Sam Harlan (Book 3): Damned Cold (5 page)

Jameson nodded slowly. “You’ve had a rough time of it, Samuel. It’s hardened your heart.” He raised his hand to shush me before I could speak. “I’m not saying you throw caution to the wind, but surely you must see this young woman is struggling with the loss of her mother. If it is as you say it is, and there is nothing more to it, what can it hurt to look deeper?”

The Father had a point. My anger evaporated as I took a seat and grabbed the back of the pew in front of me, squeezing the oak until my fingers hurt. “I said I’d speak with the aunt, and I will.”

Father Mosley emerged from the office. “Dawn is going home. It’s late, but I think there’s still time to speak with Mrs. Rexford.”

“Maybe that will explain everything,” I said. “This is probably just making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Mosley frowned. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Jameson believes you. Callie believes you. That’s enough.”

Mosley gave me a look usually reserved for the gum found on the bottom of a shoe. “You’re a strange man.”

“I’m something you’re not used to dealing with,” I said.

“And what would
that
be?” Mosley asked, raising an eyebrow.

I shrugged and said, “A killer.”

The Rexfords’ home
was the last on the east side of town, past the towering grain elevators. I pulled the Chevy in behind Mosley, who was driving Jameson’s Nissan. Neatly trimmed hedgerows lined the Rexfords’ property until giving way to the barren corn and soybean fields beyond.

The house was an older two-story that was closer to rustic farmhouse than Victorian or Queen Anne. While similar to the other houses around it, the Rexfords’ was in much better repair. The darkness made it hard to tell whether it was white or robin’s-egg blue, but there was no mistaking the gaily decorated front porch.

Christmas lights still twinkled around the porch’s railings and posts. Tufts of green vines snaked between them, punctuated by streamers of silver that danced merrily in the breeze. A massive wreath of twigs and vines hung from the front door. Giant pine cones were almost buried in the decoration, but I could smell the sweet and spicy hints of holly and pine.

It was an odor that I always equated with the candles my dad used to burn during the holidays, but here the scent was almost a physical thing that scratched at the back of my throat.

I followed Mosley and Callie up the wooden steps and whispered, “That’s a little overpowering, isn’t it?”

Callie turned up her nose and murmured, “It
is
strong.”

“Mrs. Rexford likes to celebrate Christmas,” Mosley said. “She’s taken down most of her lawn ornaments for the season, but she will leave
these
until March.”

I smiled. “People are the same no matter where you go. Father? This is your show. They know you.”

Mosley nodded, took a deep breath, and rang the doorbell.

There was the sound of footsteps within, then the door opened and a man in his late fifties or early sixties peered out. He was a little shorter than me, with the beginnings of a pot belly, and gray hair thin enough that you could see scalp. A pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses rested on the end of his nose, and he was dressed casually in a red-and-green sweater over a button-up shirt with khaki pants that ended well above his leather slippers.

“Father Mosley?” the man asked. The light above the door blazed to life and the man opened the door wider staring at us. “What are you doing here?”

“Sorry to bother you, Gene,” Mosley said. “Do you have a moment?”

There was a moment of hesitation before the man nodded and beckoned us in. “Sure, Father. Of course.”

He led us through a hallway into a large dining room, motioning for us to sit at the table. The room was lined with wooden shelves filled with candles and ceramic figurines of children kissing, holding hands, or lazing about next to signs that declared they had gone fishing. There were so many that I could barely see the peach wallpaper behind them.

We took the offered chairs, and Father Mosley pointed to us and said, “These are my friends, Callie and Sam. Is Jodie here? This would be easier to explain if she were here, too.”

The man’s brow furrowed, but before he could speak, a woman entered the room and said, “Father Mosley?”

She was approximately the same age as the man but wore a black sweatshirt and matching sweatpants. Her hair was brown, with frosted highlights, and while she wasn’t fat by any means, she
was
pleasingly plump. Her cheekbones were soft, her eyes a vibrant brown, and she bore an uncanny resemblance to Dawn.

“Jodie,” Mosley said. “I’ve brought some friends. We’d like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.”

Jodie Rexford smiled warmly. “Of course, Father. What’s this about?”

“Dawn says her mom is missing,” Mosley said.

“Dawn?” Jodie said, frowning. “I can’t believe she came to you.” Her eyes flickered to Callie and then lingered on me before returning to Mosley. “Who are your friends?”

“This is Sam and Callie. They’re—” Mosley hesitated but recovered so quickly it was almost unnoticeable. “Private investigators.”

“Private investigators?” Jodie asked, her eyes widening. “Like on television?”

I had spent the last six weeks reading Internet articles about a vast array of things unknown to me, including learning about private investigators so that I could lie convincingly if needed. “We mostly investigate insurance claims,” I said, putting on my warmest smile. “Cheating spouses. Things like that.”

Jodie shook her head. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but Dorothy is on vacation.”

“Really?” Mosley asked. “Dawn is under the impression that she’s missing.”

“Why on earth would she think that?” Jodie asked. “Dorothy has left before.”

“She has?” I asked.

Jodie’s eyes focused on me and her expression darkened. “I’m sorry…”

“Sam Harlan,” I offered.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Harlan,” Jodie continued, “but I don’t know you.” She waved at Callie. “Or you. This is a family matter.”

“I don’t take it personally,” I said. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but Dorothy’s daughter is pretty freaked out. Perhaps if you spoke to her and reassured her that her mother has left before—”

“Dawn told us her mother
hasn’t
left before,” Callie said. “She thinks this is out of character.”

Gene Rexford cleared his throat. “Dawn doesn’t like to think about her mother having a … gentleman caller.”

Gene’s pained expression indicated he didn’t like to think of it, either. “I’m sure this can be cleared up if you just speak with your niece,” I said. “Surely you don’t want her spending the rest of her holiday thinking her mother ran away?”

Jodie nodded. “I’ll speak with her. She’s just going to have to accept that Dorothy has her own life.”

“Great,” I said. “You tell her where her mother went and when she’ll return and everything will be good.”

An expression crossed Jodie’s face so quickly that I almost missed it. Her pupils dilated just a fraction, and the corners of her eyes tightened. She didn’t like me pushing the issue, but it went beyond that. There was anger there, and a touch of fear.

“Of course,” Jodie said. She stood and nodded her head again. “Thank you for coming. I’ll take care of everything. Dawn won’t bother you again.”

Gene stood and offered Mosley his hand. “Thanks, Ethan. We appreciate it.” He smiled blandly and offered me his hand. “Mr. Harlan.”

I took his hand and shook it, and when I did, a shiver ran up my spine and the skin on my scalp tried to crawl its way off my head.

What the hell?

I released Gene’s hand and the sensation disappeared as quickly as it began. While I was busy trying to figure out if I had imagined it, Callie stood, smiled politely at Jodie, and stepped around the table, stopping next to me and waiting for me to move. I hesitated, rubbing my fingers together and thinking maybe it was a static discharge from the Rexfords’ carpet, then noticed Callie’s raised eyebrow. I gave her a small shake of my head and followed Mosley out of the house.

The Rexfords smiled and held the door for us as we left, but I caught the suspicious glance between them, then we were on the front porch in the crisp December air. Gene closed the door behind us and the smell of pine from the door wreath once again overpowered my senses.

* * *

Callie cleared her throat as we passed the grain elevator. “What do you think?”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that Dorothy Hamm is shacked up with a man and Dawn doesn’t want to acknowledge it.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Callie said. “They say Dorothy has done this before, but that contradicts Dawn’s story.”

I stopped at the stop sign as Father Mosley turned left onto US-105. “I don’t know what to say. I didn’t feel
anything
like a vampire. The Rexfords spoke without hesitation. It wasn’t like the Mendozas.”

I followed Mosley south and turned left into the gravel parking space south of the church. The streetlight on the corner lit Callie’s yearning face. She was looking for anything that might help Dawn, but I still had no proof of a vampire. “I’m not saying Mosley didn’t feel something, but there was no sense of mind tampering.”

“There
is
something going on,” Callie said. “Something unusual. I can tell when you’re hiding something.”

“They
were
a little suspicious,” I admitted. “And pissed, in case you didn’t notice. Two strangers show up with a priest and give them the third degree based on Dawn’s ramblings? Hell, I’d be pissed, too.”

Callie winced. “That’s
all
you sensed?”

“Well…”

“What?” Callie demanded.

“Nothing like a vampire,” I said. “I just felt … a creepy-crawly feeling. Kinda weird, actually.”

“Your skin crawled?” Callie asked. She frowned and I could almost see her mental gears spinning. “That
could
be a sign of the supernatural.”

“It
could
,” I admitted, “or it could be nothing. Damn it, Callie, I said I would talk to the aunt and I did.”

Callie squinted at me. “You’re not going to help.”

“In point of fact,” I said, “I
would
help.
If
it was a vampire.” I opened the truck door. “Coming?”

Callie sighed and got out, slamming the truck door with just a little too much force. Father Mosley stood next to the Nissan, tapping his foot. We followed him into the church office.

Jameson jumped from the couch and wiped his hands against his jeans. “How did it go?”

Mosley started to speak, then turned to me. “I’d like your assessment.”

“I really don’t have one,” I said.

“You’re just going to turn that poor girl away?” Mosley demanded.

I didn’t answer, but motioned for everyone to take a seat. “Callie knows the signs. If you really want someone’s opinion, ask for hers.”

Mosley and Jameson turned their attention to Callie, who sat up straight in her chair, her jaw clenched so tightly that the tendons in her neck stood out like cords. “There were no signs of vampiric influence,” she finally said.

“So that’s it?” Mosley asked, his face screwing up in anger. “You spoke to Dawn’s aunt for five minutes and then you wash your hands of it?”

Jameson was watching me intently. He didn’t appear happy about our conclusion. I was about to speak, to tell the priest that we were returning to Iowa, but my mind flashed back to that spark of unease I’d felt at the Rexfords’ house.

The crawling sensation against my scalp had unnerved me more than I had let on to Callie.

Everyone was waiting for me to speak. I started to say that we
were
going to wash our hands of it, but changed my mind and said, “We’ll stay the night and talk to Dawn again tomorrow.
After
we get some sleep.”

Jameson smiled. There was a thoughtfulness behind his eyes like he was seeing more of me than I was of him. Callie squinted at me, but she finally nodded to Mosley. “If there’s anything to be found, Sam
will
find it.”

I bit my lip. I wasn’t sure which concerned me more, my sudden change of heart or Callie’s unwavering confidence. “It’s getting late,” I said. “We need to find a place to stay for the night.”

“There’s nowhere to stay in Bement,” Jameson said. He stood and handed me a sheet of paper. “We booked a room at the Best Western in Monticello. It’s on the north side, out by the interstate. The directions are on the back of your reservation.”

I took the paper, glanced at it, then looked up. “Only one room?”

“The hotel was booked,” Jameson said with a pained look. “This was the only room available. As it is, I’ll be sleeping here on the couch.”

Moseley cleared his throat. “I would have offered my apartment, but it’s smaller than this office.”

I glanced at Callie. Before the change, I would never have noticed the hint of rose in her cheeks. “It’s fine. We’ll work it out.”

I almost missed the tremble in Callie’s hand.

* * *

I wheeled the Chevy into the surprisingly packed hotel parking lot. “Whoa,” I said.

“People are visiting their family for the new year,” Callie observed.

There was a touch of something in her voice, but I let it go. The building was newish, and the lobby only looked five or ten years out of date instead of the twenty I expected. We checked in at the front desk, posing as brother and sister, then made our way to the room on the southeast side. Most of the rooms were dark, the occupants already fast asleep. Except for the hum of the heaters turning on and off, the building was quiet.

Callie carried our duffel bag into the room and tossed it on the bed, then curled up her nose and asked, “Why do hotels
always
smell moldy?”

I smiled, then scanned the room. There was a chair and a small couch that wasn’t much bigger than a loveseat. A short black lacquered dresser sat against the east wall, and a door on the north led to the hard-tiled bathroom. “Why do hotels always have the same beige wallpaper?” I asked.

Callie snorted. She opened the duffel bag and tossed me my ditty bag. Mine contained a safety razor, deodorant, shampoo, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. Callie’s contained whatever toiletries she deemed necessary for travel. The duffel bag held a change of clothes for each of us, but nestled under the clothes was a large silver cross that Callie placed on the floor in front of the door. She mumbled a few words, then nodded with satisfaction.