Freaky Reapers (A Mystic Caravan Mystery Book 8) Read online

  Freaky Reapers

  A Mystic Caravan Mystery Book Eight

  Amanda M. Lee

  WinchesterShaw Publications

  Copyright © 2019 by Amanda M. Lee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  23. Twenty-Three

  24. Twenty-Four

  25. Twenty-Five

  26. Twenty-Six

  27. Twenty-Seven

  28. Twenty-Eight

  29. Twenty-Nine

  30. Thirty

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Books by Amanda M. Lee

  Prologue

  12 years ago

  It was the end of the world. Or, at least, the end of an era.

  That’s what I told myself as I stared at the body hanging from one of the antiquated Cass Corridor overpasses. It swayed back and forth in the biting wind. Its open eyes stared back at me. They saw nothing.

  I recognized him, of course. Noble. That probably wasn’t his real name, but it was his street name. He was homeless, like the rest of us, flitting from one part of town to the other. At night, we always ended up here unless there was an ongoing raid or turf war between the rival gangs. It was better to sleep with a group.

  Noble was older than us – and a little crazy, if you want to know the truth – but he was a good guy. He was shell-shocked. That’s what one of the others said. I think it was Hazy, but he was known for having his head in the clouds so I didn’t take what he said to heart. I went to the library once after a shower and a change of clothes. Unlike the others, I always wanted to look my best. I researched certain mental ailments. One of the women behind the help desk happily pitched in.

  I didn’t need to read her mind to know what she was thinking. She was afraid for me. She didn’t know me, didn’t know my name was Poet Parker and that I was completely on my own. She didn’t know my parents were dead and that I’d fled a foster home that had turned sideways. She did know I was on the street. She recognized that.

  She wanted to help. She wasn’t some do-gooder who got off on helping those less fortunate and then blabbing to everyone who would listen. She sensed something in me. She didn’t know that she was sensing it. She believed she simply had strong intuition. It was more than that. She was special. I recognized it in her because I was special, too.

  Of course, I was still on the street. A fat lot of good my “specialness” had done for me so far. I planned to turn my ability – I didn’t know what else to call it – into a money-making endeavor. I was still trying to figure out how.

  Anyway, the woman at the library wanted to help. She offered to buy me lunch and even call someone from the children’s services department to get me into a halfway house. I thanked her politely, said I was fine, and didn’t take her up on her offer of lunch. The information she provided, however, was illuminating.

  PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. After reading only one page on the entry I was certain that’s what Noble had. He’d served overseas. He talked about it constantly. He’d left the military before the Gulf War, but thought he should go back for one more tour to serve his country. That turned out to be his mistake.

  He was indeed shell-shocked. There was a diagnostic name for what he suffered. He needed help – medication even – but we couldn’t provide it, and he wouldn’t listen to our recommendations.

  So he self-medicated. We always knew where to find him. In the hottest days of summer, he liked to sleep on the beach at Belle Isle. When it wasn’t quite as warm, like now, he preferred bunking down in the Corridor. It wasn’t as chilly here because the wind was often blunted by the buildings.

  It didn’t matter now. He was clearly dead. The question was: How did he end up hanging from the overpass?

  “What is this?” I demanded, striding forward.

  The others were already gathered around the scene, some in awe and others in sadness. I understood their reactions. Seeing Noble hanging from the bridge was surreal … and then some.

  “What happened?” I stopped next to Hazy, who seemed lost in his own little world as he stared at the body. His eyes were red-rimmed and I knew he was high. He’d earned his nickname, after all. He was a little older than me – I put his age around twenty – and he’d been on the streets for at least two years. That’s all I knew about him other than the fact that he was relatively amiable but pretty much kept to himself.

  “Noble is dead,” Hazy replied, shaking his head. “I think he killed himself.”

  I thought of the troubled war veteran and the nights he spent screaming as nightmares chased him. I’d often wondered if he would eventually take his own life. Of course, he also swore he was going to get better and convince his family to take him back. He had hope … and most people with hope don’t commit suicide.

  “Are you sure?” I pressed. “He was fine when I saw him earlier. Er … I guess it was last night. He was fine.”

  “He’s not fine now, is he?” Hazy took a long toke on his homemade pipe. “That is just messed up.”

  That pretty much summed up the situation. “We need to get him down from there.” I started in the direction of the overpass embankment, a wild notion of climbing the hill and somehow finding the strength to cut Noble down flying through my head. A hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed my arm before I could make much headway. “What the … ?”

  I lashed out with my fist out of instinct. It’s always wise to punch first and ask questions later. Luckily for me, the man trying to get my attention through the sea of onlookers was used to me throwing punches, and he easily sidestepped my fist.

  “Shadow,” I muttered, letting out a shaky breath when I saw him. “What are you doing lurking like that?”

  Instead of being offended, Shadow looked amused. “Lurking? I see you’re still going down to the library once a week and learning everything you can.”

  The statement wasn’t derisive, but it rankled all the same. That library thing was a secret. Only a few people knew. “So what if I am?”

  He held his hands up in a placating manner. “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. I think it’s good.”

  Shadow was a biker who spent most of his time hanging at a bar around the corner. He occasionally came to the area to check on us. He only bothered because we patched him up after a particularly brutal fight outside the bar last year. Someone dumped him in our alley and we decided to see if we could save him. When he came to, he was confused. He was also sore.

  He stayed with us for more than a week. That’s how long he was in pain. Once he was on his feet again, he made sure to bring us decent food as often as he could manage and he checked on us at least once a day when he was in town. His attitude was vigilant – he constantly warned us if he’d heard rumo
rs about bad dudes hitting the area – and I often thought of him as our knight in shining armor. It didn’t hurt that he looked like a model more than a biker. I mean … he was ridiculously hot. I pegged his age in the twenties, but it was hard to tell.

  “I have to get him down.” I was adamant as I caught Shadow’s heavy gaze. “He can’t stay like that. It’s not right.”

  “It’s not,” Shadow agreed. “But you can’t cut him down. The cops will handle it.”

  I hated the notion of the police being the ones to help Noble. “He belongs to us.”

  Shadow sighed. “Kid, you’re not going to make it out here if you’re not careful. You can’t spend all your time worrying about others. You have to think about yourself first. You can’t help him.”

  “But … .”

  “No.” Shadow was firm as he shook his head. “If you touch the body and the cops decide it’s foul play, they might look at you as a suspect. They’ll arrest you … and Poet, you won’t do well in prison. You’re too soft.”

  I was positive there was an insult buried under that remark. “I’m not soft.”

  “You are.” His smile turned rueful. “You don’t belong out here, kid. You never have.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d said that to me. I knew it wouldn’t be the last. “Well, this is my home. Noble wasn’t exactly my friend because he said he hated all of us on a regular basis, but he was still one of us. It’s not right to leave him up there. Knowing the cops, it could take them days to get down here.”

  “I very much doubt it will take that long.” Shadow sounded sure of himself. “As for you and your little buddies, get out of here and spend the night someplace else.”

  “Why should we do that?”

  “Because the cops will question you otherwise, and I guarantee Hazy is holding. Groove over there, he’s got at least two weapons on him.”

  I followed his gaze and frowned at the gang leader holding court at the end of the narrow alley. Groove was known for saying little and his ruthlessness. People claimed he’d killed fifty people. I had no idea if that was true. It was certainly possible. I’d never seen him kill anyone, and he conducted business in this alley all the time. He let us stay because he said we were harmless and provided a natural cover and alarm should the cops come snooping. Nothing made for a better alert than the homeless scattering at the first hint of a patrol car. But even Groove wasn’t ballsy enough to hang around if the cops were going to flood the alley.

  “He already looks like he’s packing up,” I noted.

  “That’s because he’s smart,” Shadow said. “You’re smart, too. At least most of the time. You need to pack up Hazy and Creek and head out. Maybe go over to Hart Plaza for the night. If you sleep behind those trees to the east you should be out of the elements and away from any cops in the morning.”

  “I see you’ve given this some thought,” I said dryly.

  “Not really. But I think you should get out of here. The cops might try to pin a murder on one of you guys. You know how they are if you’re rootless and don’t have anyone to stand up for you.”

  I did indeed know how that often went down. “I don’t know where Creek is,” I admitted after a beat, chewing my chapped bottom lip as I looked around the alley uncertainly. “She’s supposed to meet me here, but she was doing something with Tawny.”

  Shadow jerked up his head and I didn’t miss the expression of fury that momentarily overtook his features. “What is she doing with Tawny?”

  A prostitute, Tawny worked the alley most days and made enough to rent a horrific flop two blocks away. It was so bad I thought sleeping on the street was preferable. Tawny always held it over our heads that she had a home, though. It wasn’t a great home and she didn’t own it, but it was a roof all the same.

  Most of us hadn’t had a roof over our heads in at least a year.

  I shrugged and shrank back at his dark tone. “I don’t know,” I replied, making a face. “It’s not my day to watch her. They said they had business.”

  “It better not be the business I think it is,” Shadow growled. “Creek is too young to start tricking. You tell her I said that.”

  Creek was my best friend. We were about the same age. She was a few months older, but we had a lot in common. I’d fled a potentially-abusive foster home. She’d fled her home because her mother’s boyfriend was starting to look at her in a certain way … and touch her in an even more inappropriate way. She was tough as iron, but she had a delicate streak. That didn’t mean she was opposed to doing what needed to be done.

  “I don’t think that’s her plan – for now,” I offered, frowning when my eyes fell on a familiar face. Junk, a local addict, quit using every morning and started again every evening. I gave him credit for his determination. He simply didn’t have the wherewithal to go through with it.

  Junk stood in the shadow of Noble’s body and gazed with slack-jawed awe. “He looks like an angel.”

  “Oh, geez.” Shadow pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “This can’t be happening. You guys need to get out of here.” He was firm, no-nonsense. “Go over to Hart Plaza. Find Creek, and take Junk and Hazy with you. Get some sleep. By the time you come back tomorrow, Noble will be gone. The police will take care of him.”

  That sounded unlikely given my dealings with the police. They were hardly ever helpful. “Shouldn’t we find a way to get in touch with his family?”

  Shadow shook his head. “The police will do that.”

  “The police won’t even try,” I countered. “They’ll put him in a pauper’s grave and forget all about him.”

  “That sucks, but … it is what it is. There’s nothing you can do for him.”

  “I just can’t believe he killed himself.” I felt sick to my stomach. “He was fine last night.”

  “I’m not sure he did kill himself.”

  Shadow’s statement caught me off guard. “W-what?”

  “I think it’s possible he got in the way of one of Groove’s henchmen or something,” he replied. “It’s also possible he got his hands on some bad heroin or something harder. I can’t be sure. I didn’t see him. But I don’t think he killed himself. The last time I saw him, he was feeling pretty good about things.”

  That’s how I felt. “Do you really think someone killed him?” That was worse than him committing suicide by a long shot. “If someone killed him, the cops won’t even look for a murderer, will they?”

  Shadow opened his mouth but didn’t immediately respond. I could practically see the gears in his mind churning. “Probably not,” he acknowledged finally. “There’s nothing you can do about that. You can’t stay here. You need to find another place to hunker down for the night.”

  He was adamant about it, so I guess he had reason. “Okay.” I jammed my hands in my pockets. “I’ll find Creek and take Junk and Hazy with me. This is all kinds of messed up.”

  “It is,” Shadow agreed without hesitation. “You guys need to keep yourselves safe. Stay together … and don’t let Creek turn tricks until I have a chance to talk to her. There has to be another way for her to make money.”

  “She doesn’t exactly have a very good skills set,” I reminded him. “She didn’t even make it through ninth grade. Who’s going to hire her?”

  “We’ll figure it out.” Shadow didn’t back down, instead making little shooing motions with his hands. “Be careful out there, Poet. Keep your friends close. Things are about to get crazy for a bit. It would be best if you didn’t get involved in what’s to come. Just … stay clear of it.”

  “I’ll try,” I yelled out to Junk and Hazy to get their attention. It wasn’t easy because they were both high and easily distracted, but eventually they trudged in the direction I indicated. I glanced back at Shadow when I hit the next street, frowning when I realized his eyes were on Noble. His expression was unreadable.

  I was so lost in thought I didn’t watch where I was going and barreled into a middle-aged man with salt-an
d-pepper hair and a curious smile. Out of habit, my hand automatically went for his wallet. I thought it would be an easy lift. If I was lucky, we would be able to get a room at a crappy hotel for the night instead of hunkering down behind Hart Plaza.

  Today wasn’t my lucky day.

  The man’s hand shot out and grabbed my wrist before I could escape with his wallet. My eyes went wide as his stern orbs locked with them. I had an excuse on the tip of my tongue, but he didn’t allow me to unleash it.

  “I see you have sticky fingers, my dear.”

  The fact that he’d caught me was a small miracle. Almost nobody caught me because I messed with their minds as I was doing the lift, made them think everything was okay despite the theft. This guy obviously hadn’t fallen for it, so I redoubled my efforts.

  “Magic?” the man noted, his lips twitching. “That’s … interesting. What are you?”

  I had no idea how to answer the question. “What are you?” I shot back.

  “That’s a story for the ages.” His eyes twinkled. “Are you hungry?”

  “I don’t turn tricks for food. If that’s what you’re looking for, you need to search someplace else.”

  He looked appalled at the suggestion. “I don’t want anything from you. I simply want to talk to you.”

  “Why? You don’t know me.”

  “I don’t,” he agreed, firmly reclaiming his wallet and returning it to his pocket. “I have a feeling about you. It’s quite strong.”

  “A feeling?” That was the most ridiculous come-on I’d ever heard. “How … awesome.”