DEADLY SERUM

BY

BLISS ADDISON

EXCERPT

AT THE TWENTY-MILE marker for New River Beach, Kip Trinity steered the Jeep onto the rutted and winding trail leading to the Beaufort Hills.  He glanced at the passenger seat.  The brass urn that held the remains of KC Holmes bounced merrily along. 

On the mountain peak, Kip brought the vehicle to a stop and stepped from the four-by-four.  An alarmed Cooper’s hawk lifted from a bushy pine and took to the air, leaving a series of sharp caks echoing on the hilltop. 

He secured a solid foothold on the rocky incline, removed the lid and inverted the urn.  The residuum of his client settled onto the wings of a beckoning wind.  “To live above with the saints we love is the purest glory.  To live below with the saints we know is another story.”  Kip need not wonder what saints old K.C. was hanging out with. 

“I will do my duty by you.”  It was a promise he gave every client.  He dropped the urn and watched the receptacle land on a rocky ledge about twenty yards down. 

From behind the wheel of his Jeep, he called his assistant.  “Hi, darlin’,” he said when she picked up.  He always marvelled how young and sexy her voice sounded.  Dana, twenty-five years his senior, would turn sixty next month.

“Did Mr. Holmes get off okay?” she asked.

“On a southerly breeze fresh with the scent of pine and spruce, just as he wished.  Any calls?”

“Several, but only one that can’t wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh?”  He’d poached Dana from his former employers, March, Frozel, Condly & Frozel, the most prestigious law firm in Manchester, and never regretted the improper conduct a moment.  She possessed the wisdom of the world-wise and the ability of a clairvoyant to decipher truth from fiction.  He relied heavily on her instincts.  She’d never steered him wrong. 

“Horace Bryer wants you to call immediately that you get this message, and I quote, or else.”

Or else meant that he would fire Kip and hire a lawyer who would cater to his whims and petulance.  His threats wore on Kip's patience.  Horace had fired his way through the yellow pages list of lawyers before he sought out Kip's expertise.  He seemed to please old Horace, or perhaps the fact was that he had no other lawyer to turn to and knew it.

"Any idea what he wants?" Horace had also threatened to haunt him if every one of his last wishes was not carried out to the precise word.  Kip didn’t doubt he would.

“He didn't say and I didn't ask.”  She chuckled.  “Are you coming to the office?  You need to sign my paycheck or should I rubber-stamp it?  Just so you know, I gave myself a bonus.”

“Should I ask how much?”

“No.”

“Okay.”  They had come to an arrangement a few years back.  At the end of every month she’d give herself what she thought she deserved for the irate clients—clients like Horace—she dealt with on a daily basis.  Never once had she taken more than fifty percent of the agreed-upon bonus.  He checked the time.  “Better use the stamp.  I won’t make it back to Manchester before you leave.”

Dana rattled off Horace’s telephone number.

“Thanks, hon,” he said and disconnected from her to connect with his client.

“Horace,” Kip said.  “You called?”

“Trinity, I thought you said you had everything looked after!”

“I do.” 

Horace snorted.  “You want to tell that to that little hussy who keeps badgering me, then.”

In this case, the little hussy was his granddaughter, Paxton O’Reilly, and what Horace considered badgering was a young woman reaching out to her estranged grandfather.  In the last several months, she persisted in her attempts to win over Horace, which he interpreted as a means to get to his money.  Kip believed Paxton sincerely wanted to know her grandfather's love and told Horace so, but he would hear none of it.  Since last he and his client spoke, Paxton and Horace had obviously arrived at an impasse.  “What would you like me to do?”

“What I pay you for, you ingrate!  Get her off my back.  I agreed to meet with her tonight at my office at eight o'clock.  Be here and put an end to this foolishness once and for all.  Do you hear me?”

Kip didn’t consider running interference part of his job, but he extended his clients certain perks.  This, he supposed, could count as one.

“Yes, sir,” Kip said to dead air. 

He turned the key in the ignition and brought the Jeep to life. 

*   *   *   *        

KIP ARRIVED BACK AT the office thirty minutes after Dana left for the day.

The statement setting out the level of her trials for the month lay face-up in the middle of his desk.  He gave it a cursory glance and fed the single sheet of paper to the shredder.  The machine gobbled it up with as much interest as he’d read it.

He went through the inch-thick stack of pink message slips, the majority of them from clients, one from an office supply outlet wanting to pitch new software and one from Paxton O’Reilly marked urgent.

Kip doubted the matter was urgent.  Paxton probably wanted to convince him, yet again, to plead her case to her grandfather.  He shouldered no responsibility to return her call, urgent or not, but his courteous nature prompted him to pick up the phone and call her.  Besides, she was cute, not that she interested him in that way.  After six incessant rings, her voice mail interceded.

“Paxton, Kip Trinity returning your call.   I’ll be in the office for the next ten minutes, otherwise—” About to tell her he'd see her at Horace's office later, he reconsidered.  If she knew the appointment was an ambush, she might not show.  He wanted this nasty business over and done as much as Horace did.  The sooner Paxton accepted that Horace wanted nothing to do with her, the better off she'd be.  He cleared his throat.  "Otherwise, you can reach me tomorrow."

*   *   *   *          

KIP PULLED OPEN THE door to Come Again and strode to the bar.  He needed to relax before his meeting with Horace and Paxton.  The indifferent aura of the pub never failed to lift his spirits.

The air was thick with the odour of malt and the customers heavy with the smell of whiskey and slurred speech while Elvis bragged about blue suede shoes from the jukebox.

“What’s your pleasure?” Jeremiah, the owner, asked in his usual brusque manner.

“Ham and cheese on rye and a coffee,” Kip said and sat on the stool between Harvey Brown and Bob Hunter, frequent patrons of Come Again.

He turned to Harvey and asked, “How’s the real estate business?”

“Fair to middling.  Homeowners want too much for their homes and buyers want something for nothing.”  He gulped his beer and stood.  “Sorry I can't stay.  Mary’s expecting me home early.”  He slapped a beefy hand on Kip’s shoulder.  “What can a goose do that a duck can’t and that a lawyer should?”

Playing along, Kip said, “I don’t know.  What?”

“Stick his bill up his ass.”

Kip gave the obligatory chuckle.  "Good one."

“I have more.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Jeremiah saved Kip from more lawyer jokes by bringing his supper.  “Table?”

“Here’s fine.  Thanks.”  He turned to Bob.  “How’s everything with you? Things any better at home?”

“Know a good divorce attorney?”

“That bad, huh?  Sorry to hear that.”

“Shit happens.  What do you think my chances are of getting custody of my girls?”

Bob’s wife was a poster woman for motherhood, and Kip could safely say Bob’s chances were along the lines of zip, nada and the big ol’ goose egg, not that he would say.  Another lawyer could give him that bad news.  “I don’t know.” 

He smiled at Bob’s startled expression.  He thought because Kip was a lawyer he should know all the answers.  “It’s not my area of expertise.”

*   *   *   *        

ON THE EIGHTEENTH FLOOR of the Bryer Tower, Kip stepped off the elevator and strode through the dimly lit and quiet hallway.

In the reception area, he noticed Horace’s office door ajar and invited himself inside.  He stopped in the doorway and looked around the empty office.  “Horace?” Something wasn't kosher.  At any other time, Horace would already be chastising him for his lack of manners.  He could virtually hear the old man's voice in his head.

Hasn't your mother ever told you, boy, to wait for an invitation before you enter someone's office?

That's when he smelled it—the readily identifiable metallic scent of blood.  Cautiously, he walked around Horace’s desk.  His client’s blood-soaked white dress shirt caught his attention first, the scissors dripping blood in Paxton O'Reilly's hand, second.

*   *   *   *          

IN THE VENTILATION DUCT in the ceiling over Horace's office, Haylee Ambrose stretched to her full length and hovered inches from the bed of the airway alongside her friend, Jack Fallon.

That was close, she telepathically said.

I guess.

She watched Horace's lawyer stare at Paxton.  Do you think he thinks she killed him?  She looked at Jack.

He'd have to be a complete idiot to believe that.

Haylee agreed.  Stupid old coot.  What made him do that?  We only wanted to talk to him.  I should have bitten him just in spite.

And you would have gotten us both caught.  Paxton came in almost immediately after he impaled himself, remember?

I know, but I should have chanced it.  I could have bitten her, too.

You don't mean that.

She glared at him.

Would you have bitten the lawyer, too?

Of course.  It's called collateral damage.

You're not fooling me.  You care.

She ignored him. 

This is the first time I've seen Paxton up close.  The resemblance is uncanny.

We are twins.

Fraternal.  With a few hair and wardrobe adjustments, you could pass for each other.

Haylee studied Paxton and didn't see what Jack saw and told him so.

You can hardly be objective when it comes to her.

True.  I sometimes find it hard to accept that she came out normal and I didn't. 

She's hardly normal.

You know what I mean.  When he didn't answer, she peered into his mind.  She found nothing.  Why are you blocking me?

Because here is not the place to have that argument.

It's more a difference of opinion than argument, I'd say.

Why, then, do you want to win?

She ignored the question.  Paxton looks scared out of her skin.

Don't get any ideas about helping her.  He made air quotes.  She doesn't need your kind of help right now.

You never let me have any fun.

What about the happy pills you put in her ground coffee? That was fun, wasn't it?

She smiled.  Thoughts of plots, manipulations and schemes could always cheer her up.  What'll we do for an encore?

I don't know, but give me time and I'll come up with something.

I'm certain you will.  You haven't let me down yet.

And I won't.

Jack....

I know.  There can't be anything between us, at least not until we're human.

I'm glad you understand.  She smiled at him.

Doesn't mean I have to like it.

We need to keep our concentration on our objective.  A relationship will get in the way of that.  We had this discussion before.

Argument.

Discussion, and I don't want to argue about it anymore.  She winked at him. 

While Jack watched her, she paid close attention to what was happening below.  After several seconds, she grew impatient.  This is fruitless.  We're not going to learn anything from them.

Where to now?

Sustenance first.

You're hungry?  He turned his head to stare at her.

Famished.

But we ate two weeks ago.

She returned his questioning look with a smile.  Seeing her always gives me an appetite.  I'm thinking something tangy.  Negative, perhaps.

But not something rare. 

Of course, not.  We'll leave that for someone who really needs it.  She looked into his face.  You're a bad influence on me, you know that.

Maybe we should wait for the police.  See what they have to say.

I'm hungry.  She looked at Paxton.  Really hungry.