"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 corner 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 Nobel 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 stern 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?"
"Well, yeah."
"So stop worrying. It was unfortunate that they decided to open the casket, but it's hardly the disaster you're making it out to be. Don't you have a tutorial this afternoon?"
"I thought you wanted me to stay close?"
"I want you to behave exactly as you normally do."
He grinned, unable to worry about anything for long. "That is to say, badly?"
Dr. Burke shook her head and half-smiled. "Go."
He went.
"Is he in any danger, Dr. Burke?"
"Didn't I just say he wasn't?"
"Yes, but... "
"Catherine, I have never lied to Donald. Lies are the easiest way to lose the loyalty of your associates."
Apparently unconvinced, Catherine gnawed on her lower lip.
Dr. Burke sighed. "Didn't I promise you," she said gently, "back when you first approached me, that I'd take care of everything? That I'd see to it you could work without interference? And haven't I kept my promise?"
Catherine released her lip and nodded.
"So you needn't worry about anything but your work. Besides, Donald's dedication to science isn't as strong as ours." She patted the isolation box that held the remains of Marjory Nelson. "Now then, if you could set up the muscle sequences, I'd best get back to my office. With Mrs. Shaw home having hysterics, God only knows what's going on up there."
Alone in the lab, Catherine crossed slowly to the keyboard and sat, staring thoughtfully at the monitor for a few moments. Donald's dedication to science isn't as strong as ours. She'd always known that. What she was just beginning to realize was that perhaps Dr. Burke's dedication to science wasn't as strong as it might be either. While there'd always been a lot of talk about the purity of research, this was the first she'd heard of infinite applications and profit sharing.
Behind lids that had lost the flexibility to completely open or completely close, filmy eyes tracked her every movement.
Number nine sat quietly, content for the moment to be out of the box.
And with her.
"So, how is she?"
Celluci stepped out of the apartment and pulled the door partially closed behind him. "Coping."
"Humph. Coping. This evil thing has happened and all you can say is she's coping." Mr. Delgado shook his head. "Has she cried?"
"Not while I've been with her, no." It took an effort, but Celluci managed not to resent the old man's concern.
"Not other times either, I bet. Crying is for the weak; she isn't weak, so she doesn't cry." He thumped a gnarled fist against his chest. "I cried like a baby, like a baby, I tell you, when my Rosa died."
Celluci nodded slowly in agreement. "I cried when my father died."
"Celluci? Italian?"
"Canadian."
"Don't be a smart ass. We, my Rosa and young Frank and me, we came from Portugal just after the second World War. I was a welder."
"My father's family came just before the war. He was a plumber."
"There." Mr. Delgado threw up both hands. "And if the two of us can cry, you'd think she could manage a tear or two without loss of machismo."
Vicki's voice drifted into the hall. "Mr. Chen? Perhaps you can help me, I'm looking for a young man, early twenties, named Tom Chen... "
Mr. Delgado's shoulders sagged. "But no. No tears. She holds the hurt inside. You listen to what I'm saying to you, Officer Celluci. When that hurt finally comes out, it's going to rip her to pieces."
"I'll be there for her." He tried not to sound defensive, Vicki's inability to deal with this wasn't his fault, but he didn't entirely succeed.
"What about the other guy? Will he be there, too?"
"I don't know."
"Humph. None of my business? Well, maybe not." The old man sighed. "It's hard when there's nothing to do to help."
Celluci echoed the sigh. "I know."
Back inside the apartment, he leaned against the closed door and watched Vicki hurl the Kingston phone book across the room. "No luck?"
"So he doesn't have a listed number, or a family in town." She jabbed at the bridge of her glasses. "He's probably a student. Lives in residence. I'll find him."
"Vicki... " He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "You're looking for a fake name. Anyone with the brains to pull this off also had the brains to work under an alias." That he had to keep telling her this was a frightening indication of how deeply she'd been affected both by the death and the loss of the body. It was a conclusion any first-year police cadet would come to and should never have had to be pointed out to "Victory" Nelson. "Tom Chen is... "
"All we've got!" A muscle jumped in her jaw as she spat the words at him. "It's a name. It's something."
It's nothing. But he didn't say it because behind the challenge he could hear her desperate need for something to hold onto. I suppose I should be happy she's clutching at this instead of at Fitzroy. What would it hurt to go along with her? At least it would keep him close and in time she might decide to hold onto him. "All right, if he lives in residence, where's he keeping... " Not your mother. There had to be something better to call it. "... the body?"
"How the hell should I know? First thing tomorrow, I get my hands on the university registration lists."
"How?" Celluci crossed the room and dropped onto the couch. "You don't have a warrant and you can't get a warrant. Why don't you let the local police take care of it? Detective Fergusson seems to be positive it's med students so I'm sure he'll check the university."
"So? I don't care what Detective Fergusson checks. I don't care if the whole fucking police force is on the case." She stood and stomped into the tiny kitchen. "I'm going to find this son of a bitch and when I do I'll... "
"You'll what?" He surged up off the couch and charged into the kitchen after her, forgetting for the moment that Tom Chen was a name and nothing more. "Why do you want to find this guy before the police do? So you can indulge in a little more participatory justice?" Grabbing her shoulder, he spun her to face him, both of them ignoring the coffee that arced up out of the mug in her hand. "I closed my eyes last fall because there wasn't a way to bring Mark Williams to trial without causing more damage than he was worth. But that isn't the case here! Let the law deal with this, Vicki!"
"The law?"
"Yeah, you remember, what you used to be sworn to uphold."
"Don't bullshit me, Celluci. You know just how much manpower the law is going to be able to allot to this. I'm going to find him!"
"All right. And then?"
She closed her eyes for a second and when she opened them again they were shadowed, unreadable.
"When I find him, he's going to wish he'd never laid a finger on my mother's body."
The calm, emotionless tone danced knives up Celluci's spine. He knew she was speaking out of pain. He knew she meant every word. "This is Fitzroy's influence," he growled. "He taught you to take the law into your own hands."
"Don't blame this on Henry." The tone became a warning. "I take responsibility for my own actions."
"I know." Celluci sighed, suddenly very, very tired. "But Henry Fitzroy... "
"Doesn't know what you're talking about." The quiet voice from the doorway pulled them both around. Henry looked from Vicki to Celluci then settled himself on a kitchen chair. "Why don't you tell me what went wrong?"
Henry stared at Celluci in some astonishment. "Why on earth do you think I would know the reason the body is missing?"
"Well, you're... what you are." It might have been said, but Celluci still wasn't going to say it. Not right out. "It's the sort of thing you should know about, isn't it?"
"No. It isn't." He turned to Vicki. "Vicki, I'm so sorry, but I have no idea why anyone in this day and age would be body snatching."
She shrugged. She really didn't care why, all she wanted to know was who.
"Unless it wasn't body snatching." Celluci frowned, turning over a new and not very pleasant idea.
Henry's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Suppose Marjory's body wasn't taken." He paused, working at the thought. "Suppose she got up and walked out of there."
Vicki's coffee mug hit the floor and shattered.
"You're crazy!" Henry snapped.
"Am I?" Celluci slammed both palms down on the table and leaned forward. "A year ago, some asshole tried to sacrifice Vicki to a demon. I saw that demon, Fitzroy. Last summer, I met a family of werewolves. In the fall, we saved the world from the mummy's curse. Now I may be a little slow, but lately I've come to believe that there's a fuck of a lot going on in this world that most people don't know shit about. You exist; you tell me why Marjory couldn't have got up and walked out of there!"
"Henry?"
Henry shook his head and caught one of Vicki's hands up in his. "They embalmed her, Vicki. There's nothing that could survive that."
"Maybe they didn't." Her fingers turned until she clutched at him. "They were confused about the rest. Maybe they didn't."
"No, Vicki, they did." Celluci touched her gently on the arm, wondering why he couldn't learn to keep his big mouth shut. He'd forgotten about the embalming. "I'm sorry. I should've thought it through. He's right."
"No." There was a chance. She couldn't let it go. "Henry, could you tell?"
"Yes, but... "
"Then go. Check. Just in case."
"Vicki, I assure you that your mother did not rise... "
"Henry. Please."
He looked at Celluci, who gave the smallest of shrugs. Your choice, the motion said. I'm sorry I started this. Henry nodded at the detective, apology accepted, and pulled his hand free of Vicki's as he stood. She'd asked for his help. He'd give it. It was a small enough thing to do to bring her at least a little peace of mind. "Is the casket still at the funeral home?"
"Yes." She began to rise as well, but he shook his head.
"No, Vicki. The last thing you need right now is to be picked up by the police while breaking and entering. If they're watching the place, I can avoid them in ways you can't."
Vicki shoved at her glasses and dropped back in her chair, acknowledging his point but not happy about it.
"If I thought you suggested this merely to remove me," Henry said quietly to Celluci at the door as he pocketed the directions, "I would be less than pleased."
"But you don't think it," Celluci replied, just as quietly. "Why not?"
Henry looked up into the taller man's eyes and smiled slightly. "Because I know an honorable man when I meet one."
An honorable man. Celluci shot the bolt behind his rival and let his head drop against the molding. Goddamnit, I wish he 'd stop doing that.
If the embalming had been done, the blood drawn out and replaced by a chemical solution designed to disinfect and preserve, to discourage life rather than sustain it, and from both Vicki's and Celluci's reports, the younger funeral director was certain it had, then there was no way that Marjory Nelson had risen to hunt the night. Nor did the manner of her death suggest the change.
Henry parked the BMW and stared into the darkness for a moment, one hundred percent certain that he would find nothing at the funeral home that the police had not already found. But I'm not going for information, I'm going for Vicki. Leaving her to spend the night alone with Michael Celluci.
He shook his head and got out of the car. Whether or not Celluci would take advantage of the time was irrelevant, Vicki had shut everything out of her life except the need to find the person or persons who had taken her mother's body and the need to be comforted had been buried with the grief she hadn't quite admitted. Because he loved her, he wouldn't lie to her. He'd go to the funeral home, discover what he already knew, and let her delete one possible explanation beyond the shadow of a doubt.
But first, he had to feed.
Vicki hadn't had the energy to spare and while he'd been tempted to prove his power to Celluci, that was a temptation he'd long since learned to resist. Besides, feeding required an intimacy he was not yet willing to allow between them and feeding from Celluci would take subtleties they hadn't time for.
Head turned into the wind, he searched the night air. Half a block behind him, a dog erupted in a frenzied protest. Henry ignored it; he had no interest in the territory it claimed. There. His nostrils flared as he caught a scent, held it, and began to track it to its source.
The open window was on the second floor. Henry gained it easily, becoming for that instant just another shadow moving against the wall of the house, flickering too fast for mortal eyes to register what they saw. The screen was no barrier.
He moved so quietly that the two young men on the bed, skin slicked with sweat, breathing in identical tormented rhythms, had no idea he was there until he allowed it. The blond saw him first and managed an inarticulate exclamation before he was caught in the Hunter's snare. Warned, the other whirled, one heavily muscled arm flung up.
Henry let the wrist slap against his palm, then he closed his fingers and smiled. Held in the depths of hazel eyes, the young man swallowed and began to tremble.
The bed sank under the weight of a third body.
He became an extension of their passion which quickly grew and intensified and finally ignited, racing up nerve endings until mere mortals became lost in the burning glory of it.
He left the way he came. In the morning, they'd find the catch on the screen had been broken and have no idea of when it had happened. Their only memory of his participation would keep them trying, night after night, to recreate what he had given them. He wished them joy in the attempt.
The casket had not been moved from the chapel. Henry stared down at it in distaste. He could no more understand why they'd covered the wood with blue-gray cloth than he could the need to enshrine empty flesh in expensive, beautiful cabinets, sealed against rot and protected from putrefaction. In his day, it was the ceremony of interment that had been important, the mourning, the declarations of grief, the long and complicated farewell. Massive monuments to the dead were placed so people could appreciate them, not buried for the pleasure of the worms. What was wrong, he wondered, stepping closer, with a plain wooden box? He'd been buried in a plain wooden box.
The sandbags had been taken away, but the imprint still showed in the satin pillow. Henry shook his head and leaned forward. There was no comfort for the dead and he couldn't see how denying that comforted the living.
Suddenly, he hesitated. The last time he'd bent over a coffin that should not have been empty he'd ended up nearly losing his soul. But the ancient Egyptian wizard who called himself Anwar Tawfik had never been dead and Marjory Nelson assuredly had. He was being foolish.
There was a hint of Vicki's mother about the interior. He'd spent the day surrounded by her scent and he easily recognized the trace that still clung to the fabric under the patina of odor laid on by the day's investigation. Straightening, he was certain that whatever else she'd done in her life, or her death, Marjory Nelson had not risen as one of his kind.
But there was something.
Over the centuries, he'd breathed in the scent of death in all its many variations, but this death, this faint suggestion that clung to the inside of nose and mouth, this death he didn't know.