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heels on the uneven ground. Beau nodded at me and followed. I guess they'd all come in the same car.
Or maybe Beau was Stirling's driver. What a joyous job that must be.
"We'll fly you to the hotel where we booked your rooms. You can unpack, and I'll have a car brought
around for you," Bayard said.
"No unpacking, just a car. Murder scenes age fast," I said.
He nodded. "As you like. If you'll get back into the helicopter, we'll be off."
It wasn't until I was taking off the coveralls and repacking both of them that I realized I could have gone
with Mr. Stirling. I could have driven out of here, instead of flying. Shit.
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6
Bayard had gotten us a black Jeep with black-tinted windows and more bells and whistles than I could
even guess at. I'd been worried they'd saddle me with a Cadillac or something equally ridiculous. Bayard
had given me the keys with the comment, "Some of these roads are not even paved. I thought you might
need something more substantial than just a car."
I resisted the urge to pat him on the head and say "Good flunkie." Hell, he'd made a great choice.
Maybe he'd make full partner someday after all.
The trees made long, thin shadows across the road. In the valleys between mountains, the sunlight had
softened to a late-afternoon haze. We might make it back to the graveyard by full dark.
Yes, we. Larry sat beside me in his wrinkled blue suit. The cops wouldn't mind his cheap suit. My outfit,
on the other hand, might raise a few eyebrows. There aren't many female cops out in the boonies. And
fewer who wear short red skirts. I was beginning to really regret my choice of clothes. Insecure: who,
me?
Larry's face was shiny with excitement. His eyes sparkled like a kid's on Christmas Day. He was
drumming his fingers on the armrest. Nervous tension.
"How you doing?"
"I've never been to a murder scene before," he said.
"There's always a first time."
"Thanks for letting me come along."
"Just remember the rules."
He laughed. "Don't touch anything. Don't walk through the blood. Don't speak unless spoken to." He
frowned. "Why the last? I understand all the others, but why can't I talk?"
"I'm a member of the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team. You're not. If you go around saying
golly gee whiz a dead body, they may catch on."
"I won't embarrass you." He sounded insulted; then a thought occurred to him. "Are we impersonating
police officers?"
"No. Keep repeating I'm a member of the Spook Squad, I'm a member of the Spook Squad, I'm a
member of the Spook Squad."
"But I'm not," he said.
"That's why I don't want you talking."
"Oh," he said. He settled back into his seat, a little of the shine dimming around the edges. "I've never
actually seen a freshly dead body before."
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"You raise the dead for a living, Larry. You see corpses all the time."
"It's not the same thing, Anita." He sounded grumpy.
I glanced at him. He had slumped down as far into the seat as the seat belt would allow, arms crossed
over his chest. We were at the crest of a hill. A band of sunlight fell like an explosion over his orange hair.
His blue eyes looked translucent for a moment as we passed from light into shadow. He looked all
scrunched and sulky.
"Have you ever seen a dead person outside of a funeral or a freshly raised zombie?"
He was quiet for a minute. I concentrated on driving, letting the silence fill the Jeep. It was a comfortable
silence, at least for me.
"No," he said at last. He sounded like a little boy who had been told he couldn't go outside and play.
"I'm not always good around fresh bodies either," I said.
He looked at me sort of sideways. "What do you mean?"
It was my turn to scrunch into the seat. I fought the urge and sat up straighter. "I threw up on a murder
victim once." Even saying it very fast, it was still embarrassing.
Larry scooted up in his seat, grinning. "You're just telling me that to make me feel better."
"Would I tell a story like that about myself if it wasn't true?" I asked.
"You really threw up on a body at a crime scene?"
"You don't have to sound so happy about it," I said.
He giggled. I swear he giggled. "I don't think I'll throw up on the body."
I shrugged. "Three bodies, with parts missing. Don't make promises you can't keep."
He swallowed loud enough for me to hear it. "What do they mean, parts missing."
"We'll find out," I said. "This isn't part of your job description, Larry. I get paid for helping the cops; you
don't."
"Will it be awful?" His voice was low, uncertain.
Chopped-up bodies. Was he kidding? "I don't know until we get there."
"But what do you think?" He was staring at me very earnestly.
I glanced back at the road, then at Larry. He looked very solemn, like a relative who'd asked the doctor
for the truth. If he would be brave, I could be truthful. "Yeah, it'll be awful."
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It was awful. Larry had managed to stagger from the crime scene before he threw up. The only comfort
I could offer him was that he wasn't the only one. Some of the cops were looking a little green around the
edges, too. I hadn't thrown up yet, but I was keeping it as an option for later.
The bodies lay in a small hollow near the base of a hill. The ground was nearly knee-deep with leaves.
Nobody rakes in the woods. The drought had dried the leaves to a fine, biting crunch underfoot. The
hollow was ringed by naked trees and bushes with branches like thin brown whips. When the leaves
came out, the hollow would be hidden on all sides.
The body nearest to me was a blond man with hair cut so short it looked like an old-fashioned butch.
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