Skin Trade

by Hamilton, Laurell K.

  “I can see it,” he said.

  He could only see half my face, and my body was hidden behind the overgown. I knew I’d been controlling how I stood and moved, so how had he noticed? I finally looked at him and let my eyes show that I’d had a horrible thought.

  “What did I do now?” he asked, and it was almost that tone that all men use—no, not all men, all boyfriends. Shit.

  “Is he bothering you again, Marshal Blake?” Memphis came to stand near us.

  I shook my head.

  “You say no, but you’ve gone pale again.” Memphis gave Olaf a very unfriendly look.

  “I just had a thought, that’s all. Let it go, doc; just let me know when we can come back in and look at the body.”

  He looked from one to the other of us, but finally went back to join the others. They almost had him naked from the waist up. Even from here, I was almost certain the chest had been clawed up, not cut up.

  “I have upset you again, Anita.”

  “Let it go, Otto,” I said.

  “What did I do wrong?” he asked, and again it was the boyfriend question.

  “Nothing; you didn’t do anything creepy or disgusting. You just acted like a guy for a minute.”

  “I am a guy,” he said.

  I wanted to say, But you aren’t. You’re a serial killer who thinks dead bodies are a turn-on. You’re damn near a bad guy, and I’m pretty sure that someday you’ll force me to kill you to save my own life. You’re male, but you can never be a guy to me. But I couldn’t say any of that out loud.

  He was looking at me with those hooded eyes, except there was the faintest glimmer of that look. You know the one. That look that a guy will give you when he likes you and is trying pretty hard to figure out how to please you, and he’s not succeeding. That look that says, What do I do now? How do I win?

  What had my scary thought been? That Olaf was sincere. In some crazy, pathological way, he like-liked me. As in boyfriend-liked me. Not just for fucking or slaughter, but maybe, just maybe, he actually wanted to date me like one human being to another. He seemed to have no clue how to interact with a woman in a way that wasn’t terrifying, but he was trying. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he was trying.

  17

  THE BARE CHEST was sliced and diced, but it wasn’t like the others. No one would convince me that this had been done by blades. I knew claw work when I saw it.

  “This was no blade or tool,” I said. “It’s claws.”

  Olaf leaned on his side of the body, maybe a little closer to both the body and me than he needed, but nothing too noticeable. Maybe I was just being overly sensitive? Naw.

  “I know it is not a blade or a tool that I am familiar with,” Olaf said.

  I looked across the body and found that, yeah, he was looking at me, not at the body. I stood up and moved a step back. Fuck it, he unnerved me and he knew it.

  “But what killed him?” Memphis asked.

  I looked at the doctor, then back at the body. He was right; none of the wounds so far were fatal. “The jaw bite is terrible, but unless he died of shock, then . . .” I looked at the lower part of the body, which was still covered.

  “Yes,” Memphis said, “we need to keep looking for the cause of death.”

  “I’m not a pathologist,” I said. “I don’t need to know the cause of death, doc. I’m just here to see if it’s something supernatural or not. That’s it, all my job.”

  “Then leave, Marshal Blake, but first can you confirm that it was a lycanthrope attack?”

  I had to go back to the body and spread my hands above the wounds. I curled my fingers in the closest imitation I could of the marks. I traced the air above the wounds but was careful not to touch the body. “It was claws and a lycanthrope, and they were in half-human, half-animal form when the attack took place.”

  “How can you be sure of that?” Memphis asked.

  I held my hand up. “Watch my hand trace over the wounds. The marks were made by a hand, not a paw.”

  The woman, Patricia, said, “Your hand is too small to make marks like that, even with claws.”

  “The hands get bigger when the person shapeshifts.” I sighed and looked across the table. “May I borrow your hands for a moment, Otto?”

  “You may,” he said, and held those big hands out.

  “Can you place your hands above the wounds like I was doing, and trace the wound track?”

  “Show me again,” he said.

  I traced my right hand over the wounds, and he put his much larger hand over mine, so that we traced the wounds together. I tried to pull away, and he pressed our hands to the wounds, trapping me against the body, our fingers spread. He pushed his fingers into the wound tracks, and the spread of his fingers was big enough to fit the wounds. He pinned my hand to the body, while his gloved fingers dug into the meat of the wounds.

  Rose kept taking pictures.

  “Stop it, Otto,” I said through gritted teeth. I had multiple weapons on me, but nothing he had done here made it okay to shoot him in front of witnesses.

  “I am doing what you asked,” he said.

  I tried to pull my hand out from under, but he pressed harder, pressing our hands into the dead flesh and the fresh wounds. His fingers made wet sounds in the wounds, while he pressed my hand tight under his.

  “You’re messing up the wound marks, Marshal Jeffries,” Memphis said.

  Otto didn’t seem to hear him. I had choices. I could faint—no. I could throw up on him, but the body was in the way. I could go for a gun left-handed and shoot him. That was appealing, but not practical. Too many witnesses. I thought of one other choice.

  I leaned in and spoke low. “If you ever want to date me for real, let me go.” I’d rather date an untamed cougar, but I was figuring that he was crazy enough not to understand that.

  He looked at me, and there was surprise in his eyes. He raised his hand enough for me to pull away. I cradled my hand against the green gown as if it hurt.

  “Are you hurt, Marshal Blake?” Memphis asked.

  I shook my head. “I need some air, though. I’m sorry, doctor.” I’d never left an autopsy room early. I’d never bailed on anything before, but it wasn’t the body that I bailed on. It was Olaf, standing there, looking at me. The look wasn’t serial killer sex now, it was puzzlement. It was that guy look again, as if he truly was trying to figure out what would please me. That was the look I had to get away from. That was the image that made me turn for the door and fight not to run.

  18

  I STRIPPED OFF the gloves and the gown and threw them away. I was calm until I hit the outer door and the hallway, then I walked away from that room as fast as I could without running. I would not run, but God, I wanted to.

  I was more upset than I knew, because I damn near ran into Edward and Bernardo as they came out of another room. Edward grabbed me, or I might have fallen.

  “Anita, are you all right?”

  I shook my head.

  “The bodies are bad,” Bernardo said.

  I shook my head again. “It wasn’t the bodies. The bodies are fine.”

  Edward’s grip on my upper arms tightened. “What did Otto do now?”

  I just kept shaking my head and felt the first hard tear begin to trail down my face. Fuck, why was I crying?

  “What did he do?” When I didn’t answer, he shook me. “Anita! What did he do to you?”

  I finally calmed enough to look up at him. I shook my head. “Nothing.”

  His fingers tightened, almost hurting on my arms. “This doesn’t look like nothing.” But his voice, his eyes, everything, made me afraid of what he might do if he really thought Olaf had hurt me.

  “Honest, Edward, he just did his usual creepy stuff.” I calmed enough to be less tense in his arms. When I relaxed, so did he, but his fingers stayed on my arms. He studied my face.

  “First, it’s Ted, Anita,” but his voice still held that anger, and his eyes were Edward at his most dangerous.

&nbs
p; I nodded. “I’m sorry, Ted, sorry. Just . . .” I just shook my head. What was I supposed to say, that Olaf had spooked me so badly that I’d forgotten everything else? That would not help calm Edward, or me.

  “Second, you don’t spook this easy. What did he do?” That last sentence was low and deliberate, and full of carefully contained rage. I understood in that moment that Edward blamed himself for Olaf’s interest in me. I guess he had put us together, but I realized that he would blame himself if the worst happened, and neither God nor the devil himself would be able to keep Olaf safe from him. Of course, that would make me dead, and badly, horribly dead, too. I guess I wouldn’t really care. Shit.

  “We looked at one body that had claw marks on it. Shapeshifters of some kind. The doctor made noises that there might be more bodies like that, but most of it’s blades.”

  Edward and Bernardo looked behind us. I didn’t look, because I was pretty sure what I’d see.

  “Before he gets to us, I need to know what he did to upset you, Anita,” Edward said.

  “I don’t know if I can explain it, Edward. The pathologists didn’t buy that human hands had made the wounds because my hands were too small, so I borrowed Olaf’s hands to show the size.”

  Edward let me go and started for the big man. I grabbed his arm. “No, Edward, Olaf learned things from the wounds on the other bodies. He really did. His expertise with a blade and torture was valuable. Even Dr. Memphis was impressed.”

  Edward wasn’t looking at me but down the hall.

  I talked faster. “We didn’t learn as much from this body, from him, because it was claws, and that’s my area. I let him boss me around, Edward, more than I should have, because he had been smart about the other body. I let him manipulate me until I just broke. It wasn’t his fault. He was just being him, and I forgot for a second, Edward.”

  Edward looked at me then and wrapped his arm around me. It was so unexpected that I tensed. He looked at me, and it was not the least romantic. The look was intense, angry, and down deep in his eyes, a flash of fear. He was afraid for me. Edward was never afraid, almost never.

  “Don’t ever forget what he is, Anita,” he whispered, as he leaned in. “When you forget that they’re monsters, they kill you.” He kissed me on the cheek. I know he did it for Olaf’s benefit. I know he didn’t kiss me on the mouth for his and my benefit. It would have been too weird.

  I gave startled eyes to Olaf as he came closer to us, pulling off his gown. The gloves had already gone in the trash. He looked from me to Edward, but finally just at Edward. “What has she told you?”

  “That it wasn’t your fault. That she let you manipulate her because you had been smart with the other bodies. That your expertise with blades and torture had been helpful.”

  Olaf looked surprised, and his voice matched. “She did not lie.”

  “Did you think I’d come out here and lie, say you’d been a big, bad man, and ask for help?”

  He put those deep-set eyes on me and nodded. “Women lie, and they use men against each other. It’s what they do.”

  I shook my head and pushed away, gently, from Edward. “I don’t do shit like that. I let you manipulate me, and that won’t happen again, but I knew better. I let you . . . get in my head. And I knew better.” I slapped my chest with my hand, hard enough to hurt. “I knew better. I don’t ask anyone to protect me from my own stupidity.”

  “It took you longer than I thought it would to realize that you know more about shapeshifters than I do. You could have just refused me entry to the room.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, stupid fucking me.” I walked away then, shaking my head. I had to get away from Olaf and Edward and Bernardo’s interested eyes. I’d had enough testosterone for the day.

  Dr. Memphis called from down the hallway. “Marshal Blake, may I speak to you for a moment?”

  I looked past the other men to the doctor. He was still in his gown, no gloves, like Olaf. Shit. I’d let Olaf spook me; I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I walked past them all and pointed a finger at the big guy. “You stay here. The two of you keep an eye on him, so I don’t have to.” Then I walked past all of them and went for the doctor. I’d put another gown on, another mask, more gloves. I’d look at the damn bodies on my own because Olaf was right—I knew lycanthropes better than any of the rest of them. I would look at these bodies on my own, and God willing, I’d learn something that could help us figure out what the fuck was going on.

  “Is Marshal Jeffries coming back in?” Memphis asked.

  “No,” I said, and walked back through the doors.

  19

  THEY HAD FINISHED undressing the body when Memphis walked me back inside the room. It lay bare and very unalive. It looked like a body now, without the clothes, and the wounds like bright tears on the skin.

  From across the room I could see that the groin was bloody. I couldn’t tell how bad the damage was from here. I didn’t really want to know how bad it was, but as usual I had to see it all. Crap.

  Rose either had taken all the pictures he needed or was too shocked to take them. He stood there, with his camera forgotten in his hands. The other two techs were no better. Dale had busied himself with something at the cabinets. Patricia went to stand by Rose and turned her back.

  “Anyone who needs to leave can do so,” Memphis said.

  Dale went for the door without a word. “They were friends,” Rose said, and that was enough.

  “Patricia,” Memphis said, “do you need to go?”

  “No, doctor, no, I’ll stay. I didn’t know him as well as Dale did, and there are some of the . . . I did know some of them better. I don’t want to work on them, so I’ll stay.” She turned around, pale, lips thin, but a determined look on her face. She’d do.

  “Rose?” Memphis asked.

  “I’m okay, doctor. It’s not that I knew him. I’m being all wimpy about the wound. Sorry.” He nodded. “Sorry, I’ll do better.” He raised the camera back up and started snapping.

  I walked around the body so I could see the wound closer. Not that I wanted to see it, but it was an odd wound. Of course, once I was on the other side, I could see the inside of the right thigh clearly. Someone had sliced it open from groin to almost knee. The femoral artery would have been toast. You bleed out from that in fifteen, twenty minutes tops. You can save yourself if the wound is low enough for a tourniquet and medical help is coming. But whoever sliced him up didn’t want him saving himself with first aid.

  Whatever he might have been once as a man, now he was just bloody, but . . . the genitalia were intact, or looked it. The only way to be certain was to touch them and see, and I didn’t want to know that badly. I had to peer a lot closer than I wanted to, but I was right, the wounds didn’t actually go across the genitalia, more around them. “When are you going to wash the blood away?”

  “Yes,” Memphis said, “we’ll be able to see those wounds more clearly when we’ve finished cleaning the body, but we wanted you to see it first.”

  I looked up at him. “Why?”

  “You’re our shapeshifter expert,” he said.

  “You have shapeshifters in Vegas,” I said.

  “We do, but they wouldn’t be allowed near a lycanthrope kill.”

  “Yeah, same at home, so you have to make do with me.”

  “If half your reputation is real, Marshal Blake, we aren’t making do.”

  I looked away from his too-intense eyes. He wanted me to solve this. He wanted me to help them catch the thing that had killed their people. I wanted to help, but I hated that feeling of pressure. The sensation that if I missed the clue there was no backup. I thought about calling Edward in, but wasn’t sure I could call in part of my backup without getting the rest of it back. I was done with Olaf for the day if I could manage it.

  I peered as close to the wounds as I could. “It looks like the claws were driven in around the groin, deep, but straight in and out, no tearing.” I stood up and gestured at the thigh wound. �
�Not like that.”

  “Was it more than one shapeshifter?” Rose asked.

  It was a good question. “Could be, but I don’t think so. This up close and personal, there just isn’t room for two to fight. I’m not discounting it, but all these wounds are so debilitating that once it happened, there wouldn’t be any need for two shapeshifters to fight this man.”

  “His name was Randall Sherman, Randy,” Memphis said.

  I shook my head. “No names in the morgue. I function because it’s a body. I’m sorry that he was your friend, but I can’t think of him that way and do my job.”

  “I thought you had to have a name to raise the dead,” Patricia said.

  “Yes, but none of these bodies will be able to be raised.”

  “Why not?” Patricia asked.

  “Murder victims tend to go after their murderers, first and foremost. They maim or kill anything that gets in their way, including innocent civilians.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  I stared down at what was left of Officer Randall Sherman and cursed Memphis for giving me a name. I don’t know why it can make such a difference, but suddenly I looked at him, not at a body. I noticed that he was tall and athletic, and had spent a lot of time staying in shape. He was probably on the other side of thirty, but it had been a good early thirty. All that work, to be strong, to be fast, to be the best, and some monster comes by and is stronger, faster, and better, just because of a disease in its blood. No amount of weight lifting or jogging would ever make a human being the equal of a shapeshifter. So unfair, so true.

  “What kind of hair did you find on the body and clothes?”

  “We found human hair, but no animal hair,” Memphis said.

  I looked at him.

  “Yes,” he said, “you can look surprised. I’ve seen two other shapeshifter kills, and we found a lot of animal hair at both. You can’t get this close to someone and not shed on them, but this shifter cleaned the body of hair so we wouldn’t know what it was.”