Revenge Walk Read online

  REVENGE

  WALK

  Book 13 of the Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Series

  Melissa Bowersock

  Copyright © 2018 by Melissa Bowersock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in an online review or one printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  First Printing

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover image by coversbydesign.net.

  ISBN: 9781719952682

  About the Author

  Books by the Author

  Books by Melissa Bowersock

  The Appaloosa Connection

  The Blue Crystal

  Burning Through

  The Field Where I Died

  Finding Travis

  (No Time for Travis Series Book 1)

  Being Travis

  (No Time for Travis Series Book 2)

  Fleischerhaus

  Ghost Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 1)

  Skin Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 2)

  Star Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 3)

  Dream Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 4)

  Dragon Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 5)

  Demon Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 6)

  Soul Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 7)

  Death Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 8)

  Castle Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 9)

  Murder Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 10)

  Spirit Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 11)

  Fire Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 12)

  Revenge Walk

  (Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud

  Mystery Book 13)

  Goddess Rising

  Lightning Strikes

  Love’s Savage Armpit by Amber Flame

  (Originally published as

  The Pits of Passion)

  The Man in the Black Hat

  Marcia Gates: Angel of Bataan

  Queen’s Gold

  The Rare Breed

  Remember Me

  Sonnets for Heidi

  Stone’s Ghost

  Superstition Gold

  REVENGE

  WALK

  Melissa Bowersock

  ONE

  Lacey pulled in a deep, steadying breath. Blowing it out slowly, willing herself to calm, she hit the contact button on her phone.

  One ring. Two.

  “ABC News, Marina Vasquez.”

  Lacey swallowed. “Marina, it’s Lacey Fitzpatrick. I don’t know if you remember me…”

  “Remember you? You tried to run me over last April.”

  Lacey’s brain flashed back to April. She and Sam had gotten married. But only after they tracked down the dumpster murderer, the serial killer that cut up his victims and left the pieces in dumpsters all over LA.

  “Oh, yeah,” Lacey said, putting it together. “I didn’t really try to run you over. We were—”

  “The hell you didn’t!” Marina’s voice was tight and accusatory. “If I hadn’t jumped out of the way, you’d have plowed right into me.”

  Lacey sighed. “Marina, Sam had a bead on the killer and all you reporters were blocking the way. We had to get after him in a hurry. He was getting away.”

  Lacey could practically hear Marina fume. The Latina was not known for her complacent attitude. She was pushy, aggressive and tenacious, all those qualities that made her an excellent reporter but dismayed her subjects. Victims, more like it. Marina had had a large part in Lacey’s resignation from the LAPD years ago.

  Marina huffed. “Well, we didn’t know Sam was on his trail right then.” Her defensive statement was as close to an admittance of guilt—or an apology—as Lacey was going to get.

  “He was,” Lacey said. “And we figured that was a tiny bit more important than giving you guys a sound bite.”

  She let the woman stew over that.

  “All right, so what do you want?”

  Lacey loosened her grip on her phone, flexing her fingers and deliberately relaxing her body. “I, uh, wondered if you’d like a story.”

  She heard a muffled sound and imagined Marina sitting up suddenly at her desk.

  “What story? Is it a case? Is Sam working on it?”

  Lacey let the implied dismissal—she and Sam worked cases together—go by. “It is about Sam, but it’s not a case. In two weeks, we’re having an open house for Sam’s ceramic art.”

  Surprised silence. And not the good kind. “Oh.” Marina sounded distinctly unimpressed.

  “Come on,” Lacey cajoled. “You know you can mention all our past cases, the serial killer, the Fairfax Stalker, the haunted B&B. You can talk about Sam’s psychic abilities and bring up all the sordid details you want. And… you might even see a ghost.”

  “A ghost?” Marina’s voice held markedly more interest.

  “Yeah.” Lacey chuckled. “His art studio is haunted.”

  More stunned silence—the good kind. “By whom? Have you seen him?”

  “It’s a her, an artist named Theodora Sullivan. And no, I haven’t seen her, but I don’t have Sam’s talent.”

  Lacey heard a faint rhythmic sound. She guessed Marina was tapping her pen on her desk.

  “Hmm. It might be worth a look. Let me see…” The sound of papers shuffling. “I’ve got some time Wednesday afternoon. How’s that?”

  “Great. Here’s the address. And bring a cameraman.”

  When Lacey hung up the phone, she felt pretty proud of herself. Sam had worked hard to hone his traditional Navajo skills into beautiful works of art, and now Lacey had turned a former combatant into a supporter—or at least she hoped so. After all, Marina had had a field day when Lacey’s ex-boyfriend had been on trial for drug-dealing, so the least she could do was celebrate this positive turn in Lacey and Sam’s life.

  She went to the calendar posted on the kitchen wall and circled Wednesday. Inside the circle, she wrote Marina, 3p.m. She and Sam would have two days to get the studio in tiptop shape.

  ~~~

  “Wednesday, huh?” Sam took a bottle of vitamin water from the fridge and sipped it. He leaned against the kitchen counter, his jeans dusty with gray handprints, bits of clay still caked under his fingernails.

  “Yeah. I’ll come down and clean while you figure out what and how you want to display. She’ll have a cameraman with her.” She stirred taco meat in a skillet, then broke away to chop onions and tomatoes. “I also set up a few ads on newspapers online.”

  “This is gonna be weird.”

  She heard the less-than-thrilled tone of his voice and went to him, sliding her arms around his waist.

  “I know. It’s just your luck that you have these talents that draw attention to you when you’re such an introvert.” She leaned up and kissed him. “But you’ll survive.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he said. “Your sympathy is
overwhelming.”

  She chuckled and pulled away to check the meat again. “All part of our friendly service.” She grinned at him wickedly. “Ready for dinner?”

  ~~~

  TWO

  The next morning, they rode together in Sam’s truck, the bed loaded with mops, buckets, brooms and cleaning supplies. Lacey realized they hadn’t done any deep cleaning in the studio since they first bought it, almost five months ago. Pottery-making was inherently messy, so it would be silly—and fruitless—to try to keep the place immaculate, but they really needed to dung it out every month or so. She’d have to add that to the calendar.

  She really liked what Sam had done with it. The dinky old house had lent itself to his ideas without complaint. The living room was now the main display space, the dining and kitchen area held Sam’s work table, and the one bedroom was the supply room. Sam had built multiple shelves in the front room to hold his finished pieces, and the unglazed pottery made a pleasing contrast to the satiny sheen of the oak-stained shelves. After their last visit to the Navajo reservation, he’d painted one wall with the stylized designs of mesas and rock spires. The warm earth tones of pink, orange and red brightened the small space, as did the large Navajo rug on the floor. It was at once workspace and showcase, utilitarian yet pleasing to the eye.

  Lacey imagined viewing it through the eyes of someone unfamiliar with Sam, unfamiliar with the Navajo culture. She wondered if they would think the unglazed pottery simple or primitive, even the ones with stark geometric designs of red and black. Sam had decided early on to stick to the traditional methods and designs because they were meaningful to him. She would never dream of trying to talk him out of it.

  They spent the morning cleaning. Lacey mopped the linoleum floor while Sam did the windows, then Lacey cleaned up the kitchen as Sam neatened up his work table. They broke for lunch and ran out for sandwiches, then returned to figure out how best to display the studio and the art in it.

  “What do you think?” Sam asked. “Should we put like things together? All the bowls in one area, then the jars and plates in separate groupings?”

  Lacey considered that. “I don’t think so. I’d rather see things more random. Force people to look at each one individually, instead of maybe dismissing one whole group they might not be interested in.”

  “Good point.”

  They rearranged the pieces into a more pleasing, mixed pattern, but Lacey noticed Sam left one end of the shelves empty.

  “What’s going there?” She pointed.

  “Remember I said a while back I might try something different?”

  “Yeah. But you never said what.”

  “Hang on.” Sam disappeared into the storeroom. Lacey knew he had lots of shelves back there, as well, mostly for drying pieces before firing. He came back with his arms full, carrying a huge platter, a wide, deep bowl, and a cylindrical vase—all glazed.

  He set the pieces carefully on the shelf, arranged them in a pleasing group, and stepped back.

  Lacey stepped forward.

  It took her a moment to get over her surprise at seeing glazed pieces, so much so that she simply stared at the glossy patterns of color without really seeing them. Finally, after a couple of minutes of stunned silence, she shook off her amazement and looked closely at the pieces.

  The large platter was streaked with wide swathes of color: red, purple, and tan. The colors burst across the flat surface as if a meteor had streaked by, leaving the vibrant hues in its wake.

  The bowl was similar, with the same colors flung across its depths and up its sides. The outside was mostly tan, but even that was elegant with the deep shine of the clear glaze. The vase kept the same color scheme but on the outside where it blazed brightly.

  “Wow,” Lacey said finally. She picked up the vase—the smallest of the three—and turned it in her hands. The smooth, glazed sides felt silky to the touch.

  She turned to Sam. “This is gorgeous.”

  He’d been watching her closely and only then allowed a slight smile. “You like it?”

  “Like it? I love it. It’s beautiful. But this… this isn’t traditional.”

  He drew in a breath and exhaled heavily. “No, it’s not. I had been toying with the idea of trying something new, and then Theodora suggested Fauvism.”

  “Fauvism,” Lacey repeated. “I vaguely remember that from my art history classes. It means ‘wild’ or something.”

  “Yes. Bright colors, bold designs. I looked it up on the internet and thought it could work on large pieces like this.”

  “It sure does.” She set the vase back on the shelf carefully and turned to Sam. “I think it’s fabulous. Do you have more?”

  He grinned. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  They each carried two more careful armloads of pottery from the storeroom to the empty shelves. Lacey laid down each piece she brought to one side, letting Sam arrange them as he liked. The pieces were all large, almost epic in size and color: a rectangular platter aflame with reds and oranges; a low bowl that deepened from red to purple to nearly black at the bottom; a lidded jar that flashed the colors of a peacock, emerald green and amethyst.

  Viewed as a whole, they were stunning.

  “Wow,” Lacey said again. She stepped back and scanned the collection. “Those are fabulous.” She moved closer to Sam and slipped one arm around his waist. “I never dreamed you’d do something like this.”

  “Me, neither.” He wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “Only thing is, these make the traditional works look pretty… plain.”

  She shifted her eyes from the flamboyant Fauvist pieces to the unassuming Navajo ceramics. It was true; after the brilliant colors and gleaming glazes, the traditional pieces looked quiet. Modest.

  “It’s amazing to me how one medium can be used to create two so different styles.” She shook her head. “It’s like apples and oranges.”

  When she heard no answering reply from Sam, she peered up at him. His dark brow was creased, his mouth turned downward at the corners.

  “Hey,” she said, leaning slightly away from him. “What’s wrong? You don’t like the new stuff?”

  He grimaced, then pulled in a breath. “Yeah, I do. I like it a lot. But…”

  Lacey thought she understood. “Is it too far from traditional?” she asked softly. “Too different?”

  Sam mulled that over silently, chewing on his lip.

  “It’s… I don’t know. Weird. I feel like I’ve…”

  Lacey moved around in front of him so she could face him directly. “What? Like you’ve abandoned the traditional? Betrayed it in some way?”

  He winced slightly, and his dark eyes, normally so clear and direct, were hooded.

  “Sam,” she said, taking his hand in both of hers. “You’ve honored the traditional. You dug the clay on the res. You used all the old methods, the coil pots, the wood firing. You created all that”—and she waved at the unglazed pottery behind her—“as homage to the traditions of your people. Tell me, is there one piece there that Ben would take issue with? One piece he would not be pleased with?”

  Ben, Sam’s grandfather, was a master potter in his own right. The octogenarian was still creating utilitarian pottery in the ancient way, and had taught Sam the meaning of that way.

  “No, but—”

  “Not but,” Lacey interrupted. “And. You’ve done all this… and you’re an artist. Not a machine. Not an assembly line. An artist. Artists aren’t content to merely produce. Artists create. And you’ve created something new. Something that wasn’t there before. That doesn’t take away from the other. It just shows that you’re expanding. I know you’ll never leave this behind.” Again she motioned to the simpler pieces. “But you can still move forward, still go off on a journey of creation. These”—the traditional—“are your anchor. But these”—the Fauvist—“are the stars you reach for. It’s all part of your universe. It’s all within your grasp. Why limit yourself? Why not have it all? Do it all? Can you th
ink of one good reason not to create whatever your soul suggests to you?”

  Sam stood quietly, his eyes roving over the ceramics, roving over Lacey’s face, her set jaw, her hopeful green eyes. He put a hand to the side of her face, tucked her dark red hair behind one ear.

  “You sound like Grampa,” he said finally.

  She laughed once, soundlessly. “Yeah, if he was here, he’d kick your butt, too.”

  Sam sighed. “No need. Not with both you and Theodora around.”

  Lacey settled, covering his hand with hers. “Between her, Ben and me, you don’t have a chance. Might as well just give up.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, but Lacey could still see a trace of uncertainty in his eyes. She knew better than to press. He’d come to terms with this in his own time—or not.

  “So is Theodora your muse, now?” she asked instead.

  He smiled crookedly. “I think she’d like to be.”

  “It must be hard for her, not being able to physically create anything on her own. That’d be like a photographer going blind, or a singer going mute. Tough to have those creative urges and not be able to do anything about them.”

  Sam’s eyes darkened, as if he were imagining such a fate—such a hell. It was a troubling thought.

  “So now Theodora can work through you,” Lacey continued. She pressed a thumb into Sam’s side. “Just don’t let her take over your body. We don’t want to have to deal with possession here.”

  “Don’t worry,” Sam said. “She’s not interested in being me.”

  “What is she interested in?” Lacey had no psychic ability, and couldn’t see or feel Theodora like Sam and both his kids could. She relied on them to tell her what the ghostly artist was doing.

  “Sex,” he said.

  “Sex?”

  Sam shrugged. “She likes men.”

  “Well, yeah, but what can she do—?”

  “She just plays around. You know, like she did with Daniel, blowing in his ear. She’s a flirt.”