Muse

By Lazette Gifford

Welcome to Muse....

Stranded when his car breaks down, Killian Dain Fox overhears a cop and a gas station clerk discussing murder and the exchange of money. Although he tries to believe he misheard the conversation, by the time KD meets a few more of the locals, he's convinced the entire small town is inhabited by a gang of murderers.

Between the massive storms that threaten to flood the town, a would-be killer on the loose, and his growing attraction to the town's pretty mayor, Killian Dain Fox is on a roller-coaster of a ride. And when someone tries to kill him, he just hopes he can get out alive.

(Book contains mild sex scene.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Conspiracy of Authors
• Release date: Jun 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781936507214

Lazette Gifford

Lazette is an avid writer as well as the owner of Forward Motion for Writers and the owner/editor of Vision: A Resource for Writers.It's possible she spends too much time with writers.And cats.

Book preview

Muse

By

Lazette Gifford

Copyright 2011 Lazette Gifford

An ACOA Publication

www.aconspiracyofauthors.com

ISBN: 978-1-936507-21-4

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A Conspiracy of Authors Publication

www.aconspiracyofauthors.com

Epub ISBN: 978-1-936507-21-4

Copyright 2011, Lazette Gifford, All Rights Reserved

Cover Art copyright 2010, Lazette Gifford, All Rights Reserved

www.lazette.net

This book is for Russ who will remember the fun day when we discovered 'Muse' and the story began.

Chapter One

There were not supposed to be any hills in Nebraska, which is why he came this way.

Killian stomped on the gas pedal and listened as the engine revved like a grand prix racer . . . and the car continued to slow with the top of the hill a good ten yards away. Momentum alone kept them moving upward while gravity dragged at the back bumper. He didn't think old Rosie the Rambler could take this one.

And to make certain Killian knew all the world and God stood against him tonight, lightning flashed almost directly overhead. A heartbeat later, the first splotches of rain hit the dusty windshield as the car crept forward, so slow the speedometer didn't move. Thunder rolled through the air and a wind gust sent dirt and twigs rushing ahead of the car with a not so subtle reminder that everything moved faster than him tonight.

Row after row of corn stretched out on both sides of the road, the stalks waving back and forth like demented stick men drawings. A deer darted out of the cornfield to the right pausing to watch the car before he made a leisurely jaunt up the incline. The animal stopped at the crest of the hill to look back, probably laughing before leaping once more into the frantic cornfield.

By some miracle, Rosie reached the crest. Killian pulled over to the side and had a short-lived celebration. Very short-lived; in the next flash of lightning saw see an even higher hill ahead. He would never reach the top of that one, even with a good rollercoaster run down the far side of this one.

Damn!

Rain fell harder as he shoved the car door open and stepped out. He welcomed the cold winds after the stifling heat and humidity of the long day, sweltering day. However, having grown up on the high plains of Colorado, he knew how dangerous storms like this could be.

Maybe lightning would strike him and he wouldn't have to go the rest of the way to Chicago and work for KKGO -- The television station on the Go! -- as their third shift news commentator. Maybe fate, God and Rosie the Rambler all conspired to keep him away from a job he hadn't wanted in the first place.

Lightning branched through the sky from east to west in a continuous line across the horizon. His breath caught at the sight, awed by the power of Mother Nature as the storm briefly illuminated the shadowed land between one hill and the next.

Gas station sign.

Holy shit, Batman! We're saved!

The glowing neon sign sat just a little off the road at the bottom of this hill. Rain already nearly obscured the location, but he marked the spot and jumped into Rosie, pulling the door closed against the wind and the sudden deluge of rain.

Killian stomped down on the gas pedal. The car inched forward, the tires slipping on the wet weeds at the side of the road. Stupid mistake to pull over, especially since he hadn't seen another car in half an hour or more. The last had been a black Corvette heading like a bat out of hell in the opposite direction. Probably an omen and he'd been too stupid to read the signs.

Rosie unexpectedly broke free of the entangling weeds, hit the pavement with a painful jolt, and started down the hill. And damn they were moving fast! Killian turned on the windshield wipers, for what little good they did in this deluge, and hit the horn in case the deer had wandered out somewhere ahead of him, thinking himself safe from a car it could out walk.

He began to brake near the bottom of the hill, desperately trying to find the turnoff through the deluge. Even if he didn't find the road, he wouldn't have far to walk. Then he saw the sign -- Welcome to something -- and turned the car sharply to the left and onto the side road. He could see the gas station on the right where a glowing red Quickshop sign illuminated a doorway that looked like the gates to heaven on a night like this.

Rosie coasted to the edge of the sloped driveway. Killian pulled off to the side, miring the car in mud and weeds once more, knowing the car would never take even such a small incline. She'd gotten him this far and he could walk the last half block to the entrance.

The rain hadn't let up. Killian pulled his hooded jacket out of the debris of food wrappers and discarded maps. Then, looking at the upward curve of the driveway, and considering the rain and wind, he wrestled his cane out as well. No use taking any chances.

The cane proved a wise decision. The asphalt from the street to the gas pumps looked like the cratered field in a war zone; potholes nearly put him down three times.

When he reached the pumps he could see two people inside and one of them was even a cop! He spotted the police car parked at the side of the building beside what might be a Gremlin. He didn't think any of those were still on the road. The sight made him feel a little better about his old Rambler.

If not the actual gates of heaven, he had at least reached help. The sanctuary included a coffee dispenser on the wall opposite the door. The thought of even bad hot coffee appealed to him after this drenching rain. Killian hurried the last few steps and pushed open the door to a flood of air-conditioned and coffee-scented air.

The tall, lanky clerk at the register glanced in his direction before turning back to the shorter, dark-haired cop who leaned against the counter.

No, I can't, Tom, the clerk said with a remorseful shake of his head. I did that with Angela. This has to be unique for George. Strange. Different.

That's your problem, Don, the cop answered. Maybe you should try for something less exotic this time.

Killian went past the two, grateful for the chance to reach the coffee before he had to deal with the car problem. The cop didn't look likely to go charging off at any moment, at least.

Oh yeah. That's easy for you to say, the clerk answered, sounding desperate. You don't have another five people to kill.

Killian, a plastic cup in hand, glanced at the clerk, thinking he must have misheard. He purposely turned away and poured the coffee, putting the lid over the top of the cup before he started back to the register.

The cop shook his head. You're running out of time, Don.

I know I'm running out of time! I've managed three unique murders already. They really can't expect more from me!

You took the money. You could try giving it back.

You know I can't. And what would I do if I could? I'd have to change my name and start over, if I could even get a contract again. No. I have to come up with a good way to kill him!

Killian took a step backwards, but the clerk looked up, suddenly startled as though he hadn't seen Killian walk in. Oh! Sorry, I thought you were a snit when you came in!

The cop slowly turned. Killian looked to the door, but he didn't think he could get past both of them.

You didn't drive up. Let me guess. The cop shook his head as he waved towards the storm. Car problems? Always happens on nights like this, doesn't it?

Words froze at Killian's lips. He forced sounds out, trying to remain calm and ignore the wild speculation rushing through his head. At least he had the cane for whatever protection it might be. Ah. Yeah. Car problems. I coasted as far as the drive.

You're lucky you reached here. There's nothing else open for another fifty or sixty miles. The cop sounded normal. Killian convinced himself he must have misheard something. I'm about to make my midnight run into town, so I can give you a lift to Prince's place. He's our town mechanic. Unless Alicia rousted him, he's probably still working at the garage. If not, we'll figure something out.

I'd be grateful, Killian said as he put the coffee on the counter and reached for his wallet. His hand trembled.

On me, Don said, waving him away. Just go with Tom. He'll take care of you.

Those were not exactly the words Killian wanted to hear considering the other conversation, but he nodded his thanks.

I'm Tom Nullin, the cop said, holding out his hand.

Killian Fox, he answered automatically and shook hands.

Wow. Great name! Don grabbed a small battered notebook from under the counter and flipped it open. How do you spell that? Two l's? Two x's?

Two l's, one x, he replied, wishing the man hadn't gone odd again and wasn't writing his name in a notebook.

Thanks!

No problem.

Tom grabbed his hat from the counter and headed to the door. Killian picked up the coffee cup, holding so tight he felt the plastic start to crumple. He eased his fingers back.

Just relax, Don. You'll figure this out, Tom reassured the man as he pushed the door open for Killian.

Don gave a glum nod and kept scribbling in the notebook.

Damn bad night, Tom said as they stepped outside.

Killian, with thoughts about George's murder, looked back at Don as he followed the cop out into the storm. He couldn't say he had made the better choice.

Chapter Two

The rain had slowed to a soft drizzle in the few minutes he spent inside. Water cascaded from the roof edge and over the gutters like miniature waterfalls, splattering the ground at every few steps. Killian dodged them as best he could and wished he could sip the coffee instead of letting the thin cup do no more than warm his hands.

He saw bright flashes of lightning not far off to the southwest, the harbinger of more trouble headed their way. He couldn't outrun the storm, or whatever else awaited him here.

Tom Nullin stopped by the police car and stared at the storm, shaking his head in obvious dismay. Sure hope the rest of the system stays south of us. They had three tornadoes over in Gage County tonight, although damage seems confined to some farm outbuildings. I'd hoped the weather would die down by now.

I wondered how bad the weather would get when I saw the front moving in behind me, Killian admitted. The cop unlocked the front side door and waved him in; not what they would do in the big city, of course. Killian slipped in, shoving his cane down beside him. He pushed back his hood and uncapped the coffee and finally took a long drink. Calm. Warm.

Tom threw himself in the other side, and Killian barely kept from slopping coffee all over the interior. He quickly replaced the lid and copied Tom's move to grab the seatbelt. As the car started, the police band radio came to life and cackled in tandem with the lightning flashes. He thought he could hear voices, though nothing understandable.

Tom backed away from the building, hitting a couple potholes before he started past the pumps and down the drive.

You from around here? Tom asked.

Killian thought about lying, but they would drive right past the Rambler with the Colorado plates in a moment, so being truthful seemed like a good idea.

From Denver, he admitted. They hit another pothole.

That's tough, breaking down out -- Tom pulled the car to a stop and looked past Killian to the Rambler. "Tell me you weren't driving from Denver in that."

Hey, that's a 1966 Rambler Classic 660 and nearly completely refurbished.

"Uh huh. And you expected to get where in it?"

Chicago, he admitted and then panicked, remembering Don, George and other victims. They're expecting me for a new job. I should probably call and let them know where I am.

Yes, good idea, Tom said. Nice. Normal. No reason to worry. A shame the phone lines are down. Should be working before morning though. And no, we do not have cell phone coverage -- the bluffs block the closest tower, and I doubt even it's doing much good in this weather. How did you end up here? We're a little off the track to Chicago.

When I reached the Nebraska border and I80, I could feel the clutch already going out. The car wouldn't do more than sixty three miles an hour, and those semis on the Interstate would have run me over. I took the state highways parallel to the Interstate, but at the eastern half of the state I started hitting flood, storm damage and detours.

Yeah, we've had quite a few bad storms going through the last few nights, Tom said. He still hadn't pulled out onto the road.

I got detoured south around a recently washed out bridge. And then lowland flooding kept sending me farther south. I had intended to cut through Omaha and on to Des Moines and then north. I'm not very far off.

No, you aren't far off. He shook his head, and Killian realized the cop had been staring off at the sky where distant lightning flashed. Tom finally headed out onto the road, turning towards the right and away from the highway. A moment later he honked the horn, startling Killian.

Sorry. Tom waved a hand towards the big, white house on the opposite side of the road. Just letting my wife know I'm making my midnight run through town and I'll be home in the next hour.

Oh. Right.

The narrow, slick road curved away from the gas station and into an area with cornfields still on both sides. Those unexpectedly gave way to two hills bare of corn but topped by several large trees. The road dipped and curved downward into a small, tree-lined street . . . and as suddenly as that they had reached the edge of a town. Killian suspected he wouldn't have seen the buildings nestled down here, even in daylight.

A few old-fashioned (or perhaps just old), yellowed globe streetlights dotted the road ahead, flickering as he watched. He thought they were actual gas lights until they went out and he realized the storm had taken out the power in this area. Tom cursed the storm as the car lights outlined a huge statue standing squarely in their path. On the left side of the road another small hill morphed into a huge stone building with a tall, towered facade.

What the hell is that? Killian demanded, craning his neck to look at the towers as they passed. The building stood completely dark inside and lightning illuminated the building a small patch of well-kept grounds.

Tom glanced to the left and chuckled as he slowed. Sorry. That was my reaction the first time I saw the building, too, even though I came through on a bright clear spring day. We should put up warning signs on the hill -- Damn big strange building ahead, approach with care. This is the main building of St. Aslem's College. The building hasn't been used for about twenty years now, which is a shame. I have to go in now and then to make certain the kids aren't vandalizing the place. It's gorgeous: marble floors, oak woodwork, and fretwork along the halls to take your breath away. It belongs to the nuns, and they haven't decided what to do with it yet.

The nuns?

Those nuns, in fact. Killian looked ahead to see four nuns dressed in old-fashioned black robes and wimples, walking in single file along the left side of the road. Tom slowed and rolled down his window. Best get in out of the weather, Sisters! I fear we're not through with this yet.

We're going back to the abbey now, Thomas, one said with a wave of her hand. Killian thought he heard an accent in her words, though something from her distant past. Go, go. We haven't far to walk.

Tom rolled up the window and grinned at Killian who watched as they passed the line of nuns, their heads bowed, hands in cowls. Lightning flashed overhead. Surreal. Twilight Zone.

What are they doing out here tonight? Killian dared ask.

God knows.

That was probably a joke. Killian offered a weak smile and leaned back as they passed the tall, white statue which stood at a fork in the road. Killian suddenly feared looking upward and seeing the head turn to peer down at him. He couldn't say, the way things were going, this was an entirely irrational fear.

That's St. Aslem himself, Tom said with a wave of his hand towards the statue as they took the fork to the right.

Killian nodded and peeled back the corner of lid and took another sip of his coffee. Remarkably good coffee, he realized.

They passed a couple typical Midwestern houses: two-stories and an attic, white walls, screened porches. The homes appeared dark and deserted too, but given the late hour, the people likely just slept. They passed an old brick church, the sign... he was sure the sign said First Assembly of Gods. Killian started to say something, but decided on silence.

In another two blocks they reached downtown and the rough, cobblestone road. The place looked like dozens of other small, Nebraska towns he'd passed through today. A hodgepodge of buildings lined the street, in styles that ranged from late 1800's to the late 1960's and very little built later. The town had not done well in the last half century, but then most small towns hadn't anywhere.

The lone newer building (probably a decade or less) was a squat beige brick construction which appeared to be a combination City Hall and Police Station. Tom drove past and slowed as they came to an ornate old bridge with the WPA symbol on the stonework, making it something out of the Roosevelt years. Tom stopped midway across the span. Killian's heart began to pound harder as Tom rolled down his window and pulled out a flashlight from the compartment between the seats, shining the light down into the stream.

Still rising. Damn. Sure hope most of tonight's rain goes south of us.

He rolled the window up and drove on while shaking his head with worry. Two blocks later he turned into the driveway of an auto shop. White florescent light flooded from the open doorway where a few moths had gathered out of the rain. Tom started to get out, and then stopped and mumbled a curse under his breath.

At least we still have power in this part of town for a while yet. Damn. I'd like to have a single night without a drunk snit on my hands. He waved down the narrow street where a shadowy figure of a man stood swaying. Go on in. Prince will take care of you. I'll come back after I sort this mess out.

Killian, still holding the coffee in one hand, fumbled his way out of the seatbelt and opened the car door. Should he feel safer getting away from Tom? He stepped out, taking the cane tight in one hand, and tried to loosen his fingers around the coffee cup before he crushed the plastic.

He feared Tom might be looking oddly at him.

Thanks for getting me here, he said, hoping he sounded normal.

Part of my job. I'll catch up with you as soon as I get this sorted out.

Killian slammed the door and watched as Tom backed out and drove to where the drunk had stopped in the middle of the street. Tom flipped on the flashing police lights before he got out of the car. Others came out of a nearby bar, some with bottles in hand. Killian watched, wondering if he should worry about Tom. The group seemed orderly, even if half the people staggered a bit.

Killian turned to the repair shop, taking a few careful steps on the damp cement and pausing just inside the open door.

God damn!

The deep, powerful voice reverberated through the bay. Three cars stood lined up, all with hoods raised. Two sat on two on jacks: a yellow Chevette, an ancient black Oldsmobile, and some kind of pickup cobbled together like Frankenstein's monster. However, Killian could not see Prince at all.

Shit. Something loud clanked off to the right, behind the hood of the Chevette. "For we lost our innocence in fields of blood. God damn that wrench! And we shall watch no more -- Piece of shit car. Should be melted into scrap metal! And we shall march no more. Damn! Not the filter again. What the fuck does she do with this car? And we shall march no more in streets of love."

Killian stood still, listening to what sounded like someone with a double form of Tourette Syndrome bouncing between cursing and free-form poetry. Maybe he should back out very quietly and --

"Call forth the old ways -- God damn --"

A man stood up straight and stepped around the side of the car; a very large man, black-skinned and bare-chested. A dragon tattoo of red and green glistened from mid-chest to his right shoulder. He held a wrench in his huge hand. Killian looked up -- the man stood at least a foot taller than his own five foot nine inches -- and into a bearded face, hair gone a little long, and a smudge of grease on his nose. A big diamond earring sparkled in his right ear lobe.

Yes? What is it? the mechanic demanded, waving the wrench.

It's. . . Words failed him. Just utterly failed him. It's a broken car.

Ah. The black giant tossed the wrench across the room where it hit the brick wall with a loud thunk and tumbled amid what looked like a pile of discarded tools. Good. Get me away from this piece of crap that Mary calls a car. Where is it?

Out. . . He waved his coffee cup feebly towards the door. "Out by the