Page 13 of Deadly Deception
Boone didn’t offer his hand, and I noticed sadly that Tompkins didn’t either. I filed that information away, making a permanent mental note.
“Necromancer Boone,” Tompkins replied. “Thank you for coming all this way.”
“You’re welcome,” Boone answered immediately. “Feel free to call me Erasmus. Franklin typically calls me Boone because he has a habit of calling everyone by their last name.”
Tompkins eyes widened and he shot me a quick, unexpectedly pleased grin. “True enough. Please call me Shane.”
Boone nodded but remained silent and watchful. I suddenly wondered if I should have had this initial meeting somewhere more out in the open. Was Boone uncomfortable? I hoped not. Tompkins might be, but it had been his decision to hop in the car knowing Boone was inside.
Clearing his throat, Tompkins said, “I read about the McCallister case. Sounds like things got a bit dicey for a while.”
I grunted something incoherent before recovering enough to answer, “You could say that.”
“The reports said McCallister was a necromancer, that he—”
“Dr. McCallister was a lot more than a necromancer,” Boone answered. “I’d say more witch or warlock with some necromancer thrown in for good measure. Necromancer was the only thing the press seemed to care about.”
That fact bothered me and Boone’s father a hell of a lot more than it bothered Erasmus himself. Boone took comfort in the fact that being named a necromancer only would have pissed McCallister off. Holland and I looked at as another prejudiced indictment of necromancers in general.
Tompkins’s mouth slipped open before snapping closed. He licked his dry lips a couple of times before he finally said, “I know how this is gonna sound, but you sound very sane for a necromancer.”
Boone’s muscles tightened. After a few seconds, he gave a single nod. “I’ve heard that before.”
Tompkins raked his long fingers through his thick head of silver hair. “I didn’t mean it in an offensive way. That sounds pretty damn trite right now, but it’s the honest truth. I’ve met a couple of necromancers in the past and they’ve been…” Tompkins waved a hand in the air. “Not all there. Mentally.” He winced when he said those words.
“Not all necromancers have been as fortunate as me,” Boone responded sadly.
“I read that too, that your father stuck around.”
“He did. Pops lives in California, but he was and still is a big part of my life. Plus, I seem to be wired a bit different than a lot of necromancers, or at least that’s what I’ve surmised. I haven’t met many others myself.”
This was a growing concern and a topic that came up far more than I’d like. No one knew just how many necromancers were out there or where they even were. Those that survived to adulthood were often loners and societal outcasts. Their warlock fathers didn’t keep track of them. Their births weren’t even recorded within the warlock archives. However, their mothers’ names were. It was a warning to other warlocks not to use the same birth mothers as it was assumed they were the faultygenetic link between giving birth to a warlock or necromancer child. I doubt anyone knew if that was true or not.
Regardless, Boone’s father was different in that regard as well. Per Holland himself, he’d proudly recorded Boone’s birth within his warlock family tree and registered his son within the warlock archives.
“Interesting,” Tompkins said, and I figured that was about all any of us could say.
The car grew silent as the ambient light faded. I really wanted to get Boone and myself settled into a hotel before it got too late. Assuming Tompkins had brought us to the sheriff’s office for a reason, I asked, “What’s this all about?”
“And why couldn’t you talk about it on the phone?” Boone asked.
Tompkins slumped back into his seat with a heavy sigh. “Old habits I suppose.”
Boone and I shared a questioning glance and I said, “I’m afraid that will need more explanation.”
Tompkins gave a reluctant nod and answered, “I’m old school, Franklin. There was a time when law enforcement wasn’t so law abiding themselves. Phone conversations were often monitored, and good cops disappeared. I know that’s been years ago—decades really. Still, old habits die hard, and I didn’t want to take a chance that someone might overhear what I had to say and act before we had a chance to investigate further.” Tompkins gave a weak chuckle. “I’ve made a habit of making myself a nuisance to some of the younger cops. Seems like they want an easy solution to a problem and don’t take the time to investigate thoroughly. I can’t say that I blame them. The crime rate sure as shit hasn’t gone down but cop numbers have. They’re stretched thin. Sometimes the easy answer it too enticing to pass up.”
I understood what my old captain was saying. It was another reason I’d left the area. “And you think this is one of those cases?”
“I do, or at least I think they’re jumping to conclusions. It’s not just me. Sara thinks so to.”
The name tickled my memory. “Your niece?”
A proud grin stretched across Tompkins’s face. “Yeah. She was injured during a case a few of years ago and had to retire from active duty. Sara works a desk job now, in the LaPorte County Sheriff’s Office. I called Sara when I read about Navarre in the press.”
Boone leaned over the back seat a little more and said, “He’s a necromancer, isn’t he?”
“Got it in one,” Tompkins answered. “I don’t have the whole story, only what Sara was able to relay to me. Two days ago, Navarre walked into a gas station in the Michigan City area. He was covered in fresh blood and flailing his arms around his head, swatting at something the desk attendant couldn’t see. According to the employee, Navarre was shouting at the air and screaming at someone to ‘just go away.’ The police were called, and Navarre was hauled into the station.”
