Spells for the Dead

by Faith Hunter

  * * *

  * * *

  I drove to the office. My official vehicle had come to me by way of confiscation and it was “fully tricked out inside,” according to Occam. It had every bell and whistle ever devised by car manufacturers—heated seats and steering wheel, autostart, Bluetooth, an onboard computer that I could link to my laptop if needed, electronic chargers, monitors to tell me when I had low tires . . . It had everything. I loved it. I’d never tell my mama, but the best reasons for entering the modern world were Krispy Kreme donuts and tech.

  I parked close to HQ’s door, spotting JoJo’s and FireWind’s cars and a dozen rusted-out vehicles I didn’t recognize. The sound of music on the air made me look up to see the third-floor windows were open, the origination of the music. There were two ways onto the third floor: through the second floor and from the back of the building. Cigarette smoke and dust floated around the building from the back, along with multilingual shouting—English, Spanish, and something that sounded like Croatian or Russian, not that I’d heard those last languages except in movies. A loud thump sounded as something heavy hit the earth. I didn’t have a hard hat so I didn’t go around back to see.

  Carrying my gear and the potted tree, I went inside, climbed the stairs, and stopped at my cubby. I set down my plant, checked its soil for moisture content, locked away my weapon, and put my lunch in the break room. I also made a fresh pot of coffee the instant I braved the main conference room, which had been taken over by JoJo Jones, Unit Eighteen’s computer guru and former (mostly) hacker, who was staring at her screens. The long table was covered with printed pages, file folders, and electronic equipment. There were multiple screens of various sizes on the walls. The lights were dim, the blinds closed. JoJo was sitting in her chair, her big braided bun tilted forward, her silver earrings catching the light of the screens, her body unmoving, fingers still. She didn’t seem to be breathing and I wasn’t sure if she had died in that position until she blinked.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” she demanded without looking my way.

  I nearly jumped at the sound of her voice, but took my seat and opened my tablet. “Connelly died because she didn’t get to a null room,” I said quietly. “No one in authority understood that they had to, that they could, bring patients to HQ. Communication broke down.”

  Jo cursed succinctly and forcefully. “I told the person who answered the desk on the paranormal wing. I’ve got the name here.” Jo started punching keys, looking for the file she wanted. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t left HQ and her computers since the case began. She was wearing heavy yoga pants, a thick black headband, an oversized sweatshirt, and no makeup. “Here it is. The woman’s name was Marielle Higgins. I told her about the null room. She said she would relay the information to the doctor. I told her!”

  “Jo. The failure to communicate was on them, not us,” I said, trying to comfort.

  “Not being at fault is not going to bring anyone back from the dead,” she snarled. She looked sleep-deprived and as snarly as she sounded.

  “No. It isn’t,” I said.

  “Give me something I can use to prove how this crime works, something I can then track down to a practitioner, something other than a trigger, a trigger that the North Nashville coven can’t figure out and never heard of at all.” JoJo snarled the last two words.

  I said, “Stella Mae lived in a commune-like place, back five years ago, before she became a star.”

  JoJo slowly turned her head to me and breathed out the words, “That’s what you meant with that list? I thought it was people she had in common . . .” Her eyes focused on the air above my head. “I thought it was misspelled and . . . Ohhh. The missing years.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “There are missing years in Stella’s public and personal data stream. If she was in a commune, she may have eschewed everything modern. That would make sense.”

  I said, “Yeah. She might have.”

  “Where? Who?” Jo asked.

  “I got no idea. But according to the lists provided by the late-night sandwich makers, Bevie Rhoden and Elisa Yhall, one of her band members might have been part of the commune. Thomas Langer.”

  “Bevie Rhoden and Elisa Yhall.” Jo ran a search for the photos of the lists. “Your files from the scene are well organized,” she muttered, her fingers now flying over the keys. “Commune? It’s a place to start. Okay. Let’s find the hidden records.”

  I went back to work organizing the unit’s case files and interrogation results. It was both interesting and mind-numbingly boring. Hours passed. I drank a lot of coffee. I prepared a lunch of salad greens from my garden and microwaved leftover stew and cut up a hunk of homemade bread for Jo and me. I put a portion for FireWind in the fridge. I took one call from Mud and Esther in which they whispered angrily at one another during church service while I listened. I hung up, midscream. They knew to text something specific if it was a real emergency. Of course, they also knew better than to call me at work over a sisters’ spat.

  “I got it. I got it, I got it,” JoJo said, breaking the afternoon’s doldrums. “I got the commune. Holy sh . . . oot. I got it. And . . .”

  “And what?” I asked when she didn’t continue, a small smile on my face from her revised cussing.

  “No wonder Stella Mae’s PR people whitewashed her background.” She stopped, but her fingers were still moving and the screens overhead were flashing to life with what looked like posts from a defunct online site dedicated to . . . sex. With photos . . . I stared.

  Jo said, “The typical country music fan would hate to learn that their pure Christian singing star was in bed with a bunch of people. I count six heads. No, seven. It’s all out of focus, which is probably a good thing. I do not need to see what they are doing.”

  “Mmmm . . .” My ability to speak failed me. I dragged my eyes away, got up, and walked down the hall to the locker room. And inside. I used the facilities. Washed my hands. Several times. I fixed my hair. Pulled a tiny leaf. I dawdled. I dillydallied. I might have loitered.

  I had grown up in a polygamous church where everything in life revolved around marriage, concubinage, and the punishment and abuse of women and girl-children. But sex, sex like I had seen in the photographs, was not something that was ever discussed. Not ever. Churchwomen were chaste by modern standards. They had a husband. The lights went out. The husband crawled into a wife’s bed. There were relations. The husband went to sleep, snoring. That was it. The next night he was with a different woman, doing the same thing in her bed. What I had seen in the photographs . . .

  Did modern townie men want that? Did Occam want that?

  From me?

  I walked back into the hallway, let the locker room door close, and came to a stop. The big boss was standing in front of me, leaning against the wall, partially blocking the way. Not totally, not enough to activate my “trapped” instinct, my fight instinct, but more just the size of his body, his broad shoulders, his six-foot-three-plus inches of height. I caught my breath.

  FireWind’s arms were crossed, his long, beautiful black hair down and shimmering across one shoulder. He looked at ease. His expression blank. Or, no. It was . . . maybe faintly kind? As kind as he could manage.

  “What?” I demanded.

  His lips smiled ever so slightly. “I saw the images. Are you all right?” He dropped his arms and tucked his fingers into the pockets of his black pants, much like the way Rick stood. It was an odd gesture, deliberate, as if to demonstrate peaceful intents and try to get me to relax. “I understand how the photographs might affect you. Strike you.”

  “Yeah? How would you know anything about me?” I demanded.

  “Because my wife was a woman of her time, a woman of her upbringing. Such photographs would have deeply offended her. The women of God’s Cloud of Glory Church are not promiscuous, do not understand that their bodies bel
ong to them and not to the man who owns them.”

  “I was not owned.”

  “Were you not?”

  I closed my eyes, blocking out my boss, his probing questions, his insults. His . . . his truths. Ayatas FireWind spoke truths. “Yes,” I whispered. “I was owned. I sold myself into sexual slavery to keep me safe from even worse things.”

  “And you would do it again. I understand that. And you survived.” He stopped as if to give me time to speak, but I had nothing to say. “You are strong. I offer you what comfort I may as you face your memories. I honor your journey.”

  Tears I did not expect shot down my face like a fire hose had opened. Burning tears. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Managed a shuddering breath. I honor your journey . . . “Well, damn,” I said, the curse shocking me. I opened my eyes to see FireWind watching me, his eyes gentle. I struggled with what to say and settled on, “Thank you.” He gave me the barest of nods. “Your wife?” I asked.

  “She was a good woman. Stronger by far than I could ever hope to be. My people did not see sexual relations as her people did. It was difficult for us at first with our differing perceptions and expectations.”

  I thought about Occam. About what he might want. “You miss her,” I said.

  “I will miss my Forever Heart until the day I die.”

  “Forever Heart?”

  He closed his eyes for a moment and his face lit with deep, powerful emotions: joy and intense grief. “Igohidv Adonvdo,” he whispered, the syllables liquid and lovely. He met my eyes. “But she was not a modern woman. She would have been offended by the photographs.”

  “I’m a law enforcement officer. I can adapt,” I said.

  He gave a stronger nod. “Yes. You will. But it may never be easy for you to view such things. I will remain in my office until such time as you are ready for me to be present.”

  My eyes went wide. I’d have to be in the presence of men when the photos were being viewed and dissected. “Oh dear,” I whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Wait. Did they release Catriona?”

  “No. The State Department and the EU embassy are now involved. It’s becoming complicated on multiple levels.” He turned and went to his new glass-walled office at the back of the second floor. He walked like a wild animal, with liquid grace, and closed the door to his office, pulling the blinds. His current office had been converted from unused space, along with the new interrogation room beside it. I felt intense relief at the knowledge that he would be moving upstairs soon.

  I dropped my back to the hallway, the wall cool through my clothing. I’d have to see sex pictures in a room full of my coworkers, women and men. In front of my boss. In front of Occam. “Oh dear,” I repeated, this time to myself. When I thought I could stand it, I went back to the conference room and the photos of the naked people doing . . . things . . . to each other.

  * * *

  * * *

  “The commune was composed of small groups of people,” JoJo said, “and if we look at this in light of the commune, then in Stella’s group there were seven, counting Stella. Racine Alcock left the commune after a year and disappeared, leaving six. All six of the remaining commune members, again counting Stella, were in the band in some capacity. Stella, Connelly Darrow, Thomas Langer, Erica Lynn Quinton, Cale Nowell, Donald Murray Hampstead. Two band/commune members are dead under bizarre paranormal circumstances from the death working: Stella and Connelly Darrow. The other dead are Monica Belcher and Verna Upton, not in the band but still part of Stella’s inner circle. In the commune and the band and still alive are Thomas Langer, Erica Lynn Quinton, Cale Nowell, Donald Murray Hampstead. Also, presumably alive, is Racine Alcock. So far, Nell—Ingram—cannot find records of her. If this was a TV show, Alcock would be dead at the hands of the commune members and the killer would be killing off all the witnesses.”

  “This is not a television show,” FireWind said, amused. “Ingram, what do you have on her?” He was eating the salad from my garden with apparent relish. I was moderately gratified that he found it so tasty. An empty bowl was on the table. He had wiped the last dregs of stew from it with the last chunk of bread. He had carefully and kindly not looked at me as he ate, the photos of naked people on the screens over his head.

  “Sending you my search results,” I said, shifting the file to JoJo. I had begun background checks on all the band and commune members, including the missing Racine Alcock, who did not exist under that exact name, according to current databases: driver’s licenses, marriage licenses, and death certificates in seven states, and current social media, within fairly broad age parameters. I didn’t have access to her date of birth, social security number, or mother’s maiden name. I had no physical characteristics, height, weight, current hair color. That meant that my initial search had been limited. Then I had searched under multiple spellings for Alcock: Racine, Racina, Ragine, Regina, Reagan, Raegan, Regan, Ragan, Roseann, Rosanne, Rosanna, Roxanne, Roxanna, Roxana, and Richelle Alcock. I followed that with a search for first-name-unknown Racine Alcock, first-name-unknown all the others Alcock, and a good ten other variations of Alcock. I found lots of women who might fit under broad parameters, but nothing specific. Not one mention of a female in that correct age group. Not in the military, not in the prison system, not anywhere.

  Jo looked up at me. “Nice work, country hick chick. I’ll make a research geek out of you yet.”

  I made a face at her, as if her words had a bad smell. She chuckled, knowing I hated computer stuff and wanted to be out in the open air, in nature.

  FireWind gathered up the dirty dishes and glided into the doorway. Not stepped. Glided. He was grace personified, and I had met vamps who could do the grace thing better than anyone. FireWind was right up there with the vampiest. “I have some calls to make,” he said. “And since I ate the last of the stew, I’ll order in supper for you two. What do you want?”

  JoJo said, “How about burgers from the Burgers on Sutherland Ave. They don’t deliver this far, but they are the best, and you can do pickup while you talk on the phone. You can’t beat their food. I’ll have a Knox Burger.”

  “I’ll have the Black and Blue,” I said.

  He had to know we were trying to get rid of him, but FireWind gave us a formal nod, rinsed the dishes in the break room sink, and left the building. I had to hold in a giggle as he walked past the outside security cameras. JoJo had just sent the big boss on a food run. The tension in HQ fell dramatically the moment he got in his car.

  “Aren’t you a vegetarian?” I asked Jo.

  “Most of the time. Not tonight. Thank God he’s gone. It’s hard enough looking at sex pics, but to do it with your boss in and out constantly?” JoJo said. “Your boss who is drop-dead gorgeous. And who has the best poker face on the planet. I can’t read him at all. Gives me the creeps.” She swiveled and stared me down in my seat in the corner. “You okay?”

  I scowled at her. “Put all the sex pics back up on the big screens. And the photos of the dead bodies in Stella’s basement. I gotta get used to looking at that stuff.”

  Without turning, JoJo tapped a single key and a dozen of the pics appeared overhead. Seven naked people. On a big mattress with lots of pillows, scrunched-up covers, and body parts. Doing things. Partially out of focus but not out of focus enough to hide all that. I closed my eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Jo said. “Occam doesn’t want that. Well, he might think about wanting it, but he doesn’t really.” I stilled and she added, “He’s a guy. People think things all the time. That doesn’t mean they go through with them. That’s why we police people for what they’ve done, and not for what they might do. Well, usually.” She smiled slightly.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, meaning the part about Occam, which she seemed to know.

  “That man loves you more than anyone I’ve ever seen love anyone on the face of the earth.” She waved a
hand. “You know what I mean.”

  I did. Sorta. I stared at the screens, looking back and forth between sex photos and dead body photos. “Why’s it harder to look at sex than to look at the dead bodies?”

  “Our culture says death and violence are okay but sex isn’t. And your church culture says it’s worse than anything.”

  “Everyone on the unit knows that? About my culture? About the church?”

  “Honey,” she said, sounding a little sad, but not pitying, which was good because I’d get real mad at any kind of pity. “Everyone on the unit knows. Everyone wants to protect you and help you through your constraints so you can be the best special agent that ever lived.”

  “Oh,” I said. I looked at the photos again. There were six pictures on the biggest screen, bodies everywhere doing everything. “FireWind says I’ll never get used to it.”

  “No. You will never get used to it. But you will learn to hide your reactions and to study the photos for information. For instance, look at every photo. In every one of them, one person is right beside, or under, or over, Stella. Always close. Always right there.”

  “Ohhh,” I said. “The missing woman? Racine Alcock?”

  “Yeah. Hanging on to Stella like a lifeline.

  “And then there’s this.” She put up a photo of seven people, all the men in tuxedoes, all the women in long gowns. Long white gowns, some off the shoulder, some lacy. The women carried flowers. Two of them wore veils over their faces. They all stood together in a semicircle. A man wearing a dark robe, like some preachers wore, stood in the center of them. It looked like a wedding with seven participants. Stella Mae had gotten . . . poly-married? I wasn’t sure of the term. Or if there was one.

  “It wasn’t a legal marriage,” JoJo said. “It isn’t registered anywhere. But they had a ceremony. And they recorded it for posterity.”

  I went back through all the photos. In every one, Alcock’s face was veiled or blurred or partially hidden. In every one, Cale Nowell was looking at Stella with desperate need. I checked my lists. I had done a prelim interview on Cale at the farm on Friday, but he hadn’t been seen since.