Fastening the Grave (Kali James Book 1) Page 2

  I didn’t bother correcting her. If I was the only one seeing him, it was better not to draw attention to it.

  “Let me,” she said, more than a little smug, as she reached for the knob on the red door.

  That door was the first in a string of red doors, all of which led to what looked like the exact same room, causing us to wander back and forth, trying to find our way out. This is what mice must feel like racing through their laboratory mazes. I looked over my shoulder again before trying the next knob. The last thing I wanted to do was stick around long enough that my stalker caught up with us again.

  “Okay, there has to be a frickin’ way outta here.” I tamped down my panic and forced myself to slow down. Think. “There must be several rooms that look alike, so we keep wandering back and forth through identical rooms and getting confused.”

  “You want to split up? We could each try a door and see if we end up in the same room,” Emma suggested, her voice cheerful.

  I didn’t want to split up, but I also didn’t want to be permanent residents. “All right. You go that way.” I pointed to the door I thought was furthest away from the swamp room. “Just go in far enough that you can still hear me across the room, okay? If you see anything weird…”

  “It’s a haunted house. It’s gonna be weird.” She headed for the door.

  I opened the other door just enough to peek into the room. “Same room over here,” I called, still able to see Emma.

  “Here, too,” she called back.

  “Okay, head through the next one and see if you end up back in the swamp room. If you do, come my way. If not, stay put, and I’ll come to you.”

  The next door opened before I reached it, the frat boys rushing through.

  “Woah,” the one in a White Sox hat said, close enough that I nearly got a contact drunk from the alcohol on his breath.

  I ignored him and pivoted, rushing back to Emma.

  Emma’s room was well-lit and remarkably normal, even if it was outdated. A pink tufted armchair sat next to an absurdly small footstool, and an ornate Queen Anne table was piled with old books. The walls were covered with portraits that would have made the couple in American Gothic look downright friendly. I watched the pictures, half expecting their eyes to follow me. But the eyes didn’t move, and no one reached out from a gilded frame.

  Emma scanned the room. “This may be the scariest room in the whole house.”

  “The pictures?”

  “God, no.” Emma pointed at the floral wallpaper and shuddered. “The decor. It reminds me of my great-aunt’s house.”

  “Terrifying,” I agreed, trying to keep the agitation out of my voice. “Let’s get out of here.” I looked over my shoulder to make sure she was following.

  As soon as we stepped into the next room, the light went out, and the sound system shut off, as if someone tripped a breaker. She wouldn’t. After a minute, the light came back on, along with the sound. “Who Let the Dogs Out” blared through the room at full volume.

  “Oh shit, Riley,” I laughed, looking at Emma, who had her hand over her mouth. “I think that’s our cue to get out of here.”

  Someone must have reached the sound system because the song stopped abruptly, and the normal soundtrack came back on. The room we had entered was styled like a medieval dungeon, with old metal bars lining the left side of the room. Hooks hung from the ceiling, high enough that we wouldn’t walk into them but low enough to cast shadows.

  The only light in the room came from a single bulb dangling above a rolling table that held an array of instruments for torture. Blood covered the rusty saws, pliers, and knives.

  A mannequin was shackled to the wall across the room. At least I hoped for his sake that it was a mannequin because standing in that position for hours would be torture itself. His clothes were in tatters, and his arms were secured in metal cuffs high above his head. Between the low light and the distance, it was impossible to tell for sure whether he was a live actor or a prop, but he didn’t move as I made my way deeper into the room. I kept my eyes fixed in his direction and edged to the other side of the room, just in case.

  “Stay to the right,” I told Emma.

  The faint light didn’t reach the edges of the room, so I put my arms out in front of me. I made my way to the wall furthest away from the shackled man. I was almost there when I stumbled on something solid. My slick flats slid out from under me, proving they weren’t so sensible after all. It was too dark to see what had tripped me, but there had been enough give to tell me it wasn’t the furniture.

  “You okay?” Emma asked from behind me.

  “Yeah, hold up. I fell on something.” Feeling around, I made out the solid shape of a person—a bent arm, long torso, and matted hair that clung to my fingertips. The body was warm, which ruled out a dummy. I sat up and waited for the person to twitch to life, for a strong hand to grasp my ankle where it rested against the prone body. I prepared for a jump scare, but it never came.

  “What is it?” Emma asked.

  Against the rules or not, I fished my cell phone out of my pocket. I pressed the flashlight app and held the phone in front of me, spilling a beam of light across the man lying at my feet. The thick red blood that covered the man’s throat and pooled next to his body looked pretty damn real. If this was fake, it was the best makeup job I had ever seen, bar none.

  I heard Emma’s scream, but my attention remained riveted on the face above that savaged neck, the man’s soft, brown eyes vacant. I pulled my hands back and quickly scooted away from his body, leaving a trail of blood in my wake.

  CHAPTER 2

  I was still on the floor when the group of frat brothers piled into the room behind us, stopping short when they spotted the body.

  “Dude.”

  Several of them pulled out their own cell phones, aiming the lights at the body on the floor. As they waved their phones around to get a better look, the lights glinted off a penny. The coin gave me something to focus on besides the dead man next to it. It was untouched by the blood pooling around it. Before I could stop myself, I reached for it, my bloodied fingers muting the shine.

  The guy in a White Sox cap almost knocked Emma over as he jostled for position. “He looks real.”

  “He is real,” I assured him.

  The kid in the cap laughed, clearly thinking I was pulling his leg. “No way.”

  I kept my eyes focused on White Sox because when I looked at the dead man, I couldn’t help but see my sister Claire’s brown eyes staring back at me. Although she’d been dead for years, the image of her lying broken on the pavement, her beautiful eyes flat with death, was one I still carried with me. I swallowed.

  This was not Claire, I reminded myself. I could fall apart later; right now, I was the only thing standing between the crime scene and a pack of drunk college kids angling for morbid selfies. Whoever this guy was, his chance for justice would likely depend on the evidence found within a few feet of where he was killed. I shifted, putting myself between them and the body. The frat guy’s buddies, who must have had a little less to drink, were more cautious as they peered around me to get a good look.

  “Is that fake blood?” the skinny one in the back asked hopefully.

  White Sox stepped past me before I could stop him, nudging the victim’s leg with the toe of his sandal. He wobbled as he tried to hold his balance.

  “Get back!” I snapped, throwing my arm out to block him from trying it again. When he opened his mouth to argue, I did the only thing I could think of to shut him up. I dragged my finger through the blood pooling on the floor and brought it to my nose. The telltale metallic scent made my stomach flip flop.

  “Sick.” He stumbled backward into his friends. “Did you just smell that fake blood?”

  I wiped my finger on my stomach, ignoring the dark smudge it left. It wasn’t like I’d be wearing this outfit again. “Sorry to break it to you, but that’s not fake blood.”

  At that, several of them grimaced. One bolted
for the door he’d just come through. Emma looked at me like I was Jack the Ripper.

  I’d worry about my inability to fit in later; for now, I did my best to channel my father.

  “Look, this is a crime scene. Stop before you walk all over the evidence.” I used my best no-nonsense voice. Growing up in a family of cops did, in fact, come in handy at times.

  Of course, instead of clearing out the room as I had hoped, my announcement made the men lean over me to get a better look. Apparently, the pinup girl outfit undermined whatever authority I managed to put in my tone.

  The guys were still craning over each other when Bennie arrived with a giant of a man. Even in the half-light, the man looked dangerous, but if the security t-shirt was any indication, he was on staff at Howl.

  “Kali?” Bennie reached for my hand and pulled me to my feet, quickly taking stock of the scene. “Are you okay?” To his credit, he didn’t flinch at the touch of my blood-covered palm against his.

  “I’m good.” I wasn’t good, but my well-being wasn’t actually important at the moment.

  Bennie turned his attention to Emma, who was still pressing her body tightly to the wall across the room, as far away from the dead man, and from me, as she could get.

  “Come on, darling,” Bennie coaxed. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

  Bennie put himself between Emma and the body. He discretely wiped his palm on the back of his camouflaged fatigues before placing his hand on her arm and leading her out of the room.

  The man with Bennie was all business. He flipped on a light switch that was concealed mid-wall, and light flooded the room, giving me a clear view of him. Unlike Bennie, this man didn’t need any padding to look intimidating. He was tall, well over six feet, and to borrow my dad’s favorite phrase, built like a brick shithouse. His hair was shaved close to his scalp, the kind of purposely bald that pro wrestlers and bikers favored. On his face, he sported a five o’clock shadow that did nothing to soften his features. His expression was more intimidating than his size; his dark eyebrows flatlined over hard eyes and a clenched jaw.

  “Get back,” he barked at the group, and for him, the men scrambled. He glanced at me, then pulled a walkie talkie off his belt. “Ruby, it’s Craig. Call the cops. We’ve got a dead body in the green room.” He said it as if finding a dead body was a normal occurrence. “And lock down the building. No one leaves until they get here.”

  After a long pause, a woman’s voice answered. “You got it, boss.”

  I would’ve thought a dead body would cause a little more panic. I studied Craig, mostly because looking at him meant I didn’t have to look at a dead man. If Craig’s stance didn’t out his military background, the scuffed black combat boots would have been a giveaway. Probably not his first rodeo.

  White Sox edged toward the door, but Craig sidestepped to block the exit. “Everyone is staying put until the cops get here,” he growled. To the walkie talkie, he ordered, “Cut the sound.” This time, the only response was the abrupt stop of the house’s sound-effect system. Once it was off, I heard staff in the next room directing bystanders away from the door. No one else came in as we waited.

  Now that Craig had control over the room, I took a few steps away from the body, trying not to look too closely at the dead man’s face. Instead, I studied my palms, the blood on them drying. I tried wiping them on my skirt, but it was already slick with blood from where I’d fallen. I covered my mouth with the back of my hand and closed my eyes.

  “You okay?” Craig’s voice was close, even though I hadn’t heard him cross the room. He moved quietly for such a large man.

  “Yeah,” I lied. “I’m okay.” I forced my eyes open, looking at his face, which hadn’t softened at all.

  He gave me a quick once over, taking in the bloodbath that was my clothes and skin, before looking directly into my eyes for several seconds. He probably thought I’d go into shock or dissolve into hysterics at any moment. And okay, my hands might be shaking a bit, but I wasn’t going to fall apart.

  “Do you know him?” I gestured toward the man at our feet, trying to redirect Craig’s attention.

  It was hard to gauge a man’s height when he lay sprawled on the floor, but the dead man looked tall. He wore simple clothing: tan dockers, a maroon short-sleeved polo, and loafers, all of which screamed, “I work in an office.” I knew a lot of blue-collar workers, and not one of them wore loafers. Or maroon shirts.

  The man’s hair was ruddy brown and short, and he had a neatly trimmed beard that glinted red under the bright fluorescent lights. If I’d had to guess, I’d have put him in his mid to late thirties. No wedding ring. I hoped that meant he wasn’t a father with two toddlers and a young wife waiting at home for him.

  Craig leaned over the man to examine his throat, blood still seeping from the wound. “Jack Gates,” Craig said, as if I should know who that was. Craig was all business again, looking over the victim before turning his attention to the room.

  Now that I was standing, I could see bloody weapons scattered on the other side of the body. From the empty spaces on the torture cart across the room, it wasn’t hard to imagine where they came from. I could make out a pair of steel shears, an assortment of serrated knives, and vise grips. I didn’t dwell on which was the most likely murder weapon. Instead, I watched as Craig quickly walked the perimeter, eyes searching the floor and walls. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but his facial expression didn’t invite questions.

  One of the guys cleared his throat. “Who’s Jack Gates?”

  Craig didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he bent down to get a closer look at the soles of the dead man’s shoes. He was careful not to step in the blood or to touch anything.

  “Reporter for The Kansas City Star,” Craig finally answered.

  Before anyone could ask another question, the distant sound of police sirens closing in registered. We all waited for the cops and the long interview that was sure to follow. On TV, police questioning might take ten minutes, but in real life, there was a whole lot more repeating yourself. It’d be after midnight before I got to sleep, assuming, that is, I could sleep at all. Finally, the low murmur of voices started making their way to us.

  The uniformed officer who stepped into the room was young; he barely looked old enough to drive. “Is this the crime scene?” he asked.

  Given the man lying in a pool of his own blood, it was an absurd question. Not that the officer had bothered to look down. The possibility of quick justice for Jack Gates wasn’t looking particularly promising.

  Before the officer could say anything else, a second man came into the room. This one was older, with graying hair and a weathered face. He gave the younger officer a disapproving glance before walking over to where Craig, the four remaining frat brothers, and I all stood staring pointedly down at the body.

  “My name is Detective Woodson, and I’m with the Kansas City homicide unit,” he said, flashing a badge. “And this is Officer…”

  “Dodd,” the younger officer said, standing up a little straighter.

  “Officer Dodd here is going to help secure the room until our coroner and forensic crew get here.”

  Officer Dodd nodded but made no move to secure anything.

  “While we wait, I’d like to ask you all some questions,” Detective Woodson said.

  Craig nodded and stepped forward, extending his hand. “Craig Ward.”

  They shook hands as if they were meeting at a community fundraiser rather than standing over a murder victim.

  “I’m the head of security here at Howl.” Craig said.

  Both officers looked expectantly toward me. “Kali James.” I kept my blood-soaked handshakes to myself.

  “And you?” Woodson asked the group of men, scribbling down everyone’s names in his pocket-sized tablet. “Do any of you know this man?” he asked.

  “I do,” Craig said. “His name is Jack Gates. He is, he was, a reporter for The Kansas City Star.”

  “How well
did you know him?” Woodson asked.

  “Not well. He did a feature on Howl about a month ago.” Craig gestured to the dead man. “We gave him complimentary tickets as a thank you for the good publicity.”

  Some thank you.

  Woodson turned his attention to Gates, hunching down to examine the body. “Who found the victim?”

  “I did, but I didn’t see him until after I tripped over his body.” I held up my bloody hands.

  “You didn’t see him?” Dodd asked, his voice skeptical.

  “It was dark.”

  “It is a haunted house,” Craig reminded the officers.

  “Yes, of course,” Woodson said.

  Dodd scowled at me. He probably thought the scowling made people take him more seriously. Unfortunately for Officer Dodd, it made him look constipated. Not that I was about to share that little observation with the group.

  Dodd took a step toward me. “And you,” he said, emphasizing the “you” like an accusation. “How well did you know the man?”

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  White Sox opened his mouth to say something, but Detective Woodson held up his hand. “Was there anyone with you?”

  “My friend Emma came in right after I did.” I pointed at the four frat brothers. “And they came in a couple minutes after us.”

  “Where is Emma?” Woodson asked.

  “One of the staff walked her outside to get some fresh air,” Craig answered. “I can take you to her next.”

  “Why did you come into this room?” Dodd asked Craig. It was the first good question he’d posed since arriving.

  Craig pointed toward the frat brothers. “One of their friends came out the front screaming about a dead man.”

  Woodson nodded and turned back to me. “Was there anyone else in the room when you got here?”

  “No,” I said.

  “If it was dark, how could you be sure?” Woodson asked.

  “If someone was in here,” I countered, “they couldn’t have left the room without us noticing the door opening. It was dark in here.”