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“Pretty sure I do,” I said then, with a wry smile, added, “Welcome to the madhouse.” With that, I launched into the story, doing my best to hit the high points and the pertinent details. Idris’s captivity with the Mraztur and his transfer to Earth with Katashi. My first encounter with Bryce and Paul at the warehouse that held a valve node. Bryce taking a bullet for Paul, and Mzatal saving his life. Farouche’s ability to make people do his bidding through implanted fear or adoration. His involvement with Katashi, the Mraztur, and Rhyzkahl. Human trafficking.
And, finally, the big fight at the plantation, where I stood by and watched while Bryce Thatcher executed James Macklin Farouche.
Pellini listened with quiet reserve. When I finished, he tipped his head back to examine a spot high on the wall behind me. “If you’d turned Farouche over to the legal system,” he said after a moment, “he would’ve used that fear-love ability of his to get all the charges dropped and walk free.” He dropped his eyes to mine again. “The only other option would’ve been to take him captive. That wasn’t feasible from a logistics standpoint or with the risk of Farouche influencing you in the process.”
“You nailed it,” I said. “Bryce made a choice—the right one, in my opinion—and executed Farouche. Soon after that, Bryce Thatcher disappeared forever.” Pellini opened his mouth to speak, but I forged ahead. “He had a brief stay in the demon realm that included facial reconstruction and new fingerprints,” I paused for dramatic effect, “and returned yesterday as Bryce Taggart.”
To my surprise Pellini let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “That’s fucking hysterical.”
Not exactly the reaction I’d expected. “Um. Why?”
He shoved out of the chair with a grunt and retreated to the counter. “Bryce isn’t really a common name, and after I met him the night of the barbeque, I got suspicious. Witnesses had him at the plantation that night, and Boudreaux had that police sketch of you. I put two and two together, y’know? So I did a quick check on my phone of police photos of Bryce Thatcher.” He snorted. “Didn’t look a fucking thing like the man who gave me a hamburger, and I let it go.”
“You have good instincts,” I said, honestly impressed that he’d made the connection and followed up on it.
“I have my moments,” he said then shook his head. “Hitman hamburgers. Damn.”
“You needed to know about Bryce and his past if you’re going to be part of this team.” I sighed. “I know what it means to come to terms with being a cop and rubbing elbows with a hitman.” It was one thing for him to accept that Bryce killed a man who needed killing. But coming to terms with Bryce’s background was a different story, and I didn’t know what to do if Pellini couldn’t handle it. “Is this going to be a problem for you?”
“Nah, it’s fine,” he said without conviction. His jaw and mouth worked as he tried to choose his words, but then he shook his head and slashed the air in a stop-everything gesture. “No. Shit. I need more time to get my head around it.”
While not an ideal response, it wasn’t rejection either. I also understood why he couldn’t come right out and say, Yeah, I’m cool. “Take a day or two to think things over,” I said. “All I ask is that you not act on the information in that time.”
“I can do that,” he said. He gestured to the newspaper. “How does everything you’ve told me tie in with the victim?”
“Jerry Steiner was the driver when I was kidnapped in place of the real Amaryllis Castlebrook. He was also a key assailant in Amber Gavin’s murder and rape, and I’m fucking positive he’s the perp in this.”
A teeth-baring smile curved Pellini’s mouth. “I would fucking love to see him nailed to the goddamn wall.”
“You and me both,” I said in vehement agreement. “Maybe you can tell Boudreaux the sketch reminds you of Steiner. He could do a photo lineup with that asshole’s picture in it for Tim and the victim. See what pops.”
He snorted. “You almost sound like a detective.”
“Really?” I tilted my head and offered him a mock-puzzled look. “You know how detectives operate?”
“Nah, I just watch cop shows.” But then he sobered. “What about your part in all this? The Sheriff’s Office considers you a person of interest in the Farouche murder, and you ducked out pretty damn quick when O’Connor called earlier. You getting pressured?”
I grimaced. “I wasn’t too worried when all he had was a crappy police sketch to tie me to the scene,” I said. Fortunately the one photo of me was too blurry to be used as evidence. “But it seems O’Connor now has a witness who saw me leaving the scene with Bryce after the shooting. He’s threatening to arrest me for Principal to Murder unless I spill my guts.”
His mouth twisted. “Interesting that a witness decided to come forward at this point,” he said. “Especially with information that directly incriminates you.”
“Isn’t it though?” I scowled. “I know Katashi and his people are behind it. Getting me arrested is a damn good way to fuck with us.”
“And there’s not much you can do,” he said.
“This is usually when I resort to chocolate.”
“Makes as much sense as anything else.”
Chapter 19
The only chocolate in the house was chocolate milk mix, but that was better than nothing. I stirred up
a double-strong glassful, then proceeded to the dining room with my chocolate milk, my guns, and my cleaning kit. Pellini entered a few minutes later with his own guns. I spread an old blanket over the table, and we settled in for a nice homey gun-cleaning party.
By the time Idris and Bryce arrived, Pellini and I had our handguns stripped down to component parts and were going to town with solvent and bore brushes. Bryce joined us with his backup piece—a compact Glock 26 9mm—along with a Sig Sauer P227 Zack had left at the house. Bryce’s former primary weapon was a Glock 27 that currently rested at the bottom of Bayou Deschamps—stripped, filed, and dumped after he killed Farouche with it. I’d offered him use of the Sig since he needed a second gun, and I knew damn well Zack wasn’t the type to mind.
Idris stepped into the dining room. His gaze traveled over the variety of lethal hardware spread out on the table, then he plopped into a chair and retrieved a whetstone from his messenger bag. As I glanced over with interest, he pulled a folding knife from his belt and opened it one-handed. It was a sleek tactical knife with a black handle and a beveled blade, lovely and deadly in a perfect melding of form and function. It probably served as his ritual knife as well as other necessary uses, I decided as I watched him sharpen the steel’s edge. After several precise strokes of the whetstone, he tested the blade on a piece of paper. It parted with a whisper, like silk against a razor.
