The Laughing Corpse

Chapter 4



The alarm screamed. I rolled over swatting at the buttons on top of the digital clock. Surely to God, I'd hit the snooze button soon. I finally had to prop myself up on one elbow and actually open my eyes. I turned off the alarm and stared at the glowing numbers. 6:00 A.M. Shit. I'd only gotten home at three.



Why had I set the alarm for six? I couldn't remember. I am not at my best after only three hours of sleep. I lay back down in the still warm nest of sheets. My eyes were fluttering shut when I remembered. Dominga Salvador.



She had agreed to meet me at 7:00 A.M. today. Talk about a breakfast meeting. I struggled out of the sheet, and just sat on the side of the bed for a minute. The apartment was absolutely still. The only sound was the hush-hush of the air-conditioning. Quiet as a funeral.



I got up then, thoughts of blood-coated teddy bears dancing in my head.



Fifteen minutes later I was dressed. I always showered after coming in from work no matter how late it was. I couldn't stand the thought of going to bed between nice clean sheets smeared with dried chicken blood. Sometimes it's goat blood, but more often chicken.



I had compromised on the outfit, caught between showing respect and not melting in the heat. It would have been easy if I hadn't planned to carry a gun with me. Call me paranoid, but I don't leave home without it.



The acid washed jeans, jogging socks, and Nikes were easy. An Uncle Mike's inter-pants holster complete with a Firestar 9mm completed the outfit. The Firestar was my backup piece to the Browning Hi-Power. The Browning was far too bulky to put down an inter-pants holster, but the Firestar fit nicely.



Now all I needed was a shirt that would hide the gun, but leave it accessible to grab and shoot. This was harder than it sounded. I finally settled on a short, almost middrift top that just barely fell over my waistband. I turned in front of the mirror.



The gun was invisible as long as I didn't forget and raise my arms too high. The top, unfortunately, was a pale, pale pink. What had possessed me to buy this top, I really didn't remember. Maybe it had been a gift? I hoped so. The thought that I had actually spent money on anything pink was more than I could bear.



I hadn't opened the drapes at all yet. The entire apartment was in twilight. I had special-ordered very heavy drapes. I rarely saw sunlight, and I didn't miss it much. I turned on the light over my fish tank. The angelfish rose towards the top, mouths moving in slow-motion begging.



Fish are my idea of pets. You don't walk them, pick up after them, or have to housebreak them. Clean the tank occasionally, feed them, and they don't give a damn how many hours of overtime you work.



The smell of strong brewed coffee wafted through the apartment from my Mr. Coffee. I sat at my little two-seater kitchen table sipping hot, black Colombian vintage. Beans fresh from my freezer, ground on the spot. There was no other way to drink coffee. Though in a pinch I'll take it just about any way I can get it.



The doorbell chimed. I jumped, spilling coffee onto the table. Nervous? Me? I left my Firestar on the kitchen table instead of taking it to the door with me. See, I'm not paranoid. Just very, very careful.



I checked the peephole and opened the door. Manny Rodriguez stood in the doorway. He's about two inches taller than I am. His coal-black hair is streaked with grey and white. Thick waves of it frame his thin face and black mustache. He's fifty-two, and with one exception, I would still rather have him backing me in a dangerous situation than anyone else I know.



We shook hands, we always do that. His grip was firm and dry. He grinned at me, flashing very white teeth in his brown face. "I smell coffee."



I grinned back. "You know it's all I have for breakfast." He walked in, and I locked the door behind him, habit.



"Rosita thinks you don't take care of yourself." He dropped into a near-perfect imitation of his wife's scolding voice, a much thicker Mexican accent than his own. "She doesn't eat right, so thin. Poor Anita, no husband, not even a boyfriend." He grinned.



"Rosita sounds like my stepmother. Judith is sick with worry that I'll be an old maid."



"You're what, twenty-four?"



"Mm-uh."



He just shook his head. "Sometimes I do not understand women."



It was my turn to grin. "What am I, chopped liver?"



"Anita, you know I didn't mean..."



"I know, I'm one of the boys. I understand."



"You are better than any of the boys at work."



"Sit down. Let me pour coffee in your mouth before your foot fits in again."



"You are being difficult. You know what I meant." He stared at me out of his solid brown eyes, face very serious.



I smiled. "Yeah, I know what you meant."



I picked one of the dozen or so mugs from my kitchen cabinet. My favorite mugs dangled from a mug-tree on the countertop.



Manny sat down, sipping coffee, glancing at his cup. It was red with black letters that said, "I'm a coldhearted bitch but I'm good at it." He laughed coffee up his nose.



I sipped my own coffee from a mug decorated with fluffy baby penguins: I'd never admit it, but it is my favorite mug.



"Why don't you bring your penguin mug to work?" he asked.



Bert's latest brainstorm was that we all use personalized coffee cups at work. He thought it would add a homey note to the office. I had brought in a grey on grey cup that said, "It's a dirty job and I get to do it." Bert had made me take it home.



"I enjoy yanking Bert's chain."



"So you're going to keep bringing in unacceptable cups."



I smiled. "Mm-uh."



He just shook his head.



"I really appreciate you coming to see Dominga with me."



He shrugged. "I couldn't let you go see the devil woman alone, could I?"



I frowned at the nickname, or was it an insult? "That's what your wife calls Dominga, not what I call her."



He glanced down at the gun still lying on the tabletop. "But you'll take a gun with you, just in case."



I looked at him over the top of my cup. "Just in case."



"If it comes to shooting our way out, Anita, it will be too late. She has bodyguards all over the place."



"I don't plan to shoot anybody. We are just going to ask a few questions. That's all."



He smirked. "Por favor, Señora Salvador, did you raise a killer zombie recently?"



"Knock it off, Manny. I know it's awkward."



"Awkward?" He shook his head. "Awkward, she says. If you piss off Dominga Salvador, it's a hell of a lot more than just awkward."



"You don't have to come."



"You called me for backup." He smiled that brilliant teeth flashing smile that lit up his entire face. "You didn't call Charles or Jamison. You called me, and, Anita, that is the best compliment you could give an old man."



"You're not an old man." And I meant it.



"That is not what my wife keeps telling me. Rosita has forbidden me to go vampire hunting with you, but she can't curtail my zombie-related activities, not yet anyway."



The surprise must have shone on my face, because he said, "I know she talked to you two years back, when I was in the hospital."



"You almost died," I said.



"And you had how many broken bones?"



"Rosita made a reasonable request, Manny. You have four children to think of."



"And I'm too old to be slaying vampires." His voice held irony, and almost bitterness.



"You'll never be too old," I said.



"A nice thought." He drained his coffee mug. "We better go. Don't want to keep the Señora waiting."



"God forbid," I said.



"Amen," he said.



I stared at him as he rinsed his mug out in the sink. "Do you know something you're not telling me?"



"No," he said.



I rinsed my own cup, still staring at him. I could feel a suspicious frown between my eyes. "Manny?"



"Honest Mexican, I don't know nuthin'."



"Then what's wrong?"



"You know I was vaudun before Rosita converted me to pure Christianity."



"Yeah, so?"



"Dominga Salvador was not just my priestess. She was my lover."



I stared at him for a few heartbeats. "You're kidding?"



His face was very serious as he said, "I wouldn't joke about something like that."



I shrugged. People's choices of lovers never failed to amaze me. "That's why you could get me a meeting with her on such short notice."



He nodded.



"Why didn't you tell me before?"



"Because you might have tried to sneak over there without me."



"Would that have been so bad?"



He just stared at me, brown eyes very serious. "Maybe."



I got my gun from the table and fitted it to the inter-pants holster. Eight bullets. The Browning could hold fourteen. But let's get real; if I needed more than eight bullets, I was dead. And so was Manny.



"Shit," I whispered.



"What?"



"I feel like I'm going to visit the bogeyman."



Manny made a back and forth motion with his head. "Not a bad analogy."



Great, just freaking, bloody great. Why was I doing this? The image of Benjamin Reynolds's blood-coated teddy bear flashed into my mind. All right, I knew why I was doing it. If there was even a remote chance that the boy could still be alive, I'd go into hell itself--if I stood a chance of coming back out. I didn't mention this out loud. I did not want to know if hell was a good analogy, too.



Chapter 5



The neighborhood was older houses; fifties, forties. The lawns were dying to brown for lack of water. No sprinklers here. Flowers struggled to survive in beds close to the houses. Mostly petunias, geraniums, a few rosebushes. The streets were clean, neat, and one block over you could get yourself shot for wearing the wrong color of jacket.



Gang activity stopped at Señora Salvador's neighborhood. Even teenagers with automatic pistols fear things you can't stop with bullets no matter how good a shot you are. Silver plated bullets will harm a vampire, but not kill it. It will kill a lycanthrope, but not a zombie. You can hack the damn things to pieces, and the disconnected body parts will crawl after you. I've seen it. It ain't pretty. The gangs leave the Señora's turf alone. No violence. It is a place of permanent truce.



There are stories of one Hispanic gang that thought it had protection against gris-gris. Some people say that the gang's ex-leader is still down in Dominga's basement, obeying an occasional order. He was great show-and-tell to any juvenile delinquents who got out of hand.



Personally, I had never seen her raise a zombie. But then I'd never seen her call the snakes either. I'd just as soon keep it that way.



Señora Salvador's two-story house is on about a half acre of land. A nice roomy yard. Bright red geraniums flamed against the whitewashed walls. Red and white, blood and bone. I was sure the symbolism was not lost on casual passersby. It certainly wasn't lost on me.



Manny parked his car in the driveway behind a cream colored Impala. The two-car garage was painted white to match the house. There was a little girl of about five riding a tricycle furiously up and down the sidewalk. A slightly older pair of boys were sitting on the steps that led up to the porch. They stopped playing and looked at us.



A man stood on the porch behind them. He was wearing a shoulder holster over a sleeveless blue T-shirt. Sort of blatant. All he needed was a flashing neon sign that said "Bad Ass."



There were chalk markings on the sidewalk. Pastel crosses and unreadable diagrams. It looked like a children's game, but it wasn't. Some devoted fans of the Señora had chalked designs of worship in front of her house. Stubs of candles had melted to lumps around the designs. The girl on the tricycle peddled back and forth over the designs. Normal, right?



I followed Manny over the sun-scorched lawn. The little girl on the tricycle was watching us now, small brown face unreadable.



Manny removed his sunglasses and smiled up at the man. "Buenos d¨ªas, Antonio. It has been a long time."



"S¨ª, " Antonio said. His voice was low and sullen. His deeply tanned arms were crossed loosely over his chest. It put his right hand right next to his gun butt.



I used Manny's body to shield me from sight and casually put my hands close to my own gun. The Boy Scout motto, "Always be prepared." Or was that the Marines?



"You've become a strong, handsome man," Manny said.



"My grandmother says I must let you in," Antonio said.



"She is a wise woman," Manny said.



Antonio shrugged. "She is the Señora." He peered around Manny at me. "Who is this?"



"Señorita Anita Blake." Manny stepped back so I could move forward. I did, right hand loose on my waist like I had an attitude, but it was the closest I could stay to my gun.



Antonio looked down at me. His dark eyes were angry, but that was all. He didn't have near the gaze of Harold Gaynor's bodyguards. I smiled. "Nice to meet you."



He squinted at me suspiciously for a moment, then nodded. I continued to smile at him, and a slow smile spread over his face. He thought I was flirting with him. I let him think it.



He said something in Spanish. All I could do was smile and shake my head. He spoke softly, and there was a look in his dark eyes, a curve to his mouth. I didn't have to speak the language to know I was being propositioned. Or insulted.



Manny's neck was stiff, his face flushed. He said something from between clenched teeth.



It was Antonio's turn to flush. His hand started to go for his gun. I stepped up two steps, touching his wrist as if I didn't know what was going on. The tension in his arm was like a wire, straining.



I beamed up at him as I held his wrist. His eyes flicked from Manny to me, then the tension eased, but I didn't let go of his wrist until his arm fell to his side. He raised my hand to his lips, kissing it. His mouth lingered on the back of my hand, but his eyes stayed on Manny. Angry, rage-filled.



Antonio carried a gun, but he was an amateur. Amateurs with guns eventually get themselves killed. I wondered if Dominga Salvador knew that? She may have been a whiz at voodoo but I bet she didn't know much about guns, and what it took to use one on a regular basis. Whatever it took, Antonio didn't have it. He'd kill you all right. No sweat. But for the wrong reasons. Amateur's reasons. Of course, you'll be just as dead.



He guided me up on the porch beside him, still holding my hand. It was my left hand. He could hold that all day. "I must check you for weapons, Manuel."



"I understand," Manny said. He stepped up on the porch and Antonio stepped back, keeping room between them in case Manny jumped him. That left me with a clear shot of Antonio's back. Careless; under different circumstances, deadly.



He made Manny lean against the porch railing like a police frisk. Antonio knew what he was doing, but it was an angry search, lots of quick jerky hand movements, as if just touching Manny's body enraged him. A lot of hate in old Tony.



It never occurred to him to pat me down for weapons. Tsk-tsk.



A second man came to the screen door. He was in his late forties, maybe. He was wearing a white undershirt with a plaid shirt unbuttoned over it. The sleeves were folded back as far as they'd go. Sweat stood out on his forehead. I was betting there was a gun at the small of his back. His black hair had a pure white streak just over the forehead. "What is taking so long, Antonio?" His voice was thick and held an accent.



"I searched him for weapons."



The older man nodded. "She is ready to see you both."



Antonio stood to one side, taking up his post on the porch once more. He made a kissing noise as I walked past. I felt Manny stiffen, but we made it into the living room without anyone getting shot. We were on a roll.



The living room was spacious, with a dining-room set taking up the left-hand side. There was a wall piano in the living room. I wondered who played. Antonio? Naw.



We followed the man through a short hallway into a roomy kitchen. Golden oblongs of sunshine lay heavy on a black and white tiled floor. The floor and kitchen were old, but the appliances were new. One of those deluxe refrigerators with an ice maker and water dispenser took up a hunk of the back wall. All the appliances were done in a pale yellow: Harvest Gold, Autumn Bronze.



Sitting at the kitchen table was a woman in her early sixties. Her thin brown face was seamed with a lot of smile lines. Pure white hair was done in a bun at the nape of her neck. She sat very straight in her chair, thin-boned hands folded on the tabletop. She looked terribly harmless. A nice old granny. If a quarter of what I'd heard about her was true, it was the greatest camouflage I'd ever seen.



She smiled and held out her hands. Manny stepped forward and took the offering, brushing his lips on her knuckles. "It is good to see you, Manuel." Her voice was rich, a contralto with the velvet brush of an accent.



"And you, Dominga." He released her hands and sat across from her.



Her quick black eyes flicked to me, still standing in the doorway. "So, Anita Blake, you have come to me at last."



It was a strange thing to say. I glanced at Manny. He gave a shrug with his eyes. He didn't know what she meant either. Great. "I didn't know you were eagerly awaiting me, Señora."



"I have heard stories of you, chica. Wondrous stories." There was a hint in those black eyes, that smiling face, that was not harmless.



"Manny?" I asked.



"It wasn't me."



"No, Manuel does not talk to me anymore. His little wife forbids it." That last sentence was angry, bitter.



Oh, God. The most powerful voodoo priestess in the Midwest was acting like a scorned lover. Shit.



She turned those angry black eyes to me. "All who deal in vaudun come to Señora Salvador eventually."



"I do not deal in vaudun."



She laughed at that. All the lines in her face flowed into the laughter. "You raise the dead, the zombie, and you do not deal in vaudun. Oh, chica, that is funny." Her voice sparkled with genuine amusement. So glad I could make her day.



"Dominga, I told you why we wished this meeting. I made it very clear. . ." Manny said.



She waved him to silence. "Oh, you were very careful on the phone, Manuel." She leaned towards me. "He made it very clear that you were not here to participate in any of my pagan rituals." The bitterness in her voice was sharp enough to choke on.



"Come here, chica," she said. She held out one hand to me, not both. Was I supposed to kiss it as Manny had done. I didn't think I'd come to see the pope.



I realized then that I didn't want to touch her. She had done nothing wrong. Yet, the muscles in my shoulders were screaming with tension. I was afraid, and I didn't know why.



I stepped forward and took her hand, uncertain what to do with it. Her skin was warm and dry. She sort of lowered me to the chair closest to her, still holding my hand. She said something in her soft, deep voice.



I shook my head. "I'm sorry I don't understand Spanish."



She touched my hair with her free hand. "Black hair like the wing of a crow. It does not come from any pale skin."



"My mother was Mexican."



"Yet you do not speak her tongue."



She was still holding my hand, and I wanted it back. "She died when I was young. I was raised by my father's people."



"I see."



I pulled my hand free and instantly felt better. She had done nothing to me. Nothing. Why was I so damn jumpy? The man with the streaked hair had taken up a post behind the Señora. I could see him clearly. His hands were in plain sight. I could see the back door and the entrance to the kitchen. No one was sneaking up behind me. But the hair at the base of my skull was standing at attention.



I glanced at Manny, but he was staring at Dominga. His hands were gripped together on the tabletop so tightly that his knuckles were mottled.



I felt like someone at a foreign film festival without subtitles. I could sort of guess what was going on, but I wasn't sure I was right. The creeping skin on my neck told me some hocus-pocus was going on. Manny's reaction said that just maybe the hocus-pocus was meant for him.



Manny's shoulders slumped. His hands relaxed their awful tension. It was a visible release of some kind. Dominga smiled, a brilliant flash of teeth. "You could have been so powerful, mi coraz¨®n."



"I did not want the power, Dominga," he said.



I stared from one to the other, not exactly sure what had just happened. I wasn't sure I wanted to know. I was willing to believe that ignorance was bliss. It so often is.



She turned her quick black eyes to me. "And you, chica, do you want power?" The creeping sensation at the base of my skull spread over my body. It felt like insects marching on my skin. Shit.



"No." A nice simple answer. Maybe I should try those more often.



"Perhaps not, but you will."



I didn't like the way she said that. It was ridiculous to be sitting in a sunny kitchen at 7:28 in the morning, and be scared. But there it was. My gut was twitching with it.



She stared at me. Her eyes were just eyes. There was none of that seductive power of a vampire. They were just eyes, and yet . . . The hair on my neck tried to crawl down my spine.



Goose bumps broke out on my body, a rush of prickling warmth. I licked my lips and stared at Dominga Salvador.



It was a slap of magic. She was testing me. I'd had it done before. People are so fascinated with what I do. Convinced that I know magic. I don't. I have an affinity with the dead.



It's not the same.



I stared into her nearly black eyes and felt myself sway forward. It was like falling without movement. The world sort of swung for a moment, then steadied. Warmth burst out of my body, like a twisting rope of heat. It went outward to the old woman. It hit her solid, and I felt it like a jolt of electricity.



I stood up, gasping for air. "Shit!"



"Anita, are you all right?" Manny was standing now, too. He touched my arm gently.



"I'm not sure. What the hell did she do to me?"



"It is what you have done to me, chica," Dominga said. She looked a little pale around the edges. Sweat beaded on her forehead.



The man stood away from the wall, his hands loose and ready. "No," Dominga said, "Enzo, I am all right." Her voice was breathy as if she had been running:



I stayed standing. I wanted to go home now, please.



"We did not come here for games, Dominga," Manny said. His voice had deepened with anger and, I think, fear. I agreed with that last emotion.



"It is not a game, Manuel. Have you forgotten everything I taught you. Everything you were?"



"I have forgotten nothing, but I did not bring her here to be harmed."



"Whether she is harmed or not is up to her, mi coraz¨®n."



I didn't much like that last part. "You're not going to help us. You're just going to play cat and mouse. Well, this mouse is leaving." I turned to leave, keeping a watchful eye on Enzo. He wasn't an amateur.



"Don't you wish to find the little boy that Manny said was taken? Three years old, very young to be in the hands of the bokor."



It stopped me. She knew it would. Damn her. "What is a bokor?"



She smiled. "You really don't know, do you?"



I shook my head.



The smile widened, all surprised pleasure. "Place your right hand palm up on the table, por favor."



"If you know something about the boy, just tell me. Please."



"Endure my little tests, and I will help you."



"What sort of tests?" I hoped I sounded as suspicious as I felt.



Dominga laughed, an abrupt and cheery sound. It went with all the smile lines in her face. Her eyes were practically sparkling with mirth. Why did I feel like she was laughing at me?



"Come, chica, I will not hurt you," she said.



"Manny?"



"If she does anything that may harm you, I will say so."



Dominga gazed up at me, a sort of puzzled wonder on her face. "I have heard that you can raise three zombies in a night, night after night. Yet, you truly are a novice."



"Ignorance is bliss," I said.



"Sit, chica. This will not hurt, I promise."



This will not hurt. It promised more painful things later. I sat. "Any delay could cost the boy his life." Try to appeal to her good side.



She leaned towards me. "Do you really think the child is still alive?" Guess she didn't have a good side.



I leaned back from her. I couldn't help it, and I couldn't lie to her. "No."



"Then we have time, don't we?"



"Time for what?"



"Your hand, chica, por favor, then I will answer your questions."



I took a deep breath and placed my right hand on the table, palm up. She was being mysterious. I hated people who were mysterious.



She brought a small black bag from under the table, as if it had been sitting in her lap the whole time. Like she'd planned this.



Manny was staring at the bag like something noisome was about to crawl out. Close. Dominga Salvador pulled something noisome out of it.



It was a charm, a gris-gris made of black feathers, bits of bone, a mummified bird's foot. I thought at first it was a chicken until I saw the thick black talons. There was a hawk or eagle out there somewhere with a peg leg.



I had visions of her digging the talons into my flesh, and was all tensed to pull away. But she simply placed the gris-gris on my open palm. Feathers, bits of bone, the dried hawk foot. It wasn't slimy. It didn't hurt. In fact, I felt a little silly.



Then I felt it, warmth. The thing was warm, sitting there in my hand. It hadn't been warm a second ago. "What are you doing to it?"



Dominga didn't answer. I glanced up at her, but her eyes were staring at my hand, intent. Like a cat about to pounce.



I glanced back down. The talons flexed, then spread, then flexed. It was moving in my hand. "Shiiit!" I wanted to stand up. To fling the vile thing to the floor. But I didn't. I sat there with every hair on my body tingling, my pulse thudding in my throat, and let the thing move in my hand. "All right," my voice sounded breathy, "I've passed your little test. Now get this thing the hell out of my hand."



Dominga lifted the claw gently from my hand. She was careful not to touch my skin. I didn't know why, but it was a noticeable effort.



"Dammit, dammit!" I whispered under my breath. I rubbed my hand against my stomach, touching the gun hidden there. It was comforting to know that if worse came to worst, I could just shoot her. Before she scared me to death. "Can we get down to business now?" My voice sounded almost steady. Bully for me.



Dominga was cradling the claw in her hands. "You made the claw move. You were frightened, but not surprised. Why?"



What could I say? Nothing I wanted her to know. "I have an affinity with the dead. It responds to me like some people can read thoughts."



She smiled. "Do you really believe that your ability to raise the dead is like mind reading? Parlor tricks?"



Dominga had obviously never met a really good telepath. If she had, she wouldn't have been scornful: In their own way, they were just as scary as she was.



"I raise the dead, Señora. It is just a job."



"You do not believe that any more than I do."



"I try real hard," I said.



"You've been tested before by someone." She made it a statement.



"My grandmother on my mother's side tested me, but not with that." I pointed to the still flexing foot. It looked like one of those fake hands that you can buy at Spencer's. Now that I wasn't holding it, I could pretend it just had tiny little batteries in it somewhere. Right.



"She was vaudun?"



I nodded.



"Why did you not study with her?"



"I have an inborn gift for raising the dead. That doesn't dictate my religious preferences."



"You are Christian." She made the word sound like something bad.



"That's it." I stood. "I wish I could say it's been a pleasure, but it hasn't."



"Ask your questions, chica."



"What?" The change of subject was too fast for me.



"Ask whatever you came here to ask," she said.



I glanced at Manny. "If she says she will answer, she will answer." He didn't look completely happy about it.



I sat down, again. The next insult and I'm outta here. But if she could really help . . . oh, hell, she was dangling that thin little thread of hope. And after what I'd seen at the Reynolds house, I was grabbing for it.



I had planned to be as polite as possible on the wording of the question, now I didn't give a shit. "Have you raised a zombie in the last few weeks?"



"Some," she said.



Okay. I hesitated over the next question. The feel of that thing moving in my hand flashed back on me. I rubbed my hand against my pants leg as if I could rub the sensation away. What was the worst she could do to me if I offended her? Don't ask. "Have you sent any zombies out on errands . . . of revenge?" There; that was polite, amazing.



"None."



"Are you sure?" I asked.



She smiled. "I'd remember if I loosed murderers from the grave."



"Killer zombies don't have to be murderers," I said.



"Oh?" Her pale eyebrows raised. "Are you so very familiar with raising 'killer' zombies?"



I fought the urge to squirm like a schoolchild caught at a lie. "Only one."



"Tell me."



"No." My voice was very firm. "No, that is a private matter." A private nightmare that I was not going to share with the voodoo lady.



I decided to change the subject just a little. "I've raised murderers before. They weren't more violent than regular undead."



"How many dead have you called from the grave?" she asked.



I shrugged. "I don't know."



"Give me an"--she seemed to be groping for a word - "estimation."



"I can't. It must have been hundreds."



"A thousand?" she asked.



"Maybe, I haven't kept count," I said.



"Has your boss at Animators, Incorporated, kept count?"



"I would assume that all my clients are on file, yes," I said.



She smiled. "I would be interested in knowing the exact number."



What could it hurt? "I'll find out if I can."



"Such an obedient girl." She stood. "I did not raise this `killer' zombie of yours. If that is what is eating citizens." She smiled, almost laughed, as if it were funny. "But I know people that would never speak to you. People that could do this horrible deed. I will question them, and they will answer me. I will have truth from them, and I will pass this truth on to you, Anita."



She said my name like it was meant to be said, Ahneetah. Made it sound exotic.



"Thank you very much, Señora Salvador."



"But there is one favor I will ask in return for this information," she said.



Something unpleasant was about to be said, I'd have bet on it. "What would that favor be, Señora?"



"I want you to pass one more test for me."



I stared at her, waiting for her to go on, but she didn't. "What sort of test?" I asked.



"Come downstairs, and I will show you." Her voice was mild as honey.



"No, Dominga," Manny said. He was standing now. "Anita, nothing the Señora could tell you would be worth what she wants."



"I can talk to people and things that will not talk to you, either of you. Good Christians that you are."



"Come on, Anita, we don't need her help." He had started for the door. I didn't follow him. Manny hadn't seen the slaughtered family. He hadn't dreamed about blood-coated teddy bears last night. I had. I couldn't leave if she could help me. Whether Benjamin Reynolds was dead or not wasn't the point. The thing, whatever it was, would kill again. And I was betting it had something to do with voodoo. It wasn't my area. I needed help, and I needed it fast.



"Anita, come on." He touched my arm, pulling me a little towards the door.



"Tell me about the test."



Dominga smiled triumphantly. She knew she had me. She knew I wasn't leaving until I had her promised help. Damn.



"Let us retire to the basement. I will explain the test there."



Manny's grip on my arm tightened. "Anita, you don't know what you're doing."



He was right, but. . . "Just stay with me, Manny, back me up. Don't let me do anything that will really hurt. Okay?"



"Anita, anything she wants you to do down there will hurt. Maybe not physically, but it will hurt."



"I have to do this, Manny." I patted his hand and smiled. "It'll be all right."



"No," he said, "it won't be."



I didn't know what to say to that, except that he was probably right. But it didn't matter. I was going to do it. Whatever she asked, within reason, if it would stop the killings. If it would fix it so that I never had to see another half-eaten body.



Dominga smiled. "Let us go downstairs." '



"May I speak with Anita alone, Señora, por favor," Manny said. His hand was still on my arm. I could feel the tension in his hand.



"You will have the rest of this beautiful day to talk to her, Manuel. But I have only this short time. If she does this test for me now, I promise to aid her in any way I can to catch this killer."



It was a powerful offer. A lot of people would talk to her just out of pure terror. The police can't inspire that. All they can do is arrest you. It wasn't enough of a deterrent. Having the undead crawl through your window . . . that was a deterrent.



Four, maybe five people were already dead. It was a bad way to die. "I've already said I'd do it. Let's go."



She walked around the table and took Manny's arm. He jumped like she'd struck him. She pulled him away from me. "No harm will come to her, Manuel. I swear."



"I do not trust you, Dominga."



She laughed. "But it is her choice, Manuel. I have not forced her."



"You have blackmailed her, Dominga. Blackmailed her with the safety of others."



She looked back over her shoulder. "Have I blackmailed you, chica?"



"Yes," I said.



"Oh, she is your student, coraz¨®n. She has your honesty. And your bravery."



"She is brave, but she has not seen what lies below."



I wanted to ask what exactly was in the basement, but I didn't. I really didn't want to know. I've had people warn me about supernatural shit before. Don't go in that room; the monster will get you. There usually is a monster, and it usually tries to get me. But up till now I've been faster or luckier than the monsters. Here's to my luck holding.



I wished that I could heed Manny's warning. Going home sounded very good about now, but duty reared its ugly head. Duty and a whisper of nightmares. I didn't want to see another butchered family.



Dominga led Manny from the room. I followed with Enzo bringing up the rear. What a day for a parade.