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He stopped. I could feel his excitement buzzing down the line.
"DNA ... 1983 ..." I said. "Shit ... 1983. The year both Ginny and Brandi were born. Our cult leader is Brandi's father, isn't he?"
"Not Brandi's."
"Ginny's?"
"Yep. Seems Paula Thompson wasn't exactly being honest when she said there was no connection between her daughter and Koppel. The cops never noticed it because, obviously, they were only holding the DNA profiles to compare to a potential suspect's, not crossreferencing--"
My phone blipped, telling me I had an incoming text. It was from Michael.
Lne bsy. Fnd s/t. Cody. Imp. Anyway u can come? 384 SW 3rd Ave. B careful.
"Michael just texted me," I said to Jesse. "He found something and he'd like me over there. I'm guessing it's that delivery Cody had scheduled for tonight."
"Right. You go, then."
I hung up, called Michael, and got a message that the line was busy-probably as he tried to call me again. When it went to voice mail, I left a message, then I grabbed my jacket and sneakers and hurried out.
twenty-one
Southwest 3rd Avenue. I knew exactly where the street was, because I'd wanted to go there tonight. Cody's office was on that road, in a generic office block, with a medical and dental clinic on the first floor. Built to service the sawmill, I bet. Give workers a convenient place for daytime appointments and give contract and auxiliary companies a convenient place for their offices. Now though, every entry on the communal front sign was taped over, every decal sign on the windows partly scratched away.
Just past that lone office building, there were a couple of abandoned warehouses. The address Michael had sent led to one.
I killed the engine three buildings back and coasted to a stop. Nothing says "company" like the roar of a motorcycle on an empty road. All was quiet, though. I sat there, helmet off, listening. I cast a sensing spell. Nothing.
I rolled the bike alongside the other warehouse and parked it in the shadows. Then I called Michael again. The phone went straight to voice mail. I switched to text and messaged him a simple I'm here.
No answer.
I crept along the building, then stopped. More listening. More looking. More casting. All negative. I double-checked the address.
Had he even meant Columbus? In this part of the country 3rd Avenue was a common street name. Maybe it was Battle Ground or Vancouver.
But we knew Cody was expecting a delivery. Could it be a coincidence that Michael's address led me to abandoned warehouses only doors away from Cody's office? I doubted it. Besides, Michael thought I didn't have my bike back. It would be tough enough for me to get out here, let alone to another town.
Still ... Abandoned warehouse. Deserted road. Urgent late-night text message. Can't contact the sender. Yep, paranoia was warranted.
I cast a blur spell and zipped to the rear of the warehouse. The door was unlocked. With my back to the wall, I eased it open and cast a fast sensing spell. Only the faint pulse of small heartbeats came back. Rats, cats, or other furry squatters.
Had Michael come and gone? If he had, why not text me again?
I cast a blur spell and slid inside. The windows were filthy and when the door closed behind me, the light went out. Damn it, I needed a flashlight. Everyone said I relied too much on my spells. They might have a point. I used the light ball. It was easy enough to extinguish in a hurry, and safer than stumbling in the dark.
As I stepped past the entrance, I caught a whiff of smoke. There was the acrid scent of burned paper, but something sweeter, too. My shoe sent a white tube rolling silently across the floor. Cigarette? I bent. No, a joint. Was that what I smelled? Yes, I know what pot smells like--never tried it, knowing drugs could do funky things with my powers. But the scent seemed sweeter. Spicier. Cloves?
I walked a few more steps and picked up another burning scent. Candles. I found one on the floor, as if it had been dropped. I picked it up. Still warm. The sides were rough. I brought the light ball down lower and saw faint scratches. Symbols.
The hair on my neck prickled. A ritual? Was this what Michael found? Or, worse, stumbled on?
I walked slower as I scanned the floor for chalk marks. I found disturbances in a thick layer of dust that seemed to serve the same purpose. Ritual markings. Like the chalk mark in the crime-scene photos, they were faint. Easily overlooked.
Someone had definitely conducted a ritual here tonight.
I cast the sensing spell again. Still negative for people. I had my cell on vibrate, but I checked it anyway. No calls. No texts.
As I made my way deeper into the building, the dust on the floor thickened and I could make out footprints; lots of scuff marks at first, then clear impressions in spots where no one had ventured in a while. Men's loafers. Like Michael's.
