Hell Fire

Out of Luck

I’d like to say things looked better in the morning, but since it was pouring rain, that would be a lie. I smuggled Butch out in my bag first thing, and we both wound up drenched. After wrapping him in a towel, I took a quick shower, which made me feel marginally better.

I gave Butch his breakfast while wondering where Chance had gone. Since he hadn’t left a note or taken the Mustang, I could only assume he’d return soon. By the time I finished braiding my long hair, he showed up with coffee. That was when I figured out he must’ve vacated the room to give me some privacy.

“Thanks.” I took the steaming mug and noted he’d doctored it with cream and sugar, just as I liked.

He was trying so hard, and sometimes I felt tempted to give in, but we hadn’t resolved anything. The reasons I had for leaving in the first place still resounded with truth. His luck might very well be the death of me.

Chance’s talent was also unique, which was why I’d blackmailed him into coming to Kilmer with me, after I helped him find his missing mother. He had what I called uncanny luck; with a little focus, he could shake loose whatever he needed from the cosmos. Sadly, that ability came at a terrible price. Because he got all the lucky breaks, the world balanced itself out on the person closest to him, which meant all the bad karma stuck to me when we were together.

His lover before me died. He’d never mentioned that . . . until a few weeks ago in Laredo. And that just underscored my wariness about him. How could we have spent years together—years!—and he’d never seen fit to tell me?

When I remembered all of that, it became easier not to succumb to temptation. The problem was, I couldn’t cut him out of my heart entirely. A certain heated look from him still had the power to turn me into hot butter.

I grabbed Butch and slid him into my bag. “Be good. Don’t make any noise.”

In answer, the dog snuggled down on top of my wallet and made himself at home. Downstairs, we ate a good breakfast of fried eggs, bacon, and biscuits; I slipped tidbits to Butch whenever the coast was clear. And on the way out, it occurred to me that Chance and I needed only another couple to qualify as a Scooby-Doo unit. I was grinning as I got into the Mustang.

“What’s so funny?” A smile started in Chance’s eyes, as if he wanted to share the joke but feared it might be at his expense.

That stung a little. I’d never hurt him on purpose. “We should call Chuch and Eva to join us.” I explained my rationale, and then he laughed too.

“We’d need a painted van, and Chuch would kill me if we traded the Mustang. He still loves this car, even if his name isn’t on the deed anymore.”

Subtle, Chance. Very subtle.

Not being an idiot, I didn’t touch that line. “So, where do we start?”

Chance closed his eyes for a moment, and the car livened with the thrum of a charged wire. Use of his gift never failed to prickle the hair on my forearms, rousing a little chill that hinted at arcane energy in play. Rain tapped away at the Mustang and cloaked us from the wider world. I felt I could sit all day and gaze at the purity of his profile.

When his long lashes unfurled, I caught my breath a little. His striated gaze, amber, topaz, and sherry brown, just never lost its magic. I forced myself to sound brisk, no matter what my pulse was doing. “Got something?”

“I have no idea,” he said finally. “It’s faint, really faint. But if I do, it’s west.”

Well, that was odd. Generally, his ability worked like dowsing, and the pull got stronger the closer we came. I’d only seen him blocked one other time, which didn’t bode well. To date, only demon magick had proved stronger than what Chance could do. He put the car in gear, looking uneasy.

“So I was right. There is something wrong here.”

Chance nodded. “Wrong and old. Whatever’s happening in Kilmer, it isn’t recent.”

By my reckoning, it was at least fifteen years old, and might hark back farther still. Tragedy had a way of running under your radar if you weren’t personally affected by it. Maybe other families had been torn apart as mine had; I just hadn’t noticed.

“Well, don’t just sit there. ‘Go west, young man.’” I forced a smile.

He didn’t offer one in return, just started the car and waited long enough for the windows to defog before he circled around the inn. This late in the morning, there were no cars to challenge us when we pulled into the street. Driving west offered no answers, though, just took us to the road that led out of town.

Chance frowned at the wet pavement as he pulled into the parking lot of what had been a used-car dealership. Now it was just a sea of broken cement with a small vacant building at the far end. The chains had long since rusted away.

“I hate to say it, Corine, but I don’t think I can be your Magic 8-Ball. I think we’re going to need old-fashioned legwork.”

I should’ve known it wouldn’t be as easy as I wanted, but some part of me wasn’t even surprised to find my suspicions confirmed about Kilmer’s rotten core. My flesh had been crawling ever since we drove through the tunnel of trees leading to town. It didn’t look like things would improve any time soon.

“There are two obvious places to start. I can make a list of all my old foster parents and we can drop by to see how they’re doing . . . and pick their brains.” My tone expressed how much that notion pleased me. “Or we can do a little research at the library. We may end up doing both, anyway, but I know where I’d prefer to start.”

“The library it is. Which way?”

“It used to be downtown, near the courthouse.”

It still was, a pale stone building set along the square. For the first time, I noticed it possessed a Gothic air, ornate stonework and bizarre symbols etched into the rock. Most people would call this Gothic Revival style, as it even had gargoyles on the roof. If I watched them too long, they might even have moved, and I didn’t want to see that. Chance parked, and I climbed out of the car.

The rest of the square was less dilapidated. Outlying regions had gone positively seedy, but here, the rectangular brick buildings were in pretty good shape. Too many of them sat empty, though, the small, striped awnings blowing over businesses that had closed or moved out of town. Faint gilt lettering had been half scraped away on some of the windows, so they said things such as AILOR and OOKSHOP. The death of a bookstore always made me sad.

In front of the courthouse, there was a Grecian-inspired lady carved out of marble; the folds of her robe were filthy now, stained with a combination of dirt and dead leaves. I knew she was supposed to be Themis, the goddess of justice. Many towns had a similar statue near the courthouse, but she was usually depicted with a sword in one hand and scales in the other. Maybe the sculptor knew something about Kilmer, because he’d depicted her sitting on a rock, sword slack, and the scales beside her. Maybe it was just my imagination, but she looked sad, frozen in that pose.

Everything smelled wet, and the air was heavy in my lungs. Water pooled on the small brown lawn out front, so we picked our way carefully up the path. Three steps led up to a glass door. A posted sign read OPEN, but I could only see our misty reflections; no lights within.

“Stay down,” I instructed Butch, who complied with a little huff.

It was weird and eerie, how little this place had changed. In some ways, Kilmer struck me as the town time forgot. There were no restaurant chains, no big stores, not even a single Micky D’s. Common sense offered “no money to be made” as the reason, but I wondered if there was more to it. The lack of modern touches seemed unnatural, creepy, rather than comforting. This small town offered the feeling of “I know where you live” instead of the security of recognizing all your neighbors.

A grungy gray runner waited for us just inside, so we wiped our feet and let our eyes adjust to the dim interior. Immediately to the left sat the checkout desk, where a gimlet-eyed librarian studied us with disapproval. I guessed she thought we should be at work.

Well, we were.

“Where’s the microfiche?” I asked.

The old woman’s mouth pursed as if I’d given her a persimmon to suck. Then I realized I’d done something worse—I hadn’t greeted her or rambled about the weather for ten minutes. “In the back. Are y’all wanting to look at something special?”

I could’ve made up some story about writing an article, but that would have made the rounds faster than some random woman poking around the periodicals. Sooner or later, people would start asking who I was and why we were here. I just wanted to put it off as long as possible.

“Just the daily paper to start, the back issues. Are those still in a file cabinet by the machine?”

Her eyes narrowed behind granny-framed glasses. “Have you been in before? Do I know you?”

Beckoning to Chance, I chose not to answer and wove my way through the stacks. I’d once spent a lot of time in here, reading old mysteries. She called after me. “Copies are ten cents and I don’t make change!”

“Nice,” Chance whispered. “I’m glad I let you do the talking. I’m sure I couldn’t have done any better.”

I waved a hand at him. “She’s too old for you to seduce with a few charming words and a killer smile. It wouldn’t have been worth the time.”

His smile widened into a cocky grin. “You might be surprised.”

“Aw, come on. Did you have to put that image in my head?”

“No. It was just fun. So what’re we looking for exactly?”

As I fired up the machine, I thought about that. “We need dates before we’ll get anything out of the local paper. So let’s start with the day my mom died.”

The winter solstice, December 21. Men had come in the night, bearing flaming brands. She’d shooed me out the back door and then gone to face them in her white nightgown, her hair streaming loose. All night long, while I crouched in the woods, I could smell the flames, curling up into the ink-dark sky.

And ever after, I’d smelled smoke in times of trouble.

“Good idea. We might turn up a pattern.” Chance sat down beside me while I pulled Butch out of my bag and set him on the floor.

“Not a peep,” I told the dog. “I know this sucks, but if we get kicked out because of you, before we find out anything, I’m totally tossing your bacon snacks.”

I thought he believed me, because he didn’t even yap in protest. Instead, he curled up and went to sleep. I guessed he wasn’t heavily invested in our research.

“Don’t most libraries have free public Internet?” Chance asked.

Following his gaze, I peered around the reference section. Yeah, they usually did. But this place looked like it had last been updated in 1967, and there was no PC terminal anywhere to be found. We’d done so much investigating on the Net over the years, I wasn’t sure how we’d function.

And then it hit me.

“Let’s call Booke. He can research the date and see if there’s anything unusual.” I had my doubts events in Kilmer would’ve made the bigger papers, but you never knew.

We’d met Booke through Chuch, although not in the strictest sense. I only knew him from online chats and telephone calls, but he’d proved invaluable in research matters before. I had his number programmed in because, as he lived in the UK, there were a lot of digits—too many for me to remember. After I hit the button on my cell, I waited for it to dial. It should have been early afternoon there. The phone rang four times before he picked up.

“Booke?”

“Corine! How fantastic to hear from you.” He had a great voice, deep and plummy. “How are you? Did you make it to Georgia?”

I felt a little sheepish because I hadn’t called just to see how he was doing. Then again, he probably knew that. Still, I figured I’d respect the niceties. “I’m fine, and yes, we’re in Kilmer now. Long drive. How are you?”

He made a noncommittal noise, as if he’d rather not lie to me, but he didn’t want to burden me with his problems, either. “Glad to hear you’re safe. Can I help with something?”

Busted.

“Possibly,” I said. “Would you mind doing a little research on Kilmer, Georgia? Let me know if you find anything interesting. I’ll call you back tomorrow to check in.”

Before he answered, I heard keys clicking. I guessed he must be wearing a headset or an earpiece. “Huh.” He sounded puzzled. “How do you spell the name of the town?”

I enunciated each letter, and then more keys clacked on his end. His keyboarding sounded very impressive. And how much of a dork was I for noticing?

“What’s the problem?” I asked when the silence became extended.

“Well . . . there’s nothing about Kilmer, Georgia,” he told me at last. “Nothing. I’ve checked six different search engines to be sure. They offer me Kilmer as a last name . . . and ask if I mean Kildare, and finally suggest a swine farm in Monticello, Indiana. According to the Internet, Kilmer doesn’t exist.”

“But I’m standing here in the public library,” I protested. “I grew up here.”

How was that even possible in this day and age?

“I can’t address that. If you can give me latitude and longitude, I can try to scout the place. I’ll proceed as if it’s dangerous and get back to you.”

“Jesus,” I said, shaken. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Booke sounded worried. “Be careful, Corine. I don’t like the feel of this.”

“You and me both.”

Once I promised to call him in the morning, I rang off. He said he’d contact us if he learned anything we needed to know before then. I stared at the microfiche machine with equal blankness until Chance brought me out of it with a tap on the shoulder. I had to fight the urge to lean into his arms. I knew he wanted me to. Instead, I filled him in.

“Weirder and weirder.” Chance touched my cheek lightly, drawing my face up. “I suspect we’ve got a hell of a mess here.”

“No kidding.” I couldn’t imagine the scope of whatever had scrubbed all traces of Kilmer from the outside world. Maybe we should talk to Sandra Cheney and find out how she’d ended up here. She might be the last new blood the town had seen.

His fingers trailed down my jaw and curled around the nape of my neck, as if he meant to lean down and kiss me. Instead, his gaze fixed on mine, steady and reassuring. “I just want you to know I’m in, just like you were in Laredo, no matter how bad this gets.”

I smelled something burning.