The First Time I Hunted Read online

  The First Time I Hunted

  Jo Macgregor

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  The First Time I Hunted first published in 2020 by Jo Macgregor

  ISBN: 978-1-990981-81-4 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-990981-82-1 (eBook)

  Copyright 2020 Jo Macgregor

  The right of Joanne Macgregor, writing as Jo Macgregor, to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All the characters, institutions and events described in it are fictional and the products of the author’s imagination.

  Cover design by Jenny Zemanek at Seedlings Design Studio

  Digging up the past can be deadly.

  Garnet McGee is back in Pitchford, wondering what to do with her life now that she’s finished her master’s thesis in psychology. Then she receives a call from the FBI’s Special Agent Singh. A body has been found, and it looks like it’s another victim of the Button Man serial killer.

  Using her unpredictable psychic abilities, Garnet sets out to hunt the murderer while trying not to become his next victim. Her investigation takes her into the killer’s dark past and batters her with distressing visions in a hunt that will endanger more lives than just her own.

  Meanwhile, Garnet’s attraction to Ryan Jackson, Pitchford’s chief of police, is growing — despite some supernatural opposition — challenging Garnet’s determination never to open herself to heartbreaking loss again.

  This is the third book in the Garnet McGee series, which started with The First Time I Died and The First Time I Fell.

  For Edyth, Chase, Nicola and Emily who believe in my writing enough to push me to do my best, even when it nearly kills me.

  “I exist as I am, that is enough.”

  — Walt Whitman

  Table of Contents

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  Dear Reader,

  Other books for adults by this author

  Acknowledgements

  – 1 –

  Saturday, March 31

  Pitchford, Vermont

  On that early evening in late March, the interior of the Tuppenny Tavern was neat, peaceful, and well ordered — the complete opposite, in other words, of me.

  Behind the counter, the barman polished glasses, arranging them in sparkling lines of symmetry — beer, red wine, white wine, cocktail, soda — and a waitress weaved her way between tables, refilling napkin holders, collecting empties, and wiping ketchup bottles. In the corner booth, a young couple sat hunched over their phones. The polished leather seats of the barstools gleamed, the brass fittings shone, and from hidden speakers, Tim McGraw crooned that we should all live like we were dying.

  I hear you, cowboy, I thought.

  I, too, wanted to get on with my life, make up for lost time, achieve something. I wanted to explore and love and live life to the fullest. So naturally, there I sat in my old haunt in my old hometown, twiddling my thumbs. Or rather, tapping restless fingers on the bar counter. Pitchford was a quaint little town nestled against the foothills of the Green Mountains, in the heart of scenic Vermont. It was where I’d grown up, where I’d run away from at age eighteen, and where, almost four months ago, I had died and been resuscitated back to life.

  That evening, I wasn’t alone; Ryan Jackson sat on the stool to my right. As usual, the stool to my left remained empty. Then again, depending on what you believed about the world and the possibility of life after it, the stool might not have been empty at all.

  Feeling Ryan’s concerned gaze on me, I stilled my fingers.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “You look kind of …”

  “Panicky?”

  “Well, I was going to say anxious. But panicky is probably more accurate.”

  Perhaps the thoughts racing frantically around inside my head gave off an audible buzz.

  I took a long swallow of beer and set the bottle back down too hard. “So … this morning, I got a text from our mutual friend at the FBI.”

  “Ronil Singh?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And?”

  “And I called him back.”

  “Annnd?”

  I laughed. Usually, it was me trying to pry information out of him; it was fun to have the tables turned for a change. “He instructed me not to tell anyone,” I said piously.

  “I’m not anyone.”

  That was true.

  Ryan Jackson was the police chief, and most eligible bachelor, of Pitchford. He was thirty-four years old, funny, intelligent, and inexplicably tolerant of my innate prickliness. He was also attractive — a good six feet tall with a lean build, thick black hair, and slate-gray eyes. When he gave one of his charming smiles, a dimple dented his right cheek.

  I, on the other hand, had two differently colored eyes, no dimple, and no charm. I was shorter than him by about six inches, younger by six years, and my shoulder-length brown hair lacked the lustrous shine of his. But I liked to think that I could outdo him in snark and sneakiness any day of the week.

  We were something more than just friends, a little less than officially romantically involved. Facebook would call us “complicated.”

  “Well?” Ryan pressed. “What did he want to talk to you about?”

  “He didn’t want to talk to me at all.” I traced patterns in the condensation on my beer bottle. “In fact, he couldn’t believe he’d contacted me and said I should under no circumstances think this meant he had any confidence in my abilities. It really went against the grain to even consider me, but he wasn’t one to ignore any potential leads, no matter how unlikely, and so what else could he do, given the latest development?”

  Ryan’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “What development? Something’s happened?”

  “Yup. They found
a new body. Or maybe it’s an old one, newly found. He wouldn’t say.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah, ah.”

  Special Agent Ronil Singh headed the FBI’s investigation into a series of murders of young men in New England that occurred between 2006 and 2009, but which may have started earlier and continued later. Less than a month ago, I’d gone for a walk in the woods and stumbled onto the skeletonized remains of one of those victims. Singh had come to Pitchford to take my statement and, at Ryan’s suggestion, got me to touch a few objects, one of which — an old wooden button — had sparked off a series of distressing images in my mind.

  This was something that happened to me now. Since my near-death experience, I occasionally got feelings or fleeting visions when I touched objects or visited places associated with strong emotions. My mother, who viewed it as a gift from the gods, called it psychometry; I called it freaky and disturbing — as unpredictable and uncontrollable as Boston weather.

  Looking up, I caught Ryan’s gaze on my mouth where my teeth worried at the rough edge of one of my thumbnails. He didn’t like me biting my nails but tried not to mention it. I hadn’t yet let him find out about the other ways in which I sometimes attacked my body, and I didn’t plan on doing so.

  “Come on,” he said, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. “Let’s find something for your hands to do.”

  I glanced at the empty seat as I left. If it was occupied, I kind of wished it would stay that way for now — I wanted some alone time with Ryan. He led me to a quiet corner of the bar, where a dartboard hung on the wall with a chalk scoreboard beside it.

  “Darts?” I said in disbelief. “I’ve never played in my life.”

  He handed me a set of three darts with sharp points, black barrels, and a skull-and-crossbones design on the plastic feather bits. The red arrows of his set sported orange and yellow flames on their plastic ends.

  I eyed his enviously. “I think red is a luckier color.”

  “Do you?” he said, unchivalrously ignoring my hint.

  “How come I get the death’s head pattern?”

  It seemed like an omen; I was dead in the water when it came to competitive contests.

  “Because you and death” — he held up two fingers twisted together — “are tight.”

  I couldn’t deny it.

  “And you get the ones with fire on their … butts—”

  “Their flights,” he corrected.

  “You get flaming flights because …?”

  He flashed me a single-dimpled smile. “Because I’m so hot, duh.”

  “Right.”

  I stared longingly at the TV set mounted high up in the corner. I’d much rather watch the news on CNN than reveal the shortcomings of my hand-eye coordination. Ryan, however, muted the volume on the set and had me stand behind the line on the floor, about eight or nine feet away from the board.

  “I know you’re better at crossing lines than staying behind them, Garnet, but you’re not allowed to set a toe over this one when you’re throwing.”

  I stood behind the line and glared at the multicolored dartboard. I reckoned I’d be able to hit it. With a basketball. I sighed. “I’m not going to be any good at this.”

  “You don’t have to be. We’re playing for fun.” At my dubious look, he added, “You get to penetrate a firm surface with small sharp objects. Should be right up your alley.”

  “Too soon, Ryan,” I said, narrowing my eyes threateningly because this was clearly a dig at how I’d taken down a murder suspect in my last “investigation.”

  Grinning, he wrote our names on the scoreboard. “We both start at five-hundred and one, and what we score each round gets deducted from that. First person to zero wins.”

  “Five-hundred-and-one? We’ll be here all night!” I complained. “Scratch that, all week.”

  “Fun fact: it can be done in just nine throws.”

  “Not by me,” I muttered. “Can I have a practice round?”

  “Of course.”

  With my toes nudging the line, I held a dart in my right hand, gripping it like a pencil. I made to throw it at the board, then dropped my arm and turned to where Ryan leaned against the wall. “How am I supposed to hold this thing?” I asked.

  “In any way that feels comfortable or natural.”

  None of it felt comfortable or natural. I rearranged my fingers and held the dart up, sticking my tongue out of the corner of my mouth for improved concentration. I mimed a few test throws, then turned to face him, trying to mold my features into an appealing pout, though I wasn’t convinced I’d nailed it. Scowls, I was good at. Cute pouts? Not so much.

  “Ryan, I’m no good at sports. I don’t sports well.”

  “Good thing this is a game and not a sport, then.”

  “But—” I began.

  “Quit whining and throw a dart already.”

  “Fine.”

  Spinning around, I fired the dart at the board and burst out laughing at the sight of it quivering in the red circle in the dead center.

  “Bullseye!” Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “Were you hustling me earlier?”

  “No! I’ve never played before, I promise.”

  “Hmm.”

  I threw my remaining two darts. One hit the no-score zone outside the colored rings; the other bounced off the wall below the board. I retrieved the darts. “See? It was just beginner’s luck.”

  “Want some more practice shots to get your eye in?” Ryan offered.

  “Honestly, I don’t think it’ll help. We may as well get on with it.”

  “Ladies and bullseyes first.” He came to stand beside me and lifted my hand in his own, which was warm and steady. “Here, hold it up to your right eye, like so. That’s right. Now, you’re supposed to get a double to start your game.” My body sagged in defeat, and he added, “But rules were made to be broken, so we’ll keep it simple. Just try to hit the board, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I waited for him to go back to his spot against the wall, but instead, he stayed close to me. Too close.

  I waved him back. “Your presence is distracting me.”

  “It is?” He gave me a sexy grin, which distracted me even more.

  “Move. I don’t want to hit you by mistake.”

  “I reckon I’m safe here.”

  “You’re very trusting.”

  “Maybe it’s you who’s not trusting enough?”

  “I know enough not to trust my skill at darts.”

  He didn’t budge other than to move his hand in an impatient get-on-with-it gesture.

  I threw my three darts quickly, one after the other, and then danced a little jig. They’d all missed the wall, and one had landed solidly in a white wedge-shaped section of the board.

  “Well done!” Ryan chalked my score of one on the board. “Only five-hundred to go.”

  I groaned and stepped aside for him to take his turn, glancing up at the TV news. Death and mayhem were everywhere — deadly protests in the Gaza Strip, prison riots in Venezuela, and a school shooting in Maryland. What a time to be alive.

  “So, the FBI thinks this body is a murder victim?” Ryan asked. “And that it was one of his, the serial killer’s?”

  “The Button Man? Yup.”

  “Is that what they’re calling him?”

  “That’s what I’m calling him.”

  While most serial killers tended to take small items from their victims as trophies to remember the kills by, this killer had left something — a button — with each of his victims. And at least once, according to a vision I’d had, he’d left a button on one of his victims — stitched onto the poor man’s lips with black twine.

  Ryan threw his darts expertly and deducted his score of thirty-five from the opening total.

  “Told you the red ones would be lucky,” I grumbled.

  “Yeah, I’m sure it has nothing to do with skill.”

  “There’s probably a darter’s ditty about it, like the old s
hepherd’s caution. Red flights at night, player’s delight. Black flights at morning, player’s warning.”

  Ryan snorted and tugged his darts out of the board. “Did you know that ‘Button Man’ is slang for a hired killer, a mafia hitman? Or for a low-ranking member of the familia?”

  “I learned that when I was today years old,” I said. “Do you think these murders might have been mob hits?”

  Ryan considered for a moment, then said, “Nope.”

  “Me either.”

  “Based on?”

  “Based, as always with me, on impeccable logic and unassailable rationality.”

  “Just a feeling, then?” he asked.

  “Just a feeling.”

  – 2 –

  Ryan indicated that it was my turn. “What did Singh want from you?”

  I flung my darts at the board. The first was a no-score, and the second hit a narrow strip of wire — which would’ve been pretty darn impressive if I’d been aiming at it — and fell to the floor. But with my third throw, I actually scored a double seven. I deducted twenty-five points from my score on the board.

  “I think he wants me to touch an item from the body,” I said. “He wouldn’t give me details — tighter-lipped than a razor clam at low tide, that man — but I gather that they’re not sure whether the kill is one of the serial killer’s.”

  Ryan threw his darts, wrote down his actual score of forty-two, and stepped back for me to take my turn. I stood behind the line, but when he turned to greet a friend, I stepped over it, hurried right up the board, and thrust one of my darts into one of the small red sections that he’d explained tripled the score. I scampered back to my starting position and let out a triumphant, “Woohoo!”

  Turning back, Ryan saw the source of my jubilation. “Well done! You’re improving.”

  “Amazing, right? I put that dart exactly where I wanted it. So, what’s my score?”

  “Six.”

  “Six? But you said that the inner circle was triple-score!”

  “It is. He tapped the wire number on the outer rim of the board. Two multiplied by three is …”