Page 34 of Girl, Reborn

Ella flashed her badge. ‘FBI. SpecialAgent Ella Dark. This is my partner, Agent Hawkins.’

‘Sheesh,’ Clyde said as he lay his guitaron his lap. ‘Butter my butt and call me a biscuit. Figured that sleazeballwould catch a case of the deads sooner or later, but didn't think he rated thebig guns.’

‘Lotta people had cause to want Toledo sixfeet under,’ Luca said. ‘But somebody decided to speed up the process. You hearanything about that?’

The busker adjusted the machine head forhis low E string. Maybe he was about to bust out a thrash number, Ella thought.

‘See, Toledo, he was always a snake. Had areal gift for the gab, could talk a dog off a meat wagon. Few years back, hecomes rolling into town, all shiny shoes and big promises. Gonna put LibertyGrove back on the map, he says. Gonna bring jobs and money and hope back tothis dried up ol' husk of a town.’

‘And he didn’t deliver,’ Luca said.

‘Not even close.’ The busker spat. ‘Soldus down the river, quite literally. Went and cut a deal with some big-shotdeveloper, got 'em to build a dam upriver. Promised it'd regulate the waterflow, keep us from flooding come spring melt. What it did was choke us off atthe knees, left us high and dry while he pranced off to the next town he couldfleece.’

It was an old story, as worn and weary asthe cracked leather of the busker's boots. The rich getting richer, the poorgetting screwed. A tale as old as time, and just as bitter.

But there was something else niggling ather. She thought of the water clock, its intricate gears and empty veins. Theperfect machine, bled dry by the machinations of evil men.

And she thought of Ricky Toledo, bloatedand fish-belly white. Drowned in the very water he'd dammed up and sold off. Itwas a vicious irony that reeked, dare she suggest it, poetic justice.

‘You know anyone who might want to hurthim? Maybe some local gossip?’

‘Lotta angry folks 'round these parts,missy. Lotta grudges nursed long and bitter. Lotta scores never quite settled.Man like Toledo, he made enemies like a dog makes fleas. And in a town likethis...well. Take your pick.’

Ella fished out her wallet and dropped afew bills in Clyde's open case. ‘Thanks, Clyde. You've been a real help.’

Clyde's grabbed his guitar again andplucked out a surprisingly jaunty tune. ‘Anytime, folks. Sure you don't wannamake a request before you skedaddle?’

Luca asked, ‘You know any Slayer?’

‘I do not, but I’ll learn it for tomorrowif you come back here.’

‘Deal,’ Luca said.

‘You take care now.’

Clyde's gravelly croon followed them downthe cracked sidewalk as they left him to his one-man concert. Ella scanned theramshackle storefronts – a depressing collection of pawn shops and payday loanswith a few struggling mom and pops hanging on by their fingernails. Thebustling heart of Liberty Grove, population who-the-hell-cares.

But Ella's mind was already spinningahead, assembling pieces, clicking them into place like a jigsaw puzzle soakedin blood.

Ricky Toledo, dead and drowned. The ghostof his sins come back to haunt him, to drag him down into the deep dark placeshe'd consigned so many others.

The dam, the displaced farmers. A thousandacres of bitterness, sown by one man's greed and reaped with a vengeance.

And at the center of it all, the waterclock. The heart of Liberty Grove, choked off and bled dry. A symbol ofeverything lost, everything stolen.

Ella could feel it, thrumming under herskin like a second pulse. The certainty, the knowledge that she was close. Thatthe key was within her grasp, if only she could find the right lock.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jeremiah Clancy wiped the sweat from hisbrow with a calloused hand and squinting against the merciless sun. GoddamnVirginia summer, hot as Satan's asshole and twice as dry.

But he couldn't complain, not really. Notwhen this little off-the-books job was paying better than any legit gig he'dscraped up in months. The kind of cash-in-hand deal that lined a man's pocketsreal nice, no Uncle Sam or the old ball-and-chain sniffing around for theircut. Music to a working man's ears.

Sure, it was a little unorthodox. So whatif it was kinda sketchy? So what if he had to drive an hour out of his way?Money was money. And in Jeremiah's world, that was the only thing thatmattered.

He stepped back and surveyed his handiworkwith a critical eye. The old farmhouse that loomed had seen better days, thatwas for damn sure. But Jeremiah had never been one to back down from achallenge.

Even if that challenge involved brickingup an old root cellar door in the middle of nowhere for some rich douche withmore money than sense.

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