Blood, Ash, and Bone
A Tai Randolph Mystery
By Tina Whittle
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2013
Tina Whittle
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-46420-095-3
Chapter One
"Do it again," he said.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, my legs shaking. "You're
kidding."
"No. One more time."
"I need to catch my breath first."
He moved behind me and ran his hands down my ribcage
to the small of my back, palms flat. He toed my feet two inches
further apart and tucked my hips under. "One more time.
Shoulders down and back. Keep your feet in neutral."
"Can't we move to side kicks?"
"Round kicks."
"Trey—"
"One more set." He stood in front of me again and picked
up the kick pad. "Keep it sequential."
I gave up arguing and straightened my stance. We were alone
in the workout room at the gym, his students long gone. No
way to avoid his laser-lock attention. I took a deep breath and
kicked one more time, channeling my annoyance into the kinetic
chain of hip-thigh-ankle. To my astonishment, I landed it solid,
all of my mass and energy converging in a blow so powerful it
knocked Trey back a step.
I bounced on the balls of my feet. "I nailed that!"
He didn't smile, but I did detect satisfaction. He always
looked so boyish with a light sheen of sweat on his forehead,
his black hair mussed.
"Good," he said. "Stop bouncing and finish the set."
I squared my stance as he put the kick pad up again, then
launched into the rest of the set, seven more kicks in rapid succession.
I felt like a ninja, a starburst, a firework.
I put my hands up in a fighting stance. "Come on, let's do
some sparring."
"Not today."
"You always say that."
He lowered the kick pad and started untying his handwraps,
eyes down. I put my hands on my hips.
"Trey. We have talked about this."
He shook his head, not looking at me. "Nonetheless."
I exhaled in frustration. Three months previously, in the heat
of a bitter argument, I'd grabbed his elbow. He'd popped my
hand away in a Krav block, a move as precise and sudden as a
lightning strike. It hadn't hurt, but it had certainly shocked me.
Trey too. He'd stared at his hands like they were alien things,
then babbled an apology. And we hadn't sparred since.
"You still spar with your other students. Why not with me?"
He didn't deny the charge. His attention remained on the
neat unwrapping of his hands.
I spread my arms. "Look at me. Shin pads, combat vest,
gloves. I've even got the damn helmet on. You're wearing a
t-shirt and shorts, barefoot. I'm a virtual tank, and you're one
layer from naked."
He folded his arms. I recognized the gesture—full defensive
lockdown—which meant I wasn't breaching his perimeter with
a direct assault.
I took two steps closer, and he narrowed his eyes, wary. Up
close, he smelled like sweat and bleached cotton. I imagined how
he would taste, the salt sting of bare skin against my tongue. I
ran one hand up his arm, from wrist to elbow. He didn't visibly
react, but I knew he craved the flare and ignition as much as I
did, even if he was better at tamping it down.
I smiled at him. "We'll take it slow and easy. No sudden
moves, no surprises."
He didn't budge. I ran one finger down his breastbone, feeling
the contraction of each muscle group—first the pecs, then the
diaphragm, then the abs. He could make a fortress of his body.
He was doing it right in front of me.
He cocked his head. "Tai? What are you doing?"
"Sparring."
"This isn't sparring."
"You sure?"
And then I yanked my knee up within a millimeter of his
groin. He froze, and his eyes went ice-blue. And he got calm.
Real calm.
I looked him in the eye. "So drop the over-protective routine,
Mr. Seaver. I may not be the Krav Maga god that you are, but
I can take care of myself."
He hadn't moved an inch. "A point."
I smiled bigger. "In my favor, I do believe."
And then it happened. Suddenly the world somersaulted—wheel
and whirl and reel and tumble—and the back of my skull
slammed against the cushioned mat with a thud. I blinked into
the overhead fluorescents, flat on my back.
Trey stood at my feet, hands on hips, not even breathing hard.
He hadn't broken eye contact, had simply grabbed my arm and
flipped me, one deft move. Close the space, vault, and release.
I squinted up at him. "Omigod, you have to teach me that."
"What?"
"Seriously. That was awesome." I held a hand in his direction
and wiggled my fingers. "Help me up."
His natural courtesy almost undid him, and he reached out
to take my hand. Fortunately for him, his training kicked in a
millisecond later, and he snatched his hand back before I could
grab it.
I grinned. "You almost fell for that."
He glared at me, then headed for the door.
I rolled to my stomach. "And where do you think you're
going, you sneaky son of a bitch?"
He bent over his gym bag and pulled out his gloves. "To get
my sparring gear."
* * *
He drove me back to Kessesaw the back route, avoiding the
interstate, keeping the Ferrari right at the speed limit. I watched
Atlanta roll by—steel buildings, gray asphalt, tree branches going
bare against a gunmetal November sky. My thighs ached from
the last thirty minutes on the mat. He'd been relentless. I hadn't
been able to get in a single punch, much less block anything
he'd sent my way, and he'd sent the whirlwind.
"That still wasn't sparring," I complained. "That was you
teaching me a lesson. You dominated the entire time."
He turned onto my street, a narrow lane lined with small
mom-and-pop stores, of which my gun shop was one. It was
fully dark now, the streetlights blooming in the night like nocturnal
flowers.
"Of course I dominated. I'm better than you are."
"That doesn't mean you need to go full bad ass on me! What
happened to the zone of proximal learning, keeping students at
the edge of their comfort zone?"
He didn't reply.
"You used to give me a fighting chance. But tonight, all you did
was knock me down over and over. I didn't learn a damn thing."
He glanced my way. "Nothing at all?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
I frowned. "Is this you being cryptic? Because I'm not used
to that."
He considered his words. "Every offensive move exposes
a defensive vulnerability. The same move that put you close
enough to attack also put you too close to defend."
"I couldn't have defended against a front takedown, you
haven't taught me how!"
"I keep explaining this, and you keep ignoring me—don't
move outside your training. Stick with what you can execute
cleanly and effectively."
"Or get knocked on your ass, I get it."
"I'm serious."
"I am too."
"I'm more serious."
I laughed at that. "Don't worry, coach, the next time I seduce
you, it will be for real. And then you'll be in big trouble."
His mouth quirked in an almost-smile, and I felt a current
of relief. Usually I spent post-workout nights at his place in
Buckhead, but since I had an appointment with my friendly
neighborhood ATF agent in the morning—plus a ton of packing
for the upcoming Civil War Expo—we were headed to Kennesaw
instead, to drop me off at my apartment above Dexter's
Guns and More.
"Seduction is not the point," he said.
"What is the point?"
"That one move won't save you, not in a real fight. Not with
a trained fighter."
"If you'd been a real bad guy, I would have shot you."
"If I'd been a real bad guy, you wouldn't have gotten that
chance."
Another valid point. But I wasn't interested in the finer
instruction of hand to hand combat. At least not the combat part.
I leaned over and nuzzled behind his ear. "Come up with me.
The place is chaos, but no more pizza on the floor, I promise."
He raised one dubious eyebrow.
"Come on, I told you I'd replace the shoes."
"You can't afford Prada."
"I was thinking Hushpuppies."
But he wasn't listening anymore. His eyes were focused
instead on the front door of my shop. "Tai? Who is that?"
I squinted through the windshield and saw the figure waiting
next to the motorcycle, his features shadowed in the amber
haze of the streetlight, blurred by cigarette smoke. My stomach
clenched.
"Aw hell, not tonight."
Trey pulled the Ferrari into the space next to the door, the
tires crunching gravel. His shoulders dropped, and his expression
went cool and questioning. His ex-cop face.
The man beside the bike was tall and husky, with broad
shoulders under a road-fatigued leather jacket, his Levis and
black leather boots dusty from the road. His salt-and-pepper
beard was neatly trimmed, but the hair was a shoulder-length
tangle of curls. He'd been riding without a helmet again, which
meant he'd come through some state besides Georgia on his way
into town. I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew they were blue. Not
blue like Trey's, which were a crystalline sapphire blue. Blue like
the edge of a thunderhead, a tumbling gray-blue.
I exhaled sharply. "That would be John, my ex. So you should
probably stay in the car—"
Trey got out of the car. "Is he the one who left you for your
roommate?"
"Yes, Trey, thank you for that succinct reminder." I snatched
my workout bag from behind the seat. "Which is why I'd like
to handle this myself, if you don't mind."
"I don't think—"
"He's harmless. Gritty on the surface, marshmallow underneath."
Trey ran his eyes down my face and across my mouth. I didn't
complain; I was used to having my veracity verified on a regular
basis. It wasn't even insulting anymore, just another quirk in a
Smithsonian-worthy collection of quirks. But I was telling the
truth, so I let Trey see it.
"You're doing it again," I said. "That over-protective thing."
"But—"
"Go home. I'll call you tomorrow."
He eyed my visitor, then nodded reluctantly. I kissed him
goodbye, with perhaps a little more display than necessary.
Afterward, he put his mouth to my ear. "Tonight. Call me
tonight."
"I will. Now go."
He climbed back into the Ferrari, eyes still on the guy standing
at my door. He revved the engine and pulled a tight arc in
the parking lot, kicking up gravel.
I went up to my visitor. I could hear the tick-tick-tick of the
Harley engine cooling. So he hadn't been there long.
I stuffed my hands in my pockets. "John Wilde."
"Tai Randolph." He smiled, his eyes sparkling. "That's the
kind of guy you're seeing now? Some uptown yuppie?"
I looked over my shoulder to see the taillights rip around
the corner, the F430 coupe taking the turn at an almost ninety
degree angle.
"Uptown, yes. Yuppie, no. Trust me on that one."
John laughed. He had a really good laugh, and it came from
deep in his chest. His voice was still pure Alabama, slow and
rich, like a deep river.
"A Ferrari." He shook his head. "Your taste in men certainly
has changed."
"Not as much as you might think." I unlocked the door
and bumped it open with my hip. "Come on in. Then you can
explain why out of all the gun shops in the greater metro area,
you ended up at mine."
Chapter Two
He plunked his helmet down on my counter. It had been almost
two years since I'd seen him, but he'd changed little. A smattering
more gray perhaps, and a new tattoo, an intricate piece of
Celtic knot work winding around his left wrist. His body was a
map of ink, a walking gallery.
He looked around the shop. The display cases were mostly
empty—I'd stored the expensive firearms in the gun safe—but
the shelves of bullets and shot cartridges made no bones about
my profession. Neither did the wool kepis on the hat rack, or
the Confederate belt buckles on the counter. There were boxes
everywhere—some taped shut, some spilling Civil War collectible
manuals, some still empty. In the corner, my failed experiment
with rolling my own black powder charges leaked gritty
soot all over spread-out newspaper.
"Nice place," John said. "Kind of a mess, though."
"I'm packing for the Southeastern Civil War Expo next week.
This is my first time as a vendor, so I'm a little disorganized."
His face went solemn. "I sure was sorry to hear about your
Uncle Dexter passing. He was good people. To lose him so quick
after your mama ..."
We stood a few seconds in awkward silence. John had left
me three months after my mother's funeral. I waited for some
anger to wash up, but felt only an edged curiosity.
"You want something to drink?" I said.
"Got a beer?"
I went upstairs and grabbed a Guinness for him, a Pellegrino
for me. Back in the shop, I sat at the counter and sent the beer
sliding his way. "So what brings you to the ATL?"
"Looking for you."
"Why?"
He popped the top off the beer with his thumb. "Been reading
about you."
"And?"
"You're quite the celebrity. Got yourself mixed up in some
murders. Handled yourself real well from what I read."
I remembered the article in the Atlanta paper.
Feisty if
somewhat foolhardy, the reporter had said of me. And then
she'd slobbered love all over Trey.
The enigmatic and intriguing
corporate security agent. The cops hadn't been happy with either
of us, however.
I took a cold sharp sip of Pellegrino. "You still haven't
explained why you're here."
"You remember Hope?"
I tried to keep my expression neutral. Hope. My former
roommate, former co-worker, former friend. Until she and John
had run off together, of course, leaving me with a cracked heart
and an avalanche of back rent.
"What's Hope got to do with anything?"
He pulled out a pack of Marlboros and held them my way.
I shook my head firmly. He stuck one between his lips, dug a
lighter from his jacket. "We got married last month."
"Congratulations."
"Not really. She left me a week ago, and she took something
with her that's mine. I want it back."
"And you're talking to me because ...?"
"Because you seem to know your way around a tricky
situation."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I need you to find an artifact for me."
"You know I charge a finder's fee."
"I expected as much."
"Ten percent of the appraised value upon delivery." I tipped
my Pellegrino at him. "For you, though, let's call it fifteen
percent."
He laughed. "Fair enough."
And then he pulled a checkbook from his pocket, snagged
a pen from the counter. A few squiggles and flourishes, and he
sent the check my way.
"That should cover things."
I stared at it. John didn't say anything. He let the numbers
speak for themselves.
I dragged my eyes from the check. "Is this for real?"
"Real as rain."
I examined it closer, then shoved it back. "It's post-dated."
He shoved it my way again. "I don't have the money right
this second. But I will soon, if you help me."
"You'd better start at the beginning."
And so he did.
"Hope and I run a pawn shop down in Jacksonville. We
sell the usual stuff, TVs and guns and video games, but we do
some antique trade too. One day we hit this estate sale. The
woman running it was an out-of-towner—from Des Moines, I
think—and she offered me this roll-top desk filled with papers,
pen, books, old stuff. The price was cheap, and it was solid
walnut, so I bought it." He smiled his gotcha smile. "Turns out,
she hadn't even looked through the drawers. Because if she had,
she'd have found it."
"Found what?"
"The Bible." He leaned forward, eyes blazing. "An 1859
Oxford King James. It was covered in burgundy-colored velvet,
crushed and stained, but in good condition overall."
"And?"
John savored his words. "It belonged to General William
Tecumseh Sherman. A gift from President Abraham Lincoln,
signed and inscribed."
"Dated?"
John smiled wider. "December 21st 1864."
I tried to hide my excitement. I knew this story. I used to tell
it every day during my days as a tour guide in Savannah, parking
my herd of tourists in front of the Green-Meldrim House and
explaining how, on that very soil one hundred and fifty years
before, the mayor of Savannah surrendered his city to General
Sherman, who had previously burned Atlanta to ash and then
marched a swath of destruction to the sea. How Sherman had
then offered the city of Savannah, along with some cotton and
ammunition, as a Christmas present to the president.
"You found this Bible in the desk?"
"Hope did."
"And now she's run off with it?"
"Not just the Bible. Everything from the desk is gone—papers
and pens and inks and books. She said she was taking it to an
expert up here. But a friend of a friend called me and said they
spotted her in Savannah."
I sat back in my chair, fiddling with the check. "So call the
cops."
"I don't want the cops on this, I want you."
"Why me?"
"Because it's personal."
"Find her yourself then."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because she's in Savannah. And I can't go back there."
"Why not?"
"You know why."
Suddenly things were starting to make a whole lot of sense.
"Don't tell me you still owe Boone money?"
He sucked in a long drag on the cigarette. "Yeah."
"Then you shouldn't be in Georgia, much less Savannah,
especially now that he's out of prison. He'll—"
"I know what he'll do. But I also know that if you find that
Bible for me, I'll have more than enough money to pay him
back, interest and all."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Blood, Ash, and Bone
by Tina Whittle
Copyright © 2013 by Tina Whittle.
Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.