2 Death Rejoices (34 page)

The lake road tested his shocks with its assortment of chuckholes and ruts, the Buick quietly kicking up clods of dew-dampened dirt. The early morning fog reduced the trees on either side of us to shape-less shadows pressing in
en masse
. Above, the leafy canopy blocked out any glimmers of starlight. The few denizens of Shaw's Fist who remained this late into the end of summer slept through our rumbling passage. I envied them.

It wasn't long before we pulled up beside a white utility van and SSA Chapel's black SUV. Declan eased the car's bumper right up to
the yellow do-not-cross tape. A familiar 4x4 with SHERIFF in big letters along the side sat askew at the end of the road. A young Justin Timberlake lookalike in a tan Lambert County deputy's uniform, complete with Sam Browne belt and felt hat, was maintaining the perimeter. His eyes narrowed at us but he made no move toward the Buick.

Declan turned off the car without moving to get out. He yawned with a dry-throated click behind his hand. “I thought Cosmo Winkle's body was already at the morgue, Dr. B.”

His yawn was contagious. “Giant beaver suit and all.”

“I thought the crime scene people already scoured the fishing camp for evidence.”

“They did.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Mentally undressing Justin Timberlake?” I suggested. “That there's a yummy little snackipoo for Marnie.”

Irish rolled his skull against the headrest to look at me without speaking. The seats had been off-white leather, but age had turned them the color of smokers’ teeth, a drab contrast to his black curls. He had done a horrible job of shaving this morning, missing a broad stroke along the line his jaw. I bet he didn't know, and probably he didn't care. It didn't look like he'd gotten much sleep.
It's three-oh-five in the morning, genius, nobody has had enough sleep
. His stoplight green eyes were shot-through with red; from the way he blinked at me, I thought they might be the perfect medium in which to grow a cactus. Maybe he'd gone to bed with a bottle after we parted.

“No really, why are we here?” he asked.

I wasn't going to tell him “I wish I knew,” because that wasn't true; I was sure that long before breakfast, I'd wish I
didn't
know.

My limbs were heavy and my brain was still logy with sleep. He grabbed his doctor's bag and cracked his door open; the interior light nearly blinded me. When I hauled my tired ass out of the Buick and came to stand with Declan at the front bumper, I wondered if we were twins separated at birth, one dark one light. Together, we looked like fresh hell gone bad.

Agent Batten, on the other hand, looked entirely scrumptious under the massive floodlights as he strode up the sandy incline toward
us: eyes bright with determination, jaw clenched against the task ahead. I recognized the look:
Kill-Notch does Serious Business.
There was no hint of the teasing grin he'd given me last night, or any of the warmth. I had the urge to salute, quelled only because my arms don't wake for duty until well at least six A.M.

“Dude,” I greeted, hoping I didn't look as tired as I felt. “Where's the coffee?”

Batten blinked at me. “We're in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night.”

“And the coffee's not quite ready?”

This got me a twitch of a smile. “Coffee's back at your place. You'll be all right without it,” Batten said. “Ready?”

“No.” I bit my tongue. “Problem.” With effort, I put the two together. “No problem. What have we got?”

Batten warned, unlocking the back of the utility van, “You'd better change into coveralls and boots. It's a mess in there.” Then he hooked two fingers at the young deputy to indicate that Declan and I were okay to pass the perimeter, and his long legs propelled him toward the rest of the PCU crew, his vigilant gaze scanning left and right, monitoring and overseeing.

“He doesn't know me at all,” I boggled aloud. “It's a mess in there, but I'll be all right without coffee? Has Jerkface even met me?”

Declan paused before getting in the van, worrying at the gold necklace under his shirt. He hoisted himself wordlessly into the back with his bag to change.

I didn't need privacy to put the coveralls over my clothing, because even the smalls were two sizes too big. I took breath mints, my Moleskine, and a tiny pen out of my pockets before getting suited up. I shoved my legs into the white suit, wriggling it around my hips, stamping my foot when the leg of my jeans rode up inside. I had barely gotten my red Keds back on when a silky, noxious female voice came around the back of the van.

“Cute,” Agent Golden said. “You look like a fat little marshmallow.”

“I taste like one too,” I told her darkly. “Eat me.”

She studied me. “You think you're a pretty tough cookie, don't you?”

I stared off into the floodlit space beyond her shoulder. “Oh,” I lamented, “I miss cookies.”

“Do you believe all that Great White Shark stuff they write about you in the papers?”

I didn't bother to reply; she only said it so she could laugh at my answer, regardless of what that answer might be. Instead, I offered her a breath mint, my face carefully expressionless. Her eyes narrowed. I insisted with an encouraging nod, wrinkling my nose the way one might if they were passing a chicken farm. Her lips tightened. I shrugged and popped one.

“Dr. Edgar is going to snap some pictures,” she said. “Make sure he gets some great close-ups of your green face coming out of that shed.” The van jostled a bit as Declan, suited and booted, organized his gear.

Shed?
“I'm a preternatural biologist, Agent Golden. I've seen it all before,” I promised. “There's nothing in that shed that could shock me.”
Lies, lies.
I slid the protective goggles up onto the bridge of my nose, feeling totally pro.

Agent Golden gave me a once-over like she was examining a piece of iffy meat in a butcher's window. “When you walk into a man's bedroom dressed for sex,
Doctor
Baranuik, does Darth Vader's Imperial March start playing in your head?”

Okay, that hurt. Mostly because it was true. I liked to think I was a badass in the sack. Or the forest. I managed not to smirk, though my hand did drift up to where Harry had fed earlier. “What are you saying?” I asked. “That I'm some sort of evil deviant? Or just insinuating that I sound like James Earl Jones this early in the fucking morning?”

“Not at all.” She laughed. “I'm saying you're a huge geek and you don't belong here.”

“Ah.” I nodded sagely, rapidly clicking and clicking my pen to keep from jamming it up through her chin.
Soft palate impalement
,
that's what Batten called it.
And then remembered,
No, no. Killing federal
agent equals bad Marnie.

“Well, geek is one term for it,” I allowed. “Educated, intelligent woman would be another.” Just then, my cell phone started playing the theme from
Ghostbusters
. I cursed in my head and pushed the call through to voice mail.

Agent Golden beamed triumphantly as though the phone had proved her point. “The way I see it, there are educated, intelligent women, and then there's Marnie Baranuik, Mistress of Disaster.”

“Oh yeah?”
Smoooooth
. “Says who?”

“Everyone,” she informed me brightly with a brand of pity that seemed to delight her. I bet if I pulled her eyelids down over her mouth and stapled them there, they'd stop fluttering. I hate morning people. Well, I'd hated Agent Golden around lunchtime, too, so that wasn't really a big stretch.

“Well, ‘everyone’ is entitled to their opinion.” I shrugged. “Your boss trusts his cases to the best that preternatural biology has to offer, and that would be me.”

“God help us.”

“There'll be no help for you, if you don't back the fuck up,” I snapped, noting her irritating habit of inching up into my face.

“Honestly, why don't you do us all a favor? Go do what you do best.” She scrunched up her nose in what would have been a cute smile if I didn't want to hurt her. “Go be food.”

At least she hadn't said, “Fuck Mark Batten”, so that was still under wraps. I summoned up a whopping retort for what
she
could go do, and then bit it in half and swallowed it. My stomach was getting used to the influx of half-digested curses; it barely rolled over. “Is there something I can do for you, Agent Golden, or did you just come by to get in my face?”

“I wondered if you could solve a little mystery for me. You know, with your infamous psychic abilities, none of which I've witnessed as of yet.”

I rolled my tightening shoulders.
People skills, Marnie.
“Fine. Shoot.”
… yourself in the butt.

“Seems Agent Batten disappeared from the cabin for over an hour last night. He returned with a smile on his face. This is odd, since Agent Batten never smiles.”

It was true; the smiles were rare. My heart kicked up a notch, but I showed her a cool, indifferent shrug. “Sorry, distant event viewing isn't my thing. That would be the Talent of a clairvoyant, a Watcher.”

“Agent de Cabrera saw Batten coming out of your place.”

So, the whole team's staying at the neighbor's cabin, and Elian's a big fink
.
Good to know
. “He must have been with Harry. I understand he was sitting up talking to Wesley. Wes was injured, you know.”

I glanced up, expecting her to back off a little; instead, I saw a remarkable lack of sympathy in her face, for me or my brother. Drumming up psi, I searched her empathically for compassion, and found nothing. It didn't surprise me, but it did disturb me, and I had to look away.

When she pushed on, her voice hadn't softened. “There's a rumor going around that you and Agent Batten had a fling last October.”

“You know how office gossip is.”

“Any truth to it?”

I snort-laughed. “Do I look like someone Agent Batten would be interested in?”

“Absolutely not,” she agreed, “that's why it's such a hilarious rumor.”

“You know what's even more hilarious? That you care so much,” I told her. “I think maybe you've got a little crush.” I faked a big grin. “Flattering, but I'm straight.”

Fire lit in her eyes. “I will say this: you've got a nice ass. It'd be tragic if something happened to it.”

“Was that a veiled threat, Agent Golden, or a strange proffer of lesbian bum sex? Cuz I'm not even sure how that works.” I scratched my chin. “Do you wear the strap-on, or do I?”

She snorted with derision.

As Declan climbed out of the back of the van, he sized up the encounter in a glance. Agent Golden moved apart, drawn to the circle of activity where de Cabrera was organizing the crime scene unit for their forensic sweep of the beach area. Nearby, Chapel was speaking to Batten — actually, for a change, Chapel looked like he was speaking
at
Batten, and not without some frustration — just beyond the circle of junior agents. I swallowed hard, wondering if Chapel was giving Batten the same third degree about last night that I just got in bitch-form from Golden.

Declan watched Golden until she was out of earshot. I paid careful attention to the side of his face. His eyes never strayed to her backside, a conscious decision I was sure. One which, oddly enough, I appreciated.

He said, “That looked… frosty. Unless you were seriously hitting on her. In which case, it was totally hot.”

I sucked my teeth and thought it best to keep my thoughts about her (
cocksmoking fuckmaggot!
) to myself. He smiled at me as though he'd heard every word in my head.

“Your eyes are sparkling like a Twilight vampire,” he told me. “Looks like true love.”

An unexpected laugh blasted from deep in my belly. “Yeah, you got me. I love that woman as much as I admire her.”

“I knew it,” he said enthusiastically, pumping one fist at his side. “Not surprising: not only is she professional and bright, but she's also very charming and warm on a personal level.”

“Oh, yes,” I mock-agreed, liking Declan more by every passing second. I let him take my collection of pen, breath mints, and notebook from my hands and dump it in his doctor's bag. “So what if she's a functioning psychotic? I like her so much I wish I could put her in a jar and keep her on a shelf. Forever.” Wondering if I could actually do that gave me something to mentally chew on for a moment while Declan's sturdy presence at my side provided empathic calmness; his quiet kindness was unexpectedly soothing. “I'm trying to figure out how to have her babies as we speak.
In vitro
fertilization, or braised with garlic butter, do you think?”

The breeze shifted, a spare wind that barely stirred my ponytail but brought a different, distinct scent on it. Not death. No, that was there, but above it, riding the currents, was something herbal and green, and at the same time alcoholic. I sniffed subtly sideways toward Declan's shoulder, but the smell was coming from ahead of us, from the lake. It didn't make a lot of sense; it was at least eighty-five degrees out, even at this hour, and at this temperature, alcohol would evaporate quickly.

I watched Batten search the crowd until his eyes fell on me. He raised one arm at me in a curt summons then went to chew out Agent Golden and Agent de Cabrera for something.

Ignoring him, I said to Declan, “Do you smell that?” I lifted my face and he did the same. Together we spent a good minute just smelling the air. My cell phone vibrated at my hip, indicating a text. I glanced down at it.

Batten.
Get your tight little ass over here.

I showed Jerkface the back of my head, knowing my nonchalance would irritate him. What can I say, I stir shit when I haven't had my
coffee. Just my way of spreading the joy. Not incidentally, it also meant he could see the object of his texted demand. Let him argue the quality of my derriere with Agent Golden.

Declan was nodding, still trying to narrow down the source of the aroma. The air was dry and scorched, and the inside of my nostrils hurt like there were tiny men in there manufacturing barbed wire.

My phone vibrated again.
Do not ignore me, woman
.

I glanced over my shoulder, waited for him to be the only one glaring at me over the distance, then smiled sweetly and flipped him the bird.