by C. J. Parker
She took a step back toward the door when he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Her heart raced at his nearness. She’d only have to take one step and they would be touching. One step and she could brush her lips across his. But that wasn’t what was on his mind. Damn it.
His eyes narrowed, the muscles of his jaw clenched and his stance became almost threatening in nature. “If this isn’t some kind of con, then you are going to do it again.”
Her heart sunk to her toes. She didn’t know which emotion was strongest, her anger or disappointment. “This isn’t a parlor trick, Derek. Who do you want raised and why? ”
“I have six dead little girls. I need to know who’s killing them.”
Tabatha nearly vomited. Why did it have to be kids? She turned away, laying her head on top of her car. The summer’s sun heated the rooftop to the point it nearly scorched her forehead. She wondered if God Himself had turned it into a branding iron, and when she lifted her head the title Witch would be burned onto her face.
“I am a necromancer,” she whispered. The words were freeing, as most acceptance of truths were. Maybe this is why God made her the way she was. As Nyssa had told her many times, maybe this could be put to good use. The thought made her smile from within. A rush of happiness like she’d never known rushed from her toes to her hair roots.
“Let me tell Mom I’ll pick her up later. I need you to tell me what you know about the killer. How he works. How he kills the children.”
He physically jerked back a step. “You’re going to help me?”
“Of course.” She shuddered as a vivid vision of a child sitting against a rotting crypt flashed into her mind. “Did you just think about one of the girls?”
“Selma Fortier. She was the last victim. Why?”
“I saw her.” She stepped away, leaning over the curb sure she was going to vomit.
“When?” He snapped the word out with such force she felt it all the way to her soul.
She turned back to face him and closed her eyes, fighting to erase the sickening image. “When you remembered the crime scene just now, it appeared to me. I’m not sure how, but we’re connected, Derek.” She ran her hands over her face. “Did they suffer?”
He came closer, placing his hand on her shoulder. “No. The coroner said they were drugged, and then suffocated. All but the last child was bled before the body was marked.”
A heavy weight of fear pressed down on her, nearly stealing away her breath. “Something’s wrong.” The sound of a speeding car made Tabatha glance up in time to see it racing down the street before screeching to a halt just in front of them. A revolver in the passenger side window aimed at them.
Everything seemed to slow to a crawl, as though she need only to walk over and take the gun away from the attacker.
“Get down,” Derek shouted as he shoved her to the sidewalk and drew his gun from under his pant leg.
Shots rang out. Derek flung himself over Tabatha as bullets pocked then shattered the front windshield of her car. Pain shot through her shoulder as she hit the ground. Everything alternated from fast-forward to slow motion. Another slug splintered the fence behind them, spraying them with debris. The smell of gunpowder mingled with singed wood. Splinters dug their way under her skin. Then there was a moment of silence. The first thing she heard was Derek’s heart beating, felt it against her own chest. She breathed in. He smelled safe, not of blood. He’d not been hit.
He lowered his forehead against hers. “You, okay?”
She didn’t have time to answer before the car sped away, its occupants shouting a warning. “Give us what we want, or next time we won’t miss.”
Derek drew her into his arms and brushed her hair out of her face. “You okay? How did you know they were trouble? What do they want from you?”
His heat surrounded her. That was proof enough that they were alive and well. Hell, she’d let someone shoot at her again if she got this reward afterward. Well, maybe not. They’d said next time they wouldn’t miss. She didn’t doubt that. Her heart slowed its frantic pace, and the adrenaline began to drain from her bloodstream. Bile moved from her stomach, to her throat. She refused to vomit in front of Derek, and swallowed several times to send it back from where it came. Her head shuffled though the scene like a slide show.
Mary ran toward them, gasping for breath. “What the hell happened, Derek? We heard shots.”
Derek glanced at Mary then back to Tabatha. “Are Frank and Carla okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine. You?”
“We’re all right. How about you, Tabatha?”
She nodded, rubbing her face against his chest. The smell of his cologne surrounded her in a comforting familiar scent she finally put a name and face to. English Leather. Her father. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.”
Mary yanked her out of Derek’s arms and shoved her aside. It took every ounce of control she had left not to slap the woman silly. Tabatha stood, brushing dirt from her slacks.
Mary ran her hands over Derek’s chest. “Did you get hit?”
Derek’s face was a mixture of shock and rage. “Don’t ever treat her like that again.”
“She’s okay.” Mary straightened and glanced at Tabatha. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Mary’s question sounded more accusatory than concerned.
“No. I’m fine.” But if you don’t get your hands off my man, you won’t be.
Derek grasped Tabatha’s arm and led her toward a white Chevy Blazer. Tabatha swallowed hard, trying to get her heart out of her esophagus and back inside her chest. “I have to take Mom home.”
“You don’t have a windshield, woman,” Derek barked.
She groaned. “Those bastards hurt my car. It didn’t have a scratch on it.”
Derek glanced over his shoulder. “Mary, call for a tow truck. Have them take it to Bossy’s on Airline. And can you give Carla a ride home when she’s ready?”
Mary stomped her foot on the sidewalk. “Derek!”
“Yes or no. Simple question. Not hard to answer.”
“Don’t you just love a take charge man?” Tabatha smiled at Mary’s glare.
Frank leaned against the fence and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ll take her home. You two go ahead. Carla will be fine.”
“Shut the hell up, Frank.” Mary hurried to Derek’s side.
Tabatha slipped between them with a triumphed smile. What the hell was wrong with her? She should be breaking down into a full-fledged panic attack. She’d been shot at. She’d been threatened. But all she could think about was keeping Mary away from Derek.
“Think no one called this in? You can’t just run off. They’ll want to talk to both of you.”
“If they do, give me a call. But there isn’t much I can tell them. We didn’t see who it was. We didn’t get a plate number. It was an old car, primer- gray with shaded windows. I didn’t get off a shot.” He kissed Mary on the cheek. “I just want to talk to her. I’ll be back later.”
Mary nodded, her expression anything but happy.
Carla stood by the gate, hands clenched at her side, face etched with anger. Her gray eyes cold and accusing. “What have you brought down on my friends? Why did you have to come back?”
That’s all it took to crash Tabatha from her high. A tear trailed down Tabatha’s cheek. It was hell to know your own mother hates you. “I came home to make things right with you, Mom. Apparently, I’ve wasted my time.” She settled onto the passenger’s seat and turned her back to Carla.
After starting the engine, Derek pulled away from the curb, turning left on Barracks Street then right on Burgundy.
“Where are we going?” Tabatha looked around trying to figure out if he knew some shortcut.
Derek clenched his teeth and counted to ten, then twenty. “You said I should talk to Rhonda, so we’re going to talk to her.”
“Well.. uh.. you’re going the wrong way. I live on St. Charles, Garden District.” She pointed behind them. “That way.”
~
Derek slammed on the brakes and turned to face her. He felt like an idiot. He knew where the Garden District was. Then he realized he’d been driving Tabatha home. His home. “Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I’m damn sure going to find out. Before I talk to Rhonda, I want answers from you.”
“In the middle of the street?” As if the drivers behind them agreed, car horns blared. Why did this girl screw with his mind? When he was around her, he had trouble keeping his mind on the problems at hand. Ten minutes, that’s all he needed. He wanted answers, but wasn’t sure what all the questions were yet. With every answer came another question.
Derek pressed his foot on the gas pedal, turned onto Esplanade then west on Royal. “Can you raise one of the kids?”
“Did the killer take their tongues?”
Tongues? Now what kind of question was that? “Why?”
“If anything is missing from their bodies when they go into the grave, I can’t raise them with that part. I can only raise what is there.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her slump down. She came across as cool calm and collected.
“Yes, they have their tongues.”
He tried to understand how a woman could be so clinical about such a thing as raising a cadaver. She seemed almost detached from any emotion.
“How long since the last child died? Not when you found her, but time of death.”
“Last one was about a week ago. Why?” He was already tired of having to ask why.
She looked at him, her eyes red and shining with tears. Her tears evoked unwanted emotions, but he was relieved that she wasn’t so detached after all.
Tabatha wiped away a tear and dug in her jeans pocket for a tissue. “If she had been dead less than three days, I wouldn’t have to raise her, I could talk to her.”
He pulled over to the curb, gripped the steering wheel, wanting to strangle something. He stared straight ahead. Drew in a deep breath, then breathed out. “Let’s start at the beginning. You can talk to the dead without raising them, but only within three days of them dying.
But after that you can raise their bodies and talk to them.” He turned his head to look at her. “Do I have that right?”
She nodded. “A person’s soul remains with them for three days.”
When he started to speak, she placed her fingertips over his mouth. A hot flow of power rushed through his body like an electrical current, awakening every nerve. He mourned the loss when she pulled her hand away.
“I know.” She smiled, her eyes still glossy from her earlier tears. “You want to know why, right?”
He thought it best not to speak, so he nodded. He’d already learned if he kept his mouth shut, she gave straight answers to not yet asked questions. Who was the cop here, anyway?
She shrugged. “Maybe they need to know everyone will be all right.” She wiped her nose on the tissue. “Before I acquired skills to block out their voices, they would plead for my help. They’d ask me to talk to their parents, husbands, wives, and children. Some wanted them to know it was okay to go on with their lives, others wanted to say they were sorry.” She shrugged again. “I didn’t understand this curse, or whatever you want to call it. I only knew I was different.”
He wanted to put his arms around her and say it was okay, that he understood. But he didn’t. This was way beyond his comprehension. This was the realm of fairy tales and ghost stories told around campfires. He put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. “Each child was found in a local cemetery exactly three days after her death.” The traffic light turned yellow and he sped up to cross before it turned red.
“Sounds like the killer may know something about the soul leaving after three days.”
“Frank thinks the killer could be some Voodoo practitioner gone bad.” Derek glanced out the window at what used to be Old Man Petrie’s antique store. Now it was another T-shirt shop. He’d read in the newspaper that Mr. Petrie had died right after Katrina. He guessed his kids didn’t want the hassle of the business.
“Can you show me crime scene photos? Share your field notes? I’m a psychiatrist—maybe I can do a profile. Think of something no one else has.”
A necromancer psychiatrist. Now where is the symmetry in that? God’s idea of a joke? He wasn’t laughing. “I don’t think the department would allow a civilian, even a shrink, to have access to that information.”
Her gaze returned to the view outside the window. “You don’t strike me as a man who would give a flip what the department thought.”
He didn’t respond to her summation of him, and she fell silent. She was right, though. He didn’t give a “flip.” Derek retraced the crime scene of each child, trying to think of anything else to ask.
They crossed Canal Street and proceeded down St. Charles Ave. Traffic thinned, high-rise buildings and concrete walkways gave way to tree-lined streets and nineteenth-century homes. With every block, houses became more grandiloquent, changing from wood clapboarded, middle-class homes to old mansions of bygone days, and from modest gardens to professionally kept lawns.
“White three-story on the corner,” Tabatha’s comment brought him out of his observations.
He slowed then turned onto the drive, stopping midway. What appeared to be a body was lying on the porch swing. He tensed, stared at the house and pointed.
Tabatha ran her gaze over the prone body on the swing. “Probably Rhonda. She may have gotten locked out.”
Three men ran from behind the house and into a nearby car. Derek rammed the gearshift into park. “Okay, who is that?” He pointed toward the back yard. The car roared to life and sped by, nearly sideswiping them.
“Oh, God. Where’s the boy?” Tabatha dashed from the car seconds before he could react. He caught up with her as she reached the top step to the porch. “Rhonda, wake up. Where’s Shane?”
The person on the swing jumped up, slinging a bag off the swing as if to ward off an attacker. She caught it just before it waylaid Tabatha squarely in the face. “Tabatha, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Tabatha stopped on the bottom step and stared at the woman. “Bobbie? How on earth did you find me? Where’s Rhonda?”
Derek made mental notes of names being tossed about, and the reaction to this new person standing in front of them.
“I looked up your forwarding address at the hospital. Who’s Rhonda? No one answered the door when I knocked.” She glanced behind Tabatha. “Who’s that?”
Tabatha spared him a glance then ran up the remaining stairs and into the house. “Damn it, woman, let me check the house first.” Derek shook his head. “How the hell have you lived this long?”
“Rhonda!” Running footfalls thundered across the second floor and down the stairway. Rhonda met them with baseball bat in hand. Derek pulled his gun. “Drop it and hit the floor. Now!”
Tabatha’s hand grasped his wrist and pulled his hand down. “That’s Rhonda.”
“Jesus, Tab, ya’ll scared the snuff out of me. What’s wrong?” She eyed the gun still in Derek’s hand. “And why is he aiming a gun at me?
“Where’s Shane?” Tabatha’s voice was no more than a raspy whisper.
“I’m right here.”
Derek looked at the innocent face of the boy staring at them from the second floor landing.
“Can I keep it?” He hugged a Teddy Bear to his bare chest.
Rhonda wrapped her hands tightly around the neck of the bat but lowered it so it pointed toward the floor. “I’m sorry. He found it in a closet.”
“Of course you can have it, Shane. Teddy’s been looking for a new friend.” Tabatha grasped the stair railing before sinking to her knees.
“Tabatha!” Panic streaked down Derek’s spine as Bobbie and Rhonda’s concerned voices cut through him.
“I’m okay.” All color had drained from her complexion. Her hands shook as she waved them away. “I think the last of my adrenaline just ran dry.”
Derek picked Tabatha up off the stairs, carr
ied her to the living room, and sat on one of the chairs keeping her on his lap. She may have scared ten years off his life, but his senses still worked. Her hair smelled of strawberries and felt warm against his neck. She relaxed against him and sighed. Strange how that simple sound drained all the tension out of his own body. “We saw three men when we drove up. I need to check the back door.”
Rhonda ran out of the room. “I’ll do it.”
“Hold up, woman.”
Tabatha touched his arm gently. “It’s okay, Derek. The men are gone. Rhonda’s going to check on her son.”
The men were gone. Right? He’d seen them drive away. He turned his attention to the girl from the swing and tried to remember what he’d wanted to ask. God, his head hurt.
“Detective Derek Bainbridge.” He looked Bobbie over. Black, straight hair hung to her waist, accenting cinnamon-hued skin. Her lips were full with a childlike pout, the corners turned up in a perpetual smile. There was something about this girl that rubbed him wrong. Looking her in the eyes reminded him of facing down a wild animal. Her eyes darted too quickly, as if taking inventory. She wore dingy tennis shoes, tattered jeans, and a faded, washed thin, red T-shirt. “And you are?”
Tabatha raised her head from Derek’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “My friend, Bobbie.”
He laid his hand on the side of her head and retuned it to his shoulder. “And where do you know Bobbie from? I thought you just got here?”
“We worked together in New York. She came here for her brother’s funeral, right?” Tabatha smiled at Bobbie and gestured toward the last chair. “Where are you staying?”
“Motel downtown. I know some people in the Rigolets. I may stay with them until I find something else.” Bobbie rubbed her hand down her jeans and watched the doorway. “Shouldn’t Rhonda be back by now?”
“You could stay here, but someone is trying to kill Rhonda, Shane and me. Staying here might put you on their hit list, too.”
Derek’s heart raced at her calm statement. He had enough adrenaline rushing through his veins right now to keep everyone in the house awake for a week.