… 2005, I think?'
'Hell,' Balducci said. 'That rules out a suspect-' 'Do you know who this was inked on?' Rand asked. 'No,' I said, closing my eyes at last. That piece of skin had come from a living human person. I'd really been trying not to think of that. My mind cast around for anything else. 'Sumner did thousands of people. You could email the Lancing Dragon in Cincinnati, though. Sumner took extensive pictures. They're stored there.'
Rand smiled. 'We'll do that.' His smile faded. 'Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Sumner, or against any of his subjects?'
'No,' I said. 'I mean, I don't know anyone who has a grudge against anyone-'
'Really?' Rand said. 'What about against other tattoo artists? Especially magical ones?'
'According to our newsletter,' I said sarcastically, ' 'there are over two hundred licensed magical tattoo artists in the United States,' so it's a pretty big list-'
'Could we get a copy of that newsletter?' Rand asked. I thought about it for a moment. 'Yes.' 'Is there anything you would like to add?' Rand said. 'Yes,' I said, nodding at the skin-covered board. 'I would like to add a what the fuck is that thing? '
'Tell her about the box,' Balducci said.
'What about the box?' I said, eyes drawn back to the thing on the table.
'We had a witness,' cadaver man said. 'He didn't live long enough to tell us much, but he mentioned… a box. A box covered in scraps of tattooed skin-'
'Don't tell me more about the box,' I said, getting up. 'Oh, God, it's a fucking lid-'
'Dakota,' Rand said, motioning to cadaver man. 'You don't need to stay any longer, Dakota, though our friend the Fed there may have more questions for you later-'
'Why did you bring me here?' I said, watching cadaver man slip.. . it… back into its opaque envelope. 'Is this some kind of cruel joke, some kind of arrangement with my dad to get me to come home-'
'Dakota,' Rand said. 'I didn't lie. We did need to see you, and not just for your expertise-'
'Rand,' Balducci warned. 'She's just a civilian. And just a kid-'
'She's got to know,' Rand said, staring up at me with the same sad eyes I remembered looking up to as a child. 'Dakota, this just fell in our lap, but our 'friends' tell us they have had a dozen killings over the past five years where magical tattoos were taken, almost always on or near the full moon, moving from state to state each time. This last one was in Birmingham, and our 'friends' tell us all the signs point to an attack here in Georgia… soon.'
'And the full moon is next weekend,' I said. 'Just after Halloween.'
'So you see, Dakota, I needed to talk to you,' Rand said. 'We don't think you're a specific target but… Kotie, stay safe. Your Dad and I are very worried about you.'
My childhood nickname rang in my ears as I watched cadaver man carry 'it' back through the door of white light.
'That makes three of us,' I said.
I said my goodbyes to Rand and then got the hell out, escorted by the black-and white twin officers who'd picked me up. Tweedle- White and Tweedle-Black turned out to be Horscht and Gibbs, old buddies of Rand's, who were doing him a favor by scooping me.
Gibbs was a sexy beast, like a younger version of Rand himself, but after staying for the show with the lid, Horscht turned from stony Aryan Nazi to protective den mother. After some arguing, they agreed to take me back to Mary's to pick up my Vespa. But as we started to pull out of City Hall East's garage the colorful lights across the street gave me a better idea.
'Wait,' I said. 'Drop me at the Borders.'
'Are you sure?' Horscht said. 'It's a long way to East Atlanta.'
'It's… nine fifty-five,' I said. 'I can take care of myself in a brightly lit commercial fortress, and call on a fare-slave to cab me back to Mary's for my Vespa. I never leave before midnight, anyway.'
'But after seeing that-'
'The full moon is like, ten days away,' I said, with false bravado. 'I'm not worried.'
'The lady can take care of herself,' Gibbs said, smiling. 'Anything else we can do?'
'Sure thing,' I said. 'Next time you give me a ride, I want to do it in cuffs.'
Horscht was befuddled, but Gibbs whistled low. 'Sure thing, girl.'
'But if she hasn't done anything wrong-'
'Damn, Horscht, you never got a Sunday morning call?' Gibbs said, punching my raised fist gently. 'I'll explain it to you later. You're all right, girl. Later.'
I started sniffing around the bookstore for something on Richard Sumners. It was hopeless-I hate bookstores and this one was a brightly lit warren. I ferreted around their computer kiosk for a minute, browsing for any of the books I knew: The Craft of Ink-no. Flash, Ink, Flash-out of print. Anything by Richard Sumners-yes! One, titled Richard Sumners, three in store, shelved improbably in Art amp; Architecture | Photography | Photography Monographs, where I had absolutely no luck. Finally I collared a pimply-faced teen manning the Customer Service kiosk, whose end-of-day funk brightened considerably as soon as he saw my breasts.
'Oh, yes, that,' he said, staring straight at the bulge in my top. In fairness, my breasts were about level with his head, and he seemed scared to make eye contact. 'Right over here.'
In Bargain Books: Richard Sumners by TASCHEN – $7.99. Right between Sicily in Pictures and More Amazing Kittens! I wanted to pop a blood vessel, but just stood there, seeing Sumners's life work end up in a bargain rack. Finally I picked it up, thick little brick, thumbing its thin but curiously heavy pages.
'At least it's selling,' I said.
'Anything else?' he asked, eyeing my breasts again.
'You got an almanac for 2005?' I asked, but he shook his head.
As I turned to go, finally his eyes darted upward. 'That,' he said, 'is one cool-ass shirt.'
I looked down. Edgar Allen Poe stared upside-down at me between the lapels of my coat-vest. I'd sewn glitter and sequins onto the shirt to jazz it up, and his sparkling eyes had ridden up over the ridge of my breasts. 'Thanks,' I said, but by that point the kid had fled.
I grabbed a maple mocha and camped out in the cafe. There in the ghetto library, as we affectionately called it, I started flipping through this glossy tombstone to Richard Sumners's work, looking for clues to who might have worn the tattoo.
Richard's magical inking began before I was born, back in the 60's, but the wreathed snake had a modern flair to its design. I started to see some of the distinctive elements that made up the tattoo crop up in THE EARLY NINETIES section, but it wasn't until EVE OF THE MILLENNIUM that I hit paydirt.
At first I thought I had it: a man covering his eye with a tattooed hand bearing a mark nearly identical to the one on the lid. But it was too small, and I remembered Sumner didn't design his own flash: he had graphomancers do that for him, just like I did, which meant he ended up reusing the same design. Sure enough, there were three other people with similar tattoos, ending with a full-page shot of a young woman with the mark just above her breasts.
The tat was close-really close: the same size, on a flat piece of skin, sans belly button or the curve of a shoulder that would have shown up as a wrinkle on the lid. I stared at her – she had sharp, punkish hair like I did, and a sexy, come-hither smile. Automatically, I checked out the curves of her breasts, pressed beneath one delicate hand-they were full and luscious and looked quite lickable. Then my eyes drifted up to the tat, and I felt queasy. Had I just seen this woman in the flesh-flesh torn from her chest and stapled to a board like a seat cushion?
There was no way to know. I'd give the book to Rand at the first opportunity and hope he could find out. But then I started thinking: Sumners was tattooed himself, and some of those tats had to be marks of great magical power.
I flipped to the bio, trying to find out a clue about how he died, but it was no help. It had been printed in 2003, and the most interesting piece of information was that Sumners had 'recently had his hands insured with Lloyd's of London for over a million dollars.' Useless.
I'd originally gotten the book to try to find out who had worn that tattoo. But now here was a new question: did Sumners die near a full moon
And then a creepy voice breathed in my ear: 'Give me some skin, Dakota.'
