Water of Souls

by Eli Constant

  Terrance gives me an ‘I can only justify your presence for so long’ look and I take the hint. “Okay, something else important. I didn’t realize it until now, but when a body is embalmed, something changes about them. There’s a different aura around the spirit. And I didn’t tell you this before at the morgue, but I can sort of... taste blood? I can feel it and read it like a book. And because of that, I could taste that Maggie’s blood had been replaced before she’d died. Even though all of her blood was gone and she was just bones. I’d recognized it before, because shit, I work with the stuff every day. Embalming fluid. I think we’re missing something really key here.”

  “What’s that?” Terrance doesn’t look surprised in the slightest.

  “If they’ve been embalmed, then it’s been by someone who, like me, knows what’s needed and how it’s done.”

  “No, we’ve thought of that. We’ve talked to half a dozen funeral parlors already.”

  I should have figured they’d have thought of that. They were the police after all. “But it doesn’t have to be a funeral director, Terrance. There are other professions that use these types of fluids, that preserve bodies so that they can be displayed.”

  A light goes on in Terrance’s eyes. “Like a Taxidermist.”

  “Exactly. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think they’re formula has more arsenic in it. Not that that matters. The big thing is—they have to order it from somewhere. I use a supplier in Comer, Georgia and I’m pretty sure it’s known for serving all of the southeast states.”

  “Why don’t we just start with one of the creepiest guys in Berkley County?”

  I quirk an eyebrow, wondering who he means. “Who would that be?”

  “Mordecai Jones, owner of Louis D. Taxidermy right on the border of Williamsburg County.”

  “Timothy was from Georgetown. He disappeared on trip to a friend’s house in Carris. Where were the other victims from?”

  “Maggie disappeared during the war. You were right about that, with the clothes. It was the kind of thing people made when we couldn’t get textiles. End of the war maybe, given the fabric pattern. The Jane Doe was after that by a few years, at least according to the coroner’s notes. And we don’t know where she’s from.”

  “Right, never identified.” I sigh, thinking. Racking my brain for connections. “Do you really think he waited this many years to kill again or,” I looked out over the ice-covered lake, “or do you think there are more bodies waiting to be found.”

  “I think maybe our friend either laid low after the first two or he wasn’t in a position to kill.”

  “Like he went to jail for something or moved away?”

  “I’m thinking the first one. Guys like this, they don’t leave their work behind willingly.”

  “Has this Mordecai Jones done time?”

  “Yes, fifteen years for working the black market. It would fit with the second murder. He was released about two and a half years ago.”

  “So he fits.”

  “He fits.”

  “How do you know so much about him?”

  “I was a rookie and a rookie doesn’t forget his first arrest and he keeps tabs on him. Or at least I kept tabs on him. It’s a bit odd, but I look at him as my good luck charm. He was the easiest damn arrest, didn’t even put up a fight despite knowing what he was charged with.”

  “He doesn’t sound like a cold blooded killer, Terrance.”

  “People are walking secrets, Tori. You of all people should know that.”

  I nod, knowing he’s right.

  “Are you guys done yet, Chief? We’re all freezing our asses off!” It’s the young cop with the mouse brown eyes yelling across the lake.

  “I need a few more minutes to see if I can draw him out.” I say, moving once again past the yellow tape, this time meaning to.

  “Almost.” Terrance yells back. Groans erupt on the shore. I don’t care.

  I reach down into the ice with my power, feeling it blossoming like static electricity across my skin and making the little hairs stand on end. I try to let Timothy’s spirit know that I’m good, that I won’t hurt him. He can come out. I’ve dealt with fearful souls before, but nothing like this. The feelings piercing my heart are agonizing. He has not just been murdered, he’s been dehumanized, debased, made to feel like he wasn’t good enough the way he was.

  The killer stole him because he was anatomically a woman, because he could be made to look like his other victims. A near perfect match with his lovely face and beautiful eyes. It sickened me. It was more perverse than anything I’d ever encountered. This killer made Mr. Donahue look like a damn saint.

  Finally, like mist rising off of a lake in the dead of summer when the weather has cooled just enough overnight, he comes together in front of me, until he is kneeling with me on the ice and staring at me with an open, frightened gaze. He has long hair and makeup and he’s wearing the blue dress. His manicured hands are folding across his lap. I am seeing the persona that has been forced upon him by the killer. I had hoped that the killer did not infringe upon his identity while he was still alive, but seeing the memory of it so alive and well within his spirit, I feel that the killer made him dress like a woman before he died.

  That was so much worse in some way.

  “Hi, Timothy.” I say his name tentatively, not knowing who he will now relate to—the woman the killer has created or who he was in life.

  “Thank you for that.” His words coming before his lipstick-stained mouth actually moves, as if he does not have full command of his body. Like Maggie.

  “For what?”

  “Calling me Timothy.” The tears are there before I can take a breath to prepare myself for them. They are little untouchable drops skimming down his see-through face.

  I cannot stand seeing a soul cry. There is something so heart-wrenching about it. We should be happy in death after leading long, happy lives. This outcome is unnatural. This outcome of sadness. Yet, it is the outcome all too often.

  When the tears are spent, Timothy’s spirit shakes itself lightly and seems to slough off the stiffness, like he is dissolving the wires running through his remains until he is a real boy again. He looks himself—short cropped, almost buzzed hair, thick black glasses and a single heart earring.

  “Timothy, can you tell me anything about the person who killed you?”

  He shakes his head. “No, he wore a mask. And his hands were weird. Rubbery looking. Blue maybe?”

  “You’re sure it was a him though?”

  “Yes, I mean I think so. He was smaller than a lot of men, but he had to go to the bathroom at one point and he stood and went in a sink instead of going to a toilet.”

  I nod. “A man.”

  Terrance is standing close enough to listen. I know he can only hear my side of the conversation.

  “Is there anything else? Can you tell me how you were taken?”

  “I was getting gas on the way to Dan’s house. I’d just finished pumping and paid and a cloth was pressed over my mouth. I remember getting shoved into the back of my own car with someone beside me holding my head, but that’s about it. I don’t know how far we drove or anything.”

  I pause, thinking. “Someone beside you, but also someone driving?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I blacked out and didn’t wake up until it was getting light outside. A basement. It smelled awful.”

  “Like chemicals?”

  “I guess. I’ve not been around that stuff much, except for maybe a few experiments here and there in high school.”

  “Is there anything else, anything at all?”

  He nods, tilting his head as if he’s trying to remember something. “Wind chimes.”

  “Wind chimes.” I repeat, listening to Terrance scribbling now in his notebook.

  “There was a small window and when the sun was coming up before...” his voice trails off and then comes back again, but it is not as strong as it was. He is turning back into the weak whisper agai
nst my power, even his corporal form is wavering. “I could hear wind chimes. They must have been hung right outside the window.”

  “Thank you, Timothy. You can go now, if you’re ready.”

  “Am I ready?”

  “Only you know.” I reach out to him and he reaches out to me and our hands pass through one another as if we both do not exist at all.

  “Will you tell Darnell something for me? And my father too?”

  I didn’t ask; I just assumed that Darnell was his boyfriend. “Of course.”

  “Will you tell Darnell that I wouldn’t have gone off to Columbia, not if he didn’t want me to, and that I love him. And tell my dad I’m sorry and that I love him too, more than anything. He let me be who I am. He never made me feel less than. Not like mom.” So many tears.

  “None of this is your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for. But I will tell them. I promise.”

  Timothy smiles and it’s sweet and wide and not disjointed from wiring. And then he fades away into the ether.

  My legs are shaky as I stand, wanting to give out under me. Terrance is close enough to support me. “I have his father’s information in my office.”

  “Okay, let’s go get it and let everyone finish up here so they can go home.” He continues to hold me and help me back across the ice towards shore.

  “And Terrance?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think we need to talk to his mother too. I don’t know why, but I think it’s important that we do.” Seeing Timothy degraded, forced to become the gender that he didn’t recognize as his own, made me think of Allen’s words- that he’d divorced his wife because she refused to accept Timothy. That she’d force him to wear dresses and she’d call him Amanda.

  Mordecai Jones might be the killer, but the ex-Mrs. Barrington was just as evil and I had a powerful urge to look that bitch in the eyes.

  When we got on shore, Leslie came running to me. Before I could even speak, she wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tightly. “Oh, how awful, Victoria. How absolutely awful. My cat got out and the damn thing went racing out onto the lake and next thing I knew I was standing over a body. A body, Victoria. I’ll never look at the lake the same way again.”

  My shoulder’s getting wet from her crying on me and I pat her back awkwardly. “I’m so sorry you had to find it, Leslie. I have to go get something for Chief Goodman, but why don’t you go in the house and put on a kettle for tea. I’ll try to come sit with you if I can.”

  She nods. “Thank you so much, Tori. I could use the company.” She finally releases me and swipes apologetically at the damp space on my shirt. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Really.”

  Terrance is waiting for me at the front of the house, having given his orders to everyone else. As we walk across the street, I tell him about Leslie’s son and the very strange chain of events that could have brought a frozen fish to my freezer with a belly that contained evidence. He makes quick work of it—citing the water channel that runs between Lake Marion and Lake Moultrie.

  But still... what are the odds? That a father would be drawn to me for his son’s funeral, that the son’s body would be found in the lake that I can see from my house’s upper window, that the son’s earring would end up in the belly of my dinner?

  It has nothing to do with odds. I mean, I know that. I’m a necromancer. Death, in its many forms, will always find me.

  “This was the same killer, Terrance. Your hunch was right.”

  He nods, slowly. “The first real Bonneau serial killer.”

  “Times are changing.” We’re almost to my front door.

  “No, Tori. Times have already changed. We’re just playing catchup. The world’s never going to be like it was.”

  I don’t respond. He’s right. I can feel the way death hangs in the air, a constant and unseen curtain.

  “Come on up, I’ll get you that earring for evidence.”

  Terrance nods. “I’ve a feeling this case is going to be bad, Tori. Worse than we’ve had yet.”

  I silently agree, but I don’t say anything.

  Necromancer and cop instinct. If that isn’t something to be believed, I don’t know what is.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I want to be at the morgue when Mr. Barrington arrives to identify the body, so I leave Leslie after about an hour of sitting and drinking tea and listening to her talk about how Corey would never have let Gilly escape the house.

  About the time I get back to my apartment to grab my car keys, I realize that I don’t have a car. My Bronco is still dead in a ditch near Kyle’s house. I really need to call someone to tow it to Gunther’s shop. He’s this temperamental German who’s English is subpar, but he knows his way around an engine and he only charges parts and $20 an hour labor. I was willing to deal with a little orneriness for a low repair bill. Of course, the city might have already towed it and dumped it in the muddy lot behind the gas station that sells ‘guaranteed to give you food poisoning’ sushi.

  “Shit.” Sifting through my purse, I look for cash and of course I have none. With the option of a cab out—we aren’t fancy enough in Bonneau to have card readers in our taxis—I call Terrance. When he doesn’t answer, I call Kyle at the bar. When Kyle doesn’t answer, I close my eyes whilst simultaneously opening my mind, take a deep breath, and I call Liam.

  Are you there? I know I don’t have to close my eyes to reach out to him, but it feels weird to keep them open—looking out into my empty apartment.

  Always. Liam’s voice, like honey drizzling thickly into hot tea, fills my head.

  I jump a little, not expecting such a quick response. Where are you?

  On your roof. By the sound of his voice, I know he’s smiling. He’s happy I’ve turned to him; he’s convincing himself that it means more than it does. I just need a ride, dammit.

  I hear a little thump and the squeak of my bedroom window opening. He really was on the roof.

  “Seriously, you were on the roof?”

  “Yes, I wanted to see what was going on and since you banished me from your head, this was the only way.” He seems annoyed when he says ‘banished’- like I don’t have a right to privacy in my own mind.

  “You could have just walked across the street.”

  He’s in his human form; everyone would have thought he was just a looky-loo morbidly interested in what was going on. “A total stranger in a small town just randomly showing up at a murder scene? That wouldn’t have looked suspicious at all.”

  “Whatever.” I try to sound haughty. I don’t want to lead Liam on. I really don’t. “Do you have a car?”

  “I do not.” He quirks an eyebrow, looking puzzled.

  “Shit, I really need to get somewhere and my Bronco is frozen over on the side of the road.” I cross my arms, doing the mental math on how long it would take me to walk to the morgue. Yeah, that’s not going to happen. Liam is still looking at me; his expression now looks like he thinks I might be pulling his leg. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Could you not use the black vehicle in the garage?” He cocks a thumb behind him, indicating the window and the freestanding garage that can be half seen through it from where we stand.

  I resist slapping my forehead. “Dammit, I’m an idiot.” The keys to the black sedan are downstairs in my office. The tank should even be half full from the last graveside service. I turn away from Liam and go to leave.

  “Is that all you needed?” His voice sounds hurt, which of course makes me feel guilty for calling him for help when I actually didn’t need help. My guilt leads me to turn around and I force a smile that I hope is appreciative.

  “Yes, sorry. I feel so stupid for not thinking about the work vehicle. I rarely use it for personal errands so it didn’t occur to me.”

  “That’s fine. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  I shrug and shuffle my feet, sort of kicking the toe of the left against the ground gently. “Not really.”

 
; “Company then?”

  Not wanting to miss Mr. Barrington’s arrival at the morgue, I nod. “Sure, that’d be great. You’ll need to stay in the car when we get there though”

  Liam nods ‘okay’ and the smile he gives me could make even the sun feel hot. Shit. I don’t want to lead him on, but he’s not making this very easy. My forced smile transitions to a sincere one. Shit, this is not good. But I don’t have time to keep thinking about Liam’s attraction to me... or my attraction to him.

  We don’t make it in time. Dammit, we don’t make it in time. I know it as soon as I close the driver’s side door, leaving it running for Liam. I know it as soon as I push through the front door of the morgue.

  I can feel the sadness, like a little death, brushing against my skin. It is waves of black water in my chest, drowning my heart.

  Mr. Barrington is already at the morgue; he’s already standing over his son’s thawed body. He’s sobbing, his body shaking like his world has become an uninterrupted string of earthquakes. A beautiful young man with rich, dark skin and an average, muscular frame is embracing the grieving father. He too, is crying. Where the tears are sliding down his face, his skin turns black as night. He must be Darnell, the boyfriend that Timothy loved. The boyfriend that Timothy would have rejected entrance into Columbia to be with.

  There’s nothing I can say right now to quell the grief. The tears will quiet at some point; the heartbreak will stay forever.

  Terrance is standing with his arms across his broad chest. He’s as far away from the two embracing men as possible. He is next to Doug the coroner—who seems to be fighting a yawn. I find that outrageous, to be tired in the presence of such absolute emotional devastation.

  I want to walk over to them and tell them Timothy’s words, but it is not the right time.

  “You have to take this stuff off of him.” Mr. Barrington is mumbling through his tears. The same sentence over and over again. The coroner hasn’t done the autopsy yet. Timothy is still wearing the woman’s clothing. I realize that’s because the body is still frozen solid. The surrounding ice has been chipped away or slowly melted with a careful hand, but the body is still frozen.