A photographer was snapping pictures of something on the table. My view was hidden by three suit-covered backs. Panic clawed at my throat, and it was suddenly harder to breathe. I didn't want the men to move. I did not want to see what was on the table. My heart was pounding in my throat, and I had to take a deep, shaking breath, clearing my throat. The deeper breath had been a mistake. The smell of fresh death is like a cross between an outhouse and a slaughterhouse. There was an acrid stink, and I knew the intestines had been perforated. But there was another smell under the almost sweet smell of too much blood. A smell of meat. I'd tried to find other words for it, but it was the closest I could come to describing it. It was like drowning in the scent of raw hamburger. Meat, a person reduced to so much meat.
That one smell made me want to run. To just turn on my heel and walk away. This was not my job. I was not a cop. I was here as a favor to Edward.
If I left now, he could bill me. But of course, it was too late. Because I wasn't here just because of a favor to anyone now. I was here to help stop this from happening again. And that was more important than any nightmares I was about to accumulate.
A thin heavy line of liquid oozed off the edge of the table and fell slowly to the floor with a sparkle of crimson from the bright chandelier. The short man in the middle turned and caught a glimpse of us. His face was grim, but when he caught sight of us, of me, something close to a smile curled his lips. He left the others grouped around the table and came towards us. He was short for an FBI agent, but Special Agent Bradley Bradford walked with a confident swinging stride that covered ground and made taller men sometimes have to hurry to keep up.
We'd met over a year ago in Branson, Missouri, on a vampire case that had turned out to be vampires plus a little something older and less local. People had died, but mostly the monsters had died. Bradford must have been happy with my performance because he kept in touch. I knew that he was now assigned to the new FBI preternatural division. Last I heard they were calling it the Special Research Section, just like the Serial Killer Profiler unit was now called Investigative Support. The FBI tries to avoid sensational buzzwords like serial killer or preternatural or monster. But call it what you like, a spade's a spade.
He started to put his hand forward to be shaken, then stopped. His hands were encased in plastic gloves splattered with blood, and a spot on one side that was too black, too thick, to be blood. He smiled an apology as he lowered his hands.
I knew who had twisted Marks' tail and gotten me back in the ball game. I took shallow, even breaths and tried not to embarrass him. I hadn't thrown up at a murder scene in nearly two years. Be a shame to spoil my record now.
"Anita, it's good to see you again."
I nodded and felt myself smile. I was happy to see Bradley, but … "We really need to start meeting when there aren't bodies on the ground." See light, joking, I could be cool. I was also delaying the final walk to what lay on the table. I could do semi-clever repartee all damn day if I just didn't have to see what was bleeding in the dining room.
Why was this one getting to me so badly? No answer, but it was.
Another agent joined us. He was tall, slender, skin actually dark enough to be called black. His hair was cut close to his head in a low, well-groomed wedge. He straightened his tie, and settled his coat in place with long-fingered hands that seemed to dance even in these small movements. I'm not one of those women who notices hands usually, but there was something about his that made me think poet, musician, as if he did other things with them besides shooting practice.
"Special Agent Franklin, this is Ted Forrester and Anita Blake."
He shook hands with Edward, but didn't answer the Ted smile with one of his own. He turned serious eyes to me. His hand was enough longer than mine that shaking was a little awkward, but we managed. But it was somehow an unsatisfying handshake as if we still didn't have the measure of each other. Some men still use a handshake as a way of sizing you up.
"How long have you been in the house, Ms. Blake?" he asked.
"Just got here," I said.
He nodded as if it were important. "Bradford has painted a glowing picture of you." There was something in his voice that made me say …
"I take it you don't share Bradford's opinion of me." I smiled when I said it.
He blinked and looked startled, then his shoulders relaxed just a touch, and a very small smile played across his lips. "Let's say I'm skeptical of civilians with no special training coming into a crime scene."
I raised eyebrows at the "no special training." Edward and I exchanged glances. The Ted face was slipping, letting some of his own natural cynicism leak into those blue eyes, that nearly boyish face.
"Civilians," he said softly.
"We don't have badges," I said.
"That must be it," he said, voice still soft, and vaguely amused.
Franklin frowned at us. "Are we amusing you?"
Bradford stepped between us almost literally. "Let's let them look at the scene, then we'll decide things."
Franklin's frown deepened. "I don't like it."
"Your objection has been noted, Franklin," Bradford said, and there was a tone in his voice that said he'd had enough of the younger man.
Franklin must have heard it too, because he smoothed his perfect tie once more and led the way towards the dining room. Bradford followed him. Edward looked at me, asking a question with his eyes.
"I'm coming," I said. Once I'd tried being more macho than the police. Nothing pleased me. I was heap-big-vampire-slayer. But lately, I just didn't give a crap. I didn't want to do this anymore. It was almost a shock to realize that I really didn't want to be here, I'd seen too many horrors in too short a space of years. I was burning out, or maybe I'd already burned out and hadn't realized it.
Panic tightened my stomach into a hard knot. I had to get it under control.
I had to separate myself from the task ahead, or I was going to lose it. I tried to take a few calming breaths, but the smell came thick on my tongue. I swallowed, wished I hadn't, and stared at the tips of my shoes. I stared at the ends of my Nikes as they touched the fringe of the dining room rug until the knot in my gut eased, and I felt calm. There was still a soft flutter in my chest, but it was the best I could do.
Agent Franklin said, "Ms. Blake, are you all right?"
I raised my eyes and saw what lay on the table.
32
I LET OUT a low, "Wow."
"Yes," Bradford said, "wow is good."
The table was pale natural pine, a pale, almost white wood. It matched the walls and the rest of the decor and made a dramatic showpiece for the thing on the table. Thing, it, no other pronouns would do. Distance, distance, mustn't think that this was once a human being.
At first all I could see was the blood and pieces of meat. It was like a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing. The first thing I was sure of was the neck. I could see the broken edge of the spine sticking up above the flesh of the neck. I looked around for the head, but none of the blood-covered lumps was the right size. But there was a leg nearly perfectly whole, only ripped away from the hips, but it was intact. It had not been disjointed. Once I saw that, I found a hand lying on its back, fingers cupped as if cradling something.
I bent closer, hands in my pockets because I'd forgotten my own surgical gloves back in St. Louis. How unprofessional of me. I leaned over the hand and I wasn't smelling the stink anymore. I wasn't thinking oh, my, God, how awful. The world narrowed down to a nickel-sized lump cupped in the hand. I saw what was there. The hand had long, carefully groomed fingernails, some broken off, as if she'd struggled. She. I looked to the ring finger and found a wedding band set that looked heavy and expensive, though to be sure I'd have to move the hand and I wasn't ready for that yet. I registered all the information as if from a great distance because I'd found a clue. I concentrated on that like it was a life line, and maybe it was.