The Voodoo Killings Read online

  Mork grinned. His teeth were straight and bleach white—easily his best feature—yet he somehow managed to make good teeth cringe-worthy.

  I don’t know what was worse, Nate hitching a ride or Mork being so close.

  “Trouble with your scaredy ghost?” he said.

  “Nate’s fine, thanks. He just doesn’t like you.” I felt the mental kick from Nate but ignored it.

  A slow smirk spread across Mork’s face as he gave me the once-over. A chill ran down my side, and for a second I thought it was Nate, until I realized a draft was coming from an open side door I’d never noticed before. It wasn’t hidden, exactly, it just blended into the wall. I glanced inside: a walk-in fridge of some sort.

  I was about to say something less than pleasant when I noticed the portable cooler in his hand.

  And that was why everyone, including Lee, put up with Mork. Mork was creepy, but he knew his brains. Clean, professional, no questions, and—most importantly—no trail. Where did the brains come from? Who knew? Scratch that. Down here, who cared? My best guess was that Mork was a coroner’s assistant.

  I nodded at the cooler. “I take it that’s for me?” I said.

  His smirk didn’t falter as the steel cooler clanked to the floor. He flicked the lid up and, using the tip of his boot, slid it across the floorboards towards me.

  “Watch it, Mork. You scratch Lee’s floors, she’s going to be pissed.”

  A heavy cloud of carbon dioxide flowed over the edges. When the cloud dispersed, it revealed a dozen or so vacuum-sealed bags nestled amongst dry ice. I counted the bags.

  Twelve.

  I counted once more to be sure, then glanced back up at Mork. “You’re three vacuum bags shy.”

  He shrugged. “Price went up. Had to add a few security measures.” His eyes narrowed and he glanced in the direction of the bar. “Every time someone raises a new zombie…”

  I hate being accused of shit I didn’t do. I’d grown up in a household that was more concerned about apologizing nicely than figuring out who was actually at fault, which made it a real sore spot for me. I did not need accusations from Mork. I picked up the cooler and tossed him the envelope. “Not my zombie, Mork. I’m on cleanup duty.”

  “Not like I care one way or the other,” he said, and counted the money in front of me—twice—before stuffing it inside his leather duster. “Nice doing business with you, Kincaid. I’d say it was a pleasure, but…” He put his rubber work gloves back on and tipped his hat, then headed back into the walk-in.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, I felt a pull like someone stretching an elastic. There was a snap and Nate formed in front of me.

  “I hate that guy,” he said.

  I didn’t exactly hate Mork, but I sure as hell wanted out of that hallway.

  “You’re a ghost, Nate. Mork isn’t even a beginner practitioner. He can’t do anything to you—”

  “Dude, he’s terrifying.”

  I shook my head and pushed open the door into the bar. A few more zombies and practitioners had filtered in; other places in town must have filled up. My eyes went straight to where I’d left Cameron. A trio of zombies trying to order drinks blocked my view, though that had to be his blue hoodie just past them.

  “I’m not a dude….”

  I trailed off as two of the zombies moved. The one in the hoodie wasn’t Cameron. Where the hell was he? I scanned the rest of the bar. There was no sign of Lee either.

  “Son of a bitch, she promised she’d watch him.” Well, she hadn’t promised to watch him, but she hadn’t actively disagreed. This was exactly where trying to do the right thing got you. “Nate, come on, he couldn’t have gotten too far.”

  A light ghost tap on my shoulder stopped me from sprinting out the front door.

  “Over there,” Nate said.

  At the end of the bar, enclosed by a set of photo-booth curtains, was the pinball machine. Zombies love pinball machines: the lights, the chimes, the rapidly careening metal balls. Since Lee had brought them in, they had proven a huge draw, but therein lay the problem: when sitting out in the open, they were irresistible to the zombies, like sticking a bottle of whisky in front of a recovering alcoholic. Too many of them spiralled into an all-consuming pinball bender, doing anything to keep the quarters coming. I’d seen zombies blow years’ worth of savings. For that reason, Lee kept the pinball machines along with their bright lights hidden from sight.

  I followed the line of curtains to the floor. A pair of sneakers, like the ones Cameron wore, stuck out underneath.

  I strode over and swung the curtain back.

  The pinball was careening around the top corner, setting off a cacophony of alarms and lights, and it took a moment for Cameron to register me.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  He raised an eyebrow and his glass of brains before turning back to the game.

  “Cameron, where did you get the quarters?”

  “Lee Ling,” he said, not bothering to glance up this time. “She said I could waste my time just as well playing pinball as staring at her.”

  Another free-game ball had dropped into his queue. “All righty, then.” I dropped the curtain, leaving Cameron in peace, and headed for the bar.

  Nate circled me. “Umm, not that I want to tell you what to do…”

  “Then don’t.”

  “Should you be leaving him there?”

  “He’ll run out of quarters soon enough, and he won’t have his short-term memory back until I get this into him.” I held up the cooler. “Way I figure it, he can’t do any serious damage.”

  Nate glanced back at the curtain before darting ahead of me to grab a seat at the bar. “Man, I need to stay on your good side.”

  “Better believe it.”

  I made a point of not putting any part of my jacket on the bar this time as I scanned the room for Lee, who was missing from the bar well again, even though a line of zombies were waiting for service.

  I gauged the distance to the taps and stretched myself over the bar, careful not to touch it. I picked up two pint sleeves and reached for the tap. Bingo. I poured a beer for Nate and one for me.

  I passed one to him. “Bottoms up.”

  Nate stared at the full glass with something akin to reverence. You’d only catch it if you were looking for it, but his hands and face took on more substance. Not quite solid, but close. It took a hell of a lot out of a ghost to solidify even a little, but he had to use the energy if he wanted to drink.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he said, and gunned back the beer.

  I doubted very much Jesus had anything to do with it.

  The metal cooler safely tucked under my feet, I hazarded one more glance at the pinball alcove. Then Nate’s empty glass clinked on the bar and I turned to see him eyeing me.

  “What?”

  Nate leaned in close. “At what point were you going to explain to me why you have a dead artist playing pinball? You aren’t starting a collection, are you?”

  I choked on my beer. “How the hell do you know who he is?”

  “Ummm, what self-respecting Seattle native doesn’t know who Cameron Wight is?” When I didn’t immediately respond, he added, “Cameron Wight? The modern, contemporary—whatever the hell you call it—artist? Has a penchant for art, drugs, women. In that order.”

  “I know who Cameron Wight is. I watch the news, but you don’t, so how do you know who he is?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a set mirror in one of the art galleries. It’s not one I can stroll out of, but the view’s decent. I’ve seen his work, and him.” He stopped to focus on his hand, solidifying it so he could set his empty glass spinning. “I think he’s sleeping with one of my exes.”

  “You think?”

  Nate solidified the tip of his hand and rested a finger on the rotating rim. The glass sang like a wind chime. “It was foggy,” he said.

  “Are you referring to the mirror or the patchy memory that is the result of your short life?”

>   He stopped the glass spinning and arched an eyebrow at me. “You really want to know?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Annnddd so we mark your descent into cheap voyeurism.”

  Nate looked up at the strings of lamps. “Nah, I was always into cheap—”

  “Nathan Cade.” Lee Ling’s voice rang out through the bar.

  “Shit.” Nate spun around with inhuman speed, scanning the room as the muted roar of conversation came to a halt. Lee stood at the back of the room holding two frosted blenders full of what I can only describe as green zombie mojitos, her green eyes on Nate.

  Nate turned to me, eyes wide in panic. “Kincaid, you got to spot me two hundred bucks.”

  “What?” It came out louder than I’d intended, garnering even more attention from the zombies on either side of us. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “This is an emergency—”

  Lee was making her way towards us at a clip, the tight skirt barely slowing her down.

  “Lee already warned me once,” he said.

  Oh, for the love of—Lee had even less patience for Nate’s total lack of financial awareness than I did. I glared at my roommate. “Nate, I don’t have two hundred bucks.”

  “We did a gig a couple weeks ago—” Panic edged his voice.

  I shook my head. “Most of that went to rent, and then remember you begged me to buy Call of War and Demon Run.”

  “Shit.” Nate slumped down onto the bar; he didn’t have to worry about getting creosote on his coat sleeves. “Please, Kincaid.”

  “Nate, I’m broke.”

  “You just blew five hundred on brains!”

  “What the hell? Were you watching Mork count it over my shoulder?”

  “Kincaid, I’m desperate—”

  “Nate, no.”

  “Pleeaasseee—”

  Too late. Lee leaned across the bar so her face was mere inches from Nate’s. “Nathan Cade. Where is my money?”

  Nate’s expression was immediately sheepish. “Hi Lee, how are you? Been, what, two, three weeks now?” Nate glanced at me, pleading.

  Lee turned to look at me too. Waiting.

  I sighed. “How the hell did you get so irresponsible?”

  “More money than sense and an army of professional handlers?”

  “You’re doing the D&D gig next Sunday,” I said to him.

  Nate held up both hands. “Totally. I’m in. They can dress me up as a fairy queen for all I care.”

  “It’s elves. And they might.” I turned to Lee. “I’ll cover it.”

  Lee nodded and gave Nate one last even stare. “You are lucky, Nathan Cade. Usually I would not have been so generous.”

  Done with Nate, Lee started to pour the green, mojito-like contents of one of the blenders into glasses when something caught her attention in the office. She abandoned the drinks and headed for her door. On the way, she shouted what was clearly an order in Chinese, and Mork stepped out of the back hall, removed a thick leather apron and came behind the bar to finish filling drink orders for the increasing crowd of zombies.

  Wonders never ceased. Mork not only understood Chinese, he was actually pulling his weight at the bar.

  “Line up, already,” Mork shouted. “This isn’t a feeding trough.”

  So he didn’t quite have Lee’s grace, and if the place hadn’t looked like a Chinese western before…

  “Incoming,” Nate said.

  I checked over my shoulder. Cameron had abandoned the pinball machine and was heading our way.

  “Ran out of quarters,” he said when he reached us, doing his best not to look at Nate.

  Nate may have been irresponsible, but he was not insensitive. He knew the effect ghosts have on zombies, especially new ones. He finished off his beer and nodded at Cameron. “Nice to meet you. See you at home, Kincaid.” He dissolved off the chair to find his own way back to the mirror.

  The zombie sitting on the other side of Nate glanced down at my cooler as Nate vanished. He looked away as soon as he caught me noticing.

  I slid off the stool and grabbed the cooler. “I don’t know about you, Cameron, but I’m about ready to blow this Popsicle stand.” I would have beelined out of the bar right then if Lee hadn’t reappeared at the entrance to her office. She inclined her chin and motioned for us to follow her.

  There were some things you didn’t do in the underground city; ignoring Lee was one of them.

  Cameron in tow, I made my way around the bar and deposited him outside Lee’s office door. “Stay right here, Cameron. I’ll just be a couple minutes.” I hoped.

  Lee stood at her desk, her back to me. No redecorating in here; it hadn’t needed it. Lee’s office achieved a level of tidiness I wouldn’t ever aspire to. The only thing that was out of place was a desk drawer with an ornate antique lock I’d never noticed before, which was standing open.

  I cleared my throat. “Lee?” I said. “Thanks for letting Nate’s bar tab slide so long.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at me, a frown twisting her scars. “Oh—that.”

  “Yeah, well, if you wanted to do me a real favour, you’d cancel Nate’s tab.”

  She turned to face me. “Why on earth would I do that? I make a great deal of money off Nate. Besides, when he can’t pay, you do.”

  I was about to shoot back about basing her business model on Nate’s irresponsibility when I noticed she was holding a small gold cellphone. I don’t know why I was taken aback; I mean, I have a whole drawerful of disposable cellphones. While Lee didn’t exactly make a point of keeping up with the times, she wasn’t a Luddite, either.

  “Kincaid, I have received some…disturbing news.” Her blue-green eyes drifted down to the gold phone. Without a word, she put it in the drawer and closed it. “Marjorie Secord, a friend of mine—I believe you know her?”

  “Marjorie’s Coffee Shop? In Pioneer Square. Everyone knows that place.”

  Lee nodded. “Someone broke into the shop this evening. Marjorie is dead.”

  It took a moment for it to sink in. I thought back to the commotion at that end of the street. “So that’s what the police were doing there.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Lee.”

  She took an uncharacteristic breath. Her fingers played with the key to her desk drawer. “Kincaid, I need you to visit the murder scene for me.”

  That…was not what I’d expected. “Umm, Lee, I don’t work for the police anymore. They fired me. Remember? I can’t go near any crime scene.”

  “No one will be investigating. Her shop will be left alone.”

  “I highly doubt that, not from the number of cop cars I saw tonight. Aaron and Sarah are good. They might give me information on the murder if I ask.” Well, Sarah would. Aaron would attach strings….

  Lee frowned at me.

  “I can try and get a hold of her ghost, but seriously, that’s all I can do.” I didn’t add that talking to the ghost of a murder victim rarely sheds any light on what happened to them; they’re usually batty from the shock and trauma.

  Lee shook her head again. “There will be no investigation, Kincaid, and no ghost. Marjorie was a zombie, like me.”

  “What! How is that even possible?”

  “Marjorie became a zombie shortly after I did. A bout of smallpox.”

  I thought back to my visits to the coffee shop. I’d never once got a zombie vibe off Marjorie.

  “She was very careful,” Lee said, reading my thoughts. “Especially around practitioners such as yourself. You give off a signature. Faint, but distinct to a zombie looking for it.”

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you,” I said. “I just thought I knew every old zombie in Seattle.”

  “Apparently you were mistaken,” Lee said.

  “Apparently.”

  “Kincaid, all I need you to do is scan the scene for any traces of Otherside—any at all, however insignificant.”

  “Lee, this is more up Max’s alley. He’s got way more experience wit
h bindings than I do.”

  Lee just looked at me. “You stand a better chance. And if you get caught, the police like you.”

  “No, they hate me right now.”

  Lee’s eyes narrowed and the fine scars gathered around them like shadows.

  I sighed. Walking by a crime scene and pulling a globe wasn’t illegal…yet. But if Aaron saw me…

  “Lee, look, I’m sorry. It’s too risky. Things are bad enough right now without me sticking my nose over the police tape—”

  “I’ll pay you,” Lee said. “Fifteen hundred just to look. I know you need the money.”

  “Lee, that’s not fair—”

  “No,” she said, “it isn’t. But you need the money and I need to know what happened to Marjorie.”

  “Why?”

  Lee stared at me for a long moment. “I owed her some favours,” she finally said. Her fingers absently brushed the drawer key again. I don’t think I’d ever seen Lee perform an action that wasn’t conscious and deliberate. Marjorie’s death had really rattled her.

  I tried one last time. “Lee, you don’t need me, you need a private investigator with a practitioner on retainer. Scrap that—you need to talk to Aaron. I’ve got enough of a problem with this zombie without poking my nose into Marjorie’s murder—”

  “Kincaid, now that they know she was a zombie, you know there will be no investigation.”

  I closed my eyes and worded what I said next very carefully. “They’ll investigate the break-in and treat what happened to her as aggravated assault. I’ll talk to Aaron. If he knows she was part of the local underground community—”

  Lee actually hissed. I stopped. She was right. No matter how you dice it, zombies can’t be murdered. Since they aren’t technically alive, no one can “kill” them. California was the only one of the states even close to figuring out the legal quagmire of zombies, and only because it was full of them. A lot of people in show business really don’t want to die, even if that means chugging brains for the next hundred years.