4 Blood Pact

by Tanya Huff

  Vicki closed her teeth on her reply.

  “The service is due to start momentarily,” he said as he released the latch and began to raise the upper half of the lid, “so I’m afraid you’ll have to . . . have to . . .”

  Her fingers dug deep into satin cushioning as Vicki’s hands closed over the padded edge of the coffin. In the center of the quilted pillow lay the upper end of a large sandbag. A quick glance toward the foot of the casket determined that a second sandbag made up the rest of the necessary weight.

  She straightened and in a voice that ripped civilization off the words asked, “What have you done with my mother?”

  Four

  “This would probably go a lot easier if you’d get Ms. Nelson to go home.” Detective Fergusson of the Kingston Police lowered his voice a little further. “It’s not like we don’t appreciate your input, Sergeant, but Ms. Nelson, she hasn’t been a cop for a couple of years. She really shouldn’t be here. Besides, you know, she’s a woman. They get emotional at times like these.”

  “Get a lot of body snatching, do you?” Celluci asked dryly.

  “No!” The detective’s indignant gaze jerked up to meet Celluci’s. “Never had one before. Ever.”

  “Ah. Then which times like these were you referring to?”

  “Well, you know. Her mother dying. The body being lifted. This whole funeral home thing. I hate ’em. Too damn quiet. Anyway, this’ll probably turn out to be some stupid prank by some of those university medical school geeks. I could tell you stories about that lot. The last thing we need scrambling things up is a hysterical woman—and she certainly has a right to be hysterical under the circumstances, don’t get me wrong.”

  “Does Ms. Nelson look hysterical to you, Detective?”

  Fergusson swept a heavy hand back over his thinning hair and glanced across the room where his partner had just finished taking statements. A few months before, he’d been given the opportunity to handle one of the new high-tech assault rifles recently issued to the special weapons and tactics boys. Ex-Detective Nelson reminded him a whole lot of that rifle. “Well, no. Not precisely hysterical.”

  While he wasn’t exactly warming to the man, Celluci wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. “Look at it this way. She was one of the best police officers I ever served with—probably ever will serve with. If she stays, think of her as an added resource you can tap into and recognize that because of her background she will in no way disrupt your handling of the case. If she goes,” he clapped the older man lightly on the shoulder, “you’re telling her. Because I’m not.”

  “Like that, eh?”

  “Like that. It’d be convenient that you’re already in a funeral home. Trust me. Things will probably go a lot easier if she stays.”

  Fergusson sighed, then shrugged. “I guess she’ll feel better if she thinks she’s doing something. But if she goes off, you get her out of here.”

  “Believe me, she is my first concern.” Watching Vicki cross the chapel toward him, Celluci was struck by how completely under control she appeared. Every muscle moved with a rigid precision, and the intensity of suppressed emotion that moved with her made her frighteningly remote. He recognized the expression; she’d worn it in the past when a case touched her deeply, when the body became more than just another statistic, when it became personal. Superiors and psychologists warned cops about that kind of involvement, afraid it would lead to burnout or vigilantism, but everyone fell victim to it sooner or later. It was the feeling that kept an investigation going long after logic said give it up, the feeling that fueled the long and seemingly pointless hours of drudge work that actually led to charges being laid. When “Victory” Nelson wore that expression, people got out of her way.

  At this point, under these circumstances, it was the last expression Celluci wanted to see. Grief, anger, even hysterics—“. . . and she certainly has a right to be hysterical under the circumstances—” would be preferable to the way she’d closed in on herself. This wasn’t, couldn’t be, just another case.

  “Hey.” He reached out and touched her arm. The muscles under the sleeve of her navy blue suit jacket felt like stone. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Yeah. Right. It was, however, the expected response.

  “Now then.” The elder Mr. Hutchinson sat forward, placing his forearms precisely on the charcoal gray blotter that protected his desk and linking his fingers. “I assure you all that you will have our complete cooperation in clearing up this unfortunate affair. Never in all the years that Hutchinson’s Funeral Parlour has served the needs of the people of Kingston has such a horrible thing occurred. Ms. Nelson, please believe you have our complete sympathy and that we will do everything in our power to rectify this situation.”

  Vicki limited herself to a single tight nod of acknowledgment, well aware that if she opened her mouth she wouldn’t be able to close it again. She wanted to rip this case away from the Kingston police, to ask the questions, to build out of all the minute details the identity of the scum who dared to violate her mother’s body. And once identified . . .

  She knew Celluci was watching her, knew he feared she’d start demanding answers, running roughshod over the local forces. She had no intention of doing anything so blatantly stupid. Two years without a badge had taught her the value of subtlety. Working with Henry had taught her that justice was often easier to find outside the law.

  “All right, Mr. Hutchinson.” Detective Fergusson checked his notes and shifted his bulk into a more comfortable position in the chair. “We already spoke to your driver and to your nephew, the other Mr. Hutchinson, so let’s just take it from when the body arrived.”

  “Ms. Nelson, you’ll likely find this distressing . . .”

  “Ms. Nelson spent four years as a homicide detective in Toronto, Mr. Hutchinson.” Although he might have his own doubts about her being there, Fergusson wasn’t about to have an outsider pass judgment on an ex-member of the club. “If you say something that distresses her, she’ll deal with it. Now then, the body arrived . . .”

  “Yes, well, after she arrived, the deceased was taken down to our preparation room. Although there was to be no viewing, her arrangement with us made it quite clear that she was to be embalmed.”

  “Isn’t that unusual? Embalming without viewing?”

  Mr. Hutchinson smiled, the deep wrinkles across his face falling into gentle brackets. “No, not really. A number of people decide that while they don’t wish to be stared at after death, neither do they wish to, well, not look their best. And many realize, as happened in this instance, that friends and relatives will want one last look regardless.”

  “I see. So the body was embalmed?”

  “Yes, my nephew took care of most of that. He did the disinfecting, massaged the tissue to bring pooled blood out of the extremities, set the features, drained the body and injected the embalming fluid, perforated the internal organs with the trocar . . .”

  Fergusson cleared his throat. “There’s, uh, no need to be quite so detailed.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.” The elder Mr. Hutchinson flushed slightly. “I thought you wanted to hear everything.”

  “Yes. But . . .”

  “Mr. Hutchinson.” Vicki leaned forward. “That last word you used, trocar, what is it?”

  “Well, Ms. Nelson, it’s a long steel tube, hollow, you know, and quite pointed, very sharp. We use it to draw out the body fluids and inject a very, very astringent preserving fluid into the cavity.”

  “Your nephew didn’t mention it.”

  “Well,” the old man smiled self-consciously, “he was probably being a little more concise. I tend to ramble on a bit if I’m not discouraged.”

  “He said,” she caught his gaze with hers and held it, “that he’d just placed the incision sealant into the jugular vein when he was called upstairs.”

  Mr. Hutchinson shook his head. “No. That’s not possible. When I came down to finish—as the young woman in the office was most
insistent she speak with David—the trocar button had already been placed in the abdomen, sealing off the entry wound.”

  The silent sound of conclusions being drawn filled the small office.

  “I think,” Detective Fergusson said slowly, “we’d better speak with David again.”

  David Hutchinson repeated what he’d said previously.

  The elder Mr. Hutchinson looked confused. “But if you didn’t aspirate the body cavity, and I certainly didn’t, who did?”

  The younger Mr. Hutchinson spread his hands. “Chen?”

  “Nonsense. He’s only here on observation. He wouldn’t know how.”

  “That would be Tom Chen?”

  Both of the Mr. Hutchinsons nodded.

  “Before you’re accepted into a program to become a funeral director,” the younger explained, “you have to spend four weeks observing at a funeral home. This isn’t a job everyone can do. Anyway, Tom has been with us for the last two and a half weeks. He was in the room while I prepared the body. He helped a little. Asked a couple of questions . . .”

  “And was in the room when I came down to finish. He certainly seemed to indicate that you’d done the aspirating, David.”

  “Well, I hadn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” The word cracked the quiet reserve both men had been trained to wear and they turned identical expressions of distress on the police office sitting across the desk.

  “And Tom Chen is where?”

  “Unfortunately, not here. He did work through the weekend,” the elder Mr. Hutchinson explained, regaining control. “So when he asked for the day off, I saw no harm in giving it to him.”

  “Hmmm. Jamie . . .”

  Fergusson’s partner nodded and quietly left the room.

  “Where is he going?”

  “He’s going to see if we can have a talk with Mr. Chen. But for now,” Fergusson leaned back and tapped lightly on his notebook with his pen, “let’s just forget who did the aspirating, eh? Tell me what happened next.”

  “Well, that was about it. We dressed the body, applied light cosmetics, just in case, placed the body in the casket and, well, left it there. Overnight. This morning, we brought the casket upstairs to the chapel.”

  “Without checking the contents?”

  “Nothing’s ever happened to the contents before,” the younger Mr. Hutchinson declared defensively.

  “It must’ve happened during the night.” The elder Mr. Hutchinson shook a weary head. “After the casket comes upstairs, there’s no possible way anyone could remove the body without being seen.”

  “No sign of a forced entry,” Fergusson mused aloud. “Who has keys?”

  “Well, we do, of course. And Christy Aloman, who does all our paperwork and has been with the company for years. And, of course, there’s a spare set here, in my drawer. That’s strange.” He opened a second drawer and a third. “Oh, here they are.”

  “Not where you usually keep them?”

  “No. You don’t think that someone took them and made copies, do you, Detective?”

  Detective Fergusson glanced back over his shoulder at the comer where Vicki and Celluci sat and lifted an eloquent brow. Then he sighed. “I try not to think, Mr. Hutchinson. It’s usually too depressing.”

  “All right.” Celluci turned onto Division Street, one hand palming the wheel, the other grabbing air for emphasis. “Why would Tom Chen steal the body?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Vicki snarled. “When we find him, I’ll ask him.”

  “You don’t know he had anything to do with it.”

  “No? We’re talking fake address and total disappearance the morning after the crime—that sure as shit sounds incriminating to me.”

  “Granted.”

  “Not to mention the did-we-or-didn’t-we shuffle that went on in the embalming room. That girl who insisted on talking to the younger Mr. Hutchinson was probably a planned distraction.”

  “Detective Fergusson and his partner are looking into it.”

  Vicki turned to face him as they pulled into the parking lot at the apartment building. “So?”

  “So let them do their job, Vicki.” Celluci parked and reached over the back of the seat for the bag of take-out chicken. “Fergusson’s promised to keep you completely informed.”

  “Good.” She got out of the car and strode toward the building, the heels of her pumps making emphatic statements in the gravel. “It’ll make my job easier.”

  “And your job is?” He had to ask. He didn’t need to, but he had to.

  “Finding Tom Chen.”

  Celluci took three long strides to catch up and then one more to cut in front and pull open the door to the apartment building. “Vicki, you do realize that Tom Chen—the name, the person, the body snatcher—is probably as fake as his address. How the hell are you going to find him?”

  “When I find him . . .” Her voice made the finding a fact not a possibility, and Celluci strongly suspected she hadn’t heard a word he’d said. “. . . I find my mother’s body.”

  “Of all the lousy luck.”

  Catherine frowned as she unbuckled number nine’s restraints and stepped back so he could climb out of his box. “I suppose it is unfortunate,” she said doubtfully, “but it doesn’t actually have anything to do with us.”

  “Yeah, right.” Donald snorted. “Earth to Cathy: try to remember that we’re the ones who walked off with the body they’re looking for. Try to remember that body snatching is a crime.” His voice rose. “Try to remember that you’ll get bugger all amount of research done if they throw your ass in jail!” He jumped back as number nine suddenly lurched toward him. “Hey! Back off!”

  “Stop shouting! He doesn’t like it.” Catherine reached for an undead arm. It took another two steps for the pressure of her fingers to register, but when it did, number nine obediently stopped. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

  “It is not okay!” Donald threw both hands up into the air and whirled to face Dr. Burke. “Tell her, Doctor. Tell her it’s not okay!”

  Dr. Burke looked up from the alpha wave pattern undulating across the monitor. “Donald,” she sighed, “I think you’re overreacting.”

  His eyes bulged. “Overreacting! Try to remember that I’m the one they can identify!”

  “No, you’re not.” While not exactly soothing, Dr. Burke’s tone was so matter-of-fact that it had the same effect. “They can identify Tom Chen, not Donald Li. But as Tom Chen doesn’t exist and there’s nothing to tie him to Donald Li, I think we can assume you’re safe.”

  “But they know what I look like.” His protest had died to a near whine.

  “Yes, the others at the funeral home could pick you out of a lineup, but you have my personal guarantee it will never go that far. What kind of a description can they give the police? A young Oriental male, about five-six; short dark hair; dark eyes; clean-shaven . . .” Dr. Burke sighed again. “Donald, there are hundreds of students just at this university that fit that description, let alone those in the rest of the city.”

  Donald glowered. “You saying we all look alike?”

  “Just as alike as young Occidental males about five-eight; short brown hair; light eyes; clean-shaven, of which there are also hundreds at this university. I’m saying the police will never find you.” She bent over the electrocardiograph. “Just stay close for a few days and everything will be fine.”

  “Stay close. Right.” He paced the length of the room and back, unwrapping a miniature chocolate bar he’d taken from his jacket pocket. “I was a grade A idiot to let you talk me into this. I knew this was going to be trouble, right from the start.”

  “You knew,” Dr. Burke corrected, straightening, “this was going to make us all a great deal of money, right from the start. That the applications for the work we’re doing are infinite and the implications are staggering. That we might be talking Nobel Prize . . .”

  “They don’t give the No
bel Prize to body snatchers,” Donald pointed out.

  Dr. Burke smiled. “They do when they’ve conquered death,” she said. “Do you know what people would be willing to do for the information we’re discovering?”

  “Well, I know what I’ve done for it.” Donald watched as across the lab Catherine guided number nine to a chair. Mere weeks ago, the ex-vagrant had been lying unclaimed on a slab. And now, if death hasn’t been reversed, well, it’s certainly been given a kick in the teeth. “Look, why wait any longer? With the tricks we’ve got Cathy’s bacteria to do already, not to mention old number nine’s apparent brain-computer interface, we could easily cop the prize now.”

  “We’ve been through this, Donald. If we publish before we finish, we’ll never be permitted to finish.”

  “Government,” Catherine interjected, “has no business regulating science.”

  Donald looked from the doctor’s stem features to his fellow grad student’s obstinate stare. “Hey! I’m on your side, remember? I want my share of the profits not to mention a shot at a Nobel Prize. I just don’t want my butt getting tossed behind bars where some lowlife built like a gorilla will no doubt bend me over and ram . . .”

  “You’ve made your point, Donald, but I honestly doubt that the police are going to put that much effort into finding young Mr. Chen. All too soon, there’ll be indignities performed on living bodies that will need their attention.”

  “Yeah? Well what about that Vicki Nelson, the daughter? I hear she’s hot shit.”

  Dr. Burke’s brows drew down. “While I find this sudden affection of yours for scatological references distasteful, you have a point. Not only was Ms. Nelson previously a police detective, but she’s now a private investigator, and not, by all reports, the sort of person to give up easily. Luckily, there’s exactly the same lack of information for her as there is for the police and while it might take her longer to grow discouraged, she still won’t find anything because we’ve been very careful to leave nothing for her to find. Haven’t we?”