The Voodoo Killings (14 page)

Anyone raising zombies has to have a basic understanding of the human body. In my spare time I’d flipped through medical texts and taken a couple of night classes in physiology. Diseases of the mind, though…well, let’s just say that, typically, any organ that fails during life will still pose a problem in death. The brain is just another organ. It was one of the reasons I used to insist on full medical records from clients, back when five-line, permanent zombies were still legal—or technically not illegal. “So Cameron had a disease of the mind? Neurodegenerative? Depression?”

Max nodded when I hit at depression. “Cameron suffered from debilitating manic depression and a resulting addiction.”

What was the saying one of my old high school teachers used? There is a fine line between genius and madness?

“When he came to me, Cameron was working on a number of pieces. But he was having great difficulty completing them without substantial chemical assistance. It was taking a drastic toll on his body.”

“He’s not the first artist who’s drowned himself in a shallow pool of alcohol and drugs,” I said. “And you know as well as I do that zombieism won’t fix any of that. Dead and depressed isn’t a solution to alive and depressed.”

“Not everything is about zombies, Kincaid. I do have other talents.”

Voodoo. I chewed that one over. Voodoo is the subtle manipulation of the natural order of the living world through channelling Otherside. What I did—raising zombies and talking to ghosts—also channelled Otherside, but using the energy of the dead to manipulate the dead isn’t such a stretch. Using Otherside to warp the living world? What Max suggested wasn’t beyond his capabilities.

“You’ve said it yourself a hundred times at least: voodoo is a last resort, not a treatment.” Voodoo wasn’t like an antipsychotic medication. It was fickle and unpredictable.

“This
was
a last resort. Medication helped control his bipolar disorder but was ruining his work. The self-medicating, as you so
aptly described it, had also ceased to work.” Max broke eye contact and looked down at his empty mug. “I found a way to help him without the use of medications.”

Someone once told me if you can’t learn to read between the lines, you won’t last long. Come to think of it, it was Max. “I’m figuring things weren’t quite that simple.”

He glanced up from his mug, the sun catching the yellow flecks in his eye. “Everything comes with a price. You know that.”

And sometimes the steepest price isn’t monetary. What had Cameron had to pay?

As if reading my thoughts, Max added, “All you need know is we reached a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Yeah, I’ll just bet. “And the fact that your services could gain you some publicity and validation was nothing to you?”

That got me a smile. “I may not be an art connoisseur, but I can read numbers and reviews. His work was garnering national attention. It was thought to be only a matter of time before he reached the international market. There was significant money to be made if my services could help Cameron reach his goals.”

And when it came out that Max had had a hand in restoring Cameron’s health, other business would filter his way.

“All right, but you still haven’t explained where zombieism fits in.”

Max pursed his lips. “That is where a conflict of interest affects my ability to discuss this case.”

“You can tell me you used voodoo as an alternative to psychiatry but not how he ended up a zombie?”

Max lifted a hand to stop me. “What I can say is that Mr. Wight’s greatest fear was dying before finishing his work.”

The pieces slid into place. “You arranged for him to become a zombie if he died before his work was done.”

Max nodded. “Part of our agreement was for Cameron to be reanimated in the event of his untimely death. My methods were working, but he still had slip-ups. The unusual bindings are so Cameron would be animated at death—temporarily, I might add—so he could finish his work.”

So Cameron hadn’t wanted to be a zombie forever—that I believed. Not everyone does. But how had Max managed to lose Cameron? “Jesus Christ, Max. You figured out a way to raise him remotely.”

Max frowned. “I really wish you would stop swearing. Your vocabulary cannot be that limited.”

I started counting off my questions on my fingers. “All right, fine. First off, how on earth do you manage a remote binding? Second, even if you can raise him remotely, what’s the point? The dead can’t create anything. Third, if he’s temporary, why the”—I stopped myself from saying
hell
—“does he have permanent five-line bindings?”

Max didn’t answer.

“All right. Did Cameron know what he was getting into?”

“Kincaid, I swear to you, he knew all the risks.”

I let out a deep breath. I knew Max wouldn’t lie about that. “Why can’t he remember anything? About the animation, about you?”

“I cannot say. He was somewhat of a guinea pig.”

The whole thing was crazy enough to be true. “All right. How do we go about getting Cameron back to you?” Services rendered for bringing someone back as a zombie don’t end at raising. Teaching someone how to integrate into society as a zombie takes time. Because of the memory loss and the sheer strangeness of Cameron’s bindings, I wasn’t willing to take on the job.

Max shook his head. “It would be better if you kept him a few more days. It will give me time to research what went wrong.”

“Yeah, no. Your zombie—you keep him with you while you do the research.”

“Things will go faster and better for Cameron if he is not with me. Take him to his own home if you do not wish him to stay with you. Is he cognizant enough to function despite his amnesia?”

“No! Of course he’s not. Jesus, Max, have you been listening? I told you what happened when I probed him with Otherside.
You
take him.”

“I can pay you,” Max said.

No, Kincaid, don’t even consider it. “How much?” I asked.

The gold glint was back in his eyes. “Two thousand for three days’ work. Just keep watch for three days, that’s all I ask.”

“You owe me five hundred more for the brains.”

“I will reimburse you for that too.”

Three days, two grand, just to watch him. “You said yourself, the bindings are experimental. What if—”

“If they have not fallen apart yet, they will hold three more days.” All of a sudden Max looked like a tired old man. “I’m sorry I’m asking you to do this, Kincaid, but I will be able to help Cameron sooner if I am left to research what has gone wrong.”

I mulled it over. Best case, it was an easy two grand. Worst case…

“Kincaid, please. I am asking this as a favour.”

Goddamnit. I needed to stop granting people favours. “You’ve got three days, Max, that’s it. And if anything
—anything
—goes wrong, I will swear it’s all your fault.”

He nodded, spit on his hand and extended it. It was a voodoo thing. We shook and then he rose from his seat and gathered his hat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to another client.” He left money on the table and turned to go.

As I stood up and grabbed my bag, Max stopped halfway down the steps. “Did you hear about Marjorie?” he asked.

“Heard about it from Lee last night. Saw the police there, too.”

He nodded and the dark look was back. If he suspected or knew Lee had asked me to look into things, he didn’t let on. “A parting word of advice?”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Tread carefully with that mirror you found in your building. I’ve seen such ghost traps before. Powerful, and dangerous, especially when the wrong ghost falls prey.”

“Like I said, I shut it down.”

Max shook his head. “It’s not the mirror itself that worries me, but the person who put it there. A person who uses a ghost trap is not someone I would want to meet in a dark alley.”

Goosebumps ran up my arms and I opened my mouth to ask another question, but Max stopped me. “Do not ask me for any more details. I am neither inclined nor interested in giving them.” He stared into a window while he said it, and I wondered if he was
looking at his own reflection or something else. “Sometimes knowledge is not worth the headache it brings.”

I crossed my arms. No, that wasn’t cryptic at all.

Max continued down the steps. “And stop with the parlour tricks, they are beneath you.”

“Parlour tricks” meaning my seances with Nate up at the university. The ones that paid my bills. “Nice seeing you too, Max. And you’re welcome.”

He waved without looking back, and a moment later he’d disappeared from view.

Cameron, Marjorie and now this. I sat there wondering how the hell I had let Max talk me into watching Cameron for three days. Two thousand dollars, that’s how. I checked my phone: 10:30 a.m. I still had half an hour before I told Cameron I’d be back.

I pulled my glass cleaner out of my purse and ducked into the coffee shop washroom to see if I could get hold of Nate.

Thankfully, the mirror was already set.
Nate?
I wrote.

YEAH—WHAT?
scrawled back a moment later, followed by Nate’s face forming out of the fog.

I was the only person in the bathroom, and talking would be a lot faster than writing. “I need you to do me a favour.”

I’M BUSY
.

“No you’re not—you’re stalking your ex. This is important. Go check on Cameron.”

OKAY, OKAY
.

“Now, Nate.”

I SAID I’D DO IT
.

“Awesome, I’ll wait.”

Nate grumbled something inaudible before disappearing behind the fog. Less than a minute later, he returned:
HE’S FINE. ANYTHING ELSE, O GREAT MISTRISS?

“Yeah. I’ll be home in half an hour. Keep an eye on Cameron. The computer’s on—text me if there’s an emergency. And don’t forget the gig at the university library tonight at seven.”

ON MY CALANDAR, K
.

I got the distinct impression Nate had tuned out. “I’m serious, Nate.”

I’M NOT GOING TO FORGET. ALRIGHT?

“Fine. Just stay with Cameron until I get back.” I cleaned the lipliner off the mirror and stowed my tools in my purse.

I left my bike at the lower market entrance and took the stairs through Pike Place to the upper floors, where the fishmongers hawked their wares. My route happened to take me right by the tourist practitioner shop. I did a double take. Behind the counter was the neon-haired girl from my building. The one I’d run into last night in Pioneer Square.

I thought back to the set mirror in the lobby. One hell of a coincidence that there’d been a ghost trap mirror in my building last night and one of the tenants just happened to work in the only practitioner shop outside the underground city.

I don’t believe in coincidences.

I’ve also never been a big believer in subtlety either. I was low on sage; it wouldn’t hurt to stock up.

I stepped inside the shop. Neon didn’t even glance up as the doorbell chimed.

I leaned over the counter. Still nothing. Apparently whatever was on her phone was really interesting.

“Excuse me,” I said.

She jumped, and her eyes widened as recognition flooded her face.

I smiled. “Hi there. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her bleached blond eyebrows knit together. “Don’t I know you?”

I extended my hand. “We live in the same building.”

She didn’t take it, just stared at it with deep disapproval. I picked up a twig of wrapped sage from the counter basket instead. I’d get better and cheaper sage in the underground, but this would do for now. “I’ll take four of these.”

“Anything else?”

Definitely not friendly. I feigned browsing, as I checked for anything that might be a set mirror. Hard to tell with the way stuff was packed in here…Oh, what the hell. I tapped the Otherside, bit back the nausea and took a quick peek.

Not one thing in the shop had an ounce of Otherside in it. I turned to Neon. “Got any set mirrors for sale?”

I got the distinct impression she was insulted I would ask. “Those are special order. And we don’t sell them to just anyone. They can be dangerous.”

Yeah, maybe if you had a deadly fear of flashing ghosts.

I threw her my best innocent look. “I’m actually looking for something very specific,” I said. “I recently saw this awesome art installation. It was a mirror, but instead of one ghost, there were like twenty. I’d really like to buy one for my mom, you know, for the hallway when people walk in. I’m thinking of naming it
Lament of Tortured Souls
.”

Her transition from surprise, to anger, to something I could only describe as indignation was priceless. “Is this some kind of joke?”

I arched an eyebrow. I stopped myself from calling her Neon and checked her name tag. “Morgan. I found one in our lobby last night. How about you tell me?”

I searched her face. I’d thrown her, but if the mirror was hers, she wasn’t exactly giving it away. Then again, most practitioners would at least feign shock on hearing about something like that. All she did was ring up the four sticks of sage and put them in a paper bag. “Will that be all? We’ve got some good beginner books for starting practitioners on sale.”

I smiled at her. She’d have to come up with something a lot smarter to get a rise out of me. “Maybe next time.” I took my change and left.

I thought about her reaction as I climbed towards the top floor of the markets and the fishmongers. Awfully hostile for a minimum-wage cashier. No question I’d spooked her. If the mirror was hers, though, why stick it in the lobby? Could she be so green she hadn’t known what she was doing?

My phone buzzed. Aaron again. Damn it.

CHAPTER 9

COFFEE AND MURDER

I took the last flight of steps to the fish market two at a time. Max might be old and someone I more or less considered a friend, but he was as slick as Lee Ling when it came to holding cards close; he’d had to be to survive growing up in the Deep South voodoo community. “Competitive” doesn’t begin to describe the politics between the families. Only world I know of where it’s considered business as usual to curse your competitors. Or marry them to make a more powerful family bond. Max had hinted that was why he’d left for Seattle so many years ago: to avoid a voodoo wedding.