“I know she’s real. I don’t know if she’s got a day-to-day ordinary life to be missing from.” One like I’d had until the beginning of the week. I ran my fingers over the scar on my cheek, then rubbed the heel of my hand against my breastbone. I wondered if the nervous hollow feeling there would ever go away. Morrison watched me.
“That diner had security cameras, did you know that?”
I looked up and shook my head, suddenly grateful for the hot chocolate. I took a sip before getting up the courage to ask, “And?” I had the hideous feeling the tapes had all been wiped blank, or had recorded static. It would just figure.
“I watched the tape this morning. Right from you and your friends walking in to you coming back from the dead. I didn’t believe you until then.”
“You believe me now?” My voice sounded very small and hopeful to my own ears.
Morrison took another sip of his coffee. “You should have a hole in you.”
“You want I should flash you and show you that I don’t?”
To my surprise, Morrison grinned. “Maybe another time.” I gaped again. I didn’t know Morrison knew how to flirt. Particularly with me. “I didn’t believe your friend Mrs. Potter, either.”
“Despite being faced with direct evidence? You’re a contrary bastard, Morrison.”
“Indirect evidence. I didn’t see it happen, and the hospital security tapes show you flopping over her and then getting up. And then Mrs. Potter getting up a few minutes later.”
“C’mon, Morrison, how direct do you want?” I was arguing for something I considered impossible three days earlier. Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
“It’s piling up in your favor.” Morrison took another sip of coffee, then put the cup down. “Which is why I’m considering the possibility that you might be of some use after all.”
That, somehow, didn’t sound like something I really wanted to hear. A cold little ball of dread formed in my stomach and started sending tendrils out through my guts. “What happened?”
Morrison took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “Henrietta Potter was murdered this morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Black fog rolled into my vision, narrowing it down until all I could see was Morrison, and even he looked distant and unreal. The memory of Mrs. Potter’s bright eyes and crisp speech blotted him out for a few moments. Then my sight expanded again, the edges brightening to white until I could see the entire cafe. It disappeared in a flash of brilliance. I stood alone in the star field again, shouting for help, and no one came.
There was a distant hunger, though, a mawing blackness between the stars. It drew closer as I shouted, like a great cat studying its prey before it pounced. I hadn’t noticed it before, but I suddenly remembered Coyote’s warning that speaking with the dead could be dangerous. I was very sure the darkness was home to the danger. I shouted for help one more time, into silence too immense to even echo. The stars blurred away into images that raced by, too quickly to comprehend, until the doughnut shop resolved itself around me and Morrison was crouched beside me, shaking me.
“…nne? Joanie?” he said distantly, and then, sharply, “Jesus, Walker. What the hell was that?”
My vision pounded back into focus and I whimpered, lifting my hands to my temples. I felt like I had a three- day hangover. “She was fine last night.”
Morrison straightened, looking down at me. “Yeah, well, apparently getting to know you is bad for people these days.” He moved back to his side of the table, frowning as he sat down again. “If you hadn’t pulled that stunt at the hospital last night-”
“-she’d still be there under guard and alive,” I finished in a miserable whisper. Morrison glanced up.
“No. She was there under guard. If you hadn’t pulled that stunt, they probably would have thought she died from complications, but half the staff saw she’d been healed up. Still, the wound that killed her was nearly identical to the original.” Morrison was silent for a long moment. “How the hell did you do that?”
I closed my eyes, remembering the absurd car analogy. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yeah. I really want to know.”
I took a fortifying sip of my chocolate, then spoke to it. “I had a near-death experience Monday morning. It’s apparently not uncommon for people with shamanic potential to be jolted into an awareness of that potential in near-death experiences. In fact, there are whole rituals…nevermind. Shamans are healers.” That much, at least, I’d grasped. “Healing requires belief.” I looked up. “I’ve never been big on belief.” He let out a snort of amusement. “But you’d be surprised at how far getting a sword punched through you and waking up unscarred will go for a girl’s belief.”
“I might be,” he said noncommittally, and waved his doughnut, an unfilled maple bar, at me. “Keep talking.”
“The shaman has to believe, but so does the one being healed.” I picked at my apple fritter, eating little bites. “She was unconscious. I guess it’s harder to have an opinion when you’re unconscious. She’s really dead?” My voice was hollow. Morrison nodded.
“She’s really dead.”
“I liked her,” I whispered. I wasn’t going to cry in front of Morrison, dammit. Especially when I didn’t have my contacts in as a cover-up.
“Shit happens,” Morrison said. I looked up, angry, and caught the flash of frustration in his eyes. Maybe it wasn’t as easy for him as he pretended it was. I’d give him his white lies if he’d allow me mine. We were both silent for a few seconds, composing ourselves without looking away from one another.
“So why did you tell me this?” I finally asked. Morrison finished his doughnut and his coffee, then compulsively straightened the silverware on the table before answering. I watched, fascinated. Captain Michael Morrison was not a particularly fastidious man. “You’re fidgeting.” What a wonderful place the world was, that Morrison could be made to fidget. “Am I one of the suspects again?”
He glared at me, which seemed to restore his equilibrium. “Do you have an alibi for five o’clock this morning?”
I blinked at him. “Astonishingly, yes. Gary dropped by at about ten after.”
“Then you’re not. Who’s Gary?”
“My secret lover, Morrison, who else? He’s the guy who was with me when I met Marie. When we found her body. The cab driver. He was at the hospital last night. Big guy. What’s it to you, anyway?”
“Oh, Mr. Muldoon. Didn’t know you were on a first-name basis with him.”
“Just because I’ve known you for three years and I’m not on a first-name basis wi-” It occurred to me that he’d used my first name, when I’d blacked out a few minutes earlier. I wouldn’t have sworn Morrison even knew my first name. “My life has gotten very peculiar all of a sudden,” I said a little randomly. “Maybe I should go now.” I stood up.
“Siddown.”
I sat down.
“What was Mr. Muldoon doing at your house at five in the morning?”
“Do you want to know professionally or personally, Morrison?” Sarcasm seemed like a good way out of bewilderment.
“Professionally,” he said icily.
“Well, then, I probably shouldn’t answer that question without my lawyer present, should I? For Christ’s sake, Morrison. He was dropping something off before he went to work.”
“What?”
“Work. You know. That thing that I don’t have to go to right now, ’cuz some bastard suspended me?”
Morrison turned purple. I felt better about the world. “What,” he said precisely, “was Mr. Muldoon dropping off at your house?”
“That,” I said just as precisely, “is none of your fucking business. What’s going on, Morrison? Five seconds ago I wasn’t a murder suspect and now you’re treating me like one.” Gary’d said Morrison liked me. It was absurd,
