"But if it's a zombie it isn't harmed by sunlight and it doesn't need to rest in a coffin. It could be anywhere, but I think it originally came from this cemetery. If they used voodoo there will be signs of the ritual."
"Like what?"
"A chalk verve, drawn symbols around the grave, dried blood, maybe a fire." I stared off at the rustling grass. "Though I wouldn't want to start an open fire in this place."
"If it wasn't voodoo?" he asked.
"Then it was an animator. Again you look for dried blood, maybe a dead animal. There won't be as many signs and it's easier to clean up."
"Are you sure it's some kind of a zombie?" he asked.
"I don't know what else it could be. I think we should act like that's what it is. It gives us someplace to look, and something to look for."
"If it's not a zombie we don't have a clue," he said.
"Exactly."
He smiled, but it wasn't pleasant. "I hope you're right, Anita."
"Me, too," I said.
"If it did come from here, can you find what grave it came from?"
"Maybe."
"Maybe?" he said.
"Maybe. Raising the dead isn't a science, Dolph. Sometimes I can feel the dead under the ground. Restlessness. How old without looking at the tombstone. Sometimes I can't." I shrugged.
"We'll give you any help you need."
"I have to wait until full dark. My . . . powers are better after dark."
"That's hours away. Can you do anything now?"
I thought about that for a moment. "No. I'm sorry but no."
"Okay, you'll come back tonight then?"
"Yeah," I said.
"What time? I'll send some men out."
"I don't know what time. And I don't know how long it will take. I could be wandering out here for hours and find nothing."
"Or?"
"Or I could find the beastie itself."
"You'll need backup for that, just in case."
I nodded. "Agreed, but guns, even silver bullets, won't hurt it."
"What will?"
"Flamethrowers, napalm like the exterminators use on ghoul tunnels," I said.
"Those aren't standard issue."
"Have an exterminator team standing by," I said.
"Good idea." He made a note.
"I need a favor," I said.
He looked up. "What?"
"Peter Burke was murdered, shot to death. His brother asked me to find out what progress the police are making."
"You know we can't give out information like that."
"I know, but if you can get the facts I can feed just enough to John Burke to keep in touch with him."
"You seem to be getting along well with all our suspects," he said.
"Yeah."
"I'll find out what I can from homicide. Do you know what jurisdiction he was found in?"
I shook my head. "I could find out. It would give me an excuse to talk to Burke again."
"You say he's suspected of murder in New Orleans."
"Mm-huh," I said.
"And he may have done this." He motioned at the sheet.
"Yep."
"You watch your back, Anita."
"I always do," I said.
"You call me as early tonight as you can. I don't want all my people sitting around twiddling their thumbs on overtime."
"As soon as I can. I've got to cancel three clients just to make it." Bert was not going to be pleased. The day was looking up.
"Why didn't it eat more of the boy?" Dolph asked.
"I don't know," I said.
He nodded. "Okay, I'll see you tonight then."
"Say hello to Lucille for me. How's she coming with her master's degree?"
"Almost done. She'll have it before our youngest gets his engineering degree."
"Great."
The sheet flapped in the hot wind. A trickle of sweat trailed down my forehead. I was out of small talk. "See you later," I said, and started down the hill. I stopped and turned back. "Dolph?"
"Yes?" he said.
"I've never heard of a zombie exactly like this one. Maybe it does rise from its grave more like a vampire. If you kept that exterminator team and backup hanging around until after dark, you might catch it rising from the grave and be able to bag it."
"Is that likely?"
"No, but it's possible," I said.
"I don't know how I'll explain the overtime, but I'll do it."
"I'll be here as soon as I can."
"What else could be more important than this?" he asked.
I smiled. "Nothing you'd like to hear about."
"Try me," he said.
I shook my head.
He nodded. "Tonight, early as you can."
"Early as I can," I said.
Detective Perry escorted me back. Maybe politeness, maybe he just wanted to get away from the corpus delicti. I didn't blame him. "How's your wife, Detective?"
"We're expecting our first baby in a month."
I smiled up at him. "I didn't know. Congratulations."
"Thank you." His face clouded over, a frown puckering between his dark eyes. "Do you think we can find this creature before it kills again?"
"I hope so," I said.
"What are our chances?"
Did he want reassurance or the truth. Truth. "I haven't the faintest idea."
"I was hoping you wouldn't say that," he said.
"So was I, Detective. So was I."
Chapter 11
What was more important than bagging the critter that had eviscerated an entire family? Nothing, absolutely nothing. But it was a while until full dark, and I had other problems. Would Tommy go back to Gaynor and tell him what I said? Yes. Would Gaynor let it go? Probably not. I needed information. I needed to know how far he would go. A reporter, I needed a reporter. Irving Griswold to the rescue.
Irving had one of those pastel cubicles that passes for an office. No roof, no door, but you got walls. Irving is five-three. I'd like him for that reason if nothing else. You don't meet many men exactly my height. Frizzy brown hair framed his bald spot like petals on a flower. He wore a white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, tie at half-mast. His face was round, pink-cheeked. He looked like a bald cherub. He did not look like a werewolf, but he was one. Even lycanthropy can't cure baldness.
No one on the St. Louis Post-Dispatch knew Irving was a shapeshifter. It is a disease, and it's illegal to discriminate against lycanthropes, just like people with AIDS, but people do it anyway. Maybe the paper's management would have been broad-minded, liberal, but I was with Irving. Caution was better.
Irving sat in his desk chair. I leaned in the doorway of his cubicle. "How's tricks?" Irving said.
"Do you really think you're funny, or is this just an annoying habit?" I asked.
He grinned. "I'm hilarious. Ask my girlfriend."
"I'll bet," I said.
"What's up, Blake? And please tell me whatever it is is on the record, not off."
"How would you like to do an article on the new zombie legislation that's being cooked up?"
"Maybe," he said. His eyes narrowed, suspicion gleamed forth. "What do you want in return?"
"This part is off the record, Irving, for now."
"It figures." He frowned at me. "Go on."
"I need all the information you have on Harold Gaynor."
"Name doesn't ring any bells," he said. "Should it?" His eyes had gone from cheerful to steady. His concentration was nearly perfect when he smelled a story.
"Not necessarily," I said. Cautious. "Can you get the information for me?"
"In exchange for the zombie story?"
"I'll take you to all the businesses that use zombies. You can bring a photographer and snap pictures of corpses."
His eyes lit up. "A series of articles with lots of semi-gruesome pictures. You center stage in a suit. Beauty and the Beast. My editor would probably go for it."
"I thought he might, but I don't know about the center stage stuff."
"Hey, your boss will love it. Publicity means more business."
"And sells more papers," I said.
"Sure," Irving said. He looked at me for maybe a minute. The room was almost silent. Most had gone home. Irving's little pool of light was one of just a few. He'd been waiting on me. So much for the press never sleeps. The quiet breath of the air conditioner filled the early evening stillness.