Diana Tregarde - Burning Water Part 11

Pablo. Chief of the Jaguars. Tuf suddenly recalled that he'd been on Jaguar turf when he'd been coldc.o.c.ked.

Better brazen it out.

"Say hey, Pablo." Tuf was trying to be cool, but it wasn't easy. Pablo looked rigged out for some kind of costume party; fancy loincloth, ropes of flowers on his wrists and ankles, for chrissake; some kind of helmet shaped like a big cat's head under one arm, about a ton of silvery jewelry. He should have looked stupid he didn't. He looked mean.

"Say hey, Tuf." Pablo sounded cool; sounded amused, like he was laughing at Tuf. He moved a little, and Tuf could see his other hand come into the light. He was carrying what looked like two sticks.

"What th' h.e.l.l's all this, man?" Tuf asked, trying to sound casual.

"Like, you're my enemy, man. I caught you on Jaguar turf, fair an' square. Like, I coulda killed you, but I'm gonna give you a chance."

Tuf snorted. "What chance, man?"

Pablo just grinned and threw one of the sticks at Tuf. "Like we fight, man. You an' me, mano-a- mano." He pulled on his helmet, and his eyes looked darkly out of the big cat's mouth, shadows within shadows. "Like you haven't got a choice, man. You fight me, or you die."

Tuf had caught the stick almost reflexively, and took a good look at it. It was flat, polished wood, and along both edges were set feathers. Feathers?

"I'm s'pposed to fight you with this? For what? Turf?"

"Honor, man. For the G.o.ds. For the old ways." Tuf did not much like the way Pablo's eyes were burning down in the deep shadows of the cat's mouth. "We fight for Burning Water, man or you die for Burning Water. You take your pick."

"With a stick? What if I lose?"

Pablo laughed. "You die, you just die quick. You don't fight, you die slow. 'Member that dude they found down to Bachmann Lake? Like him."

Tuf swallowed fear. "And if I win?"

"I die; you kill me, you take my place." Pablo sounded as if it were a matter of supreme indifference to him.

"Who says?" Tuf asked belligerently.

"Burning Water." Pablo nodded at the area outside the circle of light to Tuf's right. Something stood there, or somebody. Dark and shadowy and powerful. Even from here Tuf could feel the power like the power of a black sun.

"So who's this Burning Water dude? Huh?"

Pablo's eyes shone with fanatic devotion, and his face was transformed by a vision only he could see.

"He's gonna make us free, man. He's gonna make us warriors. He's a G.o.d; no lie, an old G.o.d. He's gonna wipe out the white man, he's gonna give it all to us. I'm tellin' you."

The smart-a.s.s retorts on the tip of Tuf's tongue died before he could speak them. Somehow that vague shadowy power seemed capable of all of that. That shadow was the shadow of Fear of a hunger that could eat the world. Tuf could feel the force of that hunger, and it was squarely behind Pablo.

"You gonna fight, man?" Pablo was sneering, "Or you gonna die like a sheep?"

Tuf took a better grip on his stick, his hands slippery with the sweat of new fear, and went into a fighting crouch. This was no more than a fool's chance, but it was a chance. And whatever he was not going to go down without a fight. "What you think, man?" He gestured with his fist, and Pablo laughed at the obscenity. "Come on, man I ain't waitin' all day. You gonna rumble or not?"

And only when Pablo stepped fully into the circle of light did he notice that where the edges of his stick were inset with feathers, the edges of Pablo's glittered with something dark and sharp-edged.

And knew, with despair, exactly how much of a fool's chance he'd been given.

SIX.

Flies, fat, lazy and engorged, and now disturbed in their feeding, rose in clouds from the end of the alleyway.

LaRoss took one look at what they'd been feeding on and nearly lost his lunch.

"My G.o.d " Greeley whispered.

You don't patrol the barrio without getting a tough hide, LaRoss thought, holding off shock and sickness at a desperate arm's length, But this this isn't death, it's carnage. It's like a slaughterhouse.

"I'll call in " he gulped. Greeley just nodded wordlessly. LaRoss a.s.sumed the nod meant "okay,"

and got out while he could still control his stomach.

He left Greeley at the entrance to the cul-de-sac; his partner had gone pale, but it seemed like he was taking the sight better than LaRoss. But then Greeley had seen a fair share of mangled bods in 'Nam and maybe he could handle this a little more calmly than a guy who'd been too old in the sixties to draft.

LaRoss did not walk to the car he ran. Without really thinking about it, he found himself reaching for the radio handset through the window of the squad car. He spoke a few words into it not really conscious of what he was saying, but it must have been the right thing, since he got the promise of more help on the way. He couldn't really concentrate kept seeing the pile of bodies .

just like carca.s.ses at a packing plant, just piled up on top of each other. Cut up like they'd been rumbling with razor blades and hopped on PCP at the time. But my G.o.d those eyes; those punks, they saw h.e.l.l before they died. G.o.d help them.

There was a buzzing near his face; absently he brushed it away, then with a shudder of realization of why the insect was so lethargic, smashed the fat fly against the hot, shiny enamel of the squad.

Can't leave my partner alone back there, he thought, and shuddered again. It's not the first time we've picked up after gang fights. Pull yourself together, man!

He made himself return to the cul-de-sac, feet dragging. "Must have been hopped up for sure,"

Greeley said casually, as LaRoss forced himself to look at the pile of bodies until numbness settled in.

"Get dusted bad enough, you don't feel nothin', you know? Buddies must've been just as high."

"Buddies?" LaRoss replied dumbly. There were only six or seven bodies, but his mind kept multiplying them.

"Sure, how d'you think they got here? Had a rumble somewhere else not enough blood around here winners hauled the losers off and dumped 'em for us t' find. They gotta know we always check this alley."

Greeley's calm was infectious; LaRoss felt his stomach settling, his mind taking over. "Last night, you figure?"

Greeley shook his head. "Huh-uh; I'd figure some time around shift change."

Now LaRoss was focusing enough to take in the insignia on the back of the jackets, disfigured by blood and slashes though they were. "Hey pard you notice something else, something weird?"

Greeley nodded. "They're from at least two, three different gangs."

"Must have been a h.e.l.l of a rumble!" LaRoss brooded. "With that big a rumble, wonder how come we didn't get wind of it?"

"That," Greeley seconded, "Is exactly what I've been thinkin'."

Mark stood a little to one side and watched Di wading in like a trooper and wondered how in h.e.l.l she had managed to cover up that black eye of hers. The swelling had gone down, but it had been a real beauty last night when he'd dropped her off. He was able to keep his stomach under control as long as he was thinking about that and not too closely about the reason for the all-points.

The Forensics team had welcomed Di like one of their own when the two of them had responded to the call; now Mark knew why she had packed a lab coat. When she was sure of her reception she'd gone back to the car for it and with the coat on she looked just like one of them; just melted into the crowd.

Which was no bad thing for someone who was trying not to be noticed by the press.

"Look at this " Di muttered to Mark, pulling up the cuff of one corpse's jeans with a pencil.

"Holy rope burns "

"And just on one ankle," she replied. "They're all like this."

"Like the stiff at Bachmann Lake. You were right about coming out here; these have got to be ours.

You picking up anything?"

Somewhat to his disappointment she shook her head as she rose from her crouch. "Nothing strong; certainly no signs of any of my five signatures."

He stood, crossed his arms, and thought. "So I'll ask a dumb question. Can psychic traces be wiped out?"

She stared at him, and her eyes widened a little. "Not so dumb; I didn't think of that. The answer is yes but only only if you are very, very good. I can't do it."

He nodded; he was no telepath, but he knew what she must be thinking, because he was thinking the same thing, with a sinking spirit. We could be getting out of our depth fast.

Before he could say anything else, he heard one of the Forensics people swear under her breath.

It was a welcome distraction, and since she was practically at his elbow, he looked over in her direction. "Problems, Jean?"

"Just the arrival of a chronic pain in the a.s.s," replied the curly-haired technician. "See that blond?"

She nodded in the direction of the gathering of vultures behind the police barricade. "German reporter; thinks he's G.o.d's gift to journalism. Making a prime pain of himself, and we've been given orders to make nice with him."

A throaty chuckle from his other elbow sent his head swiveling in Di's direction. "But I haven't been given any such orders," she said. "Would you like a demo of my foolproof way of getting rid of snoops?"

Jean's mouth quirked a little, and she raised her eyebrows. "Is the Pope Polish?"

Di rose to her feet, and began walking toward the barricade, making notes on her clipboard.

Predictably, the blond reporter intercepted her as soon as she got within grabbing distance, catching her by the sleeve and erupting with questions.

They were too far away to hear what she said at first but then she pulled paper containers out of the copious pockets of her lab coat and began waving them under his nose her voice rising with every word.

" fecal samples!" she enthused. "I tell you, it's plain as day! It's all here, in the fecal samples!"

The German backpedaled so fast he nearly ran over another ghoul.

"I'll be happy to show you " Di pursued him, still waving the containers.

"I I do not think that vill be required, Miss " he gasped, eyes darting this way and that as he searched for an escape route to get away from this madwoman. "I haf enough information now, thank you good day!"

For just at that moment he saw an opening and all but ran out of the crowd. Di contrived to look disappointed, shoved the containers back into her pockets and returned to Mark's side.

If the situation had been less gruesome, it would have been hilarious. As it was, Di was greeted with a mixture of relieved, grateful, and approving looks.

"If we dared," Jean whispered, "We'd give you a standing ovation. Lady, you can work with us any day!"

"Any sign of flower petals or feathers this time?" Di asked, getting back down to business.

"Not around the bodies or in the clothing but yes, flower petals stuck in the dried blood and actually in some of the wounds," one of the others replied. "And it looks, at least superficially, as if some of these boys were reclothed after they were killed. We won't know until we get the bodies back to the lab and map everything, but the lacerations in the clothing aren't always matching the lacerations on the bodies."

"Huh." Di folded her arms around her clipboard, and frowned with concentration. "Now why bother to put clothes back on them?"

"Red herring?" Mark suggested. "At least a temporary one? Make it look for a little while as if this wasn't one of the cult killings?"

"Buying them time for something could be. Could be." The look in Di's eyes told Mark enough that what the cult had been buying time for was to wipe out psychic fingerprints and psychic backtrails.

"I don't like you going out there alone," Mark protested, as they levered themselves into the Ghia.

"Mark, one look at you and my sources are going to smell 'cop' and spook on me," Di said, a bit of an edge of exasperation creeping into her tone. "And I won't be alone; you'll be within yelling distance.

Besides, the first few are safe; my voudoun contact has been vouched for and knows I'm coming, and after that I'll be talking to people who can 'read' me. They'll know I'm on the level and unless one of them is a renegade, I'm in no danger from them."

There had been an unexpected bonus; Di's voudoun pract.i.tioner lived within blocks of where the bodies had been found. And Mark could tell that she wanted badly to know if anyone sensitive to such things had sensed any otherworldly stirrings last night.

"I still don't like it," Mark grumbled, turning the ignition key. "Why voudoun, anyway? Why not some nice innocent Druids or something?"

"You don't know much about Druidism if you think they're innocent!" She gave him a sidelong glance and shook her head. "Oh, I might as well level with you. Two reasons. One those who work with blood magic tend to be sensitive to it. Two I have no ties into the pagan network here. I work solo too much and a lot of the pagan net frankly doesn't trust strangers much. You said it yourself; this is Bible-thumping country, they might end up out of a job or worse, I will have to be vouched for by a local, and the only local contact I have now is n.o.ble Williams."

"Okay." He did not immediately pull out into traffic when the Ghia had rumbled to life; Di c.o.c.ked her head at him quizzically.

"Something else wrong?"

"Are we biting off more than we can chew?" he asked somberly.

Her lips thinned, and she turned away from him, staring broodingly out through the glare of sun on the streaky windshield.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Possibly. Very possibly," she admitted after a moment of reluctant silence. "I've been trying to think of all the ways I know to eliminate psi-traces. Using running water to wash them away; that's out, obviously. Working insulated so that there never were any traces is probably out, it's too hard to maintain good insulation, and all it would take is one leak. That leaves one alternative that can be worked a half-dozen ways: using pure, raw power to blank any individual signatures. A kind of psychic bleaching. And that's something I can't do. If they can I'm not sure I want to think about that too hard."

Mark gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, feeling real, honest fear.

Fear like he hadn't felt since that long-ago night in Quasi's. This was exactly the reason he'd gotten Di involved in the first place; to have his expert out of her depth was enough to leave him gut-clenched.