The Resurrection Game

by Michelle Belanger

  The wooden case, crafted to hold something the size of a single cigar, hummed softly against my palm. Every inch of it was covered with runes, the rows of sinuous script carved so finely that they faded into the dark grain of the wood. To open the container, you had to slide the top, but it had been crafted so cunningly, you also had to know exactly where to put your thumb and forefinger. I’d found the richly stained puzzle box at an antique shop a few months back, adding a soft scrap of runed garment leather to its interior. It had become the perfect home for the bone stylus that nestled within.

  Fighting a wicked twinge of déjà vu, I tucked the wooden case into the innermost pocket of my jacket. Opposite the heavy imprint of my SIG, the warded box traced a hard line against my ribs. It wouldn’t be much safer than leaving it in my apartment, but it was the best I was going to manage given the circumstances.

  With luck, it wouldn’t bite me in the ass.

  From a bowl on my desk, I scooped up my spare set of keys, locking the rest of my wards into place as I pulled the door shut behind me. Remy was already gone, but Lil was still there, fury etched into her features. As I worked the key, the magical barriers snapped around the latches and deadbolt, reinforcing the physical locks. The power behind the wards crackled for an instant, fading as the obscuring magics kicked in.

  Despite herself, Lil made an appreciative sound.

  “You’ve added some real finesse to your set-up,” she said.

  “A compliment?” I responded dryly. “Lil, I’m touched.” Pushing past her and heading for the stairs, I started down them two at a time, plotting the quickest route to the Cuyahoga County Medical Examiner’s offices. It was only about a mile and a half from the apartment, but if I got mired in morning traffic, that wouldn’t matter. Lil followed close behind, and at the bottom she nearly crashed into me. I paused long enough to glower at her.

  “You’re still not invited.”

  “Someone’s got to watch your back,” she said.

  “No,” I growled.

  She lofted her smartphone. A stopwatch app ticked down prominently on the screen. “Less than seven minutes to go, flyboy,” she prodded. “Still want to argue?”

  “You’re a brat,” I grumbled.

  “The word you’re looking for is bitch,” she corrected. “And I wear it with pride.”

  12

  A space opened up on Cedar less than a block from the Medical Examiner’s compound, and I backed my Dodge Hellcat in before anyone else could snag it. Early morning traffic inched past us, clogging both lanes, but the drive out had been lucky—most of Euclid Heights and Cedar Glen had been clear.

  “You’re not coming inside,” I said flatly.

  “Who said I wanted to?” she asked.

  “I thought that’s why you tagged along,” I grumbled. “To loom over my shoulder and make inappropriate comments.”

  Lil grinned, Cheshire-wide. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your friend.”

  With a groan, I unstrapped my seatbelt and opened the door. “You’re impossible.” Stepping onto the curb, I slammed the door harder than was necessary. Lil shot out of the passenger side in the next instant.

  “You’re not leaving me cooped up in there.”

  “Well, you’re not getting my keys,” I said, clicking the fob so all the doors locked. Then I armed the security system. “I don’t trust you.”

  “Come on, Zack,” she replied. “If I really wanted your big, slick muscle car, believe me, I could take it before you even realized it was gone.”

  Frowning, I waited for the punch line, certain she was leading up to some sort of innuendo. For once, though, it seemed she actually meant my car. Still, my imagination took me places I really didn’t want to go. It didn’t help that her spice and vanilla come-hither overpowered even the asphalt stink of the street.

  That was my brain, on Lil.

  “My eyes are up here,” she purred. “Something on your mind, flyboy?”

  Dragging my gaze from where it had settled, I muttered something indecipherable, then rushed across Cedar before I further embarrassed myself. That guilty flush was back at my ears, and it wasn’t lost on the Lady of Beasts. Her rich, throaty laughter followed tauntingly all the way to the door.

  To my shock, Lil stayed put.

  The big concrete block of the main building squatted on a thin strip of lawn behind a token iron fence. Freshly painted, the waist-high metal barrier looked like its sole purpose was to accent the landscaping. Beyond it, the entire façade of the boxy gray structure was gridded with windows. At this hour, only a few of them flickered with life.

  A boldly lettered sign prohibiting the carrying of weapons was posted prominently beside the main entrance. Self-consciously, I tugged the cuffs of my jacket over the rounded bulge of pommels at my wrists, hoping they wouldn’t have metal detectors. Bobby knew what kind of arsenal I carried, and that may have been why he’d asked me to meet him at the loading bay.

  Problem was, I couldn’t recall where it was.

  A cursory study of the lot led to a promising spit of pavement emblazoned with yellow one-way arrows. Those led around the side of the building. The truck-sized lane twined between the main office and a nearby parking structure. One entire side was lined with signs.

  NO PARKING: TOW AWAY ZONE

  These were tacked to a sagging chain-link fence that separated the truck lane from the parking garage beyond. Vagabond weeds sprouted among clusters of trash at its base, the plastic tatters of abandoned grocery bags flicking in the wind.

  Turning a corner, I finally spotted Bobby. The young detective hunched with his back to the wind just beyond the pool of light cast by a halogen mounted over a metal receiving door. A few feet to the left of the loading bay stood a dented fire door with a security box mounted next to it—the kind with speakers. Bobby was in his shirtsleeves, and the wind pasted his pants to his slim legs as he fervently tapped on the glowing screen of his smartphone. My own phone buzzed with an incoming text. Grabbing the device, I lofted it in his direction.

  “Hey,” I called. “Got your text. Hope I’m not too late.”

  Bobby jumped at the sound of my voice. His nerves had to be frazzled—I wasn’t even sneaking.

  “Zack,” he said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.” The little lines at the corners of his eyes deepened once he got a good look at me. Quizzically, he tapped the side of his throat, echoing the placement of the bandages. “What happened here?”

  “Lost a fight,” I replied, resisting the urge to fuss with the row of steri-strips.

  “Ouch,” he said. “I’d hate to see what you lost to.” His eyes cut to a surveillance camera mounted on a pole between the service lane and the parking structure. Its blank, black eye stared directly at the pool of light around the receiving door. “Let’s get inside. We don’t have time to waste if we want to keep this under the radar.” So saying, Bobby pressed his thumb to a buzzer in the metal housing. A tinny speaker built into the box crackled with a voice that could have been human, although it was so distorted, it left room for debate.

  “I’ve got my guy,” Bobby announced. “Buzz us in.”

  The voice said nothing in acknowledgement, but the lock mechanism vibrated hard enough to make the whole fixture shake. Straining, Bobby yanked on the handle. Something loose at the bottom dragged with a tortured-metal shriek, adding to a rusty half-arc scored into the cement.

  “Didn’t need that ear anyway,” I muttered.

  “Take a deep breath,” Bobby cautioned, then he ushered me inside. Beyond the door lay a narrow hallway with bare walls the color of old fingernail clippings. Dull gray tile covered the floor, so freshly scrubbed, it squeaked beneath my boots. A thick miasma of antiseptic cleaner rose from the tiles. Instantly, my eyes stung.

  “Holy fuck,” I choked. Bobby simply nodded. He stepped swiftly across the still-glistening tiles while I lagged behind, gulping air that tasted like bleach. “At least we know the place is hygienic.”
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  “The gal on nights takes her cleaning seriously.”

  I scrubbed at my eyes. “Ya think?”

  “Come on,” he urged. “Only a little further and it’ll clear up.” The hall bent left and then broke into a T.

  Bobby took us left again, moving at a brisk pace. As promised, the choking pall of bleach-water began to fade. We came to a security checkpoint, unmanned, and Bobby swiped his ID card through a reader. The lock on the door buzzed and he held it open, all but pushing me through. Highly strung on a good day, he moved like a clockwork doll wound tight enough to burst. He wasn’t just in a hurry—he was spooked.

  “What are we walking into?” I asked, as we pivoted around another bend. Bobby practically scurried past a line of stainless steel doors, each of them locked tight, with gleaming security pads mounted next to them. He shot me a strained look over his shoulder.

  “I’m just glad it’s you and not the daughter that has to see the body,” he said.

  “That bad?”

  He quickened his pace, gripping his ID card hard enough to crimp the lamination. “You know I’ve seen a lot of awful shit, especially after Garrett,” he began. Impulsively, his hand went to his short hairs, scrubbing like there was something he sought to wipe from his skin. “But this lady—Zack, she was tortured. And whoever did it knew how to make it last. Probably for days.”

  “When did they find her?” I asked.

  “The Parma police have had the case a couple of weeks.”

  “Parma’s a little out of your jurisdiction,” I said. “How’d you even hear about it?”

  “One look at the symbols and they kicked it to me.”

  “Symbols?” I asked. My gut twisted.

  “You know how it is,” Bobby said. “I’m the go-to guy for all the weird shit, especially after the busts last March with Garrett and that… thing.” Even knowing Malphael was my brother, Bobby couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the connection. To him, the Gibburim would always be a demon. I didn’t correct him. “The detective in charge—Lopez—she didn’t relinquish the case, but she has me consulting.”

  “What kind of symbols are we talking about this time?” I pressed.

  Footsteps echoed at the end of the hall, and we froze in guilty silence. A petite woman in scrubs and carrying a clipboard briskly turned the corner. A bindi marked her faintly lined brow. As she passed, she looked up briefly from her paperwork, glancing past me to Bobby. She flashed the detective a broad, white grin.

  “Good morning, Detective Park.”

  “Hey, Priya,” he replied. Tension ratcheted across his narrow shoulders, but the smile he gave her was warm and genuine.

  “A little late for you, isn’t it?” she mused. “I almost never see you here at the changing of the guard.”

  “Yeah.” He ducked his head in a nod. “Last-minute appointment. Only time we could fit it in.”

  Her gaze shifted briefly back to me, but she didn’t ask any questions, just tipped her head in greeting and continued on her way. The metronomic click of her low heels echoed loud and hollow in the long and barren hall. She stopped at a doorway just before the next bend, rattling through a pocket full of keys. Producing her own ID card, she swiped and tapped a passcode into the mounted pad. Before disappearing into her work space, Priya smiled again at Bobby.

  “You have a good day now, Detective Park.”

  Hurriedly, he nodded, turning back to me. “Priya’s day shift,” he whispered. “She’s always early, but this place will fill up fast.” He swiped his own card through the key pad nearest us, punching in a series of six numbers. “We’ve got to make this quick… and, Zack,” he added, with an ominous note. “However bad you think this is. Trust me. It’s actually worse.”

  13

  Stainless steel, tile, and antiseptic so strong it nearly covered the stench of death, marked the dimly lit room. Bobby swept ahead, flicking on a bank of overhead lights. Under their dull, insect drone, the walls echoed hollowly with the sound of our footfalls. I tried to walk softly, but body and thoughts felt oddly out of step. Struggling to marshal my focus, I swayed near the threshold.

  With nervous efficiency, Bobby moved straight for the refrigerated units along the back wall. Each of the square stainless steel doors bore a placard with a number-letter combination. Without hesitation, he reached for number 4-9A, top row, far right, one from the end. He waited with his fingers poised on the handle. I moved gingerly past equipment I’d thus far only seen on crime shows—at least since my rebirth on the lake. Little blips and flashes of memory told me this wasn’t my first time in a place like this.

  Finally stepping to Bobby’s side, I held tight to my shields, having little interest in picking up stray psychic impressions. A morgue wasn’t as bad as a hospital, where every day the living imprinted brittle hopes and grinding misery, but corpses held their own memories, even once the soul had flown.

  In Marjory’s case, I was counting on it. Her death was the only one here I was willing to let inside my head.

  “Ready?” Bobby asked.

  Cautiously, I nodded. Despite his warnings, however, I wasn’t certain I could properly prepare. I’d seen dead bodies before—even made a few myself—but the heat of battle was altogether different than this hushed vault of stainless steel.

  “Go ahead,” I murmured.

  A grim set to his features, Bobby pulled the drawer.

  The gray-haired woman lay on her back, a Y-incision spread between her collarbones. Soft folds of skin bunched roundly between the stitches, alternately pale and mottled. Cozily plump, she was covered with a crisp vinyl sheet from about her armpits down—and that was a blessing.

  Deep bruising on her face and shoulders showed that she had been severely beaten. Purple, green, yellow—the colors told the story of a lengthy assault where some of the wounds had been given time to start healing.

  I’d hoped to recognize Marjory—at least some glimmer—but the damage was so extensive, her face looked more like a horror movie mask than anything that had once been human. Whoever had processed her had washed away the clotted blood, but cuts still stood out on her cheek and mouth and forehead, where the sheer force of impact had split her skin. One eye socket sagged inward, all the bones around it shattered. From the lumpy shape of her jaw, that, too, had been broken.

  “Wow,” I breathed. It was all I could manage.

  Bobby tugged at the sheet, revealing further damage—bruises so deep their purpled centers looked black, burns bubbling in soft folds of skin.

  “We had to get her dental records because of what they did to her hands.”

  I followed his gesture and, at first, my brain refused to process the tattered stumps of meat and skin as fingers. Gray and yellow tendons hung like grisly ribbons around the exposed knobs of rounded bones. What flesh remained was ragged, the bruising raw in a way that suggested this damage had been inflicted while Marjory yet lived.

  “They didn’t break her fingers,” I said numbly.

  “No. They tore them off,” Bobby replied. “One by one, probably with vise-grips.” His voice came as if from across a chasm. “They did the same to her toes.”

  “Torture,” I said flatly. He’d said it already, but it was the only word that came. Grimly, Bobby nodded. Forcing myself to examine each burn and point of impact, I leaned closer. Someone had wanted something very badly from this woman, and she had fought like hell not to give it up.

  My secrets.

  I wanted to deny the thought, but couldn’t.

  “Where did they find her?” I asked.

  “Her home,” Bobby answered, “but that’s not where they killed her. The place is pristine.”

  “Staged, then?” I ventured.

  “Without a doubt.”

  I walked a slow circuit around the corpse. My stomach lurched every time my eyes strayed to her mutilated hands.

  “Why?”

  “Best guess? They wanted someone to find her there.”

  “Not just
anyone,” I answered in a hush. “A family member.”

  Reluctantly, he nodded.

  I bent back to the body, not yet willing to touch it. I wanted a clear inventory of all the physical details before I dove into the psychic aspect of things. The stringent scent of disinfectant rose pungently from her skin, but under that, no stink of decomposition.

  “I expected a smell,” I muttered, “even with the refrigeration. How long has she been dead?”

  “That’s one of the weird things,” Bobby answered. He fidgeted with his tie, tugging the knot from his throat. Tiny Rebel Alliance insignias masqueraded as polka dots against a background of black. “She’s been here a couple weeks. Before that, no one’s sure. Time of death was hard to quantify. Decomp hasn’t progressed like it should.”

  A deep shiver clutched at my innards, only partly connected with the abused corpse. A fleeting tease of memory, almost cogent…

  Then gone.

  “Any idea why?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you would know.”

  Thickly, I swallowed. Some part of me did know. The rest of me didn’t want to.

  “You said there were symbols,” I prompted.

  “A circle in the center of her chest.” He put on blue gloves, then bent forward, spreading her heavy breasts. “The Y-incision cuts right through it, but you can still make out most of it.” Not quite touching, he traced a raised, red pattern with the tip of a finger. “The work is intricate. We think he used a wood-burning tool, or maybe a heated needle.”

  “I hope someone got a picture before they cut into her,” I said. “That incision makes it hard to read.”

  “Lopez sent me copies on my phone, but I wanted you to see it in context.” He shifted position so he didn’t block any light. “Besides, I know how you work. You don’t get the same kind of read from a photo.”

  “No, I don’t,” I assented.