He turned and stared at me.
"There's only two people who know for sure who whacked Kulick, right?" I said. "The perp and the victim."
Karl shrugged. "Yeah, so?"
"It's pretty clear that the perp hasn't left us anything to go on," I said. "So I guess it's time to ask the vic."
"But the vic is fucking…" Karl's voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed. "Stan, you're not gonna-"
"Yeah, I'm gonna. I don't see what other choice we have, if we're going to find this motherfucker."
"Necromancy's against the law, for Chrissake!"
"Not if it's conducted as police business, by a duly licensed practitioner of magic. And I know just where to find one."
Rachel Proctor was barely five feet tall, and built lean. She had auburn hair, smart-looking gray eyes and a beautiful smile. The smile put in an appearance when I first walked into her office, but once I'd started talking, it was gone, baby, gone.
She was looking at me as if I'd just suggested that we have three-way sex with a goat some night. A real old, smelly goat.
"Necromancy's against the law, Stan. You of all people ought to know that."
"And you of all people ought to know that it's legal with a court order, Rachel."
"And what do you think your chances are of getting that?"
I pulled the court order out of my inside jacket pocket and laid it gently on her antique oak desk. "Pretty good, I'd say."
She looked at the folded document for a few seconds, then at me for a few more, then she reached out one of her small, delicate hands to pick it up. She unfolded the order and scanned it quickly. "Judge Olszewski. I should have known."
Rachel tossed the paper back on her desk. "Your paisan."
"We prefer homie," I said.
"I suppose you two hang out together at meetings of, what is it? – the Polish Falcons?"
I shrugged. "Man's gotta do something with his free time, and Mom always told me to stay out of pool halls."
She managed to combine amazement and annoyance in one slow shake of her head.
"So," I said. "Can you do it?"
"A better question is will I do it?" She leaned back in her chair, a huge leather thing that made her look like a kid playing on the good furniture. "Explain to me, slowly and carefully, why you want me to do this, and what you're hoping to accomplish by it."
So I laid it out for her. I started by describing what had been done to George Kulick, in as much detail as I could without sounding like some kind of freak sadist who was getting off on it. To her credit, Rachelby, ooking a little queasy when I was done.
She swallowed a couple of times, then said, "And you've exhausted all of the usual means of getting information about this… atrocity."
"Every damn one," I told her. "Witnesses: none. Forensics: none. Associates: none. Friends and family: none. Enemies: none."
"Well, one, anyway," she said grimly.
"Depends on how you define your terms," I said. "Whoever tortured Kulick wanted the location and combination of that safe. Once he got that, I expect he put Kulick out of his misery pretty quick. I don't think it was personal."
"I doubt that it made much difference to Mr Kulick," she said, and made a disgusted face.
"What do you say we ask him and find out?"
She sighed, then there was silence in the room for a while. I'd made my pitch. The rest was up to her. Nobody could order her to perform a necromancy – it was her call.
Rachel was studying her right thumbnail as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Without looking up she asked, "Where was he buried?"
"In one of the city-owned plots at the public graveyard."
"Well, that's something," she said. "No hassles with the Church to worry about. And it's not hallowed ground. When did interment take place?"
"Day before yesterday. But he died a week ago. They kept him on ice at the morgue for a while, in case somebody claimed the body. When nobody did, they planted him."
"And in life he was a wizard, you say."
"Yeah," I said. "He had the mark on him – and about a gazillion books on magic in his library. Why – does it matter?"
"Indeed, it does. It means his spirit will be harder to control, once it's raised. I'll have to take extra precautions."
"So you will do it." I didn't bother keeping the relief out of my voice.
"Against my better judgment, yes, I will," Rachel said, sounding tired. "And I suppose you need this done immediately, if not sooner?"
I shrugged. "Afraid so. The longer we wait, the greater the perp's chances of getting away with it. And a guy who'd do Kulick like that, you gotta figure he won't be squeamish about torturing somebody else to get what he wants."
She gave me a look that said she knew I was trying to manipulate her emotionally, and she didn't like it.
But she didn't tell me that I was wrong.
"As you're aware, Stan, I'm a practitioner of white magic. But what you're asking for here is gray magic."
I knew that one. "Black magic, performed for the purpose of good."
"Exactly right. Normally, necromancy is one of the blackest of the black arts." She sighed deeply. "I'll need to get permission before I can proceed."
I tapped the court order that lay on her desk. "We've already got this. What more do you need?"
The thin smile she gave me didn't look much like the one I'd received walking in. "The kind of permission I need comes from a court you've never heard of, Stan. But it is one that I dare not disobey. I'll let you know, one way or the other, as soon as I find out."
I stood up and slid the court order back in my pocket. "When do you plan to put in the request, or whatever it is you have to do?"
"A few seconds after I see that door close behind you. So, get."
I got.
The next day, I was getting ready for work when "Tubular Bells," the theme from The Exorcist, started playing in my shirt pocket. I touched an icon and brought the phone to my ear. "Markowski."
Rachel Proctor's voice said, "Tomorrow night, at midnight. I'll need a day to prepare. Pick me up at my house about 9:00." She paused a moment. "You're going to be there, you know."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I said. I might even have been telling the truth.
• • • •
The next night, I brought the car to a stop in front of Rachel's house at 8:59. A few moments later, she was tapping at the passenger-side window.
"Pop your trunk."
I pulled the lever. She disappeared from view, and then I felt the springs shift a little as something heavy was placed in the trunk. The lid slammed shut, and then Rachel was slipping into the passenger seat next to me.
She looked terrible.
Even in the light from the street lamps, I could see circles under her eyes that she hadn't bothered to hide with makeup. The skin of her face seemed looser, somehow, like someone recovering from a bad accident.
"What're you staring at?" she snapped. I was stammering an apology when she laid a gentle hand on my arm. "Sorry, Stan. I know I look a fright – almost like one of the stereotypes of my profession."
"Are you sick? Maybe we can-"
"No, I'm not sick, in the usual sense of the term. I haven't slept, that's part of it. I last ate something… this morning, I think, but I forget what it was. I've been working pretty much nonstop since you left me yesterday. Necromancy takes a lot of preparation, and we're not exactly blessed with time, are we? A lot of the work involves setting up protections for the necromancer." She paused, then added, "That would be me."
"Protections against the corpse? I thought-"
"We won't be raising his corpse, Stan. You've been seeing too many movies. What we're going to resurrect, if this works, is his spirit – and that is infinitely more dangerous."
"How come?"