There was one more thing I had to do to help Gordon Bennington speak. Blood. The Odyssey speaks of blood sacrifice to get a dead seer's ghost to give Odysseus advice. It's a very old truism that the dead crave blood. I walked across the now solid ground and knelt by his puzzled, wizened face. I couldn't smooth my skirt down in back because one hand was full of machete and the other was bleeding. Everyone got a nice long glimpse of thigh, but it didn't really matter, I was about to do the thing that disturbed me the most since I stopped sacrificing poultry.
I held out my hand towards Gordon Bennington's face. "Drink, Gordon, drink of my blood and speak to us."
Those round, rolling eyes stared at me, then his sunken nose caught the scent of blood, and he grabbed my hand with both of his, and lowered his mouth to the wound. His hands felt like cold wax with sticks inside. His mouth was almost lipless, so his teeth pressed close in my flesh as he sucked at my hand. His tongue whipped back and forth on the wound like something separate and alive in his mouth, feeding from me.
I took a deep, steadying breath, breathe in and out, in and out. I would not be sick. Nope. I would not embarrass myself in front of this many people.
When I thought he'd had enough, I said, "Gordon Bennington."
He didn't react, but kept his mouth pressed to the wound, his hands clutching my wrist.
I tapped the top of his head gently with the side of the machete. "Mr. Bennington, people are waiting to talk to you."
I don't know if it was the words or the tap with the blade, but he looked up, and slowly began to pull back from my hand. His eyes held more of him now. The blood always seemed to do that, fill them back up with themselves.
"Are you Gordon Bennington?" I asked. We had to be all formal.
He shook his head.
The judge said, "We need you to answer out loud, Mr. Bennington, for the record."
He stared up at me. I repeated what the judge had said, and Bennington spoke, "I am, was, Gordon Bennington."
One of the upsides to raising the dead with only my blood was that they always knew they were dead. I'd raised some before where they didn't know that, and that was a bitch, telling someone that they were dead, and you were about to put them back in the grave. Real nightmare stuff, that was.
"How did you die, Mr. Bennington?" I asked.
He sighed, drawing in air, and I heard it whistle, because most of the right side of his chest was missing. The suit hid it, but I'd seen the forensic photos. Besides I knew what a mess a twelve-gauge shotgun makes at close range.
"I got shot."
There was a tension behind me, I could feel it over the buzz of the power circle. "How did you get shot?" I asked, voice calm, soothing.
"I shot myself going down the stairs to our basement."
There was a cry of triumph from one side of the crowd and an inarticulate scream from the other.
"Did you shoot yourself on purpose?" I asked.
"No, of course not. I tripped, gun went off, so stupid, really. So stupid."
There was a lot of screaming behind me. Mostly Mrs. Bennington yelling, "I told you so, little bitch…"
I turned and called, "Judge Fletcher, did you hear all that?"
"Most of it," he said. He turned that booming voice on overdrive and shouted, "Mrs. Bennington, if you will be quiet long enough to listen, your husband has just said he died by accident."
"Gail," Gordon Bennington's voice was tentative, "Gail, are you there?"
I did not want a tearful reunion on top of the grave. "Are we finished, Judge? Can I put him back?"
"No," this from Fidelis Insurance's lawyers. Conroy stepped closer. "We have some questions for Mr. Bennington."
They asked questions, at first I had to repeat them for Bennington to be able to answer, but he got better at answering. He didn't look any better, physically, but he was gathering himself up, being more alert, more aware of his surroundings. He spotted his wife, and said, "Gail, I'm so sorry. You were right about the guns. I wasn't careful enough. I'm so sorry to leave you and the kids."
Mrs. Bennington came towards us, with her lawyers in tow. I thought I'd have to ask them to keep her off the grave, but she stopped outside the circle, as if she could feel it. Sometimes the people that turn out to be psychically gifted surprise you. I doubt if she was even aware of why she stopped moving forward. Of course, she was holding her hands tight to her body. She was not reaching out to touch her husband. I don't think she wanted to find out what that waxy looking skin felt like. I couldn't blame her.
Conroy and the other lawyers tried to keep asking questions, but it was the judge who said, "Gordon Bennington has answered all your questions in detail. It's time to let him get back to… rest."
I agreed. Mrs. Bennington was in tears, and Gordon would have been too, except his tear ducts had dried up months ago.
I got Gordon Bennington's attention. "Mr. Bennington, I'm going to put you back now."
"Will Gail and the children get the insurance money now?"
I glanced behind me at the judge. He nodded.
"Yes, Mr. Bennington, they will."
He smiled, or tried to. "Thank you, then, I'm ready." He gazed back at his wife, who was still kneeling on the grass by his grave. "I'm glad I got to say good-bye."
She was shaking her head, over and over, tears streaming down her face. "Me, too, Gordie, me, too. I miss you."
"I miss you too, my little hell cat."
She burst into sobs at that. Hiding her face in her hands. If one of the lawyers hadn't grabbed her she'd have fallen to the ground.
"My little hell cat" didn't sound like a term of endearment to me, but hey, it proved Gordon Bennington had really known his wife. It probably also proved that she would miss him for the rest of her life. I could forgive her a few temper tantrums in the face of that much pain.
I squeezed on the wound in my finger and thankfully got a little more blood. Some nights I had to reopen a wound, or make another one, to get the zombie put back. I touched my bloody hand to his forehead, leaving a small dark mark.
"With blood I bind you to your grave, Gordon Bennington." I touched him with the edge of the machete, gently. "With steel I bind you to your grave." I switched the machete to my left hand and picked up the open container of salt that I'd left inside the circle. I sprinkled him with salt, and it sounded like dry sleet as it hit him. "With salt I bind you to your grave, Gordon Bennington. Go and rise no more."
With the touch of the salt, his eyes lost their alertness, he was empty as he lay back on the earth. The ground swallowed him, like some great beast had rippled its fur and he was just gone, sunk back into the grave. Gordon Bennington's corpse was back where it belonged, and there was nothing to distinguish this grave from any other. Not so much as a blade of grass was out of place. Magic.
I still had to walk the circle backwards and uncast it. Normally, I don't have an audience for that part. The zombie goes back in the grave, everyone leaves. But Conroy of Fidelis Insurance was arguing with the judge, who was threatening to cite him for contempt. And Mrs. Bennington was not in a condition to walk yet.
The police were standing around watching the show. Lieutenant Nicols looked at me and shook his head, smiling. He walked over to me as the circle went down, and I began to clean my new wound with antiseptic wipes.