Set the Dark on Fire (7 page)

“Right,” he said, pulling his backpack on as he stood. He may be young, and easily bruised, but he’d never been dense. “Tell Juan Carlos I said hi, will you?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling too brightly.

He paused on his way out, and she held her breath, afraid he would be so selfless as to extend her his friendship.
If you ever just want to talk …
he’d say, and her façade would crumble.

Fortunately for her, pride won out over nobility, and he left without another word.

Dylan kicked an aluminum can out of his way as he headed back down the gravel road, moonlight and self-loathing his only companions.

He would never understand women.

His own mother had been diaphanous and distant, a pale, pretty mystery. He’d given up trying to figure her out, or even capture her attention, at a very young age. She’d rarely ventured from the confines of her room or the safety of her daydreams. When faced with harsh reality, she only retreated further.

He hadn’t even been able to count on her in an emergency. When he was seven, he’d fallen from a tree in the backyard and broken his arm. He’d run to her bedroom, screaming, his arm hanging at an odd angle by his side. She’d patted him on the head and told him an obscure fairy tale. They didn’t have phone service at the time, because she’d forgotten to pay the bill, and he hurt too much to walk down to the Martinez place.

He remembered sitting on the front step for what seemed like hours, snot-nosed and teary-eyed, until Shay came home from school.

His sister had mothered him more than Lilah over the years, but now they were more like strangers than siblings. Shay said she cared about him, but she spent most of her time at work. She said she was proud of him, but she paid more attention to him when he was in trouble. She was pleased by his grades and she came to his big games, but they never talked about anything important. It was like they were stuck in limbo, refusing to discuss the past, unable to relate to each other in the present, and afraid to speculate on the future.

Shay was the closest person in the world to him, but he still found her impossible to read. Why didn’t women just say what they meant?

Although Dylan could solve the most complicated quadratic equations, he couldn’t figure out, for the life of him, what Angel Martinez was thinking.

She said she was sorry he’d fought with Chad over her, and then brushed her lips over his abraded knuckles like what he’d done had turned her on. She said she didn’t want a boyfriend, but when he kissed her, she kissed him back. She told him not to take off any of her clothes, but she hadn’t been shy about helping him out of his.

She said he was like a kid brother to her, but she’d moaned and dug her fingernails into his shoulders when he’d moved against her.

That last part had been exquisite. He’d stripped down to his basketball shorts and she’d been soft and pliant beneath him, mouth open, legs spread. A few more minutes and he probably would have embarrassed himself.

If Angel didn’t like him, not even a little bit, why had she let him do that? Had she been toying with him, getting him all revved up for fun?

Maybe his friends were right. Maybe she was a tease.

In her bedroom just now, she’d been giving him the same sultry looks as last night, and he’d been almost certain she wanted him to kiss her again. Then she’d torn his heart out of his chest and stomped on it. And although she smiled at him before he walked away, he could have sworn she was about to cry.

Like she was the one who was devastated instead of him.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as he approached his driveway. The house was dark now, so Shay was probably asleep. Good. This morning she’d been too rushed to give him a talk about the birds and the bees, but he knew one was coming.

Jesus. She’d probably show him an educational video.
Lions in Love
, or some shit.

Groaning, he rubbed his hand over his face. His dad was a total loser, almost as bad as his mom, but he hadn’t shirked out on all of his duties as a parent. The day Dylan came home with blood on his face from the fight with Juan Carlos, the old man sat him down for a talk. Dylan spilled the whole story, including the part about watching Angel in the shower and his powerful experience in the oak trees after.

Rather than reprimanding Dylan for being a Peeping Tom, his dad had smiled and clapped him on the back. Along with a bunch of outdated sex advice, he’d given Dylan a stack of old
Playboys
and told him to have at it.

Not all of his dad’s pointers were worthless, now that he thought about it.

Hank Phillips was a “make love not war” kind of guy, and Dylan rolled his eyes when his dad talked too much hippie crap, but he did say one thing that stuck: don’t force it. He’d stressed that women’s bodies were gifts, not prizes.
Hers to give, not yours to take
.

Which was one of the main reasons Dylan had intervened when Travis and Chad had been hassling Angel last night.

Scowling, because his friends were idiots, he used his key to unlock the front door and went straight to his bedroom. Normally he raided the fridge as soon as he came home, but tonight he wasn’t hungry. He shed his outer clothes and climbed into bed, vowing to put Angel Martinez out of his mind for good.

It wasn’t like there weren’t any other pretty girls in Tenaja Falls.

He liked Jennie Heinz a lot. She had a great body and decent taste in music. So what if she giggled over her bad grades and bragged about getting stoned? No one was perfect. And, let’s face it, he wasn’t that interested in her brain.

Dylan decided he would try to talk to her on Monday. But it was Angel’s face he pictured, not Jennie’s, in the vulnerable moment before he drifted off to sleep.

6

Luke’s fourth day as interim sheriff started out much the same as the previous three. He hadn’t slept well in his jailhouse-style digs at the firehouse. A couple of wet-behind-the-ears Explorer Scouts made runny eggs, muddy coffee, and a lot of superfluous noise.

It was clear that the firefighters-in-training didn’t mean any harm, but if Luke heard any more questions about Vegas or jokes about showgirls, he’d lose it. Had he ever been that young and stupid? He couldn’t remember.

By the time Luke got to the station Deputy Snell was already there, sitting at his desk reading the newspaper. Even more surprising, Luke smelled fresh coffee, a better blend than the stuff he’d choked down earlier.

Luke was instantly wary. “Who made this?” he asked, gesturing with the carafe.

Garrett didn’t look up. “Me.”

Figuring it couldn’t be any worse than the muck at the firehouse, Luke poured himself a cup and retreated to the safety of his office. He and Garrett hadn’t engaged in a lot of “getting to know you” chitchat, and that suited Luke just fine.

He had a lot of work to do, none of which he trusted Garrett with. Picturing the look of devastation on Liliana Montes’s face when he broke the bad news, Luke picked up the phone to call the medical examiner. Accident or not, he had a mystery to solve. Moving a dead body wasn’t as stiff a crime as murder, but it was damned peculiar.

Dr. Hoyt’s receptionist put him right through. “Sheriff Meza?” he inquired, his accent vaguely… Transylvanian. “What can I do for you?”

Luke flipped through the autopsy photos he’d taken himself and printed out last night. “I have a few questions if you have the time.”

“Of course.”

“As far as the marks on her back … well, I’m no expert, but a lot of people out here drive trucks.” This morning, he’d glanced into the corrugated bed of his pickup and a lightbulb had gone off inside his head. “Could she have been lying on a bed liner?”

“I’m almost certain she was,” Dr. Hoyt admitted. “But I’ve only seen marks like that once before, so I can’t be positive.”

“How long would it take to make them? I’ve got witnesses who saw her alive at midnight.” He consulted a copy of the preliminary report. “You’ve estimated time of death between 1:00 and 2:00 A.M.”

“Lividity sets in quickly. She could have visible markings after an hour or less of resting in one place.”

“Is there a medical explanation for the lack of blood? There was a small amount on her clothing, but none at the scene.”

“Yes. In this case, death was instantaneous. When the heart stops beating, blood stops pumping. She probably never knew what hit her.”

Luke leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling, as if more answers might be written there. “Is there any possibility she was killed by something other than a lion?”

“No,” Dr. Hoyt said. “The amount of pressure needed to sever a spinal cord is immense. The size of the bite, depth of penetration, the space between punctures …” He trailed off. “Even with a piece of specialized equipment, these things cannot be duplicated.”

“Haven’t you seen
Shark Week?”
Luke countered, only half-joking. “They made a set of robotic jaws that could bite through steel.”

Dr. Hoyt’s laugh reminded Luke of the Count from
Sesame Street
. “Yes, well, you speak of technology that does not exist, with regards to predatory cats. And the cost of such machinery would be prohibitive. A million-dollar hoax, if you will.”

“She was moved,” Luke said quietly, any trace of humor gone.

“Indeed she was, Sheriff. But unless you can find a mountain lion with criminal intent, she was not murdered.”

“What about sexual assault? The mortician said you took DNA samples.”

“Only as a matter of procedure. I found no evidence of rape, although she’d had intercourse, possibly with more than one partner, within twenty-four hours of the attack. The swabs from the wounds on the neck will be analyzed and compared with the sample from the lion at UC Davis to make a positive ID. The others will be filed.”

Luke thanked him for his time and hung up, unable to shake the feeling that all was not what it seemed.

Deciding it was time for another hunting expedition, he pushed away from his desk. Like a lion stalking prey, he strode out of his office and zeroed in on Garrett. If he wasn’t mistaken, his deputy had spiffed up his work area and his appearance. Other than a few folded sections of the Sunday paper, the surface of his desk was clear. His uniform was neatly pressed and Luke could count the comb lines in his slick black hair.

Garrett Snell was not a handsome man, with his considerable bulk and gloomy, deep-set eyes, but he had a distinct presence. He reminded Luke of a carnival ringmaster. There was a flair about him, as if he were performing, rather than being.

It also occurred to Luke that Deputy Snell wanted to make a better impression today than he had before, and Luke thought he knew why.

He pulled up a chair in front of Garrett’s desk and stretched out his legs. When the deputy merely shot him a questioning glance over the top of his newspaper, Luke made a show of studying his fingernails. Two could play at this game. “How long have you been involved with Yesenia?”

Garrett’s reaction was quite genuine, for once. His forehead turned red and his nostrils flared. “Who says I was?”

Luke manufactured a bored look. “Come on, Garrett. You pretended not to know her.”

“I didn’t get close enough to make a positive ID.”

He made an impatient gesture, waving away Garrett’s denials. “I don’t care what you do off duty. I’m only asking because the medical examiner took DNA samples and I don’t want any surprises.”

Garrett blinked several times, as if he were calculating the probability of getting caught. “My wife just had a baby,” he muttered, unable to meet Luke’s eyes. “I went with Yesenia to take the edge off.”

“When?”

“A week ago.”

Luke nodded pleasantly, stifling the urge to sink his fist into Garrett’s doughy face. Funny, his deputy had been less repulsive as a liar than he was as a cheat, and Luke regretted having delved into his slimy personal business. “Have you ever investigated a homicide?”

Garrett’s mouth fell open. “No.”

“Me, either.”

“You don’t think—”

“Nah. But why would anyone move her body?”

Something sparked in Garrett’s sunken eyes, a hint of intelligence Luke hadn’t realized was there. He decided to overlook the fact that his deputy was a disloyal creep. Devious minds were often great investigative tools.

“They’re building a new casino on Los Coyotes,” Garrett said.

“The Indian reservation?”

“Yeah. No offense, but those guys don’t like a lot of interference from the outside. And a body found on federal land always brings in the FBI.”

Luke squinted at Garrett, wondering if he should be offended. Shay Phillips had mentioned kids and illegal aliens. Now Indians were being thrown under the bus. “What does the casino have to do with anything?”

Garrett’s face became animated. “Well, there’s been this big controversy over environmental regulations. Something about wildlife and seasonal pools. The builders are supposed to be following codes, but if they don’t, the tribal leaders have the funds to pay off inspectors. And plenty of reasons not to want the feds poking around on the reservation, looking into their business practices.”

Ah, irony. His people had once been known for championing environmental causes. Luke couldn’t fault anyone for making a buck, and in California, Indian Gaming was making a lot of them, but he was so weary of cash, corruption, and casinos.

Still, Garrett’s idea was plausible. For a person to tamper with evidence, and open themselves up to a murder charge, there had to be a lot at stake.

“Okay,” he said, collecting his thoughts. He’d go over and visit the boys at Los Coyotes himself. Meanwhile, he wanted to ask Shay who else had been at the bar that night. A thrill raced through him at the thought of seeing her again, and it had nothing to do with investigative fervor. “The autopsy report hasn’t been released, but the media will be calling. Just say that we’re investigating the accident, refer them to the Department of Fish and Game, and make no comment.”

The light in Garrett’s eyes dulled. “Sure,” he said, flapping his newspaper.

Pleased by the exchange, Luke went back to his office. Before he spoke to Shay, he wanted to check up on Hamlet, so he rifled through the files on his desk until he found the number for the lab at UC Davis. A postgraduate student named Dr. Brenna answered. He sounded about fourteen.

“Did that lion have a broken tooth?” Luke asked.

Dr. Brenna made a lot of fumbling noises. “No sir. All of his teeth were intact.” More papers rustled. “Preliminary tests are negative for human blood or tissue. We found two partially digested rabbits among the stomach contents.” He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you shot the right lion?”

Luke sat up straight in his chair. “Didn’t he have a satellite tag?”

“Yessir. Subject 122, otherwise known as Dark Canyon’s Hamlet. According to the GPS, he was in the general vicinity of the victim. But these tests don’t add up.”

“Run them again,” Luke ordered, although he wasn’t sure he had the authority to make such a request.

“We have, sir. Three times over. I need to notify the Department of Fish and Game, because it looks like your man-eater is still on the loose.”

Shay woke up late, stretching her arms over her head. Remembering the miserable birthday she’d had the day before, she buried her face in the pillow and groaned.

She’d love to drift back to sleep, or laze about in bed for a few more minutes, but memories of her forward behavior with Luke Meza assaulted her, stripping her continence and making her squirm with discomfort.

Kicking off the blankets with more force than was necessary, she climbed out of bed. Dylan had left early this morning for basketball practice, as usual. Normally she used the quiet time to catch up on reading or indulge in a leisurely bubble bath, but having been away all day yesterday, she had a pile of housework waiting for her.

Rubbing her eyes, she bypassed the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and headed straight for the coffee -maker. After a few bolstering cups, and a hearty breakfast, her spirits revived. She wasn’t the type to mope about, especially over a man. Concern for Dylan and sorrow over Hamlet were understandable, but getting all twisted up in knots because of one momentary lapse of reason with Luke was an exercise in futility.

So what if he didn’t like her? This wasn’t junior high. They probably wouldn’t have to work together very often, and he’d move on soon enough. He was only an interim sheriff after all. No more important, or irreplaceable, than your average, everyday temp.

Welcoming the distraction of mindless chores, Shay turned on the portable radio as she tidied up the kitchen and living room. While she waited for a load of laundry to dry, she decided to treat herself to some basic upkeep. Last night she’d showered before bed, but she’d been too tired to shave her legs. Maybe it was vain, but it stuck in her craw that Luke Meza had seen her at her worst, with wet clothes, tangled hair, and stubbly legs.

Humming along with the music, she carried a couple of buckets of warm water out to the old washtub on the back porch. Shaving in a tub outside wasn’t quite as relaxing as a long bubble bath, but it held a simple, rustic appeal. Shay’s mother had often scrubbed her down outdoors, weather permitting, and it was shaping up to be a fine morning. Not too hot, the perfect mix of wind and sun.

After grabbing a towel, her razor, and some all-natural soap, she settled into a chair on the patio and sank her feet into the tub of warm water, shivering with pleasure.

She’d only finished one leg when the doorbell rang. Muttering a string of mild curses, she hopped up to answer it, forgetting her towel on the porch and dripping a trail of water across the living room.

It was Luke.

Shay stifled a gasp of dismay and did quick inventory of her appearance. Dylan’s ratty old boxers were too short, barely peeking out from under the hem of her roomy blue T-shirt. Raising a hand to her hair, she was relieved to find it brushed and clean, tied back from her face in a simple ponytail.

It could have been worse, she supposed. After yesterday, anything was an improvement.

Luke looked even better than she remembered, which didn’t seem fair or even possible. His jaw was smooth and chiseled, his uniform military crisp. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she said back, feeling soapy water drip between her toes.

“Is this a bad time?”

Shay’s heart skipped, and she had to remind herself that this was the man who’d treated her like leftover cake. “It’s fine,” she said, stepping aside to let him in.

When she didn’t offer him a seat, they stared at each other for a long, awkward moment. He looked away first. “Whose birthday was it?” he asked, his eyes resting on the deflating balloons she hadn’t the heart to throw away yet.

“Mine.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

He knew better than to say something lame like
happy birthday
. Instead he asked, “How old are you?”