Turn off the Light ch.13

Peter wakes when the bed sags and squeaks beside him. He opens his eyes just long enough to see that it's only three before slamming them shut. He feigns sleep, even as the bed continues squeak, the blankets rustle, and a warm body presses itself against his back.

He feels Leight's arms drape around him. He can smell the opium; his heart is heavy, leaden, breaking if it isn't already broken. He can sense Leight leaning forward until Leight's nose is somewhere near his ear.

"Peter," Leight whispers softly, his breath hot against Peter's skin, "I know you're awake. Your breathing is shallow and irregular."

He waits for a sign that doesn't come.

"I just want you to know that I'm sorry for walking out. I shouldn't have. When you tell your parents has nothing to do with me. It was petty of me—to take it personally. And I think you should know, I went to the Pleasure Factory."

Peter makes an indescribably ugly involuntary noise.

Leight puts brushes Peter's cheek with the back of his hand. "But I couldn't go through with it."

Peter rolls over abruptly, searches Leight's eyes, gasps, "What?"

"I went there to see Saffron," Leight admits, "but I couldn't do it. I kept thinking about you."

Peter's mind is racing. "You did?"

"Yeah," Leight smiles, "I did." Then he closes the distance between them.

"Excuse me," Peter raises his voice as politely but firmly as he knows how, "this isn't the right way."

They're in a hired town car, on their way from the Claymore County Airport to Peter's parents' house. Supposedly.

"This is the most direct route to the Claymore Club, sir," the driver replies.

And this is when Peter groans because his parents hired this car, and of course he can't expect anything to go smoothly when his parents (or more specifically his mother) are involved.

"The Claymore Club?" Leight echoes, bordering on insecure. It's so rare that Leight doesn't know what he's talking about, it's almost endearing.

Peter sighs, shuffles a bit closer, and rests his head on Leight's shoulder. "It's the elite country club golf course hangout place. Very WASPy. My parents are regulars, of course, as are all their friends and anyone who's anyone in Claymore."

"And why, exactly, do you think we're headed there?"

"One of my mother's schemes, no doubt."

"Should I be concerned?"

"Oh yes. Very."

The Claymore Club is exactly as Peter remembers—except for a few small exceptions. He has never seen the Sheriff's car parked out front or yellow crime scene tape tangled among the miniature redwoods. He has also never seen a severed head in the fountain.

There's a small group of people assembled around the fountain, most of whom Peter recognizes. In the backseat of the town car, he groans.

He turns to Leight, who looks more amused than anything else, mutters, "I'm sorry about this," and kisses him squarely, firmly, but briefly.

Then, he screws his courage and opens the door. He takes the necessary steps until he's part of the group.

"Hello Mom," he says grimly and is suddenly enveloped in a fierce hug.

"Thank heavens you're here, Peter. Something terrible—"

"—"

"I can see that, Mom." Carefully, he extricates himself from his mother's embrace. "Dad," he says as he shakes his father's hand.

"Mom, Dad, I'd like you to meet my partner and world-famous detective Malcolm Leight." He gestures to Leight, who is now standing directly beside him.

"Mal," he grimaces a little in spite of himself, "these are my parents Andrew and Evelyn Grayson."

They're a dignified couple in their early sixties, persistently British, in spite of their perfect teeth and geographically neutral accents. They are, decidedly, WASPy.

Leight turns on his hundred-watt smile. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I only wish the circumstances were more favorable," Evelyn smiles back, sufficiently charmed.

"As do I," Leight concurs. "Now, I take it you'd like me to take a look at the head?" He looks to the sheriff for approval. Once he receives it, Leight steps up to the fountain and begins his examination.

Murders are rare in Claymore. In fact, Peter has no recollection of there having been a single murder during his eighteen years in this sleepy town.

He turns to Sheriff Winters, a middle-aged sleepy-looking man who once (wrongly) arrested Peter for shoplifting (because of course Peter never would have done anything like that, not even as a hopelessly bored teenager).

Even though the misunderstanding was cleared up and all the proper apologies were made, he still doesn't like Winters. And he suspects that dislike is still mutual.

"Sheriff," he nods stiffly, "when was the head found?"

"This morning," Winters is brusque and, sure enough, thoroughly displeased that his first murder case is being hijacked by Peter and an ace detective, "by Alvarez."

He gestures to Alvarez, who is, presumably, the groundskeeper.

"Where's the—"

"Peter," Leight's voice is sharp. "Over here."

Peter bites his lip but goes over to Leight without asking his question. And then his jaw drops in surprise when he sees the face on the head (even though he shouldn't be surprised because really, this town has a population of ten thousand).

It's Jacob McPherson, older, grayer, and wrinklier than the last time he saw the retired banker, but it's undeniably the tiresome man's head. He stares at it, his mind as painfully blank as Jacob McPherson's eyes.

"Peter," Leight pokes him in the bicep. "Perimortem or postmortem?"

Peter blinks. "The decapitation, you mean?"

Leight nods.

With a heavy sigh, Peter crouches down to get a good look at the neck. The severed, bloody, severely disturbing to look at neck. He considers the striations on the bone and swallows back the bile in his own throat.

"Perimortem. It looks like a smooth blade."

"Cause of death?"

"Decapitation. By a smooth blade." He says it wryly, as he would a particularly bad joke. He doesn't feel like laughing at all. No matter how many murders he sees, the gruesome ones never get easier.

"Who was he?"

"Jacob McPherson," Peter answers quickly before the others have a chance. "Retired banker. Wife. Two daughters. Boring, but generally liked."

He looks back over his shoulder to Winters. "Did anything happen recently? Did he make any enemies? Has the bank had any trouble? Anyone disgruntled at all?"

Winters shakes his head.

"I'll want to speak with the wife," Leight muses. He turns away from the body, his preliminary investigation complete.

"Wait," Peter interrupts. "Where's the rest of the body?"

"The killer burned it. There are ashes in the hair." Leight shrugs. "The murder clearly didn't happen here."

"You're sure of that?"

Peter whirls around. He knows that voice, though he wishes he didn't. And there she is, in the group of individuals his tunnel vision prevented him from seeing.

She hasn't changed a bit. She's still an inch taller than him in three-inch heels, still has piercing blue eyes and silky-straight salon-quality brilliant brown hair down to her breasts (which are still remarkable), and still scares him shitless.

"Rachel," he gasps. He struggles to regain his composure. "I didn't know you came back to Claymore."

.

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