Residual Magic

by J J Andrews

  “I’m awake. I heard you coming, I just didn’t open my eyes. You smell like death.”

  “Yes. I’ve been in the tunnel. Another victim of the chest presser. I had to stay with the body until after midnight. “

  “Tell me what’s been found so far.”

  “Fibers—cotton, white. Probably as basic as your bedsheets. Telltale bruising on the chest. Compression suffocation. A few footprints. Pieces of an old book page scattered about. Just like at the clothing store. And not much else.”

  “Did he smell?”

  “Like a decomposing corpse? Absolutely.”

  “Like latex gloves, bleach? You know…a hospital smell.”

  Ali shook her head. “No.”

  “A decade ago, the murders had a telltale odor. The killers tried to field-preserve them prior to sale to the medical students. Tell me about the pieces of paper. Like someone took the time to rip up pages from a book? At both scenes?” He paused. “Did you see the wall?” Tom sat up.

  “Yes. And yes. I walked the tunnel all the way to the church.”

  “Say your prayers?”

  “After Hell Night, unless I am on a case, I will never step foot inside St. Anthony’s church again. I can still smell the burning flesh, and sometimes when it’s really quiet at home, I hear those asshole OTABs chanting. Put me off prayer, Tommy.”

  “That was a night for the books, huh? I understand the FBI is interested in the ongoing investigation. It’s believed that some kind of airborne hallucinogen was used. That’s why so many of us had supernatural experiences.”

  “I’m going with temporary demonic possession. What happened was insane.”

  Tom chuckled. “Between us, yes. Do you recall everything?”

  “We’ve been over this, Tom. Yes, I know what we did. Mass hysteria can result in numerous indiscretions.”

  Tom raised his knees and rubbed his feet against the sheet. “They hurt.”

  “What? Your feet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I call the nurse?” Ali pulled on the super-tucked-in hospital bedsheet. “Oh, this is interesting. Tommy…your feet are filthy and scratched all to hell. Is part of your recovery program to walk on broken glass?”

  “I haven’t left the ward.”

  “Tom, unless someone came into your room and rubbed dirt on your feet and scratched you up with something sharp, you have left this room. This hospital. I don’t think even a walk in the hospital garden would do this.”

  Tom closed his eyes. “It’s not happening again, is it? I don’t hear him. He’s gone. My past is creeping back in and I will not house him again. I can’t walk the will of another.”

  “Don’t get upset. You’ll pull your stitches or something. Look, it’s over. All those Norse gods and angry dark goddesses and spells…it’s over. You are Tom Wolfson—a singular man who is not a prison to Loki.”

  “Don’t say his name. I swear I feel him quiver whenever it is spoken.”

  “This gets so confusing. I am just going to run with the premise that you and I are real; that the curse on the gods was part of the hysteria; that Corazon is a clever hooker and not a powerful witch capable of creating entire worlds and prisons of flesh, and that what happened, happened. Look, I want to go home. I’m filthy and exhausted.”

  Tom depressed his morphine button. “Thanks for stopping by. Come back after shift tomorrow, all right?”

  Ali re-covered his dirty feet. “I’m off until Tuesday. Shall I bring you lunch tomorrow?”

  He nodded.

  She left, and Tom settled in. He took a deep breath and delved into the darkness of his mind and heart. Loki was gone. He was alone, no longer riding shotgun. So, what the hell did I do to my feet? Did I sleepwalk hooked up to an IV? He drifted off to sleep.

  * * * *

  Long after hours. Long after the custodian had swept and mopped, the medical examiner pulled out a centuries-old book and carefully thumbed through the ancient pages. A historian of sorts, the page he wanted was well-thumbed. He looked at the corpse with its collapsed lungs and deep bruising, and read aloud, “Burke and Hare took graverobbing to its logical conclusion—instead of digging up the dead, they accepted lucrative incentives to destroy the living.” He touched a gloved hand to the body. “The idiots supplying me have far too heavy a hand.”

  Footfalls on the steps behind him didn’t worry him at all. No one came to the morgue. Occasionally, police making sure the chain of evidence was preserved, and less often scholarly medical students, visited his lair.

  “You’re getting sloppy. The police have found two of your prizes before you could return to claim them.”

  “First one couldn’t be helped. I couldn’t get back for transport. I see he has made an appearance on your slab, however. I had to disappear for a bit. I have some help now.”

  The examiner turned. The man before him truly disgusted him. “You, Mr. Oatmeyer, are a necessary evil in this day and age of medical miracles and long lives. And as far along into decomposition as this body from Feng’s is, it still sold. Can you believe that? Someone always wants a body, sir. Was this poor soul here truly indigent? No one will come knocking later?”

  “He’s no one. Loved by no one. Missed by no one. My employer would like payment now, doctor.”

  The pathologist continued speaking without looking at Oatmeyer. “Your new partner is a strong man and spared none of that strength suffocating this man. The lungs are of no use. If you can get me bodies in better condition, I can sell them overseas. Or for organs if brought to me soon enough.” He passed Oatmeyer a satchel he had stashed under his desk. “Ten thousand as requested.”

  “My employer and I thank you. When do you want the next? My new guy has an itchy trigger finger.”

  “Likes killing, does he?”

  “I’ve never seen someone who relished it more. From what I can see, that is. He’s a freak. He wears a mask and is shrouded in black. And goes barefoot. Sometimes I think he’s a golem or a zombie or something. He doesn’t speak. He just smothers. Then he leaves little pieces of paper strewn about like some kind of murderous confetti. He just shows up too—like he knows ahead of time who I’m going to lure away into the shadows. He’s wicked scary. Gotta be the boss that lets him know—though I don’t communicate with her, either.”

  “Three days enough time to get me another? And go easy on the chest. Don’t let your man sit on top of the victim next time. I had a body delivered tonight by the techs. It’s one of yours?”

  “Tunnel?”

  The pathologist nodded. “The market is at an all-time high. I need more bodies.”

  “Supply and demand. I’m in the right business.”

  Chapter Seven

  As promised, Ali returned to Tom’s bedside on her day off. She set her latte on the tray table and then pulled her tablet out of her handbag along with a wrapped burger for Tom. “Our bathroom decomp…the magic dust…was bone dust. And just enough bone fragments to get a DNA trace. I don’t know how we got the results back when there are a hundred untested rape kits at the lab—but you are going to love this. It was his mother’s cremains.”

  “That is not too unusual.”

  “We knew her. His mother. The pathologist recognized them on the spot. Unique composition.”

  “How can one recognize ashes?” Tom paused. “Wait…were they Mary’s? Created by dragon fire?”

  “Yes. The body was burned to ash, but said ashes were mixed with other burned items. Easy to distinguish. Our DB is Mary’s son.”

  “What the hell was he doing?” Tom paused. “Mary had a son? A four-hundred-year-old baby boy? What the fuck? How did he get her ashes?” He considered what could be done with ashes for a moment. “He was probably going to do a resurrection spell.” He realized he sounded manic. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bombard you.”

  “You speak so matter-of-factly about that night. Killed by dragon fire. The remains were released to next of kin when he stepped forward. I asked a s
imilar question. And he was not four hundred years old. He was fifty-seven. His name was Phil.”

  “The dragon that lives under the trees rose and had a snack. Mary was in the way. Never get in the way of a hungry dragon.” Tom straightened in bed.

  “Well, all that’s left of Mary is in a glittery box now. And to think, if we take everything at its word, she survived a hell of a lot more than dragon fire in the past.”

  “The hangman’s noose. Yes. And an ancestor on your mother’s side. No wonder she waited through the centuries for revenge.”

  “Thanks a lot, Tom. Do you not want to know about the body? Suffocated by pressure. Burked. As in those famous Scottish murders, Burke & Hare. And it’s not the first.” Ali took a sip from her cup. “There’s been more than one person Burked in Old Town. Not counting the timespan in between probable date of death for the body in Feng’s and the one Smith and I found in the tunnel, two in one month.”

  "I wonder why he referred to his mother’s cremains as magic dust?”

  Ali tugged at the bottom of Tom’s sheets. “How are your feet?”

  “Less bothersome. I’m not sure what’s going on. I’ve certainly been prone to sleepwalking. But not for quite a while.”

  “Maybe Ms. McPherson is calling you out for dumping her,” Ali replied. “Making you walk the streets in a stupor.”

  “She has nothing but sparks left. Like us.” He rubbed his fingers together and watched the sparkles appear and just as quickly disappear. “The seat of her power is gone. And I’m pretty well known around here. Don’t you think someone would wake me up if I were sleepwalking? Never mind the hospital gown and IV pole.”

  Ali laughed and rubbed her fingers together. She watched the sparks. “All our magic was eaten by the dragon that lives under the oak trees, and whose best friend is a squirrel.”

  “We can make light of it now, but it happened, Ali. Every damned cursed Norse god and resultant hexing effects…it was all real. No one outside Old Town would ever believe it. The FBI is investigating, and I know they’re shaking their heads too. For everyone but us, it’s a big WTF.”

  “If we have a serial killer in town now, that too is going to cause concern by the various agencies who now have us on their radar.” She helped herself and pulled his hospital sockies off. “Your feet, dude. Are you powdering with dirt?”

  “Stay here tonight. Cuff me to my bed. Let’s see if I get up.”

  “I could probably get away with it. You have a private room with one of those pull-out window benches.”

  “There’s room here.” He patted his wheeled bed.

  “Knock it off, Tommy. Unless all hell breaks loose again, we won’t be going there. What would happen if we were lovers and I make captain?”

  “You’d have a nice desk with a brass nameplate on the door, and a fabulous man who loves you as the propulsion behind your service weapon.”

  “Instead of the wind beneath my wings? Sweet.”

  “I do my best.”

  “Look, if I’m crashing here tonight, I’ll see ya later, okay? I have a few errands to run.”

  “All right. Bring me a vanilla shake, huh?”

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  She left his room, feeling as though she was the cage atop the grave—a mortsafe—to keep the contents within, safe from outside interference or to keep the crazy in the earth. Tom was under her watch. Encased in her mortsafe.

  There was an uneasy heaviness clinging to her like the pervasive rotten cheese odor of death. Two bodies. She stopped at the elevator and pulled out her cell. Gut instinct. She checked her PulsePoint app. Her blood ran cold when she saw the medical call for a 10-100. Dead body. Her gut rolled. It was just the beginning. I’m off duty. If I piece together something probative, I’ll inform the detective on the case.

  Ali rode the elevator in silence. Another DOA. Why is this happening now? A familiar stab penetrated the spot just below the base of her neck. Corazon. Witch spells. An angry madam. Tommy really did call it off. And now, she’s pissed. This isn’t going to end well.

  Casting common sense to the wind, Ali climbed into her truck and then drove up town. She recognized the drive was a mistake. A compulsion egged her on. Stupidity dared her.

  Once across the bridge, leaving behind the sooty, crumbling facades of Old Town for the sleek glass-and-steel business district of Sealth, Ali pressed forward, unclear as to her purpose or reasoning behind the drive. She stopped at a light and looked ahead to the silvered-glassed highrises and glass domes of downtown. She recognized a name imprinted in gold on a second-story window of one of the stately older buildings tucked away between the new. It was still an impressive height—but definitely later architecture than its block mates. Corazon McPherson, consultant. She cursed under her breath and pulled into a parking spot near the entrance.

  Ali wasn’t armed.

  No badge.

  No thin blue line to back her.

  This was her day off. Just her, a ponytail, yoga pants, and a T-shirt. And a fire in her belly.

  She stood outside the locked entrance of a building she would never make a point to frequent on any other day and studied her actions. Her every moment was controlled. Rashness was not good police work. Her intuition…her hunch…that Corazon had something to do with the deaths and Tommy’s illness—it could be a smoke screen. Divide and conquer. I can’t trust it right now. She makes me see red. I want to slap her whenever we’re in the same airspace. She pushed the buzzer any way.

  A soft voice replied to the call. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Ali replied. “But I’m here on behalf of Tom Wolfson.”

  The buzzer sounded and the heavy brass and glass door lock popped. She pushed it open and looked for the elevator. Of course, top floor. Penthouse. Just peachy. She rode up and then paused before stepping out into the grand foyer of Corazon’s offices.

  And there she was. Dressed as per usual in tight red, spiked heels, and perfect makeup.

  “Well, hello, officer. Day off?” Cora asked. “Is this a social call or did you want to schedule a session?”

  Ali choked. “Session?”

  “You wouldn’t be the only member of law enforcement or judicial system who is a dues-paying member.”

  “I wanted to tell you about Tom,” Ali said.

  “Well, then. Tea?” Corazon gestured toward an intricate lead inlay door to her right.

  Ali nodded and followed her into a sweet corner office. About seventeen stories up, the view looked out across the bridge to Old Town and even the Bez beyond that. “Wow. Would you look at that. Even the rooftops in the city are clean. I am no longer in Krazy Town.”

  “The beauty of Sealth’s liberal mayor is that green power is far more rampant, thereby, no soot. Sit down. Would you like a beverage? It doesn’t have to be tea. I have everything.”

  Ali fell back into an over-stuffed red leather armchair. “I’ll take a shot of whiskey if you have it.”

  “Only top shelf for you.” She opened a decanter on the bar and then poured a shot for Ali. “This, Officer Najarah, is Suntory Hibiki twenty-one-year-old whiskey. It is the best in the world.” She offered Ali the shot. “The best, for the best.”

  “I don’t know about that but thank you for this.” Ali took a sip. Her head exploded with the most delectable, smooth, fruity sweetness. “Oh, God.”

  “Yep. It’s good. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “Tom is sick.”

  Corazon raised one eyebrow. “How so?”

  “We were on a call and his appendix ruptured. He’s recovering.”

  “That’s good. That’s very good. He is such a delicious man. I’d hate for him to suffer too greatly from any malady.”

  “That’s just it. He’s never been sick a day in his life. Whatever his life is.”

  “Ah, the paradox of Hell Night continues to confound.”

  Ali nodded.

  “I created Tom to punish Loki, a nasty little Norse god, becaus
e my patrons wanted him not only punished, but humiliated. A prison of dark blue lawful good seemed apropos. I gave Tom a backstory and free will.”

  “Like God.”

  “Well, yes. Gods with lower-case g’s in this instance. Everything that happened was based on time and circumstance. Except the dragon. That was not of my doing. Damned beast woke up and was hungry.”

  “And me?”

  “You’re real, of course. And although Tom struggles with believing he’s not a real-life boy, he is. Truthfully, he was always real. He did wash up on the shores of the Bez. He does have amnesia. He has been a cop for a decade. But I filled him…his thoughts…his soul. When Loki sacrificed himself in the flames to save Odin, Tom was released. Freed. He should have memories now. And he will no longer carry around that silly book, trying to ‘reveal himself.’ Oh, Loki totally fucked with him.”

  “I reveal my inmost self to my god.”

  “Clever, indeed. That was not my doing. That entire can’t-live-without-a-copy-of-Beneath-the-Planet-of-the-Apes was all Loki. He’s such as asshole.”

  “He’s gone. They’re all gone.”

  “Mostly. Those asinine OTABs keep invoking Odin’s name, hoping he’ll return to them as a fast-food server or something. Certainly not as a priest.” Cora paused. “That was all me, incidentally. I thought of making the All Father a father. I thought it would confound Loki—kind of like a firehose sprayed into a prison cell.”

  “You do love to torment.”

  “Pays the bills.”

  Ali finished her whiskey. “I’d better go. I’m not even sure why I drove here. I could have just phoned.”

  “Another? I’ve got hours before my next appointment, and since you are out of uniform, I assume you are having a lovely day off.”

  “I’m on my seventy-two off. So, sure. I’ll have another. This is the smoothest blend I’ve ever had. And my father loved his high-priced, rare alcohols. I’ve had my share of a few.”

  “I’ve a bottle of Shipwrecked 1907 Heidsieck. Unopened, of course. I understand that it has notes of black rifle powder, something salty on the nose, graham cracker, flamed oranges, and burnt lemon oil among others on the palate.”