Flame in the Dark (Soulwood #3)(39)

The main house was spectacular—three stories with a round turret-like thing on one side, river rock and brick construction, added on to several times, remodeled often. The garage held six cars. The drive and walkways were made of river pebbles in white concrete. I walked around back to see a lap pool on the left, a hot tub on the right, and a much bigger, heated pool in the middle, with water slides, swing ropes, and brightly colored inner tubes floating on top. The tennis court was on the far side of the house.

The guesthouse was on the river side of the pools, but situated to not affect the view from the house, and looked exactly as described, with three small bedrooms and a big, open living area. Security lights illuminated the grounds; more light poured out through the windows. It looked as if Justin and family were living in the guesthouse.

The landscaping was stunning, with all the grasses at different heights and the outer windbreaks made of fir trees in irregular rows: Douglas, Fraser, noble, and balsam, some native to Tennessee and some not, but scattered to look like a natural fir forest. The grasses were equally local and imported and of varying heights. It was pretty, but it was the kind of landscaping that made security a nightmare. The firs and grasses gave privacy, but also provided cover for an attacker. Or an attacking army.

“Yes. There’s a big difference. Have the K9 dogs been over the property?”

“Just left. You gonna tell me what we’re looking for?” There was just enough tone to imply that I might be keeping secrets, the kind that could get a fellow officer killed.

No one had said not to talk to cops, but I knew to be circumspect. And cautious. “Our attacker is human-shaped. Impossible to see clearly on security cameras, so some kind of magical shielding might be involved. Or not. He—assuming a male from the way he moves—may or may not be working alone. But there is a possibility that he kills vegetation. Maybe not all the time. Maybe it’s coincidence.”

“But you don’t think so,” he pressed.

I shrugged. I had been by the Holloways’ home before I came here, and also by the burned hulk of the Tollivers’ house. There were trails of dead vegetation in both places, along with crime scene tape and private security guards walking the perimeters, avoiding the dead zones by instinct. They just looked wrong.

On the way to the senator’s home, I had also taken a roundabout way, across the Gay Street Bridge and motoring down West Jackson Avenue and South Central. There were dead plants all up and down the street. I had reported it to Rick, who had fallen silent. We had no idea what we were dealing with, and if we didn’t know, then we didn’t want to scare the public or the local law with guesses or half-baked theories. Yet.

“Did the dogs spot anything?” I asked.

“They acted odd. I don’t know much about dogs, but one, a springer, kept sitting down. That mean anything?”

“Probably,” I said. “Maybe it’ll be in the morning reports.”

“How does he kill plants? Herbicide?”

I stared around at the grasses and the trees. So far as I could tell, nothing was dead here. I sighed and looked at the officer. “I haven’t been told anything about the methodology.” That wasn’t a lie but it wasn’t the truth either. I knew the shooter wasn’t using herbicide. “If I learn anything pertinent that’s more than just guesswork, I’ll share if they let me. You’ll look for dead plants and tell me if you see anything odd. Deal?”

The officer mulled that over, while checking the perimeter. His eyes moved back and forth, avoiding the lighted areas that might decrease his night vision. Former military. I could tell without asking. He swiveled back to me. “Deal.”

I extended my hand. “Nell Ingram.” Not Special Agent Ingram. Just my name. That made it personal.

“Phil Joss.” We shook.

“I need to read the property with the psy-meter. Okay by you?”

“Have at it, lady.” He walked away, a heavy man swaddled in a heavy coat, on protection detail on a cold night. I wondered if anyone would bring us coffee.

? ? ?

Not sure how Phil Joss felt about paranormals, I decided to hide my lack of humanity. I placed my blanket on the brown lawn, opened the psy-meter 2.0, which I had already calibrated, and placed my cell phone beside it, open to take notes. I held the machine’s wand up to the north. And was hit with a spike, strong, potent. Level four shot high, redlining. I leaped to my feet, attracting Phil’s attention. And then the spike of energy was gone.

“Ingram?” he asked as he sprinted over, his weapon in one hand, held down at his side.

I shook my head and held the wand to the north again. Nothing. Not a blessed thing. I checked to the east, south, and west. Nothing. “I don’t know. I got a spike, but it’s gone. I’m going to walk around the property. Take measurements all over.”

“Hang on. I’ll get someone to go with you. He’s a rookie, but he’s better than nothing.” Phil’s tone suggested that the rookie was not much better than nothing, but he was what we had. He removed his radio and said, “Culpepper. To my twenty.”

“Roger that. On my way.”

Less than a minute later, a tall rangy kid with a shock of hair the color of new pennies walked up, covering a lot of ground with each step. “Joss. What’s up?”

“This is Ingram. PsyLED. She needs cover while she takes paranormal readings. You stay with her and keep watch. Try to keep her from getting shot. And yourself too.” The last part sounded like an afterthought.