"Either you do it, or I do it," he said.
"Okay, okay, I'll do it, somehow."
"Thanks, Anita. At least now we have someplace to start."
"It might not be a zombie at all, Dolph. I'm just guessing."
"What else could it be?"
"Well, if there had been blood on the glass, I'd say maybe a lycanthrope."
"Oh, great, just what I need--a rampaging shapeshifter."
"But there was no blood on the glass."
"So probably some kind of undead," he said.
"Exactly."
"You talk to this Dominga Salvador and give me a report ASAP."
"Aye, aye, Sergeant."
He made a face at me and walked back inside the house. Better him than me. All I had to do was go home, change clothes, and prepare to raise the dead. At full dark tonight I had three clients lined up or would that be lying down?
Ellen Grisholm's therapist thought it would be therapeutic for Ellen to confront her child-molesting father. The trouble was the father had been dead for several months. So I was going to raise Mr. Grisholm from the dead and let his daughter tell him what a son of a bitch he was. The therapist said it would be cleansing. I guess if you have a doctorate, you're allowed to say things like that.
The other two raisings were more usual; a contested will, and a prosecution's star witness that had had the bad taste to have a heart attack before testifying in court. They still weren't sure if the testimony of a zombie was admissible in court, but they were desperate enough to try, and to pay for the privilege.
I stood there in the greenish-brown grass. Glad to see the family hadn't been addicted to sprinklers. A waste of water. Maybe they had even recycled their pop cans, newspapers. Maybe they had been decent earth-loving citizens. Maybe not.
One of the uniforms lifted the yellow Do-Not-Cross tape and let me out. I ignored all the staring people and got in my car. It was a late-model Nova. I could have afforded something better but why bother? It ran.
The steering wheel was too hot to touch. I turned on the air-conditioning and let the car cool down. What I had told Dolph about Dominga Salvador had been true. She wouldn't talk to the police, but that hadn't been the reason I tried to keep her name out of it.
If the police came knocking on Senora Dominga's door, she'd want to know who sent them. And she'd find out. The Senora was the most powerful vaudun priest I knew of. Raising a murderous zombie was just one of many things she could do, if she wanted to.
Frankly, there were things worse than zombies that could come crawling through your window some dark night. I knew as little about that side of the business as I could get away with. The Senora had invented most of it.
No, I did not want Dominga Salvador angry with me. So it looked like I was going to have to talk with her tomorrow. It was sort of like getting an appointment to see the godfather of voodoo. Or in this case the godmother. The trouble was this godmother was unhappy with me. Dominga had sent me invitations to her home. To her ceremonies. I had politely declined. I think my being a Christian disappointed her. So I had managed to avoid a face to face, until now.
I was going to ask the most powerful vaudun priest in the United States, maybe in all of North America, if she just happened to raise a zombie. And if that zombie just happened to be going around killing people, on her orders? Was I crazy? Maybe. It looked like tomorrow was going to be another busy day.
4
THE ALARM SCREAMED. I rolled over swatting at the buttons on top of the digital clock. Surely to God, I'd hit the snooze button soon. I finally had to prop myself up on one elbow and actually open my eyes. I turned off the alarm and stared at the glowing numbers. 6:00 A.M. Shit. I'd only gotten home at three.
Why had I set the alarm for six? I couldn't remember. I am not at my best after only three hours of sleep. I lay back down in the still warm nest of sheets. My eyes were fluttering shut when I remembered. Dominga Salvador.
She had agreed to meet me at 7:00 A.M. today. Talk about a breakfast meeting. I struggled out of the sheet, and just sat on the side of the bed for a minute. The apartment was absolutely still. The only sound was the hush-hush of the air-conditioning. Quiet as a funeral.
I got up then, thoughts of blood-coated teddy bears dancing in my head.
Fifteen minutes later I was dressed. I always showered after coming in from work no matter how late it was. I couldn't stand the thought of going to bed between nice clean sheets smeared with dried chicken blood. Sometimes it's goat blood, but more often chicken.
I had compromised on the outfit, caught between showing respect and not melting in the heat. It would have been easy if I hadn't planned to carry a gun with me. Call me paranoid, but I don't leave home without it.
The acid washed jeans, jogging socks, and Nikes were easy. An Uncle Mike's inter-pants holster complete with a Firestar 9mm completed the outfit. The Firestar was my backup piece to the Browning Hi-Power. The Browning was far too bulky to put down an inter-pants holster, but the Firestar fit nicely.
Now all I needed was a shirt that would hide the gun, but leave it accessible to grab and shoot. This was harder than it sounded. I finally settled on a short, almost middrift top that just barely fell over my waistband. I turned in front of the mirror.
The gun was invisible as long as I didn't forget and raise my arms too high. The top, unfortunately, was a pale, pale pink. What had possessed me to buy this top, I really didn't remember. Maybe it had been a gift? I hoped so. The thought that I had actually spent money on anything pink was more than I could bear.
I hadn't opened the drapes at all yet. The entire apartment was in twilight. I had special-ordered very heavy drapes. I rarely saw sunlight, and I didn't miss it much. I turned on the light over my fish tank. The angelfish rose towards the top, mouths moving in slow-motion begging.
Fish are my idea of pets. You don't walk them, pick up after them, or have to housebreak them. Clean the tank occasionally, feed them, and they don't give a damn how many hours of overtime you work.
The smell of strong brewed coffee wafted through the apartment from my Mr. Coffee. I sat at my little two-seater kitchen table sipping hot, black Colombian vintage. Beans fresh from my freezer, ground on the spot. There was no other way to drink coffee. Though in a pinch I'll take it just about any way I can get it.
The doorbell chimed. I jumped, spilling coffee onto the table. Nervous? Me? I left my Firestar on the kitchen table instead of taking it to the door with me. See, I'm not paranoid. Just very, very careful.
I checked the peephole and opened the door. Manny Rodriguez stood in the doorway. He's about two inches taller than I am. His coal-black hair is streaked with grey and white. Thick waves of it frame his thin face and black mustache. He's fifty-two, and with one exception, I would still rather have him backing me in a dangerous situation than anyone else I know.
We shook hands, we always do that. His grip was firm and dry. He grinned at me, flashing very white teeth in his brown face. "I smell coffee."
I grinned back. "You know it's all I have for breakfast." He walked in, and I locked the door behind him, habit.
"Rosita thinks you don't take care of yourself." He dropped into a near-perfect imitation of his wife's scolding voice, a much thicker Mexican accent than his own. "She doesn't eat right, so thin. Poor Anita, no husband, not even a boyfriend." He grinned.
"Rosita sounds like my stepmother. Judith is sick with worry that I'll be an old maid."
"You're what, twenty-four?"
"Mm-uh."
He just shook his head. "Sometimes I do not understand women."
It was my turn to grin. "What am I, chopped liver?"
"Anita, you know I didn't mean . . ."
"I know, I'm one of the boys. I understand."
"You are better than any of the boys at work."
"Sit down. Let me pour coffee in your mouth before your foot fits in again."
"You are being difficult. You know what I meant." He stared at me out of his solid br
own eyes, face very serious.
I smiled. "Yeah, I know what you meant."
I picked one of the dozen or so mugs from my kitchen cabinet. My favorite mugs dangled from a mug-tree on the countertop.
Manny sat down, sipping coffee, glancing at his cup. It was red with black letters that said, "I'm a coldhearted bitch but I'm good at it." He laughed coffee up his nose.
I sipped my own coffee from a mug decorated with fluffy baby penguins. I'd never admit it, but it is my favorite mug.
"Why don't you bring your penguin mug to work?" he asked.
Bert's latest brainstorm was that we all use personalized coffee cups at work. He thought it would add a homey note to the office. I had brought in a grey on grey cup that said, "It's a dirty job and I get to do it." Bert had made me take it home.
"I enjoy yanking Bert's chain."
"So you're going to keep bringing in unacceptable cups."
I smiled. "Mm-uh."
He just shook his head.
"I really appreciate you coming to see Dominga with me."
He shrugged. "I couldn't let you go see the devil woman alone, could I?"
I frowned at the nickname, or was it an insult? "That's what your wife calls Dominga, not what I call her."
He glanced down at the gun still lying on the tabletop. "But you'll take a gun with you, just in case."
I looked at him over the top of my cup. "Just in case."
"If it comes to shooting our way out, Anita, it will be too late. She has bodyguards all over the place."
"I don't plan to shoot anybody. We are just going to ask a few questions. That's all."
He smirked. "Por favor, Senora Salvador, did you raise a killer zombie recently?"
"Knock it off, Manny. I know it's awkward."
"Awkward?" He shook his head. "Awkward, she says. If you piss off Dominga Salvador, it's a hell of a lot more than just awkward."
"You don't have to come."
"You called me for backup." He smiled that brilliant teeth-flashing smile that lit up his entire face. "You didn't call Charles or Jamison. You called me, and, Anita, that is the best compliment you could give an old man."
"You're not an old man." And I meant it.
"That is not what my wife keeps telling me. Rosita has forbidden me to go vampire hunting with you, but she can't curtail my zombie-related activities, not yet anyway."
The surprise must have shone on my face, because he said, "I know she talked to you two years back, when I was in the hospital."
"You almost died," I said.
"And you had how many broken bones?"
"Rosita made a reasonable request, Manny. You have four children to think of."
"And I'm too old to be slaying vampires." His voice held irony, and almost bitterness.
"You'll never be too old," I said.
"A nice thought." He drained his coffee mug. "We better go. Don't want to keep the Senora waiting."
"God forbid," I said.
"Amen," he said.
I stared at him as he rinsed his mug out in the sink. "Do you know something you're not telling me?"
"No," he said.
I rinsed my own cup, still staring at him. I could feel a suspicious frown between my eyes. "Manny?"
"Honest Mexican, I don't know nuthin'."
"Then what's wrong?"
"You know I was vaudun before Rosita converted me to pure Christianity."
"Yeah, so?"
"Dominga Salvador was not just my priestess. She was my lover."
I stared at him for a few heartbeats. "You're kidding?"
His face was very serious as he said, "I wouldn't joke about something like that."
I shrugged. People's choices of lovers never failed to amaze me. "That's why you could get me a meeting with her on such short notice."
He nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Because you might have tried to sneak over there without me."
"Would that have been so bad?"
He just stared at me, brown eyes very serious. "Maybe."
I got my gun from the table and fitted it to the inter-pants holster. Eight bullets. The Browning could hold fourteen. But let's get real; if I needed more than eight bullets, I was dead. And so was Manny.
"Shit," I whispered.
"What?"
"I feel like I'm going to visit the bogeyman."
Manny made a back and forth motion with his head. "Not a bad analogy."
Great, just freaking, bloody great. Why was I doing this? The image of Benjamin Reynolds's blood-coated teddy bear flashed into my mind. All right, I knew why I was doing it. If there was even a remote chance that the boy could still be alive, I'd go into hell itself--if I stood a chance of coming back out. I didn't mention this out loud. I did not want to know if hell was a good analogy, too.
5
THE NEIGHBORHOOD WAS older houses; fifties, forties. The lawns were dying to brown for lack of water. No sprinklers here. Flowers struggled to survive in beds close to the houses. Mostly petunias, geraniums, a few rosebushes. The streets were clean, neat, and one block over you could get yourself shot for wearing the wrong color of jacket.
Gang activity stopped at Senora Salvador's neighborhood. Even teenagers with automatic pistols fear things you can't stop with bullets no matter how good a shot you are. Silver-plated bullets will harm a vampire, but not kill it. It will kill a lycanthrope, but not a zombie. You can hack the damn things to pieces, and the disconnected body parts will crawl after you. I've seen it. It ain't pretty. The gangs leave the Senora's turf alone. No violence. It is a place of permanent truce.
There are stories of one Hispanic gang that thought it had protection against gris-gris. Some people say that the gang's ex-leader is still down in Dominga's basement, obeying an occasional order. He was great show-and-tell to any juvenile delinquents who got out of hand.
Personally, I had never seen her raise a zombie. But then I'd never seen her call the snakes either. I'd just as soon keep it that way.
Senora Salvador's two-story house is on about a half acre of land. A nice roomy yard. Bright red geraniums flamed against the whitewashed walls. Red and white, blood and bone. I was sure the symbolism was not lost on casual passersby. It certainly wasn't lost on me.
Manny parked his car in the driveway behind a cream-colored Impala. The two-car garage was painted white to match the house. There was a little girl of about five riding a tricycle furiously up and down the sidewalk. A slightly older pair of boys were sitting on the steps that led up to the porch. They stopped playing and looked at us.
A man stood on the porch behind them. He was wearing a shoulder holster over a sleeveless blue T-shirt. Sort of blatant. All he needed was a flashing neon sign that said "Bad Ass."
There were chalk markings on the sidewalk. Pastel crosses and unreadable diagrams. It looked like a children's game, but it wasn't. Some devoted fans of the Senora had chalked designs of worship in front of her house. Stubs of candles had melted to lumps around the designs. The girl on the tricycle peddled back and forth over the designs. Normal, right?
I followed Manny over the sun-scorched lawn. The little girl on the tricycle was watching us now, small brown face unreadable.
Manny removed his sunglasses and smiled up at the man. "Buenos dias, Antonio. It has been a long time."
"Si," Antonio said. His voice was low and sullen. His deeply tanned arms were crossed loosely over his chest. It put his right hand right next to his gun butt.
I used Manny's body to shield me from sight and casually put my hands close to my own gun. The Boy Scout motto, "Always be prepared." Or was that the Marines?
"You've become a strong, handsome man," Manny said.
"My grandmother says I must let you in," Antonio said.
"She is a wise woman," Manny said.
Antonio shrugged. "She is the Senora." He peered around Manny at me. "Who is this?"
"Senorita Anita Blake." Manny stepped back so I c
ould move forward. I did, right hand loose on my waist like I had an attitude, but it was the closest I could stay to my gun.
Antonio looked down at me. His dark eyes were angry, but that was all. He didn't have near the gaze of Harold Gaynor's bodyguards. I smiled. "Nice to meet you."
He squinted at me suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. I continued to smile at him, and a slow smile spread over his face. He thought I was flirting with him. I let him think it.
He said something in Spanish. All I could do was smile and shake my head. He spoke softly, and there was a look in his dark eyes, a curve to his mouth. I didn't have to speak the language to know I was being propositioned. Or insulted.
Manny's neck was stiff, his face flushed. He said something from between clenched teeth.
It was Antonio's turn to flush. His hand started to go for his gun. I stepped up two steps, touching his wrist as if I didn't know what was going on. The tension in his arm was like a wire, straining.
I beamed up at him as I held his wrist. His eyes flicked from Manny to me, then the tension eased, but I didn't let go of his wrist until his arm fell to his side. He raised my hand to his lips, kissing it. His mouth lingered on the back of my hand, but his eyes stayed on Manny. Angry, rage-filled.
Antonio carried a gun, but he was an amateur. Amateurs with guns eventually get themselves killed. I wondered if Dominga Salvador knew that? She may have been a whiz at voodoo but I bet she didn't know much about guns, and what it took to use one on a regular basis. Whatever it took, Antonio didn't have it. He'd kill you all right. No sweat. But for the wrong reasons. Amateur's reasons. Of course, you'll be just as dead.
He guided me up on the porch beside him, still holding my hand. It was my left hand. He could hold that all day. "I must check you for weapons, Manuel."
"I understand," Manny said. He stepped up on the porch and Antonio stepped back, keeping room between them in case Manny jumped him. That left me with a clear shot of Antonio's back. Careless; under different circumstances, deadly.
He made Manny lean against the porch railing like a police frisk. Antonio knew what he was doing, but it was an angry search, lots of quick jerky hand movements, as if just touching Manny's body enraged him. A lot of hate in old Tony.
It never occurred to him to pat me down for weapons. Tsk-tsk.
A second man came to the screen door. He was in his late forties, maybe. He was wearing a white undershirt with a plaid shirt unbuttoned over it. The sleeves were folded back as far as they'd go. Sweat stood out on his forehead. I was betting there was a gun at the small of his back. His black hair had a pure white streak just over the forehead. "What is taking so long, Antonio?" His voice was thick and held an accent.