3
I huddled against the side of the helicopter, one hand in a death grip on the strap that was bolted to the wall. I wanted to use both hands to hold on, as if by holding very tightly to the stupid strap it would save me when the helicopter plummeted to earth. I used one hand because two hands looked cowardly. I was wearing a headset, sort of like ear protection for the shooting range, but with a microphone so you could talk above the teeth-rattling noise. I hadn't realized that most of a helicopter was clear, like being suspended in a great buzzing, vibrating bubble. I kept my eyes closed as much as possible.
"Are you all right, Ms. Blake?" Lionel Bayard asked.
The voice startled me. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You don't look well."
"I don't like to fly," I said.
He gave a weak smile. I don't think I was inspiring confidence in Lionel Bayard, lawyer and flunkie of Beadle, Beadle, Stirling, and Lowenstein. Lionel Bayard was a small, neat man with a tiny blond mustache that looked like it was as much facial hair as he would ever get. His triangular jaw was as smooth as my own. Maybe the mustache was glued on. His brown suit with a thin yellow tweed fit his body like a well-tailored glove. His thin tie was brown-and-yellow striped with a gold tie tack. The tie tack was monogrammed. His slender leather briefcase was monogrammed as well. Everything matched, down to his gold-tasseled loafers.
Larry twisted in his seat. He was sitting beside the pilot. "You're really afraid of flying?" I could see his lips move, but all the sound came out of my headset; without them we'd never have been able to talk over the noise. He sounded amused.
"Yes, Larry, I'm really afraid of flying." I hoped sarcasm traveled the headsets as clearly as amusement did.
Larry laughed. Evidently, sarcasm traveled. Larry looked freshly scrubbed. He was dressed in his other blue suit, his white shirt?which was one of three he owned?and his second-best tie. His best tie had blood all over it. He was still in college, working weekends for us until he graduated. His short hair was the color of a surprised carrot. He was freckled and about my height, short, with pale blue eyes. He looked like a grown-up Opie.
Bayard was working hard at not frowning at me. The effort showed enough that he shouldn't have bothered. "Are you sure you're up to this assignment?"
I met his brown eyes. "You better hope I am, Mr. Bayard, because I'm all you got."
"I am aware of your specialized skills, Ms. Blake. I spent the last twelve hours contacting every animating firm in the United States. Phillipa Freestone of the Resurrection Company told me she couldn't do what we wanted, that the only person in the country who might be able to do it was Anita Blake. Elan Vital in New Orleans told us the same thing. They mentioned John Burke but weren't confident that he could do all we wanted. We must have all the dead raised or it's useless to us."
"Did my boss explain to you that I am not a hundred percent sure that I can do it?"
Bayard blinked at me. "Mr. Vaughn seemed very confident that you could do what we asked."
"Bert can be as confident as he wants. He doesn't have to raise this mess."
"I realize the earthmoving equipment has complicated your task, Ms. Blake, but we did not do it deliberately."
I let that go. I'd seen the pictures. They'd tried to cover it up. If the construction crew hadn't been local with some Bouvier sympathizers, they'd have plowed up the boneyard, poured some concrete, and voila, no evidence.
"Whatever. I'll do what I can with what you've left me."
"Would it have been that much easier if you had been brought in before the graves were disturbed?"
"Yeah."
He sighed. It vibrated through the headphones. "Then my apologies."
I shrugged. "Unless you did it personally, you're not the one who owes me an apology."
He shifted a little in his seat. "I did not order the digging. Mr. Stirling is on site."
"TheMr. Stirling?" I asked.
Bayard didn't seem to get the humor. "Yes, that Mr. Stirling." Or maybe he really expected me to know the name.
"You always have a senior partner looking over your shoulder?"
He used one finger to adjust his gold-framed glasses. It looked like an old gesture from a time before new glasses and designer suits. "With this much money at stake, Mr. Stirling thought he should be in the area in case there were more problems."
"More problems?" I asked.
He blinked at me rapidly, like a well-groomed rabbit. "The Bouvier matter."
He was lying. "What else is going wrong with your little project?"
"Whatever do you mean, Ms. Blake?" His manicured fingers smoothed down his tie.
"You've had more problems than just the Bouviers." I made it a statement.
"Any problems we may or may not be having, Ms. Blake, are not your concern. We hired you to raise the dead and establish the identity of said deceased persons. Beyond that, you have no duties here."
"Have you ever raised a zombie, Mr. Bayard?"
He blinked again. "Of course not." He sounded offended.
"Then how do you know the other problems won't affect my job?"
Small frown lines formed between his eyebrows. He was a lawyer and was earning a good living, but thinking seemed to be hard for him. Made you wonder where he'd graduated from.
"I don't see how our little difficulties could affect your job."
"You've just admitted you don't know anything about my job," I said. "How do you know what will affect it and what won't?" Alright, I was fishing. Bayard was probably right. The other problems probably wouldn't affect me, but you never know. I don't like being kept in the dark. And I don't like being lied to, not even by omission.
"I think Mr. Stirling would have to make the call about whether you are enlightened or not."
"Not senior enough to make the decision," I said.
"No," Bayard said, "I am not."
Geez, some people you can't even needle. I glanced at Larry. He shrugged. "Looks like we're going to land."
I glanced out at the rapidly growing land. We were in the middle of the Ozark Mountains, hovering over a blasted scar of reddish naked earth. The construction site, I presume.
The ground swelled up to meet us. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. The ride was almost over. I would not throw up this close to the ground. The ride was almost over. Almost over. Almost over. There was a bump that made me gasp.
"We've landed," Larry said. "You can open your eyes now."
I did. "You are enjoying the hell out of this, aren't you?"
He grinned. "I don't get to see you out of your element often."
The helicopter was surrounded by a fog of reddish dirt. The blades began to slow with a thickwhump, whump sound. As the blades stopped, the dirt settled down and we could see where we were.
We were in a small, flat area between a cluster of mountains. It looked like it had once been a narrow valley, but bulldozers had widened it, flattened it, made it a landing pad. The earth was so red it looked like a river of rust. The mountain in front of the helicopter was one red mound. Heavy equipment and cars were clustered to the far side of the valley. Men were clustered around the equipment, shielding their eyes from the dust.
When the blades came to a sliding stop, Bayard unbuckled his seat belt. I did, too. We lifted off the headsets and Bayard opened his door. I opened mine and found that the ground was farther away than you'd think. I had to expose a long line of thigh to touch the ground.
The construction workers were appreciative. Whistles, catcalls, and one offer to check under my skirt. No, those weren't the exact words used.
A tall man in a white hard hat strode towards us. He was wearing a pair of tan coveralls, but his dirt-covered shoes were Gucci and his tan was health-club perfect. A man and a woman followed at his back.
The man looked like the real foreman. He was dressed in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled over muscular forearms. Not from racquetball or a little tennis, but from plain hard work.
The woman wore the traditional skirt suit complete with little blousy tie at her throat. The suit was expensive, but was an unfortunate shade of puce that did nothing for the woman's auburn hair but did match the blush that she'd smeared on her cheeks. I checked her neckline, and yes, she did have a pale line just above her collar where the base had not been blended in. She looked like she'd been made up at clown school.
She didn't look that young. You'd think someone somewhere would have clued her in to how bad she looked. Of course, I wasn't going to tell her either. Who was I to criticize?
Stirling had the palest grey eyes I'd ever seen. The irises were only a few shades darker than the whites of his eyes. He stood there with his entourage behind him. He looked me up and down. He didn't seem to like what he saw. His strange eyes flicked to Larry in his cheap, wrinkled suit. Mr. Stirling frowned.
Bayard came around, smoothing his jacket into place. "Mr. Stirling, this is Anita Blake. Ms. Blake, this is Raymond Stirling."
He just stood there, looking at me like he was disappointed. The woman had a clipboard notebook, pen poised. Had to be his secretary. She looked worried, as if it was very important that Mr. Raymond Stirling like us.
I was beginning not to care if he liked us or not. What I wanted to say was, "You got a problem?" What I said was, "Is there a problem, Mr. Stirling?" Bert would have been pleased.
"You're not what I expected, Ms. Blake."
"How so?"
"Pretty, for one thing." It wasn't a compliment.
"And?"
He motioned at my outfit. "You're not dressed appropriately for the job."
"Your secretary's wearing heels."
"Ms. Harrison's attire is not your concern."
"And my attire is none of yours."
"Fair enough, but you're going to have a hell of time getting up that mountain in those shoes."
"I've got a coverall and Nikes in my suitcase."
"I don't think I like your attitude, Ms. Blake."
"I know I don't like yours," I said.
The foreman behind him was having trouble not smiling. His eyes were getting shiny with the effort. Ms. Harrison looked a little scared. Bayard had moved to one side, closer to Stirling. Making clear whose side he was on. Coward.
Larry moved closer to me.
"Do you want this job, Ms. Blake?"
"Not enough to take grief about it, no."
Ms. Harrison looked like she'd swallowed a bug. A big, nasty, squirming bug. I think I'd missed my cue to fall down and worship at her boss's feet.
The foreman coughed behind his hand. Stirling glanced at him, then back to me. "Are you always this arrogant?" he asked.
I sighed. "I prefer the word 'confident' to 'arrogant,' but I'll tell you what. I'll tone it down if you will."
"I am so sorry, Mr. Stirling," Bayard said. "I apologize. I had no idea . . ."
"Shut up, Lionel," Stirling said.
Lionel shut up.
Stirling was looking at me with his strange pale eyes. He nodded. "Agreed, Ms. Blake." He smiled. "I'll tone it down."
"Great," I said.
"All right, Ms. Blake, let's go up to the top and see if you're really as good as you think you are."
"I can look at the graveyard, but until full dark I can't do anything else."
He frowned and glanced at Bayard. "Lionel." That one word had a lot of heat in it. Anger looking for a target. He'd stop picking on me, but Lionel was fair game.
"I did fax you a memo, sir, as soon as I realized that Ms. Blake would be unable to help us until after dark."
Good man. When in doubt, cover your ass with paper.
Stirling glared at him. Bayard looked apologetic but he stood his ground, safe behind his memo.
"I called Beau and had him bring everybody down here on the understanding we could get some work done today." His gaze was very steady on Bayard. Lionel wilted just a little; evidently one memo was not protection enough.
"Mr. Stirling, even if I can raise the graveyard in one night, and that's a big if, what if the dead are all Bouviers? What if it is their family plot? My understanding is that construction will stop until you rebuy the land."
"They don't want to sell," Beau said.
Stirling glared at him. The foreman just smiled softly.
"Are you saying that the entire project is off if this is the Bouvier family plot?" I asked Bayard. "Why, Lionel, you didn't tell me that."
"There was no need for you to know," Bayard said.
"Why wouldn't they want to sell the land for a million dollars?" Larry asked. It was a good question.
Stirling looked at him like he'd just appeared out of thin air. Evidently, the flunkies weren't supposed to talk. "Magnus and Dorcas Bouvier have only a restaurant, called Bloody Bones. It is nothing. I have no idea why they wouldn't want to be millionaires."
"Bloody Bones? What kind of name is that for a restaurant?" Larry asked.
I shrugged. "It doesn't exactly say bon appetit." I looked at Stirling. He looked angry but that was all. I would have bet a million dollars that he knew exactly why the Bouviers didn't want to sell. But it didn't show on his face. His cards were close to his chest and unreadable.
I turned to Bayard. There was an unhealthy flush to his cheeks, and he avoided my gaze. I'd play poker with Bayard any day. But not in front of his boss.
"Fine. I'll change into something more bulky and we'll go take a look." The pilot handed out my suitcase. The coverall and shoes were on top.
Larry came up to me. "Gee, I wished I'd thought of the coverall. This suit's not going to survive the trip."
I pulled out two pairs of coveralls. "Be prepared," I said.
He grinned. "Thanks."
I shrugged. "One good thing about being nearly the same size." I slipped off the black jacket, which left the gun in plain sight.
"Ms. Blake," Stirling said. "Why are you armed?"
I sighed. I was tired of Raymond. I hadn't even gone up the hill and I didn't want to go. The last thing I wanted to do was stand here and debate whether I needed a gun. The red blouse was short-sleeved. Visual aids are always better than lectures.
I walked over to him with my arms bent outward, exposing the inside of both forearms. There's a rather neat knife scar on my right arm, nothing too dramatic. My left arm is a mess. It had only been a little over a month since a shapeshifting leopard had opened my arm. A nice doctor had stitched it back together, but there is only so much you can do with claw marks. The cross-shaped burn scar that some inventive vampire servants had put on me was now a little crooked because of the claws. The mound of scar tissue at the bend of my arm where a vampire had bitten through the flesh and gnawed the bone dribbled white scars like water.
"Jesus," Beau said.
Stirling looked a touch pale but he held up well, like he'd seen worse. Bayard looked green. Ms. Harrison paled so that the makeup floated on her suddenly pale skin like impressionist water lilies.
"I don't go anywhere unarmed, Mr. Stirling. Live with it, because I have to."
He nodded, eyes very serious. "Fine, Ms. Blake. Is your assistant armed as well?"
"No," I said.
He nodded again. "Fine. Change, and when you're ready we'll go up."
Larry was zipping up his coverall when I walked back. "I could have been armed, you know," he said.
"You brought your gun?" I asked.
He nodded.
"Unloaded in your suitcase?"
"Just like you told me."
"Good." I let it go. Larry wanted to be a vampire executioner as well as an animator, which meant he needed to know how to use a gun. A gun with silver-plated bullets that could slow a vampire down. We'd work up to shotguns, which could take out a head and heart from a relatively safe distance. Beat the hell out of staking.
I'd gotten him a carry permit on the condition he didn't carry it concealed until I thought he was a good enough shot not to blow a hole in himself or me. I'd gotten him the permit mainly so we could carry it around in the car and go to the range in any spare moments.
The coverall went over the skirt like magic. I took off the heels and put the Nikes on. I left the coverall unzipped enough that I could go for the gun if needed, and I was set to go.
"Are you going up with us, Mr. Stirling?"
"Yes," he said.
"Then lead the way," I said.
He walked past me, glancing at the coveralls. Or maybe visualizing the gun under it. Beau started to follow but Stirling said, "No, I'll take her up alone."
Silence among the three flunkies. I'd expected Ms. Harrison to stay behind in her high-heeled pumps, but I'd been sure the two men would come along. So, from the looks on their faces, had they.
"Wait a minute. You said 'her.' You want Larry to wait down here, too?"
"Yes."
I shook my head. "He's in training. You can't learn if you don't see it done."
"Will you be doing anything that he needs to see today?"
I thought about that for a minute. "I guess not."
"I do get to come up after dark?" Larry asked.
"You'll get to see the down and dirty, Larry. Don't worry."
"Of course," Stirling said. "I have no problem with your associate doing his job."
"Why can't he come along now?" I asked.
"At the price we're paying, humor me, Ms. Blake."
He was being strangely polite, so I nodded. "Okay."
"Mr. Stirling," Bayard said, "are you sure you should go up alone?"
"Why ever not, Lionel?"
Bayard opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "No reason, Mr. Stirling."
Beau shrugged. "I'll tell the men to go home for the day." He started to turn away, then stopped. "Do you want the crew back tomorrow?"
Stirling looked at me. "Ms. Blake?"
I shook my head. "I don't know yet."
"What's your best guess?" he asked.
I looked over at the waiting men. "Do they get paid whether they show up or not?"
"Only if they show up," Stirling said.
"Then no work tomorrow. I can't guarantee they'll have anything to do."
Stirling nodded. "You heard her, Beau."
Beau looked at me, then back to Stirling. He had a strange took on his face, half amused, half something I couldn't read. "Anything you say, Mr. Stirling, Ms. Blake." He turned and strode off over the raw ground, waving at the men as he moved. The men began to leave long before he got to them.
"What do you want us to do, Mr. Stirling?" Bayard asked.
"Wait for us."
"The helicopter, too? It has to leave before dark."
"Will we be down before dark, Ms. Blake?"
"Sure. I'm just going to take a quick look around. I'll need to get back in here after dark, though."
"I'll give you a car and driver for your stay."
"Thanks."
"Shall we, Ms. Blake?" He motioned me forward. Something had changed in the way he was treating me. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I didn't like it.
"After you, Mr. Stirling."
He nodded and took the lead, striding over the red earth in his thousand-dollar shoes.
Larry and I exchanged glances. "I won't be long, Larry."
"Us flunkies aren't going anywhere," he said.
I smiled. He smiled. I shrugged. Why did Stirling want it to be just the two of us? I watched the senior partner's broad back as he marched across the torn earth. I followed him. I'd find out what the secrecy was all about when we got to the top. I was betting I wouldn't like what I'd hear. Just me and the big cheese on top of the mountain with the dead. What could be better?
4
The view from the top of the mountain was worth the hike. Trees stretched out and out to the horizon. We stood in a circle of forest that showed no hand of man as far as the eye could see. That first blush of green was more pronounced here. But the thing you noticed most was the lavender color of redbuds through the dark trees. Redbuds are such delicate things that if they came out in the height of summer they'd get lost in all the leaves and flowers, but here with nothing but naked trees the redbuds were eye-catching. A few dogwoods had started to bloom, adding their white to the lavender. Spring in the Ozarks, ah.
"The view is magnificent," I said.
"Yes," Stirling said, "it is, isn't it?"
My black Nikes were covered in rust-colored dirt. The raw, wounded earth filled the mountaintop. This hilltop had probably been just as pretty as the rest once. There was an arm bone sticking out of the dirt next to my feet. The lower arm, judging from the length. The bones were slender and still connected by a dry remnant of tissue.
Once I'd seen one bone, my eyes found more to look at. It was like one of those magic-eye pictures where you stare and stare and suddenly see what's there. I saw them all, studding the ground like hands reaching up through a river of rust.
There were a few splintered coffins, their broken halves spilling out into the air, but mostly it was just bones. I knelt and put my hands palm down on the ruined earth. I tried to get some sense of the dead. There was something faint and far-off like a whiff of perfume, but it was no good. In the bright spring sunlight I couldn't work my . . . magic. Raising the dead isn't evil, but it does require darkness. I don't know why.
I stood up, brushing my hands against the coverall, trying to clean the red dust away. Stirling was standing at the edge of the naked dirt staring off into space. There was a distance to his gaze that said he wasn't admiring the trees.
He spoke without looking at me, "I can't bully you, can I, Ms. Blake?"
"Nope," I said.
He turned to me with a smile, but it left his eyes empty, haunted. "I invested everything I had into this project. Not just my money, but clients' money. Do you understand what I am saying, Ms. Blake?"
"If the bodies up here are Bouviers, you're screwed."
"How eloquently you put it."
"Why are we up here alone, Mr. Stirling? Why all the skullduggery?"
He took a deep breath of the gentle air and said, "I want you to say they aren't Bouvier ancestors even if they are." He looked at me when he said it. Watched my face.
I smiled and shook my head. "I won't lie for you."
"Can't you make the zombies lie?"
"The dead are very honest, Mr. Stirling. They don't lie."
He took a step towards me, face very sincere. "My entire future is riding on you, Ms. Blake."
"No, Mr. Stirling, your future rides on the dead at your feet. Whatever comes out of their mouths will decide it."
He nodded. "I suppose that is fair."
"Fair or not, it's the truth."
He nodded again. Some light had gone out of his face, like someone had turned down the power. The lines in his face were suddenly clearer. He aged ten years in a few seconds. When he met my gaze, his dramatic eyes were woeful.
"I'll give you a piece of the profits, Ms. Blake. You could be a billionaire in a few years."
"You know bribing won't work."
"I knew it wouldn't work just a few minutes after we met, but I had to try."
"You really do believe this is the Bouvier family plot, don't you?" I asked.
He took a deep breath and walked away from me to gaze off at the trees. He wasn't going to answer my question, but he didn't have to. He wouldn't be so desperate if he didn't believe he was screwed.
"Why won't the Bouviers sell?"
He glanced back at me. "I don't know."
"Look, Stirling, there are just the two of us up here, nobody to impress, no witnesses. You know why they won't sell. Just tell me."
"I don't know, Ms. Blake," he said.
"You're a control freak, Mr. Stirling. You've overseen every detail of this deal. You have personally seen that every 'i' was dotted, every 't' crossed. This is your baby. You know everything about the Bouviers and their problem. Just tell me."
He just looked at me. His pale eyes were opaque, empty as a window with no one home. He knew, but he wasn't going to tell me. Why?
"Whatdo you know about the Bouviers?"
"The locals think they're witches. They do a little fortune-telling, a few harmless spells." There was something about the way he said it, too casual, too offhand. Made me want to meet the Bouviers in person.
"They any good at magic?" I asked.
"How am I supposed to know?"
I shrugged. "Just curious. Is there a reason why it had to be this mountain?"
"Look at it." He spread his arms wide. "It's perfect. It is perfect."
"It is a great view," I said. "But wouldn't the view be equally good over on that mountaintop? Why did you have to have this one? Why did you have to have the Bouviers' mountain?"
His shoulders slumped; then he straightened and glared at me. "I wanted this land, and I got it."
"You got it. Trick is, Raymond, can you keep it?"
"If you are not going to help me, then don't taunt me. And don't call me Raymond."
I opened my mouth to say something else and my beeper went off. I fished under the coverall for it, and checked the number. "Shit," I said.
"What's wrong?"
"I'm being paged by the police. I've got to get to a phone."
He frowned at me. "Why would the police be calling you?"
So much for being a household name. "I'm the legal vampire executioner for a three-state area. I'm attached to the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team."
He was looking very steadily at me. "You surprise me, Ms. Blake. Not many people do that."
"I need to find a phone."
"I have a portable with a battery pack at the bottom of this damned hill."
"Great. I'm ready to head down if you are."
He did one last turn, taking in that breath-stealing billion-dollar view. "Yes, I'm ready to go down."
It was an interesting choice of words, a Freudian slip you might say. Stirling had wanted this land for some perverse reason. Maybe because he was told he couldn't have it. Some people are like that. The more you say no, the more they want you. It reminded me of a certain master vampire I knew.
Tonight I'd walk the land, visit with the dead. It would probably be tomorrow night before I actually tried to raise them. If the police matter was pressing enough, it might be longer. I hoped it wasn't pressing. Pressing usually meant dead bodies. When the monsters are involved, it's never just one dead body. One way or another, the dead multiply.
5
We got back to the valley. The construction crew was gone except for Beau the foreman. Ms. Harrison and Bayard stood next to the helicopter, as if huddling against the wilderness. Larry and the pilot stood to one side, smoking, sharing that comradery of all people who are determined to blacken their lungs.
Stirling walked towards them all, his stride firm and confident once more. He'd left his doubts on top of the mountain. or so it seemed. He was the impervious senior partner once more. Illusion is all.
"Bayard, get the phone. Ms. Blake needs to use it."
Bayard gave a startled little jump, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have. Ms. Harrison looked a little flushed. Was there romance in the air? And was that not allowed? No fraternizing among the flunkies.
Bayard ran off across the dirt towards the last car. He fetched what looked like a small, black leather backpack with a handle. He pulled a phone out and handed it to me. It looked like an antennaed walkie-talkie.
Larry walked over smelling of smoke. "What's up?"
"I got beeped."
"Bert?"
I shook my head. "Police." I walked a little ways from our group. Larry was polite enough to stay with them, though he didn't have to. I dialed Dolph's number. Detective Sergeant Rudolf Storr was head of the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team.
He answered on the second ring. "Anita?"
"Yeah, Dolph, it's me. What's up?"
"Three dead bodies."
"Three? Shit," I said.
"Yeah," he said.
"I can't be there soon, Dolph."
"Yes, you can," he said.
There was something in his voice. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"The victims are right near you."
"Near Branson?"
"Twenty-five minutes east of Branson," he said.
"I'm already forty miles from Branson in the middle of freaking nowhere."
"The middle of nowhere is where this one is," Dolph said.
"Are you guys flying up?" I asked.
"No, we got a vampire victim in town."
"Jesus, are the other three vamp victims?"
"I don't think so," he said.
"What do you mean, you don't think so?" I asked.
"Missouri State Highway Patrol has this one. Sergeant Freemont is the investigator in charge. She doesn't think it was a vampire because the bodies are cut up. Pieces of the bodies are missing. I had to do a lot of tap dancing to get that much information out of her. Sergeant Freemont seems convinced that RPIT is going to come in and steal all the glory. She was particularly worried about our headline-stealing pet zombie queen."
"It's the pet part that I mind the most," I said. "But she sounds charming."
"I'll bet she's even more charming in person," Dolph said.
"And I get to meet her?"
"Given the choice between a large chunk of the squad coming down later and just you right now, she chose you. I think she sees you alone, without us to back you up, as the lesser evil."
"Nice to be the lesser evil for a change," I said.
"You might get upgraded," Dolph said. "She doesn't know you too well yet."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Let me test my understanding here. None of you are coming up to the scene?"
"Not right away. You know we're shorthanded until Zerbrowski gets back on duty."
"What does the Missouri State Highway Patrol think about a civilian helping them in a murder investigation?"
"I made it clear that you are a valuable member of my squad."
"Thanks for the compliment, but I still don't have a badge to flash."
"You may if that new federal law goes into effect," Dolph said.
"Don't remind me."
"Don't you want to be a federal marshal?" His voice was very mild. Nah, amused.
"I agreed they should license us, but giving us what amounts to federal marshal status is ridiculous."
"You could handle it."
"But who else? John Burke with the power of the law behind him? Give me a break."
"It won't get passed, Anita. The pro-vampire lobby is too strong."
"From your lips to God's ear. Unless they revoke the need for court orders of execution, it won't make killing them any easier, and they won't do that. I've already gone out of state to execute vamps. I don't need no stinking badge."
Dolph laughed. "If you run into trouble, give a yell."
"I really don't like this, Dolph. I'm out here investigating a murder without any official status."
"See, you do need a badge." I heard him sigh over the phone. "Look, Anita, I wouldn't leave you solo if we didn't have problems of our own. I've got a body on the ground here. When I can, I'll send somebody. Hell, I'd like you to come take a look at our corpse. You're our resident monster expert."
"Give me some details and I'll try to play Kreskin."
"Male, early twenties, rigor hasn't set in."
"Where's the body?"
"His apartment."
"How'd you get there so soon?"
"Neighbor heard a fight, called 911. They called us."
"Give me his name."
"Fredrick Michael Summers, Freddy Summers."
"He got any old vampire bites on his body? Healed bites?"
"Yeah, quite a few. Looks like a damn pincushion. How'd you know?"
"What's the first rule of a homicide?" I said. "You check the nearest and dearest. If he had a vamp lover, there'd be healed bite marks. The more of them, the longer the relationship has gone on. No vamp can bite a victim three times within a month without running the risk of killing them and raising them as a vamp. You can have different vamps bite somebody, but that would make Freddy a vampire junkie. Ask the neighbors if there were a lot of different guys or girls going in and out at night."
"It never occurred to me that a vampire could be someone's nearest and dearest," Dolph said.
"Legally, they're people. Means they get to have sweethearts, too."
"I'll check the bite radiuses," Dolph said, "If they match one vamp, a lover; different ones, and our boy was doing groups."
"Hope for a lover," I said. "If it's all one vamp, he might even rise from the dead."
"Most vamps know enough to slit the throat or take the head," he said.
"Doesn't sound well planned. Crime of passion, maybe."
"Maybe. Freemont is holding the bodies for you. Eagerly awaiting your expertise."
"I bet."
"Don't bust Freemont's balls on this, Anita."
"I won't start anything, Dolph."
"Be polite," he said.
"Always," I said in my mildest voice.
He sighed. "Try to remember that the staties may never have seen bodies with pieces missing."
It was my turn to sigh. "I'll be good, scout's honor. Do you have directions?" I got a small notebook with a pen stuck in its spiral top out of a pocket of the coverall. I'd started carrying notebooks just for such occasions.
He gave me what Freemont had given him. "If you see anything fishy at the crime scene, keep the scene intact and I'll try to send some people down. Otherwise, look over the victim, give the staties your opinion, and let them do their job."
"You really think Freemont would let me close up her shop and force her to wait for RPIT?"
Silence for a second; then, "Do the best you can, Anita. Call if we can do anything from this end."
"Yeah, sure."
"I'd rather have you on a murder than a lot of the cops I know," Dolph said.
That was a very big compliment coming from Dolph. He is the world's ultimate policeman. "Thanks, Dolph."
I was talking to empty air. Dolph had hung up. He was always doing that. I hit the button, turning the phone off, and just stood there for a minute.
I didn't like being out here in unfamiliar territory with unfamiliar police, and partially eaten victims. Hanging around with the Spook Squad legitimized me. I'd even pulled that "I'm with the squad" at crime scenes. I had a little ID badge that clipped to my clothes. It wasn't a police badge, but it did look official. But pretending on home turf, where I knew I could run to Dolph if I got in trouble for it, was one thing; out here with no backup was another story.
The police have absolutely no sense of humor about civilians meddling in their homicide cases. Can't really blame them. I wasn't really a civilian, but I had no official status. No clout. Maybe the new law would be a good thing.
I shook my head. Theoretically, I'd be able to go into any police station in the country and demand help, or involve myself uninvited in any case. Theoretically. In the real world, the cops would hate it. I'd be as welcome as a wet dog on a cold night. Not federal, not local, and there weren't enough licensed vamp executioners in the country to fill a dozen slots. I could only name eight of us; two of those were retired.
Most of them specialized in vampires. I was one of the few who would look at other types of kills. There was talk of the new law being expanded to include all preternatural kills. Most of the vampire executioners would be out of their depth. It was an informal apprenticeship. I had a college degree in preternatural biology, but that wasn't common. Most of the rogue lycanthropes, occasional trolls run amok, and other more solid beasties were taken out by bounty hunters. But the new law wouldn't give special powers to bounty hunters. Vampire executioners, most of them, worked very strictly within the confines of the law. Or maybe we just had better press.
I'd been screaming about vamps being monsters for years. But until a senator's daughter got herself attacked just a few weeks ago, nobody did shit. Now suddenly it's a cause celebre. The legitimate vampire community delivered the supposed attacker in a sack to the senator's home. They left his head and torso intact, which meant even without arms and legs he wouldn't die. He confessed to the attack. He'd been the new dead and just got carried away on a date, like any other twenty-one-year-old red-blooded male. Yeah, right.
The local hitter, Gerald Mallory, had done the execution. He's based out of Washington, D.C. He has to be in his sixties now. He still uses a stake and hammer. Can you believe it?
There had been some talk that cutting off their arms and legs would allow us to keep vamps in jail. This was vetoed mainly on the grounds of cruel and unusual punishment. It also wouldn't have worked, not for the really old vampires. It isn't just their bodies that are dangerous.
Besides, I didn't believe in torture. If cutting someone's arms and legs off and putting them in a little box for all eternity isn't torture, I don't know what is.
I walked back to the group. I handed the phone to Bayard. "I hope it isn't bad news," he said.
"Not personally," I said.
He looked puzzled. Not an uncommon occurrence for Lionel.
I talked directly to Stirling. "I've got to go to a crime scene near here. Is there someplace to rent a car?"
He shook his head. "I said you'd have a car and driver while you were here. I meant it."
"Thanks. I'm not so sure about the driver, though. This is a crime scene they won't want civilians hanging around."
"A car, then; no driver. Lionel, see that Ms. Blake gets anything she wants."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll meet you back here at full dark, Ms. Blake."
"I'll be here at dusk if I can, Mr. Stirling, but the police matter takes precedence."
He frowned at me. "You are working for me, Ms. Blake."
"Yes, but I'm also a licensed vampire executioner. Cooperation with the local police takes precedence."
"So it's a vampire kill?"
"I am not free to share police information with anyone," I said. But I cursed myself. By bringing up the word "vampire," I'd started a rumor that would grow with the telling. Damn.
"I can't leave the investigation early just to come look at your mountain. I'll be here when I can. I'll definitely look the dead over before daylight, so you won't really lose any time."
He didn't like it, but he let it go. "Fine, Ms. Blake. I will wait here for you even if it takes all night. I'm curious about what you do. I've never seen a zombie raised before."
"I won't raise the dead tonight, Mr. Stirling. We've been over that."
"Of course." He just looked at me. For some reason it was hard to meet his pale eyes. I made myself meet his gaze and didn't look away, but it was an effort. It was like he was willing me to do something, trying to compel me with his eyes like a vampire. But a vampire, even a little one, he was not.
He blinked and walked away without saying another word. Ms. Harrison toddled after him in her high heels on the uneven ground. Beau nodded at me and followed. I guess they'd all come in the same car. Or maybe Beau was Stirling's driver. What a joyous job that must be.
"We'll fly you to the hotel where we booked your rooms. You can unpack, and I'll have a car brought around for you," Bayard said.
"No unpacking, just a car. Murder scenes age fast," I said.
He nodded. "As you like. If you'll get back into the helicopter, we'll be off."
It wasn't until I was taking off the coveralls and repacking both of them that I realized I could have gone with Mr. Stirling. I could have driven out of here, instead of flying. Shit.