Mortal Sins

TEN

IN an old house on a quiet street, a fractured being was exploring its temporary structure. After the bliss at having skin and breath subsided, it had realized that its new warmth was different from the other one. Some of the parts didn’t work well. It didn’t understand the problem at first, for though the warmth’s memories were available, the thoughts were not. Not exactly.

Finally it located the reason the knees and back ached: Old knees, old back, old brain, old man. Jesus H. Christ, I hate being old.

That was a thought, yes, but a thought played so often it had worn its own groove in the memories. Unfortunately, it made this discovery after telling its warmth to hurry. This had caused the warmth to rush too much, and fall.

That’s when it rediscovered pain.

Bright and hot, pain absorbed it for a time, fascinating in its vividness, its familiarity. It had known pain before. Pain was not as welcome as breath and memories, but the familiarity was dear.

For a time it hoped it would truly remember.

That didn’t happen, but being in the warmth stabilized it, so despair didn’t shake bits of it loose, and The Voice was silenced.

Fortunately, its warmth wasn’t too damaged by the fall; once it woke from its contemplation of pain and told the warmth to stand up, he did so without great trouble. A few moments later, though, it noticed something disturbing. Something was wrong with the warmth. What?

It had the warmth touch his face. Wet. Blood? It remembered blood . . . no, not blood. The problem wasn’t with the warmth’s body. The warmth was sad, terribly sad. The wetness was tears.

It didn’t want its warmth to be sad. It tried to comfort the old man, but telling him to feel better didn’t work. It pondered that, wondering why one instruction was accepted and the other was not, as its warmth hunted through the chest of drawers, as ordered, for shotgun shells.

THIRTY minutes after the explosive interview with her witness, Lily had made one quick phone call, Deacon had his prisoner back in his cell, and the four of them—federal agent, public defender, district attorney, and sheriff—were once more in Deacon’s office.

Kessenblaum had been embarrassed by her panicked reaction to her client’s freak-out. Embarrassment, like so much else, turned the woman belligerent.

“You see?” Kessenblaum said, jabbing her finger in Farquhar’s general direction. “You see he—Mr. Meacham—he’s not stable. Not competent. You can’t continue to hold him here. It’s—”

“Give it a rest,” Farquhar said wearily. “You aren’t doing Meacham any favors by yelling at us.”

“At least I’m on his side. At least I care. You just care about the media coverage, the election, and what—”

Lily was out of patience. “Ms. Kessenblaum, shut up.”

After one second’s startled silence, the woman sneered. “You’re as bad as she is, determined to make your reputation on the backs of those without power, without voices. But I can tell you now, Mr. Meacham isn’t alone. I won’t let him be ground up by the system.”

Oh, God, that was it. That explained the inappropriate clothes. Kessenblaum wanted to be a hippie, but had been born a generation too late. “You want to stage a sit-in or you want to help your client?” Lily asked.

Kessenblaum rolled her eyes. “Oh, isn’t that just like a cop? Shove me into a comfortable little cliché so you can ignore what I’m saying!”

“Talk’s cheap. What have you done other than bitch? Why hasn’t Meacham been seen by someone with plenty of alphabet soup after his name who could put some weight behind your claims?”

“I don’t have money for that! If you knew what a joke the budget for the public defender’s office is around here—”

“Get it pro bono,” she snapped. “Quit whining and start calling around. But do it elsewhere. The grown-ups need to get some work done.”

Kessenblaum’s face went white, then red. “You don’t—you can’t talk to me that way.”

“Think she just did,” Deacon said. His eyes held a glint of humor. “Come on, Crystal. You must have better things to do than badger your godmother, and God knows I’ve got better things to do than supervise the fireworks. Besides,” he added, moving to hold the door for her in a broad hint, “you don’t want to make the FBI agent mad. She’ll clean your clock.”

After one fuming, frustrated moment, Kessenblaum stomped out. Deacon closed the door gently behind her.

Lily looked at Farquhar, one eyebrow lifted. “Godmother?”

Farquhar’s eyes twinkled. “I hope you’re shocked that a woman my age could have a goddaughter Crystal’s age.”

“I am. She’s what—thirty or so? And you can’t be much more than forty.” With children young enough to need to be driven to school, Lily remembered.

Marcia Farquhar patted Lily’s hand. “Bless you. Crystal’s thirty-three, and I’ve a bit more mileage than those forty years you tactfully mentioned. I started my family quite late—scandalously so, according to some, who were more upset at my delaying pregnancy so long than at Crystal’s mother giving birth when she was sixteen.” She exchanged a wry look with Deacon. “Her mother and I were close growing up, being among the few Catholics in Halo. As a result, I might have become a mother late in life, but I became a godmother quite young.”

“Hmm.” Lily had noticed that people in the South often found a way to let you know their religious affiliation, pretty much the same way they’d bring up their favorite football team. It disconcerted her.

Farquhar shrugged. “Her mother and I have drifted apart over the years, but I still have a soft spot for Crystal, which results in giving her advice. Which, as you’ve noticed, she does not appreciate.”

“She’s like a puppy,” Deacon said. “Chews up your shoes, gets underfoot, then doesn’t understand why you’re mad. Means well, I guess. Never saw an underdog she didn’t want to champion.” He gave Lily a smile that held a hint of a taunt. “Poor Crystal’s probably got the same problem with you she does with me. I’m black, which oughta make me an underdog, but this badge makes me one of the oppressors.”

Lily’s eyebrows lifted. “I can’t imagine why someone would mistake me for an underdog.” Underdog, to Lily, meant victim. She’d been one once, when she was nine. Not since.

“Not you so much, maybe. That weer you’re hooked up with. Crystal’s big cause these days is werewolf rights.”

To Lily’s surprise, it was Farquhar who corrected him. “Lupus, Jay. We don’t call them werewolves now. Agent Yu.” She flicked a glance at her wrist, where a dainty gold watch rested. “I’ve got a great deal to do before the arraignment.”

And Lily had allowed herself to be distracted, taking out some of her feelings on the ineffectual Kessenblaum. Maybe that was just as well. She’d been pretty pissed. “There won’t be an arraignment.”

Farquhar’s eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon.”

“Kessenblaum is annoying, but she’s right. Meacham isn’t competent. He doesn’t belong in a jail cell, and he isn’t guilty.”

Farquhar’s voice dropped into the freezer. “I’ve got more than enough evidence to prove that he is.”

“He hasn’t got a Gift, not the tiniest trace of one. He can’t use magic. Magic was used in the deaths of Becky Meacham and her children. He was used.”

“Oh, come on, now. You aren’t claiming he was possessed.”

Deacon scowled. “You said he wasn’t. When I asked, you said there were no traces of demon on the bodies.”

“I don’t know what was done to Meacham. I don’t know who did it or how. But Roy Don Meacham, like his wife and children, has traces of death magic clinging to him, and there’s no way he could have put it there. Someone else did, and that’s our perp.”

“You’re babbling,” Farquhar snapped as she started for the door. “If that’s all you wanted to discuss—”

“Not quite everything.” Lily had hoped they could work this out without her pulling out the big guns. Wasn’t going to happen. “I also need to notify you that the FBI will be taking custody of Roy Don Meacham today. The marshals should be here in a couple hours.”

Farquhar stopped. Turned. “Oh, no, you’re not. If you think I’m going to roll over because you’ve got some crazy idea that a man who clubbed his wife and children to death is a victim—”

“I realize that you’ve only my word about the magic. However, his lack of magic makes it—”

“I don’t give a good damn whether Roy Don Meacham has magic or not. He killed those kids.”

Lily heard that broken voice again: Not my hand. Got no hands. “His hands killed those children and their mother. Roy Don wasn’t in charge of them at the time. Someone or something used Meacham, and somewhere in his head is information about that. I’m not taking chances with him. He’ll be examined by competent experts, both medical and magical, and placed on suicide watch.”

Farquhar sniffed. “I might let your experts see him—after the arraignment. But—”

“Marcia,” Deacon said.

“But there is no way I’m going to let you—”

“Marcia,” Deacon repeated, louder. “She’s Unit Twelve and she’s claimed jurisdiction. How you gonna stop her?”

Silence. Then Farquhar flung one furious glance at Lily and left. She didn’t slam the door behind her. She closed it carefully, as if she were too angry to let even a little steam out that way.

Lily sighed. She was making friends all over the place today. “I guess it would be awkward for you to storm out, too, seeing as this is your office.”

Deacon resumed his seat. “Guess it would. You going to need some work space here?”

He’d surprised her again. “Probably. This didn’t seem like the best time to mention it.”

He shrugged. “You burst Marcia’s bubble. I’m not Marcia. She doesn’t have a whiff of a Gift, does she?”

“If Ms. Farquhar asks what I felt when I touched her hand, I’ll tell her.” She paused. “Just as I told you what I felt when we shook hands.” The implication being that she considered such information private.

He nodded. “You’ve got a careful way of putting things. I appreciate caution. Marcia does, too, but she doesn’t appreciate magic. She thinks you’re grandstanding. I’ve got a little edge on her there. I can tell you believe what you’re saying, and I’ve got reason to think you know what you’re talking about. Now.” He leaned back in his chair. “About that work space—best I can offer you is the conference room.”

“I’ll take it. Ah . . . I’ve put in for some backup, but I’m not sure when I’ll get them. Noon, maybe later.”

“Conference room should hold more’n one person. Who’s coming to pick up Meacham?”

“A pair of federal marshals and a medevac unit.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Medevac?”

“He needs medical attention. Possession tends to screw up the host’s mind. Sometimes the body, too. We don’t know that he was possessed, exactly, but something sure screwed with him. And I think he’ll travel better sedated.”

“Your marshals will have an easier time if he is,” Deacon said dryly. “Where will you put him?”

“Georgetown in D.C.” There was no such thing as true magical shielding, not in their realm, anyway. But Georgetown University Hospital had a couple of rooms that were circled and heavily warded. It was the best they could do.

Deacon leaned forward, pressed a button on his phone. “Edna? Could you come in here a minute?” He leaned back. “I’ve got a few things to do that don’t have a blame thing to do with Roy Don Meacham, so I’m going to let Edna get you settled. She’s been copying the case file for you. I hope you’ll be able to bring in your own office supplies and such. The budget’s tight.”

“SOP is for me to order in what I need, then donate to the host jurisdiction whatever’s left when I leave. Which means you’ll probably come out ahead by a fax machine, copier, and whiteboard.”

He smiled, satisfied. “Sometimes it pays to be the nice guy.”

“Sometimes it does. Here’s another chance to play nice.

I’m going to need to look at the crime scene—Meacham’s home. I also need to talk to your witness, the mailman with the broken skull.” This time the name was there, waiting, like it was supposed to be. “Watkins, right?”

“Bill Watkins. He’s still hospitalized, but stable. Shouldn’t be any problem seeing him. The key to Meacham’s place is in Evidence. Edna’ll get it for you.”

“Great. Quick question. You said the physical evidence at the scene suggested the two kids were killed in bed. How far apart are their rooms?”

He frowned suspiciously, as if it were a trick question. “They’re right next to each other.”

“And the mother, Becky Meacham. Where was she killed?”

“From the look of the blood, all over the damned place.”

She sighed, nodded, and reached for the door.

“Ah . . .”

Lily paused with her hand on the doorknob. Deacon was fiddling with a pen. He spoke without looking at her. “I’m going to ask you something that’s none of my business.”

Her eyebrows shot up as curiosity fought with common sense. Whatever he wanted to ask, it would probably annoy her and possibly make it hard to work with the man.

But with Lily, curiosity almost always won. “What’s that?”

“It doesn’t bother you, the way Turner is?”

“Lupi aren’t the bestial killers that popular culture makes them out to be.”

“I don’t mean that. I’ve seen him. He holds it together okay, even when you push at him some.” Deacon put the pen down. “I mean the way he is with women. Weers—I mean lupi—they don’t believe in marriage.”

A dozen things jostled through her brain, trying to make it into speech. Explanations, justifications . . . reasons. Lupi had reasons for their ways. They were nearly infertile, and their very survival had long depended on scattering their seed as widely as possible.

That secret could not be spoken, of course. Neither could she explain that Rule was faithful to her. The mate bond that tied them together made it unthinkable for him to stray, even though she could. She wouldn’t, but according to his beliefs, it was acceptable for her to dabble on the side.

Lily wasn’t sure how much he truly believed that. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. But in fact, she had a guarantee of faithfulness perhaps no other woman could claim . . . and no chance of claiming it aloud. “No,” she said after a brief pause. “It doesn’t bother me, Sheriff.”

She closed the door quietly behind her.