I parked close to HQ’s door, spotting JoJo’s and FireWind’s cars and a dozen rusted-out vehicles I didn’t recognize. The sound of music on the air made me look up to see the third-floor windows were open, the origination of the music. There were two ways onto the third floor: through the second floor and from the back of the building. Cigarette smoke and dust floated around the building from the back, along with multilingual shouting—English, Spanish, and something that sounded like Croatian or Russian, not that I’d heard those last languages except in movies. A loud thump sounded as something heavy hit the earth. I didn’t have a hard hat so I didn’t go around back to see.
Carrying my gear and the potted tree, I went inside, climbed the stairs, and stopped at my cubby. I set down my plant, checked its soil for moisture content, locked away my weapon, and put my lunch in the break room. I also made a fresh pot of coffee the instant I braved the main conference room, which had been taken over by JoJo Jones, Unit Eighteen’s computer guru and former (mostly) hacker, who was staring at her screens. The long table was covered with printed pages, file folders, and electronic equipment. There were multiple screens of various sizes on the walls. The lights were dim, the blinds closed. JoJowas sitting in her chair, her big braided bun tilted forward, her silver earrings catching the light of the screens, her body unmoving, fingers still. She didn’t seem to be breathing and I wasn’t sure if she had died in that position until she blinked.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she demanded without looking my way.
I nearly jumped at the sound of her voice, but took my seat and opened my tablet. “Connelly died because she didn’t get to a null room,” I said quietly. “No one in authority understood that they had to, that theycould, bring patients to HQ. Communication broke down.”
Jo cursed succinctly and forcefully. “I told the person who answered the desk on the paranormal wing. I’ve got the name here.” Jo started punching keys, looking for the file she wanted. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t left HQ and her computers since the case began. She was wearing heavy yoga pants, a thick black headband, an oversized sweatshirt, and no makeup. “Here it is. The woman’s name was Marielle Higgins. I told her about the null room. She said she would relay the information to the doctor. Itoldher!”
“Jo. The failure to communicate was on them, not us,” I said, trying to comfort.
“Not being at fault isnotgoing to bring anyone back from the dead,” she snarled. She looked sleep-deprived and as snarly as she sounded.
“No. It isn’t,” I said.
“Give me something I can use toprovehow this crime works, something I can then track down to a practitioner, something other than a trigger, a trigger that the North Nashville coven can’t figure out and never heard ofat all.” JoJo snarled the last two words.
I said, “Stella Mae lived in a commune-like place, back five years ago, before she became a star.”
JoJo slowly turned her head to me and breathed out the words, “That’s what you meant with that list? I thought it was people she had in common...” Her eyes focused on the air above my head. “I thought it was misspelled and... Ohhh. The missing years.”
“Beg pardon?”
“There are missing years in Stella’s public and personal datastream. If she was in a commune, she may have eschewed everything modern. That would make sense.”
I said, “Yeah. She might have.”
“Where? Who?” Jo asked.
“I got no idea. But according to the lists provided by the late-night sandwich makers, Bevie Rhoden and Elisa Yhall, one of her band members might have been part of the commune. Thomas Langer.”
“Bevie Rhoden and Elisa Yhall.” Jo ran a search for the photos of the lists. “Your files from the scene are well organized,” she muttered, her fingers now flying over the keys. “Commune? It’s a place to start. Okay. Let’s find the hidden records.”
I went back to work organizing the unit’s case files and interrogation results. It was both interesting and mind-numbingly boring. Hours passed. I drank a lot of coffee. I prepared a lunch of salad greens from my garden and microwaved leftover stew and cut up a hunk of homemade bread for Jo and me. I put a portion for FireWind in the fridge. I took one call from Mud and Esther in which they whispered angrily at one another during church service while I listened. I hung up, midscream. They knew to text something specific if it was a real emergency. Of course, they also knew better than to call me at work over a sisters’ spat.
“I got it. I got it, I got it,” JoJo said, breaking the afternoon’s doldrums. “I got the commune. Holy sh... oot. I got it. And...”
“And what?” I asked when she didn’t continue, a small smile on my face from her revised cussing.
“No wonder Stella Mae’s PR people whitewashed her background.” She stopped, but her fingers were still moving and the screens overhead were flashing to life with what looked like posts from a defunct online site dedicated to... sex. With photos... I stared.
Jo said, “The typical country music fan would hate to learn that their pure Christian singing star was in bed with a bunch of people. I count six heads. No, seven. It’s all out of focus, which is probably a good thing. I do not need to see what they are doing.”
“Mmmm...” My ability to speak failed me. I dragged my eyes away, got up, and walked down the hall to the locker room. And inside. I used the facilities. Washed my hands. Severaltimes. I fixed my hair. Pulled a tiny leaf. I dawdled. I dillydallied. I might have loitered.
I had grown up in a polygamous church where everything in life revolved around marriage, concubinage, and the punishment and abuse of women and girl-children. But sex, sex like I had seen in the photographs, was not something that was ever discussed. Notever. Churchwomen were chaste by modern standards. They had a husband. The lights went out. The husband crawled into a wife’s bed. There were relations. The husband went to sleep, snoring. That was it. The next night he was with a different woman, doing the same thing in her bed. What I had seen in the photographs...
Did modern townie men wantthat? DidOccamwant that?
Fromme?
I walked back into the hallway, let the locker room door close, and came to a stop. The big boss was standing in front of me, leaning against the wall, partially blocking the way. Not totally, not enough to activate my “trapped” instinct, my fight instinct, but more just the size of his body, his broad shoulders, his six-foot-three-plus inches of height. I caught my breath.
FireWind’s arms were crossed, his long, beautiful black hair down and shimmering across one shoulder. He looked at ease. His expression blank. Or, no. It was... maybe faintly kind? As kind as he could manage.
“What?” I demanded.
His lips smiled ever so slightly. “I saw the images. Are you all right?” He dropped his arms and tucked his fingers into the pockets of his black pants, much like the way Rick stood. It was an odd gesture, deliberate, as if to demonstrate peaceful intents and try to get me to relax. “I understand how the photographs might affect you. Strike you.”
