I walked down the steps and followed the path, ducking under the clothes and walking toward a little vegetable patch. There were big, fat pumpkins looking ready for the picking, and potatoes and carrots gone wild.
Obviously, this garden had been abandoned long before Mr. Young had died.
The path continued on, and so did I. Trees lined either side, most bearing fruit in various degrees of ripeness. Unfortunately, the birds had gotten to most of it, leaving it half-eaten and rotten.
The path ended in a little sitting area. A large liquid amber tree provided shade, and under this sat a little table and two chairs. To one side, a rose bed that was a riot of color, filling the air with sweet summery scents.
To the other side, a grave.
I’d finally found Mrs. Young.
Chapter 7
I squatted down at the foot of the grave and studied the sturdy little cross that bore her name. It was roughly made, but the painted letters were clear and strong, and the date underneath said she’d been dead for only a couple of weeks.
But the flowers that lay on top of it were fresh. Someone was coming here to look after her grave—and to feed the dog—because he would have been dead by now if not.
I rose and pressed the com-link in my ear, though given the distance from Melbourne, I wasn’t entirely sure they’d pick up my signal. The tracker part of the device could pick me up anywhere in Victoria, but the coms section wasn’t that strong.
“Hello, anyone listening?”
As expected, no answer came. I blew out a frustrated breath and walked back down the path, this time heading around the other side of the house. The chickens scattered, running for safety the minute I appeared, but the old dog remained indifferent.
I squatted down beside him and scratched his head. He was little more than skin and bone, his dark, curly coat matted and unkempt. Someone might have been coming back to tend to him, but they weren’t doing a particularly good job.
I rose and continued on to the car. After scrabbling through my purse, I found my cell and dialed the Directorate. Joy of joys, Sal answered.
“What can I do for you, wolf girl?”
“You want to get a team out to my current location? I found a grave, and need an ID on the body within.”
“Is this case related and urgent? Because we’re stretched.”
“Yes to both. Sorry, Sal, but we’ve a psycho on the loose and we need to stop him. Knowing who that body is will put us one step closer to that aim.” Simply because knowing whether it was Mrs. Young or not would give us some idea where not to look next.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Which was her way of saying she’d do it. “Could you also get the RSPCA out? There’s a dog here that doesn’t look as if he’s seen a feed for a while, and a few chickens that need to be rounded up.”
“Someone abandoned their dog? Bastards. I’ll get right onto it.”
I raised my eyebrows at the anger in her voice. Sal was a dog lover? Who’d have thought? “Thanks, Sal.”
I hung up then headed back to the dog, filling up the bowl so he at least had fresh water. Then I grabbed a long bit of wood and went back inside the house.
My skin began to burn the minute I neared that room. I broke off a bit of the wood and jammed it under the door, just to ensure no one could rush up and slam it shut behind me. Then, using the rest of the stake, I pushed the netting aside far enough to step inside. Even though the silver never touched my skin, the room still felt like hell. I was just too sensitive to the metal to be able to stay here too long.
I walked over to the desk and opened the laptop. It wasn’t connected to power and the batteries were flat. I reached underneath and shoved the cord into the socket, so the cleanup team could have a look at it when they got here. Then I shuffled through the magazines and books, but they were all computer and mechanical in style, and didn’t tell me much about the man who had been reading them. Under the bed I could see glimpses of nudes, so obviously his parents hadn’t been recalcitrant in catering to his needs—but again, it begged the question, why lock him up? If he hadn’t been crazy beforehand, he sure as hell would have been after thirty years of being locked up in a room filled with silver.
There were several newspapers near the bed, so I walked over and picked them up. Three of them had an article that had been circled in red ink.
The first was about a mugging in Brighton, and I couldn’t see any connection to the murders until I read halfway and saw the mention of the eyewitness.
Ivan.
The second—and oldest of them—was about a charity fund-raiser, and came with a photo of several men and women. One of those women was circled—Cherry Barnes.
The third article was tiny, little more than a rave about the hot new chef working at Hot Rabbit. Underneath was a picture of the owner—a big, balding man named Ron Cowden. A big, red-ink cross had been scrawled across his heart.
It wasn’t one of the men who had already died. It was someone new.
Shit.
Papers in hand, I carefully edged back through the netting, then dropped the wood and ran to the car and the phone.
“What now?” Sal said, in a long-suffering voice.
“I need an urgent trace on a man named Ron Cowden. He apparently owns a restaurant called Hot Rabbit.”
“Why?”
Sometimes, this woman could be a real pain in the ass. Which is why she did it—she knew it bugged me. She could be as big a bitch as me when she wanted to be. “If he’s not dead already, he could be the next victim of our invisible vampire.”
“Vampires aren’t—”
“This one is,” I cut in. I glanced at my watch. I’d better get moving, otherwise I was going to be late for my party. “Let me know if you find him. And we might have to bring him in if you track him down.”
“It shouldn’t be too hard, but I’ll let Jack know extra accommodation might be needed.”
“While you’re talking to Jack, let him know that Cherry Barnes is probably a victim of the invisible vampire.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.”
I hung up again, then got back into the car and headed home. Rhoan wasn’t there, and neither were the school photos from Liander. I grabbed the phone and gave Liander a call.
“Hey,” he said, “you missed a great lunch.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Can I ask you a question about the photo?”
“Yep. Fire away.”
“Was there a Ron Cowden in it?”
He paused, and paper rustled in the background. “Nope. There’s a Jake Cowden, though.”
“Could he have been a brother?”
“Maybe. I didn’t really have much to do with him.”
“Did he have much to do with that bad crowd you mentioned?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He was a fairly quiet kid. Kept mostly to himself.”
Well, there goes that possible connection. “What about Ivan Lang, Cherry Barnes, or a Denny someone?”
“Denny someone?” Amusement ran through his tones.
“Sorry, I actually don’t know his last name.” And I hadn’t yet even checked out the police report.
“There’s a Denny Spalding in the photo, if that helps. And the other two, as well. Though, of course, there’s no guarantee that these three are the ones you’re looking for.”
“You know anything about them?”
“Cherry and Denny, no, but Ivan was fixated on vampires. Said he wanted to take the ceremony and become one, one day.”
“He did take the ceremony, but unfortunately, someone cut off his head and let him burn in sunlight.”
“Well, that wasn’t very nice of them.” He paused, and must have taken a drink, because I heard him swallow. “He wasn’t a member of the gang, either. But he was one of the few friends Jake Cowden had.”