The Laughing Corpse abvh-2

by Laurell Kaye Hamilton

  I looked back at the coffin under its blanket of pink carnations. There was a bulky mound just behind it, covered in bright green fake grass. Underneath was the fresh dug earth waiting to go back in the hole.

  Mustn’t let the loved ones think about red-clay soil pouring down on the gleaming coffin. Clods of dirt hitting the wood, covering your husband, father. Trapping them forever inside a lead-lined box. A good coffin will keep the water and worms out, but it doesn’t stop decay.

  I knew what would be happening to Peter Burke’s body. Cover it in satin, wrap a tie round its neck, rouge the cheeks, close the eyes; it’s still a corpse.

  The funeral ended while I wasn’t looking. The people rose gratefully in one mass movement. The dark-haired man helped the grieving widow to stand. She nearly fell. Another man rushed forward and supported her other side. She sagged between them, feet dragging on the ground.

  She looked back over her shoulder, head almost lolling on her neck. She screamed, loud and ragged, then flung herself on the coffin. The woman collapsed against the flowers, digging at the wood. Fingers scrambling for the locks on the coffin. The ones that held the lid down.

  Everyone just froze for a moment, staring. I saw the two children through the crowd still standing, wide-eyed. Shit. “Stop her,” I said it too loud. People turned to stare. I didn’t care.

  I pushed my way through the vanishing crowd and the aisles of chairs. The dark-haired man was holding the widow’s hands while she screamed and struggled. She had collapsed to the ground, and her black dress had worked up high on her thighs.

  She was wearing a white slip. Her mascara had run like black blood down her face.

  I stood in front of the man and the two children. He was staring at the woman like he would never move again. “Sir,” I said. He didn’t react. “Sir?”

  He blinked, staring down at me like I had just appeared in front of him. “Sir, do you really think the children need to see all this?”

  “She’s my daughter,” he said. His voice was deep and thick.

  Drugged or just grief?

  “I sympathize, sir, but the children should go to the car now.”

  The widow had begun to wail, loud and wordless, raw pain. The girl was beginning to shake. “You’re her father, but you’re their grandfather. Act like it. Get them out of here.”

  Anger flickered in his eyes then. “How dare you?”

  He wasn’t going to listen to me. I was just an intrusion on their grief. The oldest, a boy of about five, was staring up at me. His brown eyes were huge, his thin face so pale it looked ghostly.

  “I think it is you who should go,” the grandfather said.

  “You’re right. You are so right,” I said. I walked around them out into the grass and the summer heat. I couldn’t help the children. I couldn’t help them, just as no one had been there to help me. I had survived. So would they, maybe.

  Manny and Rosita were waiting for me. Rosita hugged me. “You must come to Sunday dinner after church.”

  I smiled. “I don’t think I can make it, but thanks for asking.”

  “My cousin Albert will be there,” she said. “He is an engineer. He will be a good provider.”

  “I don’t need a good provider, Rosita.”

  She sighed. “You make too much money for a woman. It makes you not need a man.”

  I shrugged. If I ever did marry, which I’d begun to doubt, a it wouldn’t be for money. Love. Shit, was I waiting for love? Naw, not me.

  “We have to pick up Tomas at kindergarten,” Manny said. He was smiling at me apologetically around Rosita’s shoulder. She was nearly a foot taller than he. She towered over me, too.

  “Sure, tell the little guy hi for me.”

  “You should come to dinner,” Rosita said, “Albert is a very handsome man.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me, Rosita, but I’ll skip it.”

  “Come on, wife,” Manny said. “Our son is waiting for us.”

  She let him pull her towards the car, but her brown face was set in disapproval. It offended some deep part of Rosita that I was twenty-four and had no prospects of marriage. Her and my stepmother.

  Charles was nowhere to be seen. Hurrying back to the office to see clients. I thought Jamison had, too, but he stood in the grass, waiting for me.

  He was dressed impeccably, crossed-lapels, narrow red tie with small dark dots on it. His tie clip was onyx and silver. He smiled at me, always a bad sign.

  His greenish eyes looked hollow, like someone had erased part of the skin. If you cry enough, the skin goes from puffy red to hollow white. “I’m glad so many of us showed up,” he said.

  “I know he was a friend of yours, Jamison. I’m sorry.”

  He nodded and looked down at his hands. He was holding a pair of sunglasses loosely. He looked up at me, eyes staring straight into mine. All serious.

  “The police won’t tell the family anything,” he said. “Peter gets blown away, and they don’t have a clue who did it.”

  I wanted to tell him the police were doing their best, because they were. But there are a hell of a lot of murders in St. Louis over a year. We were giving Washington, D.C. a run for their money as murder capital of the United States. “They’re doing their best, Jamison.”

  “Then why won’t they tell us anything?” His hands convulsed. The sound of breaking plastic was a crumbling sharp sound. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Anita, you’re in good with the police. Could you ask?” His eyes were naked, full of such real pain. Most of the time I could ignore, or even dislike, Jamison. He was a tease, a flirt, a bleeding-heart liberal who thought that vampires were just people with fangs. But today...today he was real.

  “What do you want me to ask?”

  “Are they making any progress? Do they have any suspects? That sort of thing.”

  They were vague questions, but important ones. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  He gave a watery smile. “Thanks, Anita, really, thanks.” He held out his hand. I took it. We shook. He noticed his broken sunglasses. “Damn, ninety-five dollars down the tubes.”

  Ninety-five dollars for sunglasses? He had to be kidding. A group of mourners were taking the family away at last. The mother was smothered in well-meaning male relatives. They were literally carrying her away from the grave. The children and Grampa brought up the rear. No one listens to good advice.

  A man stepped away from the crowd and walked towards us. He was the one who reminded me of Peter Burke from the back. He was around six feet, dark-complected, a black mustache, and thin almost goateelike beard framing a handsome face. It was handsome, a dark movie-star face, but there was something about the way he moved. Maybe it was the white streak in his black hair just over the forehead. Whatever, you knew that he would always play the villain.

  “Is she going to help us?” he asked, no preamble, no hello.

  “Yes,” Jamison said. “Anna Blake, this is John Burke, Peter’s brother.”

  John Burke, the John Burke, I wanted to ask. New Orleans’s greatest animator and vampire slayer? A kindred spirit. We shook hands. His grip was strong, almost painfully so, as if he wanted to see if I would flinch. I didn’t. He let go. Maybe he just didn’t know his own strength? But I doubted it.

  “I am truly sorry about your brother,” I said. I meant it. I was glad I meant it.

  He nodded. “Thank you for talking to the police about him.”

  “I’m surprised you couldn’t get the New Orleans police to give you some juice with our local police,” I said.

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “The New Orleans police and I have had a disagreement.”

  “Really?” I said, eyes wide. I had heard the rumors, but I wanted to hear the truth. Truth is always stranger than fiction.

  “John was accused of participating in some ritual murders,” Jamison said. “Just because he’s a practicing vaudun priest.”

  “Oh,”
I said. Those were the rumors. “How long have you been in town, John?”

  “Almost a week.”

  “Really?”

  “Peter had been missing for two days before they found the...body.” He licked his lips. His dark brown eyes flicked to the scene behind me. Were the grave diggers moving in? I glanced back, but the grave looked just the same to me.

  “Anything you could find out would be most appreciated,” he said.

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I have to get back to the house.” He shrugged, as if to loosen the shoulder muscles. “My sister-in-law isn’t taking it well.”

  I let it go. I deserved brownie points for that. One thing I didn’t let go. “Can you look after your niece and nephew?”

  He looked at me, a puzzled frown between his black eyebrows.

  “I mean, keep them out of the really dramatic stuff if you can.”

  He nodded. “It was rough for me to watch her throw herself on the coffin. God, what must the kids be thinking?” Tears glittered in his eyes like silver. He kept them open very wide so the tears wouldn’t spill out.

  I didn’t know what to say. I did not want to see him cry. “I’ll talk to the police, find out what I can. I’ll tell Jamison when I have anything.”

  John Burke nodded, carefully. His eyes were like a glass where only the surface tension kept the water from spilling over.

  I nodded to Jamison and left. I turned on the air-conditioning in my car and let it run full blast. The two men were still standing in the hot sunshine in the middle of summer brown grass when I put the car in gear and drove away.

  I would talk to the police and find out what I could. I also had another name for Dolph. John Burke, biggest animator in New Orleans, voodoo priest. Sounded like a suspect to me.

  Chapter 10

  The phone was ringing as I shoved the key into my apartment door. I yelled at it, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Why do people do that? Yell at the phone as if the other person can hear you and will wait?

  I shoved the door open and scooped up the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello.”

  “Anita?”

  “Dolph,” I said. My stomach tightened. “What’s up?”

  “We think we found the boy.” His voice was quiet, neutral.

  “Think,” I said. “What do you mean, think?”

  “You know what I mean, Anita,” he said. He sounded tired.

  “Like his parents?” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah.”

  “God, Dolph, is there much left?”

  “Come and see. We’re at the Burrell Cemetery. Do you know it?”

  “Sure, I’ve done work there.”

  “Be here as soon as you can. I want to go home and hug my wife.”

  “Sure, Dolph, I understand.” I was talking to myself. The phone had gone dead. I stared at the receiver for a moment. My skin felt cold. I did not want to go and view the remains of Benjamin Reynolds. I did not want to know. I pulled a lot of air in through my nose and let it out slowly.

  I stared down at the dark hose, high heels, dress. It wasn’t my usual crime scene attire, but it would take too long to change. I was usually the last expert called in. Once I was through, they could cover the body. And everyone could go home. I grabbed a pair of black Nikes for walking over grass and through blood. Once you got bloodstains on dress shoes, they never come clean.

  I had the Browning Hi-Power, complete with holster sort of draped atop my little black clutch purse. The gun had been in my car during the funeral. I couldn’t figure out a way to carry a gun of any kind while wearing a dress. I know you see thigh holsters on television, but does the word “chafing” mean anything to you?

  I hesitated on getting my backup gun and shoving it in my purse, but didn’t. My purse, like all purses, seems to have a traveling black hole in it. I’d never get the gun out in time if I really needed it.

  I did have a silver knife in a thigh sheath under the short black skirt. I felt like Kit Carson in drag, but after Tommy’s little visit, I didn’t want to be unarmed. I had no illusions what would happen if Tommy did catch me with no gun. Knives weren’t as good, but they beat the hell out of kicking my little feet and screaming.

  I had never yet had to try to fast draw a knife from a thigh sheath. It was probably going to look vaguely obscene, but if it kept me alive...hey, I can take a little embarrassment.

  Burrell Cemetery is at the crest of a hill. Some of the gravestones go back centuries. The soft, weathered limestone is almost unreadable, like hard candy that’s been sucked clean. The grass is waist tall, luxuriant with only the headstones standing like tired sentinels.

  There is a house on the edge of the cemetery where the caretaker lives, but he doesn’t have to take care of much. The graveyard is full and has been for years. The last person buried here could remember the 1904 World’s Fair.

  There is no road into the graveyard anymore. There is a ghost of one, like a wagon track where the grass doesn’t grow quite so high. The caretaker’s house was surrounded by police cars and the coroner’s van. My Nova seemed underdressed. Maybe I should get some buggy whip antennae, or plaster Zombies “R” Us on the side of the car. Bert would probably get mad.

  I got a pair of coveralls from the trunk and slipped into them. They covered me from neck to ankle. Like most coveralls the crotch hit at knee level, I never understood why, but it meant my skirt didn’t bunch up. I bought them originally for vampire stakings, but blood is blood. Besides, the weeds would play hell with my panty hose. I got a pair of surgical gloves from the little Kleenex-like box in the trunk. Nikes instead of dress shoes, and I was ready to view the remains.

  Remains. Nice word.

  Dolph stood like some ancient sentinel, towering over everyone else in the field. I worked my way towards him, trying not to trip over broken bits of headstone. A wind hot enough to scald rustled the grass. I was sweating inside the overalls.

  Detective Clive Perry came to meet me, as if I needed an escort. Detective Perry was one of the most polite people I had ever met. He had an old-world courtliness to him. A gentleman in the best sense of the word. I always wanted to ask what he had done to end up on the spook squad.

  His slender black face was beaded with sweat. He still wore his suit jacket even though it had to be over a hundred degrees. “Ms. Blake.”

  “Detective Perry,” I said. I glanced up at the crest of the hill. Dolph and a handful of men were standing around like they didn’t know what to do. No one was looking at the ground.

  “How bad is it, Detective Perry?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Depends on what you compare it to.”

  “Did you see the tapes and pictures of the Reynolds house?”

  “I did.”

  “Is it worse than that?” It was my new “worst thing I ever saw” measurement. Before this it had been a vampire gang that had tried to move in from Los Angeles. The respectable vampire community had chopped them up with axes. The parts were still crawling around the room when we found them. Maybe this wasn’t worse. Maybe time had just dimmed the memory.

  “It isn’t bloodier,” he said, then he hesitated, “but it was a child. A little boy.”

  I nodded. He didn’t need to explain. It was always worse when it was a child. I never knew exactly why. Maybe it was some primal instinct to protect the young. Some deep hormonal thing. Whatever, kids were always worse. I stared down at a white tombstone. It looked like dull, melted ice. I didn’t want to go up the hill. I didn’t want to see.

  I went up the hill. Detective Perry followed. Brave detective. Brave me.

  A sheet rested on the grass like a tent. Dolph stood closest to it. “Dolph,” I said.

  “Anita.”

  No one offered to pull back the sheet. “Is this it?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dolph seemed to shake himself, or maybe it was a shiver. He reached down and grabbed the edge of the sheet. “Ready?” he asked.

  No, I wasn�
��t ready. Don’t make me look. Please don’t make me look. My mouth was dry. I could taste my pulse in my throat. I nodded.

  The sheet flew back, caught by a gust of wind like a white kite. The grass was trampled down. Struggles? Had Benjamin Reynolds been alive when he was pulled down into the long grass? No, surely not. God, I hoped not.

  The footed pajamas had tiny cartoon figures on them. The pajamas had been pulled back like the skin of a banana. One small arm was flung up over his head like he was sleeping. Long-lashed eyelids helped the illusion. His skin was pale and flawless, small cupid-bow mouth half open. He should have looked worse, much worse.

  There was a dirty brown stain on his pajamas, the cloth covering his lower body. I did not want to see what had killed him. But that was why I was here. I hesitated, fingers hovering over the torn cloth. I took a deep breath, and that was a mistake. Hunkered over the body in the windy August heat the smell was fresh. New death smells like an outhouse, especially if the stomach or bowels have been ripped open. I knew what I’d find when I lifted the bloody cloth. The smell told me.

  I knelt with a sleeve over my mouth and nose for a few minutes, breathing shallow and through my mouth, but it didn’t really help. Once you caught a whiff of it, your nose remembered. The smell crawled down my throat and wouldn’t let go.

  Quick or slow? Did I jerk the cloth back or pull it? Quick. I jerked on the cloth, but it stuck, dried blood catching. The cloth peeled back with a wet, sucking sound.

  It looked like someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop and gutted him. Stomach, intestines, upper bowels, gone. The sunshine swam around me, and I had to put a hand on the ground to keep from falling.

  I glanced up at the face. His hair was pale brown like his mother’s. Damp curls traced his cheeks. My gaze was pulled back to the gaping ruin that was his abdomen. There was some dark, heavy fluid leaking out of the end of his small intestine.

  I stumbled away from the crime scene, using the tombstones to help me stand. I would have run if I hadn’t known I would fall. The sky was spinning to meet the ground. I collapsed in the smothering grass and vomited.