Page 6 of His to Haunt

“A boy and a girl, Sekhmet and…Baset. I can never tell them apart,” says Stacy. Well, then. I wish I could stay longer, but…”

Leaving Mom, I walk Stacy outside, inhaling the rain-promising air. The wind has blown all the fog away, replaced by incoming storm clouds. The wind intensifies, rocking the ferns above.

I follow her down the steps.

“What was the deal with getting pics of the basement, Stacy?”

“Oh…the photographer friend I brought got spooked and quit on me. Swore that a ghost was following her when we stepped inside the house. I had planned to return and get the pics myself but was stopped by Zand, who advised against it. The basement is in ill repair. You know, the Byron’s go all the way back—so he can answer any questions you have. Especially about the grounds.”

Something occurs to me now. I hadn’t put it together until this moment.

“Is Zand…the groundskeeper?”

“Oh, yes. Sorry, I thought I’d mentioned that.”

So, the cousin who contested the will is the groundskeeper. Duh. I guess I figured the cousin was a relative looking out for anold employee who lived on the property or something. But it’s all the same guy.Zand Byron.

What a name.

Outsider

Zand

Code two-thousand-two.

Hit and Run - injury or death.

I slow my vehicle, analyzing the scene. Right place at the right time, with no accident report leading me here today. His lifeless form sprawled into a dough-like shape on the asphalt, battered and rolled, sprinkled with black specks.

That’s probably his half-burned convertible Lamborghini crumpled along the roadside, compressed into a red lunch box with wheels—meals on wheels for the carrion.

I crack my window, glancing at the sky. Windy, with a probable chance of rain. So, I leave the extra lighting in the van, pulling out only my camera, and then flicking the light switch on before stepping closer to my subject.

He’s lying on his stomach, but his head and shoulder are twisted. Flown from the vehicle, then stopped by the weight of his blubber. Older looking than me, I’m guessing early thirties, blood slipping past his tongue, edging his lower lip before spilling over. I don’t need to check his wrist to know that his pulse is non-existent.

I squat down and sniff what’s hitting his chin—scented like the metallic tang of rust. Still oxygen-fresh enough that I pull the anticoagulant vial from my pocket, letting it fill, then quickly closing the lid before slipping the sample inside my leather jacket.

I toss my hair off my face, narrowing my eyes. Who is this guy? I don’t usually care unless the death seems sus. This one has me curious.

He is wearing an authentic-looking Patek Philippe watch. Even the fakes are costly. About thirty-k. Three-hundred-k for the real deal. If I were into throwing money at watches, I might acquire one myself. But I’d rather invest elsewhere.

One dress shoe on his foot. Fine clothes, high thread count suit—smoothly soft, form-fitted, and he’s oddly shaped, too. Stumpy in the legs, poochy in the gut, narrow shoulders for a man. But his fine threads hug him like a gently fitted glove. Custom specs to this degree are costly.

A car slowly passes, pausing with their phone to their ear as they scan the remnants of the accident. That would be the call to 911, which means I’ve got about seven minutes to finish this gig.

When the car leaves, I pull his wallet from his pocket, flipping through it until I see the scroll, gold double C’s. Lev Peters. VIP Member. A Crown Club card confirms my instincts. Considering his association with the known mafia haunt—which is spitting distance from this crash site, added to the proximity to the nearest police station—this scene is soon to become a media hotbed.

Quickening my pace, I hurry to get the needed photographs before the responders arrive.

Wonder if Lev’s brakes were tampered with. Either that, or he was run off the road. Or maybe both. Someone at the lodge will be talking about it if it matters enough.

Camera in hand, I crouch at his still-warm body, zooming through the lens on the bubbling drool of spit and blood. After a few seconds, I stand, panning out, filming the damaged vehicle and metal scraps lying about before zooming in on the dress shoe on the sidewalk.

I approach the car, confirming that it’s empty.

Lev drove alone, then crashed a few blocks from the club, where the road veers just near the cliffs. Good that he didn’t disappear down the hillside. I can only zoom so far, and I wouldn’t want to hassle with climbing down the rock-slide-prone cliffs.

Wilhelm Drive is notorious for sending bikers flying, their bodies crushed with boulders as they hit the bottom of the rock’s cliffs, remains swallowed by the salty sea.