point-oh,” Wray muttered as she watched Rich make his way toward the door.

He wasn’t carrying anything, telling Wray he’d either taken something to another location and was here to conclude the deal, or—more likely—whatever he’d taken was small enough to fit inside a pocket. Maybe another piece of jewelry, one that had gone unnoticed by the others at the Rugg place long enough for him to palm it.

Rich took the couple of steps to the porch door slowly, then paused there, fist raised as if to knock. His face turned upward, hand unmoving, as his eyes shifted to the camera mounted to the corner of the building. Impossible to say for sure, but it struck Wray that Rich had been aware of the camera’s existence before peering up at it.

It had her wondering whether Rich had been here before. Was this where the Cora Benn pendant had ended up?

Rich didn’t knock for a few seconds, fist maintaining its awkward position in the air while his eyes remained fixed on the camera. He appeared stiff with fear, and Wray wondered what he was picturing in his head.

In his head—or maybe it was something else entirely. Wray had seen the same frozen expression on those seeing a ghost. Wouldn’t be the worst sort of justice, the idea of a thieving TV host being haunted by those whose items he was illegally hawking.

It turned out Rich didn’t need to knock anyway. Whoever was at home most certainly seemed to be monitoring the cameras, as a few moments after Rich’s arrival on the front steps, the porch door cracked open. Rich’s head swivelled as if on a spring as he faced the person on the other side.

Wray stared through the binos, but she couldn’t make out who it was standing in the shadows. She hadn’t been able to get a good look from here, but it seemed as though heavy blinds must be in place over the porch windows, blocking views both in and out. Made sense, she supposed, under the circumstances.

Whoever stood just inside the door, Rich didn’t seem any more relaxed about it. He hovered on the step, uneasy smile flashing on his face before abruptly vanishing. He gave a tight nod, then a second. Then, as the door opened wider, Rich stepped inside.

Wray finally managed a quick peek at the other person. White male, receding brown hair, thin face bearing a network of age lines. She hadn’t seen him longer than a second or two, and he’d remained partially bathed in shadow, but she’d noted enough to put his age at somewhere in his sixties—old enough he’d have had time to build a serious reputation and a stable of contacts in his chosen profession. At a glance, he didn’t seem all that much, but Wray had been around enough to know some dangers were better hidden than others.

A minute ticked past, then two. Wray kept her eyes fixed on the house and put the window down on her side of the car, eager to pick up on anything that would reveal what was happening inside the house. Probably hammering down a value and an appropriate price for whatever Rich had brought with him, but Wray hadn’t ruled out the possibility the TV guy was getting his ass handed to him. If so, no sounds had reached her. Then again, if the house had been outfitted as well as it had been in terms of its outward security, a possibility existed some soundproofing had been added as well.

Her mind flashed to the finger and the reference to an unknown enforcer dubbed Barber. Someone like him would need a quiet place to go about their horrific work. No doubt lots was done outside the city, but there were probably a few in-town locations set up for that type of wet work as well. Abandoned businesses in the warehouse area came to mind, but who was to say there weren’t houses that fit the bill too?

Suddenly, Wray was left with another decision to make. Sure, Rich had created this situation himself, but as far as Wray was concerned, precious few people truly deserved to have pieces of them removed by a sadistic enforcer. If something bad was going down inside that house, she couldn’t simply sit out here and do nothing.

She’d give it another minute or two. If Rich didn’t reappear by then, she’d move in for a better look.

Wray’s gaze darted periodically to her watch face as the time passed. By the two-minute mark, with no movement or sound from the house ahead, she decided she’d waited long enough.

Stepping from the car, she locked it up and pocketed the keys. Emily’s newish ride had a keyless entry setup, making a quick escape doable without needing to leave the doors unlocked and risk the theft of her backpack. She worked in this neighbourhood; she knew how sticky-fingered some of the people around here could be.

Wray moved quietly, not so much for stealth as to enable her to better make out any noises coming from within the house. Nothing reached her, but she knew that meant little. The only way to ensure Rich was all right was to see for herself.

She drew up short as she reached the front yard, the door suddenly opening ahead of her. Rich was busy backing awkwardly out the door, muttering something about taking his stuff elsewhere. Although it was clear he was attempting to come off tough, a distinct note of fear betrayed him, a slight tremor wracking the words.

The older man Wray had caught a glimpse of earlier now stood better visible in the gap, an empty smile twisting his lips.

“Come back inside,” the man said. “We’ll talk.”

The words had barely left his lips when his gaze snapped to Wray. Sometimes, when she grew bored, she liked to play a game where she likened people she encountered to the type of animal they most closely resembled. With his beady eyes, appraising stare, and slinking manner, this guy—Greenback, she guessed—was most definitely of the weasel variety.

Sometimes being a woman came in extra-handy. This was one of those times. A shred of suspicion flickered across Greenback’s face, but it didn’t linger. Wray knew why. She was lean and of average height, possessing the sort of figure and facial features plenty of men seemed drawn to. Clad in clothing that doubled as workout gear, her attire wasn’t out of place in this neighbourhood. And she’d learned long ago how to stand and move to avoid revealing her military training when she wanted to—slouch or shift her weight a certain way, and she was no longer an obvious threat. Nothing about her would scream suspicious to Greenback.

Then there was the most obvious fact: she was a woman. And the reality was plenty of men still didn’t truly believe they could be bested in any way by a woman.

“Something I can do for you?” Greenback asked her. Going by the tone, he wasn’t limiting his offer to business.

Wray flicked her gaze to Rich. His eyes were on her too, and there was no concealing the relief written there.

She jutted her chin in his direction, then addressed Greenback again. “I was out for a walk and I saw him coming out of your house.” She met Rich’s eye again and cocked her head. “You’re that TV guy, right? From the antique show?” She followed up with a grin and exaggeratedly lifted brows. “Hey, are you going through this guy’s house for stuff to buy?”

Rich’s head jerked, bird-like, from Wray to Greenback and back again. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly. Just checking out a potential place for an upcoming episode.”

“Cool! When’s it gonna be on?”

Greenback stepped forward, holding up a hand as a signal to halt the conversation. “Look, lady, we’re kind of in the middle of something here, so if you don’t mind moving along?”

“I really want to talk to this guy though,” Wray said. “My grandpa, he’s got this place a couple hours away, and he’s, like, this major packrat. I’m sure you could find some awesome stuff there. And he’d die to be on TV, you know?”

Greenback heaved a sigh and glared at Rich. “You got a card for her or something?”

A rapid head-shake. “No, sorry. Didn’t bring any.”

Wray waved a hand as she cut back into the conversation. “Not a problem. I’m happy to wait here until you’re done. I’ve got no plans today. I’ll just hang here.”

Greenback’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe I don’t want you here, lady.” He nodded toward the sidewalk. “Hit the road.”

Wray made a show of huffing out a breath. “Seriously? Dude, it’s a free country, yeah? I’ll get out of your yard, but I’m staying nearby until this guy comes out. I really need to talk to him.”

Greenback shifted onto his other leg. A storm brewed in his eyes, in the lines surrounding them. “Maybe you’d better come inside then.”

Wray knew where this was headed. Greenback wasn’t willing to simply let Rich walk away with a valuable item, and he’d do what he had to do to make that happen.

Another decision to make: walk away and leave Rich to whatever fate lay in store for him or play this out.

Wray had always been a player. Time to see where this was headed. “All good, dude. Like I said, I’m happy enough waiting on him out here.”

A sneer broke over Greenback’s face. “And like I said, maybe you’d better come inside.” He lifted the bottom seam of his shirt to reveal the waistband of his jeans.

More specifically, the butt of the handgun he had tucked there.

Eleven

Greenback seemed to be capable of reason—at least enough he was unlikely to draw and fire on two people in broad daylight on a residential street. Even from here, Wray could see one person working on a flower bed in her front yard. Surely Greenback would realize he wouldn’t get away with gunplay here and now.

Had she been alone, Wray would have challenged him. Certainly, she wouldn’t have set foot inside his house until he’d given up his weapon—willingly or unwillingly.

Clearly, Rich wasn’t working from the same playbook as she was. He was already walking stiffly back toward the door, limiting Wray’s options exponentially.

“Rich,” she called out, hoping to draw his attention to her. But with a gun now in play, his focus was completely on Greenback. Wray supposed she couldn’t fault him.

Again, Wray was faced with a choice. Rich now stood between her and the gun. She was fast and was in a good physical position to rapidly reach cover if need be. But it would mean leaving Rich to face Greenback alone.

She frowned as she made her way toward the house. No, much as she was tempted, she couldn’t abandon the jerk.

Rich stepped fully inside the house, opening up Wray’s sightline to Greenback. Ideally, she wanted to get the revolver away from him as soon as possible, but he’d dropped the hem of his shirt to re-conceal the weapon. She could make out the bulge of it easily enough, but with material in the way, she couldn’t pull off a quick and clean disarm. Her best bet now was to play this through and watch for an opening—one that wouldn’t end with her or Rich injured or worse.

“Not cool, buddy,” she told Greenback as she pressed past him. She noted he didn’t shift aside completely, forcing her to brush up against him—a move he met with a disgusting leer. One more thing for her to get back at him for later.

“Let’s all go have a talk,” he said, nodding with his chin toward the left.

A small sitting room awaited them, one crammed with junk which, were he anyone else, might have marked Greenback as a hoarder. Wray guessed the scattering of trash was here on purpose, hiding a variety of treasures in plain sight. Already, she was getting hammered by a variety of energies, evidence of nearby items that had meant something to someone.

Maybe one such item was whatever Rich was currently carrying—the one Greenback was determined to possess.

She didn’t have much time to focus on it at the moment, her attention fixed as it was on the threat behind her and the weapon he carried. For now, he hadn’t drawn it, wasn’t levelling it at them or waving it around like a lunatic. As long as it stayed tucked away where it was, it remained a danger, albeit a contained one. Wray needed to be prepared for the possibility of Greenback deciding to use it.

She was distinctly aware of his presence behind her, but as she turned to see where he was, she discovered him too far back to be of much use to her. He hadn’t gotten this far in life, she supposed, without learning a thing or two about self-preservation. He might not deem her a true threat, but he wasn’t taking chances either.

“Sit down,” he told them.

Wray made a show of peering around the room and snorting. “Where? Couch and chairs are loaded.”

“Move some shit aside. Not a problem.”

Rich was at the sofa nearly before Wray could bat an eye. The guy was petrified, no question.

Good, Wray thought. With any luck, it would give him a solid nudge toward the straight and narrow—as long as he came out of here alive.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered as Wray stepped to his side to clear a spot for herself next to him.

“Shut up,” she muttered. She had a story, and she planned on sticking to it. If Rich got close to hammering a hole through the middle of it, he’d earn a smack on the mouth from her.

“What’s going on?” Greenback asked.

Wray had been considering sweeping a big pile of newspapers and magazines in Greenback’s direction to temporarily blind him while she moved in for the gun, but the sound of his voice told her he remained too far away for that to work. Instead, she grabbed the handful of papers and plunked them onto the floor before turning to fire a glare at the fence.

“Just seriously pissed off here, dude,” she said. “Here I was, out for a nice walk, and now I’m stuck with the pair of you in this messy dump of a place.”

Greenback smirked. There was no humour in the expression. “Watch what you’re calling a dump.”

“What, you live here?”

“Sit down. Both of you. Now.”

Rich dropped onto the couch like he’d been shoved there. Wray lowered herself more slowly, watching Greenback’s face as she did. She’d gotten good at picking out the coldblooded types, the ones whose souls had become blackened with time and experience. She didn’t see that in Greenback, a hint of anxiety present in his eyes and the set of his jaw and shoulders. He knew how to play the part of the tough guy, but it was very much that—a part, like an acting gig he was auditioning for. Yet maybe he’d learned to play it so well, he’d be willing to follow through with any threats he made.

Still, a flash of humanity lingered there in his face and posture, and Wray would hold to that as she sought the opening she needed. The coldblooded did what they deemed necessary without thought or feeling; for everyone else, thought and feeling existed, and they meant hesitation. For Wray, even the briefest hesitation equalled hope.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“I was just having a chat with my friend, Rich, here,” Greenback said. “He’s got something he wants me to have. Don’t you, Rich?”

“I—I don’t know. I⁠—”

Greenback tilted his head, a fake smile splitting his face. “Come on, Rich. We both know you won’t get a better deal. Hell, one phone call from me, and you won’t get another deal ever again. I’ll pay you what it’s worth, no more. Now, what do you say? Take the deal? For me, for you? Hell, for the pretty lady sitting next to you. We can sort this all out now, no problem. Or you can create a problem for yourself. What’s it gonna be?”

Rich made a low sound in his throat and lowered his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples like he was warding off a headache. “Okay. Okay, fine. Give me the money, and I’ll give you the photo.”

Photo? “What photo?” Wray asked.

“This is between me and him,” Greenback snapped. Then to Rich, “Hand over the photo, and I’ll see what I can do about the cash.”

Rich shook his head. “Not how this works.”

“It’s how it works for me, or maybe you forgot that part. Been a while since we’ve seen each other, huh?”

Rich lifted his head enough to briefly study Greenback’s face. Maybe he was searching for signs of hope himself. It seemed he came up empty, because he dropped his head again a moment later. “Need to stand to get it out of my pocket.”

“Inside jacket pocket like before?”

Rich nodded.

Greenback took a step forward. Wray’s muscles tensed as it occurred to her that he meant to remove the photo himself, ensuring Rich didn’t have a weapon of his own at the ready. This was it, Wray thought. Greenback would need both hands to retrieve the photo and check for concealed weapons. His position would put the revolver at easy reach for Wray. Even with the shirt in the way, she was certain she could either manage a disarm or put herself in a position to mount an effective fight.

Greenback stopped, eyes flicking between the two people on his couch. His gaze settled on Wray. “You know what? Why don’t you get it for me?”

Damn.

Wray concealed the disappointment beneath a layer of annoyance. “Whatever, dude. This whole thing’s stupid. All this bullshit over a photo?” She shook her head and reached for Rich’s jacket.

And stopped. She felt it now, the energy she’d sensed moments ago as she’d entered the house immediately behind Rich. Without a doubt, it emanated from whatever it was inside his pocket.

The photograph. Had to be.

This was about to get awkward. As strong as this was, the moment she put her hands on it, she’d get a full-on electrical jolt. Recognizing that fact, she steeled herself as well as she could and reached into Rich’s jacket for the item.

There was no concealing the zap she received. She was aware she’d visibly jumped. No way not to when the photo contained what it did. She had yet to lay eyes on it, but she knew without looking. This photo might show nothing to most people but a few smiling faces or an object or two. To her, though, it revealed something more.

Death.

It had been touched by an event so traumatic, remnants of it had attached themselves to the paper on which the image was printed. Without a full reading, she had no idea what the memory contained, but she knew without delving further it was something dark.

All she needed now was the time and the opportunity to read its secrets.

She wasn’t getting it yet. Greenback snatched it away from her before she had a chance to fully regain control of her senses. She wanted to kick herself, uncertain whether she might have missed a chance at surprising Greenback while his attention was momentarily on the photo. Unfortunately, hers had been too; as she’d considered multiple times in the past, she’d never been able to fully control her responses to energized objects. For at least a second or two, they always wielded the power.

“This is it, huh?” Greenback asked as he turned over the photo in his hands. “This photo came from the bus?”

“Like I told you, yeah,” Rich said. “I found it in the glove compartment while everyone else was preoccupied.”

Wray’s curiosity piqued. Though she’d briefly held the photo, she hadn’t had the chance to actually look at it. “What’s on it?”

“Members of the band next to the bus. A few others are on there too. It’s a group shot.” An odd tone entered Rich’s voice as he spoke of the others. Discomfort definitely, but it struck Wray it contained an added element.

Fear?

“This could have come from anywhere,” Greenback told him. “Told you that when you flashed it at me before. Having a closer look now doesn’t get me anywhere either. Hell, the thing’s not even signed.”

“Doesn’t have to be, right? I mean, it came from the bus. The bus.”

Right, Wray thought. The mysteriously missing bus. In his own way, though, Greenback had a point. Maybe she could use it to her benefit.

“If you don’t think it’s worth anything, might as well give it back to Rich here and go about your business,” she told Greenback. “I mean, what good is a photo, anyway? Must be thousands of them taken of these guys.”

“Not like this one,” Rich said. “I think this one was taken right before Havik disappeared.”

Wray wanted to slug him.

“How the fuck would you know that?” Greenback demanded.

Rich folded his arms and sat back. Smug. He was about to prove a point and make everything that much worse. “There’s the paint job, for a start. But mostly it’s because of the guy standing toward the right side of the photo.”

“The schmuck with the beard and the cowboy hat? What about him?”

A satisfied smile quirked Rich’s lips. “His name’s Harry Rugg. That bus, the ring, the bones—they were all just found on his property.”

Twelve

Strong energy attached to objects always delivered a blow to Wray, but sometimes verbal revelations did the same thing. As Rich’s words settled, her heart thudded and her widened eyes shot toward his profile.

She had questions—a hell of a lot of them—but this wasn’t the time to ask them. First, she needed to get the photo away from Greenback and figure out how to escape with Rich without either of them getting shot.

Before any of that, though, she needed to persuade Rich to shut the hell up.

“It would be easier to discuss this without that whole gun thing you’ve got going on,” Wray said, accentuating her point with a glance toward Greenback’s waistline.

Greenback ignored her. He was seeking a reason to want the photo; that much was obvious to Wray. He wouldn’t get what he needed from her, so he’d direct his attention entirely to Rich.

“I’m going to need more than that,” Greenback said. “If I stand half a chance at flipping this thing, I’ll need to prove to a prospective buyer it’s legit what you’re telling me.”

“I can’t do that yet,” Rich said. “I’m asking you to trust me is all. The best I can do is tell you where I got it and how. Once details of the police investigation go public, the whole world will know what that photo’s all about. You don’t want to lose out now, do you?”

Yes, Wray definitely did want to kick Rich’s ass. Not only did this picture belong with police as evidence, Rich was currently digging his grave deeper—their grave. Foot by foot, he was burying himself, ensuring he and Wray faced a significantly steeper uphill battle getting out of here in one piece. Nothing stopping Greenback, after all, from simply pocketing the photo and keeping his cash in hand, too, by doing away with Rich and Wray. Rich had name and face recognition on his side, of course; a possibility existed someone had seen him coming in here and would notice if he didn’t come out. But Wray wasn’t prepared to bet the farm on that theory. Greenback wasn’t without resources of his own, and Wray suspected he had access to a number of people who could make his problems disappear.

Just as Havik had disappeared all those years back.

Not the right moment to draw parallels of such a bleak nature.

“Maybe you need reminding as to which one of us has the upper hand here,” Greenback told Rich. “I’m the one with the gun, remember?”

“Sure, I remember,” Rich said. “But we’ve done business before, and there’s nothing saying we can’t do business again, right? Hard to do that if I’m dead. Anyway, if I don’t get back to my wife in one piece, the police will get called. Only a matter of time before they turn up on your doorstep.”

Greenback narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like being screwed around, Lewison. You know that.”

“Makes two of us.”

Stupid time for Rich to grow a set, but there it was. He’d thrown down the gauntlet. Now it was up to the fence to decide what to do about it.

“I’ll give you four hundred,” Greenback said.

“Dollars?” Rich squeaked. “It’s worth at least four times that much.”

“You just said you got it on a bus that’s now in police possession. That means this thing”—Greenback flapped the photo in the air—“comes with enough heat to broil a ham. I can move it because I can move anything, but it’ll take more effort on my part to line it up with the right buyer. See what I’m getting at?”

“Sure, and I’m telling you the right buyer will pay at least four times what you’re offering me. Give me fifteen hundred. You’ll still turn a hefty profit, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“I can have you out of my hair in the blink of an eye.”

“Not with that thing, you can’t,” Wray spoke up. “You’ll need to empty the cylinder before you get both of us, because I’m not going down easy. All that banging’s going to draw heat down on you in two minutes flat. I saw at least three houses on this block where people are currently at home. They’ll notice that thing going off, and you know it.”

For the first time, Greenback regarded her seriously, turning a studious gaze on her as he cocked his head. “Who are you, exactly?”

“An added complication you don’t want,” she said. “Toss that gun and we can have ourselves a serious discussion here. All this bullshit between you two macho men is getting us nowhere.”

“Not happening,” Greenback said.

No, it wasn’t. Nothing much of use was happening, come to that. Greenback and Rich had each dug in, and it was only a matter of time before the situation took a sour turn. Wray had pussyfooted around this long enough. Time to end things.

Wray heaved a sigh. “You know what, fine. I’m done. You two sort out your shit. I’m leaving.”

She stood rapidly. Greenback reacted as she’d predicted, taking a half-step back and reaching toward his waistband. Maybe she couldn’t get at the gun easily, but she sure as hell could get at him.

She closed the distance to him in one long, fast step, catching his jaw with a blinding right hook as she moved. Greenback’s head snapped to the side as he stumbled. He didn’t fall, but another shot to his chin took him the rest of the way there.

Wray followed him down, diving for his waistband as he landed hard. His shirt had shifted during his fall, exposing a portion of the gun’s butt. Easy enough to draw the snub-nosed weapon all the way out. Nothing short of a miracle for him it hadn’t fallen out in the first place.

“Get the photo,” Wray ordered Rich.

No response. The jerk was apparently stunned himself.

“Get the photo!” Wray yelled without looking. “Now!”

Movement behind her told her Rich was finally doing something. Wray didn’t check to see what, her attention completely on Greenback as she shifted his jaw back and forth, his eyes rolling a little as he sought out Wray’s form above him.

She brought the business end of the handgun to bear, levelling it at Greenback’s head, right between his eyes where the black hole of the bore would be at its most persuasive.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled at her.

“Like I said before, an added complication you don’t want.” Her peripheral vision told her Rich had grabbed the photo and was backing away from the action.

Greenback tried to lift himself to sitting but Wray shook her head. “Uh uh. Stay where you are.” She repeated Greenback’s earlier words at him. “I’m the one with the gun, remember?”

“You fucking cu⁠—”

Wray kicked him hard in the belly, stopping the curse halfway as Greenback launched into a coughing fit. “I really don’t like that word.” Then to Rich, “Outside. Now.”

She would have demanded he hand her the photo first, but she couldn’t risk losing the upper hand by suffering another jolt from the item. Instead, she jerked the gun a little, watching Greenback’s eyes as they followed it.

“I’ll be holding onto this for now,” she told him. “Have a nice day.”

She heard Rich jogging out and she followed, relying on her senses and memory to guide her as she found the way backward, ensuring she could keep her eyes on Greenback the whole time. She didn’t doubt he was the kind of guy to keep a stash of weapons hidden at various convenient locations throughout his property, and she couldn’t risk him getting to another gun before she and Rich had gotten away.

She made it to the door without incident. Only then, with Greenback out of sight, did she break visual with him as she turned front and ran after Rich. She caught up to him quickly, risking a jolt as she seized at the photo still in his hand. She got one, but having known it was coming, she managed to keep going.

“Hey!” he yelled. “That’s mine!”

Not the time to argue a stupid point. “Get in your car and follow me!” she snapped at him. She said nothing more, no time to spare. It seemed he’d listened, as by the time she dropped back into the driver’s seat of Emily’s car, Rich was already back in his car and pulling away from the curb.

Wray started the car and pulled away herself, tires kicking up dirt and debris as she took off too fast. As she passed Greenback’s house, she saw him framed in the doorway, mouth bleeding, shaking his fist and yelling something she couldn’t make out. She passed Rich’s rental too, not bothering to slow for him. She stepped on the gas instead, ensuring Greenback would have no opportunity to read her licence plate. She couldn’t rule out he had the sort of connections who could get him vehicle registration info, and no way in hell she’d allow Emily to be put at risk.

As for Rich, he could cut a U-turn on the street ahead or he could catch her up at a nearby block. She didn’t care if he found her at all. All she cared about was that she’d gotten out of there with the stolen photo in hand.

She’d make sure she got somewhere safe, somewhere Greenback couldn’t easily locate her. Then she’d call Mars with the good news.

Thirteen

Mars needed some good news.

The Ident unit was still crawling around at the Rugg residence, and last he’d checked, they were rapidly losing hope of finding anything useful. Meanwhile, he was no further ahead in discovering how the bus had come to be there in the first place. Phil Rugg certainly didn’t seem to know much of anything. He barely knew anything about his father at all.

With Lilian having tasked herself with finding contact info for Havik’s next of kin, that left Mars to conduct a full interview with Phil. He’d walked into police headquarters promptly at ten, the time Mars had asked him to come. They were now seated inside one of the KRPD’s nicer interview rooms, one of those set aside for witness and victim interviews rather than the more uncomfortable and sparser ones reserved for suspects.

Mars had taken Phil through the basics, gaining a general understanding of his and his father’s background and personal history before launching into the topic at hand. Twenty minutes in, and Mars was getting nowhere fast.

“It’s weird, I know,” Phil told him following a string of “I don’t know” responses to questions. “Yeah, I should know more about my father, but I don’t. He was a real people guy on the surface, but he was actually more like a recluse in a lot of ways. Can’t even say he had any close friends I knew of. He liked having people in to tour through the place and everything, but he enjoyed having it to himself at the end of the day. I think the only people he associated with were the ones he met at the auctions he went to. He was always going to auctions, looking for the next great deal, some treasure no one else had discovered.”

“You said yesterday you’d never seen the bus before. You must have visited with your father quite a bit over the years though, no?”

A light flush crept over Phil’s cheeks. “I know how this is going to sound, but no, I guess I didn’t. Not a whole lot, at any rate. Thing is, though, it wasn’t all me. When I was a kid, I remember thinking my dad was pretty cool, but he changed over time. Got more withdrawn. I’d go over to visit, and he wouldn’t have a whole lot to say to me. Sometimes, too, he was a real jerk, got pissed off for no reason I could see. Got so he wouldn’t talk about anything other than his antique collection.”

“What about your mom? We haven’t discussed her yet.”

“Died when I was a baby. Don’t know, maybe that’s where everything started with my dad. He only mentioned it once to me, but apparently, my birth was a real hard one, and she died as a result. I don’t know much else about it, except it always made me suspect that’s where the tension started with my father and me. He never said it out loud, but I think deep down, he blamed me for her death.”

Mars had actually already done some background on Harry Rugg, enough to have uncovered details of his wife’s death. With evidence of a serious crime having been located on his property, background on Harry was the first thing Mars had focused on once back at the office. While he didn’t yet have access to full medical records, he’d found enough to convince him there’d been nothing suspicious in May Rugg’s untimely death.

“Did your dad ever mention Alban Ezra? Was he a fan maybe?”

“That’s the weird thing. It wasn’t just that he never talked about having the bus back there, he never talked about the band at all. Far as I know, he was a country music guy, not rock. I could theorize that he never mentioned getting ahold of the bus because he worried about theft. He did worry about that sort of thing for sure.”

“How about purchase records? As far as I know, we haven’t found yet where he keeps those. He must have receipts and invoices around somewhere, right?”

“No doubt, but I can’t begin to tell you where. Believe me, sorting through my dad’s stuff is every bit as overwhelming for me as for you guys. Why do you think I let those antique show people in? Figured anything they looked at or hauled away was one less thing for me to sort through.”

Good point. Unfortunately, it sounded as though the police had even more work ahead of them. They’d need those purchase receipts—even if all they got from them was evidence Harry didn’t have one for the bus.

Mars decided to move on to something else Phil had referred to. “You mentioned your dad was worried about theft. Was there ever a break-in or trespassing incident you’re aware of?” Mars had checked into this too, of course, but nothing showed up in police files. If there had been any such incident, it had gone unreported.

“Not that I know of. If anything had happened to that effect, he never told me.”

“What about his guns? We found a collection of them. He ever mention why he had them?”

“Collected them, just like anything else. He did tell me about those, actually. Said if anything happened to him to make sure they were safe. I did check after he died, and they were all still locked up where they were supposed to be.”

This was true. Harry had accumulated a fair number of weapons, most of them historic. They were the first things the Ident unit and patrol had seized upon entering the property, and so far, ballistics testing had shown a good many weren’t capable of being fired anymore. It seemed Harry’s interest in guns was indeed a historical one rather than a practical one, at least when considering the lack of necessary upkeep to ensure proper function. His worries about trespassers and thieves hadn’t extended to a desire to protect himself using a firearm.

“I’d been trying to figure out what to do with them when all this happened with the thing they found on the bus.” Phil wrinkled his nose as he accentuated the word “thing.” Mars could understand his repulsion. He felt fairly repulsed himself.

“Getting back to the bus itself,” Mars said. “I really need to figure out how it came to be on your father’s property. Only two ways I can think of. One was that he bought it from someone under the table. I mean, no way this bus was sold in a legit auction, not with the finger lying there and all that. So my thought is that someone involved in the incident wanted to offload it on somebody who’d keep it secret for them and happened across your dad at that point.”

He paused a moment, letting Phil consider this before moving on to his second theory—the one likely to be more difficult for Phil to stomach. “The other way it ends up on your father’s property is that he put it there himself—as in he was involved in something he shouldn’t have been and wanted to keep the evidence somewhere he knew it was safe.”

Mars had his doubts on the second theory though. Unquestionably, Harry knew what he had insofar as the bus itself. Certainly, he’d kept the bus well away from the publicly accessible parts of his property. That fed the theory Harry had either come by the bus in a less than honest way or that he was concerned about someone taking it away from him.

Where Mars struggled was regarding the ring and the finger. Had Harry been involved somehow in the finger-severing—and whatever else had transpired at the time—surely, he would have gotten rid of that piece of evidence. On a property like his, it was easy enough to conceal things. After all, it had taken this long to discover the bus there; given the substantial growth of vegetation around it, it seemed clear to Mars it had been there a long time. It would have been nothing then for Harry to remove the finger and the ring, to bury them somewhere no one would ever find them. Mars was convinced the forensic identification team could be out there for three solid weeks and not find everything there was to find.

“My dad wasn’t the most talkative guy, so I know it would be simple enough for him to have some secrets,” Phil said. “But I’ll tell you this: he was no killer. He couldn’t have hurt anyone. It wasn’t in him.”

Mars had more to ask, but his cellphone ringing from his pocket got in the way.

“Sorry,” he told Phil before drawing out the phone and checking the call display.

Wray. Not like her to phone mid-way through the workday, particularly lately, standoffish as she’d been acting.

“Gotta take this,” Mars said. “Five minutes?”

Phil nodded. “No problem.”

Mars smiled his thanks and stepped into the hall, shutting the door to the interview room as he tapped the talk button. “Hey, Wray. What’s up?”

“Busy?”

“Always, but I can spare a minute or two.”

“Good. I think you’ll be happy you did. I found your evidence.”

Mars’s brows shot up his forehead. “You mean the Lewisons did take something?”

“Thought you figured they did.”

“Rich was acting off and all that, but I certainly had nothing besides my instincts to go on. What did you find?”

“Long story as to how I got hold of it, but it’s a photograph. Get this: it shows the band next to Ezra’s tour bus with some other people. One of those people is Harry Rugg.”

If Mars’s brows lifted any higher, they’d vanish into his hairline. “Get out of here.”

“Seriously. Anyway, the photo’s yours if you want it. I’m assuming you want it?” Her voice carried a smile, one Mars felt himself answering with his own.

“Hell, yeah.” He glanced around, made sure he was alone. “You get anything off it?”

“My brand of anything, you mean? Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?”

“Like, it carries a substantial amount of energy, but I haven’t read it yet.”

“Why not?”

A pause. “It’s the type of energy. I’m talking bad mojo here—the death kind. Not the sort of thing I want to go into on my own.”

Mars read her meaning. “You want me there?”

“Need someone I can trust in case I have trouble while I’m under. Happens sometimes.”

He recalled. “Give me a few minutes to wrap up what I’m doing. I’ll come meet you. Where are you?”

“My place. By the way, you’ll want to make sure the Lewisons are staying put. Rich is a little anxious right now—maybe enough to attempt a runner.”

“I’ll get someone to check in on them. Still at the same motel?”

“Last time I saw them.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“I had a chat with Ruby. She doesn’t seem to be in the know about Rich’s shenanigans, but she suspected he’s been playing at some bad stuff behind her back. I got some intel regarding a local fence, someone who moves bigger merchandise. Lo and behold, when I went to surveil his place, Rich turned up trying to sell off the photo. Got a little intense, but I managed to get the photo back.”

Mars frowned. “Intense how?”

“The fence is a guy named Jimmy Gibson. Ring a bell?”

“Greenback Gibson? What the hell, Wray? You went in there on your own?”

“I had to get Rich out. The dipshit was five seconds from getting himself capped.”

Mars was pretty sure his blood pressure had just spiked. “You should have called me.”

“I got it done.”

“You should have fucking called me.” Having snapped the retort, he glanced up to find a pair of uniforms escorting a prisoner to a nearby interview room. Mars formed an uneasy grin for their benefit before getting back to his call—more quietly this time. “Not cool, Wray. Do you have any idea who you were messing with?”

“Actually, yeah. How do you think I found him?”

“No idea, but you’d better tell me fast.”

She sighed. “I’ve got a friend in high places, all right? Gets stuff for me sometimes.”

“Listen to me. We don’t even go into Greenback’s place without sending SWAT in first, you get me? We’ve been through his place, top to bottom, twice. Both times, SWAT’s found guns in damn near every room. If you’d called, I could have warned you about that.”

“He’s got a rep as a big-time mover in the stolen goods black market. Believe me, dude, I had him down as a gun guy before I stepped foot inside. By the way, I took one of his guns off him. It’s at the bottom of the river now. Thought you should know.”

Mars scrubbed a hand down his face. He wasn’t totally sure why he was so pissed off, but he was pretty certain a good portion of it was because he cared about Wray. Maybe his worry was clouding his judgment. She was, after all, a former soldier, and while she never talked much about her military days, he knew she’d been involved in some intense action. She knew what she was doing—he’d witnessed it personally. Treating her like she didn’t might be viewed by her as an insult—the last thing he wanted to do.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I’m being an ass. You got out okay?”

“I’m talking to you, aren’t I? I dropped the prick and got Rich and I out just fine.”

“Dropped, meaning …?”

“Meaning a bloody lip, not morgue-ready. Don’t worry. Anyway, if you’re done ragging on me, maybe you can finish what you’re doing and get over here?”

“I will. What about Greenback? He arrestable on something?”

“Probably loads of somethings, but nothing related to me. Honestly, I’d rather he stayed out. Might be he’ll be more use to us that way, depending how this thing plays out.”

“Okay,” Mars said. “Give me a few minutes, like I said. I’ll call before I come over.”

“I’ll count the minutes, sweetheart.”

Mars flushed but was thankfully saved from having to respond to her quip when she hung up.

He dropped his phone back into his pocket. He’d finish up with Phil, then check in with Lilian on her progress with Havik’s next of kin. After that, he’d make his way over to Wray’s.

For perhaps the first time, he felt a measure of hope regarding his ability to put this case to rest. So far, he’d found little using traditional methods. Wray’s untraditional approach could be exactly what he needed.

Fourteen

Wray had expected Mars wouldn’t call for another half-hour. Instead, fifteen minutes after their initial call, a text came from his phone, letting her know he was on his way.

She put on a pot of coffee, focusing on the dripping liquid to try to keep her mind off the photo. She’d placed it face-up on the kitchen table to await Mars. While she wasn’t currently handling it, the energy rolling off it was no less intense than it had been earlier. That it had secrets to impart was obvious. She wondered what she’d learn from it, but as always, she also found herself questioning what kind of impact it would have on her.

She was contemplating that when her phone rang. Thinking it was Mars, she answered without checking the screen. “Hey, change of plans?”

“You tell me.” Nope, not Mars. This was Rich Lewison.

“Tell you what?” Wray asked, although she was pretty sure she knew what he was getting at.

“You told me to follow you,” he grumbled. “Would’ve helped if you hadn’t made active efforts to ditch me.”

“Maybe you need some training in how to tail someone,” she returned.

Rich heaved a pained sigh. “Seriously, though, where’d you go with my photo?”

“Not your photo, buddy. You pilfered it from a crime scene. It’s going to the cops.”

“Come on. You can’t do that.”

“Damn straight I can. Only question now is whether I go to bat for you on the whole theft thing.”

Silence. “You’re not going to rat me out, are you? Come on. After all we’ve been through together?”

“Twenty minutes of me saving your stupid ass from a black market dealer doesn’t exactly make us war buddies, man.”

“Okay, yeah, whatever. Just thought, you know, the whole TV thing—if anyone gets it, it would be you, right?”

Oh boy, he was stooping to this tactic now. “I never stole anything from the places we visited.”

“Maybe not, but you still get it, don’t you? They’ve been threatening to cancel us for a while now. They’ve cut our production team to ribbons, they’ve scaled back our travel budget. We used to fly places. Now we’ve got to rent vehicles and trail our van everywhere. Hell, I’ve got to drive the stupid thing myself. And let me tell you, the number of times that hunk of metal has broken down is ridiculous. Next thing, they’ll have us footing the bill for repairs.”

He was whining. Part of Wray did understand what he was saying; after all, he was right about her having been there. Problem was, she’d heard all this crap before from her ex-husband when he’d tried justifying his frauds—the frauds which had also victimized her.

Yes, she understood Rich’s frustration, but she was far from sympathetic about his actions.

“Not going down that rabbit hole,” she told him. “As for your question about where I went with your photo, I’m at my place. And no, you won’t want to come here. I’ve got a police detective coming over as we speak. Forget about the photo. As far as you’re concerned, it’s gone.”

“Not totally.”

Wray gave her cellphone a side-eye. “Come again?”

“Something else you might find interesting about that picture. Might actually give you some incentive to take off with it before the cops show up.”

“What’s the deal, Rich?”

“I mentioned the fact the photo shows Harry Rugg, but there’s someone else in there too—a guy along the edge. Long dark hair, skinny, big beard.”

Wray reluctantly moved back to the table. The energy buzzed around her like wasps leaving a nest, but she needed to see what Rich was talking about. “I see him, yeah. Who is he?”

“No idea.”

“You’re losing me here, Rich.”

“I’m saying I’ve got no idea, but I have seen him before. On the bus yesterday.”

Wray straightened. “Hold on. There was someone else there besides your crew and Harry’s son?”

“Sort of.”

“Rich, I swear to God⁠—”

“I saw him in the rearview mirror. He was there. I swear he was there. But when I turned, he was gone.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yeah. Thing is, no one else noticed him. And we checked the whole bus, and there was just nothing. I know what I saw. I mean, yeah, I started to think for a second maybe I’d imagined it. But then I looked at that photo. I mean, really looked. It was him. The guy I’d seen in the mirror not two minutes earlier. He appeared to me for a reason. I’m sure of it.”

“Rich—”

“Given what you used to do for a job, you have to understand what I’m saying, right? I saw a ghost. And he looked like he did in the photo. I know I’m no expert of the paranormal or anything, but I’ve watched and read enough to say he must had died sometime shortly after that photo was taken.”

That part, at least, Rich probably had right. Not that Wray was going to agree with him out loud. Anyway, she was too busy thinking now. Missing drummer. Harry Rugg. Now the ghost of a guy who’d been photographed with the band. What the hell was going on?

“There’s something else too,” Rich said.

Of course there was.

“If you check out the details of the paint job on that bus, you’ll notice the band’s initials on the side.”

“Right, yeah. So?”

“So they updated their logo shortly before Havik disappeared. That included redoing the bus’s paint job to match. I did some research. The logo changed less than a month before Havik vanished. That means that photo had to have been taken pretty much right before it happened.”

“Bloody hell,” Wray muttered.

“If you still have that whole touchy thing going on, you need to do that before the police take that photo. Otherwise, we might never get to the bottom of it.”

He had that right. What he didn’t know was that Wray was about to do the whole “touchy thing” in the presence of the police. She decided not to share that detail with Rich. Mars might or might not have let his colleagues know what he was up to. Some, no doubt, wouldn’t be pleased he’d allowed Wray to put her hands all over an important piece of evidence without first having someone from the Forensic Identification Unit take custody of it.

“I’ll get back to you on this,” Wray told Rich.

“No, we need to deal with this now—before the police⁠—”

A buzz sounded on her speaker system connected to the downstairs security door.

“Gotta go, Rich.”

“Wray, come on, can’t we talk more about this before you⁠—”

She disconnected the call en route to the speaker box. She pressed the button to make sure it was Mars. It was. Less than a minute later, he was at her apartment door.

“That was quick,” she said.

“Not that we haven’t been running down some leads, but I don’t think it’s a stretch to say you’re the best one I’ve got right now.”

Wray grinned. “My dude, I’m always the best you’ve got. Come on in.”

She stepped aside to let him pass before motioning to the coffee maker. “I put on some coffee. Help yourself.”

“I’d rather see this photo you found.”

Wray motioned toward the rickety kitchen table. “Help yourself to that too. I’m not touching it again until I’m ready to do my whole thing. You want a coffee, ’cause I’m getting one for myself.”

“Sure, yeah, thanks.”

Wray left Mars to study the photo, pouring out two cups of coffee as he did. “Still take yours black?”

“Yeah, thanks.” His tone was distracted—hardly a surprise given the content of the photo. “This is really him. Harry Rugg, I mean.”

“Which is why I figured this was kind of a big deal.” Wray carried over her pair of mismatched mugs, setting Mars’s down in front of him. She sat on the chair nearest her own cup, taking a cautious sip as Mars continued to stare at the photo.

“Any idea who these others are?” Mars asked.

“Funny you should say that.”

Mars lowered himself gingerly into a chair. She couldn’t blame him for his level of caution. One day, these things were going to collapse and land someone on their ass on the peeling vinyl floor. “Why?”

“Just got off the phone with Rich, as it happens. He mentioned something about the guy with the long brown hair and the beard.”

“Skinny one on the side?”

“Yep. Apparently, Rich saw him on the bus. Just a glimpse, but enough he recognized him.”

Mars frowned. “Okay, but this photo’s like forty years old, right? How’d he know it was the same guy?” He shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. “Hang on. How is there another guy on the bus all of a sudden? No one mentioned him before.”

“There’s a reason for all of that. He wasn’t really there—or at least, not in the same way the others were. I think Rich saw a ghost.”

Mars rubbed at the corners of his eyes. “Come on, no. This is already bad enough. Don’t give me a ghost yet.”

“I’d apologize, but hey, if I’ve got to deal with this paranormal crap, you can too.”

A sigh. “All right, yeah, I hear you. Any ideas?”

“About how to handle it? Well, obviously, I’ll do what I do here, see where it gets us. Hopefully, it’ll give you a solid lead or two to follow. But given the whole ghost thing, I was thinking you might want to contact the real expert there.”

“Sullivan Gray? He only sees the homicide ghosts, no?”

“For the most part, that’s my understanding. Of course, if he doesn’t see the guy himself, that might give you at least part of your answer. If he does though …” She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. Mars would know what she meant.

“Right. More complications.” He dropped his face into his hands and massaged his temples. “Creates another problem for me though. How am I supposed to swing it to get either of you onto that bus? It’s part of an active crime scene.”

“Hey, dude, no offence, but that’s your bag, not mine. I’m just telling you what we’d need. Sully might be able to see something on that bus, something that could give you a major breakthrough. And hey, so could I. I’ll see what this photo gets you, but there’s no denying I might get a whole hell of a lot more from the ring you found or the bus itself. I know it’s not your call, but I’ve got to put it out there.”

“I know you do.” Mars gave his forehead a last rub, then lifted his gaze back to Wray. “For now, let’s just see what you can get from that photo, okay? I’ll figure out the rest later.”

No more delaying then. Wray nodded her understanding. Then she shifted into a more comfortable position, allowed herself one last swig of coffee and focused on the photo.

She twitched her fingers a moment, like a pianist readying for a concert. As soon as she’d readied herself as well as possible, she’d lay her fingers on the edges of the photo and allow its energy to take her under. She gave herself a few seconds, then puffed out a quick breath and reached for it.

Time to see what secrets it might hold.

Fifteen

A series of visions came in flashes, seemingly not adhering to any actual chronological pattern. Rarely did Wray find herself in the middle of long, detailed scenes. Rather, she was subjected to snippets, fragments of memory tossed together into a sort of mental salad.

Sometimes she heard voices, words. Sometimes there were smells. More often, it was the images, thoughts and emotions that gave her the answers she sought. Even then, though, often some interpretation was needed, context requiring a living, breathing source.

As the first of the images struck her, she forced away her natural human wish to search for logic in the chain of scenes. Logic would come later. For now, there was only the intangible reality of her ability.

Harry stood behind the barn, gaze tracking over the heavily vegetated area behind. His heart pounded a little as he caught sight of the bus’s front grill. His heart always pounded a little when he happened out this way.

These days, Harry populated his house and his miniature village with all the new things he found at auctions or elsewhere. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this far back on the property, and he wasn't sure what had brought him out this way today. Yet, here he was, eyes fixed wide and staring on this hint of a hunk of metal and glass.

He took a step forward and stopped. Perhaps he should check it, make sure no one had been through here against his wishes. He was relatively certain no one had. Were anyone to find it, he would've heard about it. Quite likely, the entire world would have heard about it.

Something stopped him from pressing any farther. He might've blamed his knees. The damned things had been paining him something fierce the past few weeks, what with all the stormy weather they’d been having. Truthfully, though, he knew the real answer was something else.

He never felt quite right here, almost as if he were being watched. Sometimes, on those days when he suffered from little sleep the night before, he thought perhaps if he closed his eyes and listened, he might hear whispers uttered in his ear. He was positive he’d heard his name called once from somewhere near the bus, although he hadn't had the guts to go and check who it was. More than that, he didn't have the guts to face the likelihood there would be no one there to find.

Ghosts. He believed in them, and that was why the bus was out here, well away from the house, well away from him. Ghosts were born of bad things, his mama had always told him. And bad things had happened on that bus. He was sure of it.

Sometimes he questioned why he’d kept it. Most of the time, he knew exactly why. It was who he was. And the part of him that hadn't been born this way had been made.

And part of that person had been made four decades ago, when good times had turned sour and happy memories had been poisoned forever by darkness.

A thrill of excitement filled a young Harry Rugg as he eyed the photo in front of him.

Although he knew a member of the crew, he hadn't expected the actual band to show up. Yet here they were—or at least here they had been. And he had the proof.

Four band members. Two members of the crew, one of them, Harry's friend. A couple of pretty ladies who Harry took for groupies. And of course, Harry himself. They wanted a quiet, out-of-the-way space, somewhere no one would follow. Harry's buddy, Buck, could think of no better place than here, amidst this tangle of trees, outbuildings and collected treasures.

Harry thought about how he’d taken them on a small tour, showed off some of the things he’d bought. He thought maybe they’d been interested, but he couldn't be sure. Maybe they were only being polite—all but that jerk of a lead singer, whatever his name was. Harry couldn't remember. He was a country music guy.

Of course, you'd have to be living under a rock to have not known the name Alban Ezra. For that alone, this photograph meant everything.

Harry had always been a collector. He loved holding history in his hand, being able to turn it over, study it, imagine where and with whom his possessions had once been. He'd never been able to pass a proper history test in school, unable to remember specifics like dates of wars or the names of world leaders. Yet he could describe the history of every single item he owned, could recall where and when they’d each come into his possession and where they’d been before that.

He treasured everything he owned. Some would call him a packrat. Some would even call him a hoarder. Harry preferred the term ‘collector.’ Had he the right credentials, or the ambition to pursue having his home delegated a proper museum, he might've even been classified as a historian. Another life perhaps. He was happy enough with the life he led.

Yes, he loved his things. But he didn't think he'd ever loved anything so much as the photograph of himself standing next to Alban Ezra and their bus. Maybe it was worth something—if not now, then one day. Perhaps he’d eventually trade it for something he wanted more. For now, though, it was his and it would stay his.

A beam of light cut across the ceiling while Harry lay in bed. Headlights. Who could be here at this hour?

He stood, padded toward the window and drew back a curtain coated with a film of dust. Definitely headlights.

Harry had guns, but they weren’t meant for use. Truthfully, he hated the thought of using them, jumped whenever he was too close to a shot going off. He was no gun expert, but he didn’t even think most of them were operable.

He had an axe though—a big one—stored handily in the closet next to the front door. The couple of times he’d been forced to deal with trespassers, that axe had come in pretty damned handy. Hadn't had to use it, thank God. So far, waving it around in the air like a lunatic had been plenty enough to send the rats scurrying back to their holes in the city or wherever they’d come from.

Harry was about to drop the curtain back into place and make for the stairs when he happened to notice something on the larger of two vehicles—a bus—driving through the yard. A brilliant paint job and a set of initials. AE.

Alban Ezra and their friends had been here only yesterday in this bus. Why were they back? Hell, why were they back in the middle of the night?

Nothing for it. Harry would simply have to find out.

Branches caught at his clothing, scratched at his face.

Harry's heart thundered a mad rhythm, a piece that would put that Alban Ezra drummer to shame. His breath hitched, and he coughed before he could stop himself. He managed to stifle the rest between tightly closed lips, then questioned why it should matter and why he should care. The way he was crashing through the trees, surely they’d hear him whether he coughed out loud or not.

God, what if they had heard him? Would they come to the house? Would they come for him?

Would they come for him anyway? They'd come here after all, to his property in this quiet corner of the countryside a short drive from the city. It would be nothing to make him disappear. No one would hear him. Unlikely anyone would so much as bother to check on him. Not for a week or two at any rate, long enough for these people to find themselves another quiet spot to slither into.

Good lord, what if his boy found him when he was next by for a visit? No, that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all.

Harry’s foot caught on something and he came down hard, knees knocking into the earth, one palm scraping painfully against a large broken branch. He liked to think he knew this place like the back of his hand. Clearly, he didn't know it as well as he thought he did. Or maybe nothing was truly known by night.

No time to worry about the pain now. He was back up on his feet and running before so much as five seconds had elapsed. No choice. No luxury of time. He needed to get back to the house, find his damned truck keys if he could manage it. If he couldn't, he’d make his way as fast as he could to one of two panic rooms he’d created for himself, lock himself in there with his axe, maybe a better-quality gun or two if his hands weren't shaking too badly to work the lock on the safe. He had no ammo for anything in a handy spot, but maybe the gun in his hands would prove disincentive enough.

Certainly, he couldn’t call the police. He’d neglected his phone bill and the couple of warnings from the company for too long, apparently. He thought he wouldn’t mind living off the grid, so to speak. Suddenly, he regretted it terribly.

No time for regrets now. Get away or get safe. Do those things and maybe he wouldn’t end up like Clint.

Clint, whose voice had just come from the bus in the dead of night, in the otherwise stillness of the wooded property. Clint, whose cries had only been drowned out by the heart-stopping screams of another man.

Harry ran on. It was all he had in him to do.

Harry approached the bus slowly, carefully. Many years had passed, and much had changed. Certainly, the landscape had changed, green things growing and winding around the bus as if to shelter it, to claim it for its own.

Harry stopped, staring. Studied the grimy windows. Searching for what? A face?

Yes, he realized, that was exactly what he was looking for. No one alive would be on that bus, yet Harry had the feeling someone was on board nonetheless. Years had passed, much had changed, but years and change didn’t touch inhabitants of the spirit world. His mama had told him that too, and his mama knew about these things.

No faces appeared, no eyes caught his through the glass. Harry had never been a courageous man, and that night close to four decades ago had done nothing to fix that. It had taken all he had to approach the bus the day after that night, to check it for clues as to what had happened.

He’d stepped on board that day through a partially opened door. He’d taken just a few steps inside when something raced past him, wrenching a startled yell from his lips.

A raccoon maybe. Harry didn’t stick around to find out.

He’d been inside only one other time. He couldn’t claim to having searched the bus thoroughly, though he did make sure no one was inside, living or dead. Hadn’t taken more than a rapid walkthrough to check that much.

He’d had to go, had to make sure. Because still without a phone, he’d been contacted instead by a note—one left between his back door and its storm door. The note had been simple and straightforward, enough to ensure Harry’s lifelong cooperation.

YOU TALK, YOU DIE.

The day of the note, having checked the bus, he paused only briefly at the glove compartment. One other thing tied him to this event, whatever it had been. He placed the photo, encased within a sealed sandwich bag, inside the glove compartment. He couldn’t bear to look at it again, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it either. As a lover of things, he wasn’t sure he had it in him to destroy anything. And so it would remain here, safely ensconced within the bus, watched over by whomever it was who remained.

Because while he didn’t know the precise details of what had transpired here, he did know this much: someone had died because of it. They’d died here, on this bus.

On Harry’s property. Unwillingly, he’d become a guardian of secrets. And he’d carry those secrets to the grave.

Sixteen

Mars studied Wray’s face as she was under.

She rarely gave anything away while she was doing this whole reading thing of hers, leaving Mars to guess at what was going on inside her mind. Her eyes were shut, the lids fluttering slightly as if in an REM dream state. Her breathing was shallow but not worryingly rapid, and her body, in general, was in a similar state to what it had been going in.

Yet something told him she was struggling. He couldn’t see it, but it was as though he could sense it—so much so he was about to start calling her name and gripping her hand to draw her out.

Before he could, her eyes shot open.

He jumped. “Jeezus!”

She focused on him a long moment, and it struck Mars she was still caught partway in whatever it was she’d seen, like she couldn’t completely return to the here and now.

This time, he did take her hand. “Hey, you okay?”

A nod.

“You know where you are, right?”

“Varadero?”

Mars straightened, his own eyes rounding.

Wray eyed him a few seconds. Then she laughed. “Seriously, dude? Yeah, I know where I am. Haven’t lost my marbles, you know.”

Mars felt a flush creeping over his cheeks. “Thought you were still under a little.”

She glanced down at her hand, still covered by his. Embarrassed all over again, Mars removed his fingers.

Wray lifted her hand and rubbed her face. “Man, that was a trip.”

“What did you see?”

“Coffee first,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”

Wray was surprisingly steady as she laid out what she’d seen during her reading. She’d described it the same way she had with previous in-depth readings. She hadn’t simply witnessed a series of images and scenes—she’d been there.

Mars had attended far more gruesome crime scenes than he cared to think about. As horrifically visceral as it was to walk into and work through a scene in which a homicide victim lay, he’d come to realize he had nothing on people like Wray or Sullivan Gray—people whose abilities forced them to be present for the homicide itself.

“Sure you’re doing all right?” he asked her once she finished her description.

He wasn’t surprised by the snort that formed her response. “Uh, yeah, fine.”

“Wray—”

She held up a hand in a call for pause. “Whatever I see during these things, most likely I’ve seen worse.”

He nodded. She didn’t talk about the things she’d experienced during her military days, but he knew she’d lost most of her team during a mission gone bad. He couldn’t begin to imagine what that had been like, but he didn’t doubt it was bad enough to put most other things to shame. Fact was the memories she saw while doing a reading belonged to someone else; the memories she carried from her own life were fully hers. Mars carried with him many of the horrible experiences, sights, sounds and smells from his policing career, but while they sometimes kept him awake at night or plagued him by day, they’d pale next to enduring such a loss himself.

Anyway, this was Wray, and she wasn’t one for accepting empathy, let alone sympathy. Best move was to let go of the psychological and emotional aspects of all this and get back down to business.

“Okay, got it,” Mars said. “So you said Harry was there when these two vehicles pulled into the yard.”

“Right.”

“But he didn’t see anyone?”

Wray shook her head. “Too dark.”

“But for sure one of them was the bus?”

“Absolutely. Saw the logo. He couldn’t make out the second vehicle as it was behind the bus. Just saw the headlights. But it was smaller. Car probably.”

“You mentioned he heard a buddy’s voice. Buck, you said?”

A nod. “I didn’t hear the name out loud or anything, but I had the distinct impression of him being called Buck. Nickname, I’m guessing. As for hearing his voice, it wasn’t that so much as his screams.”

Mars suppressed a shudder. Experienced as he might be in homicide cases, aspects of them would never stop troubling him. “But Harry didn’t check.”

“He was scared. No, not just scared. Terrified.” Wray sat forward, elbows on the table’s surface, reaching forward to wrap her fingers around her mug of coffee. “Plenty of people seem to think they’d rush in and help in these situations, but when it comes down to it, fear’s a real thing.”

“I know. Not blaming the guy.”

Wray’s lips quirked a little at the edges. “I realize that. Just saying.”

“And when he did go later on to check, he didn’t find anything? Not the finger either?”

Wray paused for a sip of coffee. “Went way too fast through the bus to have noticed it. And given the sense of repulsion I felt from him, even that last time he was there, no way he ever gave the bus a thorough inspection. It’s more than the repulsion though. I’d imagine he was scared of what he’d find if he looked closer. I mean, were he to have found a bunch of blood or whatever—never mind a severed appendage—he’d have been in an even worse situation. Bad enough what he did see and hear; worse if he has definite proof in his backyard that a major crime occurred there.”

“But it was pretty obvious, no? You said it before: he knew someone died that night.”

“Maybe more than one. He heard two men screaming—Buck and someone else.”

“Havik?”

Wray shrugged. “He didn’t see. And I didn’t get the impression he recognized the voice either. Honestly, he’d only really spent a short time with the band the day before, and who knows how much conversation he had with each of them. Anyway, some guy screaming sounds a hell of a lot different from talking. Even if he had spoken at length to those guys, doesn’t follow he would have recognized anything that night from what he heard.”

“Fair point.” Mars fingered a stain on the table, thinking about the file he’d recently reviewed. “I don’t remember anyone with the nickname Buck being mentioned on that file. I’ll look again, of course, but I can absolutely guarantee there’s nothing about a second guy going missing or worse. One thing investigators at the time looked at was whether anyone else was reported missing around the same time. Wouldn’t have to be another victim or anything; we’d be thinking about potential suspects too. Not that we had anything to tell us something bad happened to Havik, but it was suspicious. Guy disappears along with the tour bus and is never heard from again—kind of a big thing.”

“Did he have a history of taking off? Anything shady? Drugs? I mean, the music scene’s loaded with that kind of crap, right?”

“Oh, believe me, police checked into all that. Band swore up, down and sideways they were clean, but they weren’t fooling anyone. One of them had pretty clear track marks on his arms and legs when he answered the hotel room door in his underwear. And while there wasn’t evidence of drug use in the hotel room itself, traces of cocaine were located in the duffel bag Havik left behind.”

“What else did he leave behind?”

“Everything. Wallet, ID, passport, small book with a few contacts listed, clothes. Police called everyone in that book, by the way. No one had heard from him since before the show.”

“He disappeared after the show, right?”

“They had two gigs booked for Kimotan Rapids. First one was the evening he disappeared. So yeah, he made the first gig but not the second.” He leaned in. “You’ve mentioned this ghost Rich said he saw on the bus. Now you’re saying Harry thought something was on the bus as well. Do you think it might be this Buck guy?”

“Good chance it is. Based on the description, it’s definitely not Havik. Havik had a shaved head. Buck had long brown hair. Anyway, Rich was pretty certain the ghost he saw was the guy in the photo. And according to the memories Harry left behind on that photo, that guy in the picture was definitely Buck.”

Mars pinched lightly at his lower lip. “Great.”

“What?”

“I have to admit, I’d kind of hoped you’d get this whole thing solved so I wouldn’t need to take certain other steps.”

Wray gave a dry chuckle. “Other steps, meaning getting Sully or me on that bus?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Listen, that’s down to you and whoever you’re answering to on this. I’ll give you what I can with what I’ve got. You need more from me, you know where to find me.”

Mars cocked his head as he eyed her. “So that’s it? You’re wiping your hands of this?”

“Dude, as your buddies on the force keep reminding me, I’m not a cop. It’s an open police investigation. I’d rather not go stepping in crap I can’t wipe off my shoes.”

“Fair enough.” Mars dropped his head into his hands and rubbed at his temples. He was getting a headache. What did it say about him and his colleagues that a psychic was the one providing the best info on this case at the moment? What did it say that he’d be more hopeful of solving it working with Wray than with the entire strength of the Kimotan Rapids Police Department?

“Sure you’re doing all right?” Wray asked him, a tinge of humour in her voice as she repeated his earlier words back at him.

“Don’t be a smart ass,” he muttered into his palms.

“You have other leads to follow?”

Mars lifted his head enough to answer more audibly. “My colleague in Missing Persons is working on tracking down next of kin for Havik so we can hopefully pin down a bit more about this ring.”

Wray sat back, arms folded across her chest. “I could do the same thing for you in less than five minutes—and probably do a damn sight better job too.”

“Bitch of the thing is I know it.”

“What else?”

“Guess I’ll need to track this Buck guy as well. Maybe Harry’s son, Phil, knows something about him. Long shot though.”

“Why?”

“Too young. And he was pretty open with me about not spending much time with his dad.”

“Yeah,” Wray said. “Now you mention it, I had the impression Harry’s son didn’t live with him then. And if he did end up living there at some point later, Buck would have been out of the picture.”

“Given he’s apparently a ghost sitting on that bus, yeah, I’d say he was definitely out of the picture at that point.” Mars sighed. “You know, I’m only half-joking when I say I’d be inclined to turn a blind eye should you choose to sneak onto the Rugg property and that bus.”

“Should I pretend I didn’t hear that and go get my cat burglar outfit out of storage?”

He peered at her. “You have a cat burglar outfit?”

Wray rolled her eyes. “Don’t get excited, Sarge. Figure of speech.”

Mars rubbed his face to hide the creeping blush. “God, you’re annoying.”

Wray laughed.

Seventeen

It was with no small measure of relief Wray saw Mars to the door that afternoon, the photograph safely in his possession. At least until she was asked to check out the ring or the bus, she was essentially free of missing drummers and eccentric collectors.

She hadn’t counted on the sticky-fingered TV personality. Mars was barely out the door when her phone rang. She checked the call display. Rich.

“Come on,” Wray grumbled as she stared at the name on the screen.

She ignored the ringing, let it go to voicemail. Not one minute passed before it started ringing again.

Wray heaved a sigh. No, she wasn’t avoiding the lout that easily apparently.

She clicked the talk button. “Rich, what’s up?”

“Are you alone?”

“I am. The police sergeant who was over here just left. Why?”

“What did you tell him?”

The anxiety was clear. No wonder.

“Don’t worry, I think you’ll avoid jail time,” Wray said.

“What’s that mean?”

Wray hadn’t made up the sofa bed this morning so plopped onto the mattress and stretched out. “It means you’ve probably lucked out here, Rich. The police are just happy to get their hands on their missing evidence. Might be they’ll want to talk to you, but for now, your ass isn’t grass.”

“Maybe not in a legal sense,” Rich grumbled.

“What other sense are you worried about?”

“The life-and-death one. Greenback keeps calling me, telling me I’d better get in touch with him or else.”

No need to guess at what he meant by the “or else” part. “Hold on,” Wray said. “Don’t tell me you made arrangements with him using your own phone.”

“What other phone was there? My wife’s? Didn’t want her involved.”

Wray shook her head though no one was there to see. “I’ll probably kick myself later for giving you ideas, but I’m talking about a burner, you numbskull.”

“Oh.” Judging by the quiet way he’d said the word, Wray could imagine him flushing with embarrassment.

“You want my advice, you’ll change hotels now,” Wray said. “And you’ll ditch your current SIM card and replace it with a new one.”

“I can’t. This is my work phone as well as my personal one. Network people have to be able to reach me here.”

Wray leaned back against the backrest cushions, stretching one arm over her head. “Your call, man. I’m just offering advice. Definitely take me up on the hotel thing though. Extra points if you can find one that’ll take cash without requiring you to provide identifying information. I’m not familiar with what might exist in this city, but I’m sure it has a few pay-by-the-hour kind of joints, if you know what I’m saying.”

“I can’t stay in a place like that!”

“Better than the alternative, right?”

“Depends on the alternative.”

Wray rolled her eyes. “Nice comfy slab in the city morgue. That’s your alternative.”

Rich groaned. “Oh, man. This sucks.”

“Yeah, well, this is what you get when you tango with bad people.”

“Okay, I’ll try. Unless …”

Wray had a bad feeling she knew exactly where this was about to lead. She asked anyway. “Unless what?”

“Unless we can stay with you for a bit. Just until this blows over and we get the okay to leave town.”

“Police can’t require you to stay in town, you know. As long as you’re not under arrest and provide them with up-to-date contact info, you should be fine to head off.” Which, as far as she was concerned, was a pretty great thought. Rich was beginning to make a real pest of himself.

His pause was pregnant with the yet-unsaid.

“God, what?” Wray snapped.

“It’s just that, I mean, hey, nothing we’ve ever done on the show is anywhere near this awesome. We’ve uncovered a real mystery here. A big one. If we can follow this through to the end, our ratings will be off the charts. Maybe we can even spin this into something better. Ruby and I digging into unsolved mysteries connected with antiques. How cool is that as a premise for a show?”

Wray sat up, dropping her feet to the floor with a thud. “This isn’t entertainment, Rich. It’s a serious crime. Probably murder. And it might just end in your murder if you don’t check yourself here. You’re not a trained investigator. There are all sorts of rules of evidence to worry about. At best, you end up with a criminal record for obstructing police in an investigation. At worst, you wind up dead—or Ruby does. You want that?”

“I hear you, Wray. I really do. But hear me on something—our show is barely hanging on. At any given time, we’re one episode away from cancellation. Ruby and I aren’t experienced in anything but antiquing. We’re not good-looking enough or charismatic enough for some other kind of reality show, plus we just don’t have the followers. If we lose this, we lose everything. I can’t afford to lose it, all right? I can’t. So if I need to take a few risks to keep us going, so be it. I thought I’d be able to make us some money with that photo. Since I can’t, maybe all of this will get us something better.”

“As far as I know, nothing’s stopping you from running the episode. I know the police asked you to hold off until the investigation wraps, but so what?”

“They took our footage. I mean, it’s all digital, so it’s backed up online, but they definitely did say we weren’t getting the original back until they were done with it. No idea when that’ll be.”

Wray knew that sometimes police held onto originals of things like that until trial and appeal periods were over, meaning it could potentially be two years or more before Rich and Ruby got their stuff back. She didn’t think he’d want to hear it, so she didn’t say it.

“Maybe you can work from the backup,” she suggested. “Edit what you’ve got, then hold onto it until you get cleared to air it.”

“I’ve got a better idea, actually.”

Wray pinched at the inner corners of her eyes. “I don’t want to hear this, do I?”

“Maybe you do. Here’s my idea: Ruby and I pursue this, check into it ourselves. Anything really important we find, obviously, we give the police, but surely there’s nothing stopping us from checking further into this, right?”

“Depends what you mean by checking further into it. You just narrowly avoided trouble with the police over the photo, Rich. You sure you want to push this?”

“What’s the issue? News reporters do this stuff all the time—talk to people, publish articles or air stories. All the while, police are conducting an investigation.”

She supposed he had a point. “Okay, but reporters also have rules to follow. You will too.”

“As I said, we’ll hand over whatever important stuff we find.”

Wray supposed she could argue the issues surrounding evidence contamination, but she didn’t think he was of a mind to listen. “Whatever, Rich. Your funeral.”

“Yours too, maybe.”

Something else Wray was sure she wouldn’t want to ask. Here she went again though, asking anyway. “What are you getting at?”

“This would be cool with just me and Ruby, but it would be awesome if we were to join forces with you. Antiques for Two working alongside a woman known all over the world for her psychometry ability? Have you ever seen a show like it?”

“There are loads of shows featuring psychics, most of which I don’t watch. I can’t say whether it’s been done or not.”

“But don’t you think it would be perfect? Seriously? I mean, come on, you can’t tell me you don’t miss it. It’s a rush, doing what we do, finding forgotten things, uncovering people’s secrets. There are a lot of differences between you and us, between your show and ours. But in some ways, we’re a lot the same.”

Wray had to admit, Rich had something. Although she did fine with people, she wasn’t what she’d call an extrovert. She’d never gotten fully comfortable with the idea of her image and voice being broadcast to the far reaches of the globe. But the job had come with plenty of benefits, and those weren’t all about the money she and Carter had made. Given the current state of her bank account, she could definitely use a financial boost.

And Rich was right about the other part too. Wray’s life had come with more so-called excitement than many people’s; much of it she’d give back in a heartbeat. But there was a part of her, too, that thrived on danger, on the thrill of discovery. As awful as it could be performing a reading on a negatively charged object, it was pretty special too. Getting a chance to lay big problems to rest meant something to her. Even if she could never sort out her own messy life, she could sometimes find a measure of peace in sorting out those of others.

She more than suspected Rich’s motives were nowhere near as pure, but he wasn’t totally wrong either about the similarities between them in other ways.

Then again, were she to take him up on the suggestion, it would mean spending far more time with Rich Lewison. The idea struck Wray as unbearable, at least in the longer term.

“Let me get back to you on that,” she told him.

“So you’ll think about it is what I’m hearing?”

“I’m thinking about a lot of things right now. I’ll add it to the list. For now, though, promise me you won’t go digging into this any further. Police are on it big time. You don’t want to do something that’ll get you in more trouble than you’re already on the edge of. Promise me, man.”

“Just think about it and call back, all right?”

Rich hung up a moment later. It wasn’t until he severed the connection that Wray realized something.

He hadn’t promised her anything.

Eighteen

Mars barely had time to finish processing what he’d learned from Wray’s reading when his phone rang with even more information.

En route to his office, he pulled over to answer, the “No Caller ID” displayed on his screen suggesting this was likely a fellow member of the police department.

“Sergeant Donovan,” he said, answering.

“Lilian here. Where are you? I stopped in at your office, but you were out.”

“Yeah, had a lead to follow up.”

“Oh?” Interested. Very interested.

Mars knew he’d need to supply a little info of his own in return for whatever his coworker provided. He’d been considering how best to approach it; now it was time to commit to whatever solution he came up with.

In a minute.

“You first,” he said. “At least, I’m assuming you were looking for me for a reason.”

Hopefully, not just to see if he had an update.

“I managed to track down Havik’s common-law wife from the time—God, it makes me feel stupid, calling him that.”

“It was his legal name,” Mars reminded her. It was one of the first things he’d checked upon reading the file for the first time; like Lilian, he felt a bit weird using the name, so he’d wanted to know if there was a proper name to use instead. “He had it changed a couple years into his career.”

“I know. I still feel stupid. Anyway, as I was saying, I tracked down the wife. Took a little digging as she got married and uses a different last name now, plus she appears to be pretty eager to leave the past in the past. But you’ll be interested to know she’s still in town.”

Mars’s brows lifted. “What, here? KR?”

“Yep. Has a place in North Bank. Nice house too. Hubby’s an IT guru or something.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Briefly. She didn’t want to chat over the phone. She’s at home though, so she said I can go over there.”

“Did you mention what we found? The ring?”

“Not yet. Just told her we’d happened upon some new information and wanted her input.”

“So you’re heading over right away to get it?”

“That was part of the plan. Other part was to have you there too.”

Mars was certainly glad of the opportunity, but he knew witnesses varied in how they responded to police. For some, having two officers present rather than just the one might be perceived as threatening. For others, they were more comfortable dealing with a female officer than a male.

“She’s good with having me there?” Mars asked.

“I think she will be—or at least, that’s what I’m banking on. I think I might have rubbed her the wrong way.”

Mars could envision a few scenarios which might have led to that outcome. Lilian was a skilled and thorough investigator, but she had never gotten past her struggles with the people side of the job. Lilian was a dogged puzzle-solver, but her tenacity—not to mention her brusque and humourless nature—sometimes put her at odds with those holding the pieces.

“And you think I’ll have a calming effect on her?” he supplied.

“You’re better with people than I am. Doesn’t hurt you look the way you do.”

He grinned into his phone. “That a compliment, Lilian?”

Silence. Yeah, Mars could definitely see where she might have rubbed the widow the wrong way.

“Want me to meet you at her house, or should I swing by the station and pick you up?”

“If you’re nearby, you can pick me up. You nearby?”

“Less than a couple of minutes away.”

“I’ll be waiting at the back door.”

Lilian disconnected without a goodbye. Par for the course.

Mars decided he’d need to get every detail he could from Lilian about this witness before they went in today. The way things looked, he’d be taking the entire interview himself.

As promised, Lilian was waiting when Mars arrived at the police station’s back door.

No hello or “thanks for the lift.” She was all-business, all the time. “You mentioned a lead you were following up.”

“I did, yeah. I have a source with good intel. Got me some interesting insight into this whole deal. Unfortunately, the guy we’d really need to talk to is dead.”

“Who’s that?”

“Harry Rugg.”

“Who’s the source?”

Mars pressed his lips together. “Mine. Confidential.”

Lilian shrugged. She wouldn’t push it, not unless she found reason to. A solid police source was as good as gold, and everyone knew it. If, as a cop, you were lucky enough to find someone with knowledge and the willingness to share, you guarded that source with everything you had. Good cops knew that. Lilian was a good cop.

“What’s the info?” she asked instead.

Mars told her as much as he could without explaining how the information had been received. No-nonsense as she was, he couldn’t imagine Lilian going in for psychics and psychometry. Then again, he was aware she’d worked with Sullivan Gray’s firm in the past, so it was likely she’d at least entertained the idea of the paranormal.

This didn’t seem the time to test it though. Not unless it became necessary.

“This source of yours,” she said. “How’d they find this out?”

Mars chose his words carefully so he wouldn’t have to lie. Not exactly anyway. “Learned it from Harry himself.”

“Will this source agree to go on the record if we need them to?”

“Maybe, but that’s last resort, okay? I need to tread carefully.”

“Fair enough. What about the son, Phil? You think he’d have heard anything about this?”

Mars’s turn to shrug. “I didn’t get that impression, but fair to say, we’re obligated to ask.”

“We can set up a meeting with him after we’re done with Kit Wilson.”

“I’m assuming that’s the name of the lady we’re going to see.”

Lilian frowned. “Maybe that’s where I started to go wrong with her. Alban Ezra history has her down as Kit, so that’s what I called her. I think, though, she might go now by the name under the listing I found for her: Katherine.”

Mars tapped the wheel as he considered this. “Makes sense, I guess. If she’s decided to leave the past behind, she’d probably ditch the old nickname too.”

“She’s in her sixties now anyway. I should have thought. Kit’s not exactly a name you see on many adults.”

Mars wasn’t so sure, not having known any Kits, but he didn’t argue the point. “Okay, so did anything else jump out at you during your conversation?”

Lilian’s gaze tracked out her window. “Not much time for anything to do much jumping. Like I said, she wasn’t eager to discuss the matter.”

“But she was all right with us coming in person?”

“Figure she either wants proof in the form of badges and ID cards, or she’s planning on hoofing it before we get there.”

Mars had considered the same thing. Only way to find out was to get there.

Katherine—not Kit—Wilson lived in a San Francisco-esque Victorian bordering a park in one of the city’s older and classier areas. It wasn’t the sort of place most people could afford these days, not unless they could boast a paycheque far above the norm.

It occurred to Mars he’d been told what Katherine’s husband did but not her herself. Maybe Lilian hadn’t gotten that far with her before Katherine had shut the conversation down.

“Nice digs,” Mars said as he and Lilian stood on the front step waiting for someone to answer the doorbell, ID wallets at the ready.

“Yep,” Lilian said. “Checked it out on my street view app.”

Of course she had.

It seemed, though, she hadn’t had much of a chance to check out Katherine herself. As Katherine answered the door—a lithe, graceful, attractive lady with a light spray of makeup and perfectly coiffed silver hair—Mars suspected why Lilian hadn’t found out much about her.

One thing about Lilian: she didn’t venture near social media unless it was for work purposes. Katherine, Mars realized now, was internet famous—albeit under a slightly different name.

“You’re ‘Cook with Katherine,’” he said, eyeing her with a smile.

Her face, previously taut with uncertainty, split into a soft grin. “I am. Do you watch much?” Her voice sounded much as it did in the videos, a soft English accent tempered by her years living overseas.

“A little. One of my girls is quite the blossoming chef. She hasn’t quite graduated to your more complicated recipes, but she’s getting pretty good at the simpler ones.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. How old?”

“Nine. Going on eighteen.”

Katherine laughed. “Aren’t all nine-year-old girls going on eighteen?”

It seemed a good time to make the official introductions. Mars opened his wallet, letting Katherine see his ID card. His badge he had hooked to his belt, easily visible given the way he had his shirt tucked.

“Mars Donovan,” he said. “I’m the sergeant in charge of the Historical Crimes section. I understand you’ve already spoken briefly to my colleague, Sergeant Lilian Danvers.”

Katherine’s smile faltered a little, although what remained was at least polite. “Oh, yes.”

“May we come inside?”

Katherine stood aside and pulled the door open further to allow the two police detectives to pass. “Of course. Could I get you a coffee?”

“Not necessary,” Lilian said.

Mars wasn’t giving up on the idea that easily. “Any chance of one of those coffees with the steamed milk you do on the channel?”

Katherine’s smile reformed in full. “Of course. Come through to the kitchen. We can chat there.”

Nineteen

As they followed Katherine through the house, Mars cast a glance at Lilian. She met his gaze, her lips quirking into a grateful smile. Pleased, no doubt, she’d asked him to come along. Judging by the brief conversation they’d had so far, Mars was equally glad. Maximizing their chances of getting an important witness on board was a big deal.

In what proved to be a spacious and elegant kitchen—the sort Mars’s estranged wife would drool over with its crisp white cupboards, pale granite countertops and suspended racks for pots, pans and wine glasses—Katherine bypassed a broad island-slash-breakfast bar and ushered the detectives instead to the table next to the window.

Opting to wait on any important conversation until Katherine had joined them, Mars complimented her on the house and the magazine-worthy garden visible out the window. As she prepared the coffee, Katherine chatted happily about her home before branching into her online cooking channel. As she spoke, her body language showed signs of further relaxing, and her smiles and laughter reached her eyes. It wouldn’t last—not once Mars and Lilian launched into the questions related to their visit—but in Mars’s experience, it always helped to warm people up before plunging them neck deep into frigid waters.

He accepted his foam- and cinnamon-topped coffee gratefully as Katherine returned to the table. Lilian, he noted, eyed her own froth doubtfully. Probably never took her coffee anything other than black. He hoped she’d at least try to pretend she was enjoying it. He wasn’t eager to continue an uphill battle should Lilian become the cause of further awkwardness.

As calm as Katherine currently appeared, Mars wasn’t thrilled about ending it. They’d come here with a purpose though, so once she got settled across from them, Mars launched into it.

“I know it’s not easy, dredging up the past,” he said. “Given my line of work, I’ve had to put quite a few people in this position. I don’t enjoy that part of the job.”

Katherine’s smile dropped away, just like that. “No,” she said. “It isn’t easy.”

“What can you tell us about Havik?”

“Kyle?”

“Sorry,” Mars said. “It was our understanding he changed his name.”

“He did. I knew him before that though, back when he was just Kyle. Anyway, I would have felt rather ridiculous, calling him Havik.”

Lilian made a little noise. Mars quickly cleared his throat to cover.

“Out of curiosity, why the change?” he asked.

“I would have thought that info was publicly available.”

It was, and yes, Mars had checked into it. “I’d rather hear it from someone who knows the full truth.”

Katherine wrapped long fingers around her mug. “In that case, not sure how much help I’ll be. As far as Kyle was concerned, I’m not sure anyone ever got the full truth. He hid a lot.”

More questions, very possibly the kind with no answers. He’d ask anyway—as soon as he finished with this topic. “I understand he didn’t have an easy childhood.”

“His father was an arsehole, pardon my language. And yes, Kyle suffered physical abuse. He left home as soon as he was old enough to legally work and live on his own. He had nothing to do with his father by then. The name was the last bridge he needed to burn, and when he got the chance to check into the legalities of the whole thing, he made the change.”

“Did it upset him, you calling him Kyle?”

“Not me. Others though, yes. Even me, if we were around others, I wasn’t to use his real name either. He didn’t want to invite the questions.”

Time to get into the other point she’d raised. “You told us he hid a lot. What else?”

“If I could answer that, he wouldn’t have done a great job of hiding anything, would he?” But Katherine’s lips quirked a little as she said it, allowing Mars to trespass a little further into this area without risking offending her.

“You meant something by it though, didn’t you?” he asked.

She held his eye a long moment—his, Mars noted, never Lilian’s—before answering. “Again, nothing about what I’m telling you that’s not readily available online. Kyle had a drug problem. He’d been a drinker when we met, but we were both barely into adulthood then. Most people we spent time with drank too much back then. That’s what most people seem to do at that age, right? They party. We partied. So did everyone we knew. Only, for Kyle, it became something more.”

She frowned and sat forward, hunching a little over the steam rising from her mug. She had yet to take a sip. “I didn’t see it at the time. I was young and naïve. Where Kyle had come from a bad home, I’d been raised in a good one. I was never exposed to the things Kyle exposed me to. I’m not talking about drinking or any of that. I mean depression and anxiety, the severe clinical kind. I know now I should have pushed him to get a proper diagnosis and some treatment, but I didn’t understand those things back then. Not until it was too late, until he’d gone too far down a dark path to turn him around.”

“What path was that?” Lilian asked.

Katherine’s gaze snapped to Lilian’s. For a moment, Mars worried this might signal an end to her openness, but instead, she simply returned her attention to him before answering. “Drugs. And a lot of them. That was one of his secrets for a while, same way he’d hidden the full extent of his mental health struggles from me initially. I’d seen him smoke marijuana, but I didn’t realize he’d gotten into harder drugs. By the time nineteen-eighty-five rolled around, he was addicted to crack and heroin, maybe other stuff too. I don’t know. He was a walking disaster.”

A disaster waiting to happen, Mars thought to himself. Yes, that part he knew as well.

“And he never got help?”

Katherine tilted her head and raised her brows. Answer enough.

“I know you talked to the police at the time, more than once, so I’m sorry to have to go over this with you all over again. But I’m relatively new to the file, and I’ve discovered there are times when people’s memories change or when they find their situation has changed enough to provide answers they couldn’t before. That’s why I’m asking these questions.”

He was surprised she hadn’t asked her own—the most obvious, basic one. Time to find out why.

“You haven’t asked why we’re looking into this again now,” he pointed out.

Finally, she took a measured sip of her drink. While her posture and the set of her jaw revealed tension, her hands didn’t shake as she lifted and held the mug. “I’ve got to be honest,” she said as she returned the cup to the table. “Part of me doesn’t want to know. You’ll probably ask me why I stayed in Kimotan Rapids. I’m not from here. I was born in Surrey, and my family is still there. I’d meant to return one day, but then I met my now-husband, Bruce, and all bets were off, as they say. Initially, though, it was Kyle I stayed for. Without any idea as to what happened to him, I couldn’t bear to leave without answers. The others did, though they claimed to care as well. In the end, I was the only one left.”

“I understand you were pretty heavily involved in the investigation back then,” Mars said.

“I did all I could think to do, but it was never enough. It never truly is, is it? Not when someone you love is missing. I would go out each day and drive the streets on an endless search, scanning faces, peering into windows and alleys, watching the entrances to the parks where people were known to use drugs. I thought maybe he was on a binge, that he’d come back once he came back up for a breather. I needed to be here when that happened, so he had someone to come back to.”

“But he never did,” Mars said.

Katherine gave her head a slow, sad shake. “He never did. And all my searching got me nothing but my own mental health problems to contend with—which I did, by the way, without medicating myself with illicit substances.”

Mars paused for a drink, wishing he were in a position to enjoy it more. “What about the other members of the band? Their management? Road crew? Did they ever express any additional concern? Did they contact you to find out if you or the police had located anything?”

“They did—or at least a few of them did. Micky certainly did, but then, he and Kyle were always close.”

“Micky Deuce?” Mars asked, referring to whom he knew to be Alban Ezra’s lead singer.

Katherine nodded.

“What about now? Do you ever talk to him?”

“Less and less. Maybe once every few years. He stopped calling for the most part after I married Bruce. I can’t help thinking he feels I’ve betrayed Kyle’s memory. Perhaps I’m reading too much into it, but my instincts on these things are rarely wrong.” She tapped the side of her head. “Woman’s intuition.”

Mars smiled. “I’m from a family of all women. I’ll never argue your point.”

She returned his expression. “Wise man.”

“I know you haven’t asked why we’re here, but we do need to share it with you,” Mars said. “There’s something we need to check with you.”

Katherine straightened, shifted in her seat and nodded. “Fire away.”

Mars fished his cellphone from his pocket. On it, he had digital copies of photos to show her. The first was of the ring, cleaned up by the Ident unit. Once he’d cued it up, he peered back up at Katherine.

“Yesterday, a TV crew was out at a property near the city and located Alban Ezra’s old tour bus.”

Katherine shot up even straighter. “The one that went missing in eighty-five?”

Mars nodded as he studied Katherine’s face. Nothing about her told him she was faking surprise. This certainly seemed to be news to her. “Our forensic team is working on it now, but we did already find something on the bus that’s significant to the investigation.”

He turned his phone so she could see the screen. “Have you seen this ring before?”

She squinted at it a moment. “Could you zoom in a little, please? I’m a little farsighted these days.”

Mars did as asked. Katherine studied it less than two seconds before grabbing for the phone. Mars had to pull it back to keep her from snatching it.

“That’s Kyle’s!” she exclaimed.

“You’re sure?”

“It’s his. I know that ring. He wore it on his pinky finger.” She pointed at the screen. “See that? It’s a ram, his astrological symbol.”

The state the ring had been in, even after cleanup, had prevented anyone from conclusively identifying the image on the mounted stone. Now that she said it, Mars saw it. Even so …

“It’s really hard to make out,” he said, intending to challenge her a little.

“I’m sure. See the etching on the band, just next to where the stone is mounted? He had that done himself, an Irish jeweller working in London back then. It’s a Celtic design Kyle liked. His given name was Kyle O’Leary, after all. As much as he hated his family, he loved learning about his heritage.”

They’d managed to identify the ring at least. Now came the harder part.

“I know this is going back quite some time,” Mars said, “but I’m hoping you can tell me a bit more about the ring.”

“I can’t remember the name of the jeweller, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

It wasn’t. Now that they had confirmation as to the ring’s owner, Mars wasn’t so concerned about learning the name of its maker. He’d take any info coming his way, of course, but his purposes now were different.

“I actually meant to ask more about where the ring had been in the time leading to Kyle’s disappearance. Do you happen to recall if he had it in his possession the last time you saw him?”

“He never took it off. He called it his lucky ring. Said he’d never drummed better in his life. He could be superstitious that way.”

Lilian cleared her throat lightly, suggesting she had a question of her own to ask. “The ram was definitely astrological? It couldn’t have meant something else?”

Katherine sat back and crossed her arms—body language that spoke volumes and not in the way Mars wanted. “What are you getting at?”

The sentence formed in Mars’s head, repeating itself like a mantra. Don’t say it, Lilian.

“The ram can also be a Satanic symbol, no?”

She’d said it.

Katherine’s eyes narrowed, her lips drawing down into a deep frown before she again shot forward. One arm came free, her fingertip jabbing the tabletop to emphasize an upcoming point. “Kyle wasn’t a Satanist, all right? He wasn’t into that rubbish.”

Much as he wanted to snap at Lilian to go back to letting him handle the interview, Mars knew it was a bad look, hanging a colleague out to dry. Instead, he raised a palm in Katherine’s direction.

“No offence meant,” he said. “Investigations sometimes require tough questions. We aren’t meaning to suggest anything. We just need to cover the bases. People who travel in certain circles can be exposed to dangerous people. If there’s any chance he had that sort of exposure, we need to look into it.”

Katherine’s breath, coming harshly in and out of her nose, slowed. She nodded. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. You need to understand though: I’ve seen more theories about Kyle’s disappearance than you can imagine. Everyone’s got one, it seems, and they’re never afraid to share. No concern whatsoever for those who loved him.”

Mars cocked his head, considering her comment. He’d meant to ask this at the end, but this seemed the natural time. “What about you? Do you have any theories?”

Katherine’s posture relaxed further, a sign the offence she’d taken had fully petered out. “I’ve entertained possibilities from murder to his running off to start a new life right down to alien abduction. When you lose someone with no explanation, everything crosses your mind and nothing seems wholly impossible. As to particular theories, I suppose I keep coming back to the obvious. He had a drug problem and difficulties with his mental health. He might have ended things on his own, someplace it just so happened no one found him. Or he might have run afoul of the wrong people, maybe while he was partying, maybe while trying to make a buy. I’ve rather reconciled myself to never truly knowing.”

Mars tried for a kind smile. “If I have anything to say about it, you’ll know—hopefully soon. Getting back to the ring for a moment, you’re really sure he had it on him? It couldn’t have been stolen or misplaced?”

“If it was, I didn’t hear about it, and I certainly didn’t notice it gone.”

Mars nodded. They’d come to what he suspected would be the hardest part for her to take in. “Thing is, Katherine, we didn’t just find the ring and the bus. We found bones from a human finger. Those bones were basically inside the ring, so it would appear whoever was wearing it lost the finger.”

Katherine’s hand fluttered to her mouth. “My God. My God. His finger? Was he—I mean, was the rest of him⁠—?”

Mars cut in quickly. “No. We have people out there searching still, but at this point, we’ve found no other signs of human remains.”

“So why would his finger be there?”

Lilian inhaled as if to answer. Mars jumped in quickly. “We were talking a moment ago about people in the drug world. Gangland retribution is common where money’s owed or something else has gone wrong between people in the business. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just out with it: sometimes, that retribution takes the form of amputations. Most often, we’ll see removal of smaller digits like a finger or a toe.”

“Oh, my God.”

Mars pushed on. “You mentioned Kyle wore the ring on a pinky finger. Often when this sort of thing happens, it does involve the smallest digits, so we’re talking pinky fingers or toes. So it’s definitely a theory we’re exploring. I know at the time of his disappearance, investigators got Kyle’s medical records for the file so they’d have something to compare should they have found anything. I looked at those too, so I’m aware of a pin he had inserted into his femur during a surgery. I wondered, though, if you know of any other injuries—specifically, at this point, related to his hands?”

Katherine shook her head. “Nothing. As far as I know, he’d never hurt his hands. He guarded them so carefully. They were his moneymakers—that’s what he used to call them.”

Suddenly, the removal of the finger meant even more. For the finger to be taken rather than a toe seemed like more than simple punishment for a gangland transgression. It was a very personal hit.

And given Havik had never returned, it was probable that hit had turned into something much, much worse.

“The bones I mentioned are in the possession of a forensic pathologist,” Mars said. “They’ll take an in-depth look at them to see whether there might be something to help us concretely connect them to Kyle. Obviously, when he went missing, DNA wasn’t really a thing, and I can’t see that we have his DNA on file. I’m hoping there’s a chance you might have something of his we might use to make a comparison should the pathologist be able to extract DNA in some way. Maybe a hairbrush with some hair inside? We could try to use the roots. Or maybe a toothbrush?”

“Would a tooth work?”

Mars’s brows went up. “A tooth?”

“He was in a fight after a show once. One of their roadies was being a right numpty. Kyle had a tooth knocked out during the fight. He’d intended to go to the dentist with it to see if it could be either put back in or a cast made so he could have something made up. In the end, he just left it. Said he thought it made him look tougher. Truthfully, I think he was just scared of going to the dentist, but there you go. I’ll go find it.”

“I’d appreciate that. Before you go, a couple more questions, if you don’t mind. This roadie he had the beef with—who was it?”

“Fellow named Clint Buckley. Went by the nickname Buck mostly. He helped with the equipment and setup, that sort of thing. He partied with them too.”

Mars shot up straight, then quickly located the other photo on his phone—the one of the band with Harry Rugg and the guy he and Wray believed was the Buck from her vision.

“Do you see Clint Buckley in this photo?” he asked Katherine.

She peered at it through a squint for a few seconds before shaking her head and standing. “One moment. Need my spectacles.”

She went to the kitchen cupboards behind her and retrieved something from a drawer. Having settled a pair of readers near the tip of her nose, she returned to her chair and the phone with its photo.

This time, as she studied it, her eyes widened a bit. “I’ve never seen this picture.”

“We just found it recently, on board the bus. Do you⁠—?”

She cut him off, pointing at the man in question. “This is him. This is Clint.”

Yes, it was. “Thank you, Katherine. What about the others? Do you recognize them?”

She pointed toward one of the other males. “This man’s also a crew member. I think his name is Dennis, but I can’t recall his last name. Came on board a bit later than Clint. The blonde woman is Ronni, Micky’s wife—Ronni with an ‘i,’ short for Veronica, I believe. They were still engaged when things happened with Kyle. It was a big thing, his not being at the wedding—or at least, that’s how Micky made it sound. The other woman went only by the name Ivy.” Katherine rolled her eyes. “Probably the poison variety.”

“Didn’t like her much?” Mars asked.

“She had just one thing on her mind. Not that thing either. She wanted to land herself a rich husband. Had her eye on Kyle for a while, once it became clear Micky and Ronni were inseparable. She moved on eventually, but she made herself a real pest in the meantime.”

Mars pointed at the final person in the image, the one he knew full well was Harry Rugg. “What about him? Do you recognize this man?”

Katherine stared at the picture through the lower portion of her glasses for another long moment but ultimately shook her head. “I don’t, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

Mars nodded as he took his phone back and swiped to close the photo app. “No problem. I appreciate your help. Do you know the name Harry Rugg?”

A head-shake. “No, can’t say I do. Who is he?”

Mars debated how much to share before deciding it wouldn’t do any harm to tell Katherine this much—although he still needed to dance around what he’d recently learned about the bus from Wray. “He’s the man whose property we’re searching. I want to make it clear, there’s no evidence he had anything to do with what might have happened to Kyle. He was a collector—bordering on a hoarder, if I’m being honest. At some point, he acquired the tour bus, and it was found on his farm.”

“Was that where the ring and the bones were found?”

Mars nodded.

“And he never told anyone?”

“It’s not clear to me at this point he even knew those things were there. The TV crew that spotted the bus only happened to find those things on board because they had a pretty powerful light on their camera. That, and they were actively looking for any items that would prove interesting—big or small. So just to be clear, you didn’t know anything about Harry or his property prior to today?”

“No, I can absolutely say I never heard the name before.”

“What about right before Kyle disappeared? The band had a couple of gigs here in town, I know. I noticed in the file you were here at the same time?”

“I travelled with them sometimes, yes. I was here then.”

“But you weren’t with Kyle the whole time.”

“Clearly not.” Her annoyance was clear.

Mars would try to tread more carefully. “Are you aware of any activities he and the band might have been involved in, something you weren’t a part of?”

Katherine used the direction of her eyes to indicate the pocket into which Mars had dropped his phone. “You’re referring to that photo. No, I wasn’t aware of any visits they might have had with the man you mentioned—this Harry person. Much as I often wished I could be, I wasn’t Kyle’s keeper. I don’t know what he and the others got up to while I was otherwise occupied. I can tell you they would have been involved in the usual activities in the hours leading to a show: sound and equipment checks, interviews with local media, those sorts of things. I wouldn’t ordinarily have been present for those things, preferring to stay back at the hotel or explore the various cities we visited. It’s highly possible this particular photo came about during a spontaneous visit to someone one of them knew in town. Kyle wasn’t one to call and let me know his plans. All I know is he was fine and accounted for until sometime after the first show.”

She pressed her lips together and stood. She’d said all she intended to on the matter. Now there was only one thing left.

“I’ll find that tooth,” she said and left the room.

Twenty

Days off just didn’t seem to happen for Wray. Here she was, ostensibly on holiday from her job at the pawnshop, and she was driving out to the far reaches of Kimotan Rapids in a search for the Lewisons.

Since her chat with Rich earlier, she’d had no luck reaching either him or Ruby. Whether they were ignoring her or had switched off their phones in the hopes of avoiding Greenback, Wray didn’t know, but it was driving her nuts not knowing. As annoyed as she was at them, she couldn’t sit back and allow bad things to befall them.

Unfortunately, it seemed she’d need to work extra hard to meet those goals. Of all the times for Rich to do the smart thing, it had to be now, when Wray had driven all the way to the Sunrise Motel in the hopes of finding the couple. The fact neither the rental car nor the marked van were present was the first clue. The second came when Wray spotted a room cleaner making her way out of the suite formerly occupied by the couple.

Needing to make sure, Wray approached the cleaner, a pretty, smiley young woman whose features and accent suggested she was from the Philippines.

“The couple who was staying here,” Wray said. “Did they leave?”

“Yes, about an hour ago.”

Great.

“And the man who was with them? The one driving the van?”

“Yes. Him too.” The woman’s grin widened. “You’re the second person to ask.”

Wray concealed a frown. “Who was the first?”

“A man.” The lady pointed to her own head. “Not much hair. Older.” This time, the smile faded. “He wasn’t very nice.”

Didn’t Wray know it? “Thank you. When was this?”

The woman shrugged. “About five minutes ago, maybe ten.”

“Was this man alone?”

“There was someone else driving him, but I didn’t see very well.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man. Looked big to me.”

Wray thanked her. “I’ll keep calling them.”

The cleaner nodded and went back to her tasks. Wray had a big one of her own.

Find the Lewisons before Greenback and his big associate did. If he was driving around town in the company of muscle, his purposes weren’t likely to be a social call.

Wray either needed to track down the Lewisons or Greenback—whichever she managed first. It should be easier to find Rich and Ruby, so she tried each of their numbers again, leaving messages this time demanding immediate callbacks. She followed up with text messages, in case they weren’t in a position to speak at the moment.

That done, she shifted the car out of park and pulled back onto the main road, making her way back into the city. She kept her phone in the cupholder next to her, screen facing toward her and ringer turned up to max. If either of them got back to her, she’d know right away.

Neither did. Wray regretted not having asked for their camera guy’s number as well. Maybe he, at least, would respond.

Well, if she was failing with the Antiques for Two gang, Wray would try the stolen antique buyer instead. Thanks to the cleaner, she knew Greenback and his goon were driving around town, searching for the Lewisons. If they were driving, they weren’t sitting at Greenback’s house.

Of course, they could be on their way back there even now. If they did get back there without any unwilling passengers in tow, Wray could surveil Greenback and follow him should he gain information about his targets’ whereabouts. If, God forbid, he arrived back home with the Lewisons as prisoners, Wray would either alert the police or, should time be of the essence, mount a rescue attempt on her own.

As much of a plan in place as she could manage at the moment, Wray took the exit for the freeway—the one that would take her back toward the Riverview neighbourhood.

She was roughly halfway there when her phone rang. Her eyes flashed to the call display, hoping to see either Rich’s or Ruby’s names on the screen. Instead, she saw Mars’s name there.

Punching the button to push the call through the car’s speaker system, Wray answered with a, “Mars, hey.”

“Hey. Where you at?”

“Out for a drive. What’s up?”

“A drive?”

“Trying to find the Lewisons before Greenback finds them.”

Silence lasted a couple of seconds, long enough to suggest Mars was trying to process. “Sorry, what?”

“Rich, the idiot, contacted Greenback with his regular phone.”

“Not a burner?”

“Not that bright.”

“No kidding.” Mars sighed. “So Greenback’s on their tail?”

“More or less. He turned up at their motel right before I got there. Rich made it clear he hadn’t provided that info to Greenback, so makes me think our black market dealer’s got some inside intel from somewhere.”

“He’s been in the business a long time,” Mars said. “No doubt he’s made some connections. Any idea where the Lewisons are headed?”

“Nope, but I did tell them earlier to find another motel, preferably one that takes cash. It seems they took me up on that much.”

“Good thinking, although it also makes our jobs tougher.”

“Maybe. You might make it easier by providing me with motels that allow stays by the hour.”

“Nope,” Mars said. “I’ll get patrol on that, have them swing by the usual places.”

That freed Wray up to enact her plan over at Greenback’s. Something told her it was best to keep that part to herself.

She eased off the gas as she approached a construction zone ahead and an annoying snare of traffic trying to navigate a zipper merge. “What were you calling about?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“No, but something tells me you have one.”

“Fair enough. I just got back to the office following a meet with Havik’s widow.”

Wray lifted her brows. “Oh? She’s here in town?”

“Never left after he vanished. Wanted to stay close, just in case.”

Wray nodded as she shoulder-checked, then waved at the driver behind who braked to let her in. “Makes sense to me. What’d she say?”

“Talked about his problems with drugs and mental health. She wasn’t with him the night things went down.”

“Which we pretty much knew already.”

“Right, but I couldn’t exactly share those details with my partner on this. Anyway, Katherine—that’s the widow—didn’t have any real answers about what happened to Havik, but she did give us a couple of things. She confirmed the ring was his; based it on an astrological symbol—a ram, she says—and some barely visible etchings on the band. I don’t know. It’s really hard to make out. I’ve had a file or two in which family members wrongly ID’d evidence as belonging to their loved ones. Sometimes the need for answers makes people see things that aren’t really there.”

“Or maybe she’s on the ball.”

“Maybe. Anyway, one thing she gave us absolutely can’t be disputed should it get us someplace. She had a tooth belonging to Havik, gave it to us for DNA comparison.”

“A tooth?”

“Lost in a fight. He’d meant to use it for patch-up dental work but never got it done. Katherine held onto it. She told us it would have felt like throwing out a piece of him.”

Wray scanned the traffic ahead, visible around a curve in the freeway. Not great, but she figured she’d be out of this within five minutes, ten at the most. Hopefully, the Lewisons had that long. Even more hopefully, Greenback and his driver were caught up in this too. She suddenly wanted to kick herself for not asking the cleaner what they’d been driving.

“This partner you’re working with,” Wray said. “She know about me?”

“I haven’t said anything about it—nothing beyond referring to a confidential informant anyway. She’s a bit like working with a bear. No nonsense, a bit crabby.”

“Anything else?” Wray asked.

“Well, the thing is, I’m with Historical Crimes. My cases don’t tend to take precedence at the labs. That means I’m looking at as long as three months for my DNA results. The pathologist got back to me while Lilian, my partner, and I were en route back to the office. She said there’s nothing distinguishing about the bones themselves to connect them to anyone. No healed breaks or any other injuries.”

“Can you get DNA from the bones and the tooth?”

“No way to say for sure yet. They’ve been sent off to someone else who specializes in that sort of thing. At this point, they’re out of my hands.”

Wray resisted honking her horn at the woman in front of her who hadn’t yet pulled ahead with the other traffic. Probably texting. “And the ring?”

“Also not in my hands,” Mars replied. “But it’s still in our possession, at least. Normally, I’d be getting it sent to the national lab, too, in the hopes they could find some DNA hiding in it somewhere, but I’ve been holding off. Vaughn’s aware I want to work things so you can get some hands-on time with it. I’m not there yet though. I suspect it’ll need to be a last resort kind of thing.”

Wray rolled her eyes. “No doubt. And the bus? Same deal?”

“Same deal—for now. Between you and me, the Ident Unit’s just about done out there. They’ve been crawling around in the bushes for quite a while now, probably pulling off wood ticks while complaining about me behind my back. They haven’t found anything more. And they are planning to remove the bus, but it’ll be a process. We need to line up a number of services to make it happen.”

Wray had a feeling she knew where this was headed. “Do I need to ask why you’re telling me all this?”

“I think you know why.”

She did. “What’s my infil?”

“I don’t speak military.”

“My entry? Where and when?”

Mars’s voice fell to a hush so that Wray needed to lean toward her speaker to catch it all. “We’ve got people watching the main access to the property from the grid, but that’s it. There are no other roads leading in or out and they’ll see headlights from any vehicles trying to cut across the fields. There’s an abandoned farmyard on the quarter section to the immediate west. Because of the trees on that side of the Rugg property, that farmyard and the dirt road leading to it aren’t visible from the spot where our patrol unit is parked. I won’t plan this for you, but my thinking is you can park at the farmyard and make your way on foot through the field. There’s a barbed-wire fence marking the edge of the Rugg property. Once you get there, the bus will be on your side of the barn. If there’s anything else I can do, I can try to do it. But if anyone finds out⁠—”

“I hear you. No one’ll know I’m there. We talked about Sully. Should I try to bring him in too?”

“I thought about that, but fewer people is probably better, right? Anyway, you’re the one with experience with this sort of thing.”

“I can talk him through it easily enough. His brother would be like a bull crashing through a china shop, but I get the impression Sully can sneak around with the best of them.”

“Your call. Whatever you think. But if this goes south⁠—”

“We never had this conversation. Time?”

“They’ve got the swing shift watching the place at the moment. They’ll bring in a fresh officer shortly after two in the morning. That means the officer watching the place will be getting pretty tired by around midnight.”

So would Wray, but she didn’t say as much. For Mars to ask this of her, he was getting desperate for answers—the kind only she could provide. She’d do what she could for him.

As soon as she finished what she was doing now for the Lewisons.

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said.

He spoke up before she could disconnect. “Wray. Be careful, all right?”

“Always am.” This time, she did disconnect.

Then as the traffic crawled onward, she made one more call. Sully answered within a couple of rings.

“Ghost Boy,” Wray said. “What are you up to tonight?”

Twenty-One

Wray spent the afternoon at the end of Greenback’s block, her eyes fixed on the house and the comings and goings of various vehicles on the street.

The thought lingered in her brain that she might attempt a break-in, if only to check what other goods he might be keeping inside, but with no lives immediately at risk, she couldn’t justify it. Her decision was made easier by the persistent gardening of a woman whose property was more or less across the street from Greenback’s. She seemed determined to enjoy as much of the day outdoors as possible, limiting Wray’s options.

Periodically, Wray tried both Ruby’s and Rich’s phones, but neither answered and neither responded to her text messages. By the time evening rolled around with no word from either of them, she had determined to kick each of their asses in turn once she finally did track them down.

At about eight, just as the daylight was beginning to wane, the car carrying Greenback returned. Wray sat forward, arms draping over the faux leather wrap on the steering wheel as she stared out the windshield. Greenback was where the cleaner had observed him earlier in the day, seated on the passenger side next to a broad-shouldered man. The two were limited to near-shadows in the car, but once Greenback stepped out, Wray got a good look at him. Judging by his sour expression and the way he stalked toward the house, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed deep in his pockets, he wasn’t a happy man.

Good. A happy Greenback wasn’t what Wray wanted to see right now. Probably not ever.

While she couldn’t be certain, she took this as a sign he’d come up empty in his search for the Antiques for Two crew. Hopefully, she’d get confirmation soon. For now, though, she had another task to prepare for.

She waited long enough to watch Greenback’s burly wheelman drive past. Hunched low in her seat, dark-coloured baseball cap pulled low over her hair, Wray studied what she could of the man in the couple of seconds she had. She couldn’t make out a whole lot, but she saw enough to convince her she’d recognize him again. Large, bald-headed, well into middle-aged and bearing a sizeable scar between his outer left eyebrow and the corner of his mouth. Maybe he was sneering on his own, but Wray guessed the nature of the injury had made the expression permanent.

No, she wouldn’t forget his face in a hurry. Just as well. If her path happened to cross Greenback’s again, she had a feeling this guy would be along for the ride as well.

“What are the chances you’re the Barber everyone’s talking about?” she muttered into the silent interior of Emily’s car as the other vehicle moved past.

Thankfully, the man didn’t stop to provide any answers to the question. This wasn’t the time to ask.

Wray’s stomach grumbled a complaint, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She had just enough time to get home, scarf down a meal and change her clothes. After that, Sully would pick her up, and they’d make their way toward the Rugg property.

Sully arrived promptly at ten, exactly as arranged. She’d suggested she could meet him downstairs, but he buzzed her door instead, asking to come up for a minute.

“Wanted to see what you’d done with the place,” he said, casting an eye over the small apartment. Tiny as it was—everything except the bathroom and the closet-storage room crowded into one space—there wasn’t much to look at, but Wray let him go to it anyway. He’d lived here long enough, had even warmed to the place sufficiently to once refer to it as home. Wray imagined it helped that Sully had spent two lonely years pretending to be dead while living in an abandoned house in the most dangerous part of the city—or so she’d been told.

It was late, but not late enough for Emily. Wray hadn’t seen her yet today, save in the morning when she’d kindly handed over her car keys once again, no questions asked. Wray thought she might have been asleep, but with Emily, you never knew. Wray sometimes wondered whether she slept at all.

“Sully!” Emily exclaimed, glasses-magnified eyes widening all the more as she regarded her former neighbour. She shuffled into the hall where Sully met her with a hug.

“Hi, Em,” he said. “How are you?”

“Just fine. I miss seeing you about the place—not that I regret having my beautiful niece here, of course. But I do miss seeing more of my young, handsome neighbour.”

“Who’s that?” Sully asked with a wink.

Emily giggled and swatted his arm playfully. “What brings you by?”

Sully cast Wray a questioning glance as if wondering how much to reveal. Wray took charge of the answer, opting to provide a mostly honest response. Emily had never been anyone’s fool, and it was hard to find someone as steady-minded and cool-headed as she was.

“We’re heading out of town for a little bit,” Wray told her. “Something of a long tale I can share with you tomorrow, but basically, the police found something Sully and I might be able to help with.”

Emily’s lips pressed together, big eyes narrowing a little. “Seems an unusual hour to be asked to render your brand of services.”

Nope, nobody’s fool.

Wray gave her an uneasy smile. “Let’s just say not all the police are in the know about our plan.”

“So you’re sneaking in somewhere?”

“You could say that.”

“A crime scene?”

Wray’s turn to cast Sully a glance. He was aware of the risks, and he’d come anyway. That said, Wray couldn’t help wondering whether he was harbouring any doubts about the plan. He was a licensed private investigator, after all. If he happened to get caught creeping around a crime scene—let alone handling evidence—he would probably lose his license. Even his boss, storied ex-cop Lachlan Fields, would have a hard time defending him. Wray guessed that was largely why Sully had come alone rather than looping in his brother and usual wingman, Dez Braddock. If this went sideways, the last thing he’d want was to bring Dez down with him.

“Yeah, that’s how police are treating it,” Wray told Emily.

“Don’t worry,” Sully said. “We’re careful. We know how to handle ourselves around evidence. We won’t contaminate anything. In and out, that’s all.”

“As soon as we see whether there’s anything there we can use to help the investigation along,” Wray added.

Emily crossed her arms, a petulant expression crossing her face. “If those policing types knew what was good for them, they’d let the two of you in willingly. Don’t they know how much good you both do?”

Sully beamed down as her. “I miss you, you know that?”

Wray chuckled. “Thanks, Auntie Em, but I can assure you, there are a decent number of cops on the force who are happy enough to work with us. Problem is, there are plenty of others who still think we’re cranks.”

Sully nodded, then added, “Anyway, having been stuck on the witness stand before, having to testify about my ability, I can tell you it’s an uphill battle convincing a judge and jury. I can see why there’s a reluctance to involve us—particularly since it can screw up the whole evidence continuity thing. Kind of important for admissibility in court.”

Emily frowned. “Even so.” She returned her gaze to Wray. “Will you be safe? Do you need a little something extra by way of protection?”

Wray raised her brows. “If you mean your revolver, then no. If we get caught, bad enough we’re sneaking into a guarded scene. I don’t want to be found in illegal possession of a firearm besides.”

Emily uncrossed her arms to pat Wray’s hand. “It’s always here if you need it, dear. Do you want my car?”

“We’re taking my SUV,” Sully said. “We might be doing a little cross-country. The extra clearance will be a good thing.”

Emily nodded, then leaned toward them. “You be careful, the both of you. Let me know when you’re out.”

Wray touched her shoulder. “I’ll come over for coffee in the morning, tell you all about it.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” With that, Emily gave them one final smile and disappeared back behind her apartment door.

Wray checked her watch. They’d lost a little time during their conversation with Emily, but they still had plenty left to drive out there and get into position. “Ready to roll?” she asked Sully.

“Whenever you are. Just wanted to see the old place.”

Wray smirked. “Five seconds is about all you need.”

“Still had some good memories here. Some bad ones too, but goes without saying.”

“Given your personal history, it definitely goes without saying.”

She followed Sully out of the apartment, flicked off the light switch and locked the door behind herself. Pocketing the key, she turned to face her partner for the evening. “Sure you’re okay with this?”

“Not really,” he said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

“You don’t have to. I meant it when I called you earlier, and I still mean it. I can handle it alone.”

He smiled. “I know you can, believe me. But you’ve backed us up in some really tight spots. I like returning the favour.”

She patted his arm. “You’re a good buddy, Ghost Boy.”

“Back at ya, Mallory.”

With Sully leading the way, they headed for the stairs.

Twenty-Two

The sun had set by the time Wray and Sully turned onto the grid road leading toward the Rugg property, both easing and complicating their path over unfamiliar territory.

With Sully driving, Wray played navigator, using her map app to coordinate with the directions provided earlier by Mars.

“Thank God for technology,” Sully said as he steered down the grid, its gravel rendered treacherous along the edges by recent grading. “No way I’d have any clue where I was going otherwise. It’s just endless flat fields out here.”

Wray glanced up to check once again for herself but didn’t do so for long. The night was dark, a carpet of cloud having moved in to block the moon. Nothing much to see, save what little was visible by the beams of the headlights—and before long, those too would have to go.

“Not even a lot of trees out this way,” she observed. “Might complicate things if the patrol member on duty happens to see us coming. It’ll look suspicious if we suddenly kill the lights or disappear down a dirt road leading to an abandoned farmyard.”

“Thought about that too. Tell me when we’re getting close and I’ll kill the headlights. Hopefully, we’ll have enough light left outside to find our way to the farm.”

Wray was skeptical. “Tell you what, if a pair of psychics can’t find our way through the dark, not much hope for anyone else.”

Sully snickered. “Not our brand of psychic, but I can see how it would look to outsiders.”

Wray guided Sully on, stopping him once she determined they were drawing near the Rugg property line. At that point, Sully parked long enough to locate his headlight dial by way of his cellphone flashlight. A moment later, the outside beams flicked off, leaving the vehicle bathed in darkness.

Sully’s cellphone flashlight off once again, they gave themselves a minute to allow their eyes to adjust. The artificial light from the dashboard was more a hindrance than a help at this point, so Sully located a switch to power that off too. Thankfully, the night wasn’t pitch black, granting them a partial view of the road’s edge, but not much else.

“Go slow,” Wray said. “I’ll guide you.”

Sully pushed the stick into a lower gear and set off.

There were moments Wray felt like she was bestowed with a glimpse into a higher power. As the clouds parted and the moonlight broke through, this felt like one of those moments. It wasn’t the brightest, but certainly bright enough to allow Sully to coast along more quickly, and soon he was shifting back up into regular drive.

Wray had him take the next right, and they followed the narrower road a short distance. The gravel gave way to dirt, deep ruts left in the lower spots during the last significant rain. Before long, the moon illuminated the edges of a couple of buildings and a scattering of trees.

“That has to be it there,” Wray said. “The farmyard Mars mentioned.”

“Figured as much,” Sully said as he closed the remaining distance and pulled into the yard.

A few grain bins stood to one side, and the once-muddy trail continued into the yard. Good. The existing tracks would make it harder for anyone to tell a vehicle had been in the yard tonight.

Sully continued forward, taking them along the far side of the house where the vehicle could be partially concealed. He kept going until he’d passed a large bush, putting that between them and the road. There, he stopped.

“It’s like you’ve done this sort of thing before,” Wray said approvingly.

Sully, cast in darkness, spoke through a grin. “Let’s just say I’ve done a few things I probably shouldn’t have.”

Wray honoured the quip with a chuckle, then reached for the bag she’d brought along. The night was cool, and she’d opted for a toque instead of her baseball cap—just as well as it hid more of her hair when tucked up beneath it. She’d dressed entirely in dark clothes—black jeans, dark shirt, black hoodie zipped to the neck. She’d also brought leather gloves.

Sully, she’d noted upon his arrival at the apartment, had done the same. If they moved quietly and carefully, they’d reach the Rugg property easily enough. Only issue would be ensuring they left nothing behind that would trace back to them—such as hair, clothing fibres or footprints.

Sully proved he had thought of that. He reached into the backseat for his own bag and drew it forward, onto the centre console between them. “Lachlan has some of that protective gear they use in the Forensic Identification Unit. Lord knows why he has it, but hey, why look a gift horse in the mouth, right?”

Wray flashed a grin into the vehicle’s dim interior. “Tell Lachlan I love him, huh?”

“Only problem is that it’s white. We’ll stand out like a sore thumb once we put it on.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Wray pointed out. “Mars said there’s all sorts of stuff between the bus and the spot where the patrol unit is parked. No way they should see us once we’re on the Rugg property.”

Opting to take just one bag between them, Wray stuffed the protective gear—plastic coveralls, covers for their shoes and hair and disposable gloves—into her own backpack. Then they stepped out of the SUV, locked it up and started across the yard.

The owner of the quarter section they had to cross was using it as pasture for a herd of cattle. Wray figured that part out quickly, having stumbled across a sizeable number of mournful-looking cows resting in the field, baleful dark eyes following the progress of the two humans. Wray might have moved faster but for the various holes she and Sully kept finding, the work of gophers, moles or badgers. They presented enough of a risk of ankle sprain to keep Wray from shifting into a jog.

Nor had the weather decided one hundred percent on cooperating, the clouds heavy and fast-moving enough to alternate between covering and exposing the moon. Wray had brought with her a penlight, but she wouldn’t risk clicking it on until they were certain of avoiding detection. Once they hit the fence line separating this pasture from the Rugg property, she’d know they were safe. For now though, she couldn’t take a chance at being seen.

Wray was relieved when she and Sully finally reached the barbed-wire fence. It was tight, ensuring the cattle couldn’t get through, but not so taut she and Sully couldn’t squeeze between the wires with help from each other. Now officially on the Rugg property, Wray risked a little light, casting the narrow beam from her penlight to make sure they were well within cover.

Nothing but a wall of trees in front of them. Good.

Until now, she and Sully had kept conversation to a minimum, limited to warnings about holes in the ground or larger rocks to avoid. Now, Sully leaned toward Wray, whispering, “I think we should put the suits on now.”

“Copy that,” Wray said.

They paused to suit up, Wray digging the necessary items from her pack to begin the process. The two sets of coveralls were the same size, so Wray’s fit a bit looser and longer on her than Sully’s did him, but she resolved any problems by rolling up the ankles and sleeves.

“At least these will keep the wood ticks and mosquitoes off,” Sully said. “I hate those things.”

Wray snapped on a set of shoe coverings, pleased to see Sully had thought to pack a few extra pairs. They weren’t exactly made to last, and Wray thought it highly likely their bases could be torn or outright shredded by the time they made it through the trees and reached the bus. She unzipped her suit enough to stuff some extra pairs into her pockets, then tucked her toque inside her backpack before stuffing her hair up inside an elasticized shower cap-type covering. Sully, whose own hair was close to the same long length as Wray’s, knotted his hair into a low bun before pushing everything up inside his own hair covering.

Protective gear in place, Wray zipped up her bag, located the biggest tree she could find and placed her backpack into a thick matting of undergrowth at its base. She’d contemplated bringing it along, but she didn’t want to risk something dropping out and being traced back to her or Sully. She’d taken what she needed out of there already; if she’d forgotten something important, they weren’t so far she couldn’t come back for it.

Unable to count on visuals or memory to relocate the bag, Wray dropped a pin on her map app. Then she returned the phone to the safety of a pocket, zipped up the coveralls and peered up at Sully.

“Let’s go find that bus,” she said.

“With you.”

With Wray leading the way, penlight acting as a guide, they set off through the trees.

Twenty-Three

Wray pressed a branch out of her path, holding it so it wouldn’t thwack Sully in the face.

They’d been forced to move more slowly than she would have liked, the thin material of their protective coveralls at near-constant risk of tearing. While Sully had brought extra gloves and shoe coverings, they had only the one set each of the coveralls.

They walked on for a few minutes in silence, Wray attempting to coordinate their movements in the direction Mars had indicated for the bus. While he hadn’t provided exact coordinates, he’d been pretty specific; find the barn, they’d find the bus. And how hard could it be to find a barn?

Pretty hard, apparently. Another five minutes of bushwhacking, and Wray and Sully paused to regroup.

“We’re definitely in the right place?” Sully asked.

“Have to be.” Wray pulled off her glove and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, ridding herself of a couple of beads of sweat. It wasn’t hot out, but her anxiety was creeping up, making her feel warmer than she should be. “We’re going to have to do a thorough check for wood ticks when we get back. At this rate, the only thing we’re going to come away with is a case of Lyme disease.”

Sully returned a dry laugh. “Hey, if there’s one good thing about sneaking around with these suits on, it’s that we’re avoiding both of the bugs we’d ordinarily be exposed to.” As if to prove his point, he lifted an arm and flicked at a crawling tick, sending it off into the darkness.

They continued on, falling back into silence. Wray’s penlight barely cut the darkness, doing little more than saving them from the whip of branches or the treacherous network of exposed roots, holes and rocks. She was beginning to worry her phone’s GPS was off; the signal out here wasn’t strong, after all.

Finally, though, they reached the trees’ edge, bringing them either to a clearing or the start of the yard. Wray hoped it wasn’t the latter. If they’d reached the area around the house, it was possible her light would have been spotted by the officer manning the road.

To be safe, she clicked off the light, and the two of them hunkered down, waiting until the moon reappeared between the clouds. Two minutes, maybe three. Then the break they needed.

Dull light touched the roof of a building ahead of them, delicately refracting off of tin. Hard to tell in the dark, but the size and shape of the structure strongly suggested a barn.

“Think we’re safe to use a flashlight again?” Sully whispered.

“Willing to risk it if you are. I think we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

“Go for it.”

Wray put her gloves back on, ensuring she wouldn’t forget or, worst case, drop one somewhere. Then she clicked the end of the penlight and played the beam across the area between here and the roof ahead. Almost immediately, it glinted off glass. A second or two later, a strip of marked yellow came into view.

They’d found the bus.

“This is it,” she said as if Sully needed the conclusion voiced.

“Problem,” he said. “Look.”

Wray looked. Almost immediately, she understood what he was talking about. “They’ve taped off the door,” she said. “No way to get inside without ripping through it.”

“Nope,” Sully said. “Fortunately, Lachlan’s the kind of guy to think of everything.”

He opened his coveralls enough to gain access to his jacket beneath. He reached into an interior pocket, and when his hand reappeared, he was clutching something bright yellow.

“Is that what I think it is?” Wray asked through a grin.

“As long as the markings are the same and we’re really careful about putting it up exactly how the set over there was placed, I think we can pull this off.”

“Literally,” Wray said. “We’ll need to take some photos before we do though—to make sure we put it up exactly. No telling how diligent the folks on the forensic team are, but we’re better off assuming they’re ultra-cautious.”

“Given the nature of this investigation, I’m going to assume the same,” Sully said.

They unwrapped Lachlan’s tape enough to read the print. Bold letters: POLICE DO NOT ENTER. Same as the tape cordoning off the bus.

“We’re in business,” Sully said.

“Before we go tearing anything off, let’s see what we can get from the outside,” Wray suggested.

She felt Sully’s eyes on her before he asked the obvious question. “You picking up anything yet?”

So far, she’d been so concerned with finding the bus and avoiding detection that she hadn’t turned her mind to what, if any, energy lingered here. It could be hard to detect outside energy while her anxiety was high; she’d come to understand her own internal noise sometimes cancelled out the external. She’d need to settle herself before she could fully hone in.

“Give me a sec,” she said as she focused on drawing in a few calming breaths. In between, she asked her own question. “What about you?”

“Yeah, I’m definitely getting something.”

She eyed him. “You see anything?”

He peered at the bus, gaze tracking over the windows. “Not yet, but they don’t always appear to me right away—if they do at all.”

Wray nodded her understanding. “Might not be a homicide victim on board that thing. I mean, I know Rich said he saw someone on there, and he even identified him in the photo. I would have thought, given the vision I had, the guy on there was murdered, but who knows?”

Sully continued his study. “Based on what you described to me, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t a murder. Thing is though, even some murder victims don’t communicate with me. Everyone’s different, and some are just too scared to show themselves. Given time, I can usually get them to open up, but time’s not something we have much of.”

This was true, and if Sully was right and the ghost wasn’t open to communicating, that meant it was down to Wray to find what they needed.

She began the process, her heart rate and breathing having settled enough to allow her to focus on the bus rather than their situation. It took less than a second.

“Yeah,” she said. “This beast is screaming at me.” She met Sully’s eye in the dim light. “I think I might be able to pull this off without getting on board.”

Sully released a whoosh of breath. “So we won’t need this tape after all.”

“Not unless we have to get you on there—or if I don’t get enough from the outside.” She peered at the faded paint on the side of the bus. “Time to find out.”

They approached the bus carefully, their steps light and careful to avoid tearing the shoe coverings. Last thing Wray wanted was to go through all this only to discover the police had found their boot treads at the scene. She’d already started to regret not having used the old trick of duct-taping her soles.

“We should have duct-taped our soles,” Sully muttered as he checked the bases of his coverings.

Wray chuckled. “We are totally on the same page, my dude. Keep an eye out, okay? I’m going in.” She added with a wink, “Not literally, of course.”

She paced the bus’s exposed exterior. Mars had been right about how complicated it would be to remove the thing, stuck into the bush as it was. Trees and shrubs had grown up all around it, and Wray wouldn’t have been surprised to learn more than one had wound their way through pieces of the undercarriage. Not only would the police need to be careful to cut away the undergrowth so not to break off any bits and pieces, they’d need to figure out how to get a flatbed in here to tow this thing away. No way it was drivable, not anymore.

Those problems would work in her favour, though, if it meant she found some answers here.

“Wray,” came Sully’s voice. “I see someone.”

She straightened. “Police?”

“Nope. Ghost. Back of the bus.”

She followed his eye toward one of the rearmost windows. Sometimes she saw spirits—not usually the way Sully did, like a full human figure, but as a shadow. Nothing showed now though—not for her.

“Is it him?” she asked.

Sully gave a slow nod. “Yeah. The guy with the long hair. Buck, I think you called him.”

“Getting anything so far?”

Sully frowned. “I’d need to connect with his energy to get anything real from him, but I’m telling you now, I’d rather not. He’s not happy we’re here.”

Wray addressed her response to whomever sat behind the empty-looking window. “Listen, buddy, we’d rather not be here either, but here we are anyway. We’re trying to help, all right?”

Sully crossed his arms. “I’m getting the feeling he’s not enjoying all the attention the place has been getting from the police.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s got the look of someone who recently used. Maybe he’s paranoid because of it. Maybe he was paranoid to start with. I don’t know. Either way, he’s not enjoying it.”

“Maybe he’s just scared because of what happened to him?”

Sully shrugged. “It’s part of it, yeah. But there’s something more in his eyes.”

“Okay, well, let’s see where I get. Keep an eye, huh?”

“Will do.”

Safe in that knowledge, Wray went back to her psychic scan. She moved from the back to the front, letting her gloved fingers drift near the bus’s side. The whole bus was charged, no question, but sometimes she could find a part of it more energized than the rest. In this case, she realized as she neared the front, it was emanating from the main door, a spot touched by everyone getting on and off.

And possibly an impossible-to-reach point of escape for those trapped on here that last fateful night.

Wray drew in a pair of steadying breaths as she again removed a glove. She’d need to lay her fingers directly against the door to get a read.

“Make sure we wipe this down when I’m done,” she told Sully. “I’m going to leave prints otherwise.”

“For sure,” Sully said.

Wray nodded. No sense delaying any longer. She twitched her fingers a little to work her own energy through them. Then she closed her eyes and touched the metal.

Twenty-Four

Fear. And a hell of a lot of it.

Pain and blood. Plenty of those too.

At first, it hadn’t been bad. Shock maybe. Now though, it was horrible, the worst thing he’d ever felt.

If it weren’t for the terror, he might have given in to it, fallen to the ground and wailed like a baby.

Instead, he was running.

And if the fear wasn’t enough incentive, the memory of Buck’s screams and the sight of his blood-soaked body sure as hell were.

Another image, another time. The bus, brand new paint job. Damn, it looked cool.

Micky was already next to it, posing with tongue out, Gene Simmons style, while a photographer did her thing. Their manager had lined up the shoot, ensuring the new paint job was put to full effect while it was at its best. Probably something to do with the fact their manager’s brother had done the work, but maybe Havik was being cynical again. Kit always told him he was too cynical.

He stood back as Micky went into full rockstar mode, posing for all he was worth. Havik was pretty sure Alban Ezra could split up tomorrow and Micky would do just fine.

The rest of them, not so much. Johnny Fade was the best guitar player Havik had ever known, and he had that whole silent, brooding thing to go with it. He’d probably land a spot with another band easily enough. Rizzo was good enough on bass to secure plenty of session work, same way he’d been doing before he joined Ezra.

Havik was never sure where he stood. He was a good drummer but not great. He had personality but nothing compared to the charisma of Micky or the allure of Johnny. Sometimes Havik just thought he was along for the ride, nothing more.

Playing a part. Hoping he didn’t lose it.

At least that was how he felt during his down moments, and damn if he didn’t have a lot of those.

He’d left a couple of baggies of the white stuff buried deep in his toiletries kit. It was easily accessible back in the car. Snort a little and all his self-confidence woes, this creeping depression, would be knocked away—if only for a little while.

By the bus, Micky had snared Rizzo, had him more or less in a headlock while the photographer snapped away. “Fade, Havik, get over here!”

“Give me five,” Havik called back.

All he needed was to get to the car and into his bag. After that, he’d do all the damned photoshoots Micky could handle.

Micky could be a real arsehole. He was back at it, doing his whole second-in-command routine while their manager, Ed, was otherwise occupied.

Micky loved to organize, happy to orchestrate all the photo sessions and interviews they could fit in.

“Keeps our name out there, lads,” he said. “Only bad press is no press.”

A rule he followed religiously. A couple of years back, Micky had been right there out front, drinking too much, drugging too much, tossing furniture out of hotel room windows and mooning passersby out the window of their tour bus.

But Micky had gone straight. He still liked to play the role of the partying rocker, but now he did it strictly for show.

Problem was, he liked to push his clean lifestyle on everyone else. Havik especially.

“Know why we call you Havik?” Micky said one day while they were sitting on the bus, driving between one city and another somewhere. “It’s because you cause so much of it.”

Whatever. Sure, Havik liked his drugs a bit more than Rizzo or Fade, but he could handle it. No problem. Hell, if Micky and Ed would cut everyone a break once in a while, Havik wouldn’t need so many pick-me-ups, would he?

Thank God for Buck. The guy was a godsend. Didn’t matter what city in which country on which continent—give Buck ten minutes, and he’d find the best dealers with the best product, plus the best place to party.

Once upon a time, they’d done their partying in the coolest clubs. Now, thanks to Micky’s desire to play things straight, they’d been forced into quieter places, their parties confined to just a few trusted friends.

Kimotan Rapids. Buck knew a bloke, someone who’d let them hang out for the day. Had a cool setup, a whole village he’d built himself from old granaries and tool sheds and the like. Nice and quiet. Havik liked to party, but he could handle the quiet too. Sometimes, it was the best thing, no one watching, no one to put on a show for.

Sometimes Micky wasn’t so stupid after all.

Harry Rugg was cool. The guy looked like something out of the Wild West—wild hair, big cowboy hat, boots over his jeans. Slap a six-shooter on him and give him a horse, he’d be the real deal.

Of course, he had a saloon out back. Somewhere, he’d gotten himself a full bar, one of those old-style ones like Havik had seen in the westerns. Harry had a few bottles back there too. Perfect.

They’d all tied one on together that afternoon—even Micky and Ed. Harry had enjoyed the hell out of it, said it was the most fun he’d ever had standing up. They’d taken the bus out there, their driver Dennis Telford behind the wheel, and they’d given Harry the parting gift he’d been after: a group photo taken by Ed.

He’d told them to come back anytime. Buck and Havik ended up taking him up on it.

There’d been a time when Micky and Havik had been tight. Best friends even. Hell, more than friends. Brothers.

Micky had been there for Havik when he’d left home, beaten one too many times by a drunken arsehole of a father and tired of being called a loser who’d go nowhere in life. When Micky decided to start a band, he wanted Havik there with him. But for Micky, Havik figured he would have turned out exactly where his father always said he would.

No, Havik wasn’t the greatest drummer in the world. As big a deal as Alban Ezra had become, it wasn’t because of him. But Micky wanted him there, and so Havik got to stay.

Made things tough with Micky’s new saint-like ways. His patience with Havik was wearing thin, and Havik was losing patience himself. One thing for Micky to tell him to be safe, take it easy. It was another for him to give him grief over his mental health.

Micky wanted him to get help, confront his demons. Do that, he said, and maybe he could cut back on the shite he was putting into his body.

Sanctimonious prick. Micky thought he knew everything, and he wasn’t afraid to tell you as much.

Well, what Micky didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Post-show, and Havik needed to work off some steam. Buck had become the buddy to Havik that Micky used to be, understanding what he needed without being told. And so after the first show, while everyone else was kicking it back at the hotel, Buck made some arrangements.

Havik never worried about the people Buck dealt with. He knew what he was doing. Nothing ever went bad.

Until it did.

Two men. One with skin tone and an accent marking him as from somewhere in Africa, the other a big, white, bald guy with eyes like a snake. The dark-skinned bloke—Havik thought he used the name Creed—was all about the smooth-talking and the flashing of white teeth, smiling without truly smiling. The bald guy watched everything, one hand tapping lightly on the back of one of the bus seats.

Havik thought they were here to sell some drugs. Instead, they were the ones demanding something.

“You’ve racked up quite the debt,” Creed said. “I wish to give you the chance to pay it down.”

Buck put on his best grin. “Come on, man. Told you before, we’re good for it.”

“I know this. This is why I’ve fronted you for as much as I have. But we all have people to answer to, you know. I have people who want to be paid. Who need to be paid.” He touched his chest. “I’m a man of business. I ask only for what you’ve promised to pay.” Deep brown eyes settled on Havik. “Surely, one of you has the money.”

Havik faced Buck, wondering how he’d answer. In principle, yes, Havik had the money, but he didn’t handle those things. He had people who took care of all of that. He assumed Buck had this all well in hand. He’d handle it now surely.

“Hey, man, we’re good for it,” Buck said. “Next time. Next time, I swear, I’ll get you what you’re owed.”

“Next time,” Creed said. The half-smile fell away abruptly as he shot forward so violently, Havik jumped. “Next time? You think there will be a next time?”

“We’re good customers, Creed. You said so yourself.”

“I did once, yes. Back when you paid. Good customers pay what they owe.” Again, he faced Havik. “You must have the money. I know what you’re worth. Your last album went gold, did it not?”

“Yeah,” Havik whispered. He hadn’t meant to whisper, but it was as if his voice were doing what the rest of him wanted to do—fade away, disappear.

This was bad. Really bad. Havik had never met these men, but he knew people. Blokes like him, blokes who grew up with men like his father, they learned how to read people. Their safety, their survival relied on it. He could read these men easily enough. Part of him wished he couldn’t.

“We haven’t done business before, you and me,” Creed told Havik. “Your man here, he’s been promising to pay for a while now. Three times, I’ve fronted him for quite a hefty amount of product. Three times, he’s told me he’d pay on our next meeting.”

“I’m sorry,” Havik said. “I didn’t know.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. If you had, you’d have brought some money along for me, wouldn’t you?”

“How much do we owe?”

Creed’s humourless smile returned. To Havik, it had the same feel as the bald man’s eyes. “Twelve.”

“Hundred?”

The smile broadened. “Thousand.”

Havik felt his own eyes widen. “Thousand?” His stare shot to the side of Buck’s pale face. “How, mate? How’d we rack up that kind of debt?”

Buck’s gaze snapped over to him. “You don’t realize how much you use, do you?”

Havik bristled at this. “Me? What about you? You’re right there with me, every time. What about the other guys? Fade. Rizzo. Hell, even Ed and Dennis sometimes. The girls. Don’t put this all on me.”

Buck responded with a bitter laugh. “No one uses like you do, man. No one. And it’s not just the nose candy anymore. There’s the heroin sometimes. The crack. That shit costs too. You’ve been sitting there, expecting everyone else to take care of you. Well, I’ve been taking care of you, man. Thing is, no one’s taking care of me, are they? I only get paid so much, and I can’t afford to cover your ass as well as mine. I asked you to pay up, and you didn’t.”

“When?”

“Two nights ago. A few days before that. Hell, a week even before those times.”

Havik was about to refute all this. Buck hadn’t asked him for anything.

Only maybe he had. Havik had been binging like crazy lately, medicating his increasingly black moods, staving off the depression constantly looming over him lately like a dark cloud. Maybe Buck had asked and Havik had forgotten.

“I don’t remember that,” he said.

“We have ways of helping you remember,” Creed said. “Perhaps you need a reminder.”

And the bald guy pulled out a set of wire cutters.

Havik sat bolt upright. “What the hell is that?”

Creed’s dark eyes settled on Havik’s hands a moment before returning to his face. “Your hands are important to you. As a drummer, you need them.”

“What are you talking about?”

Creed stood slowly, deliberately. “You see, I’m a man of business. You have a reputation, Havik. I do too. And when people start to think I’m a soft touch, my reputation is damaged. I can’t allow that to happen. If you cannot pay me what I’m owed, you can at least help me to rebuild my reputation. You see?”

Havik didn’t see. And he sure as all hell didn’t want to.

Creed filled in the blanks anyway. “I have many customers, at least some of whom know you and I do business. If they see the results of your disrespect, they’ll know not to try the same thing.” He again eyed Havik’s hands. “You are right-handed?”

Havik nodded numbly.

“Which finger on your left hand can you do without?”

Havik’s breath hitched.

“Come on, Creed,” Buck said. “You can’t do that. Not to him. Don’t you know who this is?”

“I know exactly who he is. So do all of my other customers.” Creed tilted his head. “You, though, are no one, are you?”

“Creed, man, we can work this out, all right? Forget our arrangement for tonight. We won’t ask for another thing until we pay off what we owe.”

“I’m done doing business with you,” Creed snarled. “You’re a liar, Clinton. I don’t like liars. From now on, I do business with Havik alone.”

He nodded to the bald man. One moment, he was sitting. The next, he was lunging at Buck.

Buck was up and running, making for the door. The bald man followed, tackling him near the entrance. Havik thought the bald man was punching Buck. Until he saw the knife.

“No,” Havik moaned. “No.”

Buck was screaming. Maybe a dozen blows, maybe more. When the bald man stood, Buck’s whole front was soaked in blood. More blood came out of his mouth.

He turned, scrambling awkwardly for the door. The bald man, his own face having been badly bloodied somehow, started back toward him.

“Leave him,” Creed said. “He won’t get far. We have other business to attend to.”

And he waved the wire cutters.

Havik shot to his feet. His legs were like spaghetti after what he’d just seen, but adrenaline was kicking in. He needed to get out. Now.

The bald man was in his way. And despite what definitely appeared to be his own significant injury, his solid expression and posture told Havik he remained a formidable opponent.

Havik needed to try anyway. He rushed the man, was met by an unexpected fist to the face which dropped him backward. His head hit the bus’s rear wall hard, stunning him.

He felt himself being restrained, held down by the two large men, his left arm outstretched next to him.

He slivered open his eyes, blinking away the daze in time to see the wire cutters changing hands.

The bald man swiped away a heavy amount of blood from his face. This close up, Havik could see how deep the cut was, how the skin was hanging open down his cheek.

But it was Havik’s own skin he was worried about now as he watched the wire cutters approaching his left hand.

With nothing else left to do, Havik screamed. Kept screaming as the cutters encircled his pinky finger and began to squeeze.

“Wray. Wray!”

Wray’s eyes fired open at the sound of her name, an urgent sound on Sully’s lips.

She sought him out, locked eyes with him, took solace in their familiarity and concern.

“You okay?” he asked.

“You pulled me out?”

He nodded. “You were breathing weird. I know from Dez how I get when things are going bad during a vision. I had a feeling you were going through the same sort of thing.”

She reached for him, patted his cheek. “Thank you.”

She drew in a deep breath, frustrated at how shaky it sounded and felt. “Good God. Sometimes I wonder how the hell you and me got stuck doing what we do.”

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Nothing good. But enough.”

“Want me to try to talk to Buck again?”

“No need,” she said. “And no sense you being stuck experiencing what I just did. I got what we need.”

“I feel kind of useless coming along if I don’t do something more.”

She smiled at him. “Ghost Boy, you’ve done plenty, believe me. Let’s get out of here, okay?”

Sully smiled back. He held up his index finger, a call to wait. Then he removed what looked like a lens-cleaning cloth from inside his jacket and wiped hard at the spot Wray had just touched. That done, he returned to her side.

“Check your shoe coverings,” he suggested. “Make sure they’re not torn.”

They both did. All good. The only thing right now that was.

It wasn’t just the images running through Wray’s head. It was the emotion, the fear, the pain. Some things were harder to shake off than others. Witnessing murder, that was more than any normal person could easily do. Wray wasn’t entirely normal, but she was normal enough when it came to this.

“Let’s get out of here,” she told Sully again. “I’ll fill you in once we’re out.”

“Sure you’re okay?” he asked as they started back the way they’d come, Wray removing her phone to track down her discarded backpack en route.

“One or two stiff drinks, I will be,” she said.

It occurred to her stiff drinks and drugs hadn’t made anything okay for Havik. It wasn’t a thought she was eager to hold onto right now.

Twenty-Five

Rattled by what she’d seen, Wray wasn’t sure how well she’d sleep. Exhaustion won out over emotional strain though, and she fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

She expected Mars would be itching to talk to her, so she was surprised when she awoke from a sound sleep to discover it was eleven in the morning and no messages or missed calls showed on her phone.

She decided to get in a shower first, then called Mars while sipping a cup of coffee. He didn’t answer immediately, which wasn’t surprising either. No doubt, given the nature of their upcoming conversation, he’d want to find somewhere to talk where he wouldn’t be overheard.

Ten minutes passed. Then her phone rang.

“Wray?” Mars.

“Hey, Sarge. How’s the day shaping up?”

“Same as before. Waiting on results that won’t be here for ages.” He paused as if either ensuring he was still alone or thinking how to phrase something. “Did you …?”

“We did,” she said. “No issues you’re aware of?” As in, had anyone come to realize somebody had snuck into their crime scene?

“No issues. They’re getting started on the process of removing the bus. Found a crew who can go in and help with clearing a path, plus we reached the landowners on the neighbouring property. Easier for us to get to the bus from the back of the Rugg property. That means cutting across fields rather than using the access road. Details you don’t need, I’m sure.”

She didn’t, but she was fine with letting him ramble. It was clear Mars was nervous. Easy to figure out why.

“You alone?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Okay talking by phone?”

“Better in person. I can meet you in the park by the station. I can’t go far. I’m expecting a call from the pathologist about the tooth Havik’s widow gave us. Do you have a few minutes to meet?”

“Sure thing, dude. I can be there in ten.”

“One of the benches near the pond?”

“See you there.”

Wray disconnected, poured her remaining coffee into a travel mug and headed for the door.

Wray was beginning to feel a bit bad about constantly using Emily’s car. At this point, she rarely returned the keys, and while Emily didn’t mind—she’d reminded Wray of that fact during a brief chat this morning—Wray still felt as if she should be trying to make half the monthly payments on the thing.

At this moment, the car was parked on the street alongside the park while Wray walked the path toward the pond. A hotdog vendor was set up nearby, and Wray took advantage, buying herself a foot-long and topping it with ketchup, mustard and relish before taking it and her travel mug back to one of the empty benches.

The park was quiet despite the fact it was approaching noon. Bad for the hotdog vendor, good for a nervous Mars.

Wray had barely tucked into her meal when Mars came into view from a walkway between two narrow stands of trees. Wray finished chewing and swallowing her current bite, smiling a greeting at him as he neared. He appeared tired and stressed; Wray hoped something she had to share would help.

“Hey, you,” she said once he was within earshot.

He returned her grin and greeting. “Hey, you.”

Wray inclined her head in the direction of the cart she’d just visited. “Hotdog? My treat.”

He peered at it as if trying to gauge the quality of the goods on offer. “Maybe I will. Might be my only chance at a meal.”

Wray started to stand, but Mars waved her back down. “I’ll get it,” he said. “Just stay and relax—as much as you can in this neighbourhood.”

He ended with a quirk of his lips, then made his way toward the vendor.

Yeah, Wray thought, he even sounded tired. She didn’t think it was all down to the details of the case itself; rather, she suspected it was about last night, about the fact he’d essentially green-lighted two non-cops to sneak into an active crime scene. Mars had pushed things a few times, but all in all, he was a solid cop with a solid reputation. She imagined the guilt was killing him.

Sure enough, once he returned with his food a moment later, the first thing he said was, “Tell me it was worth it.”

Wray pressed for a relaxed grin. “It was worth it.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I can tell you for sure that finger and the ring belonged to Havik. And I can tell you that Buck guy died just outside the bus.”

Wray supplied the details Mars was after, telling him everything she’d seen during her vision.

Once she’d finished, Mars swallowed down the bite he’d been working on, then lifted his brow at her. “So basically, that’s two bodies we’re looking for.”

“I never actually saw Havik die.”

“No, but he was never seen again. We know he didn’t seek medical help for his injury, and he didn’t talk to police about the incident. We also know he didn’t touch anything in his bank account or contact anyone he was close to ever again. And we know guys like Creed and his henchman wouldn’t happily let him walk away—not after witnessing something like that.”

Wray thumbed what felt like a condiment drip from the corner of her mouth. “I was thinking about that. Would they not have been content with Havik walking away if the expectation was for him to pay them what he owed? I mean, yeah, he watched a friend die. Sure, that might take him to the police, but it just as easily could have kept him from going there. He was terrified. I felt it. That kind of fear might have kept him in line as far as Creed was concerned.”

Mars shrugged. “Just as possible, I guess—save the obvious. It’s been nearly forty years, and Havik has never resurfaced.”

Wray gave a shrug of her own. “Fair point. So this Creed guy—any idea who he is?”

“No, but I’m definitely going to check. Based on your description, he must have been a dealer with some clout. I can’t picture most of the ones I’ve known personally having the balls to lop off the finger of a world-famous rock drummer—debt notwithstanding.”

“The other guy, the bald one I described. I’ve been thinking about him.”

“I’m thinking about him now too. I don’t have a physical description to compare to, but based on his behaviour alone, I’d say you’re right and there’s a good chance it was Barber you saw. I definitely want to get you to help out with a composite, if you don’t mind sitting down with someone to do that.”

Wray took a small bite off the end of her bun and talked while she chewed. “I don’t mind, yeah, but I was actually going somewhere else with that. I thought about the whole Barber thing given our chat about him recently, but what I meant to say was that I kept thinking he seemed familiar. I didn’t put it together right away as forty years changes people, but I think the guy I saw in the vision is the same one I saw driving around with Greenback. The guy in the vision didn’t have the scar I saw on the dude with Greenback, but I did see the guy get cut up.”

“That’s how he got the scar, you think?”

“It was a bad cut. Either the knife slipped while he was stabbing Buck, or Buck gave some back to him. Either way, he left there with what would have amounted to permanent facial disfigurement.”

“And chances are he wouldn’t have sought medical help for it either,” Mars added with a nod. “Too many questions.” He paused for a bite, thoughts crossing his face while he chewed. “Have you heard from Rich or Ruby?”

Wray shook her head. “Nope. Not for lack of trying either. You?”

Mars made the same head movement. “I haven’t tried them yet today, but I will. I can tell you the patrol units I asked to check things out haven’t spotted them.”

“Do you have a number for their camera guy?”

“I do. I’ll give him another call as well. Even if the Lewisons have gone to ground, maybe Sid’s still around and can give us some clues as to where they’re at.”

“I told them to lie low,” Wray said. “Looks like they took me seriously. I didn’t refer to Sid, but if they have even one working brain cell between them, they’ll take him along. Won’t help them much if someone gets hold of Sid and uses him against them.”

“You’ve spent some time with Rich,” Mars said. “Think he’d stick his neck out for his camera guy?”

Wray snorted. “Uh, maybe not so much. Ruby though, I think she would, and I’ve got to believe Rich would stick his neck out for Ruby.”

“One can hope.” Mars pulled out his phone, checking the screen. “Got to get back right away. Think you can come in for that composite? If we’ve got some missing reality show people to deal with now, we’ll need to keep on that as well. More we have, the better.”

“As it happens, I’m on vacation.”

Mars rolled his eyes. “Some vacation.” He polished off his hotdog with one big bite, using a clean corner of the napkin it came in to wipe at the whiskers encircling his mouth. “I’ll talk to the Ident sergeant, see if someone’s available to sit down with you on the composite.”

“Speaking of evidence, anything on the tooth you mentioned?”

“Pathologist recommended consulting with a forensic dentist we use for these things. He thinks there’s a good chance we can successfully extract some pulp for DNA profiling. Regardless, we’re still looking at loads of turnaround time. And given what you’ve told me, all of that’s only going to confirm what I already know. What I really need is to figure out where Havik and Clint Buckley ended up.”

“Maybe they’re still out there at the Rugg place,” Wray suggested.

“Maybe so. If they are though, we’ve found nothing so far. My guess is Creed and Barber knew what was going to happen and went in prepared. I’d bank on them having loaded up the bodies to dispose of them some other way. Leaving them out there would have left them open to Harry’s finding something and reporting it. People as serious as these guys don’t like leaving loose ends.”

Which of course left Wray with another question. Rich Lewison had become one massive loose end himself. Where he was now was anyone’s guess. Hopefully, he and Ruby weren’t in the same place as Havik and Buck.

Wray stood with Mars, walking with him back toward the nearest walkway to the street and tossing her used napkin into a trash bin. At the bottom of the walkway, Mars stopped and turned to face her.

“I know you hate when I ask stuff like this, but are you doing okay?”

She tilted her head. “In what way?”

“You saw some bad stuff, Wray. You see a lot of bad stuff. It’s not easy, I know that. Believe me, I know.”

He did know. But for that, she might have brushed him off or told him to mind his own business. “You’re right, it sucks. But I’ll deal with it, same way I always do. Same way you do with your job. You get up, you get dressed, you breathe, you eat, you go to work, you come home. Life goes on.”

“There’s more to dealing with this crap than putting one foot in front of the other, and you know it.”

Wray gave him a half-grin. “Wanna hug?”

He snorted. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. I’m just saying, all right? You need a talk or a drink or whatever, call me. If you need someone to punch though, I’ll find you someone else. You hit hard.”

“You know it,” she said.

They didn’t hug, but they did exchange a warm smile. It was enough for Wray.

At the street, she and Mars parted company, each going their own direction. Wray had just slid back in behind the wheel of Emily’s car when her phone rang. Looking at the screen, she read Ruby’s name.

Wray pounded the talk button. “Damn it, Ruby, where are you?”

“Would you believe London?”

“England?”

Ruby gave a nervous laugh. “You did say we weren’t obligated to stick around town. Rich took that extremely literally.”

“What the hell are you doing in London?”

“Something we could use your help with. Rich is trying his damnedest to track down the last surviving member of Alban Ezra. He wants to dive into this whole Havik thing. Wray, we could really use you here.”

“I’m not in the TV game anymore, okay? I don’t think I’m comfortable getting back into it. Anyway, thanks to my ex, I’m not exactly flush these days.”

“We can pay your way. Seriously, we’re⁠—”

“My answer’s the same. I don’t think I want to open myself back up to the whole TV thing and everything that comes with it.”

“I’ve got to be honest,” Ruby said. “It’s not just the TV thing. Maybe I sound paranoid, I don’t know. But I think we’re being followed. I agreed with Rich’s crazy plan because I’m scared to death and I thought getting out of Dodge would help get us safe again. But we’re not, Wray. We’re not. I know it.”

“Take a breath for me, Ruby, okay? How do you know you’re being followed?”

“We’ve been seeing this guy. He was on the plane. Now we’ve seen him at the hotel. He scares me.”

Wray hated to ask. “This guy—what does he look like?”

“Scary.”

“Need you to be more specific.”

“He’s totally bald. Like shaved head sort of thing. Older, maybe in his sixties. And he’s got this scar on his face. A huge one all the way down his cheek.”

Wray closed her eyes and heaved a breath. Oh crap.

“All right, Ruby, listen to me. I want you to contact local police, okay? Arrange to go to the nearest station in person. If this guy sees you doing that, hopefully it’ll scare him off.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Get me on the next available flight,” Wray said. “If the police don’t deal with him for you, I will.”

Twenty-Six

Wray expected Mars wouldn’t be happy about this. Thirty seconds into their conversation and she was proven right.

“What the hell do you mean, they went to London?”

“Apparently, the only original surviving member of the band lives there somewhere.”

“My partner on this thing heard the same thing. We’re working on that part too. We were just talking about how we’d like to handle it.”

“You going over there yourself?”

“Hey, I’d love to. Lord knows I’ve been making enough overseas miles during the past year. But I can’t keep asking my bosses for this sort of thing. It’s expensive.”

“Alternative is what then? Get Scotland Yard to take the search and interview?”

“One possibility. Other is we try to arrange an online video interview once we pin the guy down, but that’s far from ideal. I’ll tell you one thing that’s even less ideal than that though: the Lewisons running around over there, preparing to derail our investigation.”

“That’s not the main thing I’m worried about right now.”

Wray explained the other part of her conversation with Ruby, about how the couple believed they were being followed by a man Wray had reason to believe was an extremely dangerous gangland enforcer.

“No,” Mars groaned once she’d finished. “No way. This isn’t happening.”

“Afraid it is, my friend. If we’re talking less than ideal, this really takes it to the next level.”

“When do you leave?” Defeated. At this point in their friendship, he knew better than to expect her not to go.

“They got me on an overnight flight. I need to be at the airport in two hours. Just packing now.”

“I’m on my way.”

Wray’s brows shot up. “To England?”

“To your place to pick you up. I’ll drive you. We need to discuss some stuff before you go.”

By the time Mars pulled up outside the building, Wray was waiting downstairs with a backpack and full expectations she was about to be treated to a detailed lecture on how to properly handle would-be evidence.

“I don’t like this,” he said once she was in the passenger seat and belted in, her bag tossed into the back seat.

“Figured you’d say that.”

“I mean, I really don’t like this.”

Wray eyed him. “I get it. I don’t like it either. But here we are.”

He frowned at her, then put the car into drive, shoulder-checked and pulled onto the street. “First things first. I ran some searches on the street name Creed. Found a few contenders, but only one came up for a guy of African descent. Was a big name in the criminal underworld at one point, involved in all manner of big-money dealings. Drugs, weapons, high-end stolen goods. You name it, he was in it. I found a photo of him too. Grabbed a screenshot. It’s on my phone, in my pocket.”

“Want me to grab it?”

“Please.”

Wray smirked. “It’s not in your jeans, is it?”

Mars blushed. “My jacket.”

Wray chuckled and fished it out. “Passcode?”

“Run down the middle numbers from the top, then start again.”

“Original.” She did as indicated and was met by a home screen. Tapping into the photos app, she immediately found herself looking at a familiar face.

“This is him,” she said.

“The same guy you saw in your vision?”

“The very one. This looks like an old pic though. Any chance of tracking him down now?”

Mars cast her a glance out of the corner of his eye before returning his attention to the road. “Very good. He’s been in the same place for nearly thirty years.”

Wray placed the phone in the cupholder. She sensed the answer, voicing it before Mars did. “Six feet under, huh?”

“You guessed it. You might not guess the manner of his death though.”

“You’ll tell me, I’m sure.”

“Sliced up. Bad. We’re talking major dismemberment. I mean, I’ve been to scenes involving stuff like that, but it’s pretty much always been done to make it easier to dispose of a body. The way Creed was cut up—it’s like someone was making a point.”

Again, Wray figured out the answer before Mars could say it. “Barber.”

“Looks like his handiwork, all right. Why, I have no idea.”

Wray thought she might. “Very few people can or are willing to describe him. Creed, though, he was high up enough to be a threat. Wouldn’t have been as easy to intimidate.”

Mars nodded. “Which meant if the two of them cut ties, Barber needed a more permanent solution to ensure his secrets were safe.”

“Must have been some big-time tie-cutting if he was sliced up that bad.”

“In that world, and with these people, I wouldn’t doubt it.” He scratched at his jaw, another thought crossing his features. “The Lewisons—they’re going to try to talk to Micky Deuce, right?”

“I think I told you that part, yeah.”

Mars ran a hand through his head of dark hair. “Ah hell.”

“Look, it’s like Rich said to me when he was trying to rationalize their plan. Reporters talk to police witnesses all the time. It doesn’t screw things up too badly for you. Maybe they’ll actually uncover something useful to you.” She tried for a calming smile. “I mean, he did say anything they find they’ll pass along to you.”

Mars snorted. “We’re talking about a guy who’s apparently been swiping stuff from show guests and hocking it on the black market. Forgive me if I don’t trust anything he has to say.”

Wray shrugged. In truth, she couldn’t blame Mars. Hell, she didn’t much trust Rich either.

“I can keep him in line,” she said. “Even if you don’t trust him, you trust me, right? I’ll make sure you’re informed of anything helpful we find.”

“How much do they know about the details of our investigation?”

“Not enough to make a big difference. They know the same stuff everyone else knows—basically everything that’s been made publicly available about the Havik case over the past few decades. And they obviously know about the bus and the finger. As for the rest, I haven’t been supplying them with anything.”

“Keep it that way. I was hoping to hold back some of our information until we could get in a few more key interviews, but with the Lewisons nosing around, I’d imagine that’s not possible anymore.”

“If you can locate this Deuce guy and nail down an interview before the Lewisons get to him, that would alleviate those concerns.”

“Sure it would, and believe me, we’ve been working on it. But the band’s former manager hasn’t returned calls, and we can’t find any contact info anywhere for Deuce or his wife, Ronni. It’s like they dropped right off the face of the planet.”

“All we need is more missing rockers.”

“Exactly,” Mars said. “In this case though, I’m not too worried. Micky’s been pictured out and about as recently as last year. Quite the recluse now. No doubt living off his royalties.”

“Scotland Yard should be able to locate info on him, no? Dude’s got to have a driver’s licence.”

“Actually, none we can find. Maybe he pays a driver. Nothing turns up on a Ronni Deuce either. That’s his wife.”

“Good to know. Can’t say I’ve done a lot of research into the band at this point,” Wray said. “Anything else to know about?”

“Johnny Fade and Rizzo Trevisan are both dead. Johnny died in a car crash approximately a year after the whole thing happened with Havik, and Rizzo fatally overdosed one year after that. Sounds like drugs and alcohol plagued the whole band—except maybe Micky.”

“Yeah, Havik might have been hitting it harder than the others, but I got the impression there were plenty of drugs to go around. You didn’t rack up a debt like the one I told you about without working hard at it.”

Mars coasted to a stop at a traffic light behind a half-ton with an obnoxious bumper sticker. “You know, one thing I’ve noticed in researching Alban Ezra is they were considered to be pretty tight as a group. Not just as bandmates but as buddies too. It had to hit them hard, what happened to Havik, not having the answers they no doubt needed. Tragedy like that, it does a number on people. Whether or not they were major users before, they might well have become that way as a result of all of this.”

“Something Micky could probably tell you.”

“If we can find him and persuade him to talk to us.” Mars rubbed his eyes.

“Green light,” Wray told him.

Mars looked up and followed the half-ton into the intersection and onward. “If you do happen to find Micky, maybe you can try to persuade him for us. With your background in the biz, could be he’ll talk to you sooner than us.”

“Think your partner will go for that?”

Mars rolled his eyes. “Nope. But given we’ve been harvesting plenty of lemons on this case, I’m happy enough to take whatever lemonade someone else wants to make for me.”

“Lucky for you, I had a stand once.”

Mars’s lips quirked as he glanced at her. “You? A lemonade stand? I can’t see it.”

“Yep. Me. I was an enterprising kid, you know. Figured I’d take my earnings and go live all by myself on a beach somewhere. Like Gilligan’s Island, only without the weekly drama.”

“Hey, Ginger can give me all the drama she wants.”

Wray snickered. “Figured you’d be a Ginger kind of guy.”

Mars flushed. Wray wondered what she’d said this time—until she recalled her own hair was red. Oh boy.

“Listen, Wray⁠—”

She didn’t look at him, keeping her gaze fixed decidedly out her side window. “Don’t say it.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You’re going to tell me to be careful—not in the investigative sense but the personal one. Am I right?”

Mars muttered the response. “Something like that, yeah.”

“And I will be. Enough said.”

Of course, he wasn’t done. “If we’re right, the guy we’re tangling with here is Barber. The same Barber who likely did what I just described to you. That’s kind of a big deal.”

“I’ve dealt with guys like him before. And unlike the entirety of the Kimotan Rapids Police Department, I actually know what he looks like.”

“Speaking of, we didn’t sit you down to work on that composite.”

Wray brushed at a layer of dust at the base of the window. “And you won’t. Not at this point anyway. Kind of have my hands full.”

She did finally turn toward him, finding his jaw tight and thick brows lowered over his dark eyes. “If this plays out the way I’m expecting it will, you won’t need to worry about identifying Barber down the road.”

“Should I pretend I didn’t hear that?”

“Probably.”

“Don’t,” he said. His eyes caught hers. “Just don’t.”

“If it’s him or me or the Lewisons?”

“If it comes to saving you or them, obviously. But please, Wray, don’t do something that’ll land you in hot water with the police over there. I can’t protect you there.”

She held back the wry laugh before it escaped. “Thought we’d established I don’t need your protection.”

“Not the way I meant it. You can handle yourself in plenty of ways. I’m talking legal now.”

Wray leaned slightly toward him, ensuring he understood she was about to make a significant point. “Listen, dude, I’m not going to commit murder, all right? Not what I was getting at. Am I going to tune him in? Hell yeah—one way or another. People like him only understand one language. And I’m sorry, Sarge, and no offence to your very honourable line of work, but guys like Barber know every one of your limits and they’re good at working around them. I mean, how the hell do you think he got to England?”

Mars frowned. “That’s next on my growing list of things to check.”

“Maybe he’s got a really awesome fake passport, but I think it’s more straightforward than that. He’s avoided a criminal record, and he’s done that because he knows how to play your system in his favour. It’s like we were just saying—no one can identify him besides fellow criminals and people who are either missing body parts or dead. None of those people will rat him out. And guys like him only come out for big money and big players, so he’s limited the opportunities for the police to lay eyes on him. The only reason I saw him was because I was in the right place at the right time—and because of my ability to essentially trespass on the memories of others. But yeah, I do know what he looks like, and I’m going to use it to my benefit.”

Mars took the exit to the freeway which would lead them to the airport. He held his tongue until he’d completed the necessary lane changes and maneuvered around a slow-moving chain of cars. “Look, I’m not presuming to tell you what to do. I’m asking though. I’m asking you to be honest with yourself when it comes to weighing the risks and to call in the right kind of help should you need it. That’s all. Can you do that for me at least?”

Wray heaved a sigh. “Yeah, all right? I can do that.”

They didn’t talk a whole lot more on the way to the airport, Mars’s stress level clearly high and Wray’s frustrations growing with every warning she viewed as unnecessary. She knew what she was doing, and she knew how to work through the unanticipated. She’d get through this too, and what was more, she’d get the Lewisons through. She didn’t need advice or reminders about how to handle things.

By the time Mars pulled up outside the departures area, Wray had ruminated long enough she was bristling.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

She got out and opened the back door to grab her bag. By the time she straightened and shut the door, Mars was out too and circling the car toward her.

“I’ve got it,” she told him.

Urgency coloured his expression, and Wray’s heart pounded as she sensed what was on his mind. Oh God, not now.

“There are things,” he said. “I’ve wanted to talk to you about it for a while, but you’ve gone to ground lately, and we haven’t had the chance to see much of each other.”

“Don’t,” she said. “We don’t have the time right now.”

“I don’t want to let you go like this.”

“I’m not yours to let go,” she growled.

Mars’s mouth popped open a little, either in shock or in a desire to formulate a response. He looked so forlorn, Wray’s frustration gave way a little to sympathy.

She hitched her backpack onto one shoulder, using her free hand to pat Mars on the chest. “Don’t worry, Cowboy. As they say, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m not anyone’s to let go.”

She turned and walked away, through the sliding glass doors and into the airport. She half-expected him to follow. He didn’t.

As she made her way toward the security screening area, she told herself it was better this way, that Mars wasn’t left to pursue something she couldn’t provide.

So why the hell did she feel the same miserable way he’d looked?

Twenty-Seven

Mars tossed his car keys onto his desk, muttering a curse word under his breath. He thought better of it, letting the word explode into the sanctity of his office.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Mars spun to catch sight of Vaughn framed by the doorway, a bemused smirk on his face.

“Bad day,” Mars said. “Thought you would’ve gone home by now.”

“Could say the same about you.”

“I’m working a file.”

Vaughn folded his muscled arms and leaned up against the doorframe. “Your file’s as cold as my freezer. And last I heard, Lilian’s been lining up the interviews while you tackle the physical evidence side. Or am I reading that wrong?”

“Not quite as cut and dry as all that, but I guess that’s as good a way of putting it as any.” It occurred to Mars he hadn’t touched base with the Ident unit over the past few hours. He had no idea how they were making out with the bus. “I lost track of time. Have you talked with anyone from Ident today?”

“Yep, and they might want your head on a spike by the end of the week. Moving that bus out was a bitch. Damn good thing it belonged to a rock group. At least that part’s been novelty enough to keep them from calling for your early demise.”

“So they did get the bus out?”

Vaughn offered a small smile. “They did. It’s safely tucked into a bay at our storage facility. First thing, Ident’s going to have a better look through there, see if there’s anything they might have missed.”

Mars circled the desk, dropping into his chair. He sat too hard, too fast, and the rickety old thing protested with a creak of its spring.

Vaughn noticed, evidenced by his chuckle. “Careful, my friend. The way you’ve sucked money out of the budget for travel, you won’t be getting a new chair anytime within the next decade.” He cocked his head. “You aren’t going to be looking to travel on this thing, are you? Please say no.”

Mars propped his elbow on his armrest and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know anymore, man.”

Silence. Mars didn’t glance up to find out why. He and Vaughn had been partners for a while, long enough they could read each other well. Mars knew that right now, Vaughn was in the midst of a visual inspection, trying to figure out where Mars’s head was at without needing to ask.

“You never did like waiting,” Vaughn said. The movement of his voice told Mars he was walking toward the desk, and a moment later, the other chair squeaked a little as Vaughn sat.

“Between you and me, you were the impatient one,” Mars reminded him. He did finally peer up to meet Vaughn’s eye. “It’s not the waiting on results doing me in here. I knew going into Historic Crimes it would be a thing.”

“So what’s the deal then?” Vaughn leaned nearer the desk between them, asking his half-joking question quietly. “Lil doing you in?”

As far as Mars knew, no one dared call Lilian Danvers “Lil”—at least not to her face. Plenty used the nickname, among far less-polite ones, behind her back. “It isn’t her. She’s actually been fairly decent.”

Vaughn chuckled. “It’s because you’re cute.”

“Shut up. It’s because I don’t dump on her the way three-quarters of the force does.”

Vaughn shrugged. “Okay, I think I’ve run out of work-related issues to blame for your snit. We’re into the personal now.”

“You’re nosy, you know that?”

“Yeah, well, last time you got mopey, you ran off to England and nearly got yourself killed.”

“Speaking of England⁠—”

Vaughn grimaced. “God, what?”

Time to break it to him. “That’s where our TV antiquers have gone.” Mars mirrored Vaughn’s position, leaning forward and sliding his forearms onto the desk’s surface. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer—perhaps a fitting pose given a prayer was about all he had left to work with. “Apparently, they’re trying to find the only surviving member of Alban Ezra so they can arrange an on-camera interview.”

“And you told them to stuff that idea, right?”

Mars heaved a sigh. “Hey, I would have had they let me know about it. I haven’t been able to reach them. They’ve gone completely AWOL.”

Vaughn cleared his throat gruffly, a sound that only partially disguised a swear word. He gave up and followed Mars’s earlier move, voicing it anyway. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“So if they didn’t talk to you about any of this, how d’you know about it?”

“Wray. She’s been⁠—”

“Don’t say it.”

“She’s been lending a hand on this file, giving me some added info. She’s established something of a working relationship with the Lewisons as well. She pulled Rich’s fat out of the fryer with Greenback, and apparently, they’re hoping they can get Wray on board with their TV thing.”

Vaughn rolled his eyes. “So let me guess: she’s jetted off to England after them, right? And now you’re bitchy because you’re not tagging along.”

“I trust Wray not to screw up this investigation, but I can’t say the same about the Lewisons. Rich in particular is a loose cannon. I’m not seeking to have him charged, but he basically stole that photo from the bus. He was trying to hock it to Greenback when Wray yanked him out. Now they’re over there, and it sounds like someone’s followed them.”

“Someone other than Wray, you mean.”

“Someone I think could be Barber.”

Vaughn’s brows shot up. “What, the Barber?”

Mars nodded. “And if Wray’s right, the Barber who killed Havik and Clint Buckley.”

Vaughn’s turn to massage his eyes. “Good God. This just gets better and better, doesn’t it? You contact Scotland Yard?”

“I’m going to have to now. Lilian and I had been hoping to arrange an online video interview with Micky Deuce, but he’s in the wind so far. If I can’t go over there to look for him in person, might be we’ll need to ask someone from Scotland Yard to do it.”

“We can do that. I can’t send you over for one interview.”

Mars tried on his most winning grin. “How about several? Other people connected with the band are over there as well.”

“Which our friends at the Met will happily help us with, I’m sure. Once they find out we’ve made some progress on the Havik disappearance, no doubt at least a few folks will be thrilled to drop everything else and dive in.”

Vaughn was probably right. Problem would be where that left Wray. He didn’t want her winding up arrested as she had been the last time she’d been mixed up in a case.

“I’ll call right away,” Mars said. “It’s the middle of the night there, but maybe someone can give me a place to leave a message.”

“Good idea,” Vaughn said. “Did Wray happen to leave you with a stellar description of Barber? A lovely portrait drawing perhaps?” Sarcasm—Vaughn at his finest.

“No,” Mars said. “The Lewisons kind of put a stopper in that plan.”

Vaughn dropped his elbows onto his knees, enabling him to lean even further forward. “This whole thing with the Lewisons wanting Wray on board some program—how sure are you Wray won’t cave? Might be tempting, what with her past life as a minor celebrity and all.”

Mars thought a TV show that had aired internationally qualified Wray for more than minor celebrity status, but he wasn’t going to split hairs. “You think she’ll go off the rails, start living her best life and screw us over to ensure the best deal for herself and the Lewisons?”

Vaughn shrugged one broad shoulder. “You know her a lot better than I do.”

Mars lowered his brows, firing a muted glare at his friend. “That’s right, I do. And no, she wouldn’t do that to us. She wouldn’t do that to me.”

“You sure about that, buddy? I mean, she’s not exactly rolling in the green stuff these days. A tempting offer—well⁠—”

“Well, nothing. She wouldn’t do it. End of.”

Vaughn narrowed his own eyes as he studied Mars. “So why are you so bugged about her leaving then? All this moodiness, it’s not just about the Lewisons taking off.”

“You really are nosy.”

Vaughn snickered. “Oh, buddy.”

“What?”

“You’re falling for her, aren’t you?”

Mars sat back, crossing his arms before he realized he resembled a petulant child. “Who?”

“The redhead.” Vaughn grinned. “I mean, hey, she’s a good-looking lady. And she seems to like you for some reason.”

“Used to.”

“What’s that mean?”

Mars shook his head. “Nothing. I really don’t want to talk about this, all right?”

Vaughn wouldn’t push it—not at the office, at any rate. Mars would just have to guard against any invites and alcoholic beverages his former partner offered him in the near future.

Vaughn clapped his knees and stood. “Right, well, now that we’ve had this lovely chat, I’ll leave you to your call to the UK and think about getting my tired ass home. Unlike you, I’ve got a stunning woman waiting for me there.”

Mars made like his hand was a fishing reel and cranked the air next to it until his middle finger was fully extended. Vaughn responded with a guffaw and left the room.

Alone again, Mars glared at the desk’s surface for a long moment, suddenly drained of energy and feeling. Sometimes a chat with Vaughn helped, lightening his mood and making him see his problems in a less serious light. Today though, it hadn’t worked. And he worried the only thing that would work was to find a way to get himself over to England.

It wasn’t happening—not tonight at any rate. Tonight, the best he could do was a phone call.

No one picked up at the office he called. No surprise given the hour.

He was about to pack it in for the evening when a rap on his door had him looking up. Not Vaughn this time but Lilian.

“Hey,” she said. “Long day?”

“The longest. What’s up?”

“What are you up to tomorrow?”

“Sadly, very little. Why?”

“I’ve arranged a video chat.”

Mars straightened in his chair. “Micky Deuce?”

A head shake. “I wish. No, but I got the next best thing. Alban Ezra’s former manager, Ed Marko.”

Twenty-Eight

Wray’s jaw cracked as she yawned, only half-concealing it behind the back of her hand.

She’d made plenty of transatlantic journeys during her life, and while she had a few tricks to help make the process a little better, the trips remained far from easy.

Heathrow was as busy as ever, and her plane had to circle for twenty minutes before receiving landing clearance. It had left her stomach rolling and her head spinning, making her all the more grateful to be back on solid ground.

Ordinarily, she loved London. She missed its excitement, its people, its food and nightlife. Not that she was much of a social butterfly, but she was a people watcher, a student of humanity. Spend a little time at Speakers’ Corner in Hyde Park, you’d get all the humanity you could handle and more.

It seemed lately whenever Wray was summoned back to London, it was for nothing good. This was one of those times.

Having passed through the customs area with no issues, Wray found herself the quietest corner she could locate inside the arrivals area and took out her phone. She’d recently started using eSIMs, and she’d located the appropriate one while waiting at her gate back in Kimotan Rapids. Now she hopped onto her eSIM app and clicked to turn it on.

Having advised the Lewisons against using their own phones, Ruby had provided Wray with the numbers they’d been assigned with the burners they’d purchased once in the city. Wray fired off a text to Ruby’s new number.

At Heathrow. Where u?

Wray spotted a coffee stand nearby and was on the way over to it when her phone dinged with an incoming text. She peered at the screen to see Ruby’s response.

Meet us at our hotel? She provided an address Wray’s map app showed to be in the Notting Hill area. Not exactly cheap but far from the ritziest hotel in town. At least Rich and Ruby had kept their budget closer to realistic. Easy to burn through money in this city.

Wray hadn’t yet explored the question of her own hotel stay while in London, but she supposed she could do that once she’d met up with the Lewisons.

Wray returned a text. C u soon.

Then she made for the train that would take her into the city.

The hotel was a short walk from the Bayswater Tube station. A light rain was falling, giving Wray extra incentive to pick up the pace. Few people on Queensway were moving at a slow pace, everyone seeming to have somewhere important to be.

While there were quieter nooks and crannies to be found in the city, the streets of central London were never not busy in Wray’s experience. It might come in handy for people in the Lewisons’ situation, turning them into just two more faces in the crowd and granting them a sea of people in which to better hide. On the other hand, it would complicate matters in terms of locating someone following them. If they could go unnoticed amongst the crowds, so too could somebody like Barber.

Wray would deal with it when the time came. For now, all she needed was to keep her eyes peeled as she made her way to the couple’s hotel.

The place was located on a block populated entirely by multi-storey, Victorian-era townhouses, many of which had since been converted into hotels or other businesses. Located across from a small, narrow park, the street carried enough foot traffic to make it easy enough to case a joint. What was more, it would be a simple matter for someone to book a room in one of the other hotels bordering the park and keep an eye on the comings and goings from the Lewisons’ building.

Wray wasn’t currently in a position to spot anyone watching from the windows—particularly if they’d taken certain precautions to avoid being seen. Given the fact Barber had never been caught despite his atrociously violent acts strongly suggested he knew what he was doing.

Wray had made a point to tuck her hair under a hat to make her harder to spot, but she couldn’t rule out the possibility Barber was nearby and had spotted her. If that were the case, it was possible he already knew where the Lewisons were staying, and that would be the first problem they’d need to address.

With no sign of anyone, Wray entered the hotel and crossed the lobby to the front desk where the clerk offered a polite smile.

“I’m here to meet with a few of your guests,” Wray said. “They’re in room three-oh-five.”

“I’ll call up and let them know you’re here. Who may I say?”

“Tell them it’s Wray.”

The woman’s perfectly shaped brows arched higher. “You’re Wray Pryce! I used to watch your program. It was brilliant.”

“Cheers,” Wray said. “Interesting times.”

Thankfully, the clerk wasn’t of a mind to pursue the topic. Perhaps she’d recalled the details of Wray’s departure from the world of entertainment. Usually, that was enough to shut people up.

The woman made a call, relaying Wray’s brief message presumably to one of the Lewisons. A moment later, the clerk hung up and turned a charming smile back on Wray. “Someone will come down. The elevator requires a key card.”

“Can I check if anyone else has been in asking after them?” Wray asked.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Have you possibly seen a large bald man in his sixties with a prominent scar on his left cheek? You’d notice it. It’s pretty big.”

A head-shake. “No one like that. But then, I’ve only just come on shift an hour ago. Perhaps our night staff noticed. You could ask them later on.”

Wray thanked her, then glanced up as the elevator dinged its arrival. The door slid open to reveal a rattled-looking Rich.

“Wray,” he said, waving a hand to beckon her over. “This way.”

Crossing the short remaining distance to the single elevator, Wray stepped inside next to him.

“You all right?” she asked him. “You look spooked.”

“Given everything that’s going on, damn right I’m spooked.” He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Phew. Thanks for coming. You have no idea how much better I feel now that you’re here.”

“No offence, Rich, but I’m not exactly the Navy Seals here. I’m not even the police. Speaking of, did you contact them?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Why not?”

His eyes snapped to hers. “Because you and I both know why I’m being tailed. How am I supposed to explain that to the cops, huh?” He raked his hair again. “You know how to handle yourself. I saw you. You can help us with more than just the TV thing.”

The elevator pinged their arrival at the third floor, and Wray followed Rich into a short, narrow hallway. He stopped near the end and used his keycard to get them inside. There, Wray saw the others waiting, Ruby seated at the end of the bed and Sid in the room’s sole chair. Like Rich, Ruby appeared anxious, and the moment she recognized Wray, she leapt up to embrace her in a tight hug.

“Oh my God, thank you so much for coming,” Ruby said before releasing her.

“Hey, you paid my fare.”

“That all you brought?” Sid asked, eyeing Wray’s backpack. Unlike the other two, he seemed more or less relaxed. Wray found herself wondering how much the Lewisons had actually told him.

Wray dropped the bag onto the floor. While she hadn’t packed a whole lot inside, it still felt good to set it down. “I travel light.”

“I see that.”

“We’ve sorted out sleeping arrangements,” Ruby said. “You’ll stay in here with me, and Rich will bunk in with Sid. That work for you?”

“Where’s their room?”

“Just down the hall,” Sid said. “Three-oh-one.”

This much came as good news. The nearer they were, the easier it would be to keep an eye on everyone. “Okay, good. Now, what about the guy you told me was following you? Where and when did you see him? What were you doing at the time?”

Sid straightened. “Hold up. Someone’s following us?”

Rich held up a palm. “Long story.”

“For something like that, I think I’ve got the time.”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” Rich told him. Then to Wray, “We were out last night for dinner, Ruby and I. We were in the Kensington area, trying to locate Ed Marko’s house—he was the band’s manager back in the day—but we got ourselves a little turned around. We ended up near this place called—what was it?”

“Dishoom,” Ruby supplied. “It was really well-rated, and the food was awesome.”

“Right,” Rich said. “That’s the one. Anyway, we noticed someone at one of the tables. Whenever I glanced over, he seemed to quickly avert his eyes. I couldn’t help looking because he had a really noticeable scar. I remembered something about that, so it got me wondering. After we left, we walked to the nearest Tube stop, thinking we’d just call it a night, and I saw the man again. First, on the street. Then he was entering the station behind us. After that, on the platform. When I saw him in the same car, and it became obvious he was still watching us, I pointed him out to Ruby. We skipped our stop and went all the way up to I think it was Edgware Road.”

Ruby nodded vigorously. “At that point, we decided to test to see whether he was for sure following us, so we got out with everyone else and followed the crowd to another line. I got a bit turned around with all the stops, but I remember at one point seeing Baker Street with the Sherlock Holmes head on the wall. We just stayed on the train for a whole lot of stops and changed again to get back on our right line—and yeah, the same guy was there the entire time.”

“It was smart of you, not getting out at your stop,” Wray said. “You guys did the right thing.” At least so far. She had yet to hear the rest of the story. “Did you manage to shake him?”

“Once it became painfully obvious he was sticking with us, I made a point of catching his eye and holding it,” Rich said. “I wanted him to know we knew he was there, that we’d noticed him. We stayed on the train a bunch more stops. We tried to think of which one would be busiest that time of night, somewhere we’d be in a crowd. We figured Westminster would be good, what with Big Ben and the Abbey and all, so we got out and joined everyone there waiting for the chimes. By the time that happened and everyone started for the Tube station, I couldn’t see the man anymore. I didn’t see him on the train either.”

Wray hoped it was because they’d actually lost him, and not because Barber had somehow figured out where the Lewisons were staying. Problem was, if he’d found them once, he might well find them again.

“I need to figure out how he located you,” Wray said. “Once I do, we can make sure you two go nowhere near there.”

Rich gave a sheepish grin. “That might be a problem.”

“Why?”

Ruby stepped in. “We’ve been thinking about it, and the only place we can think we might have picked him up was near Ed Marko’s.”

“Therein, as they say, lies the rub,” Rich said. “We need Ed for the show, especially if we can’t find Micky. There’s no staying away from there—even if it means another run-in with the guy with the scar.”

Which meant one more thing: if the Lewisons were willing to risk their own safety to make this show happen, where did that leave Wray as their de facto protector?

Twenty-Nine

Ed Marko lived in a large Victorian-era house in the Kensington area, around the corner from the castle-esque property owned by a former rock star. Wray had once dreamed of owning a property in this area during a time when she’d been making enough money with the TV series to make it seem eventually possible.

Those days were gone. These days, Wray had learned to value freedom and relative obscurity above fame and fortune—or at least that was what she told herself when she started to feel down about the path her life had taken. Again, a small part of her poked away at her insides, asking her to consider whether she might not enjoy a little of that kind of success again. Certainly, taking the Lewisons up on their offer could open a door or two, get her name and face back out there.

Maybe she was about to get the ball rolling—at least if Ed was willing to talk to the Lewisons on camera.

Sid had come prepared, lugging a large equipment bag over his shoulder. A layer of sweat had formed on the poor guy’s brow, and Wray suspected he must miss the added crew they’d once had. Wray’s old team had two professional camera operators, a sound tech, an equipment manager and a makeup and hair specialist, among other crew members. It had also been up to someone besides herself and Carter to set up locations and interviews. It indeed seemed the Lewisons and Sid had been saddled with an awful lot of added work with network cuts. Maybe the TV biz wasn’t so glamorous anymore after all.

“Remind me,” Wray said. “Have you managed to get ahold of Ed at all? Phone, email, anything?”

“Not yet,” Ruby said with a shake of her head. She turned to Rich. “Maybe we should have Wray do the door-knock.”

“You’re sure this is the place?” Wray asked.

“We had the address,” Rich said. “Someone at the network provided it. They weren’t able to reach him, unfortunately, but they have a mutual friend. I was told if we had no luck today, we should call back and they’d see what they could do on their end.”

Wray preferred that particular tactic, but who was she to argue? “Why do you want me to knock? It’s your show.”

“We have a small audience in the UK, but nothing substantial. Ed’s more likely to talk to you, what with your history here.”

Wray didn’t bother adding her history included her ex-husband’s shady shenanigans. The thought sat there at the front of her brain as she debated whether to accede to Rich and Ruby’s request and how best to handle it if she did.

“I can’t promise he knows who I am,” Wray warned the others. “Our show was popular, but it was sort of niche at the same time. Not everyone’s into the paranormal. And while I met a few people in the music industry at an event or two, Ed Marko or Micky Deuce weren’t among them.”

“I’ll take my chances on you rather than Rich or me,” Ruby said. “He’s more likely to have heard of a British-based paranormal show than our non-British antique-hunting thing.”

Wray shrugged. Ruby probably had a point. Anyway, Wray had never been the sort to be starstruck. She’d be as comfortable approaching Ed or Micky with awkward questions as anyone who came into the pawnshop on any given day.

Decided on at least this much, she eyed the gate separating the sidewalk from the front garden. “Wish me luck,” she said.

“Good luck,” Ruby and Sid said at the same time. Rich went with, “Break a leg.” Wray considered telling him she wasn’t about to step onto the acting stage, but she supposed she sort of was. Putting her game face on was sort of the same thing, in a way.

The driveway gate opened easily enough, no lock and nothing but a simple latch to operate. The front garden was nothing special, no sign Ed had a particularly green thumb. Someone had planted a few tall flowers—hollyhocks, Wray thought they were called—beneath the large front windows, but otherwise, the space was shrouded by trees. Having stepped beneath their boughs, Wray was treated to a better view of the house.

What was visible from the road was lovely enough, but this view was even better. Perhaps no one bothered much with gardening, but the house itself was well-tended with newish windows, paint and eaves. Yet it retained a definite old-world charm, like stepping back in time. The trees and shrubs slightly muffled the street sounds and blocked out much of the view of the roadway, further isolating this property in the best way possible. If Ed ever decided to sell, it would probably be snapped up in days. Wray wished she were in the financial position to purchase property.

For the first time since stepping out of the hotel, Wray removed her hat and stuffed it into a jacket pocket. If she were going to use her past life as a celebrity to her benefit, best Ed or whoever might answer the door see her face in full.

Wray reached up to knock. And stopped.

Movement in the bushes drew her attention. A glimpse. Just a glimpse before a man’s head ducked out of sight.

It was enough.

The scarred man. He was here.

Forgetting about the door and Ed, Wray rushed along the front of the house to where she’d seen the face. She heard noises, someone crashing through undergrowth and branches. Unable to see much through the greenery, Wray followed the sounds, shoving a path through while remaining alert to her surroundings. At any time, the man could stop, set up an ambush for her. She couldn’t allow that. If this was indeed the notorious Barber, she couldn’t allow herself to be taken unawares.

Pressing past an untrimmed shrub and ducking a low-hanging branch, Wray at last caught sight of the man as he scaled a tall wooden fence. Her boss, Gus, often complained he’d lost all physical conditioning back in his forties. This man, despite appearing to be slightly older than Gus, hadn’t reached the same conclusion. He heaved himself up and over the fence, disappearing on the other side.

Nothing for Wray to do but follow. She ran for the fence but aimed for a spot a few feet to the side. If Barber was waiting for her, expecting her to land where he had, she’d give him a surprise. With luck, she’d even land on his head.

She jumped, hooking one booted foot across the top and using it to help propel her over. Barber wasn’t waiting. He was running.

Landing lightly on the other side, Wray found herself in a park. Her phone rang—one of the Lewisons, no doubt—but she had no time to answer.

All feelings of jet lag temporarily vanished as adrenaline kicked in. There was something oddly exhilarating about a chase and the thought of a fight at the end of it. No question she’d have one on her hands once she caught up to Barber.

If she caught him. He was currently proving he wasn’t only nimble when it came to climbing fences; he was a decent sprinter too.

The park was relatively busy with people exercising their dogs or out for walking chats with friends. Widened eyes and raised brows turned to Barber and Wray as they rushed through the park, past a monument and a fountain, across a wide green space, down treelined pathways.

Wray was gaining on him. He was fast, but she was too, plus she was several decades younger and was well-conditioned for a run. He was getting out of breath; she could hear him huffing as she closed the distance. A few more seconds, and she’d have him.

They took a corner down their current path. Ahead lay an area with a small pond complete with a waterfall. Naturally, it was surrounded by people with cameras, creating a dangerous obstruction.

“Move!” Wray yelled. “Move! Move!”

A few did. As always seemed to be the case in these situations, one of two people froze.

Wray timed and angled her tackle to avoid the living statues, nailing Barber from the side and using the full force of her body weight and speed to take him down. They landed in the water, Wray’s shoulder and hip impacting painfully on the rocky bottom.

No time to worry about pain. Barber certainly wasn’t, already clambering to his feet as he gasped and coughed up what water he’d inadvertently taken in. Wray herself had closed her mouth and eyes and held her breath in anticipation of the wet landing, giving her the leg up.

She was vaguely aware of smartphone cameras turning to capture the scene as Wray lunged toward Barber. Take him down, get him under control.

“Someone call the police!” she shouted.

Whether anyone was following her instructions or merely playing amateur videographer she didn’t know. She had her hands full elsewhere.

Barber had regained his feet a little shakily, but once there, he held his ground, squaring off against Wray with elbows positioned away from his body. His eyes held fire, narrowed so the lines at the corners and between his brows stood out all the more. The way the light hit his water-slicked face highlighted the scar, drawing Wray’s attention down to its base where a hateful sneer had formed.

More than ever, Wray was certain this was Barber. Despite the loathing in his expression, there was no lack of control springing from rage or fear of being caught. That he’d killed before was written there all over his face, all over the steadiness of his stare and his hands. Perhaps it was merely that he carried those experiences that left him so devoid of emotion; perhaps he’d never had emotion to begin with.

Whatever the case, in those long seconds they stood facing each other, each waiting on the other’s move, Wray had time to recognize a killer.

But then, she’d killed too. Not happily, but she’d done it. She thought it must show in her own eyes when his posture straightened a little. He’d seen it, that she wouldn’t go down easily.

Nervous murmurings sounded from behind her as the gathering of park-goers awaited the action. It didn’t take long.

Barber moved first, lunging at Wray with more speed than a soaking-wet man should be capable of. She deked left, avoiding a right jab, bringing up a knee as he entered her space. She caught him hard in the gut, and he made a winded noise, but he didn’t go down.

He’d struck hard but not as hard as he could have. He’d controlled the punch enough he wouldn’t throw himself completely off balance. Wray did the same now, throwing a left hook at his exposed unscarred cheek. It connected, but he’d apparently predicted her move, shifting enough to prevent the blow from doing its intended damage.

He struck back, grabbing at Wray, attempting to pull her down. She separated her feet to avoid it, then brought up her back foot to knee him again. His face registered pain, though he didn’t react much otherwise. Even so, it gave Wray a second to make her next move, bringing the same foot down hard against where she thought his instep would be.

Nope, she thought as she connected, he wore heavy boots. Though his grimace and the accompanying grunt told her he’d felt it, it wasn’t enough to drop him, let alone briefly incapacitate him.

He responded instantly, throwing punches almost wildly. A flash of memory entered Wray’s mind, one of this man, forty years younger, plunging a knife repeatedly into Clint Buckley on board Alban Ezra’s bus.

She shook the dark thought away. No time for the past when the present was horrible enough.

She thought she heard sirens closing in. Hopefully, Barber did too. It might give her the edge as he fought more furiously for the freedom to escape.

Wray blocked blow after blow although a couple slipped through—one to her jaw, one to her breastbone. She held her ground, refusing to buckle. Whether she was fighting for her own life or someone else’s didn’t matter; she couldn’t let this man get away.

She hadn’t counted on him bringing the observers into the mix. He got in a shove, then rushed past her, taking himself headlong into the crowd. He nailed one woman, whose shriek gave way to a breathless grunt as she was shouldered hard to the ground.

Barber stood, dragging the woman up with him. Where it had come from, Wray wasn’t sure, but Barber now clutched a tactical knife. The way he held it to the woman’s throat meant death if he pressed it.

“Back off,” he snarled at Wray between heaving breaths. “I’ll cut her. You know I will.”

She knew, all right. She could see it as before, deep within his soulless eyes.

A couple women in the crowd screamed. Two men yelled at Barber to let the woman go.

He didn’t. He dragged her with him, back toward a heavier stand of trees to the side of the pond.

“Stay back!” he snapped. “Don’t make me do it.”

One man, perhaps a loved one of the woman, took a step forward. Wray put out an arm to stop him.

“No,” she said. “He will. Let him go. He can’t get far with her like this.”

Barber took a few more steps back, dragging his hostage. As he reached the trees, he gave her a shove away from him. Then he turned and ran, vanishing into the shadows beneath the trees.

But not before leaving the woman with a bloody furrow in her shoulder.

Thirty

Wray ran after Barber, attempting to pick up his trail through the large park. He’d chosen an off-path escape route, and she hoped he’d trip himself up somewhere, accidentally emerging next to an uncrossable body of water or an open field. At the very least, she hoped she’d hear him crashing through the trees and undergrowth.

Unfortunately, none of these proved the case. Perhaps he’d hunkered down somewhere, well-hidden beneath some shrubs or within a structure. With luck, the police would locate him safely with no one except Barber coming away wounded.

In any other circumstance, Wray might have spent more time searching. But her priority now was the Lewisons and Sid, still, she expected, standing around outside Ed Marko’s where Barber could again find them.

Which raised another interesting detail. Twice now, Barber had found them at or near Ed’s property. Why was he hanging around there? Was he simply waiting on the Lewisons in a spot he expected they’d be? Or was it something else that had brought him there?

Questions only Barber could answer. Or perhaps Ed Marko.

Only one way to find out.

Wray debated attempting to locate the waterfall where she’d battled it out with Barber. No doubt the police were there by now and wanting to talk to her as a witness—or, God forbid, a suspect to something.

Problem was, Wray wasn’t currently sure how to find the spot again, and the time it would take her to locate it plus provide a statement was time Barber might well use to work his way back to Ed’s and the Lewisons.

Time Wray couldn’t afford to waste.

Instead, she fished out her phone from her sodden jacket pocket. The device had been advertised as waterproof within a certain number of metres, and she’d just put it to the test. Certainly, she hadn’t heard any additional rings or pings from it since right after she’d began chasing Barber.

She was relieved when her tap lit up the screen with her saved wallpaper. Doubly relieved when she was able to reach her home screen and enter her map app. Her GPS was functional, enabling her to plan a route back to the Marko property. Memorizing it as well as she could given how much of it was through the park, Wray jogged off, keeping her eyes and ears peeled for noises that might be Barber’s. Mostly though, all she could hear were her own sounds—water-filled boots sloshing and soaked jean legs slapping against each other.

Looking the way she must, she made a point to stay off the main routes as much as possible, once more tucking her red hair beneath her wet hat. She was grateful for her darker-coloured jacket as she stuck to the shadows, working her way gradually back toward Ed’s.

She reached his back fence with no sign of Barber anywhere. Possibly, he was already back here, but she didn’t think so. Eventually, he might return, but for now he’d probably be focused on self-preservation, ensuring he wouldn’t be arrested. Having violently attacked a woman as a foreigner to this country, it wasn’t likely he’d be back on the street anytime soon were he caught. More likely, he’d be held for court or immediately deported. If he had a job to do here, it depended on his flying under the radar until he could carry it out.

Wray’s job was making sure he was unsuccessful.

She sloshed her way back through the Marko property, keeping her eyes and senses open for anything she could see or psychically read—anything to tell her more about where Barber might be holing up while in London. But nothing revealed itself before she again reached the front gate.

In time to see Sid and Rich jogging up the street toward her, talking animatedly to each other, Sid’s camera on his shoulder.

“What the hell were the two of you up to?” Wray muttered to herself.

She didn’t see Ruby right away, and she was momentarily worried Barber had indeed reached Ed’s before Wray. A sigh escaped her as Ruby stepped from behind a tree a short distance away. Ruby’s rattled expression gave way to one of relief as she spotted Wray.

“Where were you?” she asked as she jogged over. “What happened? Why are you all wet?”

“Long and unhappy story,” Wray grumbled. She tweaked a thumb over her shoulder at the approaching men. “Where were they?”

“Trying to find you. Rich was pissed at Sid for not being agile enough to follow you. It was great TV, he said, you chasing that guy.”

“Would’ve been great TV, catching whatever happened to you,” Rich added as he reached them. “What did happen? You’re soaked.”

Wray turned a glare on him. “I just finished pursuing, fighting and losing the trail of a dangerous man. That’s not great TV. It’s bad shit.”

Rich held up his hands in a show of appeasement. “Right. Of course. Wasn’t meaning to suggest otherwise. Just saying, is all.”

Wray shook her head. “Right.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“So am I. This is some righteously bad mojo you’ve called down on yourself, Rich, and I’m here trying to clean up your mess. Don’t make me a bigger one, or I might leave you to sort it out yourself. A woman was stabbed in the park by this dick.”

Colour drained from Rich’s face. For a moment, Wray thought he might drop. “What? Dead?”

“No, not dead. Just cut. But it could have been worse. Like, way worse.”

Rich scrubbed a hand over his face. “My God.”

Wray rolled her eyes. “Look, here’s the thing. Both times you’ve encountered this guy now, it’s happened at or near Ed Marko’s place. Not a big connection to make, granted. I mean, Greenback knew you were interested in the Alban Ezra-Havik thing. Stands to reason you’d seek an interview with their former manager. Of course, if it were me, I’d put Micky Deuce above Ed as a starting point, but here we are.”

“Yeah, but we’ve had a bitch of a time trying to track down an address for Micky,” Sid said. “Only rumour we’ve heard is that he’s got a place somewhere in Kent, east of London.”

“I know where Kent is,” Wray said. A section of her hair came loose from her cap, slapping wetly against her neck. She tucked it back into place, then thought better of it and took the hat off. Little point now. She stuffed it back into her jacket pocket and ran hands through her hair to slick away remaining water. She stunk like bog water and badly wanted a shower. “But you’ve got a point, Sid. If you’re having trouble tracking Micky, maybe Greenback is too.” She frowned. “If it is Greenback behind this.”

“Who else would send this guy after us?” Rich asked.

“I don’t know. Thing is, someone like Greenback is more the middle-man type. Granted, he’s a middle man with experience and plenty to lose, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility he’d put someone on your tail to get back at you—and me, for that matter. But I don’t know—sending an enforcer-slash-hit man overseas? I’m not sure I buy it. Why not just wait until you get back? Chances are you return with something even more valuable to Greenback, something he could make a deal on in exchange for your safety.”

“Unless he figures this Barber guy you’re talking about can get his hands on something himself and cut us out of the picture at the same time.”

It still seemed like a stretch to Wray. Not only would it cost Greenback more than he was likely to earn, hiring Barber to handle an international and highly risky job like this wasn’t the sort of thing an experienced enforcer like Barber would jump at. He’d avoided police detection this long because he was intelligent and careful—had to be. To take on an assignment like this, it had to be paying an awful lot. If it wasn’t Greenback footing the bill, who was?

Maybe Ed Marko would be able to help. After all, Barber had been set up outside his place. Maybe it wasn’t the Lewisons who were the primary target. Maybe it was Ed or someone in his circle.

“I need to talk to Marko,” Wray said.

“Not like this, you’re not,” Ruby said. “You look like a cross between a drowned rat and a raccoon, what with your mascara running everywhere. No way he’ll let you in like this. Here, let me help.”

Wray stood still while Ruby went to work, using items from a small makeup bag she’d produced from inside her crossbody purse.

“Never know when we’ll need to do some filming,” Ruby explained. “I never leave home without my kit.”

While Ruby fussed, Wray shucked out of her jacket, allowing the light breeze to air dry her shirt a little. She suddenly regretted her jeans; the damned things didn’t dry fast at the best of times. Wray’s jacket was water-resistant at least, and while it had also soaked through during her unplanned swim, it was already beginning to dry.

Thank goodness this was one of those non-rainy London days.

“Don’t go overboard,” Wray warned Ruby.

Ruby offered a calming smile. “Relax, you’re fine. My makeup’s understated, right? I won’t make you look ridiculous. Point is to make sure Ed recognizes you right away—or at least quickly enough he doesn’t slam the door in your face.”

Wray resisted an eye roll and stayed still. Finally, her face fixed and her wet hair slicked back into a low bun, Ruby stepped back with a satisfied grin. “There. Looking gorgeous again. I wish I looked like you do without all the makeup I need to put on.”

“You look fine,” Wray said. “Can I see?”

Ruby handed over her pressed powder compact, allowing Wray to check her appearance. While she could only guess at how awful she’d appeared earlier, she was impressed at how skilled Ruby was at makeup. There was no indication—appearance-wise anyway—that Wray had fallen into a pool of water, her eye makeup perfect and no sign of running mascara anywhere. Plus, Ruby had managed to get rid of all appearance of jet lag Wray had seen on her abnormally pallid and dehydrated face at the hotel earlier.

“Okay, kudos to you,” she told Ruby to a beaming grin.

Handing back the compact, Wray turned toward the house’s gate once again. “Guess it’s time to put it to the true test and see if I can gain entry.”

“I won’t tell you to break a leg again,” Rich said. “Didn’t mean for you to take me so literally.”

Wray grimaced. “I’d appreciate it, thanks.” She gave the area one more long scan. Still no sign of Barber anywhere, although given recent events, it didn’t mean much.

“There’s a pub up there on the corner,” Wray told them. “Go there. Wait for me. I’ll come find you after I get through here. If Ed’s willing to talk on camera, I’ll call. I just don’t want you out here in the open if this Barber guy makes another run at the place.”

“No arguments here,” Ruby said. “Right, Rich?”

Rich frowned but ultimately nodded agreement. Wray waited until the three of them had crossed the road at the end of the block and entered the pub. Only then did she unlatch the gate and step back onto Ed’s property.

A knock at the front door did nothing. Neither did a ring of the doorbell. Wray was certain the latter was working; she could hear the chime all the way from out here. So when no one came, she found herself debating what to do next.

Could be no one was home, but the two cars parked in the drive suggested otherwise. She could go peering through windows, but she had a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. She’d find herself talking to the police before she knew it, and given the incident in the park, it might not go well for her.

Having skirted the outer edge of the property twice today already, she recalled seeing an attractive back garden through the trees. Maybe she’d find someone back there.

This time, instead of taking to the trees and shrubbery, she followed a walkway around the opposite side of the house. There, Wray’s gaze travelled to a large conservatory which opened onto a lush garden. Maybe Ed was back here somewhere, pottering. It seemed the sort of garden a person would potter in.

Wray ran her hands over her head, ensuring her drying hair wasn’t turning into a ball of frizz. So far, whatever Ruby had sprayed over it seemed to be holding.

Just as well, because the man she encountered standing next to a latticed wall of roses appeared startled enough to see her entering his space.

“Oy!” he yelled. “Get off out of it!”

“Chill out,” she returned. “Just need to talk.”

Granted, she’d only seen a few images online of Ed Marko, and all had been taken decades ago, but it quickly became clear this was the same man. Thin and wiry, his once-auburn hair had gone grey, and his previously smooth and perfect complexion had been lined and spotted with time and sun damage. According to the articles Wray had read during her time waiting in the departures area of the Kimotan Rapids airport, Ed was now seventy-seven years old. He appeared older than those years, a fact Wray couldn’t put down entirely to a lack of sunscreen. In her experience, tragedy aged people, could make them older beyond their years. In time, mental and emotional aging hit you physically as well. Maybe that had happened to Ed.

“Gerrout or I’ll call the police,” he snapped.

“I really do just need to talk to you,” she said. “My name’s Wray Mallory. I used to go by Pryce when I was still married.”

“Don’t care who—” But he stopped there, head cocking as he eyed her. “That paranormal show?”

“Right. That paranormal show.”

“Heard about Carter’s troubles.”

“Carter was his own trouble. He’s a verifiable asshole of the highest order.”

Ed stared at her a few more seconds. Then he burst out laughing. “What brings you by?” He pointed behind him. “Besides running a race through my bushes. Saw you earlier. Was going to call the police then, but you’d already gone.”

“Yeah, about that … Mr. Marko—may I call you Ed?”

“Off you go, then.”

Wray smiled politely. “Ed, it’s a bit of a long story, but I’ve got the time to explain if you’ve got the time to listen.”

“I’ll put on the tea—long as you’ll listen to my tale as well.”

Wray’s turn to cock her head. “Your tale?”

“Your coming here is providential, I dare say.” He jutted his chin toward his house. “The place is so haunted, it puts the Tower of London to shame. I wouldn’t mind your expertise.”

Wray glanced up at the windows. Although she rarely saw full entities, this time proved one of the exceptions. She’d gained a decent working knowledge of the tragedy-stricken members of Alban Ezra, knew all but Micky Deuce to be dead.

The pale face she saw in the window was none other than long-dead guitarist Johnny Fade.

Thirty-One

“What are you looking at?” Ed asked.

Wray turned from the window to meet his eye. For a moment, her gaze locked as it had been with the dead man’s overhead, she’d forgotten Ed was there. “What?”

“Much as I hate to say this aloud, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Wray returned her attention to the window. The guitarist was gone. “Think I did, Ed,” she said.

His eyes flashed wide. “Who?”

Wray held Ed’s eye, watching for reaction as she provided her response. “Johnny Fade.”

The curiosity faded from Ed’s face moment by moment. In its place, a mask of suspicion set in—lips pressing together, head tilting a fraction, shoulders and jaw setting like stone, fisted hands dipping into pockets. “Don’t know about that.”

“You just finished suggesting to me I could be of help, that you think your place is haunted. I’ve basically just confirmed it. I might be able to give you a few answers, but it’s up to you. Your house, your ghosts, your call.”

Ed shifted to his other foot. “Thought your husband was the ghost one, that you just touch objects and see things.”

Wray heaved a sigh. “That’s ex-husband. And yeah, that’s roughly how it worked with us at the time, but that’s not to say I can’t help you without Carter. Sometimes ghosts haunt people or places, but in other cases, it’s objects they’re attached to. With or without ghosts, I can read objects as long as they carry an energy signature, something that connects them to a strong memory or feeling. I can check to see if that’s the case with you. Up to you.”

She shrugged, keeping her expression cool despite the urgency she felt. If Johnny was haunting his former manager, he had to have a reason. Maybe that reason contained some answers pertaining to Havik’s disappearance and death.

Wray didn’t mention the Antiques for Two cast and crew waiting nearby in the pub. It was clear Ed was uncomfortable with even Wray’s presence. Suggesting he consider going live on camera to talk about his former band’s horrible past seemed like the wrong move.

He studied Wray a long moment, long enough she began to hope maybe he was leaning toward allowing her inside to do what she did best. In the end, though, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry. I know what I said, and I thought for a moment it would be a good thing to have you look the place over, but now I’m not so sure. I’m a very private person, you see. You’ll know, of course, about my past, about the various things that happened to those close to me. I’ve tried hard to put those things behind me.” He peered up at the window where Wray had recently seen the ghost. “I realize I’m not alone here. But I don’t know that it would do me much good to know more about it. How can I help now? If someone’s here in spirit form, it’s clearly too late.”

Wray offered a smile. “According to a good friend of mine who knows a hell of a lot about these things, it’s never too late.” She chewed on the inside of her lip for a few seconds, thinking how best to word her next thought—one she hoped might clinch things in her favour. “It’s not just the dead invading your privacy, you know. There’s a reason I’m sopping wet.”

“Was going to ask about that, actually.”

“There’s a man who’s been hanging around your place. A dangerous man. Maybe you’ve seen him.”

Ed shifted to the other foot. “Oh?”

“He’s a solidly built white guy in his sixties. Bald. Big, bad scar down the left side of his face.” She pointed to her own cheek, using her index finger to trace a path roughly where Barber’s scar marked him.

Ed watched her movement and frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about him.”

“Twice now, he’s been around your property. I just chased him out of here, over your fence, through pretty much an entire park and into a pond. He nearly took a woman out, Ed. Put a knife to her throat and cut her”—again using her finger to point out the spot—“right here.”

Ed’s eyes widened a little, a touch of fear crossing his face. “Why would he be here?”

“I’d hoped to ask him, but the bastard got away from me. I wondered if any of this struck a chord with you.”

“I don’t know him, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Wasn’t suggesting anything. Just asking. After what I’ve been through, I’m entitled to ask a few questions, right?”

Ed shifted again. “Bloody hell.” He ran a hand roughly over his face, grumbling out an incomprehensible word or two as he did. His eyes returned to Wray. “Right then. No, I don’t know him. I don’t know why he’s hanging about mine. He’s clearly off his head if he’s behaving like this.”

Wray watched him closely as she asked her next questions, her mind flashing back to the threatening note left long ago for poor Harry Rugg. “Have you had any odd phone calls lately? Notes left in your mailbox or in the door? Have you seen anyone suspicious in the neighbourhood or anywhere else near you?” Barber, she knew, had come over at the same time as the Lewisons and Sid, so no way he could have been here, spying on Ed before that. But he’d known how to find Ed, had apparently been waiting for the TV crew upon their arrival. Maybe he’d merely been successful with a detailed internet search. But it was just as possible he had help. Someone like Greenback, given his line of work, had connections; it stood to reason a high-level enforcer of Barber’s ilk knew people too.

“Nothing and no one I’ve become aware of,” Ed responded. “I’m sure I’d have noticed.”

“And no one works for you who might have taken a call or picked up some mail? Maybe they didn’t inform you.”

Ed shook his head. “I do those things myself. This isn’t like the old days, you know. I’m retired. I can’t justify hiring people to do those things for me these days.”

Wray peered back up at the house. A flash of grey appeared in a window—not a fully formed apparition this time but a fuzzy human-shaped figure. Were Sully here, he’d probably be able to tell whether this were the same ghost. Wray could only assume.

There was another option, of course. But no way she was calling Carter. Hell would have to freeze over first.

Wray maintained her cool—not easily done in light of the thought which had just crossed her mind. A wrought-iron table and chairs stood a few feet away, and Wray crossed over to it, leaning up against the edge of the table while regarding Ed. “If you want to ensure your own safety, you’ll need to let someone in sometime, man,” Wray said. “Better you have someone onside who can actually help you find some answers—preferably before it’s too late.”

Her phone pinged in her pocket with an incoming text. Wray ignored it. She had yet to provide her UK number to Mars or even Emily, so this had to be one of the Lewisons. They’d be wanting info on what was happening and whether Wray was making progress. She ignored it, maintaining her focus on Ed, holding his eye and hoping she was convincing him.

As long seconds passed, she began to worry she’d failed. Finally, though, his shoulders slumped and he exhaled heavily.

“Right,” he muttered. “Best you go on in then.”

Thirty-Two

Ed’s house was among those as stunningly classic on the inside as on the outside. While some owners of old properties strove to open up rooms and modernize interiors, Ed had remained painstakingly faithful to the home’s roots.

“This is awesome, Ed,” Wray told him as he led her through a bright kitchen, past a dark, wood-panelled reception room, through a long and spacious entry hall with a sweeping staircase leading to the upper floors and into a small snug overlooking the side of the property. A wood-burner had been inserted into what had been a large stone fireplace. Flanking it were a set of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, largely filled with ornaments and photographs. Wray guessed a house like this contained a proper library or study—or possibly both. If Ed was a reader, any books he had were probably there.

The snug contained a small sofa and a stuffed chair, both covered in soft leather. Ed waved Wray toward the sofa, but she stopped short of sitting.

“Thought you’d want me to take a look around for your spook,” she said.

Ed lowered himself into the chair. “Shortly, yes. If you’re going to go poking around my home though, least I should do is learn a bit more about you.”

Wray’s phone pinged again. “Give me a sec, Ed.” She removed the phone, checking the pair of messages. Rich.

The earlier one: What’s going on?

Then, just now: Same question as before.

Wray clenched her teeth and sent off a quick response. All good. Will call soon.

“Who’s that?” Ed demanded.

Wray returned the phone to her pocket. “Friends of mine. They’re just down the block in the pub. That your local?”

“It is, but I never go.”

Wray settled into a spot on the couch. “Why not? Rocker like yourself, you must know how to enjoy a night out.”

Ed drummed the armrest of his chair with his fingertips. “I was a manager, not a rocker. The partying was for the guys I worked with.”

And they’d come around to the reason for Wray’s visit in the first place. Question now was how to go about explaining it. “When I first showed up, you seemed all right with my coming in and looking into your ghost situation. As soon as I mentioned seeing Johnny Fade, you shut down. Why?”

Ed folded his arms across his chest. “What would you think if someone told you a long-dead rock legend was haunting your property?”

“Ordinarily, I’d think that person was nuts, but what with your past, it seems perfectly plausible, no?”

“Think on this a moment. Of all the spirits that could be haunting this place, you pick the one who automatically comes to mind.”

Wray’s lips twitched into a partial smile. “Who should I have picked, do you think?”

“Don’t know. The house is close to one hundred fifty years old. Could have mentioned a former resident. There are stories about the place, you know—about a servant who supposedly died by suicide in the attic; a young boy who was run down in the street by a carriage; even a large dog, come to that. Why none of them?”

“Because I didn’t see any of them,” Wray said. “I saw Johnny.”

Ed set about drumming his triceps now. “Why would he be haunting me?”

“That’s the sort of question I generally ask. If I get lucky, I’ll find something to help explain it. Could I go upstairs where I saw him?”

“What if I don’t want to know?”

“You don’t have to. I can keep it to myself. No skin off my back.”

Ed gave her a deep frown. “Bloody hell. All right. Off you go then.”

Not sticking around another moment lest Ed change his mind, Wray stood and made for the hall. She’d hoped Ed would prove anxious enough to leave the search in her hands, but she wasn’t surprised to find him tagging along. Wray hated having people along while she carried out a psychic search. She often ended up insulting someone by telling them to stop talking or to give her some space. People got nervous when she did what she did—not only because of the strange nature of her ability but because, deep down, everyone carried a secret or two with them. No telling what Wray might uncover.

Maybe that was why Ed was following so close.

“Need you to give me a little space,” she warned him. “With someone walking this close, it can be hard to focus on other energies.”

It seemed to her it would be even more difficult in this instance. The longer Wray was around Ed, the more she felt there was something about him—or, more specifically, something on him. He was carrying or wearing something with a strong energy attached to it. That type of energy wouldn’t cancel out another, but it could act like a barrier, blocking Wray’s ability to sense other, weaker signatures. Performing a full reading would be another, even greater challenge.

Yet there didn’t seem a way to tell Ed to take a hike inside his own house, so she did the best she could.

Thankfully, Ed again proved he’d seen Paranormal Pryce when his mouth formed an O-shape as he nodded. “Ah, yes, right. I recall something about this, now you mention it. Colliding energies or something.”

“Colliding energies is exactly the something. You’re carrying something pretty powerful with you. I didn’t sense it outside so much, which is sort of weird.” Or maybe not so weird. What if whatever Ed possessed was the reason Johnny was here? If so, perhaps this was the reason she could sense it within these walls—Johnny was impacting it, lending his energy to it.

Wray changed course, wheeling to face Ed so abruptly, he jumped a little. “Wha⁠—?”

“Sorry,” Wray told him. “Just thinking, maybe I don’t need to go too far into the house just yet. Would you mind if I focus on you for a sec?”

The discomfort was back, Ed’s head turning so he peered at her through the edges of his eyes. “What do you mean, focus on me?”

“On whatever it is you’re carrying. Will you let me check?”

“All right,” he said, the words a slow bleed from his lips.

Wray didn’t waste time, not wanting to give him the chance to change his mind. As strong as this feeling was becoming, it would take mere seconds to find the source of it. The reason for the growing strength seemed clear enough; while Wray couldn’t currently see Johnny, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he was here, somewhere within the entry hall alongside them.

Wray passed a hand within inches of Ed, seeking the energy source. She stopped at his chest. He wore a T-shirt, and she could see, now that she was studying him more closely, that he wore a chain. Whatever was on the end of it lay against his skin, tucked in behind his shirt.

Wray pointed. “There.”

“Where?”

“The chain. What’s on it?”

Ed’s brows shot up. Wray thought his hand shook a little as he lifted it toward his collar, but he controlled it quickly. Carefully, he withdrew the item dangling at the end of the chain.

It was a ring.

Wray reached toward it and stopped herself. No, not here. Not like this. Whatever this was, it was strong. She couldn’t allow herself to delve headlong into a full reading without having someone here she could trust to watch her back. She didn’t know Ed well enough to make him that someone.

“The ring belonged to Johnny Fade, didn’t it?” she asked.

“How did you know that?”

“Same way I know most things like this, Ed. You’ve seen the show.”

“Sure, but I suppose I didn’t fully believe … Good God.”

“What’s the meaning of the ring?”

Ed started to take it off, but Wray waved for him to stop. “Not yet,” she said. “I’ll need someone here with me if I’m going to start handling it.”

He dropped the ring back against his shirt front. “Right. Well, I’m not exactly sure what you want me to tell you about it. It did belong to Johnny. Each member of the band had one. It was meant to be a thing between the four of them. They discussed tattoos, but Micky was afraid of needles. May well have saved him in the end, what with all the needles being passed around at parties back in the eighties. Any road, they settled on rings instead.”

Wray did what she could to examine it from her current position. “What’s on it? Looks like something carved into the stone mounted on the front.”

“That’s right. It’s a fish. Johnny’s astrological sign was Pisces, you see. Each of them had their sign added to their own ring.” He snorted. “No doubt Micky’s idea. He’s a Scorpio. Likely figured on a scorpion being rather a brilliant symbol for him.”

Wray nodded. Her brain was turning over something Mars had shared with her recently. “And Havik’s was of a ram.”

Ed gave a small smile. “He was an Aries. And Rizzo was a Libra.” He cocked his head. “How’d you know about the ram?”

Wray mentally kicked herself. Mars wouldn’t thank her for revealing details of evidence when the police would want to talk to Ed themselves. “Not hard to figure out,” she told Ed instead. “Alban Ezra was huge. Easy to find birthdates online.”

Ed’s loosening features suggested he’d bought the rationale. “Of course.”

“So Johnny bequeathed this ring to you?”

Ed fingered it gently, lifting it away from his body far enough to better see it. “Not exactly. He gave it to me—to hold onto until he’d better come to terms with the past. These rings were meant to connect the lot of them. It was a sort of bonding. Once Havik disappeared, the others fell apart. Johnny told me he thought of Havik every time he saw the ring, that it had been Havik who’d picked out the Celtic design of the band. Havik’s given surname was O’Leary, you see. Johnny truly struggled with what happened to Havik. I might go so far as to say it nearly drove him mad, thinking about all the things that might have befallen him, where he might be.”

“It’s hard to come to terms with having a loved one go missing,” Wray agreed. For a moment, she thought of her mother, but she shook it away just as quickly as it had popped up. Havik was missing because someone had forced him to be; Quinn Mallory was missing because she’d chosen to be. Two different scenarios entirely. “What about you? You must have had your own struggles with it.”

“I did, certainly. Still do. These four young men were in my charge. They were men, yes, and very willful. I couldn’t stop the harms that befell them with time, though lord knows I wished I could. I did attempt on numerous occasions to rein them in when they went too far off course, but Havik had problems I didn’t know the full scope of. Perhaps with the exception of Kit, no one did.”

He hadn’t fully answered the question. Wray leaned on the nearby stair railing. As she did, her shifting position gave her a different view of a mirror mounted above a phone table. For just a moment, Johnny’s pale face was visible, peering from the reception room doorway. For whatever reason, he vanished almost immediately. Maybe it took too much energy to manifest. Maybe Wray’s abilities only allowed her a second or two of sight in this way. The reason didn’t seem to have much bearing on the situation. It was enough he was here, connected to the ring or to his former manager.

Maybe both.

“Kit stayed behind in Kimotan Rapids after Havik vanished,” Wray said. “She held out hope he’d walk back in one day. In the meantime, she did her best to try to find him. What about you? What steps did you take?”

Ed’s shoulders went rigid, his back straightening him to full height. “What precisely are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t suggesting you’re responsible in some way. I was asking a question, that’s all.”

Ed watched her face a long moment. Finally, his shoulders slumped and his head drooped. “Forgive me. I’m rather sensitive about the whole thing, to be honest. As I said, they were in my charge. I felt terrible about Havik, like I’d failed him. I couldn’t allow myself to fail the others. They were shattered, exhausted, in deep grief over the whole thing. They wanted to come back to England, back to their families. I couldn’t blame them, and I couldn’t abandon them. Havik was gone. They weren’t. My remaining responsibility was to them.”

Ed’s answer made sense. Now there was one more big answer for Wray to seek.

“I’d like to do a reading of that ring,” she told him. “Will you let me?”

Ed heaved a sigh. “For years now, I’ve sensed I wasn’t alone. Sometimes, when I’ve awoken in the middle of the night, I’ve seen a figure there in my room. Things move on their own or vanish completely only to turn up somewhere else a fortnight later. Once in a while, I’ll catch sight of a shadowy form in a mirror or a television screen. I put it down to one of the others I mentioned, but I think a part of me always knew what it is you’ve just told me—that the spirit haunting me is Johnny. If you think this ring can help you lay him to rest, I’ll happily let you do what you need to do.”

Wray smiled at him. “I appreciate that. But like I said, I’ll need another body or two in here to help me make it happen.”

“Such as?”

Good question. Wray briefly considered the Lewisons, but she didn’t trust Rich as far as she could throw him, and even Ruby and Sid might not be all that much help once the cameras were rolling.

Which brought her back to one person: Callen Pryce. Wray was about to say so when the doorbell rang.

Wray spun toward the entrance, her thoughts immediately flashing on Barber. Was this him, attempting a next move?

Ed grumbled a curse word under this breath and took a step toward the door.

Wray put out an arm, stopping him. “Let me answer it—just in case.”

“I’ll check who it is,” Ed offered. “I can see from the reception room.”

Wray watched him go, then approached the front door cautiously, putting a hand to the knob and waiting on word from Ed.

“You’ll never guess who it is,” he said a moment later.

Wray didn’t have to guess. She knew. She felt it without needing to crack the door open to see for herself. She’d know this creeping, half-nauseated feeling anywhere. Only one person could make her feel this way.

Sucking in a breath, she yanked the door open. There he was.

“Hiya, lovely,” he said. “Miss me?”

“Like a bad case of the flu,” she said. “Hello, Carter.”

Thirty-Three

Wray was about to ask Carter how he’d come to be on Ed Marko’s front steps when she abruptly realized the answer.

Behind him stood the three members of the Antiques for Two TV show, Sid with his camera mounted on his shoulder and Rich next to him bearing the expression of a kid on Christmas morning expecting the latest video game system. Ruby was the only one with the grace or the sense to appear sheepish. She gave an embarrassed smile as Wray’s gaze washed over her.

There would be time to give these people a severe talking-to about their decision to call up Carter, but this wasn’t it—not with the camera rolling and Carter wearing what he used to call his “famous face,” all smiles and bullshit.

“Been a long time,” he told Wray.

“What the hell is going on?” This from Ed. Wray couldn’t blame him.

“Wish I knew, Ed,” she replied.

“You set me up.”

Wray spun on him. “I bloody well did not set you up. This is the last thing I wanted. Go ahead and look me up if you doubt me. You’ll quickly understand what I mean.”

His rage face softened as he studied her. “No need. I do know what you mean.”

“Give me a minute,” Wray told the gathering outside. She didn’t wait on a reply, happily slamming the door in Carter’s face, locking it to ensure he stayed out there.

Uncertain how soundproof the door was, Wray ushered Ed a short distance from the entrance, stopping just inside the snug where they’d previously been sitting. Time to do some explaining.

“I followed this TV crew overseas because I understood they needed some help,” Wray told him. “I had no idea this was the sort of help they were after.”

“Who are they? I don’t recognize them.”

“It’s an antique show—not one I was overly familiar with prior to meeting them recently. Have the police been in contact with you?”

Ed crossed his arms. “Might have been.”

“About some new evidence they found in relation to the Havik case?”

“You know about that?”

Wray didn’t feel right revealing the details of the police investigation or about the evidence they’d located. But she didn’t feel the same obligation pertaining to the evidence she’d personally handled. “I can’t say much about what the police are planning on talking to you about. But I do know it all started when this crew located Alban Ezra’s old tour bus during a shoot at a property near Kimotan Rapids.”

Knowing full well Rich would reveal every gory detail to Ed just as soon as he got five minutes with him, Wray thought it best to break it to him gently—or as gently as she could under the circumstances. “While they were on the bus, they found something else— something that had them alerting the police. They found the bones of a human finger and a ring.”

Ed’s fingers fluttered to his throat. “A finger? Whose? God, not—” He didn’t provide the conclusion himself, leaving Wray to fill in the blanks.

“As far as I’m aware, there’s nothing conclusive yet as to identity, but it’s possible there’s a connection with Havik, yeah. I need you to be clear about something. I am only here because the crew outside felt that their lives were in danger. I have a background that allows me to help in more ways than one. I thought I could offer them some protection. Instead, it seems they’re railroading me into revisiting my TV past with Carter. Apparently, they’re not above railroading you as well. I’m sorry.”

“I’m familiar with the news reports from a couple of years back regarding Carter’s legal troubles. I have no doubt you’re telling me the truth.” He sighed, rubbing at his temples. “What in bloody hell am I supposed to do now?”

Wray shrugged. “Guess you could refuse to talk to them, but I highly doubt they’re going to go away. Every single one of those people outside is looking for a way to become relevant in television again. Playing a role in solving Havik’s disappearance will get them that. Now, you’d be well within your rights to tell them to sod off, but they’ll only come back again later. And who knows? Maybe they actually can help in a weird way. Not everybody’s comfortable talking to the police. It might be they’ll be more prepared to talk to these people—or to me.”

“I’d much rather talk to you than that lot of vultures,” Ed said, jutting his chin in the direction of the door.

“Don’t blame you, dude, but I wasn’t kidding about the other part. They’re persistent. I know for a fact how bad Carter can get when he’s after something. Dog with a bone. The antique folks aren’t a whole lot better. Tell you one thing: the lady out there, Ruby, she’s bearable at least. The camera guy seems decent enough too.” She winked. “Maybe we can throw a stick for Carter and Rich to chase, sneak the others in while the jerks are preoccupied.”

Ed chuckled. “Fair enough then.” He ran a hand down his face. “Bloody hell. You’re right about the coppers though. They have asked about arranging an online video chat. We’re sorted for one this evening—morning their time, I believe.”

“Which I’m encouraging you to go ahead with. They’re trying to find answers for Havik’s widow and everyone else he left behind. I always do my best to help the police with investigations whenever I’ve been asked, and I think it’s a good idea for you to do the same.”

“I certainly will. But I’d hoped to leave it at that. As I said, I’ve tried to leave the past in the past. Not always easy or even possible, but it’s too damn hard carrying the weight of all of this.”

“Believe me, I get it. I’ve got various weights of my own.”

Ed cast a doubtful gaze toward the front entrance. “You truly believe this is going to help solve anything?”

“No, but at this point, what choice have we got?”

Perhaps Ed did have a choice, one that didn’t involve going live on camera with several people he’d accurately described as vultures. But he wasn’t wrong about the fact he was being haunted. Even now, Wray felt Johnny’s presence nearby as if he were eavesdropping, waiting to see whether Ed made the right decision. Maybe in helping to figure out what had happened to Havik, Ed could give Johnny some peace as well.

“Very well,” he said. “Let the daft buggers in, and let’s get this over with. Perhaps it’ll help me sort out what I need to say to the police later.”

True enough, Wray thought. Unfortunately, what he’d say to the police would also include details of the on-camera conversation he’d had with the Antiques for Two people—a conversation facilitated by Wray. Usually beyond caring, Wray had to admit she worried what the police would think of her after this.

No, not the police as a whole. Just one. Mars. Would he feel she’d betrayed his trust, that she’d gone behind his back to set up this interview? Where would that leave their relationship?

Such as it was, of course, but what it was seemed like a good thing to Wray—awkwardness notwithstanding.

She’d make a point of sending Mars a text just as soon as she had a chance. Hopefully it would be enough to alleviate at least some of the tension she might be inadvertently creating. For now, though, she made her way back to the door and opened it, revealing a rather cantankerous and impatient-looking group awaiting her verdict.

“Come on in,” she grumbled, stepping aside to let them pass.

They set up in a first-floor library, one Wray hadn’t had the opportunity to see until then. As with the rest of the house, Ed had maintained its classic appearance which included a large fireplace and two big windows flanked by bookcases and decorative shelving. A large circular table stood in the centre of the room, the sort of thing Wray could imagine playing host to a Victorian-era seance complete with a fake medium moaning and speaking in tongues. Today, it hosted Carter Pryce instead, and while he wasn’t entirely fake, he was phoney enough.

Speaking of Carter …

As Sid was unravelling a series of lapel microphones, Carter talking his ear off about where best to position the main camera, Wray hauled Rich into the hallway.

“What the hell are you playing at?” she snapped.

He lifted his arms to either side, palms up, while he schooled his features into an expression of confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Don’t fuck with me. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Brows lifted, mouth popped open. More pretend bewilderment. “You mean Carter?”

Wray could barely resist the urge to punch Rich in the mouth. Maybe she could dislodge a crown while she was at it. “Keep digging, Rich. All you’re finding down there is more bullshit, and I’m buying none of it. I’ve had all I can handle from that moron in there.”

“Who’s the moron?” came Carter’s voice from the doorway.

Half a dozen retorts formed in Wray’s brain immediately. She tamped them all down, opting to ignore Carter.

“You knew about our situation,” Wray told Rich. “You knew, and you called him anyway—and this despite the fact I came over here to help you. Hell, I saved your damn ass, you smarmy asshole.”

Rich shifted his hands forward, palms raised toward Wray as if warding off a physical assault. “Whoah, now, calm down⁠—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.”

Carter appeared in her peripheral vision, facing Rich. “Don’t tell her to calm down, mate. She really doesn’t like that.”

“Shut up, Carter.”

“Hey, I’m trying to help is all.”

She cast him a side-eye. “If you were trying to help me, you wouldn’t be here.”

Rich’s eyes darted between Wray and Carter. “Look, the thing is, I saw that man on the bus, all right? A ghost. I know you’ve got your own psychic thing going on, Wray, but Carter’s the one who sees the dead. I thought his experience would be useful to us. That’s all. Really. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Wray spun on him. “Not even if it means a little extra drama for your show? That’s a part of this, isn’t it?”

Rich shook his head wildly. “Not my intention. Hey, I’ve got loads of drama already.”

Ruby stepped into the hall to join them. “I’m sorry, Wray. I didn’t know he’d done it until it was too late to stop it. He found an email address for Carter online and sent a message without telling me about it.”

Wray crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Wish I’d learned not to be,” Ruby said. “Nearly twenty years with this man, I’m still amazed by him sometimes—and not in the ways I’d like to be.”

Rich frowned and narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You always talk about how smart you are. You figure it out.” With that, Ruby wheeled and stomped back inside the library.

Rich shook his head in her direction before returning his attention to Wray. “Look, I never meant anything by this, all right? I’m trying to do what’s best for the people involved. For Havik and the people who care about him.”

Wray fired him a glare. “Bull. You’re trying to do what’s best for Rich Lewison. I’m getting the distinct impression that’s what you’re best at.”

Rich returned her expression. He briefly opened his mouth as if to respond but clamped it shut instead. Then he stalked back inside the library.

Leaving Wray more or less alone with Carter.

“You’re really this bothered about me being here?” Carter asked.

“If I say yes, will you leave?”

“No. I can’t do that—not now. You feel it, don’t you? There’s a presence here. A young man. I haven’t seen him yet, but I have the distinct impression of a musician. Havik, perhaps?”

Wray gave up on the impossible task of ignoring Carter and turned to face him. “Right band, wrong guy. Try again.”

“Johnny Fade? Have you seen him?”

“Only long enough to know for sure who he is.”

Carter ran a hand through neatly trimmed blond hair. “Wow. Johnny Fade. Just imagine.”

“I don’t have to. What are you planning on doing about it?”

Carter shrugged. “Same thing you are, I’d imagine. Try to get to the bottom of things. Do it while on camera, just as we always did.”

“That wasn’t my intention in coming here. I’m trying to protect these people, nothing more.”

Carter smirked. “Please.”

Wray glowered at him. “Excuse me?”

“You know you miss this. You know you secretly enjoyed the attention.”

She jabbed a finger into his chest hard enough to shift his upper body backward a few inches. “I enjoyed the financial security. I put up with the attention. Of course, the financial part was short-lived, thanks to you.”

“Which you’ll never let me live down.”

“Why should I? You fucked me over big time, you dick.”

He leaned in, sneer widening. “Which you also used to enjoy, as I recall.”

Wray slugged him hard in the gut. Carter bent over, coughing hard, for a moment sounding as though he might vomit.

“Be grateful it wasn’t your face,” she growled before walking away from his still-bent and hacking form.

Sid and the Lewisons were still setting up in the library, Rich talking Ed’s ear off while Sid wired the two up with the microphones. Wray figured she had a few minutes to make a call, so she made her way down the hall until she found a quiet room away from the others—a bedroom that, based on the lack of personal items, was most likely a guest room.

Closing the door most of the way, she removed her cellphone from her pocket and clicked to light up the screen. Still worked, no indication of severe water damage.

Opening her contacts list, she scrolled down until she found Mars’s name. Still early back home, but she guessed Mars was either already awake or would be very soon. If the latter, she was about to wake him up—and harshly at that.

She’d given up on trying to decide what to say. No amount of dancing around the truth would make this any better.

Mars answered on the third ring. His “hello” sounded groggy. Yep, definitely asleep.

“Sorry to wake you,” Wray said.

“Hey!” Grogginess gone, suddenly alert. “Where are you?”

“Central London. Kensington to be more precise.”

“Palace?”

Wray chuckled. “Haven’t received any royal invites yet, Sarge. I meant the borough.”

“Oh. Well, how’s it going? Any news?”

Boy, was there news. “The bad or the bad?”

“No good?”

“Not yet, but I’ll be the first to tell you if there is.”

A groan. “Guess I’ll take whichever bad you give me first.”

Where to begin? Wray decided to start at the beginning, laying it out for him beginning with her locating the Lewisons before revealing her run-in with the man she believed to be Barber. After that, she had no choice but to explain how she’d been dragged into the Lewisons’ plan involving Alban Ezra’s inner circle, Carter and the TV episode they were working on.

“Hold up,” Mars cut in toward the end. “You’re at Ed Marko’s? Now?” All but squeaking out the last word.

“Yeah. We’re all here. Well, all of us except, with any luck, Barber. I’m hoping he’s not stupid enough to have remained in the area after our impromptu swim in the park.”

“You’re going to interview Ed?”

“Not me personally. Rich and Ruby. To be honest, I suspect the plan is for Carter and I to tackle interviews only if we can finagle one with Johnny Fade.”

“This is serious, Wray. My partner on this file arranged an online video interview with Marko for later this morning.”

“He mentioned, yeah.”

“I don’t want a load of info being laid out for him until we talk to him, you hear me?”

Wray bristled. “Hey, dude, I’m not an idiot. I’ve held back as much as I can. All he knows is what the Lewisons already knew going in—and let’s face it, that was a fair bit since they were the ones who discovered the evidence in the first place. You want stuff hushed up, you should have told them that.”

“I did. Little good it did.”

“Well, don’t tell me. I’ve been doing my best with this.”

Mars heaved a sigh. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s not your job to help me do mine.”

Which sort of felt like a blow to Wray as well. In the time since she’d first come to know Mars, she had, in essence, found a second job helping him do his. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t been trying,” she said. “I might not have an official job, but I still treat the unofficial seriously, all right?”

“I know you do. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise. Man, how am I going to explain this?”

“Tell your partner the truth. Say the TV crew’s running wild with this and that I’m over here doing damage control—in more ways than one, as it happens.”

“You said Carter’s there now too?”

“Rich called him. Bastard turned up at Ed’s door with the Antiques for Two crew.”

“Damn. You all right?”

“You’d best ask Carter that, not me.”

“Oh, Mallory, you didn’t.”

Wray grinned into the handset. “Didn’t what?”

“You hit him, didn’t you?”

“Not anywhere that’ll leave a mark. He’s fine. And I’m feeling a lot more fine now myself.”

“I’ll bet you are.” Despite the situation, Mars gave a light laugh. “Would’ve loved to see that.”

“I’ll happily reenact it. Maybe next time, I’ll have it on video.” She became serious again. “Listen, so you know, I’ve been putting in plugs for you with Ed. He knows it’s important to talk to you and to be honest about anything he knows. For what it’s worth, I think he wants to see this sorted.”

Movement at the door had her gaze firing over there—in time to see Johnny’s barely there form hovering in the hall. He stood, framed in the opening, the back wall and a painting mounted there visible through his ghost. While his features were hard to make out, Wray felt more than saw his eyes on her. Watching, wondering, hoping.

“Ed’s not the only one,” Wray told Mars. “Johnny’s here too.”

“Fade?”

“Told you that.”

“I guess I thought you were kidding.”

“Nope. Not kidding. I get the impression he’s haunted Ed for a long time now. Maybe it’s the ring; Ed has Johnny’s zodiac ring, one I understand is nearly identical to one Havik had.”

“Havik’s had a ram symbol emblazoned on the stone with a Celtic design on the band. At least, that’s what his widow told us.”

“Yeah, this ring’s the same thing—only he’s got a Pisces symbol on the stone instead. Ed told me the four members of the band got the rings made together. They talked about tats, but Micky’s afraid of needles apparently.”

“Never read about the rings in any of the band lore.”

“As I understand it, it was just meant to be something between the four of them. A bonding thing or something like.”

“Makes sense. I appreciate the info. Is the psychometry thing a possibility?”

Wray continued to stare at the spirit, watching to see whether he might form more fully. If he was trying, she wasn’t able to tell. “It is. The ring’s a screamer. But I didn’t want to do my thing without having someone here at my back I could trust.”

“You have someone?”

Wray snorted. “I just finished describing this pathetic lot of snakes to you, and you ask me that?”

“Sorry.”

“I do have someone here in town I can reach out to,” Wray told him. “Carter’s sister, Callen. You met her.”

“Oh right, yeah. The insurance investigator.”

“Recovery specialist. And yes, that’s her. Lord knows I can’t trust her brother for shit.”

“Wish I could be there.”

Wray considered not responding, but it needed saying. “Given everything that’s happening, I wish you could too.”

A pause, pregnant with the yet-unsaid. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot before you left. At the airport, I mean. It got awkward, and I’m sorry. I know now how you feel, and it’s not what I feel. I get that now.”

Maybe it was the safety of distance between them. Maybe it had to do with having her loser of an ex-husband being thrown back in her face. Or maybe it was the persistent physical and psychological danger she was facing in London. Whatever it was, the need to deal with Mars’s comments had her answering in a way she’d never planned to.

“You don’t get anything if that’s what you think.”

She left it there. So much more to say, but this wasn’t the time. Hopefully, this would be enough for now.

“Okay,” he said. The relief was there, clear in his voice. “We can talk about it when you come home. You are coming home, right?”

“It means putting an ocean between me and Carter. Damn right, I’m coming home.”

Mars laughed. “You be careful.”

“I will. And dude, I’m sorry about how this turned out. It’s not how I wanted it.”

“That part, I do get.”

Wray disconnected. With Mars gone, she was left alone with Johnny Fade.

“Now,” she said, eyeing what she could of him, “what are we going to do about you?”

Thirty-Four

“In a first for Antiques for Two, we’re teaming up with another former TV couple,” Rich said to Sid’s smaller, handheld camera. Then with a grand sweep of an arm, he directed the camera’s lens toward Wray and Carter. “From Paranormal Pryce, Carter and Wray.”

Wray noted he’d danced around their divorce by avoiding introducing them complete with last names. Fair enough. A television program like this seemed the wrong place for her to start correcting someone on surnames and relationship breakdowns—which would naturally lead to the sordid details of why the breakdown had occurred in the first place. Wray figured Rich wouldn’t want to take his program in that direction, which suited her fine.

“I understand this is the first time Carter and Wray have reunited on television since the show ended,” Rich added. “Am I correct?”

The lens panned back to Wray and Carter, both of whom wore lapel mikes. Carter flashed his biggest fake grin. Wray cut in before he could start in with whatever BS answer was on his lips.

“One of the first times we’ve reunited, period,” she said.

Carter gave her a gentle nudge. “Which isn’t to say this isn’t a welcome meeting.”

Wray bit back the obvious retort and managed a smile phoney enough to put even Carter’s to shame.

She stood on the sidelines as Rich and Sid paced the room, Rich launching into a narrative outlining their involvement in the Havik case—the discovery of the bus, the ring and the remains of the human finger. He also mentioned the photograph which, naturally, he’d made a copy of. He threw to Ruby, who picked up the narrative and the pacing, conveniently getting Rich out of having to lie to their audience regarding his attending a black market dealer’s residence to try to sell a stolen item. Ruby expertly fudged the truth while explaining how they were being tailed internationally by a dangerous man whose motives were currently unknown.

“Perhaps he has a reason to keep Havik’s fate a secret,” Ruby said. “Our job is to uncover those secrets.”

Throwing back to Rich, walking past her and giving Sid a new direction to track. “Which has brought us across the pond to England where Alban Ezra’s path began—and, for more than one member, tragically ended.”

Rich made a cutting motion across his throat, bringing an end to the initial part of the opening. The movement, while a typical one in filming scenarios, had poor Ed grimacing.

“This is where we’ll cut to VO with footage and a general history of the band,” Rich explained to Ed while Sid repositioned a tripod-mounted light. “For our purposes today, we’ll move on to some of the more unusual evidence we’ve found.”

“The ghosts,” Carter said with a nod. He straightened and brushed at his clothing to ensure everything was neat. Wray rolled her eyes as he next produced a handheld mirror from the pocket of his jeans, using it to check his hair. He offered it to Wray who shook her head.

“If I need fixing up, Ruby will tell me,” Wray said.

Carter shrugged and re-pocketed the mirror.

Rich counted Sid in, then launched back into his standup. This time, he and Ruby delved into the ghost they’d seen on the bus—a man matching one of the people in the photograph he’d found in the glove compartment. Wray figured out pretty quickly this was news to Ed when his jaw dropped and his eyes bugged.

“As for Wray,” Rich added, “she’s done more than locate hidden meanings in the objects we’ve found. Earlier today, she put her military training to work, pursuing and doing battle with the man who’s been after us.”

Wray clenched her jaw at the stupid description but again refrained from correcting him with less dramatic wording. No point. With both Carter and Rich in the room, they were generating enough cheese to feed a massive army of mice.

Rich made the cutting motion again. “We’ll cut here to the bit of footage we have of Wray running after the guy and returning drenched. We’d have more if Sid here was quicker on his feet.” He’d said it with an amused smile, but Sid’s clenched jaw told Wray he wasn’t in on the joke.

“Perhaps I could throw to you here, Wray,” Rich suggested. “You might be able to provide some details for us as far as what happened in the park.”

Ed saved her with a pointed glimpse of his watch. “I’d rather we get to the interview. I have to speak with police before long, and I’d like to get some food down me first.”

“Makes plenty of sense to me,” Wray said. “Why don’t you get that part done and we can revisit whatever else afterward?”

Rich didn’t seem pleased about having his direction questioned, but he went with it anyway. Naturally, he handled the interview himself, positioning himself near Ed at the table and lobbing questions at him about his history with Alban Ezra and the various tragedies which had come to be associated with the group. Ed’s answers largely corresponded with what he’d already shared with Wray, but things took another turn when Rich produced his copy of the photograph.

“I’m wondering if you’re familiar with this image?” Rich asked, passing his cellphone across the table so Ed could see the screen.

Ed shifted slightly, but he regained full composure almost immediately. “I haven’t ever actually laid eyes on this, but I do remember taking it.”

Rich’s brows lifted, and he shifted around himself—albeit for different reasons. “So you can confirm you were the photographer?”

“I was there that day, and I’m the only one not in the photograph, so it stands to reason I must have taken it.”

Rich made a point of peering at the screen. “This was taken close to forty years ago. How can you be sure about it?”

Ed offered a humourless smile. “Well, Havik disappeared almost immediately after, so I’m not likely to forget, am I?” He tapped the screen. I remember the gentleman in the image, the one whose property we visited. A colourful character he was. Hard to forget. That and the bus had only recently been painted like this. It hasn’t been seen since.”

“I’m curious,” Rich said. “If you all were there this day, and two men and the bus vanished soon after, why wouldn’t the bus and its contents have been found back then? I mean, wouldn’t the police have gone out to Harry Rugg’s property? Wouldn’t they have checked it out?”

“Most likely—had anyone thought to draw a connection. It wasn’t unusual for one or another of the lads to take the bus out when they shouldn’t have. I suppose I thought Havik and Buck might have simply done so that night. When they didn’t return, my first fear was for a crash. Both of them had some struggles with drink and drugs, and I very easily recall the city having a large river running through the centre. That or they might have run into someone who meant them harm.”

“Did you ever⁠—”

Wray talked over him. Not her place perhaps, but she needed to ensure the right questions were asked. “Clint Buckley—as far as I’m aware, there were no missing persons reports filed for him. Why is that?”

Rich fired her a glare, but Ed’s expression was thoughtful. “It’s a good question, and not one I have a good answer for, I’m afraid. The truth is, Buck—as we tended to call him—didn’t have family that we knew of. When he didn’t come back, I hadn’t a clue who I should notify. And I’ll be brutally honest here: part of me always entertained the notion he might have had more to do with Havik’s disappearance than anyone ever truly knew.

“As I said, Buck abused drugs, just as most of the others did at the time. What was more, I’m quite certain he was the one who typically secured drugs for the lads. He certainly seemed to know people in every city we visited, was always going somewhere to see someone. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t ask enough questions back then. I suppose there was an element of plausible deniability should the police have come calling. And back then as now, many people involved in the entertainment industry used drugs. It was nothing unusual.”

Wray leaned up against the nearest chair, thinking this through. “Okay, but you said you thought Buck might have been involved in Havik’s disappearance. What were you getting at?”

Rich turned a grumble into a cough.

Ed ignored him. “Only that I’m aware that when people use certain substances, it can change them, alter their personality and affect their behaviour. I never ruled out the possibility Havik was the victim of foul play due to something Buck did. Or there was the other possibility: that Havik died as the result of meeting with a bad contact or two established by Buck. Perhaps a purchase gone wrong or a party that turned violent. I don’t know. But I never once ever considered Harry Rugg might be involved. He was too much a gentleman. A very sweet, kind bloke.”

“I don’t believe Harry had anything to do with the death,” Wray said. She hadn’t planned on revealing these details, but with Harry’s name now being bandied about for a TV program, she needed to ensure neither his reputation nor his son’s life were negatively and unfairly impacted. “I had a chance to read the photograph prior to police taking charge of it. I saw some things you should know about.”

She refrained from mentioning her visit to the bus with Sully. No one, as far as she was concerned, need ever know about that.

Rich, still looking plenty annoyed, made another cutting motion to get Sid to stop recording. “Hold on here. If we’re going down this road now, let’s get ourselves better situated. Wray, let’s have you at the table with me and Ed here.”

“When would you like me to do my walkthrough?” Carter asked.

Rich barely cast him a glance. “Later. Let’s finish this part first.”

“I could use your smaller camera, go off and do a little shooting on my own.”

“My show, my rules,” Rich said. “All in good time.”

Carter scowled. Wray smirked.

She settled into the chair Rich indicated for her, putting her nearer Ed. With all the shuffling, she nearly forgot where she’d been question-wise, but it quickly came back to her as she recalled the nightmarish images she’d been exposed to during her readings.

She provided those details now with Sid recording across the table and Ed growing increasingly pale as he listened. When she reached the end, he slumped forward, head in hands.

“Have the police found him yet?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Wray said. “I know they’re looking for both him and Clint Buckley, but so far, nothing’s turned up.”

“He deserves a proper burial. I suppose they both do.”

“You’re certain Clint—Buck—had no people? No one who’s been missing him?”

“If he did, they’ve never contacted me. I suppose it’s possible anyone out there simply assumed the same as I did: that he took off to avoid the police or overdosed somewhere. Never occurred to me he’d been murdered alongside Havik.”

Wray wondered how it could be it had never occurred to Ed, except that maybe it was simply more convenient to ignore the possibility. Losing Havik was bad; losing a drug-pusher like Buck wasn’t necessarily quite as unwelcome when he was feeding band members’ addictions.

But drug-pusher or not, Buck hadn’t deserved to die like that—stabbed to death in the back of a bus, his body buried out in the bush like refuse. Whether or not anyone gave a damn about him out there, he should have a proper burial too. And Barber needed to answer for his sins—all of them.

“What about Micky Deuce?” Rich cut in. “We’d sure like to talk to him about these things. Maybe he could help.”

Ed’s eyes snapped up to his face. “Micky doesn’t talk to anyone anymore. Not even me. I couldn’t even tell you where he lives these days. He had a property in town, but as far as I know, he hasn’t lived there in years. Keeps to himself, our Micky.”

“I have a hard time thinking of him that way,” Rich said. “He was the ultimate frontman.”

“That was before Havik, before Johnny and Rizz. Tragedy changes people, Mr. Lewison. Micky’s no different from you and me that way. You leave him alone.”

Wray hoped that would be an end to it, but this was Rich. “Surely, though, that should be Micky’s decision to make.”

Wray fired a glare over her shoulder at him. “Rich.” She hadn’t been eager to attempt a reading of Johnny’s old ring. Now, she really didn’t want to go there. Not in front of a jerk like Rich.

But as much as Micky didn’t want to talk, Johnny was the opposite. She felt it now, his urgency to communicate. Wray couldn’t do it directly, and a glance at Carter’s confused face told her he wasn’t fully tuned in to the ghost either. Another reminder he’d never been as good at the ghost communication thing as he liked to tell the world.

Man, if only Sully were here.

Thankfully, Wray had her own means of deciphering spirit messages. She couldn’t speak to Johnny directly, but she believed his spirit was attached to the ring, which meant it contained elements of his thoughts and memories. Perhaps it would be enough.

She leaned nearer Ed, sliding a hand across the table in his direction. “Ed, Johnny’s here. He’s connected to the ring you’re wearing. If you’ll let me try, I can read it. Maybe it’ll tell us something—or even let him tell us something.”

She turned her hand over, palm up, waiting.

Ed regarded her a long moment, his eyes unwavering from hers. Finally, slowly, he twisted the ring free.

“Will you tell me before you tell them?” he asked.

“Whatever you need.”

He nodded. Then he dropped the ring into her hand.

Thirty-Five

Friday night, a club on the Sunset Strip. Johnny Fade, long hair whipping around him, sunglasses on, tats on full display in the strobe lights while music pounded from a series of speakers.

Sweat and booze dripping from his pores, cocaine and marijuana—and probably another substance or two—in his blood, fuelling his fire as he danced.

He’d always loved to dance. Quiet and reserved under normal circumstances, this was where he came alive, out here on the dance floor, surrounded by these fellow gyrating human animals. Women, men—didn’t matter. Not out here. Out here, it was just fun.

Afterward, back in a quiet hotel room or at someone’s apartment, the fun might continue. Women, men—that didn’t matter either. Not to Johnny. Plenty of people swung both ways. In some cities, in some circles, it wasn’t a big deal.

In Johnny’s circle, it was. He had never told the lads in the band. Only Ed. He was the only one.

Tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, he’d just dance.

The rings were Micky’s idea. Micky’s and Havik’s. Johnny wanted a group tattoo, but Micky was too damned scared of getting poked at, so they were here instead, at this London jeweller, after hours, picking out a design.

Or rather, Havik was picking one out. He’d rediscovered his Celtic roots recently, was into that whole thing. Johnny would have preferred something Viking-related, more in line with their new branding, but Havik was so set on this, who was Johnny to argue? Havik rarely got into anything these days that didn’t involve winding up high as a kite, so his enthusiasm over the rings was a good thing.

Johnny stayed quiet about it, but in truth, he loved it. It felt right, doing this with these boys. They were bandmates, yeah, but they were more like brothers. Johnny had two of his own, and he’d essentially disowned both of the arseholes once they’d started at him for a share of his wealth. Havik, Deuce, Rizzo—these guys didn’t want anything from him besides his time and his talent. They were in this together, each of them caught in the centre of this hurricane of fame. Others came and went, became little satellites in their orbit, but in the end, the four of them were the sole inhabitants of this little planet they’d created through their music.

Johnny figured he could live with that.

Satellites. There were enough of them. Ed was one of the good, steady ones. If the lads in the band were Johnny’s brothers, then Ed was his father. Not old enough, of course, to be a real one to him, but he was possessed of the sort of maturity and steadfastness to make him a father figure nonetheless.

When Johnny’s birth father abruptly reappeared, seeking headlines and cash, it was Ed who’d chased him away. When Johnny wound up in hospital, OD’d on whatever the hell he’d shot up his vein that night, it was Ed sitting next to him when he regained consciousness. And when one of Johnny’s former lovers called to say he’d tested positive for HIV, it was Ed who’d calmed Johnny down and found someone trustworthy to run a private test. And it was Ed who’d been there when Johnny received his own devastating results.

“We’ll get through this, son,” Ed had said, hand on his shoulder, fingers kneading in gently.

“I don’t want the others to know.”

“We might not have a choice.”

“I’ll be careful. I won’t expose them. They can’t know. No one can ever know, you hear me?”

Ed heard him.

So, it turned out, had Ivy.

Ivy. Another satellite—one Johnny wished would crash and burn.

She’d crept in like a shadow had more or less become as much for all of them, sticking to them like glue. Naturally, she’d gone after Micky first. Birds always went for Micky first, it seemed—although Johnny came in a close second.

Johnny had bedded her during that first week, and they’d had enough going on between the sheets that it lasted a few months. But she’d proved annoying enough in other ways so that he’d started finding excuses to turn her away.

She’d moved on to Havik, he thought, but Kit had abruptly put an end to that. Rizz was more patient than the rest of them, which was probably why Ivy continued to glom onto him.

She was always hanging about somewhere, an eye on someone or an ear to a door. If there was a party going on, she was right there, front and centre, drinking their booze, snorting their coke, smoking their weed, hitting on their mates. Johnny was pretty sure she’d been told to permanently sod off at least half a dozen times, but somehow, like an insect at a broken window, she just kept wriggling back in through the cracks.

Somehow, the tabloids kept catching wind of things. Photos from wilder parties would wind up on the front pages, or an article would appear talking about how one of them had cheated on his woman. No one had made a thing of it; type of fans they attracted, their hard-partying lifestyle was more a badge of honour than of shame.

But they had secrets too—ones they didn’t want outsiders to know. Havik had his mental health struggles and his history of abuse. Johnny had his diagnosis.

And so when Ivy came to him with a cloying smile and details about his bisexuality and HIV status, there was little he could do.

He paid her off. And he continuing paying her off whenever she demanded it.

Maybe Havik did the same. Until the night he didn’t come back.

The idea had never left Johnny’s mind that Ivy knew more about Havik’s fate than she’d ever acknowledged. Something about her was off afterward, and while Johnny was plenty off himself with his bandmate—his brother—missing, he was aware of enough to know Ivy wasn’t acting normal. Sure, normal was a relative term when it came to Ivy, but this was different.

There was something about her, something as shadowy as the way in which she’d slithered into their lives. Yet she’d proven disarming, managing to sweep away any suspicions which might have otherwise rightly come her way.

But after Kimotan Rapids, that changed—at least with Johnny. She wore her evil now on the outside, and those cold, emotionless eyes followed him like one of those horror movie paintings.

She knew. She knew something more about what had happened.

And Johnny couldn’t expose her without exposing himself.

He lived with the guilt, taking it with him to Micky’s large estate outside Higham, Kent, where the three remaining members of Alban Ezra drank their pain into submission one night while sharing stories of their lost brother. The band’s future stood on a precipice, no certainty as to whether they would—or could—continue without Havik.

All Johnny Fade had was finally living up to his name. Fading.

A few months later, he drove his car off a cliff.

They would blame alcohol, just as everyone blamed it for so many other of his stranger antics.

This time though, it wasn’t. It was Ivy. She’d come calling one too many times, demanding money in exchange for silence. And with his world crumbling and precious little control over his circumstances, he seized what little power he had left.

He’d end things on his own terms. No more blackmail. No more fear of full-blown AIDS or Ivy. No more grief over Havik. This was him, fading on his own terms.

He removed his ring beforehand, tucked it into an envelope and mailed it to Ed. Of anyone, he was the one who’d truly understood Johnny’s pain. Hopefully, he’d come to understand this too.

Tears and alcohol obscured Johnny’s vision as he swerved from the road, careening into the guardrail. Earlier, he’d sat roadside, outside his car while he’d downed an entire large bottle of whisky. He’d opted for the drive to Cornwall, having loved the county for some time, even having entertained the possibility of one day retiring here. Now, that would never happen.

He’d driven out here sober, not wanting to risk being stopped by the police and arrested for drink driving. And so he’d carefully picked the spot, had walked to the cliff and sat there, peering periodically over the edge as he drank to get himself accustomed to the heights. He thought maybe he would jump, but he couldn’t get up the nerve.

Instead, he waited until the alcohol had done its job. Then he returned to the car, put it in drive and, bumping off the road, sped toward the cliff.

His heart pounded in his throat, and for a moment, he thought he should brake.

No time. He’d made the choice. Now there was nothing for it but to fall.

Wray’s eyes shot open, a loud gasp escaping her.

She coughed, then started hacking. She knew the signs, knew her breathing had stopped while under.

No one stood near her. No one had tried to draw her out.

“What did you see?” Rich demanded.

Wray ignored him. She was too busy slicing imaginary holes into Carter’s flesh. He shrugged, offered her his measly attempt at a placating smile.

Bastard. Were the cameras not rolling, Wray would have marched right over there and slapped that stupid smile right off his face.

“Wray?” Rich said.

He, at least, had the intelligence to look startled when she turned her glare next on him.

“I need a break,” she said.

She stood, pleased with herself when her legs didn’t shake or give way. She stood fluidly and made her way toward the door.

“Is she all right?” Ed whispered to someone. Well, there was one person who wouldn’t be receiving a mental slap from her. She’d spent less time with Ed than with anyone else in this room, and he was the only one who’d so much as pretended to give a damn about her.

This was why she’d worked so hard to limit her personal relationships. If this was what passed for human beings, she wanted nothing to do with them.

She was nearly at the door to the hall when Carter’s hand settled on her arm. “Wray, we need to finish this.”

She fired him another black look, dark enough he released her without another word. Wray stormed out into the hall, turned the corner and made her way at a brisk pace toward the stairs.

She’d intended to go only as far as the entry hall and stay there a few minutes, catching her breath and settling her nerves and anger. But the front door was right there, bringing with it the tempting promise of freedom from the situation and the people in it.

She caught sight of Johnny out of the corner of her eye. She turned, managing to get a better glimpse of him. Panic had settled in his expression. Only now, she better understood it.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” she told him. “You did nothing wrong. But don’t worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

She turned back toward the door. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she needed to do, where she needed to be.

“If you can get there, I’ll see you in Higham,” she told the ghost.

Then she headed through the door, into the front garden and away from the house.

Thirty-Six

Wray was facing off against a large, hairless man, faceless save for a large scar running down the left side of his face.

Shadows concealed every part of him save one: a massive machete clutched in his hand. He expertly twirled it like a bad guy from an action movie until it ended in a position to his side, blade at the ready. Light filtered down from a place unseen—not enough to expose his features, but plenty enough to fully illuminate the weapon. It glowed with a near-supernatural energy, momentarily blinding in its power.

“You should have heeded my warnings,” he said. “Now you’ll join the others.”

He rushed at Wray, swinging wide but with inhuman control. Wray shifted away, once, twice, ducking and evading the blows, hair a cloud of red around her face. She backed away, unarmed, attempting to move for a better position against her assailant. But he kept coming, and she had nowhere to go, the walls closing in around them and limiting the space she could use to defend herself.

She was fast and graceful, deking away from Barber like a professional boxer. But he was fast as well and nearly superhuman in his strength and movements.

He lunged, his added height putting him too near for Wray to get fully out of his way. She fell back, almost missing the blade—but not completely. It caught her in the shoulder, opening a cut that soaked her shirt through with blood within moments. She staggered, then righted herself—but not before he leapt at her again. He had the advantage now, and he pressed it, bringing the machete down viciously again and again and again.

She ducked away from two blows, but the next she had no choice but to meet with her hands. She screamed as her pinky was severed. Kept screaming as the blows continued to beat down, promising death with them.

Mars shot bolt upright, a cry on his lips. Wide eyes fired around the room, searching for Wray in the shadows. Searching for Barber and his deadly blade.

But they weren’t here. He was alone, Wray’s screams replaced by the ringing of his cellphone on the nightstand.

He brought a hand to his mouth, exhaling heavily against it. He snatched up his phone, catching the call before it went to voicemail. “Donovan here.”

“Sorry to wake you. You okay there?” Lilian.

Mars scrubbed his free hand down his face, wiping away sweat along with the remnants of the nightmare.

Was that all it was? A nightmare? He’d worked alongside psychics long enough now to know strange things existed in the world, that the human brain was capable of some amazing things. Amazing and terrifying. Was this a nightmare or was it a glimpse of events yet to come? God forbid, events that had already unfolded?

“I’m good,” he told Lilian now. He wasn’t. Not even close.

Thankfully, Lilian wasn’t the type to press the issue. “Well, whether you are or aren’t, I’m about to give you a good reason to feel better. Ident just called me. They thought they’d make one last pass with the ground-penetrating radar before clearing the scene out at the Rugg place. They hadn’t gone out into the more heavily treed section, but they decided to give it a go anyway. I mean, scenery changes with time, and trees grow, right? Anyway, they found an irregular area in there and did some digging. Guess what they found?”

Lilian wasn’t the type for guessing games, so Mars could tell she was excited. He provided the only answer that would explain her mood. “A grave.”

“Bingo.”

Despite his nightmare-induced frayed nerves, Lilian’s enthusiasm was spreading to Mars. “Havik?”

“I’m about to head out there to see for myself, but my first thought is no. They sent a few photos. Check your email.”

Mars was dismayed to discover his hands were shaking as he brought the phone away from his ear. He put Lilian onto speaker, then tapped to clear the screen. The first thing he noticed was a notification of a missed phone call. He’d been so lost in his nightmare, he hadn’t even heard his phone ringing prior to Lilian’s call. Ident had probably tried him before dialling her.

Next, he tapped into his work email. Sure enough, there was a message from the Forensic Identification Unit with an attachment. He clicked into it, waited the few seconds for the pair of images to download, then peered at the photos.

A dirt-covered skeleton lay curled on its side within a hole in the ground, lit by the Ident unit’s powerful portable lights. Long dark hair was visible on the skull, and the crumbled remains of clothing clung in places to the bones. It would take some cleanup in the forensic pathologist’s autopsy suite and in the Ident unit’s lab to better make out details of the clothing.

Unit members had had the presence of mind to photograph the skeletal hands, laid as they were near the front of the skull. Hard to make out everything about them, but the on-scene members had cleared away enough dirt to render the finger bones visible.

All ten of them.

“It’s not Havik,” Mars concluded. “This skeleton’s not missing any digits.”

“We haven’t got the DNA results back on the finger bones, remember,” Lilian said. “We can’t be certain yet whose bones we sent away. Sure, Katherine ID’d the ring as Havik’s, but we’ve got a second missing man. Maybe he was wearing Havik’s ring when his finger was severed. Or maybe the ring was left with the severed finger after the event.”

It was possible under normal circumstances, sure. But these weren’t normal circumstances. Mars had Wray’s vision to guide him, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt the finger currently in the possession of the police belonged to the missing drummer.

Of course, there was no way he could tell Lilian that—not without opening himself up to her derision. Or worse, for that matter, should she somehow come to learn Mars had cleared the way for the invasion of their crime scene by a pair of psychics.

“Right,” he told Lilian. “Fair point. Want me to come get you?”

“I’m already on my way to you. I’ll be there in ten.”

She hung up without further comment, leaving Mars to jump out of bed, dress quickly and down a quick glass of water from the bathroom sink before brushing his teeth.

He found himself staring into the mirror after he finished with his teeth, regarding his own haunted eyes. The bad dream had yet to fade from his thoughts, plaguing him as he struggled to get his work brain in order. He wanted badly to call Wray, to check in on her, but he didn’t have time, and he’d feel like an absolutely moron if it turned out she was fine and he was only operating in panic mode.

But what if she wasn’t fine? Or what if it turned out a warning from him could have prevented her running headlong into danger?

Maybe he didn’t have time to call, but he sure as hell could text.

Remembering to use the number she’d been assigned with her UK eSIM, he fired off a quick text. Ident found human remains. Prob CB not H. What you doing?

He waited. Whatever she was doing, it didn’t involve texting him back. By the time Lilian pulled up outside his apartment building, Mars still hadn’t heard back from Wray.

With nothing now to do but wait and hope, Mars let himself outside and jogged to Lilian’s car. The situation with Wray would have to be put on hold for now.

But he’d made sure to turn up the volume on his phone to full. If she texted back, he’d know right away. And if she didn’t, he’d know that too.

Whether he wanted to or not.

Thirty-Seven

Wray hadn’t ruled out the possibility Barber had followed her from Ed Marko’s house. She didn’t care. Let the prick follow. She’d had enough. Controlled anger burned bright inside her, fuelling her, promising strength and resolve once the time came to act.

And it would come. She knew it, felt it deep in her bones. The same way she’d anticipated violence when beginning a military mission, she knew the direction this day was headed.

She didn’t see Mars’s text until she was onboard the train to Rochester. The fact they’d found Clint Buckley came as a relief, bringing with it assurances they’d find some usable evidence. If nothing else, everyone would know for sure now that Buck wasn’t responsible for Havik’s death. Likely only a matter of time, then, before they found Havik too.

Wray had her own search at hand though—a hunt for the elusive Micky Deuce. Just as she knew this day held bad things in store, she felt somewhere within herself there were answers to be found with Micky. He’d left public life for a reason. Maybe Ivy had gotten to him too. If nothing else came of this, that poisonous snake of a woman needed to be dealt with. Wray wasn’t above taking on that role, whatever it entailed.

She knew ghosts tended to be attached to people, places or objects. In Johnny’s case, he might have several attachments, but the ring was among them. So when Wray caught a flash of Johnny Fade’s ghost staring at her from an empty facing seat, she realized why she’d felt so charged up since leaving Ed’s.

It wasn’t simply anger at Carter, Rich and the others. She’d inadvertently pocketed Johnny’s ring.

Oh hell.

In locating Mars’s text, she’d ignored half a dozen from Rich and Ruby, as well as a couple from Carter. One of the Lewisons had evidently shared her number with her ex, providing yet another reason for her to despise them. They all wanted to know where she’d gone. Carter had the gall to demand she come back immediately.

To hell with them all. With not one among them worthy of trust, Wray determined to ignore them. She had what she needed here. She had no idea how to find Micky’s property, but her accidental pocketing of the ring had proved serendipitous. With Johnny here, her chances of finding the place had just gotten a whole lot better.

Of course, should Barber be nearby, watching, his chances would be far better too. She opted to walk the train, searching faces and features of each passenger in each car. No sign of Barber here, but with three bathrooms occupied when she passed them, she couldn’t rule out he’d locked himself inside one to avoid her spotting him. She’d simply have to be extra careful upon reaching her destination.

The train journey to Rochester was relatively short, putting her in town by late afternoon. Her grumbling stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast; that combined with a desire to spot Barber before she accidentally led him to Micky’s had her setting a course the short distance into the old city centre.

High Street consisted of a stretch of historic buildings, many marked with plaques connecting them to the likes of Charles Dickens. Wray had been here a couple of times during her Paranormal Pryce days, and she’d loved the architecture and the history. Now, though, she saw it through different eyes, questioning every spot in which an enemy might hide.

A coffee shop stood on one corner, not far from the historic Corn Exchange. Wray slipped inside the shop, ordering herself a sandwich to go with her coffee. She sat toward the back of the room, away from the large front windows, and watched the street. Plenty of tourists still rambled past, as well as a couple of wedding parties presumably seeking spots for photos. So far, no large bald guys with deep scars.

A few hours ago, this might have bothered Wray, leading her to worry for the Lewisons and Sid should Barber still be there with them. Now, though, her concerns on that part had dwindled. She didn’t want anything terrible to happen to them, but she’d given up pressuring herself to be the one to stop it. If they couldn’t be bothered to watch out for her, why should she worry about them?

Wray devoured her sandwich fast enough to prove embarrassing if she were the type of person to care what others thought. As it stood, all she was worried about was getting in the necessary calories before she had to run off somewhere—or, worst case, get into another knock-down fight with a killer.

Food down, she took her time with the coffee. She wanted to get out of here and start searching for Micky’s place, but she was smart and experienced enough to know her best move now was to play things safe, take it slow and easy, watch for so-far hidden dangers. Not exactly a full-bore surveillance job, but it sort of was. And surveillance was sort of like fishing: cast out the line, sink the lure, play with it a little but otherwise let it be for a while. Reel in too fast, keep moving the boat after a failed cast or two, you’d increase the chances of missing the big catch. It took patience, and Wray had plenty of that.

Most days anyway. Carter had a way of robbing her of patience, even when he wasn’t physically present. Call it one of his greatest abilities.

Wray’s phone rang while she was mid-way through a sip. She nearly ignored it, suspecting one of the people she’d left behind in London. At the last moment, she pulled out the phone to check the call display.

Mars.

She punched the talk button. “Hey, buddy.”

“Hey yourself. Where are you now?”

“Rochester. Good news about Buck, huh?” she said. Her tone, she knew, was distracted. She couldn’t afford to commit fully to a conversation and risk dividing her attention too much.

“Yeah, for sure. It’ll be a while before we get confirmation it’s him though. His DNA’s not in the system, and we’ve got no next of kin to approach for a comparison. Autopsy might find signs of old injuries on record somewhere, and we’re working now on figuring out who might have done his dental work so we can try to get hold of some records. It’ll be a process though—especially since we’re obviously going to have to search out of country. What about you? You doing okay?”

“No need of dental work,” she quipped.

“Glad to hear it. Not exactly what I was asking.”

She detected an edge to his voice. “Are you referring to Carter?”

“Not totally, but what’s going on with him?”

Wray snorted. “He’s proving himself just as helpful as ever—which means not helpful at all, if you need me to spell it out.”

“I don’t. I’m well aware. Listen, Wray …” He trailed off, leaving something concealed in the silence.

She found she wanted to know. “What is it?”

“Anyone else, I’d worry they’d think I was weird for even mentioning this. But it’s you, so⁠—”

“I’m weird enough for both of us. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a bad feeling. A nightmare, actually. I know it sounds stupid, but it felt real.”

“Think you’re seeing the future?”

“Look, if it comes down to a fight with Barber, do me a favour and don’t, okay? Just don’t. Back out, call for some backup. Don’t take him on by yourself.”

Wray smiled into her phone. “That’s sweet, Cowboy.”

“I’m not trying to be funny here. Just the opposite.”

Wray leaned back, playing her gaze over the street once again before turning to ensure Barber hadn’t somehow managed to follow her in here without her noticing. So far, all clear. “Hey, dude, I appreciate your concern. Really do. But I’ve got this cased, all right?”

“I worked with a guy once who said the same thing. Know where he is? Dead.”

“Mars, come on.”

“No, you come on. I’m not playing the overprotective cop here. I’m serious. Barber’s evaded capture all these years because he’s that good.”

“Which I completely understand, believe me. But you’re not picking up what I’m laying down. The reason I’m not six feet under six times over is because I’m that good too.”

A small crowd of middle- and senior-aged people moved past the windows—a tour group judging by the collection of roller bags and awestruck eyes. Within the group, managing to fit right in with his swivelling head and searching gaze, was Barber.

“Gotta go, dude,” Wray told Mars.

“What’s going on?”

No way she was going to share that with him now. “Fill you in later.”

“Wray—”

Whatever he intended to say was lost as she cut the call, dropping her phone into her pocket. One more long swig of coffee and she was off, weaving a path between tables and lined-up patrons as she approached the door.

There he was, still with the same group. He’d picked up a baseball cap somewhere, but there was no concealing the scar Buck had given him during his death struggle forty years back.

Wray had two options: follow Barber or evade him. The second option prevailed almost immediately. The last time she’d tailed this guy, he’d nearly killed an innocent woman. Too many people on these old streets, none of them paying attention to anything but the scenery. Certainly, no one here was anticipating a deadly attack, and no one in Wray’s immediate view would be in a position to mount an effective defence nor assist with hers.

She cut back the opposite direction, taking the corner quickly to put herself out of view. From there, she shifted into a brisk walk, taking her back in the direction of the train station. Hopefully, Barber wouldn’t anticipate her return there. She’d locate a ladies’ room, lock herself into a stall and attempt a second reading of the ring. Johnny had been to Micky’s. Hopefully, through his memories attached to the ring, he’d indirectly show her the way there.

As she walked, eyes continually peeled for Barber, she allowed her thoughts to stray a little to the current situation. The Lewisons had thought Barber was after them, sent by a pissed-off Greenback who wanted revenge for the kerfuffle over the stolen band photo. Wray now knew otherwise. For Barber to be here in Rochester, he had to have followed her from Ed’s—which meant he was aware she’d come alone. He wasn’t after her directly, that much she knew. Greenback might be pissed about his run-in with Wray, but no way he was mad enough to pay a hitman to follow her halfway around the world. No, Barber was after something else—someone else. And he’d decided Wray was his best chance of finding that person.

Stood to reason that person was Micky Deuce, the last surviving member of Alban Ezra. What Barber wanted with Micky, Wray didn’t know, but it was only a matter of time before she found out. Wray’s means of finding Micky would differ from Barber’s, but she had no doubt now that he was here, he’d find what he needed eventually. Micky might be a recluse, but even recluses needed food, medical attention, banking services and supplies to maintain their properties. Someone in the area surely knew about Micky’s nearby presence—if, in fact, he was still here somewhere. If he wasn’t, all the better for him. Even if Wray arrived to find an empty nest, she thought she’d be able to find a clue as to where he’d gone.

Mars didn’t try to call back. He was good like that, no doubt sensing she was in the middle of something that would preclude her ability to take a call. She was on her own now, working her way through a relatively strange city to deal with a completely strange situation.

One thing at a time.

She was almost at the train station, crossing Corporation Street, when Johnny appeared next to a waiting taxi cab. His eyes fixed on her before he faded from view once again. His message, while silent, seemed clear enough.

Get in.

Wray heeded the advice, jogging the rest of the way across the street and jumping into the back seat.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Just drive,” she said. “I’ll give you an address as soon as I figure one out.”

Curious eyes met Wray’s in the rearview mirror once the car had pulled onto the roadway. “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

She’d never clapped eyes on the driver before, so she knew the answer to this one. “TV maybe,” she said. She supplied nothing more, wanting to avoid more questions about it. If it meant the guy spending the next twenty minutes wracking his brain, it was no skin off her back.

He continued to study her quietly, but he kept additional queries to himself. Likely her clipped responses had shut him up. Part of Wray felt bad about it, usually the sort to enjoy conversations with cab drivers. Today though, she had other things on her mind.

She fished out the ring, its energy feeding into her flesh as soon as she touched it. Hopefully, she could read the thing properly without diving headlong into another series of breath-stealing visions.

“Just show me an address,” she muttered.

“Did you say something?” the driver asked.

She shook her head. “Talking to myself.”

“Do that a lot?”

“More than I like to admit.”

“Sometimes we’re our own best company. Remember that address yet?”

The question proved a reminder. Wray pulled out her cellphone, holding it in her opposite hand and angling it to give the impression she was reading something on the screen. “Trying to find it,” she said. “Give me a minute or two. It’s in here somewhere.”

“Just that the meter’s running.”

“I’ll cover the cost. Just keep driving.”

Concentrating on the ring now, she closed her eyes, connected fully with the energy and gave in to whatever it threw at her.

Rarely did objects show her the things she asked for. Whether the ability to control it existed, she had no idea; all she’d ever known was that she didn’t have a clue how to go about it. So when the heavily treed front gates of a house appeared in her mind along with a number—fifty-two—she was surprised and pleased. Another image, this time of a road sign. Twickenham Lane.

Nothing else came to her before the vision ended. It was all she needed.

Leaning forward to put her nearer the driver, Wray gave what she hoped was a useful address. Wouldn’t help, she knew, if Fifty-Two Twickenham Lane was in Newcastle or Manchester.

“Do you happen to know where I can find Fifty-Two Twickenham Lane?” she asked.

“Twickenham Lane is just outside Higham. That where you’re headed then?”

Wray tucked the ring away once again. “Guess it must be,” she said.

She settled back into the seat, watching the passing scenery as they drove. It seemed the driver had been taking her on an informal tour of the old city centre, expecting the place she’d want would be someplace around there. Now, they left it behind, crossing River Medway and working their way onto a road fittingly named Gravesend. Further onward, past signage indicating a place Dickens had once called home. Wray remembered it as the house where the author had ultimately died.

The driver made a turn northward—or at least that was the direction Wray believed they’d gone. Further that direction for a while, then a couple more turns down increasingly narrow lanes. In places, the trees began to close in, creating a near-claustrophobic atmosphere.

It was also familiar. She knew the spot before the driver pulled to a stop, easily recognizing the entrance to the place from her vision. It had changed a little, but only a little—only insofar as the trees and shrubs left to grow wild on either side of the gate.

“This must be the place,” Wray said.

The driver pulled in, stopping this side of a rusted gate pulled tightly shut. “Sure about that? Looks as though it might be abandoned.”

He had to be basing his assessment purely on the state of the gate and the greenery, because there was no possible way to see the house from here.

“If this is fifty-two, then it must be.”

“Suit yourself. Be a bit of a walk back. I can wait if you like.”

Wray still had hold of her phone and used it now to cue up the credit card she had stored there for phone payment. “No worries. I like walking.”

The driver shrugged and took payment. As he did, his eyes lit with delayed recognition. “I do know you. You’re Wray Pryce!”

She didn’t bother correcting the last name. Last thing she wanted was to get stuck sharing her miserable life story when she had more important things to do.

“You caught me,” she quipped.

“You still on TV somewhere?”

There was the question. After today, she had her answer. “Not if I can help it.”

The driver laughed, probably expecting she was kidding. Again, she didn’t correct him. Less than a minute later, he was pulling away, leaving Wray alone at the gate.

It was the correct place, all right. There, just the other side and partially obscured within the shadow of the overgrown trees, hovered Johnny Fade.

No buzzer on the gate. No problem. The stone fence was nothing to scale thanks to the thick branches either side. Another minute, Wray was on her way, picking her way deftly through the undergrowth, using it as cover as she approached what she could only assume was the house.

Soon enough, she’d know whether Micky Deuce still lived here—and if he could provide some badly needed answers.

Wray made her way deeper onto the property. It was large enough, at least if everything beyond the fence line did indeed belong to him. As she walked, avoiding tree roots and rocks and clumps of wilder undergrowth, she kept her eyes peeled for signs of a house or some other structure. She found it after a couple of minutes of bushwhacking, a massive brick house coming into view, set in a large garden that Wray thought must have once been pretty amazing to look at. She could make out a pair of small ponds, stone walkways and even a garden folly made to look like miniature Roman ruins. In the distance, shadowed beneath an opposing wall of thick trees, glass glistened in the rapidly setting sun, suggesting another small structure was tucked away there.

As she moved in close enough to get a full view of the house without leaving the protection of the woods, Wray crouched to better study it. Based on the structure, Wray guessed the house—or at least parts of it—dated back to the seventeenth century. The exterior had seen some remodelling since, but no work had been done in recent years. Peeling shingles and wild shrubbery along the outside walls suggested that much. No faces peered from the windows, living or otherwise. Not even Johnny had made an appearance since she’d hopped the fence, but she supposed it had taken a measure of energy for him to have taken form as often as he already had today.

From here, Wray couldn’t make out the front door, concealed, she expected, behind a portion of the house which jutted out further than the other half. She’d make her way there shortly, but first she wanted to take a better look around. She couldn’t imagine how Barber could have followed her here, but she’d learned to put nothing past him. She’d bide her time here for a while, scanning the house and its surrounding property from the safety of the trees, alert for signs of any comings or goings. Once she was certain it was safe for all concerned, she’d make her approach.

She continued as she was, sticking to the interior perimeter of the trees, eyes on the house. What must have once been formal gardens stood behind the home. Despite the warmth of the summer, a decent-sized pool stood covered, the carpet of dead leaves and other vegetation littering it telling her it hadn’t been rolled back in some time. Walkways were overgrown, signs of perennial flowers peeking from between unkempt shrubs. The place was in dire need of a gardener or twelve, likely a large number of other workers besides.

Wray kept going, spotting no one. Not far now to the windows in the woods she’d spotted from the front gardens.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

Wray spun at the snapped question, found herself facing a tall older man holding a shovel like a weapon.

One look at his face and she recognized him. After everything she’d seen and been shown over the past few days, she’d become an expert in all things Alban Ezra.

Only this wasn’t Micky Deuce. This was Kyle “Havik” O’Leary.

And he was very much alive.

Thirty-Eight

Years back, Havik had routinely shaved his head, images of him in concert featuring a glistening scalp as sweat bounced off him while pounding the drums. Today, standing in front of Wray, he wore his silver hair long, its ends thin and scraggly enough to suggest he was balding beneath the wool cap he wore.

He’d also grown a full, unkempt beard, and his clothing was drawing dangerously near the point of needing to be tossed out and burned.

Anyone who spotted him from afar would think Micky Deuce was allowing a homeless man to squat on his property. Perhaps, in a sense, that’s exactly what this was.

A closer inspection, though, revealed far more. Maybe Havik could even manage to blend facelessly into a crowd from time to time as he was. People, after all, tended to go out of their way to avoid looking at homeless or downtrodden people on the street. Wray could imagine few people had ever truly studied the face beneath the wild beard and hair and the grungy clothes.

But there was something else too—something that proved definitively this was indeed Havik. As he held the shovel in a two-handed grip, he put his left fingers on full display—all four of them. He was missing a pinky finger.

“You’re him,” Wray breathed. No need to explain which “him” she was referring to. As stunned as she was, her meaning had to be pretty damned obvious.

“I’m no one,” he returned. “Who the hell are you?”

Shock continued to reverberate, but she regained enough sense to offer a response. “Wray Mallory. I’m⁠—”

“I don’t rightly care for an explanation. You don’t belong here. Gerrout.”

“I just want to talk,” she said. She wasn’t the only one. Even through her surprise, she felt Johnny’s spirit nearby. She was shocked, yes. Johnny wasn’t. Sometime since his death, he’d made his way here and had seen the truth—one the ring hadn’t imparted to her. She wasn’t sure why, but she had a pretty good guess. If Micky and Havik had gone to this much trouble to make the world believe Havik was dead, Johnny wouldn’t be the one to change that.

“Talking’s not something I do,” Havik snapped. “Don’t make me use this.” He indicated what he meant by hefting the shovel a little higher.

“You won’t,” Wray said, injecting a touch of danger into her tone. Whether because he recognized a legitimate threat or because he simply wasn’t the kind to take a weapon to a woman, he lowered the implement.

“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for,” he said.

“Actually, I do. I don’t know if you’re familiar with me, but I used to have a TV show with my ex called Paranormal Pryce. That was my last name at the time—Pryce.”

Havik shook his head. “Don’t watch much TV.”

“I have an ability to read objects,” Wray said. “That’s what led me here.”

“You shouldn’t have come,” Havik said. Something changed in his face, something behind his eyes. Sadness, regret maybe. “You really shouldn’t have come.”

Wray abruptly sensed danger. She wheeled, expecting to find Barber there behind her. What she found instead was Micky Deuce.

Wielding a rifle. As she watched, too far away to do more than that, he brought it to bear, levelling it so it was solidly aimed at her chest.

“Micky,” Havik said. “What are you planning on doing with that?”

“What I have to.”

Wray plastered on her best attempt at a confident smile. She wasn’t sure she pulled it off, not feeling all too confident at the moment. Micky wasn’t only pointing the gun—he was aiming, one eye shut, the other peering down the sights.

“You going to shoot me?” Wray asked.

“You haven’t left me much choice.”

Wray shook her head. “Come on. You can’t do this.”

“Who sent you? How did you find us?”

“I can tell you, but you probably won’t believe me. Give me a chance to try though. It’s all I’m asking.”

“You’ve got no right coming here and asking anything of us,” Micky snarled. “We’ve given enough. Can’t you bloody well see that?”

“I know you’ve got no reason to believe me yet, but I want to help you. What’s more, I can help you—if you’ll let me.” She jutted her chin toward the gun. “Gonna need you to put that down first though, huh?”

For a moment, she thought maybe he’d comply, doubt flickering in his eyes and loosening his jaw and his grip. Only for a moment. Then he reset himself.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “You want to talk, you’ll do it while facing this thing. Best shot at getting the truth out of you.”

Wray had dealt with a lot of guns in her life. She didn’t particularly like them, but she wasn’t overly intimidated by them either. It was the wielder that brought the intimidation, and while neither Micky nor Havik would be all that worrisome while unarmed, it was another story under these circumstances. They’d spent nearly forty years hiding one massive secret, and during one brief encounter, Wray had exposed it. She knew there was a lot riding on their ability to keep their secrets. She couldn’t afford to buy into the notion they wouldn’t do all in their power to ensure that happened.

“You want to do this here or inside?” Wray asked.

“What’s wrong with here and now?”

Wray crossed her arms, pivoting so she could achieve a partial view of both Micky and Havik. “I only ask because I’ve been getting tailed all over hell’s half-acre by a bald dude with a bad facial scar.” She met Havik’s eye. “I think he might know you.” She redirected her gaze pointedly to his left hand. “Or a part of you, at any rate.”

Havik was on the pale side to start with, but he managed to lose a shade anyway. His eyes snapped to Micky’s. “Mick.”

Micky nodded once, slowly. “We always knew there was a chance this day would come, mate.” He returned his glare to Wray. “In that case, I think you’d better come inside.”

Thirty-Nine

The inside of Micky's house resembled the outside in terms of upkeep. It was clear that, for quite some time, no one had stepped inside except the two men currently all but breathing down Wray’s neck.

Equally clear was the lack of female attention to the place. Not that all women of Wray’s acquaintance were stellar housekeepers, but she'd rarely visited a house this sloppy in which a woman was present on a regular basis. Massive bachelor pad seemed the best descriptor for the home in which she found herself.

Wray peered at Micky. “I thought you were married.”

“Was once. Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Life happened, love. Stop asking questions. We’re the ones meant to be asking them. What do you know about Barber? Where did you see him last?”

“Rochester. Looking for me—although the only reason I think he was looking for me was because he's looking for you. If I were to guess, I'd say he’s been looking for you for a long time.” Again, her eyes caught Havik’s. “Isn’t that right?”

“Did you lead him here on purpose?” Havik demanded. “Is that what you did?”

“You’re kidding, right? I mean, you've met the guy. What makes you think I'd want anything to do with him?”

They’d made it as far as a large reception room, one overlooking the overgrown front garden. Wray took a moment to peer out the window, seeking out the places she'd so recently snuck through, wondering whether Barber was doing the same thing now.

“That's far enough,” Micky said. He waved the business end of the rifle toward a sofa. “Sit down.”

“You didn’t ask politely.” She sat anyway, not wanting to waste time arguing something so meaningless. Not when there were plenty of meaningful answers so close at hand. “First things first. One of you needs to look me up. You’ll see for yourselves then who I am.”

“Hav,” Micky said. “Go to it.”

Wray held her tongue while Havik pulled out a cheaper-model smartphone—now here was a guy who understood burners, she decided—and tapped away clumsily while squinting at the screen. Less than a minute and his brows crawled up his forehead. “She’s legit. It’s her.”

He turned the phone for Micky to see. Wray had anticipated a moment in which Micky, busy reading, would be open to Wray’s disarming him. Now that it was here, she decided against it. She could gain the upper hand, certainly, but it might prove more a hindrance than a help if she wanted these guys to talk to her. People who resorted to firearms to gain control sometimes were a lot chattier with a weapon granting them added confidence. Anyway, it might become necessary for one of them to use it should Barber come calling.

Having given whatever article Havik found a quick read, Micky spun back toward Wray. “Right. You’d best start explaining how it is you’ve come to be here.”

She did. Starting with her first contact with the police on the matter, she laid out the find on the Rugg property, the involvement of the ambitious TV crew and her recent conversation with Ed Marko. She described her run-ins with Barber. And she provided the horrid details of the visions she’d received during her involvement—all but the more personal parts of what Johnny’s ring had shown her. She’d promised him, after all. She’d hold to that unless she had absolutely no choice.

As she wrapped up what she’d seen at the bus, Havik dropped heavily into a chair. For a moment, his complexion greyed, and Wray worried he was about to either vomit or faint.

“That’s it, mate,” he told Micky. “She’s got it spot on. It’s exactly how it happened.”

“Maybe she was there,” Micky said, his own countenance revealing shock.

“I wasn’t even born yet, dude,” she snapped. “That would take some pretty wacky magic.”

“So maybe you talked to someone who was there. Barber maybe. How are we to know whether you’re telling the truth about him? Maybe you’re working with him.”

Havik’s wide-eyed stare shifted from Micky to Wray. “Are you working with him?”

“Your paranoia is making you nuts,” Wray said. “Under the circumstances, I can’t blame you, but I can one hundred percent guarantee the only thing I’d like to get for Barber is a nice pine box with his name on it. Now, I’ve told you everything. I’d love a little quid pro quo. Where have you been for the past forty years?”

Havik slumped back into his chair, defeated. “It seems you already know most of it. No harm sharing the rest. I’ve been here most of that time, with Micky. Same as it was back when I was a young lad running from my father, Micky took me in, looked after me. I wandered around a while, mind you, before I found my way here. I looked for Barber everywhere. Figured he’d have a huge scar after what Buck did to him, so that would have been a dead giveaway, but I don’t think I’d forget his face regardless. Not after that night. Every bloody moment of it—it’s haunted me ever since.”

“Does Buck have any family? Someone should have a chance to claim his body once the police are done with him.”

“There’s no one,” Havik said. “He had no family that I ever heard of.”

Micky frowned. “That’s not entirely true. There’s Ivy.”

Wray’s mouth popped open. The other woman in the photograph. The one who’d blackmailed Johnny. “Poison Ivy?”

Micky’s lips quirked despite the severity of the situation. “Who called her that?”

“Katherine … Kit. She had nothing good to say about her. After everything I saw in those visions, I can’t blame her. Ivy’s as poisonous a human being as I’ve ever heard of. Someone like her, living off people’s secrets like a weasel draining blood from its prey—she’s the worst kind of person.”

“You got that right.” Micky made his way to the nearest chair. He sat, then went one extra, setting the rifle next to him on the floor. It seemed Wray was winning him over.

“That’s how she got in?” Wray asked. “Through Buck?”

“They didn’t talk much that I ever saw,” Havik said. “I had no idea they were related.”

Micky snorted. “No offence, mate, but you weren’t aware of much back then. To be fair though, I don’t think they spoke much about their relationship. They were at loggerheads half the time. The other half, they ignored each other. If I had a guess, I’d say she had something over him as well.”

“Seems she had something on everyone,” Wray agreed. She eyed Havik. “What about you? There was your mental health you were worried about, I understand⁠—”

“Which I’ve been dealing with,” he cut in.

“It’s true,” Micky said. “Way things are, he can’t just go driving into town to meet with a therapist, but I found an app that gets you sorted with a therapist online. No meetings, not even video if you don’t want it. Does it all by phone. I told him he needed to sort himself or we’d need to come to another arrangement—as in, I’d have shot the daft bugger through the head.”

Havik laughed. “My best mate here.”

“Does she know?” Wray asked. “About all this, I mean?”

“That this dafty’s alive?” Micky said. “No blooming way. That witch is responsible for both Johnny and Rizz, I’m sure of it. No harm saying it now. You seem to know everything else. Rizzo killed a bloke. Was an accident, but he was drunk behind the wheel, so he sped off afterward. Didn’t hang about for police. None of us knew right away. But Ivy did. Guess he poured out his soul to her one night in bed. Next thing, she’s blackmailing him.

“He told us eventually, confessed everything. Thing was all over the news, only without Rizzo’s name obviously. Bloke killed, it turned out, was an escapee from jail. Killed his girlfriend. Police thought he was on his way to kill another. Rizzo should have had an award, but he couldn’t get past what he’d done—not with Ivy hissing in his ear, any road. He said he was going to the police about it, that he was tired of paying her when he already felt so damn guilty. He topped himself instead. OD’d—on purpose, I’d say. He knew his limits, that one. He was loaded to the gills when they checked his blood.”

“I’ve never been convinced,” Havik said.

Micky rolled his eyes. “He thinks Ivy did something. Maybe she did, but who’s to say now?”

“Suppose she could tell us,” Wray suggested.

Micky and Havik exchanged a look so brief, Wray thought she might have imagined it. But she hadn’t and she knew it.

“She can’t tell us anything anymore, can she?” Wray said.

Micky narrowed his eyes into a light glare. “What are you getting at?”

“When you said Ivy doesn’t know about Havik being alive, that’s not entirely true, is it? She did know. She’s just not in a position to say anything. Not anymore.”

“Is that your psychic bit telling you that?”

“I’m a student of humanity, dude. I can see it in your face. Tell you what else I see: two guys who were backed into a corner so dark and so deep they ran out of ways to get out of it. Ivy destroyed your bandmates—your brothers for all intents and purposes. Whether or not she jabbed the needle into Rizzo, she’s guilty of causing his death. And she drove Johnny to suicide as well. Believe me, if I’m asked to pick sides here, I’m picking yours. Where is she?”

Micky folded his arms and sat back, expression going cold and rigid. “Dunno. How would we?”

Wray was certain they knew exactly where she was. In fact, she was certain they’d put her there. Find the right object, she’d see everything, but for now, her intuition was providing all the answers she needed. Maybe the same thing had happened with Ivy as had happened with Wray: she’d turned up unexpectedly on the property and had seen something she shouldn’t have.

Of course, if Ivy was dead because of what she’d uncovered, how safe was Wray?

She decided not to pursue it. Not yet.

“Must be hard,” she said. “Two of you stuck out here, especially after everything you’ve experienced in life. You travelled the world, had all the perks that came with fame and fortune. Doesn’t this life get to you?”

Micky’s face softened, a wistful gaze sliding into his eyes. “Yeah, there are moments. There was a time we meant something to people. Now, as you say, we’re stuck here, forgotten, lost in time and space. Left to rot in our own memories. Fame and fortune, though, they’re not real, are they? One moment you’re so high you can’t see the ground, the next you’re falling so fast you couldn’t stop yourself if you tried. These days, all Havik and I have got is each other. We’re a sad lot, sure, but we survived, I suppose. And we’ve done it the way we started out: together. In the end, that’s where the true meaning in all this is. The two of us backed each other when everyone else around us either wouldn’t or couldn’t. That’s what life comes down to. You find someone like that—a mate, a lover, whatever—you hold onto them for dear life. In the end, that’s the only security you’ve truly got.”

Wray stared at him—not because something so profound had come out of the mouth of a former frontman for a hard rock group but because she’d recognized herself in the statement.

In spending the past couple of days with the TV people, she’d found herself wavering between an outright no to the life they offered her and thinking about all the good things that could happen if she said yes. At one time, she’d had all the great stuff that came with a successful show. But fame was fleeting, dependent on viewer and advertiser appetites and budget constraints. Get too big, the public liked nothing more than to see you made smaller again. And as safe as you thought you were with cashflow, a crook like Carter could change everything in a literal heartbeat.

Micky was right. In the end, all you had were the people who meant the most to you, who stood at your back when everyone else turned away. In many ways, Wray had led a cursed life; she needed to get better at recognizing and caring for her blessings. Emily. Gus. Sully and Dez.

Mars.

“Who the hell is this now?”

At Havik’s question, Wray’s attention swivelled to the window he was looking out. She expected Barber. She didn’t know whether she should be relieved or sickened by the fact it wasn’t.

“Godammit,” Wray grumbled as she stood for a better look. Yep, no question.

Carter.

“It’s okay,” she told Havik and Micky. “More or less anyway. That’s my loser of an ex-husband.”

“What’s he doing here?” Micky asked.

“No idea. Bet your ass I’ll find out though.”

“Micky.” Dread coloured the one word from Havik, so much so Wray felt the need to ease it as much as she could.

“I won’t tell him you’re here,” she told Havik. “I don’t trust that prick either.”

Havik caught her arm. “He can’t find out, you hear me? No one can ever know. Those men, they’ll find me. They’ll kill me. Micky too. I can’t let that happen.”

Wray turned fully toward him, holding his eye. “No one’s going to get you while I’m still alive, all right? I won’t let it happen.”

“Barber—”

“Is toast. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Big talk for a former TV personality,” Micky said.

“I had a life before that.” She didn’t often share, but she did now, lifting her shirt sufficiently to reveal a pair of long-healed bullet wounds along the side of her abdomen. “I did time in the sandpit.” It was all she said about it, all she felt safe to share.

It was enough, bringing a grin to Micky’s face. “Wondered why you didn’t buckle while I was aiming the rifle at you.”

“Now you know.” She peered back out the window. Carter was cutting a brisk path down the weed-littered driveway, making his way for the house. At least he hadn’t brought the antiques crew with him.

“I’ll deal with this,” Wray said.

She patted Havik on the arm and made for the front door. Shutting it behind her, she charged forward, bringing Carter up short as he spotted her.

“How the hell did you find this place, Carter?” Wray snapped as she closed the remaining distance to him.

“Calm d—sorry. Didn’t mean that.”

“How?”

“This is Micky Deuce’s, is it?”

Wray seized his shirt front, shaking him once forcefully. “How?”

He held up his hands in a show of peace. “Oy! Let go and I’ll tell you.”

She reluctantly did so, crossing her arms and waiting on whatever explanation he had to provide.

“Right, well, I wouldn’t be here ordinarily, would I? Except apparently, you’ve got a bloke back home who thinks the sun rises and sets where you’re concerned.”

God, Mars. What did he do? “He called you?”

“He’s spooked over something. Told me I’d better make sure you’ve got someone at your back. Or else. That’s how he put it—‘or else.’ He think he’s Liam Neeson or something?”

Wray would be having words with Mars once she got back. The very idea he’d send her ex to find her made her want to smack him. Hard.

“Look, before you get all pissed at him, he thought you were with me,” Carter said. “He couldn’t get you, so he tracked me down through my website. My number’s not hard to find.”

Of course it wasn’t. Carter wouldn’t want to miss out on any opportunity that might come along. It was, after all, how the Lewisons had found him.

“Okay, that tells me how you ended up in Rochester,” Wray said. “Now how’d you find this place?”

This was important. If Carter could find his way here, so too, presumably, could Barber.

“Darnedest thing, that,” he said. “I’d just got out at the train station, and I got into a taxi. The driver told me he’d just driven you somewhere. Thought we must be setting up for a show. I didn’t correct him, just told him to take me where he’d taken you.”

“Was there a bald guy anywhere nearby? He’d be noticeable. He has a big scar down the left side of his face.”

“Didn’t see anyone like that.”

This might be good news or it might not. Hopefully, Barber hadn’t seen Carter getting into the cab, but it was just as likely Carter hadn’t been paying attention.

Which reminded her, he hadn’t been on his own when she’d run off.

“Rich and Ruby? Where’d you ditch them?” She craned her neck dramatically. “Or are they here somewhere, hiding in the bushes?”

“As you said first, I ditched them. They’re a right pain in the arse, aren’t they?”

“Weren’t giving you the screen time you wanted, huh?”

Carter scowled. “Look, hun, I came all the way here to make sure you were safe.”

Wray gave a snort. “You came all the way here for yourself, Carter. You wanted to see if I found Micky Deuce.”

He didn’t bother arguing. “Did you?”

“Piss off.”

He cast her his most cloying smile, the one that always made Wray want to smack it off his face. “Come on. Did you?”

She was about to forcibly turn him back onto the path he’d just walked down, intending to send him back toward the gate—by force if need be—when her eye caught movement near the gate. Not much, but enough.

A flash of a bald head.

Oh hell.

“Were you followed?” Wray asked Carter.

“Pardon?”

“From the train station. Any other cabs behind you. Were you followed?”

“You think the man you chased back in London came here?”

Wray grabbed his shoulder. “He did come here, you idiot. He followed me to Rochester. I managed to lose him before coming here. Now you’ve led him right to us.”

Carter’s eyes flashed wide. “He’s here?”

Wray tugged him by the arm, dragging him alongside her. Micky and Havik wouldn’t be happy to welcome him inside, but at this point, she had bigger fish to fry.

One fish in particular.

“He’s here,” she said. “And he’s going to try to kill us if I don’t do something to stop him.”

Forty

The true reason behind Barber’s coming to England fully dawned on Wray as she pulled Carter into the house and locked the door behind them. She’d made the mistake of assuming he’d come here on someone else’s dime, that he’d been hired to take out Rich Lewison or Micky Deuce.

She hadn’t considered the reality that had just dawned on her—Barber was here on his own dime. And now she knew the true target: Havik. Barber was the only living person in the world who knew Havik had survived that night. And Havik was the only living person in the world who could identify Barber as Buck’s killer.

The drummer was one huge loose end, and Barber had probably spent decades watching and wondering, hoping news would filter down to him of a Havik sighting so he could finish the job he’d started. Maybe the intention back then had been merely to take a finger as payment, but things had changed. For whatever reason, Barber had killed a man, and even people as coldblooded as he was feared losing his freedom. The amount of time he’d be looking at behind bars could easily amount to a death sentence at his age. He had nothing to lose by coming here and everything to gain.

Not good. Not good at all.

“Guys!” she called out from the entry hall. “We have a problem!”

Micky appeared in the doorway to the reception room.

Carter’s mouth popped open. “Bleeding hell, you’re Micky Deuce!”

“That’s what they tell me.” Micky’s unimpressed gaze shifted to Wray. “What’s the problem?”

“Barber. He’s here.”

Micky’s turn to wear the shocked expression. “What? How?”

“I think he must have followed Carter. I’m sorry. Neither of them should be here.”

“No fucking kidding.” Micky ran hands through a wild grey mullet. “Fuck’s sake.”

With Micky appearing three seconds from falling apart, Wray could only imagine what Havik was going through. She didn’t have long to wait. He appeared next to Micky, eyes wide, hands grasping at his friend’s shirt.

“Mick?”

“Give me a minute,” Micky said.

A minute they might not have.

Carter touched Wray’s arm. “My God, that’s—no, it can’t be.”

“Not now, Carter.” Ignoring him, she took a few steps nearer Micky and Havik. “Do you have a place somewhere in the house that’s safe? Somewhere you can lock yourselves in?”

The pair exchanged a look. Fleeting panic drifted between them. If Wray were to guess, she’d say she was very close to discovering where Ivy had ended up, but this wasn’t the time for that either.

“We do,” Micky said.

“Where?”

“Wine cellar. There’s a hidden room behind one of the racks. On the far left from where you come in.”

“Any other ways in or out of the cellar?”

Micky shook his head. “Just the one. Stairs toward the back of the house, just opposite the door to the conservatory. There’s a short hall there, bathroom one side, door to the cellar on the other.”

“What about windows?”

“None.”

“Do you have any other weapons? Guns? Knives?”

Havik’s eyes lit up. “Micky’s got a machete and a sword. They’re mounted in the library.”

“Usable?”

“In a pinch,” Micky said.

“Go get them,” Wray said. “Then get yourselves to the cellar. If Barber finds you, be prepared to use those blades, you get me? I’m going to need the gun.”

Nods from Micky and Havik.

“Oh, and take Carter with you,” Wray added.

Carter shifted onto his other foot. “I should stay and help,” he said. But the words were empty, overshadowed by fear.

“Go with them,” Wray said. “You’re a liability I don’t need.”

He nodded—too quickly. “Right then. Fair enough. If it’s what you think is best.”

“I do.” She eyed the rifle, still resting next to the chair Micky had sat in. “Is it loaded?”

“Yes. Pointless for it not to be.”

“Havik, get the blades. Micky, quick word.” While Havik scurried off, Wray crossed the room, picking up the firearm. A zap of energy struck her; this thing was loaded with more than lead. She didn’t have time to read it. Not yet.

As she’d suspected, it was a twenty-two calibre—a peashooter next to some of the weapons she’d handled. Single-shot, no magazine.

Crap.

“You take care of this thing? Clean it regularly?” she asked Micky.

“Fairly regularly. I target shoot time to time.”

Wray nodded. “Got extra ammo somewhere?”

“Front hall, top shelf of the bureau.”

Carter eyed the gun. He wasn’t a firearms expert by any stretch of the imagination, but Wray had taught him a few things back in the day. “That’s a twenty-two, yeah? Not going to do much good against the bloke you’re dealing with.”

“It’ll do the job,” Micky spoke up quickly. Too quickly.

“All I’ve got to do is stop him,” Wray said. “I can do it with this. Just get yourselves somewhere safe.”

Havik was back, sizeable-looking weapons in hand. He tugged at Micky’s arm with his free hand. “Come on, mate.”

Micky eyed Wray. “Feel like a right nance, leaving you to do this alone.”

Wray gave him her most confident grin. “Hey, you guys spent years on stage in the spotlight. This shit right here?—this is where I shine.”

Micky returned her smile. Then he gave in to Havik’s tugs and followed.

Carter caught Wray’s eye. “Wray, if⁠—”

“Get out of here, Carter. Now.” She lifted the gun. “Before I test this bitch out on you.”

Carter went.

Wray listened to their footsteps dying away on the hardwood floors. Headed toward the back of the house.

She didn’t waste time, dashing for the bureau in the front hall. Yanking the doors open, she rifled through a pile of hats and scarves until she found what she was after.

This had to be the smallest box of twenty-two shot she’d ever seen. She knew firearms weren’t common in the UK, but this was ridiculous.

“Six rounds,” she noted, peering into the partially empty box. “As long as he’s right about one in the chamber.”

Wray checked, cracking the weapon open to see. Yes, it was loaded, the round as shiny as the ones remaining in the box. Ordinarily, she would have preferred to test fire the weapon, checking the sites, making sure it fired smoothly. But she couldn’t afford to waste the round.

She settled for checking the barrel, positioning it so the nearest light was visible down the bore. It appeared clear enough. Micky had said he took care of cleaning it, and it didn’t have visible signs of corrosion or build-up. She took it as a good sign. It would have to be enough.

Wray poured the remaining rounds into the right pocket of her jacket, ensuring as she did there were no holes. All good there. She’d have ready access to the rounds and knew she could reload fairly smoothly. But even that would require between five and ten seconds at best—assuming nothing jammed and her hands weren’t shaking. She couldn’t rule anything out.

Gun ready and she herself as ready as she could be, Wray turned off the lights in the front hall and the front reception room. The sun was setting fast, dipping abruptly behind the trees. Had Barber turned up now instead of a few minutes ago, Wray fully expected he would have gone unseen.

But he hadn’t, and she was ready for him. As ready as she could be.

She did a rapid walkthrough, checking doors were locked and windows shut on the main floor. No time to check the windows or balcony doors on the upper floor, so she’d have to hope for the best while preparing for the worst.

Were this a mission in the old days, she might have gone full commando, making her way outside, using the shadows and trees as cover. But she also would have had a night optic device and heat-sensing equipment and a rifle she could trust to fire further than fifty yards—plus one she didn’t have to reload after every round fired. Even with appropriate kit, a crack team behind her and a solid plan, her priority wasn’t merely taking down a bad guy. It was protecting the people downstairs.

That meant she’d need to stay close, keep a watch on the sole entry point.

As much as she wanted to scan the darkening world out the windows for signs of life, she forced herself back through the house, gun at the ready. She found the spot quickly enough, the short hallway opposite the glass conservatory doors. She opened the door to the cellar first, noting it was incapable of being locked. She hadn’t asked what sort of mechanism operated the hidden door in the wine cellar, but she hoped it either locked from the inside or was so well concealed no one would find it.

Closing the cellar door, she opened the one across the hall. Standard pantry, not very full. Certainly no place to conceal herself. Darkness and a partially closed door would have to suffice.

Positioning herself inside without turning on a light, Wray eased the door most of the way shut. Then she hunkered down, ensured the rifle’s safety was off and steadied her breathing and her nerves.

And waited.

Forty-One

Alone in the pantry with the rifle, its energy had nowhere to go but to her.

She had no choice but to hold onto the gun, but holding onto it was proving difficult. She couldn’t afford to let this overwhelm her.

In truth, she wanted to read it, to learn more of Alban Ezra’s well-guarded secrets. Johnny was nearby, drifting restlessly as if he, too, anticipated a battle. It didn’t help Wray. None of this was helping her.

But sometimes in reading an object, in allowing it to share its memories with her, she could quiet it a little. This seemed the time to try.

She waited until Johnny reappeared to her. “Don’t let me stay under long.” Whether he could do anything about it one way or another, she had no idea. Fingers crossed.

Hoping she had a moment to spare—and that the ghost could pull her out if she didn’t—she slipped into the waiting vision.

Ivy.

Facing Micky inside his house, pretty face rendered ugly by the inhumanly cold expression she wore.

“I don’t care what you say. I know he’s alive. And I know he’s here. I saw him. I saw him leave and return.” A chilly smile wormed across her face. “Of course, I’m happy to keep this quiet if you’ll give me reason to do so.”

“You bitch.” Micky, already holding the rifle, hefted it to a more businesslike position. “I won’t let you destroy anyone else.”

“Anyone else? Like who, precisely?”

“Johnny for a start. Rizzo. You as good as killed them. I know Rizzo told you about the accident. And Johnny—there were things you knew about him too. You knew he swung both ways.”

“You knew?”

“Course we knew. We didn’t care.”

“You didn’t know the rest though. I didn’t tell.”

“Rest of what?”

She had the nerve to grin. “That he got HIV from someone he shagged—or who shagged him. Doesn’t matter now, does it?”

Fury built inside Micky. “You used it against him? You said you’d share his illness unless he paid you up, right?”

She studied perfectly manicured fingernails. “Something like that.” Her eyes flashed back up to his. “A girl’s got to make a living, right? And you owed it to me. You all did. Buck was my ride, the one who took care of me all my life. Havik wasn’t paying his bills; Buck told me. And it was Buck who paid the price for it. He’s dead; I know he is. I feel it in my bones. And it’s down to Havik. It’s down to all of you.”

“Buck was a dealer. He kept the boys fed. Hell, even me before I got clean. He walked in a dangerous world, Ivy. He paid his own price. Havik did too.”

“Not enough,” she said. “Not nearly enough.”

“So I’m to pay you to keep quiet about Havik supposedly being alive?”

“You can, or he can. No difference to me. Only, I suspect he’s not in a position to pay, is he? Can’t collect royalties or access a bank account in his state. So that leaves you. He’s your best mate. I know you’ll take care of him.”

Havik. Johnny. Rizzo. Three lives ruined. Micky’s own, too, come to that. For close to twenty years now, Havik had been sheltering with him, a miserable and frail wraith of a man. Micky had watched it all happen. Watched it all and done nothing.

No more. Ivy couldn’t be allowed to expose Havik, opening him up to even more danger. The man who’d taken his finger, who’d killed Buck, he was still out there somewhere. After years of listening to Havik’s screaming nightmares, Micky had learned to fear Barber almost as much as his friend did.

No, this had to end here. Today. Ivy had no one—no friends, no family. She didn’t even hold a job. Didn’t need to, making bank on others’ painful secrets. No one would miss her. No one would even come looking. It would be just the same as it had been with Buck.

As he aimed and squeezed the trigger, she had just enough time to recognize the shite pile she’d stepped into.

Wray’s eyes fired open. Back in the pantry, holding the gun that had forever silenced Ivy. Johnny hovered next to her, watching. Something in his eyes was questioning—not, she guessed, about what she’d seen. Rather about what she intended to do with it.

“It’s okay,” she told him. “More secrets that are safe with me. As long as no one searches the room in the wine cellar, I suppose Micky’s got nothing to worry about.”

Maybe she was doing the wrong thing, deciding not to turn Micky in. She didn’t think so. Too often, bad people got away with bad things. Once in a while, a little instant karma was both useful and necessary to let the good prevail.

The energy attached to the gun seemed lighter now, as if it sensed she was onside. Good, because soon enough, she knew she’d be needing it.

Somewhere within the house, a grandfather clock chimed the hour. Eleven nerve-racking bells.

She’d been crouched in the pantry for close to two hours now, waiting and wondering. No sign of Barber, no sight, no sound, no sense of him anywhere nearby. Had she not seen him with her own eyes, she’d think she was being paranoid.

There had been moments, admittedly, in which she’d doubted herself, had caught herself asking whether she had in fact seen what she thought she had. Every time, she’d ignored the voice, opting to side with the one that had kept her alive multiple times. If Barber were smart—and he clearly was—he’d be doing just as Wray was now: watching and waiting. He’d be out there now, studying the blank windows, watching for movement. Maybe he’d purchased his own equipment, was even now watching her heat signature as she sat here, alert and uncertain.

She rolled her shoulders, easing out tension. She’d never been good at the waiting game, but it had been an intrinsic part of many plans. A solid raid depended on timing, watching for the anticipated opening and setting yourself up in advance so you’d be ready to move once it came. No, she hated the wait, but she sure as hell could do it like an ace.

She’d checked her cellphone several times over the past couple of hours, and had sent a couple of messages in turn, letting Carter know to stay put. She’d noted a couple of texts from Rich and Ruby, but she’d ignored them. Nothing from Mars; he knew better.

Another half-hour, the grandfather clock letting her know. Still no sign of Barber. He’d be out there somewhere, waiting for her to make the first move.

Not happening.

Then came the text she couldn’t ignore.

Rich. We’re set up outside Micky’s. Where are u?

Wray stared at her phone. While she’d settled her heart rate early on and managed to maintain it at a healthy tick, the text caused a nasty spike.

She fired off a quick reply. What u doing here?

The reply was pathetically predictable. Carter told us where to come.

Wray gnashed her teeth. Goddamn that moron.

She texted back. Stay away. Dangerous. Then, thinking better of it: VERY DANGEROUS.

No response from Rich, so she sent the same message to Ruby. No response from her either. Another pair of morons.

Morons who might be well on the way to getting themselves killed.

Wray debated what to do now with two groups of people to protect. She could leave the house, relying on the hidden room to keep its occupants concealed and safe. But in leaving, she’d expose her whereabouts to Barber—as well as advertise loud and clear the others were without her protection.

But if she didn’t go, it could spell the end for three other people. As annoying as they were, they didn’t deserve the sort of death Barber would give them. Maybe Wray could prevent it.

Only one option was available to her that she could see: calling nine-nine-nine and getting the police here. Until now, she hadn’t entertained the notion, both wanting to preserve Havik’s secret existence and knowing tonight was likely to end with her killing a man. Plus, she couldn’t rule out the possibility of Barber targeting a police officer. Wray didn’t want an officer injury or death on her conscience when she knew she stood a solid chance of handling this herself.

Except Carter had taken it out of her hands—him and those three TV yahoos outside.

Nothing for it. Wray made the call.

She provided the address to the call-taker, then rambled through the explanation. “There’s an armed man outside, the one responsible for a stabbing in a Kensington-area park today. He’s trying to kill us. Please note, there’s a gun in play, so send your firearms unit.”

She disconnected and prepared to power down her phone. She didn’t want anyone ringing back nor her GPS being tracked should the fight lead off these grounds. If she had a chance at ending this, she would. Better the police weren’t watching when she did.

Wray had started to press the power button when her phone showed an incoming call on the screen. Ruby’s number. A good opportunity, she thought, to tune her in.

Wray clicked to talk. “Ruby, you are all in major fucking trouble when I get hold of you.”

“She’s already there, baby.”

Wray knew that voice. She’d heard it only once—in the park today.

“Where’s Ruby?” she asked Barber.

“With me. They all are, actually. Camera guy’s a little worse for wear. Tried to play the hero for the little woman here. You want to give your own version of heroics a shot, come find me. We’re by the house in the woods.”

With that, he disconnected.

Forty-Two

It felt like a long way to the trees’ edge, barely visible in the moonlight.

Wray sprinted over, zigzagging as she went. No telling where Barber was situated. He’d said to come to the small house, but he could just as easily be concealed elsewhere, watching the show.

With no key to use, Wray had been forced to leave the conservatory doors unlocked. There was a chance this was the opportunity Barber had created, getting his strongest adversary out of the way so he could make a run at his target. Wray was banking on the likelihood he had his hands full with the TV crew, leaving him stuck with them for the time being.

No sound of sirens yet. Wray wasn’t sure where the nearest station was, but she knew enough to be able to say it would take longer to dispatch an armed unit. They’d need to go in, get kitted up and make the drive out. Maybe they had a unit in Rochester. Maybe they needed to come all the way from London. She wasn’t sure, but she was sure she couldn’t wait for them.

She reached the dark shelter of trees, ducking down as soon as she got there and pausing, gun at the ready while she listened. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her breathing was coming in too fast and shallow. She’d need to slow it down before she went further.

She focused on doing so as she continued to listen. No sounds save the light breeze rustling the leaves. Not even noise from nearby traffic; she supposed the rural location combined with the wall of trees prevented that.

Wray slid through the brush, timing any larger or faster movements to coincide with the occasional heavier breezes that blew through the property. Staying low, she kept her eyes peeled for movement ahead.

She didn’t see anything, but before long she heard voices.

“Let her go.”

A reply too quiet to make out.

The same voice as before: “Please. And our friend needs help. He’s hurt.” Definitely Rich’s voice. It was clear Ruby was indeed being held by Barber.

Wray couldn’t hear a reply, but she didn’t need it. Barber wasn’t the sort to let anyone go. After all, he’d pursued one man for nearly forty years.

No, he wouldn’t let Ruby go, nor the injured Sid. Not until Wray made him.

She forced herself to move more slowly though all her natural instincts urged her on faster. Instinct was one thing, training another. Move too fast, you missed stuff. Missing stuff got you or those around you killed.

Down lower, breath all but held. She moved foot over foot, setting each step carefully, keeping her boots low to the ground. A wind came up, setting the branches to waving. She moved faster.

A light ahead, a bright one. At first Wray thought it must be the on-board light from the main camera, but as she drew closer, she could see it was alongside the small house. Motion sensor activated, she imagined. Possibly how Barber had discovered the crew in the first place.

She could see them now. Barber stood beneath the light, Ruby held back against him in much the same way as the woman in the park. Ruby was crying, the tip of Barber’s knife pressed so hard into the side of her neck Wray could see the blood trickling from here.

Rich stood a couple of yards away, hands raised like a bad guy in a cowboy flick. Wray couldn’t see Sid from here, but she didn’t have a sightline to the ground. Probably that’s where he was.

Wray raised the rifle, peering down the sights. Yes, she had a good shot from here, Ruby a full head shorter than Barber. Wray was solid with a gun, boasting excellent scores whenever she’d had to test. She could handle damn near any gun they stuck in her hands those days.

This gun, though, she didn’t know. With a weapon she’d test-fired and had time to properly inspect, she’d feel confident in hitting Barber square between the eyes. But although she’d checked the gun over and believed it capable of a clean shot, belief wasn’t enough. Just a little build-up in the barrel, some crud in the action, and the bullet’s course might be impacted—maybe enough to hit Ruby. Hell, damned thing might even backfire and she’d take herself out. She’d risk the latter, but no way she could risk the former.

Only solution was to get closer, close the range. Less chance of the trajectory being messed up if the bullet didn’t have as far to go.

Wray timed her next approach with the wind, making it another few yards.

“Come on out here, baby,” Barber called out. “Little lady here would like to see you.”

Well, that took care of that. How he knew she was there, she didn’t know. Maybe the asshole was psychic too.

Didn’t matter. This, after all, was what Wray intended.

She stood, weaving a path through the woods, letting the occasional branch scrape her skin so she could keep both hands on the gun. She let herself seep into his view, bleeding from the shadows a bit at a time, making sure he saw every inch of the gun’s barrel first.

Barber tensed and shifted, but he settled back in a moment later. If he wasn’t truly confident, he was doing a damn good job of going through the motions.

“What you planning on doing with that?” he demanded.

Wray smirked. She could give confident too. “Interpretive dance.”

He laughed. “Funny.”

“Let her go,” Wray said. “This is between you and me.”

“Nope. It’s between me and Havik. Where is he? I know he’s here.”

“Havik’s dead. Has been a long time. You won’t find him here.”

“Bullshit. It’s why you’re here. It’s the only place he’d come in the end—back to his old buddy, Micky Deuce. That’s what this place is, right? Micky’s?”

Wray refused to confirm anything of the sort. “If Havik’s alive, he’s gone almost forty years without ratting you out. Why kill him now?”

“Cops have the bus, which means they probably have the piece of him he left behind. Back then, there wasn’t a big risk. DNA wasn’t a thing. I can’t afford to let it be a thing now.”

Wray nodded. “Right. You lost a lot of blood on that bus. You left a lot of yourself behind too. You might be able to lie and say you were a victim, that Creed was solely responsible for everything that went down. But you can’t do that if Havik’s alive and comes forward to tell what really happened.”

“How the hell do you know about Creed?”

“I know a lot of things. Like I said, your issue’s with me, not these people. Let them walk.”

“Fuck that. Put down the gun or I cut her.” He pressed harder, drawing both a squeal and more blood from Ruby.

“God, stop it!” Rich yelled.

“Shut up, Rich,” Wray muttered. Then to Barber, “I’m not putting down the gun so get that out of your head. You’ll cut her anyway. I’ve seen you in action.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Me neither. Ease up with that knife or I’ll put one between your eyes.”

Barber seemed to notice he wasn’t in a great position. He did as Wray demanded, hunching lower as he eased up a little on Ruby. Still not low enough to prevent a headshot, but then the rifle still wasn’t reliable enough to guarantee a headshot.

Stalemate.

Keep him talking, Wray told herself. Just until the police arrive.

“If you’re so worried about Havik talking, why not just kill him back then? Why give him the chance to get away? There were two of you against him, holding him down, and you’d already taken Buck out.”

“How the fuck do you know this?”

“She’s a psychic,” Rich offered. “Like verifiable.”

“No such thing.”

Wray lifted a brow over the sights. “How do you think I found this place, Barber? I didn’t look Micky up in the phonebook. He’s basically a ghost. My question’s the same: why not kill Havik back then? Why let him get away?”

Barber scowled. “I wanted to finish him that night. Creed wouldn’t allow it. Back then, I was making too much from him to argue the point.”

“But that changed.”

Barber’s perpetual sneer twitched. “It changed. Problem people like him face—they only stay at the top until someone badder comes along to take their place.”

“Someone like Kenton Barwell?”

“Among others. Barwell wasn’t a big deal back when Creed fell, mind you. There have been others. Always have. Power waxes and wanes. One mistake, the next asshole comes in to fill those shoes.”

“Not for you though.”

“There’s always need for people like me. Someone has to ensure order in a disordered world. And when it’s time for the headpin to fall, I’m the ball they send at him. Plenty don’t like to get their hands dirty. I don’t mind. It’s not personal. It’s business. And I run my business well.”

“Where’s Creed now?”

Barber’s cold grin widened, flashing teeth. “Don’t know if I believe in anything after this world. He died praying to his God. If you believe in one, best you start praying too.”

Something in his eyes changed. Wray saw it almost too late as Barber shifted the knife toward the spot where Ruby’s jugular flowed.

Risks had changed. Wray took the shot.

As feared, the shot went down and left. Maybe there was a God since Ruby twisted in that second, turning Barber with her. The bullet punched into his shoulder, causing him to start and release Ruby. It might not incapacitate him, but it would hurt like a bitch—hopefully enough to throw him off his game.

“Run!” Wray yelled to Ruby and Rich. “Run!”

Rich ran. Ruby did too, but only far enough to gain Sid’s side. Wray could see him now, curled on his side on the ground. While she couldn’t see his injury, she suspected it wasn’t good based on the way he was breathing and moaning.

Wray would need to reload, but she didn’t have time. Barber still had hold of the knife, and he merely shifted it from one hand to the other. Great, Wray thought, the psychopath’s probably ambidextrous to boot.

Hoping he wouldn’t be able to tell this was a one-shot weapon, Wray kept her sights trained on him. “Drop it, Barber. Now. This is over.”

Sirens. Finally. They sounded far off, but they were closing in.

And judging by the look on Barber’s face, he knew they were coming for him. Wounded and threatened, he remained plenty dangerous.

Again Wray debated reloading, but the idea seemed as impossible now as seconds ago. Anyway, if she could convince him a round or more remained in the gun, it might be enough.

“They won’t take me,” he said. “No one ever does.”

“Correction: no one ever did. Your winning streak ends tonight.”

His sneer broadened. “What are you planning to do with an unloaded gun?” He jutted his chin toward it. “No mag. You used up your one shot.”

So much for that. Wray mirrored his expression. “Don’t need a bullet to use this gun against you.”

A blend of curiosity and worry crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it had come. “You want to dance, baby cakes? Let’s dance.”

He moved first, lunging with the knife. Wray deflected the initial strike using the rifle, then jabbed the barrel end into his midsection, sending Barber backward a couple of steps. She didn’t give him time to recover, moving in, launching a sidekick at his midsection.

Despite the wound that had to be paining him, Barber danced away, avoiding the majority of the kick. As he did, he slashed down, catching Wray’s calf with the blade.

Pain blossomed along with the blood, but there was no time to allow it to take over. Wray struck out again with the gun, using it like a baseball bat and catching Barber in the jaw. The blow landed solidly and he staggered backward.

Staggered but didn’t fall. Damn, this guy was good.

Wray limped backward, giving herself a little space. Space was key, allowing her to regroup and placing her out of immediate strike range. It had occurred to her before that Barber might himself be military trained; now she was certain of it. He wasn’t sloppy like most street brawlers, nor cocky like some pro boxers Wray had encountered. He recognized the strength of his opponent and that he’d need to work around his own injury.

And he’d recognize, too, that he’d need to take advantage of hers.

Warm blood trailed down into Wray’s boot. Damn, it hurt.

No time.

He came at her again. She sidestepped his blow, relying on her strong leg to pivot. As she did, she jabbed with the gun, then swung it around to catch him along the back of the shoulders. She couldn’t make out an exit wound in all this movement, but either way, the blow should hurt.

He buckled but stayed upright. As she tried to maneuver around her bad leg, Barber wheeled, lashing out again. This time, the knife slashed her midsection.

How deep had it gone? No idea. No way to check. Good news, she supposed, her entrails weren’t hanging out.

Shock maybe, or it could have been the adrenaline. Either way, the pain wasn’t as bad now as it should have been. She moved, ignoring her cut leg as she smashed his right arm with the barrel, just below the bullet wound. He cried out, but still he didn’t drop.

His pained shriek shifted to a war cry, and he lunged. Wray tried to shift backward, but her badly bleeding leg betrayed her, and she went down hard under him.

The knife came down twice, catching her in the arm, in the shoulder. He was getting close to an artery.

Her vision pinholed in on him. All else faded. She saw his knife hand coming down at her as if in slow motion, and she got her right arm up, deflecting. Her left now, pinning the arm and twisting.

She kept twisting while he howled, wrenched at his elbow until she heard a pop. The knife came free, landed somewhere out of her sight.

She lifted her hips, bucking him off, but he didn’t go far. He scrambled to his feet but moved in again just as quickly. He slammed his boot down against her midsection, once, twice, three times. She heard a crack and felt something shift in her ribcage. She rolled onto her side to protect her ribs and wounded belly, eyes open in a frantic visual search for the dropped knife. He moved in again, kicking her head this time. After three kicks, her vision started to swim, stars flashing and obscuring her sight. The knife could have been right in front of her, but she wouldn’t have known it.

She needed something, anything—a distraction, a lightning strike, an evil clown. Whatever. Just something to get this guy to stop long enough she could roll away and achieve some needed distance.

Miracles could happen. A bright light snapped on from somewhere to the side, shining in their direction—shining, Wray noted, directly in Barber’s face. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes, but it was too late.

Wray was moving. The light had done double duty, illuminating the blood-covered knife in the grass a few short feet away. Wray rolled, grabbing hold of it. It was slick with blood—her own, no doubt—but she held on as she rolled away with it.

Barber followed, but she kicked up at him, catching him in the knee. He grunted and stumbled but came at her again. She sliced out, putting a gash in his leg.

He lunged again. She kicked out again. This time, he did fall forward, onto her.

And stopped moving.

He gasped, eyes round as they stared back into hers. His breath came out in shallow puffs. It smelled of vinegar. If Wray lived through this, she’d have a hard time using vinegar again.

The light remained on them, enough she could see his eyes as he blinked heavily. She’d watched people die before, more often than she cared to think about. Barber was dying.

She gave him a shove, rolling him off her. This time, he didn’t get up.

The knife he’d used against her—against God knew how many others—was buried hilt deep in his chest, blade having shifted just enough to penetrate the gap between ribs. Wray knew exactly where the heart was. Inadvertently, she’d found his.

Yes, miracles could happen.

“Wray!” Ruby’s voice coming from somewhere behind the light. It was at that moment Wray realized what had happened. The crew had a camera set up close by; Ruby had switched on the on-board light, aiming it to blind Barber. “Wray, talk to me! Are you okay? Please be okay!”

Wray turned her head. She couldn’t see Ruby and Sid past the light, but she knew they were there. As Barber exhaled one last jagged breath, Wray knew they were finally safe.

The sirens had stopped. The police were here somewhere.

“Thank you, Ruby,” Wray said. “Go. Get help.”

It was the only thing she had the strength to say before darkness descended and consciousness faded.

Forty-Three

Awareness came with pain, though not nearly as much as she suspected she should be feeling. She’d been well-educated in pain, and while she only half-remembered the words of her doctor—something about numerous stitches, a cracked rib or two and a concussion—she recalled enough to know she’d be feeling pretty wretched for some time to come.

Didn’t help her any when, upon opening her eyes, she found Carter sitting in a chair near her bed. That Callen was here too helped a little, but only just.

Callen’s eyes lit up as she lifted her head and found Wray looking back at her. “Wray! How are you feeling?”

“Death warmed over comes to mind.” She cast a glance at Carter before returning her gaze to Callen. She assumed her unspoken point was clear enough.

Callen gave an apologetic smile. “Couldn’t avoid it. He insisted.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, forcing her attention fully in his direction.

Wray’s stomach rolled, and for a moment she worried she’d be sick. She could blame the concussion or Carter—either was a distinct possibility as a cause.

“Fine,” she said once she’d swallowed a few times.

“Doctor tells us you’ll recover,” he said. “Nasty injuries you’ve got though.”

“So I’ve heard. How’s Sid?”

“Sliced open pretty good. Was touch and go for a time, I understand, but he’ll pull through. Ruby’s relieved. Rich maybe not so much. Wouldn’t be surprised if she chucks him over for Sid after he sacrificed himself for her and all.”

“Good,” Wray said.

“Right, exactly. Think of the drama it’ll add to the show.” Carter winked. “Not that there wasn’t drama enough what with last night’s affair.”

Wray must have appeared confused because Carter jumped back in with an explanation. “Sid’s camera—it was running the entire time, caught the whole fracas on film. Security lights, I understand, were plenty enough to ensure a good view. Good job, too, as it’ll keep your neck off the chopping block—so to speak.”

This time Callen interrupted with answers. “The police were round to get a statement from you, but you were in and out.”

Another vague memory filtered back to Wray. “Oh yeah. So I gather I’m not charged since the two of you are in here and not a guard?”

“Rich tells me the video’s pretty clear,” Carter said. “I mean, the police have the original, but it uploaded quite handily to online storage. Anyway, it caught Barber stabbing Sid, taking Ruby hostage and brawling with you. Early days and all, but it didn’t sound as if police were much interested in sending you up the nick for this. Tell you another thing: this is going to be one amazing show.”

Wray would have narrowed her eyes into a full-on glare were it not so painful operating her facial muscles right now. The headache which had been on the duller side upon waking was now throbbing in spots. As soon as this numbskull left, she’d begin the process of shifting her head around to see if there was a position in which the pain might subside.

For now, she’d settle for giving Carter a little light pain, and since she couldn’t physically throat-punch him at the moment, she’d settle for shattering his spirit.

“There’s no show. Not for me. If you want to hop on board and make it Antiques for Three, you go for it. Leave me out of it.”

Carter frowned so deeply, he reminded Wray of a disappointed grade-schooler. “I can’t do this without you. We’re a team.”

“You serious?” Despite her grogginess, Wray managed to inject a hefty amount of incredulity into the question, though not as much as she would have were she not hospitalized with a head injury.

“Course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” He sighed but started up again before Wray had a chance to respond. “I know what I’ve put you through in the past, but that doesn’t have to be the way things are in the future. Don’t you see?”

“Carter, you numpty,” Callen muttered.

Wray uttered a low laugh. “You want to know what I see, Carter? I see the same person who burned me a few years ago. You haven’t changed, not at all.”

“I’ve changed.”

“No. You haven’t. When I was in the middle of that wicked reading back at Ed’s, your first thought wasn’t to pull me out. In fact, you never did pull me out. All you were interested in was getting enough out of me to make for a great scene. You’re the same old Carter, reserving any concern for others until your concerns for yourself are sorted.”

Carter stood. “If that’s the case, why am I here?”

“You just told me as much. You were hoping to persuade me to sign up for this stupid show. It’s not happening.”

“They’ve got you on camera already. I’d expect they’re planning on airing this whether you want it or not.”

He had a point. Wray could fight them on it, but even if she succeeded in having footage of herself scrubbed from the show, they’d only go on without her—no doubt discussing her involvement without her input.

No question, she’d been railroaded into this. No, not entirely railroaded. For a time, she’d entertained the possibility herself. That she’d realized her mistake too late made no difference.

And there was the other part of this to consider. Without her on board to maintain integrity and respect for the subjects involved, there was no telling what would come out. Some secrets remained untold—secrets that weren’t anyone else’s to tell. That Johnny Fade had done nothing wrong didn’t matter; if he wanted to guard his privacy even in death, Wray would respect that. Problem was, the only way she could guarantee others would respect it was in being there, front and centre.

Oh hell.

“One show,” she said. “One show and I’m out. I won’t be pulled back into this, you hear me?”

Carter’s face lit up. “Oh, Wray, that’s brilliant! You just wait and see though. Once you get a taste for it again, you’ll be back at it full-time. It’ll be amazing.”

Wray turned away from him. “Get out.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me, Carter. Get out.”

“I was just off to call Rich and Ruby anyway. They wanted to know how you were.”

Sure they did, Wray thought to herself. Well, Ruby would. Rich was exactly what she’d thought—Carter two-point-oh.

With Carter gone, Callen moved closer. “I’m sorry about that. I wanted to be here, and he wouldn’t be stopped.”

“I could think of a few ways to do it.”

Callen chuckled. “Me too. I meant legal ways.”

“Fair enough.” Wray closed her eyes. As soon as she’d shut them, she decided she didn’t want to open them again. All she wanted now was sleep.

“Get some rest,” Callen said. “I’ll be around, making sure Carter’s not bothering you.”

“You’re a good friend, Cal.”

Callen patted her hand. A moment later, the pad of her footsteps faded from the edge of the bed and Wray allowed herself to fall back into sleep.

She awoke to the warmth and sensation of fingers clasping hers. Wray’s first inclination was to pull away, fully expecting to find Carter there next to her. Upon cracking her eyes open a slit, she was surprised to find someone else holding her hand.

Mars.

He was seated uncomfortably in a chair, eyes shut, head propped awkwardly on a hand while his elbow managed to balance itself on a narrow armrest. He appeared to be asleep, but only just, no indications of REM—as if there were any way to manage such a sleep in such a position.

Wray’s heart thudded a response, which unfortunately set a machine next to her hospital bed to beeping a warning. The annoying sound brought Mars back to an upright position in one second flat, his slightly reddened eyes shooting around the room a moment before finally settling on her.

“Wray?” The name came out a mumble so he tried again. “Wray? You awake?”

She opened her mouth to attempt a reply, but it came out as an embarrassing croak. She cleared her throat, tried again. “Still trying to decide.”

“Get more rest if you need it. I’ll be right here.”

She thought about it, but curiosity won out over exhaustion. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“You look like death warmed over.” Mars grimaced. “Sorry for the choice of words.”

“Seriously though, what are you doing here?”

She noticed he had yet to let go of her hand. Even now, he didn’t. Maybe she should pull away, but it felt nice— right even. Of course, she had lost a lot of blood.

“I checked in with Carter. He told me what happened. I got on the first flight I could find.”

Finally, he seemed to notice he was still clasping her fingers. He gave an apologetic smile as he released her. She acted fast, her hand shooting out to find his. Surprise crossed his face, but he didn’t pull away.

She knew she should berate him for calling Carter, for sending him after Wray—a move which had the unfortunate consequence of sending Barber after them too. But now that he was here, she didn’t want to call him out for it. Certainly, she didn’t want him carrying the weight of guilt he’d no doubt feel.

Anyway, there was something much more important to be said.

“Thank you,” she said. “ I appreciate it more than you know. I know I don’t always act like it, but it means a lot to me that you actually give a damn. It’s not exactly a common thing for me.”

“I know. I can’t understand why it’s been this way for you, but I know it has. Just try to get it through your head though, huh? It doesn’t have to stay like this. Not anymore. If you let me, I can be there whenever you need me—or even if you don’t. I do care about you, Wray. A lot, come to that. I know you don’t like talking like this, but there are some things I need to say. I nearly didn’t get the chance, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let this one slip away too.”

“Mars—”

He held up a hand, palm toward her, in a request for silence. He charged on without waiting, determination in his eyes and in the set of his jaw and shoulders. “I’ve screwed up a lot in my life, and there are some things I’m never going to be able to fix. I don’t know exactly what this is between us. Maybe on your end, it’s nothing. On mine though, there’s something here, and it’s something I want to have a chance to explore. I nearly lost that chance. Please don’t take it away from me again.”

“Hey, Mars⁠—”

“We can take this at whatever pace you’re comfortable with. Or obviously, if it’s the way you want things, we don’t have to take it anywhere. If friendship is all we can have, then I’ll learn to be good with that. I get you’ve been through a lot, that you don’t trust easily. I can promise you I won’t betray your trust, that I won’t let you down the way other people have. But in the end, it’s up to you to decide. Maybe over time⁠—”

Wray snatched hold of his collar and tugged hard enough to cut him off mid-way through the sentence. “Dude.”

His shoulders slumped. “What?”

She smiled. “Shut up, okay?”

She pulled him down toward her, lifting her head to catch him in a kiss. She let her lips brush his softly, yet long enough she was sure her meaning would translate. When she let him pull away, his grin told her he’d got the message.

Unfortunately, so did the damned machine. As it started beeping more quickly, Mars grinned.

“Well, that’s a good sign,” he said.

Wray gave his shirt a light shake and released him. “Let’s just see what happens, all right? Take things slow. That’s the best I can do.”

He brushed his thumb across the backs of her fingers. “Then it’s all I need.”

Exhaustion began to kick in again, forcing her eyes back to slits. “Really tired,” she muttered.

“Sleep,” he told her. “I’ll be here.”

Without another word, she allowed sleep to steal back in. She knew Mars would keep his word.

Forty-Four

Two months later

Wray pulled to a stop outside Harry Rugg’s old house. Outside on the front porch sat Phil Rugg, rubbing his hands together as if chilly despite the warmth of the day. As Wray shut off the car, Phil squinted ahead as if to make out who it was.

He smiled nervously as she eased herself out of the vehicle. Her injuries had largely healed and she’d been cleared to drive again, but she was still stiff and sore on certain days. Today, rain was in the forecast; it seemed she’d turned into one of those people—hopefully temporarily—whose bodies told them of weather changes ahead of time.

Approaching Phil, she put on a smile. “Appreciate you doing this. Not for me so much, but I know the guys will be grateful.”

“Can’t believe they’re coming here.” Phil shook his head. “Alban Ezra. Wow.”

They didn’t have long to wait. A vehicle turned off the road and into the yard not two minutes later—a classic but beautifully maintained BMW. When it stopped next to Emily’s car, not just Micky and Havik stepped out; Ed Marko was here too, along with a striking silver-haired woman.

Havik motioned toward her as they approached. “This is my—er—ex-wife, Kit.”

“Katherine,” she corrected him.

“Right, yes. Must get used to that.”

“Must say, this whole affair has complicated things a tad,” she said. “Not that it’s an unwelcome turn of events.” She extended a hand to Wray. “You must be Wray Mallory. I’ve heard a great deal about you. Allow me to thank you for everything you’ve done—not just ensuring Kyle’s safe return to the land of the living, but keeping him alive so he had the ability to do so. I’m exceedingly grateful.”

“We all are,” Micky said.

Wray smiled at Havik. He’d shaved his head as he’d once worn it and had trimmed his wild growth of facial hair. Years had passed, yes, but elements of the man he’d been forty years ago were easily visible once again.

“Does this mean you’ve definitely decided to go public then?” she asked him.

“I have and did. Not much choice with the TV crew being round the night all that shite went down. Were plenty of tabloid types at the airport before Mick and I flew out. More when we landed. We had a time making our way here without being followed. As you can imagine, I’ve been hounded by endless news agencies, talk shows and tabloids since I’ve been out of hiding.”

“Both of us have,” Micky said. “We’ve had a right time of it. But we knew it was coming, didn’t we?”

“We did. More to come since that show’s apparently coming out sometime down the road.”

Wray rolled her eyes. “Right. That show.” She’d agreed to participate, and she had. Filming was wrapped, as she understood it, and she’d been assured she could be involved in the editing process. It was the best way to make certain nothing was being shared that shouldn’t be.

“I’m just glad the police didn’t release the exact location where the bus was found,” Phil said. “And the TV people promised they wouldn’t give out personal or location details. Last thing Dad would have wanted was a load of weirdos crawling around here.”

“Unfortunate for him, then,” Micky said. “We’re that load of weirdos.”

Everyone shared a laugh. It faded before long. They had serious matters to attend to, after all.

“You ready?” Wray asked Havik.

He gave a tight nod. “As I’ll ever be. I just need to see the place, to lay what happened there to rest.” He bowed his head. “To lay Buck to rest, I suppose.”

“You know it wasn’t your fault what happened to him, right?” Wray said. “I saw it. I know what went down. And I know what you were in the middle of back then.”

“I won’t make excuses for the man I was,” he said. “I had pain in my life, yes, but in the end, everyone does. Doesn’t give us the right to harm others in turn. Whatever blame lies with me or not, I need to put this right. And if he’s still there somewhere, hopefully I can put him right too.”

Wray touched his arm. “If he’s not at rest, I have a friend who can help.”

Micky grimaced. “Not that Carter arsehole.”

Wray chuckled dryly. “Hell, no. A guy who’s actually good at this stuff—and is a good person besides.”

She was curious about one thing, but she didn’t know how to ask. Eyeing Micky meaningfully, she did her best. “The room at your house where you hid—where, you know … Did anyone happen to find it?”

“No. And they never will.”

Wray nodded. As far as she was concerned, Ivy could remain there, buried inside that room forever. If she’d vanished off the face of the earth sooner, Johnny and Rizzo would never have died as they did—alone and afraid. In the end, Ivy had dug her own grave, and she could damn well lie in it.

“Good,” Wray said. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Micky smiled. Pain lingered behind the expression, and Wray knew despite everything, he must be suffering for what he’d done. Killing was never easy. Wray had learned with time and experience where to put those thoughts and feelings, but it didn’t prevent her thinking and feeling those things in the first place. And she was an ex-soldier; Micky wasn’t. Yet he’d been forced into battle for friends he loved as family, and he’d killed to defend them. In a way, he’d become a soldier too.

Another person swam into view nearby. Johnny Fade. Whether it was because of his attachment to the ring Ed still wore or to the people standing here, Wray didn’t know. Probably both. Either way, he’d made the overseas trip as well. Hopefully, two people could be put to rest today.

“Come on,” Wray said, plucking at Havik’s sleeve. “Let’s get this done.”

He took a deep breath, released it in a whoosh.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s get this done.”

He stopped as he passed by Wray. “You’re coming too, right?”

She nodded. “It’s why I came. And it’s what I do.”

Wray let the others lead the way. Together, they made their way beyond the house, toward the trees. Toward, she hoped, peace.

Acknowledgments and Afterword

There’s rarely a day that goes by in which I don’t pinch myself at least once (figuratively, not literally, to spare myself the bruises). Being able to write books as a full-time job amounts to the realization of a childhood dream—one I never thought I’d achieve.

In 2022, I was able to hand in my notice, ending a two-decade career as a newspaper crime reporter. The decision was a difficult one, not just because I was giving up a job with a set wage and benefits, but because I truly loved and found value in what I did. But at the end of the day, I knew I was ready for a new adventure.

The support of my family and friends was crucial in getting me to this point, and I can’t say thank you enough to all of you who might happen to be reading this. I’ve never once felt anything less than blessed in the people surrounding me. So to my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law, my nephew and niece and their significant others, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my wonderful BFF, my former work crew (at the paper and extended media world as well as in the policing and justice system in which I spent so much time), and to so many others in my life, please know how much I appreciate your support.

To my editors, Hannah Sullivan and Bambi Sommers, a huge thank you for all your help in making my books all they can be. The same goes for my stellar team of advance readers. Your eagle eyes and your suggestions have made the books—and me as a writer—stronger.

To my Sully’s Spirits group, thank you for being there to bounce ideas and cover designs off of. You folks have an amazing eye, and your honesty is always, always appreciated. Thank you for helping me to get things right. Speaking of getting things right, thank you to Gerry Morin for answering questions I’ve had about Indigenous language and culture when the topic has arisen in my books. I can’t express how thankful I am for your wisdom.

A big thanks to folks in the writing community—my mom, my good friend J.C. Paulson and Gail Bowen, among many others—for giving me so much wonderful advice when I was fumbling toward my first published book. Huge thanks as well to my former colleague Andy Cooper for pointing me toward self-publishing podcasts and courses which really got me going.

And last, but absolutely not least, to my newsletter subscribers, social media followers and my fabulous readers in general, thank you so much for reading what I write! I appreciate so much the many wonderful and kind comments and messages over the years I’ve been doing this. When I started, I didn’t know what to expect. You’ve made me feel so welcome, so cared for, so blessed. My heart is constantly warmed by your words, and I can only endeavour to do the same for you.

In what sometimes feels like a world filled with darkness, you are all a reminder there is still so much light—if only one remembers to look.

So thank you.

For those interested, I’m constantly working on a collection of short stories featuring characters from the city of Kimotan Rapids. While the city and the people in it are completely made up, I strive to make them feel real—for you and for myself. The collection—Haunted: The Ghosts of Sullivan Gray—delves deeper into characters’ backgrounds and hopefully explains a bit more about Sully, Dez, Tracker Jack and others. The collection is free to newsletter subscribers. You’re free to sign up and then unsubscribe—although if you stick around as a subscriber, I’ll update you whenever there’s a new free short story added or new books coming out to buy or read through Kindle Unlimited. Just click this link (if you’re reading this as an e-book) or visit my website, hpbayne.com, and follow the link you’ll find there to get the book.

All my best to you, and thanks again!

About the Author

Fascinated by ghost stories and crime fiction, H.P. Bayne has been writing both in some capacity since her youth. As an adult, she spent more than two decades as a crime reporter, a career which provided her with a detailed knowledge of crime and those who walk in that world. Raised on a farm on the Canadian Prairies, H.P. enjoys reading, portrait drawing, travel and spending time with family and friends.

For more information, visit H.P.’s website at hpbayne.com.

Also by H.P. Bayne

Wray Mallory

Hell’s Gate

Book of the Dead

A Song for the Dead

The Sullivan Gray Series (best read in the following order):

Black Candle

Harbinger

The Dule Tree

Crawl

Hollow Road

Second Son

Spirit Caller

Sullivan Gray box sets:

The Sullivan Gray Series Box Set 1

The Sullivan Gray Series Box Set 2

The Braddock & Gray Case Files (can be read in order or as standalone novels):

The Edge Creek Light

The Haunting of Thornview Hall

The Wynne Witch

The Blake Ghost

Dead Man’s Lake

The Hanged Man

Twitch

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Mr. Grin

The Cursed

The Haunting of Blythe Theatre

The Wakefield Haunting

Ghosts of Riverview

House of Mirrors

The Haunting of Sutton Hill

The Attic Room

The Durlow Dollhouse

The Braddock & Gray Case Files box sets:

The Braddock & Gray Case Files Books 1 - 4