Kill The Dead Part 9

Wells nods, still staring at the slaughter.

"I'll be sure to write that down. Anything else?"

"This was no boating accident."

Wells looks at me like he's a trash compactor and I'm week-old bacon.

"d.a.m.n you, boy. A man is dead here and he was one of yours. Sub Rosa. And he died badly. Do you have anything to contribute to our finding out what the h.e.l.l happened here?"

I want to get closer to the death scene and I have to walk around several agents to do it. Glad I'm not claustrophobic.

The body is lying in pieces scattered inside a strangely modified calling circle. The edges are sharp. It's not a circle. It's a hexagon, a shape only used in dark magic. It looks like at least part of the circle was painted with blood, though it's hard to be sure with pieces of the guy laid out across the floor like a buffet. There are a lot of bones scattered around. Too many to all be his. He probably used them to reinforce the hexagon.

I have to walk all the way around the room to get back to Wells.

"He doesn't stink. How long has he been lying there?"

"At least two days. There's been very little tissue breakdown. No blowfly eggs. Not even rigor mortis in the one elbow joint we found."

"Did you find anything in aether tracings?"

"There's definitely dark magic residue. We're not sure what kind yet."

I go back to the body and stand as close as I can without touching it. Even without trying, I can feel something radiating off the mangled flesh and bones. But I can't tell what. It's ancient and cold. For a minute I wonder if the Kissi could have done it, but there's no vinegar reek. If Wells's crew would quiet down for a G.o.dd.a.m.n second, it probably wouldn't be hard to figure out. Some of the angel devices are pumping out celestial energy fields, stinking up the aether.

"Can you get these people to quiet the h.e.l.l down for a minute?"

"This is a priority job. It's a big crew and everybody works. Do some magic, Sandman Slim. You've worked loud rooms before."

I can't get hold of whatever it is that's coming off the body. I touch part of what I think is an arm with the toe of my boot. Turn it over. One of the forensic techs says something.

"Get that machine out of my way so I can work," I say.

I'm not sure exactly how I sounded, but half of Wells's crew suddenly find other parts of the room to work.

Kneeling down, I take a close look at the not-rotting skin. There are funny marks there. Old ones. He'd tattooed over them, like he was trying to camouflage them. There are marks on the bones, too. New ones.

The altar is a jumble of magic objects. Saints and rosaries. A sephirot st.i.tched together from separate pieces of parchment and linen. Pentagrams and swastikas drawn on Post-its. An old bottle of no-name whiskey. Animal bones. Bowls full of meth, joints, and poppers. Yojimbe bark. Gray's Anatomy. And a very nice selection of d.i.l.d.os, gags, b.u.t.t plugs, nipple clamps, and antique handcuffs.

I drag a chair over to where Wells is standing. The forensic crew is falling in love with me.

"Who is this guy? Was this guy?" I ask.

"Enoch Springheel."

"Springheel, like the Springheels?"

"Yep. Supposedly, the first Sub Rosa family in L.A. I guess a couple of hundred years back, when this was mostly Indians and coyotes, they were the c.o.c.k of the walk. But other families settled here and things sort of fell apart for the Springheels. Lost most of their land. Lost their status. Homeland Security doesn't know why. Neither does the Vigil. I was hoping maybe you knew something."

"When I was a kid, I spent most of my time trying to get away from the Sub Rosa. I know the names, but not much of the family histories."

"What a blessing it is to have you around."

While Wells complains I climb on the chair to get a better view of the room. Whenever I reach out with my mind, the combination of whatever is coming off the body and the Vigil's G.o.dd.a.m.n machines start making me dizzy. But from up on high something clicks in my brain and the scene falls together like a series of snapshots of things I've seen over the last eleven years.

Who needs nephilim superpowers when you've got the devil's slide projector in your head?

I go back to the body and cut some skin and bone with the black blade. Then I spit on the incisions. That gets their attention.

"Give me some salt."

One of the forensic drones pulls a vial from a potion case and tosses it to me. I sprinkle the salt over where I just spit. Nothing happens. Then there are bubbles. Steam. The saliva begins to boil.

"You know much about demons, Marshal Wells? What they are? How they work?"

"They're elementals. Not like you pixies or Lurkers. Demons are primitives. Like insects. They're pretty much programmed to do a single thing. Killing. Inciting l.u.s.t. Planting lies."

"They're so dumb because they're fragments of the Angra Om Ya. The old G.o.ds. They're powerful but brain-dead crumbs of whatever G.o.d they fell from."

"That's blasphemy, boy. There were no G.o.ds before G.o.d."

"Okay, forget that. Did your team take a look at these marks on the skin? They're teeth marks. Senor Chew Toy could have healed himself, but he didn't. He liked the scars. He just covered them with tattoos to hide his dirty little secret from the other Sub Rosa."

"They're so dumb because they're fragments of the Angra Om Ya. The old G.o.ds. They're powerful but brain-dead crumbs of whatever G.o.d they fell from."

"That's blasphemy, boy. There were no G.o.ds before G.o.d."

"Okay, forget that. Did your team take a look at these marks on the skin? They're teeth marks. Senor Chew Toy could have healed himself, but he didn't. He liked the scars. He just covered them with tattoos to hide his dirty little secret from the other Sub Rosa."

Wells is looking at me now.

"Keep going."

"If you find Enoch s.h.i.theel's head, check his teeth. I bet you'll find he gave himself some of those scars."

"Demon possession?"

"Think simpler. Ever heard of autophagia?"

"No."

"I bet you've never seen any Sub Rosa p.o.r.n either. You're out of your depth, choirboy. In the books, autophagia is a mental disorder, but Springheel made it into a fetish. He got off on eating himself."

Wells is giving me his disapproving squint, but he's listening. His team edges in closer, not even pretending to work anymore.

"Santa Muerte is death and protection all rolled into one. A gangster Kali. She'd tighten Springheel's jeans."

"Watch your language."

"f.u.c.k you. You brought me in. I'll do this my way."

Pause.

"Keep going."

"The altar is a dark-magic s.e.x shop. All you need is Lucifer's c.o.c.k ring to have the party of the century. I only mention that because that's what Springheel wanted to do. Party very hard."

I walk over and stand in the hexagon, trying to step around the sticky bits.

"The hexagon with blood and bone calls dark power. Yojimbe mixes in s.e.xual energy, but that's not a big surprise considering all the speed and poppers on the altar. Well, maybe for you. Look at this one side of the hexagon. There's maybe a half-inch gap where the edges don't touch. If this is a protection configuration, it won't work. Whatever Enoch calls will be able to slip in through that hole. That's stupid and it's sloppy. Unless it's deliberate."

"What did Springheel invoke and why did he let it in?"

I step forward to the broken edge of the hexagon.

"He would have been here, near the opening. He's thrown yojimbe around. He's probably been snorting meth and doing his poppers. He starts his spell and he calls up a demon."

"What kind of demon?"

I hold up one of the still-smoking bones with my fingertips and point to the broken edge.

"An eater. Five hundred years ago, an eater was what you called when you wanted it to look like locusts chewed up on your neighbor's crops or wolves killed their cattle. Enoch wanted something more up close and personal. That's why there's a break in the hexagon. Springheel built himself a cosmic glory hole. He was a Bone Daddy."

Wells is frowning. He really wants me to shut up. I keep going.

"He's got a hard-on for demons. For eaters. Springheel wanted to stick as much of himself as he could get through that glory hole and get it nibbled on by a primordial r.e.t.a.r.d with ten rows of shark teeth. Only something went wrong."

"What?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know. Let your techs figure it out. Springheel called an eater because that's how he got off. But he f.u.c.ked up. Broke the circle too wide or made some stupid stoner mistake to completely break the hexagon's protection and got himself eaten."

"You're sure about this sick s.h.i.t?"

"Who else lived here?"

"No one. He was the last of the Springheels."

"All alone with no one to look over his shoulder. That's a nice setting to work out really elaborate fantasies. There's one other thing you probably ought to check out."

"What's that?"

"If end-of-the-line Enoch was the last member of a house that went from number one to less than zero, getting eaten might not have been a mistake. It could have been a nasty, lonely little suicide. A hard-core player partying one last time as he p.i.s.ses off this mortal coil."

Wells turns and walks away.

"Enough. How do you live inside your head? I'm not saying you're wrong or that I disagree with your conclusions or that disgusting scenario that you obviously know a lot about. All I'm saying is stop. I don't want to hear any more. You've done your job. My team will finish up. Thank you for your valuable contribution to the investigation. Now please, get the h.e.l.l out of here. I don't want to look at you for a while."

I've seen Wells screaming crazy, but I don't think I've ever seen him upset. I guess when you're in love with an angel, the idea of someone spending his alone time shoving his c.o.c.k down demons' throats might be disturbing. Welcome to my world, G-man. I'll show you h.e.l.lion hobbies that make Enoch Springheel look like Jiminy Cricket.

I go back to the porch and into the kitchen. Marshal Julie is still alone up front.

When she sees me she asks, "Did you do your job?"

"I just got thrown out. That usually means I did."

"Good for you. I'm sure the marshal is grateful that you came through for him."

"Not really."

"Your car is gone."

"It wasn't my car."

"That's why it's gone. Do you need a ride?"

"Are you offering?"

She gets quiet for a minute. Stares past me over my shoulder.

"What's going on back there? I know it's a murder scene, but I'm supposed to stay up here and guard the doork.n.o.bs."

"You're the new kid, right? They give you the worst hours, s.h.i.t duty, and they short-sheet your halo?"

She almost smiles.

"Something like that."

"Yeah, it's a murder scene. A rotten one, too. Dark magic gone bad. It even got your boss upset."

"d.a.m.n. I wish I could see that. You don't know how much I want to be back there."

"Cool your jets, Honey West. Don't be in such a rush to get what's back there stuck in your head. It doesn't come out again."

"I don't care. I need to know what's in rooms like that. I've prepared for it my whole life. Now I'm here, but I'm still missing out."

Scratch a cop, find a pervert.

"Don't worry," I tell her. "L.A.'s not going to run out of psychos anytime soon."

I go outside. The steps crack and crunch beneath my feet. Good special effects.

Marshal Julie says, "You never told me if you wanted a ride."

"Mind if I steal one of your vans?"

This time she does smile.

"Yeah. I kind of do."