Page 28 of Deadly Deception
“Okay.” I inhaled, held that breath, then deeply exhaled. Franklin came up behind me, a solid presence. My back warmed and I leaned into his strength. I’d done this alone for years. Having Franklin at my back was a luxury I never wanted to give up.
With the body in front of me, I found the thread connecting DeWayne’s body to his soul easily. As I’d thought, DeWayne’s soul was far closer than it should have been. “DeWayne Joseph Foster, I call you back to your body.”
DeWayne’s soul flew back. Eager souls often did that, but his was even faster given the short distance. I didn’t have to command him either. DeWayne’s body immediately sat up, the sheet falling to his waist.
I’d seen a lot of bodies in very poor condition. The fresher trauma was always harder to look at. I was nauseated to learn that Officer Witkowski hadn’t exaggerated when he’d explained the state of DeWayne’s body. The man had numerous gashes meticulously sliced into his skin. The lacerations were too precise to be were claws. A knife had been used, indicating this was human-on-human violence, not that I’d expected differently.
DeWayne’s left arm hung at an odd angle, making me think the shoulder was dislocated. His face was discolored with harsh bruises and some of his teeth appeared fractured or missing. The man was covered in crusted blood that flaked away from his lips as he worked his mouth.
Sheriff Henson had his phone out and was actively recording. I was impressed with how little his hands visibly shook. For the record, I said my name. Again, I wasn’t sure what the local laws were like, hopefully they’d take DeWayne’s statement into consideration.
“DeWayne Joseph Foster,” I started. “I’ve called your soul to your body so you can give Sheriff Alfonse Henson the details of your death. We seek justice for your obvious suffering.”
DeWayne’s swollen eyelids blinked. His eyes had been deep brown at one time. Death had polluted the color.
“Justice,” DeWayne hissed. “There’s no such thing.”
I felt Franklin stiffen behind me. Henson’s jaw tightened, and Dr. Scott had a hand on a nearby desk, steadying herself. Dr. Scott’s eyes were large and her lips were parted, but otherwise she maintained her position.
“We’ll see about that,” Henson said before asking, “Do you know who did this to you?”
DeWayne’s attention fixed on me. His voice remained silent.
“DeWayne Joseph Foster,” I placed more of my power into my voice. “You will answer Sheriff Henson’s questions honestly. I will know if you are lying.”
I could feel Dewayne’s reluctance as he hedged, “I know who’s responsible.”
That was in interesting way of phrasing things.
“Was it Navarre?” Henson asked. Honestly, I was surprised he hadn’t opened with that line.
“Who?” DeWayne shook his head and more blood flaked off. “I don’t know who that is.”
“The necromancer,” Henson said stubbornly.
“Necromancer?” DeWayne answered, his tone full of awe. “Is that what he is?” There was something in the way DeWayne said those words, like he’d been searching for an answer and suddenly been handed the cheat sheet. Using his better arm, DeWayne pointed to me and said, “You’re a necromancer.”
I nodded. “I am, but I’m not the one Sheriff Henson is asking about, and I believe you know that.”
DeWayne’s head tilted and he finally answered, “That’s what he is? He felt good. Right. Like maybe he could help.”
I glanced across the room, gauging Henson’s reaction. For now, he seemed content to let me take the lead. “Navarre is a necromancer, but I’m afraid he can’t help you.”
DeWayne made an indecipherable sound but nothing else. When his corpse remained silent, I asked, “Navarre was found covered in blood. We think it was your blood. Did he do this to you?” Again, I glanced at Henson. This time, our eyes connected, and he inclined his head. I hoped that meant he agreed with my line of questioning.
“No. He came later. Soon.” DeWayne’s eyes scrunched and he appeared confused. “Time is…difficult.”
Henson spoke up and asked, “But you’re certain the other necromancer, Navarre, didn’t kill you?”
“Yes.” DeWayne was confident.
“Then who did?” Henson asked.
DeWayne fought against the question, stubbornly remaining mute. I silently pushed more power into him and DeWayne finally answered, “I don’t know their names.”
Henson looked at me, and I shook my head. “He’s not lying.”
“But he said he knows who’s responsible.” Henson’s shoulders stiffened and his lips thinned into a stubborn line.
