Chapter 33
I called Special Agent Bradford late in the day. They hadn't found Xavier. They hadn't found Jeff. They hadn't found any vampires that I needed to kill, and why the hell was I calling him? I was not on this case, remember? I remembered. And yes, the two youngest victims had been sexually assaulted, but not the same day they were killed. I probably should have brought Magnus in, but he was the only one who understood the spells on Bloody Bones. He wouldn't be any good to us locked up. Dorrie knew a local witch she trusted. I'd thought that maybe Bloody Bones was our killer. I'd never seen a vampire hide itself so completely from me as the one that killed Coltrain. I'd added it to my list of suspects, but hadn't told the cops. Now I was glad I hadn't. The sexual assault had Xavier written all over it. Besides, explaining that a nursery boggle from Scotland was committing murders on the ethereal plane sounded far-fetched even to me.
The sky was thick with clouds that glowed like jewels. They shimmered and stretched across the sky like a gigantic gleaming blanket that some great beast had shredded with massive claws. Through the holes in the clouds, the sky peeked through black with a few diamond-chip stars bright enough to compete with the gleaming sky.
I stood on the hilltop staring up at the sky, breathing in the cool spring air. Larry stood beside me, looking up. His eyes reflected the glowing light.
"Get on with it," Stirling said.
I turned and looked at him. Him, Bayard, and Ms. Harrison. Beau had been with them, but I'd made him wait at the bottom of the mountain. I'd even told him if he so much as showed his face up top, I'd put a bullet in it. I wasn't sure Stirling believed me, but Beau had.
"Not an appreciator of nature's beauty, are you, Raymond?"
Even by moonlight I could see his scowl. "I want this over with, Ms. Blake. Now, tonight."
Strangely enough, I agreed with him. It made me nervous. I didn't like Raymond. It made me want to argue with him, regardless of whether I agreed. But I didn't argue. Point for me.
"I'll get it done tonight, Raymond; don't sweat it."
"Please stop calling me by my first name, Ms. Blake." He made the request through clenched teeth, but he had said "please."
"Fine. It'll be done tonight, Mr. Stirling. Okay?"
He nodded. "Thank you; now get on with it."
I opened my mouth to say something smart, but Larry said very softly, "Anita."
He was right, as usual. As much fun as it was to yank Stirling's chain, it was just delaying the inevitable. I was tired of Stirling, of Magnus, and of everything. It was time to do this job and go home. Well, maybe not straight home. I wouldn't leave without Jeff Quinlan, one way or another.
The goat gave a high, questioning bleat. It was staked out in the middle of the boneyard. It was a brown-and-white-spotted goat with those strange yellow eyes they sometimes have. It had floppy white ears and seemed to like having the top of its head scratched. Larry had petted it in the Jeep on the drive over. Always a bad idea. Never get friendly with the sacrifices. Makes it hard to kill them.
I had not petted the goat. I knew better. This was Larry's first goat. He'd learn. Hard or easy, he'd learn. There were two more goats at the bottom of the hill. One of them was even smaller and cuter than this one.
"Shouldn't we have the Bouviers' lawyers present, Mr. Stirling?" Bayard said.
"The Bouviers waived having their attorney present," I said.
"Why would they do that?" Stirling asked.
"They trust me not to lie to them," I said.
Stirling looked at me for a long moment. I couldn't see his eyes clearly, but I could feel the wheels inside his head moving.
"You're going to lie for them, aren't you?" he said. His voice was cold, repressed, too angry for heat.
"I don't lie about the dead, Mr. Stirling. Sometimes about the living, but never about the dead. Besides, Bouvier didn't offer me a bribe. Why should I help him if he doesn't throw money at me?"
Larry didn't call me on that one. He was looking at Stirling, too. Wondering what he'd say, maybe.
"You've made your point, Ms. Blake. Can we get on with it now?" He sounded reasonable, ordinary suddenly. All that anger, all that mistrust, had had to go somewhere. But it wasn't in his voice.
"Fine." I knelt and opened the gym bag at my feet. It held my animating equipment. I had another one that held vampire gear. I used to just transfer whatever I wanted into the bag. I bought a second bag after I showed up once at a zombie raising with the wrong bag. It was also illegal to carry vampire slaying stuff if you didn't have a warrant of execution on you. Brewster's law might change that, but until then... I had two bags. The zombie was my normal burgundy one; the vampire bag was white. Even in the dark, it was easy to tell them apart. That was the plan.
Larry's zombie bag was a nearly virulent green with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on it. I was almost afraid to ask what his vampire bag looked like.
"Let me test my understanding here," Larry said. My words fed back to me. He knelt and unzipped his bag.
"Go ahead, " I said. I got out my jar of ointment. I knew animators who had special containers for the ointment. Crockery, hand-blown glass, mystical symbols carved into the sides. I used an old Mason jar that had once held Grandma Blake's green beans.
Larry fished out a peanut butter jar with the label still on it. Extra-crunchy. Yum-yum.
"We have to raise a minimum of three zombies, right?"
"Right," I said.
He stared around at the scattered bones. "A mass grave is hard to raise from, right?"
"This isn't a mass grave. It's an old cemetery that was disturbed. That's easier than a mass grave."
"Why?" he asked.
I laid the machete down beside the jar of ointment. "Because each grave had rites performed that would tie the dead individual to the grave, so that if you call it you have a better chance of getting an individual to answer."
"Answer?"
"Rise from the dead."
He nodded. He laid a wicked curved blade on the ground. It looked like a freaking scimitar.
"Where did you get that?"
He dipped his head, and I would have bet he was blushing. Just couldn't see it by moonlight.
"Guy at college."
"Where'd he get it?"
Larry looked at me, surprise plain on his face. "I don't know. Is something wrong with it?"
I shook my head. "Just a little fancy for beheading chickens and slitting a few goats open."
"It felt good in my hand." He shrugged. "Besides, it looks cool." He grinned at me.
I shook my head, but I let it go. Did I really need a machete to behead a few chickens, no, but the occasional cow, yeah.
Why, you may ask, didn't we have a cow tonight? No one would sell Bayard one. He had the brilliant idea of telling the farmers why he wanted the cow. The God-fearing folk would sell their cows to be eaten, but not for raising zombies. Prejudiced bastards.
"The youngest of the dead here are two hundred years old, right?" Larry asked.
"Right," I said.
"We're going to raise a minimum of three of these corpses in good enough condition for them to answer questions."
"That's the plan," I said.
"Can we do that?"
I smiled at him. "That's the plan."
His eyes widened. "Damn, you don't know if we can do it either, do you?" His voice had dropped to an amazed whisper.
"We raise three zombies a night every night routinely. We're just doing them back to back."
"We don't raise two-hundred-year-old zombies routinely."
"True, but the theory's the same."
"Theory?" He shook his head. "I know we're in trouble when you start talking about theories. Can we do this?"
The honest answer was no, but the thing that dictated more than anything else what you could raise and what you couldn't was confidence. Believing you could do it. So... I was tempted to lie. But I didn't. Truth between Larry and me.
"I think we can do it."
"But you don't know for sure," he said.
"No."
"Geez, Anita."
"Don't get rattled on me. We can do this."
"But you aren't sure."
"I'm not sure we'll survive the plane ride home, but I'm still getting on the plane."
"Was that supposed to be comforting?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"It wasn't," he said.