The Voodoo Killings Page 13

  I nodded. “That about sums it up. Max needs time to figure out what went wrong.”

  “I’m a zombie, not an idiot. I don’t even remember Max. At all. How do I know you both aren’t lying?”

  I shrugged. “You don’t. But if it counts, I don’t think Max would lie about something like this.”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Cameron, it’s the best I can do. As much as I sympathize, you’re Max’s client. I have to let him call the shots.”

  Cameron glanced down at his hand. His fingernails were waxy and white now without the blood flow. “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

  I shrugged. “Technically, you could call the police, but I don’t think you’d like where that ends.”

  He ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. The policy on what to do with stray and feral zombies was automatic cremation.

  “Fine, I’ll give it three days,” he said.

  “I’ll take you to your apartment later so you can pick up anything you need.” I fumbled for something else to say. Zombie counselling was not in my repertoire. “Is there someone you want me to call? Friends? Family? We can come up with something to tell them.”

  He shook his head again. “For now, no one will notice I’m gone.”

  It made me wonder how many people would notice if I disappeared. “At least soon you can start getting your life back together.” Or what was left of it. I hadn’t had the heart to mention the temporary clause in his agreement with Max. It’d be like kicking someone after hitting them with a baseball bat.

  “So you trust this Max?” Cameron asked.

  “You trusted him,” I said, sidestepping that issue.

  Cameron gave a wry smile. “My judgment is suspect at the best of times.”

  I couldn’t argue with that.

  As I turned to head back to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of what Cameron had been working on. It was a sketch of Nate, an uncanny reproduction of the ghost grey I saw when I tapped the Otherside, with an added layer of shading overtop. Only one part of the overlaid image was complete: a pair of sunken, shaded eyes.

  Cameron covered the picture with his hand. “It’s not finished yet,” he said. “I try not to let people see my work until it’s finished.”

  “I’ve never seen Nate like that.”

  He shrugged. “Drawing helps me deal with things.”

  I’d always assumed that to zombies ghosts looked like horror movie extras. Apparently they didn’t—or at least Nate didn’t. He looked more like a sad victim, the angles and hollows of his face reminding me of people who’d lived on the streets too long. I don’t know what it was—maybe just the glimpse into Cameron’s new world—but it struck me that I didn’t have a good reason not to take a closer look at Cameron’s bindings, even research some of the symbols. Max would never know.

  “Come on, Cameron,” I said, and headed for the kitchen.

  “Kincaid?” he said, but then I heard him fall in step behind me.

  “There’s something we can do while we wait for Max.” I pulled out a kitchen chair for him. “Sit.”

  He did as I asked. “Why do I get the distinct impression I’m not going to enjoy this?”

  “I’m going to take a quick look at your bindings—just a look this time. It should only tingle a bit and I’ll be as fast as I can. You okay with that?”

  He frowned. “I don’t remember much from last night, but I distinctly remember not liking that. But if you think it might help.”

  I was more worried about the effect on me than on Cameron. I wouldn’t risk a full globe, but even so my Otherside hangover hadn’t quite tailed off yet. If I went easy, just peeked, didn’t tweak the lines, I should be fine.

  I was not ready for the huge wave of nausea that flooded me. I forced it back, opened my eyes and looked at Cameron.

  His bindings reverberated under my scrutiny like strings on a piano, and he winced.

  I frowned. He shouldn’t be feeling a thing.

  “This isn’t what I had in mind when I said I didn’t want to sit around and wait for three days,” he said through clenched teeth. He grabbed the table.

  “Just sit still, will you?” I said. “It’ll go faster.”

  He froze in place. I ignored the four main anchor symbols in his body—I already recognized those—and focused instead on the six unfamiliar gear-like symbols in his head. Without looking away, I grabbed a piece of paper and pen from my kitchen desk and began making a map of the gear symbols, capturing as much detail as I could.

  I pushed back a second wave of nausea. As soon as I’d copied the symbols, I gave the lines a cursory look. Last night I’d been worried they were fragile, but today they looked stable enough. Maybe Max was right….Hey, wait just a minute. Was it me or had the bindings shifted? I could have sworn one of the gears had turned clockwise a few degrees.

  “Kincaid, are you done yet?” Cameron said. He was gripping the chair arms now.

  I stared, and then there it was again. The highest gear was turning, slowly and clockwise. Then the gear beside it turned, slower and not as far.

  Were they supposed to turn? “Cameron, what are you thinking? Right now?”

  “Besides the fact that this blows? Nothing,” he said, his face taut. The two gears turned again and Cameron’s arm twitched.

  “You can’t be thinking of nothing. Come on, try harder. This is important.”

  “I—I was just thinking about a painting I’m working on. It’s hard to concentrate on anything, though, with that humming.”

  “What humming? Explain it to me,” I said, none too gently, as I pushed another wave of nausea back. The gears kept turning in slow rotation and one of the thin anchor lines leading to Cameron’s heart began to tighten along its length. That couldn’t be good.

  “The last piece I was working on was a water scene.” A third gear began to turn.

  “Like what? Boats in the harbour?” I blinked as a bead of sweat ran into my eye. What the—? I shouldn’t be sweating. I never sweat when I tap the barrier….

  The gears stopped turning and Cameron’s eyelids drooped shut.

  “Cameron!” I yelled.

  His eyes snapped back open. He stood and shook his head before they could drift shut again. “No, not boats—more what it would be like diving into murky water without a mask and opening your eyes.”

  A fourth gear began to rotate, this one counter-clockwise. I watched as the fifth anchor line, the one to Cameron’s head, began to tighten.

  His eyes rolled back into his head and his legs gave out underneath him. He dropped to his knees.

  “Cameron!” I yelled. Damn it, none of the Otherside should even be reaching him.

  More sweat dripped into my eyes. Whatever was going on with Cameron’s bindings, I needed to stop it before the whole thing unravelled. I dropped my barrier tap. Cameron didn’t move and his eyes didn’t open.

  Shit. If taking away Otherside didn’t work, maybe overloading the lines would.

  Before the sane, self-preserving part of my mind had a chance to talk me out of it, I tapped the Otherside again. The four gears were still turning and the anchor lines now wavered the way they had last night. I pulled a globe and gathered as much Otherside as I could, hanging on to the edge of the table to stop myself from collapsing. I’d broken out in a full sweat. Not sure that was a good sign. I threw the entire globe at Cameron.

  The gears stopped turning. I dropped my globe and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Cameron collapsed like a rag doll.

  Thank god he was already on his knees, otherwise he might have done some serious damage.

  I managed to haul him back into the chair. His eyes fluttered open.

  “Cameron, I’m so sorry. It shouldn’t have had that effect.”

  He groaned. “Whatever you just did? Next time, don’t.” He hunched over the kitchen table. “Did you get what you needed?”

  “I think I know where we can start.” I open
ed my laptop and logged back into the Seattle PD’s missing persons reports. Still no mention of Cameron. Good.

  Next, I entered his name into the Google search window. A slew of images of paintings and snapshots of Cameron at various clubs and art openings came up. A regular Warhol Silver Factory–style prodigy, if the photo catalogue of his night at the Gallery 6 open house was any indication.

  But that wasn’t what I was looking for. I already knew Cameron had been a spectacular wreck. What I wanted popped up two search results down, thumbnailed with a smiling headshot of Cameron.

  His Facebook page.

  Cameron hadn’t bothered to put any filters in place, so everything was public. The sheer volume of paintings posted told me he wasn’t shy about self-promotion. Friends, clients, buyers, fans—a gaggle of models, one or two of whom I thought might be ex-girlfriends. Come to think of it, they might be Nate’s ex-girlfriends….

  A snapshot of a redhead caught my attention, a selfie posted of her and Cameron dated Wednesday night. That had to be the girlfriend he’d mentioned. The tag said her name was Sybil.

  There was no mention of family anywhere. In this day and age, that was unusual. A lot of people wanted to hide some part of their family; most people have some uncle, brother, sister, parent, in-law they’d like to forget. But in the digital universe, the people you wanted to distance yourself from the most were the ones who made it next to impossible. I’d had to change my last name to distance myself from mine….Or maybe Cameron had no family—always a possibility.

  Cameron had come up behind me and was peering over my shoulder at his page. “Would you be offended if I told you I found this a bit creepy?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You want to drive? Be my guest.” I slid out of the chair so he could sit. “I need you to search for any posts you might have made in the last few days, especially during the nights you can’t remember. In fact, look through the posts you made over the past month. My guess is your zombie condition took at least that long to plan.”

  “That could take a while. I post a few times a day.”

  I nodded. That’s what I was counting on. The more he’d posted, the easier it’d be to pinpoint the gaps in his memory and fill them in. I handed him a pad of paper and pen from my desk pile. “Once you finish with this week, go back through September and August. Make a note of every entry you can’t remember posting.”

  He nodded.

  “Remember you told me there were three people you saw this week? I want you to contact all of them: your art dealer, your girlfriend and your drug dealer. Contact them all the way you normally would—e-mail, FB, phone—just do it and ask to meet.”

  “You think one of them was involved?”

  I shrugged. “Probably not, but maybe they can fill in some more blank spots.”

  Cameron stared at the screen. “Samuel, my art dealer, won’t be a problem. But the other two?” He glanced up at me. “I’ll do my best.”

  I headed into the bedroom to grab clean clothes then ducked into the shower, locking the door behind me. No more zombie interruptions.

  I hung a towel over the mirror and stripped off my sweat-soaked clothes. While I waited for the water to heat up, my hands began to shake. That was new too. It took me five minutes under the hot water to warm myself up. After I’d stepped out of the shower and dried off, I held out my hands. There was still a slight tremble.

  Come on, Kincaid, snap out of it. The problem isn’t Otherside—it’s that you need a serious vacation.

  I got dressed, then checked the time on my cellphone. I had to hit the underground city and touch base with Lee. Hell, she might even pay me what she owed me for looking into Marjorie’s. And then to Catamaran’s, if I had time: Randall would appreciate an update. I wrote a note for Nate on the mirror: Heading out—need to see Lee and stop in at Catamaran’s. Can you check in on Cameron every hour till 7?

  It took less than a minute for Nate to respond. SURE, K—EVERYTHING OKAY?

  That was almost laughable. As well as can be expected. Will fill you in tonight. Brains are in the metal cooler—still has plenty of dry ice so will leave on counter. Otherwise Nate would have to waste energy opening the fridge—not something I wanted if there was an emergency. If something goes wrong before 7, message or Skype me.

  AT THE RISK OF SOUNDING OBVIOUS, WHAT HAPENS IF THERES AN EMERGENCY AFTER 7?

  Good question. We hope to hell there isn’t one? I’ll lock the doors and windows and leave Cameron with instructions to call me. I’d also leave him with Aaron’s number, and explicit instructions to use it only in an extreme emergency, but Nate didn’t need to know that right now.

  YOUR THE BOSS—SEE YOU AT THE LIBARY AT 7.

  I grabbed my jacket off the rack in the hall and headed into the kitchen. “Any luck?” I asked Cameron.

  He nodded. “Sybil will be at Club 9 tomorrow night.”

  Club 9. An upscale club in which I’d stick out like a sore thumb. “Something less ritzy, maybe?”

  Cameron shook his head. “You said not to make it obvious. She’s planning on going anyways, so I put us on the list. It’s the best I could do. She’s leaving town Monday for a shoot.”

  I nodded and slid the cooler out of the fridge and dropped it on the kitchen counter. “The other two?”

  “No answer yet. That’s not unusual, though—it’s the weekend.”

  “Any pets, or people who might notice you’re not home?”

  “Already thought of that.” He showed me the screen. He’d written a new post saying he was taking it easy this weekend and would see people at Club 9 Sunday. “The doorman at my condo might notice that I haven’t been home, but that isn’t exactly outside my realm of normal behaviour.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be thrilled or depressed at that revelation about his life. “We’ll go through the list when I get back and see if we can figure out where your memory tailspun.”

  I motioned for Cameron to give me his arm. The skin and nails were still holding up. Next I checked his eyes. Lighter, but the irises were still a living shade of green. In theory he’d be good for another day without brains, but I wasn’t willing to take that chance. I opened the cooler and pulled out one of the packets.

  “Look, I’m heading out again. I should be back by midnight, but in case something happens, we’re going over ground rules. Write this down.”

  Cameron nodded and reached for a fresh piece of paper.

  I tapped the cooler. “Eat a pack now, and another at seven or eight tonight. If I get delayed, I’ll send Nate back to you. Worst-case scenario and neither of us shows up by tomorrow morning, eat a third pack and call Lee Ling.” I took the sheet of paper and wrote down Lee’s number. “She’ll know what to do. If she can’t get a hold of me, she’ll make arrangements for you to get to the underground city.” I paused before making my last point, then said, “If you don’t hear anything from me by late Sunday afternoon, call this man.” I pulled Aaron’s crumpled card out of my drawer and gave it to Cameron.

  Cameron picked up the card. “Detective Baal? A cop?”

  “Trust me, if you find yourself in a position where you need to call Detective Baal, the fact he’s a cop will be the least of your worries.

  “Don’t let anyone in and don’t go outside, and you should be fine. Draw some pictures, watch some TV—try to relax. And remember to eat more brains tonight.”

  “You told me that already.”

  “It bears repeating.”

  Cameron pinned the sheet of instructions and Aaron’s card to my bulletin board.

  I gave him a last once-over before grabbing my bike and ducking out of the apartment.

  One thing Max had said at coffee stuck in my head as I pulled the Hawk out of the lift.

  Tread carefully, Kincaid.

  CHAPTER 11

  FLOTSAM

  Midday on a Saturday, Pioneer Square was crowded and the alleys bright in the midday light. Good thing there was more than one entrance to the undergrou
nd city. I took the Alaskan viaduct along the piers until I reached a spot on the shoreline where one of Seattle’s rain sewers emptied through a wide pipe. I eased down one of the old boat ramps and drove right inside. Two hundred yards in, I reached my goal: a circular metal door to a tunnel that had once been used to control runoff. Now it was fitted with a wheel handle covered in etched symbols, much like the entrance off Pioneer Square.

  I tapped the barrier, only pulling enough Otherside to see the symbols. After I lined up the arrow and turned it through the right combination, the hinge clicked open and damp, stale air filtered out. I ditched my bike just inside the door behind a stack of old barrels. Ten minutes later, I earned stares from the afternoon crowd as I walked into Damaged Goods. It’s rare for me to show up in the middle of the day.

  Lee arched an eyebrow at me as I took a seat at the bar. “You are back sooner than anticipated,” she said, and held up an empty glass.

  I shook my head. “Not with this Otherside hangover. And I thought you were paying me to be fast.”

  “I do not recall that being one of my conditions.”

  “Okay, so it’s one of mine. Besides, I found something.” I took paper and a pencil crayon out of my jacket pocket and began to sketch Marjorie’s café, indicating where the Otherside fragments had landed. On a second sheet I drew the three partial symbols I’d been able to make out, the remnants of Marjorie’s bindings. I numbered each of the partials and indicated on the coffee shop map where I’d seen them, then slid the two sheets across the bar. With the tip of a lacquered white fingernail covered in red blossoms, she drew them closer. A frown touched her face.

  “What are these, Kincaid?”

  “As far as I can tell, all that’s left of Marjorie’s bindings. They look Celtic to me. I had to break wards protecting her window.”

  Lee’s frown deepened. “If I had known about the barrier, I would have told you, Kincaid.” She pointed to the largest, most complete rune, then tapped it. Her manicure matched the decor. So did her dress, for that matter. “Why do you assume this is a Celtic rune?” she asked.