Farther down, the bathroom with the old chain pull–style toilet looked the same as the last time I’d checked on it. The archaic cast iron stove in the kitchen reminded me of the one in the historic Adams House in Deadwood. But unlike that museum, there was no cookie jar sitting nearby full of leftover goodies from days gone by, only an ancient sink big enough to fit a family of raccoons, which it might have in the past judging from the pile of dried critter turds in it.
“Are you picking up any ghosts?” I asked Cooper, who had the unfortunate ability to see the wispy folks now thanks to a tiny accident involving me, a pissed-off dead woman, and an innocent bystander who got in our way—him. Although Cooper wasn’t one hundred percent innocent of anything, in my opinion.
“Nope.”
Hmm. Last time we were here, Ottó had shown up to the party, along with a girl he’d killed back in his homeland when he tried to extricate the lidérc from her.
Cooper led the way out of the kitchen, checking his watch as we reached the front room. “Are we done, Parker?”
“I guess so,” I said, walking over to one of the windows.
While we were in the back of the building, the clouds had split enough to let the sun peek through. Across the valley, the old Yates Shaft headframe reflected the sun’s rays, looking like a lighthouse standing tall among the dark sea of hills.
“Aunt Zoe said that we should line the window sills with salt to be safe.” I unzipped my purse and pulled out the little bag of salt she’d given me.
My aunt was the keeper of my family’s long history of secrets, which it turned out was numerous enough to fill four leather-bound volumes. She also was my magistra, or teacher, when it came to the business of killing pests like Hungarian devils. Although, according to our family’s history books, slaying these assholes was a feat no previous Executioner had pulled off successfully so far.
Cooper waited while Harvey and I lined the sills. I was sprinkling salt along the last one when three loud thumps came from the other end of the shadowed hallway.
I looked at Cooper, who stood near the hallway. “Did you hear that?”
His brow wrinkled. “Hear what?”
“That thumping sound.”
Thump! Thump!
“There it is again.”
Cooper’s eyes narrowed. “Are you fucking with me, Parker?”
“Sparky’s tellin’ the truth.” Harvey moved next to his nephew. “I’m hearing it, too.”
I sprinkled the last of the salt, grabbed my purse from the floor, and joined them. “Shine your flashlight down there, Cooper.”
He did, but nothing was there.
“I’m going back there,” I told them. “Give me the flashlight. You two wait here.”
“Shut up, Parker.” Cooper eased down the hallway with his flashlight and Colt .45 leading the way. Harvey and I tiptoed after him. Partway down the hall, three more thumps sounded.
“It’s coming from the kitchen,” I whispered.
“I still don’t hear it,” Cooper said, frowning back at us before taking a turn into the kitchen.
Harvey hesitated in the doorway. “Did you bring your mace?” he asked me.
He was referring to the wooden bat with an array of four-inch-long metal spikes jutting out of one end that Doc had made custom for me as a Christmas present, not the tiny can of spray used to scare off bears and human assholes.
“No. There wasn’t supposed to be anything in here that required blunt force trauma to subdue.”
“Parker didn’t need to bring anything. I have us covered.” Cooper looked back at where we stood in the hall outside of the kitchen. “Do you two hear anything else?”
We stood in silence, waiting. After several breaths, I shook my head.
“Could have been a packrat,” Harvey said, joining his nephew inside the room.
“Probably.” Cooper lowered his gun. “If you two are ready to go, I need to get—”
Thump! Thump! Thump! The old stove rattled with each thump.
Harvey and I both jumped. I might have squeaked a little, too, or maybe that was only in my head.
“There’s something in there wantin’ out.” Harvey pointed at the cast iron oven door.
“I still can’t hear anything. You’re sure?” After Harvey and I both nodded, Cooper eased over to the handle. “You two retreat to the hall,” he whispered.
“What? No.” I tiptoed closer to him. “This is my territory, not yours. You go wait in the hall.”
“Parker, it’s probably just some rat that crawled down the stovepipe and got stuck. I don’t need you screaming like a banshee in my ear when a rat comes running out.”
“I don’t scream like a banshee.”
“I’ve heard you.”
“When?”
“Your nightmares.”
“Oh, yeah.” Cooper had been forced to babysit me night and day last fall while we worked on clearing my name of one of Detective Hawke’s numerous murder accusations.
“Go!” he growled, nudging me back several steps.
“Fine, but if you die, don’t come back and haunt me.” I joined Harvey in the hall.
After a silent count of three, Cooper pulled open the oven door.
Nothing happened.
Harvey and I exchanged frowns.
Cooper leaned down, shining his light inside. “Uncle Willis was right. A packrat is living in here. Judging from the size of the nest, it’s been busy.” He slid on one of his leather gloves and reached inside, pulling out an old Raggedy Ann doll half-covered in brown and yellow stains. It was missing an arm, part of its red yarn hair, and a bright blue button eye. He held out the doll. “This must be his girlfriend.”
“She could use a makeover,” I said.
Cooper tossed the doll back inside the stove and closed the oven door.
Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I
