P. Stormcrow

She didn’t believe any of this. Disappointment thickened his throat as he trudged up the steps of the Dawson residence. 

Reed was smart with an air of quiet confidence and abilities to back up the demeanor. Damien had hoped she was coming around, especially when they were riffing ideas off each other, but this was a massive step backwards. How was he going to work with a partner that refused to open her eyes and just… see? Not that he believed right away at first either…

Okay. Nevermind that for now. Game time. He straightened and rang the doorbell.

No answer.

He tried again.

Still no one.

He backed up to study the large bay window next to the porch. With its curtains drawn, it was hard to tell if anyone was home, and he struggled to recall whether the family had kept it closed when they visited the day before.

Gerard would have remembered. But his ex-colleague wasn’t here anymore. And his current one was off working to prove him wrong.

Fuck.

The house was empty.

They should have asked who the girls were trying to summon, but distracting the mom had taken up all his efforts, leaving his less experienced partner to dig for information. It was perhaps a mistake, and that was something he had to fix.

He pulled out his pocket watch, careful to not snag the fine chain on the buttons of his shirt. Twilight was still a few hours away. He has time. There was no other choice.

The kid’s dead. Do you honestly want to dredge up their grief over a hoax?

Damien clenched his jaws. It was not a hoax.

He turned and walked to the car, new determination rising with every step. He got in the station wagon, collected and crammed his long legs in, and grabbed the microphone from the CB radio.

There were no formalities as he spoke in low tones. “Requesting one-o-niner. Repeat requesting one-o-niner. Over..”

It took thirty seconds on the nose before a male voice replied. “One-o-niner ready to receive over secured line. Over.”

It wasn’t someone Damien recognized, but that was normal. What he was looking for were those exact words. That and the precise pattern of static that preceded the message — two short crackles followed by a single longer tone.

“One-o-nine for two with Whiskey Echo Echo Delta Sierra. Over.”

“Standby. Over.”

It didn’t take more than a minute for the person on the other end to return, rattling off the coded messages. With a grumble about the overabundance of caution, Damien hauled out his decoder, a bronze cylindrical tube and notepad, working to unscramble the addresses like a kid with a prize from a cereal box until he knew where to go next. Without a phone or GPS, he could only pull out a traditional map and ran his fingers over the page until he located his destination. Only then did he start the car and began the long drive.

When he pulled up to the father’s house at the edge of town, Damien itched to get on with it. He hurried out of the station wagon and took the steps two at a time. Without missing a beat, he rapped his knuckles on the second door of the day and waited.

“Welcome!” The man that emerged was almost as tall as him, but matched the description he had seen in the article, albeit aged. Yet his smile faltered as he viewed Damien, while music and laughter drifted from inside the house.

“Mr. Weeds?”

Damien didn’t wait, but held up his badge. Well. One of them. The hazardous materials identification would not work in this case. “Special Agent Jackson, FBI. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Honey, what’s going—” A woman in a short red cocktail dress peered around Mr. Weeds.

“Why don’t you go keep our guests company? I’ll be right there.,” Mr. Weeds gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

After a moment’s uncertainty, she nodded and left. Only then did Mr. Weeds open the door to allow Damien to step through. He did and followed his latest clue to his office, noting the luxurious surroundings. Phillip’s dad had done well for himself post divorce.

“Please, have a seat.” The older man gestured to a cushy chair as he swung around to settle himself in another one on the other side of the sleek modern desk.

There was no delicate way of putting it, nor was it his style. Damien sat down and waited for the other to compose himself first before opening his mouth.. “Tell me about Phillip’s death.”

Mr. Weeds’ face turned red and his brows drew together as he pursed his lips into a thin line. “What is this about? What has she done?”

Oh, that kind of divorce. “You mean Ms. Hanley?”

Something in Damien’s tone must have reassured Mr. Weeds, for he sighed and sagged into his chair, rubbing his bald head. “She never let go. Phillip’s death was tragic, but she was convinced that it wasn’t an accident. She kept campaigning for an investigation to be opened, but no one would listen. Then she wanted to hire lawyers.” Mr. Weeds shrugged. “I supported her as long as I could, even after our marriage was already over. I knew it was a lost cause when not a single damn lawyer would take the case.”

“Was Phillip bullied?” Damien asked, cutting Mr. Weeds odd before he could say more.

Mr. Weeds’ shoulders rose and fell again, and he let out one soft chuckle. “Well, you know, boys be boys. Especially in those days. I tried to raise the boy right, taught him to stand up for himself. But there’s only so much you could do, nature versus nurture and all.”

Damien’s stomach dropped. 

Look at that weirdo, sniffing everything.

He pushed the faint whisper of the memory aside and steeled himself. Reed’s instincts had been spot on. He had gleaned valuable information here, but as far as he could tell, Mr. Weeds had nothing to do with the case. He dug out his notepad and flipped it to the page with the second address before pushing the entire little leather folio across the desk. “Can you confirm if Ms. Hanley still lives here”

He took the proffered item and adjusted the distance from his face before nodding. “Oh yes. That’s the old house all right. Left it to her since I figured the bills would be hard on her.” 

Mr. Weeds held it back out to him and beamed, as if expecting some kind of praise. As if his one generous act would excuse everything else he just said. Damien gave him no satisfaction. Instead, he retrieved and pocketed it before he stood. “Thank you for your time.” He turned to leave.

The douche dad, as Damien labeled him in his head, piped up. “Can you tell me what this is about?”

Damien considered for a moment to walk out of there without saying anything, just to make Mr. Weeds sweat. But no one deserves a gruesome death like Joe and Bettany. “I would advise that you stay away from any of the students from Phillip’s old school.”

“Huh? Oh, that’s no problem. My kids go to Clover Hill High, anyway.”

Of course they would attend an exclusive private one. Damien couldn’t keep from grimacing. It was a good thing Mr. Weeds wouldn’t be able to see his expression. Not trusting his voice, he nodded and walked out for there.

***

The next house he pulled up to was a stark contrast to the one he had just visited. Its shutters were closed, but loose boards hung from the side. A gutter had half fallen down, and large chunks of paint had peeled off, giving the impression of a scarred face.

He picked his way through the overgrown weed garden and stepped on to the porch with care, noting where the wooden planks have softened. The appearances matched the story Mr. Weeds painted — a woman who had long stopped caring about much else other than justice for her son.

Who was now a ghost was now a twice murderer.

Damien knocked on the door and heard something skitter across the floor on the other side. But no one came. He tried again.

“Are you looking for Virginia?”

He turned toward the voice. A woman peered over a low white picketed fence, immaculately maintained. She wore gardening clothes and a sun hat despite the late afternoon and in one hand, she held a little trowel. Wisps of silvery hair framed a face wrinkled by time.

“Yeah.” Damien stepped off the porch to close the distance between them.

“She’s gone to the school again, the poor dear.” She let out a long whoosh of air, shaking her head. “I told her it was dangerous, with that gas leak the news said but she wouldn’t listen.”

The crime scene. Shit. Had someone called her there? Emily? She wasn’t home, and neither were her parents.

Wait. Calm down. Don’t rush or you’ll get into worse trouble.

“How did she look?”

She gave him an odd stare and cocked her head back, but then leaned forward, lowering her voice. Damien could read delight in the ways her eyes lit up, ready to share gossip.

“Muttering to herself, a little vapid, if you ask me. But Virginia’s lost her son many years ago, and she’s never gotten over it, the poor dear.”

Yes. He got that already. It was as if the woman’s entire identity was grief and nothing else. “Was there anything different from usual?”

She tapped her lips, then shook her head. “Oh, just a bit touched like always.”

He nodded once. “Thank you for your help.” He half turned, itching to run to the car and make the long drive back.

“You’re welcome dear. Who should I say called when Virginia gets home?” the elder lady yelled out after him.

Damien only held a hand up and waved as he walked as fast as he could, withdrawing without revealing that he was hurrying. He knew her type. If he said he was a federal agent, the entire neighborhood would know in five minutes tops.

He needed to get to Ms. Hanley. Stat.

***

“Hi.” Finn neared the edge of the well kept lawn. Her instinct told her that no one was in the decrepit house, and this was a long shot. But she still hadn’t been able to catch up to her partner, and long shots were all she had left.

“Oh, hello dear!” The old lady took her time getting up from where she kneeled next to the flower bed, pressing a hand against the small of her back for support. 

Finn kept a tight rein on her impatience and waited until she stood upright.

The woman’s eyes widened, and recognition flickered in those clear depths to show that her mind was still as sharp as a tack despite her age. 

“Are you looking for Virginia too?”

Finn recognized the name as Phillip’s mother and the owner of the house half falling apart. She shook her head. “I was wondering if you may have seen a very tall guy, dark hair, blue eyes?”

“Oh, that nice man.” She flapped her hand in the air. “He came asking about Virginia and I told him she had headed to that school.”

Fuck. Finn glanced at the horizon. There wasn’t much time before the sun would start setting. Didn’t Jackson tell her it got too dangerous to be investigating at night?

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied, though her mind was no longer present. Instead, she was plotting the most direct route to school.

The woman hummed, drawing her back to the moment at hand.

“Thank you for your help. I should…” Finn pointed to her hatchback.

“Oh, of course. Best of luck.”

It wasn’t until she returned to the car that she had time to wonder just why the old lady had wished her good luck in the first place.