I was finally on the other side of the bed. There was another sheet-draped spot. It was just as bloody, just as small. There was nothing whole under the sheet. I wanted to call the bet off. If they wouldn't make me look I'd take them all to Tony's. Just don't make me lift that last sheet. Please, please.
But I had to look, bet or no bet, I had to see what there was to see. Might as well see it and win, as run and lose.
I handed the blanket back to Merlioni. He took it and laid it back on the bed, up high so the clean corner would stay clean.
I knelt on one side of the sheet. He knelt on the other. Our eyes met. It was a challenge then, to the gruesome end. We peeled back the sheet.
There were only two things under the sheet. Only two. My stomach contracted so hard I had to swallow vomit. I coughed and almost lost it there, but I held on. I held on.
I'd thought the blood-soaked form was the baby, but it wasn't. It was a doll. So blood-soaked I couldn't tell what color its hair had been, but it was just a doll. A doll too old for a four-month-old baby.
A tiny hand lay on the carpet, covered in gore like everything else, but it was a hand. A tiny hand. The hand of a child, not a baby. I spread my hand just above it to size it. Three, maybe four. About the same age as Benjamin Reynolds. Was that coincidence? Had to be. Zombies weren't that choosy.
"I'm breast-feeding the baby, maybe, when I hear a loud noise. Husband goes to check. Noise wakes the little girl, she comes out of her room to see what's the matter. Husband sees the monster, grabs the child, runs for the bedroom. The zombie takes them here. Kills them all, here." My voice sounded distant, clinical. Bully for me.
I tried to wipe some of the blood off the tiny hand. She was wearing a ring like Mommy. One of those plastic rings you get out of bubble gum machines.
"Did you see the ring, Merlioni?" I asked. I lifted the hand from the carpet and said, "Catch."
"Jesus!" He was on his feet and moving before I could do anything else. Merlioni walked very fast out the door. I wouldn't really have thrown the hand. I wouldn't.
I cradled the tiny hand in my hands. It felt heavy, as if the fingers should curl round my hand. Should ask me to take it for a walk. I dropped the hand on the carpet. It landed with a wet splat.
The room was very hot and spinning ever so slightly. I blinked and stared at Zerbrowski. "Did I win the bet?"
He nodded. "Anita Blake, tough chick. One night of delectable feasting at Tony's on Merlioni's tab. I hear they make great spaghetti."
The mention of food was too much. "Bathroom, where?"
"Down the hall, third door on the left," Dolph said.
I ran for the bathroom. Merlioni was just coming out. I didn't have time to savor my victory. I was too busy tossing my cookies.
28
I KNELT WITH my forehead against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. I was feeling better. Lucky I hadn't taken time to eat breakfast.
There was a tap on the door.
"What?" I said.
"It's Dolph. Can I come in?"
I thought about that for a minute. "Sure."
Dolph came in with a washcloth in his hand. Linen closet, I guessed. He stared at me for a minute or two and shook his head. He rinsed the washrag in the sink and handed it to me. "You know what to do with it."
I did. The rag was cold and felt wonderful on my face and neck. "Did you give Merlioni one, too?" I asked.
"Yeah, he's in the kitchen. You're both assholes, but it was entertaining."
I managed a weak smile.
"Now that you're through grandstanding, any useful observations?" He sat on the closed lid of the stool.
I stayed on the floor. "Did anybody hear anything, this time?"
"Neighbor heard something around dawn, but he went on to work. Said, he didn't want to get involved in a domestic dispute."
I stared up at Dolph. "Had he heard fighting from this house before?"
Dolph shook his head.
"God, if he had just called the police," I said.
"You think it would have made a difference?" Dolph asked.
I thought about that for a minute. "Maybe not to this family, but we might have trapped the zombie."
"Spilled milk," Dolph said.
"Maybe not. The scene is still very fresh. The zombie killed them, then took the time to eat four people. That isn't quick. At dawn the thing was still killing them."
"Your point."
"Seal the area."
"Explain."
"The zombie has to be nearby, within walking distance. It's hiding, waiting for nightfall."
"I thought zombies could go out in daylight," Dolph said.
"They can, but they don't like it. A zombie won't go out in the day unless ordered to."
"So the nearest cemetery," he said.
"Not necessarily. Zombies aren't like vamps or ghouls. It doesn't need to be coffins or even graves. The zombie will just want to get out of the light."
"So where do we look?"
"Sheds, garages, any place that will shield it."
"So he could be in some kid's tree house," Dolph said.
I smiled. Nice to know I still could. "I doubt the zombie would climb if given a choice. Notice that all the houses are one-stories."
"Basements," he said.
"But no one runs down to the basement," I said.
"Would it have helped?"
I shrugged. "Zombies aren't great at climbing, as a rule. This one is faster and more alert but . . . At best the basement might have delayed it. If there were windows, they might have gotten the children out." I rubbed the cloth on the back of my neck. "The zombie picks one-story houses with sliding glass doors. It might rest near one."
"The medical examiner says the corpse is tall, six feet, six-two. Male, white. Immensely strong."
"We knew the last, and the rest doesn't really help."
"You got a better idea?"
"As a matter of fact," I said, "have all the officers about the right height walk the neighborhood for an hour. Then block off that much of the area."
"And search all the sheds and garages," Dolph said.
"And basements, crawl spaces, old refrigerators," I said.
"If we find it?"
"Fry it. Get an exterminator team out here."
"Will the zombie attack during the day?" Dolph asked.
"If disturbed enough, yes. This one's awfully aggressive."
"No joke," he said. "We'd need a dozen exterminator teams or more. The city'll never go for that. Besides, we could walk a pretty damn wide circle. We might search and miss it completely."
"It'll move at dark. If you're ready, you'll find it then."
"Okay. You sound like you're not going to help search."
"I'll be back to help, but John Burke returned my call."
"You taking him to the morgue?"
"Yeah, in time to try to use him against Dominga Salvador. What timing," I said.
"Good. You need anything from me?"
"Just access to the morgue for both of us," I said.
"Sure thing. You think you'll really learn anything from Burke?"
"Don't know till I try," I said.
He smiled. "Give it the old college try, eh?"
"Win one for the Gipper," I said.
"You go visit the morgue and deal with voodoo John. We'll turn this fucking neighborhood upside down."
"Nice to know we've both got our days planned," I said.
"Don't forget this afternoon we check out Salvador's house."
I nodded. "Yeah, and tonight we hunt zombies."
"We're going to end this shit tonight," he said.
"I hope so."
He looked at me, eyes narrowed. "You got a problem with our plans?"
"Just that no plan is perfect."
He was quiet a moment, then stood. "Wish this one was."
"Me, too."
29
THE ST. LOUIS county morgue was a large building. It needs to be. Every death not att
ended by a physician comes to the morgue. Not to mention every murder. In St. Louis that made for some very heavy traffic.
I use to come to the morgue fairly regularly. To stake suspected vampire victims so they wouldn't rise and feast on the morgue attendants. With the new vamp laws, that's murder. You have to wait for the puppies to rise, unless they've left a will strictly forbidding coming back as a vampire. My will says to put me out of my misery if they think I'm coming back with fangs. Hell, my will asks for cremation. I don't want to come back as a zombie either, thank you very much.
John Burke was as I remembered him. Tall, dark, handsome, vaguely villainous. It was the little goatee that did it. No one wears goatees outside of horror movies. You know, the ones with strange cults that worship horned images.
He looked a little faded around the eyes and mouth. Grief will do that to you even if your skin tone is dark. His lips were set in a thin line as we walked into the morgue. He held his shoulders as if something hurt.
"How's it going at your sister-in-law's?" I asked.
"Bleak, very bleak."
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. So I let it go. If he didn't want to talk about it, that was his privilege.
We were walking down a wide empty corridor. Wide enough for three gurneys to wheel abreast. The guard station looked like a WWII bunker, complete with machine guns. In case the dead should rise all at once and make for freedom. It had never happened here in St. Louis, but it had happened as close as Kansas City.
A machine gun will take the starch out of any walking dead. You're only in trouble if there are a lot of them. If there is a crowd, you're pretty much cooked.
I flashed my ID at the guard. "Hi, Fred, long time no see."
"I wish they let you come down here like before. We've had three get up this week and go home. Can you believe that?"
"Vampires?"
"What else? There's going to be more of them than of us someday."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. He was probably right. "We're here to see the personal effects of Peter Burke. Sergeant Rudolph Storr was supposed to clear it."
Fred checked his little book. "Yeah, you're authorized. Take the right corridor, third door on the left. Dr. Saville is waiting for you."
I raised an eyebrow at that. It wasn't often that the chief medical examiner did errands for the police or anybody else. I just nodded as if I had expected royal treatment.
"Thanks, Fred, see you on the way out."
"More and more people do," he said. He didn't sound happy about it.
My Nikes made no sound in the perpetual quiet. John Burke wasn't making any noise either. I hadn't pegged him as a tennis shoe man. I glanced down, and I was right. Soft-soled brown tie-ups, not tennis shoes. But he still moved beside me like a quiet shadow.
The rest of his outfit sort of matched the shoes. A dressy brown sport jacket so dark brown it was almost black, over a pale yellow shirt, brown dress slacks. He only needed a tie, and he could have gone to corporate America. Did he always dress up, or was this just what he had brought for his brother's funeral? No, the suit at the funeral had been perfectly black.
The morgue was always quiet, but on a Saturday morning it was deathly still. Did the ambulances circle like planes until a decent hour on the weekend? I knew the murder count went up on the weekend, yet Saturday and Sunday morning were always quiet. Go figure.
I counted doors on the left-hand side. Knocked on the third door. A faint "Come in," and I opened the door.
Dr. Marian Saville is a small woman with short dark hair bobbed just below her ears, an olive complexion, deeply brown eyes, and fine high cheekbones. She is French and Greek and looks it. Exotic without being intimidating. It always surprised me that Dr. Saville wasn't married. It wasn't for lack of being pretty.
Her only fault was that she smoked, and the smell clung to her like nasty perfume.
She came forward with a smile and an offered hand. "Anita, good to see you again."
I shook her hand, and smiled. "You, too, Dr. Saville."
"Marian, please."
I shrugged. "Marian, are those the personal effects?"
We were in a small examining room. On a lovely stainless-steel table were several plastic bags.
"Yes."
I stared at her, wondering what she wanted. The chief medical examiner didn't do errands. Something else was up, but what? I didn't know her well enough to be blunt, and I didn't want to be barred from the morgue, so I couldn't be rude. Problems, problems.
"This is John Burke, the deceased's brother," I said.
Dr. Saville's eyebrows raised at that. "My condolences, Mr. Burke."
"Thank you." John shook the hand she offered him, but his eyes were all for the plastic bags. There was no room today for attractive doctors or pleasantries. He was going to see his brother's last effects. He was looking for clues to help the police catch his brother's killer. He had taken the notion very seriously.
If he wasn't involved with Dominga Salvador, I would owe him a big apology. But how was I to get him to talk with Dr. Marian hovering around? How was I supposed to ask for privacy? It was her morgue, sort of.
"I have to be here to make sure no evidence is tampered with," she said. "We've had a few very determined reporters lately."
"But I'm not a reporter."
She shrugged. "You're not an official person, Anita. New rules from on high that no nonofficial person is to be allowed to look at murder evidence without someone to watch over them."
"I appreciate it being you, Marian."
She smiled. "I was here anyway. I figured you'd resent my looking over your shoulder less than anyone else."
She was right. What did they think I was going to do, steal a body? If I wanted to, I could empty the damn place and get every corpse to play follow the leader.
Perhaps that was why I needed watching. Perhaps.
"I don't mean to be rude," John said, "but could we get on with this?"
I glanced up at his handsome face. The skin was tight around the mouth and eyes as if it had thinned. Guilt speared me in the side. "Sure, John, we're being thoughtless."
"Your forgiveness, Mr. Burke," Marian said. She handed us both little plastic gloves. She and I slipped into them like pros, but John wasn't used to putting on examining gloves. There is a trick to it--practice. By the time I finished helping him on with his gloves, he was grinning. His whole face changed when he smiled. Brilliant and handsome and not the least villainous.
Dr. Saville popped the seal on the first bag. It was clothing.
"No," John said, "I don't know his clothing. It maybe his, and I wouldn't know. Peter and I had . . . hadn't seen each other in two years." The guilt in those last words made me wince.
"Fine, we'll go on to the smaller items," Marian said, and smiled as she said it. Nice and cheery, practicing her bedside manner. She so seldom got to practice.
She opened a much smaller bag and spilled the contents gently on the shiny silver surface. A comb, a dime, two pennies, a movie ticket stub, and a voodoo charm. A gris-gris.
It was woven of black and red thread with human teeth worked into the beading. More bones dangled all the way around it. "Are those human finger bones?" I asked.
"Yes," John said, his voice very still. He looked strange as he stood there, as if some new horror were dawning behind his eyes.
It was an evil piece of work, but I didn't understand the strength of his reaction to it.
I leaned over it, poking it with one finger. There was some dried skin woven in the center of it all. And it wasn't just black thread, it was black hair.
"Human hair, teeth, bones, skin," I said softly.
"Yes," John repeated.
"You're more into voodoo than I am," I said. "What does it mean?"
"Someone died to make this charm."
"Are you sure?"
He glared down at me with withering contempt. "Don't you think if it could be anything else I wouldn't say
it? Do you think I enjoy learning my brother took part in human sacrifice?"
"Did Peter have to be there? He couldn't have just bought it afterwards?"
"NO!" It was almost a yell. He turned away from us, pacing to the wall. His breathing was loud and ragged.
I gave him a few moments to collect himself, then asked what had to be asked. "What does the gris-gris do?"
He turned a calm enough face to us, but the strain showed around his eyes. "It enables a less powerful necromancer to raise older dead, to borrow the power of some much greater necromancer."
"How borrow?"
He shrugged. "That charm holds some of the power of the most powerful among us. Peter paid dearly for it, so he could raise more and older dead. Peter, God, how could you?"
"How powerful would you need to be to share your power like this?"
"Very powerful," he said.
"Is there any way to trace it back to the person who made it?"
"You don't understand, Anita. That thing is a piece of someone's power. It is one substance to what soul they have left. It must have been a great need or great greed to do it. Peter could never have afforded it. Never."
"Can it be traced back?"
"Yes, just get it in the room with the person who truly owns it. The thing will crawl back to him. It's a piece of his soul gone missing."
"Would that be proof in court?"
"If you could make the jury understand it, yes, I guess so." He stepped towards me. "You know who did this?"
"Maybe."
"Who, tell me who?"
"I'll do better than that. I'll arrange for you to come on a search of their house."
A grim smile touched his lips. "I'm beginning to like you a great deal, Anita Blake."
"Compliments later."
"What's this mean?" Marian asked. She had turned the charm completely over. There, shining among the hair and bone, was a small charm, like from a charm bracelet. It was in the shape of a musical symbol--a treble clef.
What had Evans said when he touched the grave fragments; they slit her throat, she had a charm bracelet with a musical note on it and little hearts. I stared at the charm and felt the world shift. Everything fell together in one motion. Dominga Salvador hadn't raised the killer zombie. She had helped Peter Burke raise it. But I had to be sure. We only had a few hours until we'd be back at Dominga's door trying to prove a case.
"Are there any women that came in around the same time as Peter Burke?"
"I'm sure there are," Marian said with a smile.
"Women with their throats slit," I said.