Bloody Bones (10 page)

I was suddenly very aware that I was still holding his wrist. I drew my hand away. “Stop reading us, Magnus.”

“You wore gloves, or I'd be able to tell what you'd touched,” he said.

“It's an ongoing police investigation. Anything you discern by psychic means must be held confidential, or you're liable just as if you stole information out of our files.”

“Do you always do that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Quote the law when you're nervous.”

“Sometimes,” I said.

“I saw blood, that's all. My gifts are rather limited in the area of far-seeing. You should shake Dorrie's hand. Far-seeing is her strong suit.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Larry said.

He smiled. “You are not police, or you wouldn't have
threatened me with the police, but you were with them earlier. Why?”

“I thought all you saw was blood,” I said.

He had the grace to look embarrassed; nice to know he could be embarrassed. “A little bit more, perhaps.”

“Touch clairvoyance isn't a traditional fey power.”

“Our many-times-great-grandmother was the daughter of a shaman, so the story goes.”

“Getting magic from both sides of the family tree,” I said. “Dirty pool.”

“Clairvoyance isn't magic,” Larry said.

“A really good clairvoyant will make you think it is,” I said. I stared at Magnus. The last clairvoyant who had touched me and seen blood had been horrified. He hadn't wanted to touch me again. He hadn't wanted me anywhere near him. Magnus didn't look horrified, and he'd offered to have sex with me. Different strokes for different folks.

“I'll take your order through to the kitchen myself, if you'll just decide what you want,” he said.

Larry stared at the menu. “A salad, I guess. No dressing.” He thought about it some more. “No tomatoes.”

Magnus started to stand.

“Why won't you sell to Stirling?” I asked.

Magnus cocked his head to one side, smiling. “The land has been in our family for centuries. It's our land.”

I looked at him and couldn't read his face. It could have been the absolute truth, or a bold-faced lie.

“So the only reason you don't want to be a millionaire is because of what . . . family tradition?”

The smile deepened. He leaned closer, long hair spilling forward. He whispered, and it was quiet enough that he needed to whisper. “Money is not everything, Anita. Though Stirling seems to think it is.”

His face was very close, just barely far enough away for me not to complain. I could smell his aftershave, faint as if you'd have to get very near his skin to smell it, but it would be worth the effort.

“What do you want, Magnus, if it's not money?” I stared at him from too close. His long hair trailed over my hand.

“I told you what I wanted.”

Even without the glamor he was trying to sweet-talk me, distract me. “What happened to the trees out by your road?” I didn't distract that easily.

He blinked long lashes. Something slid behind his eyes. “I happened.”

“You cut down those trees?” Larry asked.

Magnus turned to him, and I was glad not to be staring at him from inches away. “Sadly, yes.”

“Why?” I asked.

He straightened up, suddenly businesslike. “I got drunk and went on a little rampage.” He shrugged. “Embarrassing, isn't it?”

“That's one word for it,” I said.

“I'll go get your food. One naked salad coming up.”

“You remember what I'm getting?” I asked.

“Meat burned to death; I remember.”

“You sound like a vegetarian.”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I eat all sorts of things.”

He walked away through the crowd before I could decide if I'd been insulted or not. Just as well. For the life of me, I couldn't think of a good comeback line.

10

D
ORCAS BROUGHT OUR
food without a word. She seemed angry—maybe not at us, but with us. Or with everything. I sympathized. Magnus went behind the bar, spreading his own special brand of magic to his customers once more. He glanced our way and smiled but didn't come back to finish our talk. Of course; we'd been finished. I was all out of questions.

I took a bite of my cheeseburger. It was almost crispy around the edges, not a smidgen of pink in the center. Perfect.

“What's wrong?” Larry asked. He was nibbling at a lettuce leaf.

I swallowed. “Why should something be wrong?”

“You're frowning,” he said.

“Magnus didn't come back to the table.”

“So? He answered all our questions.”

“Maybe we just don't know the right questions to ask.”

“You suspect him of something now?” Larry shook his head. “You have been hanging around with cops too long, Anita. You think everyone's up to something.”

“They usually are.” I took another bite of burger.

Larry squinched his eyes tight.

“What's wrong with you?” I asked.

“There's juice coming out of your burger. How can you eat that after what we just saw?”

“I guess this means you don't want me to put ketchup on my fries.”

He looked at me with something near physical pain on his face. “How can you make jokes?”

My beeper went off. Had they found the vampire? I hit the button, and Dolph's number flashed at me. Now what?

“It's Dolph. Eat hearty. I'll phone from the Jeep and be back.”

Larry stood up with me. He put a tip on the table and left his salad nearly untouched. “I'm done.”

“Well, I'm not. Have Magnus pack my meal to go.” I left him staring forlornly down at my half-eaten burger.

“You're not going to eat it in the car, are you?”

“Just have it packed up.” I went for the Jeep and its fancy phone.

Dolph answered on the third ring. “Anita?”

“Yeah, Dolph, it's me. What's up?”

“Vampire victim out near you.”

“Shit, another one.”

“What do you mean another one?”

That stopped me. “Freemont didn't call you after I talked to her?”

“Yeah, she said good things about you.”

“That surprises me; she wasn't too friendly.”

“How not friendly?”

“She wouldn't let me hunt vampires with her.”

“Tell me,” Dolph said.

I told him.

Dolph was quiet for a very long time after I finished.

“You still there, Dolph?”

“I'm here. I wish I wasn't.”

“What's going on, Dolph? Why would Freemont call and tell you what a good job I'm doing, but not ask for the squad's help on something this big?”

“I bet she hasn't called the Feds either,” Dolph said.

“What's going on, Dolph?”

“I think Detective Freemont is pulling a Lone Ranger on us.”

“The federal boys are going to want a piece of this. The first vampire serial killer in recorded history. Freemont can't keep it to herself.”

“I know,” Dolph said.

“What are we going to do?”

“The body on the ground this time sounds like a straightforward vampire kill. It's classic, bite marks, no other damage to the body. Could it be a different vamp?”

“Could be,” I said.

“You sound doubtful.”

“Two rogue vamps in this small a geographical area, this far from a city, doesn't seem likely.”

“The body wasn't cut up.”

“There is that,” I said.

“How sure are you that the first killer is a vamp? Is there anything else it could be?”

I opened my mouth to say no, and closed it. Anybody who could cut down all those trees in one drunken brawl could certainly cup up people. Magnus had his glamor. I wasn't sure it was capable of doing what I'd seen in the clearing, but . . .

“Anita?”

“I might have an alternative.”

“What?”

“Who,” I said. I hated giving Magnus up to the cops. He'd
kept his secret so long, but . . . what if the question I should ask was, had he killed five people? I'd felt the strength in his hands. I remembered the clean trunks of the trees, cut by just one blow, two at most. I flashed on the murder scene. The blood, the naked bone. I couldn't rule Magnus out, and I couldn't afford to be wrong.

I gave him up to Dolph. “Can you keep the part about him being fairie out of it for a while?”

“Why?”

“Because if he didn't do it, then his life is ruined.”

“A lot of people have fey blood in them, Anita.”

“Tell that to the college student last year whose fiance beat her to death when he found out he was about to marry a fairie. He protested in court that he hadn't meant to kill her. The fey were supposed to be hard to kill, weren't they?”

“Not everyone is like that, Anita.”

“Not everyone, but enough.”

“I'll try, Anita, but I can't promise.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Where's the new victim?”

“Monkey's Eyebrow,” he said.

“What?”

“That's the name of the town.”

“Jesus. Monkey's Eyebrow, Missouri. Let me guess. It's a small town.”

“Big enough to have a sheriff and a murder.”

“Sorry. Do you have directions?” I fished my small, spiral-bound notebook out of the pocket of the black jacket.

He gave me directions. “Sheriff St. John is holding the body for you. He called us first. Since Freemont wants to go it alone, we'll let her.”

“You're not going to tell her?”

“No.”

“I don't suppose Monkey's Eyebrow has a crime scene unit, Dolph. If we don't have Freemont come in with her people, we're going to need somebody. Can you guys come down yet?”

“We're still working our own murder. But since Sheriff St. John called us in for his murder, we'll be in the area as soon as we can get there. Not tonight, but tomorrow.”

“Freemont's supposed to send over crime-scene photos from the first couple that was killed. I bet if I asked she might send over photos from the second scene, too. Show-and-tell tomorrow when you get here.”

“Freemont may be suspicious about you asking for more pictures,” Dolph said.

“I'll tell her I want them for comparison. She may be trying to hog the case for herself, but she wants it solved. She just wants to solve it herself.”

“She's a glory hound,” Dolph said.

“Looks that way.”

“I don't know if I'll be able to keep Freemont out of the second case or not, but I'll try to give you some lead time, so you can look around without her breathing down your neck.”

“Much appreciated.”

“She said you had your assistant with you at the crime scene. Had to be Larry Kirkland, right?”

“Right.”

“What are you doing bringing him to crime scenes?”

“He'll have a degree in preternatural biology this spring. He's an animator and a vampire slayer. I can't be everywhere, Dolph. If I think he can handle it, I thought it might be nice to have two monster experts.”

“It might. Freemont said Larry lost his lunch all over the crime scene.”

“He didn't throw up on the crime scene, just near it.”

There was a moment of silence. “Better than throwing up on the body.”

“I'm never going to live that down, am I?”

“No,” Dolph said, “you aren't.”

“Great. Larry and I will get out there as soon as we can. It's about a thirty-minute drive, maybe more.”

“I'll tell Sheriff St. John you're on your way.” He hung up.

I hung up. Dolph was training me never to say good-bye over the phone.

11

L
ARRY SLUMPED IN
the seat as far as the seat belt would let him. His hands were clenched tight in his lap. He stared out into the dark like he was seeing something besides the passing scenery. Images of butchered teenagers dancing in his head, I bet. They weren't dancing in mine. Not yet. I might see them in my dreams, but not awake, not yet.

“How bad will this one be?” he asked. His voice sounded quiet, strained.

“I don't know. It's a vampire victim. Could be neat, just a couple of puncture wounds; could be carnage.”

“Carnage like the three boys?”

“Dolph said no, said it's classic, just bite marks.”

“So it won't be messy?” His voice was squeezed down to a near whisper.

“Won't know until we get there,” I said.

“You couldn't just comfort me?” His voice sounded so small, so uncertain that I almost offered to turn the Jeep around. He didn't have to see another murder scene. It was my job, but it wasn't his job, not yet.

“You don't ever have to see another murder scene, Larry.”

He turned his head and looked at me. “What do you mean?”

“You've had your quota of blood and guts for one day. I can turn around and drop you back at the hotel.”

“If I don't come tonight, what happens next time?”

“If you aren't cut out for this kind of work, you aren't cut out for it. No shame in that.”

“What about next time?” he asked.

“There won't be a next time.”

“You aren't getting rid of me that easy,” he said.

I hoped the darkness hid the smile on my face. I kept it small.

“Tell me about vampires, Anita. I thought a vampire couldn't drink enough blood in one night to kill somebody.”

“Pretty to think so,” I said.

“They told us in college that a vampire couldn't drain a human being with one bite. Are you saying that's not true?”

“They can't drink a human dry with one bite, in one night, but they can drain one with one bite.”

He frowned at me. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“They can pierce the flesh and drain the blood without drinking it.”

“How?” he asked.

“Just put the fangs in, start the blood flow, and let the blood fall down your body onto the ground.”

“But that's not taking blood for food, that's just murder,” Larry said.

“And your point is?” I said.

“Hey, isn't that our turnoff?”

I caught a glimpse of the road sign. “Damn.” I slowed down, but couldn't see over the crest of the hill. I didn't dare U-turn until I was sure there were no cars coming the other way. It was another half mile before we came to a gravel road. There was a row of mailboxes beside the road.

Trees grew so close to the road that even winter-bare they covered the one-lane road in shadows. There was no place to turn around. Hell, if a second car had come, one of us would have had to back up.

The road rose up and up, as if it were going to go straight into the sky. At the crest of the hill I could see nothing in front of the car. I had to simply trust that there was more road in front of us, rather than some endless precipice.

“Jesus, this is steep,” Larry said.

I eased the Jeep forward and the tires touched road. My shoulders loosened just a little. There was a house just up ahead. The porch light was on, like they were expecting company. The bare light bulb was not kind. The house was unpainted wood with a rusting tin roof. Its raised porch sagged under the weight of the front seat of a car that was sitting by the screen door. I turned around in the dirt in front of the house that passed for a front yard. It looked like we weren't the first car to do it. There were deep wheel ruts in the powder-dry dirt from years of cars turning in and out.

By the time we got down to the end of the road, the
darkness was pure as velvet. I hit the Jeep's high beams, but it was like driving in a tunnel. The world existed only in the light; everything else was blackness.

“I'd give a lot for a few streetlights right now,” Larry said.

“Me, too. Help me spot our road. I don't want to drive past it twice.”

He leaned forward in his seat, straining against the shoulder belt. “There.” He pointed as he spoke. I slowed and turned carefully onto the road. The headlights filled the tunnel of trees. This road was just bare red earth. The dirt rose in a mist around the Jeep. For once I was glad of the drought. Mud would have been a real bitch on a dirt road.

The road was wide enough that if you had nerves of steel, or were driving someone else's car, you could drive two cars abreast. A stream cut across the road, with a ditch at least fifteen feet deep. The bridge was nothing but planks laid across some beams. No rails, no nothing. As the Jeep crept over the bridge, the planks rattled and moved. They weren't nailed in. God.

Larry was staring at the drop, his face pressed against the tinted glass. “This bridge isn't much wider than the car.”

“Thanks for telling me, Larry. I'd have never noticed on my own.”

“Sorry.”

Past the bridge, the road was still wide enough for two cars. I guess if two cars met at the bridge they took turns. There was probably some traffic law to cover it. First car on the left gets to go first, maybe.

At the crest of the hill, lights showed in the distance. Police lights strobed the darkness like muticolored lightning. They were farther away than they looked. We had two more hills to go up and down before the lights reflected off the bare trees, making them look black and unreal. The road spilled into a wide clearing. A lawn spread up from the road, surrounding a large white house. It was a real house with siding and shutters and a wraparound porch. It was two-storied and edged with neatly trimmed shrubs. The driveway was white gravel, which meant someone had shipped it in. Narcissus edged the driveway in two thick stripes.

A uniformed policeman stopped us in the foot of the sloping drive. He was tall, big through the shoulders, and had dark hair. He shined a flashlight into the car. “I'm sorry, miss, but you can't go up there right now.”

I flashed my ID at him and said, “I'm Anita Blake. I'm with the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team. I was told Sheriff St. John is expecting me.”

He leaned into the open window and flashed his light at Larry. “Who's this?”

“Larry Kirkland. He's with me.”

He stared at Larry for a few seconds. Larry smiled, doing his best to look harmless. He's almost as good at it as I am.

I had a good view of the cop's gun as he leaned into the window. It was a Colt .45. Big gun, but he had the hands for it. I caught a whiff of his aftershave; Brut. He'd leaned too far into the window to look at Larry. If I'd had a gun hidden in my lap, I could have fed it to him. He was big, and I bet sheer size saw him through a lot, but it was careless. Guns don't care how big you are.

He nodded and pulled out the car. “Go on up to the house. Sheriff's expecting you.” He didn't sound particularly happy about that.

“You got a problem?” I asked.

He gave a smile, but it was sour. He shook his head. “It's our case. I don't think we need any help; that includes you.”

“You got a name?” I asked.

“Coltrain. Deputy Zack Coltrain.”

“Well, Deputy Coltrain, we'll see you up at the house.”

“I guess you will, Miss Blake.”

He thought I was a cop and deliberately didn't call me “officer” or “detective.” I let it go. If I really had a professional title I'd have demanded it, but getting into an argument because he wouldn't call me “detective” when I wasn't one seemed counterproductive.

I drove up and parked between the police cars. I clipped my ID to my lapel. We walked up the pale curve of sidewalk, and no one stopped us. We stood outside the door in a silence that was almost eerie. I'd been to a lot of murder scenes. One thing they weren't was silent. There was no
static crackle of police radios, no men milling around. Murder scenes were always thick with people: plainclothes detectives, uniforms, crime scene techs, people taking photographs, video, the ambulance waiting to take the body away. We stood on the freshly swept porch in the cool spring night with the only sounds the calls of frogs. The high-pitched, peeping sound played oddly with the swirling police lights.

“Are we waiting for something?” Larry asked.

“No,” I said. I rang the glowing doorbell. The sound gave a rich
bong
deep within the house. A small dog barked furiously, somewhere deep in the house. The door opened. A woman stood framed in the light from the hall, placing most of her in shadow. The police lights strobed across her face, painting in neon Crayloa flashes. She was about my height with dark hair that was either naturally curly or had a really good perm. But she'd done more with it than I did, and it framed her face neatly. Mine always looked sort of unruly. She was wearing a button-down shirt with long sleeves untucked over jeans. She looked about seventeen, but I wasn't fooled. I looked young for my age, too. Heck, so did Larry. It can't just be being short, can it?

“You aren't the state police,” she said. She seemed very sure of that.

“I'm with the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team,” I said. “Anita Blake. This is my colleague Larry Kirkland.”

Larry smiled and nodded.

The woman moved back out of the door, and the light from the hallway fell full on her face. It added five years to her age, but they were a good five years. It took me a minute to realize she was wearing very understated makeup. “Please come in, Miss Blake. My husband, David is waiting with the body.” She shook her head. “It's awful.”

She peered out into the colored darkness before she closed the door. “David told him to turn off those lights. We don't want everyone for miles to know what's happened.”

“What's your name?” I asked.

She blushed slightly. “I'm sorry; I'm not usually this scattered. I'm Beth St. John. My husband is the sheriff. I've
been sitting with the parents.” She made a small motion towards a set of double doors to the left of the main entrance.

The dog was still barking behind those doors like a small furry machine gun. A man's voice said, “Quiet Raven.” The barking stopped.

We were standing in an entryway that had a ceiling that soared up to the rood, as if the architect had cut a piece out of the room above us to create the sweeping space. A crystal chandelier sparkled light down on us. The light cut a rectangle out of the darkened room to our right. There was a glimpse of a cherrywood dining room set so polished it gleamed.

The hallway cut straight back to a distant door that probably led to the kitchen. Stairs ran along the wall with the double doors. The bannister and door edges were white, the carpet was pale blue, the wallpaper white with tiny blue flowers and tinier leaves. It was open and airy, bright and welcoming, and utterly quiet. If we could have found a piece of uncarpeted floor, we would have dropped a pin and listened to it bounce.

Beth St. John led us up the blue-and-white stairway. In the center of the hallway on the right-hand side was a series of family portraits. They began with a smiling couple; smiling couple and smiling baby; smiling couple and one smiling baby, one crying baby. I walked down the hallway, watching the years pass by. The babies became children, a girl and a boy. A miniature black poodle appeared in the pictures. The girl was the oldest, but only by about a year. The parents grew older, but didn't seem to mind. The parents and the girl smiled; sometimes the boy did, sometimes he didn't. The boy smiled more on the other wall where, the camera had caught him tanned with a fish, or with hair slicked back from just coming out of the pool. The girl smiled everywhere you looked. I wondered which of them was dead.

There was a window at the end of the hallway. The white drapes framed it; no one had bothered to draw them. The window looked like a black mirror. The darkness pressed against the glass like it had weight.