33

BRADLEY LED ME to a door that had been half-torn out of its hinges. Something big had pushed through here. Bradley had to use both hands to get the door to one side. It seemed to have settled into the carpet, wedging itself. He jerked back, and I jumped, pulse in my throat.

"Damn splinters." He held up the palm of his gloved hand and there was a small crimson spot on the plastic. He jerked the glove off. The splinter seemed to have come off with the glove, but it was bleeding freely.

"Some splinter," I said.

"Dammit." Bradley looked at me.

"You better let somebody look at it."

He nodded, but didn't turn to go. "Don't be insulted, but not everyone is happy with me forcing you back on this case. I can't leave you alone in here with evidence. If there were ever questions raised, it would be hard to explain."

"I've never pocketed evidence from a crime scene in my life."

"I'm sorry, Anita, but I can't take the chance. Will you follow me out to the ambulance?"

He was having to cup one hand under the other to catch the blood so it didn't reach the carpet. I frowned, but nodded. "Fine."

He started to say something, then turned and walked back to the living room. We were about a fourth of the way through the room when Edward asked, "Otto wants to open the table cloth and see what's inside."

"I'll send the photographer and Agent Franklin in to oversee it." Bradley kept going for the door having to hurry a little to keep his own blood from contaminating the scene.

Neither Edward nor Olaf nor the uniform that had magically appeared to watch them fondle the evidence, asked how he'd hurt his hand. Maybe no one cared.

I followed Bradley across the gravel turn-around to the ambulance. There I were still too many people mulling around outside. Shouldn't they be out searching for the creature? It wasn't my job to tell them their job, but this was the freshest crime scene yet, and there just didn't seem to be enough frantic activity to suit me.

Bradley sat down at the end of the ambulance and let the techs treat his wound. Because it was a wound. Splinter, my ass. He'd stabbed himself. I tried to be a good girl and just stand there, but I think my impatience showed, because Bradley started talking.

"We did send people out to search when we arrived, and we arrived damn quick."

"I didn't say anything."

He smiled, then grimaced as the EMT did something to his hand that hurt. "Walk far enough away from the house to give a 360 look. Then come back and tell me what you see."

I looked at him. He motioned me off with his good hand. I shrugged and started walking. The heat was like a weight across my shoulders, but without humidity it just wasn't as bad. The gravel crunched under my feet, louder than it should have been. I walked in the opposite direction from the horse corral. The horses were still running in their endless chase like a maniac merry-go-round. I threaded my way through the cars, marked and unmarked. The fire truck had driven away. I wasn't sure why it had been here in the first place. Though sometimes when you call 911, you get more emergency vehicles than you need, especially if the caller panics and isn't specific enough.

I stopped beside the silent revolving lights of a car. Who had called the police? Did we actually have a witness? If we did, why hadn't anyone mentioned it? If we didn't, then who had called for help?

I walked until the hot dry wind rustling through the clumps of grass was louder than the electric squawk of radios. I stopped and turned back towards the house. The cars were small enough that I could have covered one of them with my hand. I'd probably walked farther out than I needed to go. Far enough out that if I yelled for help, they might not hear me. Not bright. I should walk further in, but I needed to be clear of it for awhile. I needed to be out in the wind alone. I compromised. I drew the Browning and put off the safety, pointing the barrel at the ground, one-handed. Now I could enjoy the solitude and still be safe. Though, truthfully, I wasn't sure if what we were chasing gave a damn about bullets, silver or otherwise.

Bradley had said to look. I looked. The ranch lay in a large round valley or maybe a plateau, since we'd had to drive up some hills to get here. Whichever, the land stretched flat and smooth for miles to the rim of distant hills. Of course, I'd been surprised by distances here, so maybe the hills were really mountains, and the land stretched for a very long way in every direction. There were no trees. There was almost no vegetation above thigh height to me. Whatever had taken that door out had been big, bigger than a man, though not by much. I turned in a slow circle, scanning the ground, and there was nowhere for something that large to hide. They'd walked this ground when they first arrived, full of confidence that the creature couldn't have gotten far. They marched out, and out, and out, and found nothing. The helicopter buzzed overhead, high enough that it didn't disturb the wind, but low enough that I was pretty sure it was looking at me. They were looking for anything unusual, and I was standing out here by myself, unusual enough.

The helicopter circled a few times, then buzzed off to search somewhere-else. I looked out at the empty land. There was nowhere to hide. Where had it gone? Where could it have gone?

Underground, maybe, or it flew away. If it flew away, I couldn't help them find it, but if it went underground ... Caves, or an old well, maybe. I'd suggest it to Bradley, and probably be told that they'd checked it. But hey, I was here to offer suggestions, wasn't I?

I heard someone behind me and whirled. I had the gun halfway up when I recognized Detective Ramirez. He had his hands up and to each side, away from his gun. I let out the breath I'd been holding and holstered the gun "Sorry."

"That's okay," he said. He was wearing another white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled back over dark, strong forearms. The tie was a different color but it still hung loose like a necklace, and the top two buttons of his shirt were open so that you could see the smooth hollow of his throat.

"No it's not. I'm not usually this jumpy." I hugged myself, not because I was cold. Far from it. But because I badly wanted someone to hold me. I wanted to be comforted. Edward had many uses. Comfort was not one of them.

Ramirez came up beside me. He didn't try and touch me, just stood very close and looked out over the land where I was looking. He spoke still staring out in the distance. "The case getting to you?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I don't know why."

He gave a sharp laugh and turned to me, face halfway between astonishment and humor. "You don't know why?"

I frowned at him. "No, I don't."

He shook his head, smiling, but his eyes were gentle. "Anita, this is an awful case. I've never seen anything this bad."

"I've seen things as bad as the vivisected victims, the ones that died."

His face sobered. "You've seen things that bad before?"

I nodded.

"What about the mutilations?" he asked. His face was very serious now, His smooth nearly black-brown eyes watched my face.

I shook my head. "I've never seen anything like the survivors." I laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "If survivor is the word for them. What kind of life are they going to have, if they live?" I hugged myself tighter, staring at the ground, trying not to think.

"I've been having nightmares," Ramirez said.

I looked up at him. Police don't admit things like that often, especially not to civilian consultants that they've just met. We looked at each other, and his eyes were so gentle, so genuine. Unless he was a much better actor than I thought he was, Ramirez was letting me see the real him. I appreciated it, but didn't know how to say it out loud. You don't verbalize something like that. The best you can do is return the favor. The trouble was, I wasn't sure what the real me was anymore. I didn't know what to put in my eyes. I didn't know what to let him see. I finally stopped trying to pick and choose, and think I settled for confused, bordering on scared.

He touched my shoulder lightly. When I didn't say anything, he moved into me, wrapping his arms across my back, holding me against him. I stayed stiff in his arms for a second or two, but didn't pull away. I relaxed against him in inches, until my head rested in the curve of his neck, my arms tentatively, around his waist. Hewhispered, "It will be all right, Anita."

I shook my head against his shoulder. "I don't think so."

He tried to see my face but I was standing too close, at too awkward an angle. I pulled back so he could see my face, and suddenly I felt awkward standing there with my arms around a stranger. I pulled away, and he let me go, only keeping the fingers of one hand grasped in his. He gave my hand a little shake. "Talk to me, Anita, please."

"I've been doing cases like this for about five years. When I'm not looking at the messily dead, I'm hunting vampires, rogue shapeshifters, you name it."

His was holding my hand solidly now, wrapped in the warmth of his skin. I didn't pull away. I needed something human to hold onto. I tried to put into words what I'd been thinking for awhile now. "A lot of cops never use their guns, not in thirty years. I've lost count of how many people I've killed." His hand tightened on mine, but he didn't interrupt. "When I started out, I thought vampires were monsters. I really believed it. But lately I'm not so sure. And regardless of what they are, they look very human. I could get a call tomorrow that would send me down to the morgue to put a stake through the heart of a body that looks every bit as human as you and me. Once I've got a court order of execution, I am legally sanctioned to shoot and kill the Vampire or vampires in question, and anyone that stands in my way. That includes human servants or people with just a bite on them. One bite, two bites, they can be healed, cured. But I've killed them to save myself, to save others."

"You did what you had to do."

I nodded. "Maybe, maybe, but that doesn't really matter anymore. It doesn't matter whether I'm right to do it, or not. Just because it's a righteous kill doesn't mean it doesn't affect you. I use to think that if I was right, it would he enough, but it's not."

He drew me a little closer with his hand. "What are you saying?"

I smiled. "I need a vacation."

He laughed then, and it was a good laugh, open and joyous, nothing special about it but his own astonishment. I'd heard better laughs but none when I needed it more. "A vacation, just a vacation?"

I shrugged. "I don't see myself taking up flower arranging, Detective Ramirez."

"Hernando," he said.

I nodded. "Hernando. This is part of who I am." I realized we were still holding hands, and I drew away from him. He let me, no protest. "Maybe if I take a break, I'll be able to do it again."

"What if a vacation isn't enough?" he asked.

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it." It wasn't just the brutal day in and day out of the job. My reaction to Bernardo's body and letting a perfect stranger comfort me were so unlike me. I was missing the guys, but it was more than that. When I left Richard, I left the pack, all my werewolf friends.

When I left Jean-Claude, I lost all the vamps, and strangely one or two of them were friends. You can be friends with a vampire as long as you remember that they are monsters and not human beings. How you can do both at the same time, I can't really explain, but I manage.

I hadn't just cut myself off from the men in my life for six months. I'd cut myself off from my friends. Even Ronnie, Veronica Sims, one of my few human friends had a new hot romance. She was dating Richard's best friend which made socializing awkward. Catherine, my lawyer and friend, had only been married two years, and I didn't like to interfere with her and Bob.

"You're thinking something very serious," Ramirez said.

I blinked and looked at him. "Just realizing how isolated I am even back home. Here, I am so ... " I shook my head without finishing it.

He smiled. "You're only isolated if you want to be, Anita. I've offered to show you the local sights."

I shook my head. "Thanks, really. Under other circumstances, I'd say, yes."

"What's stopping you?" he asked.

"The case for one. If I start dating one of the local cops, then my credibility goes down the tubes, and I'm not too high on some lists already."

"What else?" He had a very gentle face, soft, as if he would be very gentle in everything he did.

"I've got two men waiting back home. Waiting to see who I'm going to choose, or if I'm dumping both of them."

His eyes widened. "Two. I'm impressed."

I shook my head. "Don't be. My personal life is a mess."

"Sorry to hear that."

"I can't believe I just told you all that. It isn't like me."

"I'm a good listener."

"Yeah, you are."

"May I escort you back?"

I smiled at the old-fashioned phrasing. "Can you answer some questions first?"

"Ask." He sat down on the ground in his dark brown pants, lifting the pant legs so they wouldn't bunch.

I sat down beside him. "Who called the police?"

"A guest."

"Where is he or she?"

"Hospital. Severe shock brought on by trauma."

"No physical injuries?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Who were the mutilation vics this time?"

"The wife's brother and two nephews, all over twenty. They lived and worked on the ranch."

"What about the other guests? Where were they?"

He closed his eyes, as if visualizing the page. "Most of them were off on a planned outing, an overnight camping trip into the mountains. But the rest borrowed the ranch cars that are kept for the guests' use and left."

"Let me guess," I said. "They just felt restless, jittery, had to get out of the house."

Ramirez nodded. "Just like the neighbors around all the other houses."

"It's a spell, Ramirez," I said,

"Don't make me ask you again to use my first name."

I smiled and looked away from the teasing look in his eyes. "Hernando, this is either a spell or some sort of ability the creature possesses to cause fear, dread, in the ones it doesn't want to kill or hurt. But I'm betting on a spell."

"Why?"

"Because it's too selective to be a natural anxiety like a vampire's ability to hypnotize with its eyes. A vamp can bespell one person or a room full of people, but it can't do an entire street except for one house. It's too exact. You need to be able to organize your magic for this, and that means a spell."

He picked one of the rough-looking blades of grass, running it between his fingers. "So we're looking for a witch."

"I know something about wiccan and other flavors of witchcraft, and I don't know any way a lone wiccan, or even a coven could do this. I'm not saying there isn't a human spell worker involved somewhere, but there is definitely something otherworldly, nonhuman, at work here."

"We got some blood traces off the broken door."

I nodded. "Great. I wish someone would tell me when we find a clue. Everyone, including Ted, is playing it so close to the chest, I've spent most of my time going over ground that someone else has already figured out."

"Ask me and I'll tell you anything you want to know." He tossed the grass blade to the ground. "But we better be getting back before you get a worse reputation than just dating me."

I didn't argue. Put any woman in an area run mostly by men and rumors will fly. Unless you make it very clear that you are off limits, there is also a certain competitiveness that sets in. Some men are either trying to run you out of town or get into your pants. They don't seem to know any other way to deal with a woman. If you're not a sexual object, you're a threat. Always makes me wonder what kind of childhoods they had.

Hernando stood brushing grass and dirt off the back of his pants. He seemed to have had a dandy childhood, or at least he'd turned out well. Congrats to his parents. Someday he'd bring home a nice girl and have nice children in a nice house with yard work on the weekends, and every Sunday dinner at one set of grandparents or another. A nice life if you can get it, and he still got to solve murders. Talk about having it all.

What did I have? What did I really have? I was too young for a mid-life crisis, and too old for an attack of conscience. We started walking back towards the cars. I was hugging my arms again, and had to force myself to stop. I lowered my arms to my sides and walked along beside Ramirez ... ah, Hernando, like nothing was wrong.

"Marks said that one of the first cops on the scene had his throat nearly bitten out. How did that happen?"

"I wasn't here for the first rush. The lieutenant waited to call me in." There was a trace of harshness in his voice. He was gentle, but not if you pushed him. "But I heard that the three living victims attacked the cops. They had to subdue them with batons. They just kept trying to take pieces out of them."

"Why would they do that? How would they do it? I mean you skin most people and rip off pieces, they aren't going to feel like fighting."

"I helped pick up some of the earlier survivors, and they didn't fight. They just lay there and moaned. They were hurt and they acted hurt."

"Have they ever traced down Thad Bromwell, the son of the first scene I saw?"

Hernando's eyes widened. "Marks didn't call you?"

I shook my head.

"He is such a shithead."

I agreed. "What? Did they find the body?"

"He's alive. He was away on a camping trip with friends."

"He's alive," I said. Then whose soul had I seen hovering in the bedroom? I didn't say it out loud because I'd forgotten to mention the soul to the police. Marks had been ready to chase me out of town. If I'd started talking about souls floating near the ceiling, he'd have gotten matches and a stake.

But someone had died in that room, and the soul was still confused about where to go. Most of the time if the soul hovers, it hovers over the body, the remains. Only three people lived in the house, two of them mutilated, and the boy somewhere else.

I had an idea. "These new mutilation victims, they kept fighting, kept trying to take bites out of the officers?"

He nodded.

"Are you sure about the bites, not just hitting, but like they were trying to feed?"

"I don't know about feeding, but it was all bite wounds." He was looking at me strangely. "You've thought of something."

I nodded. "I may have. I have to see the other body, the one behind the door first, but then I think it's time to go back to the hospital."

"Why?"

I started walking again, and he grabbed my arm, turned me to face him, There was fierceness in his eyes, an intensity that trembled down his arm. "You've only been here a couple of days. I've been dealing with this for weeks. What do you know that I don't?"

I looked at his hand until he let me go, but I told him. He was having nightmares about this shit, and I hadn't gotten to that point yet. "I'm an animator. I raise zombies for a living. My specialty is the dead. One thing that the living dead have in common with one other from zombie, to ghoul, to vampire, is that they must feed off the living to sustain themselves."

"Zombies don't eat people," he said.

"If a zombie is raised and the animator that raised it can't control it, then it can go wild. It becomes a flesh-eating zombie."

"I thought that was just stories."

I shook my head. "No, I've seen it."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that maybe there are no survivors. Maybe there are just dead and the living dead."

He actually went pale. I touched his elbow to steady him, but he stood straight. "I'm all right. I'm all right." He looked at me. "What do you do with a flesh-eating zombie?"

"Once it's gone amok, there isn't anything anyone can do except destroy it. The only way to do that is fire. Napalm is good, but any fire will do."

"They'll never let us roast these people."

"Not unless we can prove what I'm saying is true."

"How can you prove it?" he asked.

"I'm not sure yet, but I'll talk to Doctor Evans and we'll come up with something."

"Why would the earlier vics be docile and these new ones be vicious?"

"I don't know, unless the spell or the monster is changing, maybe growing stronger. I just don't know, Hernando. If I'm right about there being no survivors, then I've had my brilliant idea for the day."

He nodded, face very serious. He stared at the ground. "Jesus, if they are all dead, then that means that this thing we're after is making more of itself?"

"I'd be surprised if it was ever human but maybe. I don't know. I do know that if it is growing stronger and the skinned ones are growing more violent,

I then the creature may be controlling them."

We looked at each other. "I'll call the hospital and get more men down there."

"Call the Santa Fe hospital, too."

He nodded and broke into a half-run across the gravel, moving through the cars like he had a purpose. The other cops were watching him, as if wondering what the rush was. I hadn't asked Hernando if they'd checked for underground hiding places. Shit. I went to find Bradley and ask him. Then I'd go back into the house one last time, see the last body, and then ... off to the hospital to answer the age-old question: what is life and when is death a sure thing?

34

THE MAN'S FACE stared up at me, eyes wide, glazed, unseeing. His head was still attached to his spine, but the chest had been split open as though two great hands had dug into his rib cage and pulled. The heart was missing. The lungs had been ripped, probably when the rib cage gave. The stomach had been punctured, giving a sour smell to the smaller room. The liver and intestines lay in a wet heap to one side of the body as if they had all spilled out at the same time. The lower intestine still curled down inside the lower end of the body cavity. By smell alone I was pretty sure that the intestines hadn't been pierced.

I sat back on my heels beside the body. Blood had splattered the lower half of the man's face, drops of it scattering across the rest of his face and into his graying hair. Violent, very violent, and very quick. I stared into his sightless eyes and felt nothing. I was back to being numb and I was not complaining. I think if I'd seen this body first, then I'd have been horrified, but the remains in the dining room had just used me up for the day. This was awful, but there were worse things, and those things were in the next room.

But it wasn't the body that was interesting. It was the room. There was a circle of salt around the body. A book lay within the circle covered so thickly in blood that I couldn't read the pages it was opened to. They'd taken all the pictures and videos they were going to in this room so I used borrowed gloves to raise the book up. It was bound with embossed leather, but there was no title. The middle half of the book had soaked so much blood up that the pages were sticking together. I didn't try and pry them apart. The police and the Feds had technicians for delicate work. I was careful not to close the book and lose the place the man was probably reading from. For all I knew the book had been on the desk that the man shoved against the door, and it had simply fallen to the floor, opening on its own. But to think that meant we had no clue, so we'd all pretend we were sure that the man had deliberately opened the book. In the middle of being chased by a monster that had just butchered his wife, he went for this book, opened it, started to read. Why?

The book was hand-written and I read enough to know that it was a book of shadows. It was the spell book, sort of, of a practicing witch. One that followed an older or more orthodox tradition than the neo-pagan movement Gardian or Alexandrian, maybe. Though again I couldn't be sure. I'd had one semester in college on comparative witchcraft, though now I'm sure they called it comparative wiccan. Of the wiccan practitioners I knew personally, none of them practiced anything this traditional.

I put the book carefully back where'd I'd found it and stood. The bookshelves against the near wall were full of books on psychic research, the preternatural, mythology, folklore, and wicca. I had some of the same books at home, so the books alone weren't proof of much. But the clincher was the altar. It was an antique wooden chest with a silk cloth over the top. There were silver candlesticks with partially burned candles in them. The candles had runes carved into them. Other than the fact that they were runes, I couldn't read them.

There was a round mirror with no frame sitting flat between the candles. There was a small bowl of dried herbs to one side, a larger bowl of water, and a small carved box tight shut.

"Is that what I think it is?" Bradley asked.

"An altar. He was a practitioner. I think that book is his book of shadows, his spell book for lack of a better term."

"What happened here?"

"There's salt in the floor of the dining room."

"That's not unusual," Bradley said.

"No, but a salt circle is. I think he was somewhere further back in the house. He heard his wife screaming or heard the monsters. Something alerted him. He didn't come running with a gun, Bradley. He came running with a handful of salt. Maybe he had something else in his hands or on his person, some charm or amulet. I don't see it, but that doesn't mean it's not here."

"Are you saying he threw salt at this thing?"

"Yes."

"Why, for god's sake?"

"Salt and flame are two of our oldest purifying agents. I use salt to bind a zombie back into its grave. You can throw it on fairies, fetches, a whole host of critters, and it will make them hesitate, maybe not much more."

"So he threw salt and maybe some charm at the creature, then what?"

"I think that's why the monster stopped, and why the tablecloth full of trophies is still sitting by the table."

"Why didn't the monster go back and get the trophies after he killed the man?"

"I don't know. Maybe he finished the spell before he died. Maybe he drove it from the house. I'd like to get a real wiccan in here to look over the scene."

"Wiccan, you mean witch."

"Yes, but most of them prefer the term wiccan."

"Politically correct," Bradley said.

I nodded. "Yeah."

"What could a real wiccan tell us that you can't?"

"She might know what spell he used. If the spell drove the thing from the house, then we might be able to use a version of the same spell to trap or even destroy it. Something this man did drove the creature out of this house before it was ready to go. He forced it to leave behind its goody bag and to leave without gutting his body. It's the first weakness we've seen in this thing."

"Franklin won't like bringing in a witch. Neither will the locals. If I force everyone to bring this wiccan in, and it doesn't work or she talks to the media, then the next time you see me I won't be an FBI Agent."

"Aren't you supposed to try every angle to solve this crime? Isn't that your job?"

"The FBI doesn't use witches, Anita."

I shook my head. "How the hell did you get me in then?"

"Forrester had already brought you in on the case. All I had to do was stand up to Marks."

"And Franklin," I said.

He nodded. "I outrank Franklin."

"Then why is he so snotty?"

"It seems to be a natural talent of his."

"I don't want to get you fired, Bradley." I went to the overturned desk and started opening the drawers. There was a gun cabinet in the living room. Most people who had a cabinet full of them kept one for personal protection.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

I opened the larger bottom drawer, and there it was. "Come here, Bradley."

He came to peer into the drawer. The gun was a 9 mm Smith and Wesson. It lay on the side of the drawer where it had fallen when the desk tipped over. Bradley stared down at the gun. "Maybe it's not loaded. Maybe he had the ammo locked in the living room."

"Can I touch it?"

He nodded.

I lifted it, and just by the weight I was pretty sure it was loaded, but it wasn't a gun I was familiar with, so I popped the clip and showed it to Bradley.

"Full," he said, voice soft.

"Full." I slid the clip back inside the gun, hitting it sharply with the palm of my hand to make it click. "He had a loaded 9 mm in his desk, but he grabbed salt and his book of shadows. He didn't waste time grabbing for the gun. He either knew what the thing was, or he sensed something about it and knew the gun wouldn't work, and that the spell would." I raised the gun up so that Bradley looked at it, the barrel pointed at the ceiling. "The spell worked, Bradley, We need to know what it was, and the only way to know that is to get a witch in here."

"Can't you take the book and just show her pictures?"

"What if the position of the book is important? What if there are clues to the spell in the circle itself? I don't practice this kind of ritual magic, Bradley. For all I know if you get someone in here, they may be able to sense something that I can't. Do you really want to take the chance that pictures and just seeing the book in their own home will be just as good as seeing it here like this?

"You're asking me to risk my career."

"I am asking you to risk your career," I said, "but I'm also asking you to not risk any more innocent lives. Do you really want to see this done to another couple, another family?"

"How can you be so sure that this is the key?"

"I'm not sure, but it's the closest thing we've seen to a break in this case. I'd hate to lose it because of career jitters."

"It's not just that, Anita. If we use anything more exotic than psychics and we fail, then the entire unit could be disbanded."

I placed the gun in his hand. He stared at it. "I trust you to do the right thing, Bradley. That's why you're one of the good guys."

He shook his head. "And to think I blackmailed Marks to get you back on the case."

"You knew I was a pain in the ass when you fought to get me back on the case. It's one of my many charms."

That earned me a weak smile. He was still holding the gun flat across his hand. His fingers tightened around it. "You know any witches in the area?"

I grinned at him. "No, but I bet Ted does." I shook my head. "I've never hugged an FBI agent, but I'm tempted."

That made him smile, but his eyes stayed cautious, unhappy. I was asking a lot from him. I touched his arm. "I wouldn't ask you to bring in a witch if I didn't think it was our best shot. I wouldn't ask just on a whim."

He gave me a long look. "I know. You are one of the least whimsical people I've ever met."

"I would say you should see me when I'm not neck deep in corpses, but it doesn't really matter. I don't get much lighter than this."

"I've checked the cases you've helped the St. Louis PD solve, Anita. Gruesome stuff. How old are you now?"

I frowned at the question then answered it. "Twenty-six."

"How long have you been helping the police?"

"About four years."

"The Bureau switches its agents off the serial killer shit about every two years. Whether they want to transfer or not. Then after a break, they can come back."

"You think I need a break?"

"Everyone burns out eventually, Anita, even you."

"Actually, I'm thinking about a vacation when I get home."

He nodded. "That's good."

I looked up at him. "Do I look like I need a break?"

"I've seen it before in other agents' eyes."

"Seen what?" I asked.

"Like your eyes are a cup, and every horror you see is another drop added. Your eyes are full of the things you've seen, the things you've clone. Get out while there's still some room for things that don't bleed."

"That is damn poetic for an FBI agent."

"One friend stayed with it until he had a heart attack."

"I think I'm a little young for that," I said.

"Another friend ate his gun."

We stared at each other. "I'm not the suicidal type."

"I also don't want to see you in jail."

My eyes widened. "Whoa. I do not know what you're talking about."

"The state department confirmed Otto Jefferies is a retired government worker, but they couldn't access the rest of his file at the present time. I've got a friend at the state department with a level two secret clearance. He couldn't access Otto Jefferies' files either. He's a total black out, which means he'sa spook of some kind. You do not want to get involved with the spooks, Anita. If they try to recruit you, say no. Don't try to find out who Otto really is, or what he did. Don't get nosy or you'll end up in a hole somewhere. Just work with him, leave him alone, and move on."

"You sound like you're talking from personal experience," I said.

He shook his head. "I'm not going to talk about it."

"You brought it up," I said.

"I told you just enough to get your attention, I hope. Just trust me on this. Stay the fuck away from these people."

I nodded. "It's okay, Bradley. I don't like ... Otto. And he hates women, so don't worry. I don't think it would occur to him to try and recruit me."

"Good." He put the gun back in the desk drawer and closed it.

"Besides," I said, "what would the top secret set want with me?"

He looked at me, and it was a look that I wasn't used to getting. The look said, I was being naive. "Anita, you can raise the dead."

"So?"

"I can think of a half a dozen uses for that one talent alone."

"Like what?"

"Prisoner dies in interrogation. Doesn't matter. Raise him up again. A world leader is assassinated. We need a few days to get our troops ready, raise the leader for a few days. Give us time to control the panic, or stop the revolution."

"Zombies are not alive, Bradley. They couldn't pass for a country's leader."

"From a distance, for two or three days, don't even try and say you couldn't pull that off."

"I wouldn't do it," I said.

"Even if it meant that hundreds of lives could be saved, or hundreds of Americans could be evacuated in safety."

I looked at him. "I ... I don't know."

"No matter how good the cause seems at the beginning, Anita, eventually it won't be. Eventually, when you're so far in you can't see daylight, they'll ask things of you that you won't want to do."

I was hugging myself again, which irritated me. No one had approached me to do anything on an international level. Olaf thought I was good for only one thing and that did not include helping the government. But it did make me wonder how Edward had met him. Edward was spooky, but was he a spook?

I looked up at Bradley's so serious face. "I'll be careful." Then I had a thought. "Did someone approach you about me?"

"I was thinking about offering you a job with us." I raised eyebrows at him.

He laughed. "Yeah, after looking through your file, it was decided that you're too independent, too much a wild card. It was decided that you not thrive in a bureaucratic setting."

"You got that right, but I am flattered you thought of me."

His face went back to serious, and there were lines in his face that I hadn't seen before. It made him look forty plus. Most of the time he didn't. "Your file got flagged, Anita. It got moved up the line. I don't know where to or who asked for it, but there is government work out there for the independent wild card if they have specialized enough skills."

I opened my mouth, closed it, and finally said, "I'd say you were joking but you're not, are you?"

He shook his head. "I wish I was."

Edward had said that he wouldn't have brought Olaf in if he'd known I was coming. It made it sound like Olaf had been invited in, not volunteered, but I'd ask Edward. I'd make sure.

"Thank you for telling me, Bradley. I don't know much about this stuff but I know you're taking a chance telling me at all."

"I had to tell you, Anita. You see it was me that pulled your file in the first place. I was the one that pushed to get you invited in. I brought you to someone's attention. For that I am heartily sorry."

"It's okay, Bradley. You didn't know."

He gave a small shake of his head, and the look on his face was bitter. "But I should have."

I didn't know what to say to that. It turned out I didn't have to say anything. Bradley walked out of the room. I waited a second or two, then followed him out. But I couldn't shake the unease. He'd meant to scare me, and he'd succeeded. It was all Big Brother watching and paranoia. He already had me wondering if Olaf had invited himself, or even if Edward could have been asked to recruit me. It wouldn't surprise me that Edward worked for the government, at least part time. He took money from anyone.

It would have seemed silly if I hadn't seen the look on Bradley's face. If he hadn't told me about my file. He said file, like everyone had a file. Maybe they did. But someone had requested my file. I had a sudden image of my life, my crimes, all printed in neat type crossing one shadowy desk after another until it reached, where? Or would the question be who?

Blake, Anita Blake. It even sounded funny. Of course, the federal government has never been known for its sense of humor.

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