Now or Never: Wizards of Nevermore Read Online Free PDF Page B

the ceiling was still on, but its yellowed bulb didn’t do much to disperse the shadows. It was a fairly large space, and the big metal monstrosities had been laid out in rows that created crepuscular passageways. Drawers burst with papers, and more stuff teetered on the tops. Some piles had fallen off, sliding down to clump on the floor like dirty snow. The only upside was that the stench had not penetrated in here. It only smelled musty, like an abandoned attic, which meant the door to the archives had probably been closed most of the time.
    “I don’t know how the hell Arlene managed to find him,” said Taylor as he stepped over papers and wound through the cabinets.
    “She’s persistent,” said Gray. He followed, cursing when he banged his knee against an open drawer. “It seems strange for a man to come all the way down here to put a bullet in his temple.”
    “Atwood wasn’t without his quirks.” Taylor paused. The musty scent of disuse gave way to the foulness ofurine and feces. Poor Atwood. His bladder and bowels had evacuated. The awful stench had probably led Arlene to find him, too. She had a nose like a bloodhound.
    “Over here,” he called to Gray, taking the corner and nearly stepping on the body. Atwood wasn’t a tall man, maybe six or seven inches over five feet. He weighed at least four hundred pounds, and he was wedged between the two rows of file cabinets. On the left were the smooth metal backs of the previous row, and on the right, a series of seemingly endless drawers, several lurching out and vomiting files. One of Atwood’s arms had lodged on top of an opened drawer on the bottom, which meant the other arm was probably underneath him. On the lower-left side, where the gray metal shone dingily in the insufficient light, he spotted an Atwood-sized dent and a spray of blood and brain matter.
    “He was on his knees,” murmured Taylor.
    “How do you know that?”
    “It had to be a short fall to the floor. Otherwise, he would’ve made a lot more noise going down. Might’ve even knocked over a cabinet or two.” He pointed to the gory dent, grimacing. If Atwood had taken a gun to his right temple, the force of the shot would’ve knocked him forcibly to the left, and then he would’ve fallen forward. Still, the back of Taylor’s neck tingled. Something didn’t feel right.
    “We’ll have to go around,” he said. “There’s no room to get by him.”
    “All right.” Gray turned and made his way down the other side of the cabinets. Taylor followed, and moments later, they were crouched down about a foot away from Atwood, trying to study his body in the dim light.
    Taylor grabbed his flashlight from his weapons belt, flicked it on, and aimed it at Atwood’s head. The beam highlighted the black burn pattern around the large entry wound, which meant the gun was pressed against his right temple when it fired.
Holy Goddess.
The rest of his skull looked like hamburger meat. He was sure Atwood’s right hand would test positive for gunshot residue. Taylor felt sick. It wasn’t that he was sensitive to the atrocities of a crime scene, but it took him a second to tuck away the fact that Atwood, for all his faults, had been his friend. And the damned fool had killed himself. He sucked in a breath, put away his regrets, his anger, and got down to doing his job.
    “Taylor,” said Gray. “The gun.”
    Taylor shifted the flashlight, and he saw the gleam of a pistol. “Gods-be-damned,” he whispered. “That’s…It can’t be.” He looked over his shoulder at Gray and saw the Guardian’s stunned expression.
    “Harley Banton’s Colt,” said Gray.
    “How’d it get here? It was locked up in evidence. Has been ever since the old boy killed himself a few months ago.” The gun had seen its fair share of crimes. After all, the man had used that very gun to kill Taylor’s father nearly twenty years before.
    “You think Atwood stole it?” asked Gray.
    “Don’t know how he would,”