She nodded. "Terribly. And why should you want to help me? You're not a man. You don't like women. Why should you offer to send me home?"
"Stupidity," I said and stood.
"It's not stupid." She took my hand and squeezed it. "But it wouldn't do any good. I'm a whore. Here at least I know the town, the people. I have regulars." She released my hand and shrugged. "I get by."
"With a little help from your friends," I said.
She smiled, and it wasn't happy. "Whores don't have friends."
"You don't have to be a whore. Gaynor made you a whore, but you don't have to stay one."
There were tears trembling in her eyes for the third time that night. Hell, she wasn't tough enough for the streets. No one was.
"Just call a taxi, okay. I don't want to talk anymore."
What could I do? I called a taxi. I told the driver the fare was in a wheelchair like Wanda told me to. She let Jean-Claude carry her back downstairs because I couldn't do it. But she was very tight and still in his arms. We left her in her chair on the curb.
I watched until the taxi came and took her away. Jean-Claude stood beside me in the golden circle of light just in front of my apartment building. The warm light seemed to leech color from his skin.
"I must leave you now, ma petite. It has been very educational, but time grows short."
"You're going to go feed, aren't you?"
"Does it show?"
"A little."
"I should call you ma verite, Anita. You always tell me the truth about myself."
"Is that what verite means? Truth?" I asked.
He nodded.
I felt bad. Itchy, grumpy, restless. I was mad at Harold Gaynor for victimizing Wanda. Mad at Wanda for allowing it. Angry with myself for not being able to do anything about it. I was pissed at the whole world tonight. I'd learned what Gaynor wanted me to do. And it didn't help a damn bit.
"There will always be victims, Anita. Predators and prey, it is the way of the world."
I glared up at him. "I thought you couldn't read me anymore."
"I cannot read your mind or your thoughts, only your face and what I know of you."
I didn't want to know that Jean-Claude knew me that well. That intimately. "Go away, Jean-Claude, just go away."
"As you like, ma petite." And just like that he was gone. A rush of wind, then nothing.
"Show-off," I murmured. I was left standing in the dark, tasting the first edge of tears. Why did I want to cry over a whore whom I'd just met? Over the unfairness of the world in general?
Jean-Claude was right. There would always be prey and predator. And I had worked very hard to be one of the predators. I was the Executioner. So why were my sympathies always with the victims? And why did the despair in Wanda's eyes make me hate Gaynor more than anything he'd ever done to me?
Why indeed?
26
THE PHONE RANG. I moved nothing but my eyes to glance at the bedside clock: 6:45 A.M. Shit. I lay there waiting, half drifted to sleep again when the answering machine picked up.
"It's Dolph. We found another one. Call my pager . . ."
I scrambled for the phone, dropping the receiver in the process. "H'lo, Dolph. I'm here."
"Late night?"
"Yeah, what's up?"
"Our friend has decided that single family homes are easy pickings." His voice sounded rough with lack of sleep.
"God, not another family."
" 'Fraid so. Can you come out?"
It was a stupid question, but I didn't point that out. My stomach had dropped into my knees. I didn't want a repeat of the Reynolds house. I didn't think my imagination could stand it.
"Give me the address. I'll be there."
He gave me the address.
"St. Peters," I said. "It's close to St. Charles, but still . . ."
"Still what?"
"It's a long way to walk for a single family home. There are lots of houses that fit the bill in St. Charles. Why did it travel so far to feed?"
"You're asking me?" he said. There was something almost like laughter in his voice. "Come on out, Ms. Voodoo Expert. See what there is to see."
"Dolph, is it as bad as the Reynolds house?"
"Bad, worse, worst of all," he said. The laughter was still there, but it held an edge of something hard and self-deprecating.
"This isn't your fault," I said.
"Tell that to the top brass. They're screaming for someone's ass."
"Did you get the warrant?"
"It'll come in this afternoon late."
"No one gets warrants on a weekend," I said.
"Special panic-mode dispensation," Dolph said. "Get your ass out here, Anita. Everyone needs to go home." He hung up.
I didn't bother saying bye.
Another murder. Shit, shit, shit. Double shit. It was not the way I wanted to spend Saturday morning. But we were getting our warrant. Yippee. The trouble was I didn't know what to look for. I wasn't really a voodoo expert. I was a preternatural crimes expert. It wasn't the same thing. Maybe I should ask Manny to come along. No, no, I didn't want him near Dominga Salvador in case she decided to cut a deal and give him to the police. There is no statute of limitations on human sacrifice. Manny could still go down for it. It'd be Dominga's style to trade my friend for her life. Making it, in a roundabout way, my fault. Yeah, she'd love that.
The message light on my answering machine was blinking. Why hadn't I noticed it last night? I shrugged. One of life's mysteries. I pressed the playback button.
"Anita Blake, this is John Burke. I got your message. Call me anytime here. I'm eager to hear what you have." He gave the phone number, and that was it.
Great, a murder scene, a trip to the morgue, and a visit to voodoo land, all in one day. It was going to be a busy and unpleasant day. It matched last night perfectly, and the night before. Shit, I was on a roll.
27
THERE WAS A patrol cop throwing up his guts into one of those giant, elephant-sized trash cans in front of the house. Bad sign. There was a television news van parked across the street. Worse sign. I didn't know how Dolph had kept zombie massacres out of the news so long. Current events must have been really hopping for the newshounds to ignore such easy headlines. ZOMBIES MASSACRE FAMILY. ZOMBIE SERIAL MURDERER ON LOOSE. Jesus, it was going to be a mess.
The camera crew, complete with microphone-bearing suit, watched me as I walked towards the yellow police tape. When I clipped the official plastic card on my collar, the news crew moved like one animal. The uniform at the police tape held it for me, his eyes on the descending press. I didn't look back. Never look back when the press are gaining on you. They catch you if you do.
The blond in the suit yelled out, "Ms. Blake, Ms. Blake, can you give us a statement?"
Always nice to be recognized, I guess. But I pretended not to hear. I kept walking, head determinedly down.
A crime scene is a crime scene is a crime scene. Except for the unique nightmarish qualities of each one. I was standing in a bedroom of a very nice one-story ranch. There was a white ceiling fan that turned slowly. It made a faint whirring creak, as if it wasn't screwed in tight on one side.
Better to concentrate on the small things. The way the east light fell through the slanting blinds, painting the room in zebra-stripe shadows. Better not to look at what was left on the bed. Didn't want to look. Didn't want to see.
Had to see. Had to look. Might find a clue. Sure, and pigs could fucking fly. But still, maybe, maybe there would be a clue. Maybe. Hope is a lying bitch.
There are roughly two gallons of blood in the human body. As much blood as they put on television and the movies, it's never enough. Try dumping out two full gallons of milk on your bedroom floor. See what a mess it makes, now multiply that by . . . something. There was too much blood for just one person. The carpet squeeched underfoot, and blood came up in little splatters like mud after a rain. My white Nikes were spotted with scarlet before I was halfway to the bed.
Lesson learned: wear black Nikes to murder scenes.
The smell was thick in the room. I was glad for the ceiling fan. The room smelled like a mixture of slaughterhouse and outhouse. Shit and blood. The smell of fresh death, more often than not.
Sheets covered not just the bed, but a lot of the floor around the bed. It looked like giant paper towels thrown over the world's biggest Kool-Aid spill. There had to be pieces all over, under the sheets. The lumps were so small, too small to be a body. There wasn't a single scarlet-soaked bump that was big enough for a human body.
"Please don't make me look," I whispered to the empty room.
"Did you say something?"
I jumped and found Dolph standing just behind me. "Jesus, Dolph, you scared me."
"Wait until you see what's under the sheets. Then you can be scared."
I didn't want to see what was under the army of blood-soaked sheets. Surely, I'd seen enough for one week. My quota of gore had to have been exceeded, night before last. Yeah, I was over my quota.
Dolph stood in the doorway waiting. There were tiny pinched lines by his eyes that I had never noticed. He was pale and needed a shave.
We all needed something. But first I had to look under the sheets. If Dolph could do it, I could do it. Ri-ight.
Dolph stuck his head out in the hallway. "We need some help in here lifting the sheets. After Blake sees the remains we can go home." I think he added that last because no one had moved to help. He wasn't going to get any volunteers. "Zerbrowski, Perry, Merlioni, get your butts in here."
The bags under Zerbrowski's eyes looked like bruises. "Hiya, Blake."
"Hi, Zerbrowski, you look like shit."
He laughed. "And you still look fresh and lovely as a spring morning." He grinned at me.
"Yeah, right," I said.
Detective Perry said, "Ms. Blake, good to see you again."
I had to smile. Perry was the only cop I knew who would be gracious even over the bloody remains. "Nice to see you, too, Detective Perry."
"Can we get on with this," Merlioni said, "or are the two of you planning to elope?" Merlioni was tall, though not as tall as Dolph. But then who was? He had grey curling hair cut short and buzzed on the sides and over his ears. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a tie at half-mast. His gun stuck out on his left hip like a lumpy wallet.
"You take the first sheet then, Merlioni, if you're in such a damn hurry," Dolph said.
Merlioni sighed. "Yeah, yeah." He stepped to the sheet on the floor. He knelt. "You ready for this, girlie?"
"Better girlie than dago," I said.
He smiled.
"Do it."
"Showtime," Merlioni said. He raised the sheet and it stuck in a wet swatch that pulled up one wet inch at a time.
"Zerbrowski, help him raise the damn thing," Dolph said.
Zerbrowski didn't argue. He must have been tired. The two men lifted the sheet in one wet motion. The morning sunlight streamed through the red sheet and painted the rug even redder than it was, or maybe it didn't make any difference. Blood dripped from the edges of the sheet where the men held it. Wet, heavy drops, like a sink that needed fixing. I'd never seen a sheet saturated with blood before. A morning of firsts.
I stared at the rug and couldn't make sense of it. It was just a pile of lumps, small lumps. I knelt beside them. Blood soaked through the knee of my jeans, it was cold. Better than warm, I guess.
The biggest lump was wet and smooth, about five inches long. It was pink and healthy-looking. It was a scrap of upper intestine. A smaller lump lay just beside it. I stared at the lump but the longer I stared the less it looked like anything. It could have been a hunk of meat from any animal. Hell, the intestine didn't have to be human. But it was, or I wouldn't be here.
I poked the smaller glob with one gloved finger. I had remembered my surgical gloves this time. Goody for me. The glob was wet and heavy and solid. I swallowed hard, but I was no closer to knowing what it was. The two scraps were like morsels dropped from a cat's mouth. Crumbs from the table. Jesus.
I stood. "Next." My voice sounded steady, ordinary. Amazing.
It took all four men lifting from different corners to peel the sheet back from the bed. Merlioni cursed and dropped his corner, "Dammit!"
Blood had run down his arm onto the white shirt. "Did um's get his shirt messy?" Zerbrowski asked.
"Fuck yes. This place is a mess."
"I guess the lady of the house didn't have time to clean up before you came, Merlioni," I said. My eyes flicked down to the bed and the remains of the lady of the house. But I looked back up at Merlioni instead. "Or can't the dago cop take it?"
"I can take anything you can dish out, little lady," he said. I frowned and shook my head. "Betcha can't."
"I'll take some of that action," Zerbrowski said.
Dolph didn't stop us, tell us this was a crime scene, not a betting parlor. He knew we needed it to stay sane. I could not stare down at the remains and not make jokes. I couldn't. I'd go crazy. Cops have the weirdest sense of humor, because they have to.
"How much you bet?" Merlioni said.
"A dinner for two at Tony's," I said.
Zerbrowski whistled. "Steep, very steep."
"I can afford to foot the bill. Is it a deal?"
Merlioni nodded. "My wife and I haven't been out in ages." He offered his blood-soaked hand. I took it. The cool blood clung to the outside of my surgical gloves. It felt wet, like it had soaked through to the skin, but it hadn't. It was a sensory illusion. I knew that when I took off the gloves my hands would be powder dry. It was still unnerving.
"How we prove who's toughest?" Merlioni asked.
"This scene, here and now," I said.
"Deal."
I turned my attention back to the carnage with renewed determination. I would win the bet. I wouldn't let Merlioni have the satisfaction. It gave me something to concentrate on rather than the mess on the bed.
The left half of a rib cage lay on the bed. A naked breast was still attached to it. The lady of the house? Everything was brilliant scarlet red, like someone had poured buckets of red paint on the bed. It was hard to pick out the pieces. There a left arm, small, female.
I picked up the fingers and they were limp, no rigor mortis. There was a wedding band set on the third finger. I moved the fingers back and forth. "No rigor mortis. What do you think, Merlioni?"
He squinted down at the arm. He couldn't let me out-do him so he fiddled with the hand, turning it at the wrist. "Could be rigor came and went. You know the first rigor doesn't last."
"You really think nearly two days have passed?" I shook my head. "The blood's too fresh for that. Rigor hasn't set in. The crime isn't eight hours old yet."
He nodded. "Not bad, Blake. But what do you make of this?" He poked the rib cage enough to make the breast jiggle.
I swallowed hard. I would win this bet. "I don't know. Let's see. Help me roll it over." I stared into his face while I asked. Did he pale just a bit? Maybe.
"Sure."
The three others were standing at the side of the room, watching the show. Let them. It was a lot more diverting than thinking of this as work.
Merlioni and I moved the rib cage over on its side. I made sure to give him the fleshy parts, so he ended up groping the dead body. Was breast tissue breast tissue? Did it matter that it was bloody and cold? Merlioni looked just a little green. I guess it mattered.
The insides of the rib cage were snatched clean like Mr. Reynolds's rib cage. Clean and bloody smooth. We let the rib cage fall back on the bed. It splattered blood in a faint spray onto us. His white shirt showed it worse than my blue polo shirt did. Point for me.
He grimaced and brushed at the blood specks. He smeared blood from his gloves down the shirt. Merlioni closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Are you alright, Merlioni?" I asked. "I wouldn't want you to continue if it's upsetting you."
He glared at me, then s
miled. A most unpleasant smile. "You ain't seen it all, girlie. I have."
"But have you touched it all?"
A trickle of sweat slid down his face. "You won't want to touch it all."
I shrugged. "We'll see." There was a leg on the bed, from the hair and the one remaining tennis shoe it looked male. The round, wet mound of the ball socket gleamed out at us. The zombie had just torn the leg off, tearing flesh without tearing bone.
"That must have hurt like a son of a bitch," I said.
"You think he was alive when the leg was pulled off?"
I nodded. "Yeah." I wasn't a hundred percent sure. There was too much blood to tell who had died when, but Merlioni looked a little paler.
The rest of the pieces were just bloody entrails, globs of flesh, bits of bone. Merlioni picked up a handful of entrails. "Catch."
"Jesus, Merlioni, that isn't funny." My stomach was one tight knot.
"No, but the look on your face is," he said.
I glared at him and said, "Throw it or don't, Merlioni, no teasing."
He blinked at me for a minute, then nodded. He tossed the string of entrails. They were awkward to throw but I managed to catch them. They were wet, heavy, flaccid, squeeshy, and altogether disgusting, like touching raw calf's liver but more so.
Dolph made an exasperated sound. "While you two are playing gross out, can you tell me something useful?"
I dropped the flesh back on the bed. "Sure. The zombie came in through the sliding glass door like last time. It chased the man or woman back in here and got them both." I stopped talking. I just froze.
Merlioni was holding up a baby blanket. Some trick had left a corner of it clean. It was edged in satiny pink with tiny balloons and clowns all over it. Blood dripped heavily from the other end of it.
I stared at the tiny balloons and clowns while they danced in useless circles. "You bastard," I whispered.
"Are you referring to me?" Merlioni asked.
I shook my head. I didn't want to touch the blanket. But I reached out for it. Merlioni made sure that the bloody edge slapped my bare arm. "Dago bastard," I said.
"You referring to me, bitch?"
I nodded and tried to smile but didn't really manage it. We had to keep pretending that this was alright. That this was doable. It was obscene. If the bet hadn't held me I'd have run screaming from the room.
I stared at the blanket. "How old?"
"Family portrait out front, I'd guess three, four months."