Crowbones

CHAPTER 49

Grimshaw

Watersday, Novembros 3

I want to see your mobile phones,” Grimshaw said. “I want to see the log of your recent calls. And may the gods help you if you deleted that log to hide your part in this.”

“Even if we made the call, what are you going to do?” Ben Malacki demanded. “Arrest us?”

“I can’t arrest you for being an ass and leaking information about a private meeting. But I can say with certainty that if I don’t get the information from you now, the next individuals who come to interrogate you will not be the Sanguinati and will not be as understanding of human failings and foibles. Most likely, all of you will die violently and in terror, just as Peter Lynchfield died, and there won’t be a thing I can do to help you.”

“We’re supposed to be safe here!” Malacki shouted.

“You are safe here—until you break their rules.”

“When can we go home?” Wilma Cornley whined.

“When the terra indigene discover why two of the Crowgard and a student from one of your colleges have been killed.” Grimshaw looked at each of them. “None of you are safe until I can tell them who called Peter Lynchfield about the private gathering. This isn’t a game, people. If you need reminding of that, I can walk you down to that car and show you what is left of the man. Someone started trouble on Trickster Night. Someone caused more trouble this evening. The Elders will pick you off one by one if that’s what it takes. So stop jerking my chain and tell me who made the damn call!”

Michael Stern took out his mobile phone, tapped this and touched that, then held it out. “This is who I’ve called since arriving at The Jumble.”

Two calls made to the same number, one the day of arrival and the other shortly before Lynchfield was killed—and before Julian’s special customers arrived. Grimshaw already knew the number of Lynchfield’s mobile phone, and it wasn’t the number Stern had called. Still, he took out his notebook and wrote down the number. He was fairly sure it belonged to someone in Michael’s family, but he’d have Osgood confirm the identity of the person on the receiving end of those calls.

Ian Stern came next. A couple of calls with pretty much the same timing as Michael’s calls—arrival and “just in case” calls. There were also calls to local numbers. Grimshaw recognized the phone numbers for Come and Get It and the Pizza Shack. It looked like Ian was either placing an order or asking for business hours to plan ahead. There was also a call to the stables run by Horace and Hector Adams. Maybe Ian had been thinking of doing a trail ride.

Grimshaw looked at Ben Malacki, who crossed his arms, raised his chin, and looked like a belligerent bantam rooster until Conan, still guarding the door, growled at him. Then the man looked like a rooster that knew it was doomed to go into the pot, but Malacki still didn’t offer his mobile phone, which made Grimshaw wonder what he was hiding.

Jenna McKay stepped forward. Her hand shook as she gave Grimshaw her phone.

“I didn’t call Peter Lynchfield,” she whispered as tears ran down her face. “I didn’t know this would happen when . . .” She stopped.

Ian Stern put an arm around her shoulders. “When what?” he asked gently. “Who did you call?” He looked at Grimshaw and mouthed, Sorry.

Grimshaw didn’t care who asked the question as long as he got an answer.

“Professor Roash,” Jenna whispered. “I called Roash.”

“Why?” Grimshaw asked.

“I didn’t know who he was, didn’t know he would be here this weekend. My sister works at the same college. She’s married and has a couple of kids and she needs the job to help with the bills. I don’t know how Roash knew Jill was my sister, but he made a comment on Trickster Night about me being well situated here at The Jumble. I shrugged it off as a weird comment. Then he called earlier today and said I should let him know if anything interesting was happening at The Jumble.” Jenna wiped the tears from her face. “He insinuated that if I wasn’t helpful, he would get Jill fired for reasons that would make it very hard for her to find another job—and I believed he would do it. So I called and told him special customers were coming to look at books around dusk and everyone was supposed to stay away. I didn’t know he’d send someone.”

Roash again. First sending a student to masquerade as the Crowgard bogeyman, then somehow persuading Lynchfield to come to The Jumble and try to photograph the Five. Gods above and below, the man was a slimy piece of work.

“Did you call Roash again?” Grimshaw asked Jenna. No indication that she had, based on her call log, but he wasn’t going to assume she didn’t use someone else’s phone. He turned to Malacki. “What about you?”

“Why aren’t you doing something to get the roads open so we can leave instead of persecuting us?” Malacki demanded.

Grimshaw stared at the man. For someone who was supposed to work at a college and had claimed to be interested in observing the terra indigene, Ben Malacki was a damn fool.

“If I swat him, you can take the phone,” Conan rumbled. “Easier than talking to this one.”

Malacki paled. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket and tossed it at Grimshaw. “Take it, then.”

Grimshaw suspected the throw was deliberately short. Clearly, Malacki hoped to damage the phone enough to prevent anyone from seeing his calls, but the man hadn’t figured on Crowgard speed and reflexes. Aggie darted between the humans and snatched the phone before it hit the floor.

“Cawt it,” she said, grinning. She handed the phone to Grimshaw and darted back to her place near the wall.

No indication that Malacki had called Roash or Lynchfield. Calls couldn’t be made outside of a region—the Elders tore down phone lines and cell towers that allowed human communication to cross regional borders—but there was something about the phone numbers that gave him an itch between the shoulder blades. He wrote down the numbers, then tossed the phone back to Malacki.

A quick knock on the door. Conan opened it enough to see who was on the other side, then opened it a little more.

Viktor poked his head into the room. “Chief? The EMTs asked if they could leave now.”

Grimshaw looked at Conan. “Can you escort them to their vehicle?”

Conan nodded. Viktor skipped out of the way to let the Bear leave the room, then gave Grimshaw a look he couldn’t interpret before closing the door.

That look was another thing that gave him an itch. Nothing wrong with Viktor. The boy was steady, reliable, was everything he would look for in a good baby cop. Just the sort of youngster adults would be inclined to trust. And shouldn’t trust?

Crap. Maybe he should have Osgood check the e-mail and let Viktor answer the phones, especially if he started receiving confidential information about killings in other towns. Maybe he should end this internship with the police.

And maybe he should do the job that was right in front of him.

Grimshaw eyed the room’s other occupants. “Stay inside tonight. Figure everything you do will be viewed with suspicion, so make sure your actions can’t be misinterpreted. You folks staying in the lake cabins? Make sure you have each other’s phone numbers and the number for the main house before you go to your cabins. Conan or Cougar will escort you. Take some food back with you, in case you need to shelter in place for a while tomorrow.” He eyed all of them again. “A CIU team from Bristol will be here in the morning, so don’t figure on getting to the village before they’ve completed their part of the investigation. Any questions? Good.” He walked out of the room before Malacki could take a breath and voice whatever complaint he wanted to voice this time.

Grimshaw found Ilya and Julian standing near the reception desk—a central location and a not-so-subtle statement that they weren’t there to keep the humans safe. Not all the humans, anyway.

“Victoria is packing up ‘just in case’ food for the cabins,” Ilya said. “I need to return to Silence Lodge to review the situation with my people and hear their reports, but the youngsters would like to stay and watch the scary movies—something they could not do at the lodge since we have one TV and are trying not to distress our youngest fosterling by letting her view stories that would frighten her unduly.”

On another night, Grimshaw would like to discuss what a Sanguinati youngster would consider undue violence or frightening images in stories. He had a feeling that Ilya was no more realistic about such things than any other adult. In a weird way, that gave him some comfort.

“I don’t see why not, as long as Vicki doesn’t mind,” he said. But Ilya had concerns about two of the Sanguinati teens, so was the Sanguinati leader risking Vicki and the humans here in order to protect the youngest Sanguinati fosterling?

Grimshaw looked at Julian, who said, “I’ll stay awhile longer.”

He’d expected that. “I’ll escort the EMTs to the village and check in with Osgood before I head home.” And have a little chat with Professor Roash.

No one asked if he would be all right walking down the access road on his own. He was the chief of police. He’d spent most of his career as highway patrol, working alone in the wild country. He had to believe he’d earned enough respect from the terra indigene living around Lake Silence to do his job or he was no use to anyone.

He walked down the access road, flashlight in his left hand so that he could draw his weapon with his right. Not that he would. It just made him feel a little easier that he could, especially once he realized something was keeping pace with him, watching him. No crackle of leaves underfoot or snap of a twig, but something moved silently among the trees nearby—and he realized he was waiting to hear bones rattling in a hollow gourd.

Tempting to whistle in the dark. Foolish to attract more attention.

He caught up to the EMTs, which surprised him. He would have thought they would be moving at top speed to get to the road leading back to the village.

“Chief?” Conan called.

“Here.” Grimshaw gave Conan a nod. “I’ll escort the men the rest of the way.”

Conan turned back to the main house. Grimshaw led the EMTs down the rest of the access road. He walked past a car parked behind Julian’s before he realized the EMTs had stopped.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Dr. Wallace didn’t park his car there,” one man said. “He pulled up on the shoulder, same as we did.”

A sour burn filled Grimshaw’s belly as he turned his light to see inside.

No bodies. No blood. No vandalism. Nothing to indicate that Doc hadn’t parked the car there, except the men saying that he hadn’t. Which meant something—or more than one something—had picked up the car and placed it on the access road. Something that knew Doc was staying at the main house tonight, and his car, parked on the side of a dark road, might get damaged if another driver didn’t see it in time?

“Well, it’s here now and out of the way,” he said matter-of-factly.

The men hurried past the car and scrambled into their own vehicle. Grimshaw got in the cruiser—after checking the interior for unwanted passengers—and escorted the men back to the village.

He pulled into his parking spot in front of the station and sat for a moment. Long day. He wanted a hot shower and a cold beer. He wanted to eat warmed-up pizza, which he’d forgotten to take with him, and watch a dumb-ass movie with monsters that were nowhere near as scary as the ones he dealt with on a daily basis.

Osgood reported that all was quiet in the village, except for a complaint by Ellen C. Wilson that her neighbor’s dog kept barking and barking, and a countercomplaint by the neighbor that her dog barked because Wilson teased him and got him stirred up—and Wilson tossed cookies over the fence that the dog gobbled, despite the neighbor having asked Wilson several times not to give the dog treats.

Since Osgood could handle that complaint in the morning, Grimshaw thought he might have an evening at home to regroup and think about what was going on.

Then Julian Farrow called.