“Not a clue.” He stepped in front of it and squatted, staring down. He obscured the finger from my view, which was just fine with me.
“Why did you guys leave it there?” I asked, taking a step or two forward despite my misgivings. My eyes were roaming the cellar for other oddities. “Couldn’t you just take pictures and put it in a baggie or something?”
“Normally, that would be the procedure,” he admitted. “But this isn’t a normal finger.”
I frowned at his back. “Because it’s gray? Isn’t that normal for an old, dead digit?”
He shook his head and looked back over his shoulder. “It’s pretty fresh, they tell me. Maybe less than a day old.”
“A day?” I asked. “You mean it just appeared recently? After you came to check this place out?”
“Yeah.”
“Was the scorch mark there before?”
“All week.”
“But not the finger.”
“You’re catching on.”
I hesitated. “Does it have a spur-like growth on the back of it?” I asked.
That comment brought him to his feet. He turned toward me with a hand on his gun. It was the same weapon I’d taken off him the night we’d met.
“How did you know about that?” he asked.
I told him about the man who’d chased me out of the convenience store. He’d had strange gray hands like that.
McKesson took his hand off his gun. “So—a stranger came through and somehow lost his finger doing it. And he immediately tried to assassinate you. At least, that’s what you’re claiming.”
“I guess so. Unless there is more than one of them around. I didn’t see a missing finger on the man I encountered.”
The detective was frowning and thinking hard. “It’s not supposed to work this way,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“When these disturbances, confluences, intersections—whatever you want to call them—when they open up, they’re like small natural storms. Things might wander in and out, but beings aren’t supposed to purposefully come through into our existence.”
Into our existence?I thought. But I didn’t ask him what he was talking about. The meaning was plain enough, if disturbing. I didn’t want him to think too much about what he was divulging. I desperately needed information.
“That’s what happened to Robert Townsend, isn’t it?” I asked. “He went through one of these openings.”
McKesson looked at me. “The newlywed guy? Yeah, I think so. Now, let’s get some air. This place is stifling.”
Detective McKesson and I left the stucco mansion and walked outside. It was early evening now, and the cool breezes felt good on my face. McKesson checked his watch. It was gold and old-fashioned, with hair-thin metal hands that ticked over the face.
That watch reminded me I had a question for McKesson. “How are these objects made?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
He laughed. “I thought I was the detective.”
“Come on,” I said. “It can’t be critical information.”
“I don’t know how they’re made.”
“I think you do,” I said.
He gave me a sidelong glance, then gestured down to the street. “Your ride took off on you.”
I turned and took a step down the driveway. I squinted westward, into the dying sun. It was about to fall behind the Spring Mountains. There, at the bottom of the driveway, was the open gate. Holly’s car was gone. My mouth twisted in disappointment.
“Don’t even think about begging for a ride,” he said. “I’m not leaving here just yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’m waiting for something to happen.” He lit a cigarette and we watched the sun go down.
I thought about McKesson. He always seemed to know where and when something was going to happen.
“You want me to stay for—whatever happens?” I asked.
“Up to you. I’m not going anywhere.” McKesson checked his watch again as he puffed on his cigarette.
“Will it come after dark?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. These events usually do.”
Just what kind of detective was this guy? Who the hell did this kind of work? I knew he always seemed to show up at events, as he called them. But how did he learn about them so quickly? And how come he was alone, with no army of police backing him up?
I followed his gaze out toward the Spring Mountains. The rocky range ran along the west side of Las Vegas to the California border.
I glanced back at McKesson. The man was a black hole of information. He sucked it all up, and gave back as little as possible. If we were just going to stand there anyway, staring at the mountains, I decided to start guessing and see if I could figure out some of his secrets.
“Can I see that watch?” I asked, putting out my hand.
McKesson ignored my hand. “No,” he said.
“Is that real gold? Not many people wear watches these days, you know. I just use my cell phone when I want to know the time.”
He glanced at me with unfriendly eyes and took one last drag on his cigarette before stamping it out on the porch. “Maybe you should start walking after all,” he said.