Obsidian Butterfly

Chapter 9~11

9
MARKS' OFFER OF ESCORTING me to the crime scene seemed to have evaporated with his temper. Edward drove me. We drove in almost complete silence. Edward never sweated small talk, and I just didn't have the energy for it. If I could have thought of something useful to say, I'd have said it. Until then, silence was fine. Edward had volunteered that we were on our way to the latest crime scene, and we'd meet his other two backups in Santa Fe. He told me nothing else about them, and I didn't press it. His lip was still swelling because he'd been too macho to put ice on it. I figured the busted lip was all the slack Edward was going to give me for one day. I'd told him in the strongest terms I could manage, short of pulling a weapon, to stop the competitive crap, and nothing would change that, least of all me.
Besides, I was still riding in a ringing bell of silence as if everything echoed and nothing was quite solid. It was shock. The survivors, if that was the word for them, had shaken me down to my toes. I'd seen awful things, but nothing quite like that. I was going to have to snap out of it before we had our first fire fight, but frankly if someone had pulled a weapon on me right that second, I'd have hesitated. Nothing seemed truly important or even real.
"I know why you're afraid of this thing," I said.
He glanced toward me with the black lenses of his eyes, then back to the road, as if he hadn't heard. Anyone else would have asked me to explain, or made some comment. Edward just drove.
"You don't fear anything that just offers death. You've accepted that you're not going to live to a ripe old age."
"We,"he said. "We'veaccepted that wearen't going to live to a ripe old age."
I opened my mouth to protest, then stopped. I thought about it for a second or two. I was twenty-six, and if the next four years were anything like the last four, I'd never see thirty. I'd never really thought about it in so many words, but old age wasn't one of my biggest worries. I didn't really expect to get there. My life style was a sort of passive suicide. I didn't like that much. It made me want to squirm and deny it, but I couldn't. Wanted to, but couldn't. It made my chest squeeze tight to realize that I expected to die by violence. Didn't want it, but expected it. My voice sounded uncertain, but I said it out loud. "Fine, we'veaccepted that we'renot going to make it to a ripe old age. Happy?"
He gave a slight nod.
"You're afraid that you'll live like those things in the hospital. You're afraid of ending up like them."
"Aren't you?" His voice was almost too soft to hear, but somehow it carried over the rush of wheels and the expensive purr of the engine.
"I'm trying not to think about it," I said.
"How can you not think about it?" he asked.
"Because if you start thinking about the bad things, worrying about them, then it makes you slow, makes you afraid. Neither of us can afford that."
"Two years ago, I'd have been giving you the pep talk," he said, and there was something in his voice, not anger, but close.
"You were a good teacher," I said.
His hands gripped the wheel. "I haven't taught you all I know, Anita. You are not a better monster than I am."
I watched the side of his face, trying to read that expressionless face. There was a tightness at the jaw, a thread of anger down the neck and into his shoulders. "Are you trying to convince me or yourself, ... Ted?" I made the name light and mocking. I didn't usually play with Edward just to get a rise out of him, but today, he was unsure, and I wasn't. Part of me was enjoying the hell out of that.
He slammed on the brakes and screeched to a stop on the side of the road. I had the Browning pointed at the side of his head, close enough that pulling the trigger would paint his brains all over the windows.
He had a gun in his hand. I don't know where in the car it had come from, but the gun wasn't pointed at me. "Ease down, Edward."
He stayed motionless but didn't drop the gun. I had one of those moments when you see into another person's soul like looking into an open window. "Your fear makes you slow, Edward, because you'd rather die here, like this, than survive like those poor bastards. You're looking for a better way to die." My gun was very steady, finger on the trigger. But this wasn't for real, not yet. "If you were really serious, you'd have had the gun in your hand before you pulled over. You didn't invite me here to hunt monsters. You invited me here to kill you if it works out wrong."
He gave the smallest nod. "Neither Bernardo or Olaf are good enough." He laid the gun very, very slowly on the floorboard hump between the seats. He looked at me, hands spread on the steering wheel. "Even for you, I have to be a little slow."
I took the offered gun without taking either my eyes or my gun off of him. "Like I believe that's the only gun you've got hidden in this car. But I do appreciate the gesture."
He laughed then, and it was the most bitter sound I'd ever heard from Edward. "I don't like being afraid, Anita. I'm not good at it."
"You mean you're not used to it," I said.
"No, I'm not."
I eased my own gun down until it wasn't pointing at him, but I didn't put it up. "I promise that if you end up like the people in the hospital I'll take your head."
He looked at me then, and even with the sunglasses on I knew he was surprised. "Not just shoot me or kill me, but take my head."
"If it happens, Edward, I won't leave you alive, and taking your head we'll both be sure that the job's done."
Something flowed across his face, down his shoulders, his arms, and I realized it was relief. "I knew I could count on you for this, Anita, you and no one else."
"Should I be flattered or insulted that you've never met anyone else coldblooded enough for this?"
"Olaf's blood is plenty cold enough, but he'd just shoot me and bury me in a hole somewhere. He'd have never thought about taking my head. And what if shooting didn't kill me?" He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I'd be in some stinking hole somewhere alive because Olaf would never think to take my head." He shook his head as if chasing the image away. He slid the glasses back on, and when he turned to look at me, his face was blank, unreadable, his usual. But I'd seen beneath the mask, further than I'd ever been allowed before. The one thing I'd never expected to find was fear, and beneath that, trust. Edward trusted me with more than his life. He trusted me to make sure he died well. For a man like Edward there was no greater trust.
We would never go shopping together or eat an entire cake while we complained about men. He'd never invite me over to his home for dinner or a barbecue. We'd never be lovers. But there was a very good chance that one of us would be the last person the other saw before we died. It wasn't friendship the way most people understood it, but it was friendship. There were several people I'd trust with my life, but there is no one else I'd trust with my death. Jean-Claude and even Richard would try to hold me alive out of love or something that passed for it. Even my family and other friends would fight to keep me alive. If I wanted death, Edward would give it to me. Because we both understand that it isn't death that we fear. It's living.
10
THE HOUSE WAS a two-story split-level ranch that could have been anywhere in the Midwest, in any upper-middle-class neighborhood. But the large yard was done in rock paths running high to cacti and a circle of those small flowered lilacs that were so plentiful. Other people had tried to keep their lawns green as if they didn't live on the edge of a desert, but not this house. This house, these people had landscaped for their environment and tried not to waste water. And now they were dead and didn't give a damn about environmental awareness or rainfall.
Of course, one of them could be a survivor. I didn't want to see pictures of the survivors before they'd been ... injured. I was having enough trouble keeping my professional distance without color photos of smiling faces that had been turned into so much naked meat. I got out of the car, praying that everyone had died in this house, not my usual prayer at a crime scene. But nothing about this case so far was usual.
There was a marked police car sitting out in front of the house. A uniformed officer got out of the marked car as Edward and I walked towards the yard. He was medium build but carrying enough weight for someone taller, a lot taller. His weight was mostly in the stomach and made his utility belt ride low. His pale face was sweating by the time he'd walked the five feet to us. He put his hat on as he walked towards us, unsmiling, thumb hooked in his utility belt.
"Can I help you?"
Edward went into his Ted Forrester act, putting his handout, smiling. "I'm Ted Forrester, Officer ... " he took the time to read the man's name tag, "Norton. This is Anita Blake. Chief Appleton has cleared us both to see the crime scene."
Norton looked us both up and down, pale eyes not the least bit friendly. He didn't shake hands. "Can I see some ID?"
Edward opened his wallet to his driver's license and held it out. I opened my executioner's license for him. He handed Edward's back, but squinted at mine. "This license isn't good in New Mexico."
"I'm aware of that, Officer," I said, voice bland.
He squinted at me, much as he had the license. "Then why are you here?"
I smiled and couldn't quite make it reach my eyes. "I'm here as a preternatural advisor, not an executioner."
He handed the license back to me. "Then why the hardware?"
I glanced down at the gun very visible against my red shirt. The smile was genuine this time. "It's not concealed, Officer Norton, and it's federally licensed so I don't have to sweat a new gun permit every time I cross a state line."
He didn't seem to like the answer. "I was told to let the two of you in." It was a statement, but it sounded like a question, as if he wasn't quite sure he was going to let us in, after all.
Edward and I stood there trying to appear harmless, but useful. I was a lot better at looking harmless than Edward was. I didn't even have to work at it most of the time. He was better at looking useful, though. Without seeming dangerous in the least he could give off an aura of purposefulness that police and other people responded to. The best I could do was look harmless and wait for Officer Norton to decide what our fate would be.
He finally nodded, as if he'd made up his mind. "I'm supposed to escort you around the scene, Miss Blake." He didn't look happy about it.
I didn't correct him that Miss Blake should have been Ms. Blake. I think he was looking for an excuse to get rid of us. I wasn't going to give him one. Very few policemen like civilians messing around in their cases. I wasn't just a civilian, I was female, and I hunted vampires; a triple threat if ever there was one. I was a civvie, a woman, and a freak.
"This way." He started up the narrow walkway. I glanced at Edward. He just started following Norton. I followed Edward. I had a feeling I'd be doing a lot of that in the next few days.
Quiet. The house was so quiet. The air conditioner purred into that silence reminding me of the recycled air in the hospital room. Norton came up behind me, and I jumped. He didn't say anything, but he gave me a look.
I moved out of the entry hall and into the large high ceilinged living room. Norton followed me. In fact he stayed at my heels as I moved around the room like some obedient dog, but the message I was getting from him wasn't trust and adoration. It was suspicion and disapproval. Edward had settled into one of the room's three comfortable-looking powder blue chairs. He'd stretched himself full length, legs crossed at the ankles. He'd left his sunglasses on so he looked the picture of ease in the midst of that careful living room in that too silent house.
"Are you bored?" I asked.
"I've seen the show," he said. He'd toned down his Ted act and was more his usual self. Maybe he didn't sweat Norton's reaction, or maybe he was tired of playacting. I knew I was tired of watching the show.
The room was one of those great rooms which meant the living, dining, and kitchen were all one shared space. It was a large space, but I'm not really comfortable with the open floor plan. I like more walls, doors, barriers. Probably a sign of my own less than welcoming personality. If the house was any clue to the family that had lived in it, they'd been welcoming and somewhat conventional. The furniture was all purchased as sets: a powder blue living room set, a dark wood dining room set to one side with a bay window and white lacy drapes. There was a new hard back southwestern cook book on the kitchen cabinet. The receipt was still being used as a bookmark. The kitchen was the smallest area, long and thin with white cabinets and a black and white cow motif down to a cookie jar that mooed when you took its head off. Store-bought cookies, chocolate chip. No, I didn't eat one.
"Any clues in the cookie jar?" Edward asked from his chair.
"No," I said, "I just had to know if it really mooed."
Norton made a small sound that might have been a laugh. I ignored him. Though since he was standing about two feet from me the entire time ignoring wasn't easy I changed direction in the kitchen abruptly, and he nearly ran into me. "Could you give me a little more breathing space?" I asked.
"Just following my orders," he said, face bland.
"Did your orders tell you to stand close enough to tango or just to follow me?"
His mouth twitched, but he managed not to smile. "Just to follow you ma'am."
"Great, then take about two big steps back so we do this without bumping into each other."
"I'm supposed to make sure you don't disturb the scene, ma'am."
"The name's Anita, not ma'am."
That earned me a smile, but he shook his head and fought it off. "Just following orders. That's what I do."
There was something just a touch bitter about that last. Officer Norton was on the down side of fifty or looked it. He was close to putting in his thirty years, and he was still a uniform sitting in a car outside a crime scene following orders. If he'd ever had dreams of more, they were gone. He was a man who had accepted reality, but he didn't like it.
The door opened and a man came through with his tie at half-mast, the white sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up over dark forearms. His skin was a dark solid brown and it didn't look like a tan. Hispanic or Indian or maybe a little of both. The hair was cut very short, not for style, but as if it were easier that way. There was a gun on his hip and a gold shield clipped to the waist band of his pants.
"I'm Detective Ramirez. Sorry I'm late." He smiled when he said it, and there seemed to be genuine cheerfulness, but I didn't trust it. I'd seen too many cops go from cheerful to hardcore up in your face too many times. Ramirez would try to catch his flies with honey instead of vinegar, but I knew the vinegar was there. You didn't get to be a plainclothes detective without that streak of sourness. Or maybe a loss of innocence was a better phrase for it. Whatever you called it, it would be there. It was only a matter of how far under the surface it was.
But I smiled and held my hand out, and he took it. The handshake was firm, the smile still in place, but his eyes were cool and noticed everything. I knew that if I left the room now he'd be able to describe me in detail down to my gun, or maybe up from my gun.
Officer Norton was still behind me like a pudgy bridesmaid. Detective Ramirez eyes flicked to him and the smile wilted just a touch. "Thank you, Officer Norton. I'll take it from here."
The look Norton gave him was not friendly. Maybe Officer Norton didn't like anybody. Or maybe he was white and Ramirez wasn't. He was old and Ramirez was young. He was going to end his career in uniform and Ramirez was already in plainclothes. Prejudice and jealousy are often close kin. Or maybe Norton was just in a bad mood.
Whatever, Norton went out like he'd been told, shutting the door behind him. Ramirez' smile went up a notch as he turned to me. I realized that he was cute in a young guy sort of way, and he knew it. Not in an egomaniac way, but I was a female, and he was cute, and he was hoping that that would cut him some slack with me. Boy, was he shopping in the wrong aisle.
I shook my head, but smiled back.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. Even the slight frown was sort of boyish and endearing. He must practice it in the mirror.
"No, Detective, nothing's wrong."
"Please call me Hernando."
That made me smile more. "I'm Anita."
The smile flashed bright and wide. "Anita, pretty name."
"No," I said, "it's not, and we're investigating a crime, not out on a blind date. You can tone the charm down just a touch, and I'll still like you, Detective Ramirez. I'll even share clues with you, honest."
"Hernando," he said.
It made me laugh. "Hernando. Fine, but really, you don't have to work this hard to win me over. I don't know you well enough to dislike you yet."
That made him laugh. "Was it that transparent?"
"You make a good good-cop, and the little boy charm is great, but like I said, it's not necessary."
"Okay, Anita." The smile went down a watt or two, but he was still open and cheerful somehow. It made me nervous. "Have you seen the entire house yet?"
"Not yet. Officer Norton was trailing a little too close for comfort. Made it hard to walk."
The smile closed down, but the look in the eyes was real. "You're a woman and with that black hair probably part something darker than the rest of you looks."
"My mother was Mexican, but most people don't spot it."
"You're in a section of the country where there's a lot of mixing going on." He didn't smile when he said it. He looked serious and a little less young. "The people that want to notice will."
"I could be part dark Italian," I said.
A small smile that time. "We don't have a lot of dark Italians in New Mexico."
"I haven't been here long enough to notice one way or another."
"Your first time to this part of the country?"
I nodded.
"What do you think so far?"
"I've seen a hospital and part of this house. I think it's too early to form an opinion."
"If we get a breather while you're here, I'd love to show you some of the sights."
I blinked at him. Maybe the boyish charm wasn't just a cop technique. Maybe he was, gasp, flirting.
Before I could think of an answer, Edward came up behind us in his best good ol' boy charm. "Detective Ramirez, good to see you again."
They shook hands, and Ramirez wasted a smile on Edward that looked just as genuine as Edward's. Since I knew Edward was play-acting, it was sort of unnerving how similar the two expressions were.
"Good to see you, too, Ted." He turned back to me. "Please, continue looking around. Ted's told me a lot about you, and I hope for all our sakes that you're as good as he says you are."
I glanced at Edward. He just smiled at me. I frowned. "Well, I'll try not to disappoint anybody." I walked back out into the living room trailed by Detective Ramirez. He gave me more room to maneuver than Norton had, but he watched me. Maybe he did want a date, but he wasn't watching me like a potential date. He was watching me like a cop to see what I did, how I reacted. It made me think better of him that he was professional.
Edward had lowered his sunglasses enough to give me a look as I passed by him. He was smiling, almost grinning at me. The look said it all. He was amused at Ramirez' flirting. I flipped him off, covering the gesture with my other hand so only he would see it.
It made him laugh, and the sound seemed at home here in this bright place. It was a place meant for laughter. The silence filled in behind his laughter like water closing over a stone, until the sound vanished into a profound quiet that was more than quiet.
I stood in the middle of the bright living room, and it was as if it were a display home waiting for the real estate agent to come through with a tour of potential home owners. The house was so new, it felt like a freshly unwrapped present. But there were things that no real estate agent would have allowed. A newspaper was spilled over the pale wood coffee table with the business section folded into fourths. The business section had New York Timeswritten across the top of it, but some of the other pieces said Los Angeles Tribune.A business person recently moved from Los Angeles, maybe.
There was a large colored photo pushed to one corner of the coffee table. It showed an older couple, fiftyish, with a teenage boy. They were all smiling and touching each other in that posed casual way photos often use. They looked happy and relaxed together, though you can never really tell with posed photos. So easy to fool the camera.
I looked around the room and found smaller photos scattered throughout on numerous white shelves that took up almost all available wall space. The photos sat among souvenirs, mostly with an American Indian theme. The smaller more candid shots were just as relaxed, just as smiling. A happy, prosperous family. The boy and man, tanned and grinning on a boat with the sea in the background and a huge fish between them. The woman and three small girls covered in cookie dough and matching Christmas aprons. There were at least three photos of smiling adult couples with one or two children apiece. The little girls from the Christmas photo; grandchildren, maybe.
I stared at the couple and that tall, tanned teenager, and hoped they were dead because the thought of any of them up in that hospital room turned into so much pain and meat was ... not a comfy thought. I didn't speculate. They were dead, and that was comforting.
I turned my attention from the photos to the Indian artifacts lining the shelves. Some of it was touristy stuff: reproductions of painted pots in muted shades, too new to be real; Kachina dolls that would have looked just as at home in a child's room; rattlesnake heads stretched in impotent strikes, dead before their murderer opened their mouths to appear fearsome.
Put in among the tourist chic were other things. A pot that was displayed behind glass with pieces missing and the paint faded to a dull gray and eggshell color. A spear or javelin on the wall above the fireplace. The spear was behind glass and had remnants of feathers and thongs, beads trailing from it. The head of the spear looked like stone. There was a tiny necklace of beads and shells under glass with the worn edges of the hide thong that bound them together showing. Someone had known what they were collecting because every piece that looked real was behind glass, cared for. The tourist stuff had been left out to fend for itself.
I spoke without turning around, staring at the necklace. "I'm no expert on Indian artifacts but some of this looks like museum quality."
"According to the experts it is," Ramirez said.
I looked at him. His face had gone back to neutral, and he looked older. "Is it all legal?"
That earned me another small smile. "You mean is it stolen?"
I nodded.
"The stuff we've been able to trace was all purchased from private individuals."
"There's more?"
"Yes," he said.
"Show me," I said.
He turned and started walking down a long central hallway. It was my turn to play follow the leader though I gave him more room than either he or Norton had given me. I couldn't help noticing how nicely his dress slacks fit. I shook my head. Was it the flirting, or was I just tired of the two men in my life? Something less complicated would have been nice, but part of me knew that the time for other choices was long past. So I admired his backside as we walked up the hall and knew it meant nothing. I had enough problems without dating the local cops. I was a civilian surrounded by police, and a woman, too. The only thing that would earn me less respect in their eyes was to date one of them. I would lose what little clout I had and become a girlfriend. Anita Blake, vampire executioner and preternatural expert, had some ground to stand on. Detective Ramirez' girlfriend would not.
Edward trailed behind us, but far enough back that we were at the far end of the hallway when he was barely in the corridor. Was he giving us privacy? Did he think it was a good idea to flirt with the detective, or was any human better than a monster, no matter how nice the monster was? If Edward had any prejudice, it was against the monsters.
Ramirez stood at the end of the hallway. He was still smiling as if he were giving me a tour of some other house for some other purpose. His face didn't match what we were about to do. He motioned to the doors to either side of him. "Artifacts to your left, gory stuff to the right."
"Gory stuff?" I made it a question.
He nodded, still pleasant, and I moved closer to him. I stared into those dark brown eyes and realized that the smile was his blank-cop face. His face cheerful, but his eyes were just as unreadable as any cop's I'd ever seen. Smiling blankness, but still blankness. It was unique and somehow disquieting, "Gory stuff," I said.
The smile stayed, but the eyes were a little less sure. "You don't have to play the tough girl with me, Anita."
"She's not playing," Edward said. He'd finally joined us.
Ramirez' eyes flicked to him then back to study my face. "High compliment coming from you, Forrester."
If he only knew, I thought. "Look, Detective, I just came from the hospital. Whatever is behind the door can't be worse than that."
"How can you be so sure?" he asked.
I smiled. "Because even with the air conditioner on, the smell would be worse."
The smile flashed bright and I think real for a moment. "Very practical," he said, voice almost laughing. "I should have known you'd be practical."
I frowned at him. "Why?"
He motioned at his own face. "No make-up," he said.
"Maybe I just don't give a damn."
He nodded. "That too." He started to reach for the door, and I beat him to it. He raised eyebrows at me, but just stepped back and let me open the door. Which also meant I got to walk in first, but hey, only fair. Edward and Ramirez had both already seen the show. My ticket was fresh and hadn't been punched yet.
11
I EXPECTED TO FIND a lot of things in the bedroom: blood stains, signs of a struggle, maybe even a clue. What I did not expect to find was a soul. But the moment I entered that pale white and green bedroom I knew it was there, hovering near the ceiling, waiting. It wasn't the first soul I'd sensed. Funerals were always fun. Souls often hung around the bodies as if unsure what to do, but by three days' time the souls were usually gone to wherever souls were supposed to go.
I stared up at this soul and saw nothing. If a soul has a physical shape, you couldn't prove it by me, but I knew it was there. I could have sketched the outline of it in the air with my hand, knew about how much space it was taking up as it floated near the ceiling. But it was energy, spirit, and though it took up space, I wasn't entirely sure it took up the same kind of space as I did, as the bed did, as anything else did.
My voice came out hushed, as if I spoke too loudly, I'd scare it away. "How long have they been dead?"
"They aren't dead," Ramirez said.
I blinked and turned to him. "What do you mean they're not dead?"
"You saw the Bromwells in the hospital. They're both still alive."
I looked into his serious face. The smile had vanished. I turned back to gaze at that slow hovering presence. "Someone died here," I said.
"No one was cut up here," Ramirez said. "According to the Santa Fe PD that's the method of killing that this guy is using. Look at the carpet. There's not enough blood for anyone to have been cut up."
I looked down at the pale green carpet, and he was right. There was blood like black juice soaked into the carpet, but it wasn't much blood, just spots, dabs. The blood was from the skinning of two adults, but if someone had been torn apart limb from limb there would have been more blood, a lot more. There was still the faint rank smell where someone's bowels had let go either under torture or death. It was pretty common. Death is the last intimate thing we ever do.
I shook my head and debated on what to say. If I'd been at home with Dolph and Zerbrowski and the rest of the St. Louis police that I knew well, I'd have just said I saw a soul. But I didn't know Ramirez, and most cops spook around anyone that can do mystical stuff. To tell or not to tell, that was the question, when noises from the front room brought us all around to stare behind us at the still open door.
Men's voices, hurried footsteps, coming closer. My hand was on my gun when I heard a voice yell, "Ramirez, where the hell are you?"
It was Lieutenant Marks. I eased away from my gun and knew I wasn't telling the police that there was a soul hanging in the air behind me. Marks was scared enough of me without that.
He stepped into the doorway with a small battalion of uniforms at his back, almost as if he expected trouble. His eyes were both harsh and pleased when he looked at me. "Get the fuck off my evidence, Blake. You are outta here."
Edward stepped forward, smiling, trying to play peace maker. "Now, Lieutenant, who would give such an order?"
"My chief." He turned to the cops behind him. "Escort her off the property."
I held up my hands and started moving towards the door before the uniforms could move in. "I'll go, no problem. No need to get rough." I was at the door almost abreast with Marks.
He hissed close to my face, "This isn't rough, Blake. You come near me again and I'll show you rough."
I stopped in the doorway, meeting his gaze. His eyes had turned a swimming aqua blue, dark with his anger. The doorway wasn't that big, and standing in it we were almost touching. "I haven't done anything wrong, Marks."
He spoke low, but it carried, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live."
I thought of a lot of things to say, and do, most of which would have gotten me dragged out by a bunch of uniforms. I didn't want to be dragged out, but I wanted to make Marks suffer. Choices, choices.
I rose on tiptoe and planted a big kiss on his mouth. He stumbled back, pushing away from me so hard that he fell into the bedroom and left me pushed into the hallway beyond. Masculine laughter filled the hallway. Two bright spots of color flamed on Marks' cheeks as he lay panting on the carpet.
"You're lying in your evidence, Marks," I said.
"Get her out of here, now."
I blew Marks a kiss, and left through a grinning parade of policeman. One of the uniforms offered to let me kiss him any time. I told him he couldn't handle it and left through the front door to laughter, catcalls, and masculine humor mostly at Marks' expense. He didn't seem to be a popular guy. Go figure.
Edward stayed inside for a few moments, probably trying to soothe things over like a good Ted would do. But in the end he came out of the house, shaking hands with the cops, smiling, and nodding. The smile vanished as soon as he turned so that I was his only audience.
He unlocked the car and we got in. When we were safe inside of its mud-stained windows, he said, "Marks has gotten you kicked off the investigation. I don't know how he did it, but he did it."
"Maybe he and the chief go to the same church," I said. I had snuggled down into the seat, as far as the seatbelt would allow.
Edward looked at me as he started the engine. "You don't seem upset."
I shrugged. "Marks isn't the first right-wing asshole to get up in my face, and he won't be the last."
"Where's that famous temper of yours?"
"Maybe I'm growing up," I said.
He shook his head. "What did you see in the corner of the room that I didn't? You were looking at something."
"A soul," I said.
He actually lowered his sunglasses so I could see his baby blues. "A soul?"
I nodded. "Which means that someone in that house did die, and within three days."
"Why three days?" he asked.
"Because three days is the limit for most souls to hang around. After that they go to heaven or hell or wherever. After three days you may get ghosts, but you won't get souls."
"But the Bromwells are alive. You saw them yourself."
"What about their son?" I asked.
"He's missing," Edward said.
"Nice of you to mention that." I wanted to be angry at him for the game playing, but I just couldn't find the energy. No matter how blase I was about Marks, it did bother me. I was Christian, but I'd lost count of the number of fellow Christians who'd called me witch or worse. It didn't make me angry anymore, just tired.
"If the parents are alive, then the boy probably isn't," I said.
Edward pulled out onto the road, easing his way among the plethora of marked and unmarked police cars brought with him. "But all the other murder vics were cut up. We didn't find any body parts in the house. If the boy is dead, then it's a change in the pattern. We haven't figured out the old pattern yet."
"A change in pattern may give the police the break they need," I said.
"You believe that?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"What do you believe?"
"I believe that the Bromwells' son is dead, and whatever skinned and mutilated his parents took his body, but didn't cut it up. However the son was killed, it wasn't being torn apart or there would have been more blood. He was killed in a way that didn't add blood to the room."
"But you're sure he's dead?"
"There's a soul floating around the house, Edward. Someone's dead, and if there are only three people living in a house, and two of them are accounted for ... You do the math." I was staring out the car window but wasn't seeing anything. I was seeing that young tanned face smiling in the pictures.
"Deductive reasoning," Edward said. "I'm impressed."
"Yeah, me and Sherlock Holmes. By the way, now that I'm persona non grata, where are you taking me?"
"To a restaurant. You said you hadn't had lunch."
I nodded. "Fine." Then after a moment, I asked, "What was his name?"
"Who?"
"The Bromwells' son, what was his first name?"
"Thad, Thaddeus Reginald Bromwell."
"Thad," I said softly to myself. Had he been forced to watch while his parents were skinned alive, mutilated? Or had they watched him die before they bled? "Where's your body, Thad? And why did they want it?" There was no answer. I hadn't expected one. Souls weren't like ghosts. To my knowledge there was no way to communicate with them directly. But I would have answers and soon. It had to be soon. "Edward, I need to see the pictures from the other crime scenes. I need to see everything the Santa Fe PD have. You said only this last case was in Albuquerque, so screw them. I'll start from the other end."
Edward smiled. "I've got copies at my house."
"Your house?" I sat up straighter and stared at him. "Since when do the police share files with bounty hunters?"
"I told you the Santa Fe police like Ted."
"You said the Albuquerque police liked you, too," I said.
"They do like me. It's you they don't like."
He had a point. I could still see the hatred in Marks' eyes when he hissed at me, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Sweet Jesus. That was actually the first time I'd ever had that particular verse quoted at me. Though I suppose someone would have gotten around to it sooner or later, being who I am and what I do. I just didn't expect it from a police lieutenant during a murder investigation. It lacked a certain professionalism.
"Marks won't be able to solve this case," I said.
"Without you, you mean?"
"It doesn't have to be me, but someone with some expertise is going to be needed. We are not dealing with a human killer here. Normal police work is not going to do the job."
"I agree," Edward said.
"Marks needs to be replaced," I said.
"I'll work on it," he said. Then he smiled. "Maybe with that nice Detective Ramirez that found you sooo fascinating."
"Don't go there, Edward."
"He does have one thing over your other two boyfriends."
"What?" I asked.
"He is human."
I'd have liked to argue but couldn't. "When you're right, you're right."
"You're agreeing with me?" He sounded surprised.
"Neither Jean-Claude nor Richard are human. As far as I can tell, Ramirez is human. What's to argue about?"
"I was teasing you, and you go all serious on me."
"You have no idea how refreshing it would be to be with a man that just wanted me for me, without any Machiavellian plots."
"Are you saying that Richard has been plotting behind your back, just like the vampire?"
"Let's just say I'm no longer sure who the good guys are, Edward. Richard has become something harder and more complex because his role as Ulfric, Wolf King, has demanded it of him. And God help me, partly I think because, I demanded it of him. He was too soft for me, so he's become harder."
"And you don't like it," Edward said.
"No, I don't like it, but since it's partially my fault, it's hard to bitch."
"Then dump them both, and date some humans."
"You make it sound so simple."
"It's only hard if you make it hard, Anita."
"Just dump the boys and start dating other men, just like that."
"Why not?" he asked.
I opened my mouth sure I had an answer, but for the life of me couldn't come up with one. Why not date other people? Because I loved two men already and that seemed one too many without adding anyone else. But what would it be like to be with someone who was human? Someone who wasn't trying to use me to consolidate his power like Jean-Claude. Both Richard and Jean-Claude huddled around my humanity like it was the last fire at the end of the world and all the rest was icy darkness. Richard especially clung to me because I was human, and having a human girlfriend had seemed to help him retain human status. Though lately how human I was, was up for debate. At least Richard had been human until he became a werewolf. Jean-Claude had been human until he became a vampire. I'd seen my first soul when I was ten at my great-aunt's funeral. I'd raised my first dead by accident when I was thirteen. Of the three of us I was the only one who had never been truly human.
What would it be like to date someone "normal"? I didn't know. Did I want to find out? I realized with a shock that I did. I wanted to go out on a normal date with a normal guy and do normal things, just once, just for a while. I'd been vampire's lover, werewolf's mate, zombie queen, and for the last year I'd been learning ritual magic so I could control all the rest, so I guess you could add apprentice witch to the list. It had been a weird year even for me. I'd called a break to the romance with both Richard and Jean-Claude because I needed a breather. They were overwhelming me, and I didn't know how to stop it. Would one date with someone else really hurt? Would going out with someone who was just a guy really bring the world crashing down around my ears? Would it? The answer was probably no, but the very fact that I wasn't sure meant I should have run from Ramirez and any other nice guy who asked me out. I should have said no, and kept saying no, so why did part of me want to say yes?