Page 4 of Deadly Lineage
I stopped writing and looked up from my notebook. “Witch?”
“That would be my bet,” Johns agreed. “Some human women wear this much, but I’d bet money she’s a witch. I suppose we’ll know soon enough.” Johns looked past me and in Boone’s direction. “You get anything from the necromancer?”
The hairs on my neck stood up. I hated it when others called Boone by his species, not his name. “Boone had some information, but nothing overly helpful. Seems our victim’s lingering juju isn’t making much sense.”
I wasn’t entirely clear how Boone’s abilities worked. He’d tried explaining it to me and I thought I understood well enough to do my job. Most souls moved on, but part of their aura lingered, and that’s what Boone generally picked up on. He couldn’t speak or interact with those lingering auras and needed to bring back the full soul, the complete essence, from wherever it wound up in order to interrogate someone. I’d already left a message with Captain Cicely asking for permission to use Boone’s services. It would be the quickest way to get answers. It also cost money the department didn’t always have—not that Boone charged a lot. I knew for a fact he’d billed the department a whole dollar for a case three years ago.
Despite the heat, Johns shivered. “I’m glad it’s you that’s gotta talk to the necromancer. That guy gives me the creeps.”
I found that thought amusing considering Officer Johns was currently standing in a hole with a corpse.
“He is what he is,” I stated, holding in my burning ire. Boone was only the second necromancer I’d met. The first one hadn’tbeen very talkative considering he’d been lying on a cold slab in the morgue. The poor bastard had committed suicide. Like most necromancers, his warlock father abandoned him at birth. He’d been one of the unlucky ones, born with the ability to hear the dearly departed but unable to communicate with them. All those voices had driven the necromancer insane.
I glanced at Boone. I might be scared shitless of Nikodemus Holland, but I was grateful he’d stepped up and taken an active role in his son’s life. I wasn’t sure if that was why Boone was so sane and at ease with his lot in life, or not. Whatever the reason, seeing his casual posture put me at ease. I didn’t like the thought of him being tormented by spirits the rest of us couldn’t see or hear.
“Detective O’Hare, I had a feeling it would be you out here tonight.” Dr. Morgan McCallister walked up to the grave’s opposite edge.
I stood, staring at him across the gaping hole. “I’d shake your hand, but…” I glanced down at the space between us. “I’m not sure I fancy falling in and keeping Johns here company.”
Dr. McCallister was an uptight, middle-aged man. Thin to the point of frailty, his sparse, wispy blond hair clung to his skin with the tenacity of a lemon peel. The scars littering his face pointed to a teenage battle with acne. Given the divots, I didn’t think he’d come out on the winning side. Fingers tight on his bag’s handle, Dr. McCallister looked from the hole to me. His pale blue eyes were his most striking feature and nearly glowed under the fluorescent lights.
“No need to go that far,” Dr. McCallister said, barely a tremble to his words. He was nearly as skittish as a rabbit, and I always made it my mission to try and put him at ease as much as possible.
“You’ve got your work cut out for you on this one,” Johns said. “Whoever shoved her in this hole didn’t do much but throwthe body in. She’s not even wrapped in a sheet.” Johns shook his head as if our victim’s lack of covering was more offensive than the fact she’d presumably been murdered.
“Shows a lack of care,” I said, talking to myself more than anyone else. “Whoever did this didn’t care about our victim.” Killers that knew their victims, or that felt some level of remorse, often covered the body.
“Certainly,” McCallister agreed. Typically, he’d be pushing up his glasses by now, but I noticed he wasn’t wearing them.
“No glasses?” I asked, and McCallister flushed.
“Lasik,” he answered without further explanation.
“My cousin had that done,” Johns said, reaching for a nearby rag. “Said it was the best thing she’s ever done.” Wiping his hands, Johns only managed to smear the dirt around. “Jesus, I need a shower. Maybe two or three.” Pulling his t-shirt away from his body and taking a sniff, Johns’s nose scrunched. “I bet I smell worse than I look.”
Kneeling, I clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks for doing the heavy lifting.”
“No problem,” Johns answered easily, despite the fact I knew it was difficult work.
Across the gravesite, McCallister stiffened. “I was unaware Necromancer Erasmus Boone was here.”
Craning my neck, I followed McCallister’s line of sight. Boone was no longer sitting on the tombstone. He was walking through the tall weeds, kicking his feet here and there. Hands stuffed into his shorts pockets, Boone made a path around two headstones, creating an infinity loop as he walked.
“He was the one that found the body.” I frowned and rethought my words. “Maybeheardthe body would be a better way to phrase it.”
“Oh, what did he hear?” McCallister asked.
“Not much. Or at least nothing understandable. I gather our victim is very loud, but not very coherent.” Reluctantly pulling my attention away from Boone, I glanced up at McCallister. “I’m waiting to hear back from the captain, but I can’t believe she’ll decline my request. As soon as you deem it okay, I’ll get Boone over here and see about putting our victim’s soul back into her body. Maybe she’ll make more sense then.”
McCallister swallowed hard. “We can only hope.”
I nodded, unsure what to say.
“You need some help getting down here, doc?” Johns asked, already holding up his free hand.
McCallister batted the appendage away. “I’m perfectly capable.”
Johns pulled his hand back and frowned. “I wasn’t saying you’re not. Just offering to help.” Johns shot me a questioning glance, and I shook my head. McCallister was touchy. Given his size and acne scars, I figured he’d been teased in school. Or at least that’s the way he often acted.
