Unearthed, p.10
Unearthed, page 10
part #4 of Southern Watch Series
Erin had been the key. But Erin was also the problem. She’d opened the door for Lauren—however unwillingly—and now she was trying to leave the room and close it behind her. If Lauren could just find Arch Stan and his friends …
Add that to a list of things she’d never thought she’d say. Arch Stan was not one of her favorite people, after all.
A commercial came on, the volume of the TV blared at her, and Lauren stumbled out of her thoughts, jarred by the change in sound. Molly cast her a furtive look from where she sat alone on the couch, Lauren on the loveseat against the wall to her right. Lauren met her gaze and Molly gave her a look, suggesting she sit on the couch. Lauren felt her brow furl, then shrugged and moved, sat next to her daughter, and sank into the grey, overstuffed corduroy sofa.
“How’s it going?” Molly asked, leaning against the back of the couch.
“Fine,” Lauren said, matching her daughter’s posture. “How’s school?”
“If I say ‘fine,’ will you assume I’m traumatized and that it can’t possibly be the right answer?” Molly smiled as she asked. “It’s pretty much fine, really it is. Same old, same old. I’m not having flashbacks or anything.”
“That’s good,” Lauren said. She hadn’t done much with psychology beyond her psych rotation, but it was more than most people had, right? “Should I ask if you want to go to counseling again?”
“Still no,” Molly said, glancing back at the TV. Commercials flashed by in a flurry of images. “I really am fine. Something about watching your mother stab your attacker with a sword and then watching him disappear into a flash of … I don’t even know how to describe it. Like a black hole effect? Like something out of a sci-fi movie? But less CGI-ish. Anyway, seeing it was … kinda reassuring. I’m sleeping like a baby.” She puckered her lips. “Like I’m still your baby. So I guess I’m regressing? And I’m okay with it for a little while.”
Lauren tried to figure out what to say to that. “If it means no more sneaking out at night or trying to go around my back to go places I don’t approve of, I’ll take it for the silver lining that it is, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Molly said, straight-faced, “you don’t want to look this gift horse in the mouth. The tonsils are probably infected. Do horses have tonsils?”
“I didn’t do a vet rotation, so I don’t know.”
“It’s so nice that everyone’s in a conversation now but me,” Vera said from her place in the chair beyond the loveseat. “I feel so included in this family.”
Molly ignored her grandmother and looked at her mom, keeping her voice down. “How’s everything going for you? You know, with the …” She made a kind of stabbing motion that didn’t look much like stabbing.
“Please don’t make that gesture with your hand again, ever,” Lauren said, averting her eyes.
“What are you doing?” Vera cried. “Don’t you be profane in my house!”
“Sorry,” Molly said, suddenly red. “God, I didn’t even think of it like—you’re both sick in the head,” she said, raising her voice, “that your minds immediately went there.”
“Honey, the Reverend Winchester’s mind would have gone there, seeing that,” Vera said.
“And not just because he’s a dirty old man,” Lauren muttered.
“How’s your demon research project going?” Molly said under her breath, looking a little nonplussed.
“You’re doing a research project?” Vera said, trying to make herself heard.
Lauren looked back at her mother pityingly. “Trying to keep busy, you know.”
“Well, raising a daughter and keeping down a demanding job, I can see how you lack for challenge.” Pure sarcasm.
“Not going so well,” Lauren said, turning back to Molly. “Kinda hit a dead end.”
“Really?” Molly asked. “Because it feels like you should have a lot to work with.”
Lauren frowned. “The sheriff’s suspects—the people most likely to know what the hell is going on—have disappeared and no one can find them. How do I have a lot to work with?”
Molly shrugged. “I guess I just figured since the sheriff had been calling you in on so many of these deaths, you’d have seen enough to … I dunno, make notes or something? Since you know they’re … y’know,” she glanced at Vera, who was watching them over the glasses perched at the end of her nose, knitting needles still, “what they are, and he has no clue about them. Feels like you’d have the advantage if you were to help in the investigation.”
Lauren felt herself blink, staring straight at Molly. “You’re kind of a genius, child of mine.”
“It’s from my father’s side,” Molly said smugly then turned back to the TV as the commercial break came to an end. Lauren watched the TV for a few seconds and then reached for her cell phone, found the number for Sheriff Reeve, and pushed the talk button. She waited with her breath held until he answered on the second ring.
*
“What the hell happened up there?” Bill asked as Hendricks made it back to the woods. He still had his sword in hand, not willing to sheath it, casting furious looks at Duncan every few seconds.
“Did you hear?” Arch asked from behind him.
“Some,” Alison said. “Sounded like some saucy broad was trying to convince Hendricks to give her some tongue.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t insulting at all,” Hendricks said, feeling his face blush. “But you know what was worse?” Branches slapped against the arms of his coat as he kept walking. “Having our boy Duncan—at least I thought he was on our side—tell me I can’t kill a demon, like they’re some kind of endangered species.” He whirled back, looking at the group arrayed around the edge of the woods, moon hanging low overhead. “What particular variety of eagle is she, Duncan?”
Duncan didn’t answer at first, face hidden in shadow. “The kind that could pluck out your eyes and make you her slave for a while, kid.”
“Really?” Hendricks asked, all afire. “Then why didn’t she?”
“She doesn’t want trouble with the Office of Occultic Concordance, presumably,” Duncan said. “She may be a protected class, but she’s not invincible or untouchable. She’s given a little more benefit of the doubt than the thin-shells you were dealing with coming out the door, though. She can request a trial before execution, by virtue of her rank.”
“Demon society is starting to sound like a real regal state,” Arch said, arms folded over his broad chest. “Sounds like y’all got an aristocracy problem.”
“Yes, we have an aristocracy problem,” Duncan said quickly. “We have a hierarchical system wherein certain individuals have more power or leeway than others simply by virtue of their title or birthright. Sound familiar?”
“Man, whatever,” Hendricks said, “this is a democracy, okay?”
“It’s a republic,” Duncan said, “but that’s beside the point. How close did it come to your last four presidents having the same two last names?”
“Well, that’s a stinging rebuke of our system if ever I’ve heard one,” Bill said, “but utterly beside the point at hand. There was a demon in there that you say is protected. ‘Protected how?’ would be my question.”
“You can’t kill her,” Duncan said. “I can’t kill her.”
“Oh, you’d be amazed at what I can kill if I stick the pointy end of this in someone with a gushy brimstone center,” Hendricks said, waving the sword around. He watched the OOC’s eyes, looking for a hint of something. Katlin Elizabeth. And a duchess, no less, a real titled demon. God, could it even be possible?
“She’s stronger than you,” Duncan said, “faster than you. Nastier than you by the length of the equator. Also, that thing where she threatened to make you lick her—down there?” He gestured. “Not an idle threat.”
“How restrictive are your rules about her, that you’ve never been able to try her?” Bill asked, still looking shrewdly at this whole thing. Hendricks just wanted to pop her and twelve others like her to soothe his nerves. It had to be her, didn’t it? That name …
“We have zero evidence,” Duncan said, “only rumors. If we had evidence, we might very well be able to pin her. That’s also a literal thing—when a demon goes on trial, they are pinned with heavy metal staves into—”
“This bitch sounds like she might enjoy that,” Hendricks said. “You said she’s got different standards, though?” He imagined thrusting his sword into her smug, smiling face just below the eyeball, and it was good. “How so?”
“The usual stuff applies, sort of,” Duncan said. “But catching her at a party like this where we can’t prove she was doing anything? Good luck. Her lawyers would eat us alive.”
“I sure hope that’s not literal,” Arch said.
“It’s very literal,” Duncan said. “The demon world may not have invented lawyers, but we sure as hell corrupted the human ones enough that I could tell you every one of them was a demon and you’d believe me.”
“Are they?” Alison asked. “Because that would explain a lot.”
“Less than two percent, according to the last census,” Duncan said. “I am … with you, on wanting to drive a shiny piece of consecrated metal through Katlin Elizabeth’s midsection—”
“I’d aim for that fucking smug face, personally,” Hendricks said.
“—but if I screw this up,” Duncan said, “I get a one way trip back to the same pits as Lerner, with a sentence one hundred times nastier than he’s been saddled with just for failing. We’re talking the essence equivalent of that old myth with the guy who got his internal organs eaten every day and then regrown.”
There was a moment’s silence. Hendricks didn’t want to stab Duncan anymore, but he sure wouldn’t have minded punching him one good. “Let me boil this down and leave off the idle threats—how do we turn her into vapor?”
Duncan blew air out through his lips, but he did it weird—again. “She’s been walking the earth for a long time and doing pretty evil things all that while. She’s probably killed thousands. Maybe more. Maybe hundreds of thousands.”
“Jesus,” Bill said, whispering. “Goddamn.”
“She’s crafty, though,” Duncan said. “She knows the letter of the law, knows how far she can push, knows how to hide evidence and dispose of things when she’s done. Which is why she’s still walking around free as a bird. How do you get her?” Duncan threw his hands up. “I dunno. If you figure it out, though, you’re doing better than about twelve generations of OOCs, because it’s not like we don’t go after her. We just can’t seem to lay a glove on her.” He looked at each of them in turn, making Hendricks feel a little sick and for more than one reason. “And if you try, even if I don’t have to turn on you, you’re still gonna get your face rammed right into her crotch, because she’s like nothing you’ve ever dealt with before.”
*
Reeve had been surprised when Lauren Darlington had called him. Surprised, but pleased, because Fries’s pleas to the Chattanooga CSI people were falling on ears that were stone deaf. When she’d suggested she’d be willing to help again, like she had—albeit not greatly—a few weeks ago, Reeve had just about crapped himself with glee. She might not have been a full-blown medical examiner, but she could do enough that he’d be able to pack poor Reyes into a body bag and get him off the side of the road. That was the least the man deserved.
She came rolling up the road a few minutes later, parking behind Erin’s crooked Honda, wearing a tank top under a light flannel and a pair of jeans. She had her dark hair back in a ponytail, and she exhibited none of the barely-controlled irritation that she’d let bleed out all over him the last few times he’d asked her to come to a crime scene. It was a pleasant change of pace; he figured they’d gone full adversarial after the Summer Lights Festival, and while it didn’t rate high on his scale of shit to worry about, he didn’t need anything more on that list.
“Thank you for coming, Doctor,” Reeve said, going out to the car to greet her. He ignored Erin, splayed out in her back seat and snoring through a cracked window, and hoped the doctor would, too.
“Not a problem,” Dr. Darlington said tensely. She still had defensive body language, arms in front of her, ill at ease. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s tough to lose people,” Reeve said, leading the way back to where Reyes was covered by a sheet, “especially when we’re in the pickle we’re in right now.”
“I can only imagine,” Dr. Darlington said, her voice thick with irony that he didn’t understand. Maybe it was just sympathy and she was expressing it wrong. He got the feeling she did that.
Reeve stood and watched her peer down at Reyes’s body for a short spell, then a thought occurred to him. “What made you decide to give me a call?” She glanced back at him, a flash of surprise. “Not that I’m not grateful for the help; Reyes was gonna be out here all night otherwise.”
She kept her head down. “Town’s in a crisis. Guess I figured maybe I could do some good, help out.”
“It ain’t just the town,” Reeve said. “It’s pretty hard to fathom what’s going on here.”
She paused for a second. “What do you think is going on here?”
Reeve sighed, let his mouth sputter. “Been asking myself that a lot. I like to think of myself as an educated man when it comes to my job. It’s a point of professional pride for me; I keep up with what happens in the big cities and small towns and everything in between. Latest drugs, newest scams. I mean, I try and keep an eye on it all. So, when people start dying in numbers that make a major metro look like Sunday picnic at the park, I start asking myself—serial killer? Mass hysteria? Organized crime? And I start applying all the things I’ve seen and read about to the puzzle.” He scratched his scalp. “You know what the problem is with that?”
She looked up at him. “What?”
“This don’t fit a damned thing I’ve ever read about,” Reeve said. “It doesn’t fit anything I’ve even heard whispered about, because you know we cops have our little gossip circles too. So I’m left without an explanation. Nothing makes sense.”
She was still for a little while, down on one knee, staring at the corpse of his deputy. “So, maybe it’s something that doesn’t make sense.”
“That seems to be an obvious diagnosis, Doctor,” he said with a little laugh. With her, it felt different than when Pike had asked. He didn’t feel like he had to wait for the other shoe to drop.
“I don’t think you’re understanding me,” she said.
“I don’t think I understand much of anything nowadays. What were you thinking?”
“In med school we got hit with that old adage, ‘When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.’ Over and over, actually,” she said frowning. “I think the professor who said it must have gotten a percentage every time the phrase was uttered, as often as he spouted it. But it was his way of reminding us that when someone came in presenting with whatever symptoms, it was probably something mundane rather than exotic. But the problem with that thinking is, if you’re always thinking horses, you might miss a zebra when it comes parading by.”
“Seems like the stripes would be a giveaway.”
“It’s an imperfect metaphor,” she said. “My point is … maybe you’re dealing with something exotic here. Something new. Something no one’s ever seen before.” She shrugged and turned back to the body. “Or something really old that no one recognizes for what it is.”
“Murder’s a pretty old crime,” Reeve said, brow furrowed. “Pretty much the oldest, in fact. I think we recognize it for what it is.”
“Yeah, but Cain killed one person. Not a hundred.”
“It ain’t a hundred yet,” Reeve said, feeling the bristling subside after a moment. “Though it is heading in that direction.” He remained silent for a piece, letting his shame pass. “Any thoughts on this one, Doc?”
“I think you know how he died,” Dr. Darlington said, rising back to her feet. “Maybe the medical examiner can give you more specifics, but my ruling would be that his throat was crushed to the size of a churro.”
“That’s an inelegant description.”
“Factual, though,” she said. “Maybe he died of his spinal cord being crushed, maybe he died from his airway being collapsed, but either way, trauma to the neck was the culprit. Someone strong wrapped a hand or two around his throat and squeezed ’til he died. It happened fast, I’d guess, because he doesn’t really show much sign of having dug fingernails into their eyes, and it doesn’t look like he managed to get his gun out.”
“He might have panicked,” Reeve said. “Might have forgotten he carried a weapon. I don’t think Reyes ever fired a shot on duty.”
“Maybe,” she said, impassive. She had to be tired; it was certainly getting late enough. “I didn’t know him that well. The point is he was overwhelmed, I think.”
“Someone bigger and stronger than him,” Reeve said. “Maybe knocked his hands away from the gun if he went for it?”
“Not a bad guess,” she said. “Though I’m hardly an expert.”
“Well, I appreciate your help anyway.” He sighed. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“No problem,” she said, and turned to leave. “One other thing …”
“Hm?”
She turned back to look at him. “Whoever did this … may not necessarily be bigger than him.”
Reeve felt a rough sense of amusement ripple through him. “You said they were stronger.”
“Doesn’t mean they were bigger,” Dr. Darlington said.
He chuckled. “Are you suggesting that a little person choked him out?”
“No,” she said, and looked like she wanted to say more, “just mentioning that size doesn’t always equal power.”
“This guy crushed his neck,” Reeve said, employing as patient a tone as he could muster under the circumstances. “This ain’t no wilting violet, okay? This kind of raw power doesn’t come on a tiny frame. The type of hand strength required for this kind of feat is enormous.”
