by Jenna Grey
“Jack Blaine, Homeland Security – any chance I can get in there any time soon?”
“Sorry, mate, er Sir, it’s above my pay-grade, you’d have to ask one of the techies,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, a look of school-boyish curiosity brightening his face. “Homeland Security, that’s like MI5, isn’t it?”
Blaine felt his cheek muscles twitch as he tried desperately to hold back a smile.
“Yeah – I’m licensed to kill,” Blaine whispered, cautiously opening up his leather bomber jacket just enough for the boy to get a glimpse of the Glock in his shoulder holster. The boy looked suitably impressed, his spots taking on a rosy glow as the blood rushed to his face in an admiring blush. Blaine couldn’t hold back any longer and started laughing. “It’s okay, son. I’m just having you on. I sit behind a desk all day writing reports – which is why I’m here right now.” The boy didn’t seem too upset at Blaine’s teasing and gave him a grin back, making it obvious that he would be more than willing to divulge classified information to Blaine if he pushed the right buttons. It didn’t seemed to have occurred to him that the mere fact that Blaine was wearing a sidearm pretty much guaranteed that he didn’t just sit behind a desk all day writing reports.
“What’s your name, son?” Blaine asked.
“PC Widget, Sir, oh, Arnold, Arnold Widget. I’m not quite used to all this lark yet.”
Blaine raised an eyebrow. With a name like that, the poor sod must have gone through it at the academy. His uniform looked as if it had come straight out of the cellophane – he hadn’t been on the job for more than a few weeks, at best.
“Just finished your training?” Blaine asked.
“Yeah, three weeks.”
Blaine couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.
“It gets easier, mate, it gets easier,” he said, slapping him on the arm.
PC Widget seemed to have loosened up now that he’d realised that Blaine was no threat, and gave a nervous, rather green-toothed grin back.
“Pretty weird all this, ay?” he asked, staring across at the bodies with a mixture of disgust and awe. A couple of techies pushed passed them, giving them both a less than friendly look; Blaine glanced at what they were carrying – one had what was obviously a sacrificial dagger, clearly visible through the plastic evidence bag, the other an object that might have been a small receptacle for holding something round – a libation bowl, perhaps?
“I’ve seen weirder, but yeah, pretty weird,” Blaine replied. Blaine couldn’t help but wonder just what this green-as-grass officer would think if he knew the whole truth behind that statement. Blaine had seen and done things that most people could never imagine in the last few years – things that would have made James Bond run and hide behind the nearest Lamborghini. Since he’d set up Vanguard, he’d witnessed the rise and fall of gods and demigods; he’d fought side by side with angels and fought off creatures from the lowest hells.
After facing a hell god and surviving, everything else pretty much faded into insignificance. In comparison to the things he’d seen and done, so far this was the equivalent of an overdue parking ticket.
“Some sort of black magic thing, ay? Gives me the willies,” Widget continued. “They’re talking about it being a mass suicide now, you know like that Jim Jones bloke.”
“It’s as good a theory as any,” Blaine said. He already had a pretty shrewd idea what had gone down here, and it was nothing to do with drinking Coolade.
“They found another body downstairs, some fat bald bloke. He was dead as well,” Widget said, his enthusiasm getting the better of him.
“Bodies usually are,” Blaine replied, but he still kept the smile on his face.
It seemed that now Widget had found his confidence there was no shutting him up. Blaine wasn’t complaining, any information he could get from this garrulous youngster was going to be useful.
“He had ID on him,” Widget continued. “Some bloke called Dalbert Winchard.”
Now that was interesting.
“I have a very thick file on that arsehole,” Blaine said. “He’s a real piece of work. He has a penchant for young girls, a real sleaze-bag. We’ve never been able to get anything on him. I can’t say I’m upset that he’s finally cashed in. Oh, and you better forget I just told you that, and I’ll forget you told me his name.”
“Wasn’t I supposed to?” Widget asked, paling.
Blaine just broadened his grin.
“Probably best to keep your mouth shut if you’re not sure. But you’re safe with me; I won’t pass on anything you tell me.”
The boy sighed his relief.
“Maybe he was supposed to be the sacrifice,” Widget suggested.
It was a reasonable assumption, but wrong. Blaine realised that he’d got the best he was going to get out of Widget and said:
“Maybe. Look, could you do me a solid and go and grab one of the techies for me and ask how long it will be before I can get in there? I’m running really late.”
Widget didn’t stop to consider that Blaine could have gone himself to ask permission, but trotted off to the nearest technician, more than happy to oblige. The white-overalled figure swore at him for coming into the crime scene without protective clothing and sent him off red-faced and tossing furious looks at Blaine. Blaine did feel a bit bad about it – the kid had only been trying to help. The shrouded figure hesitated momentarily, then came over and stood a few feet in front of Blaine, ignoring the hand he offered, as he knew they would.
“Hi, Jack Blaine. Homeland Security – any chance I can get in there soon and take a look around? I have to get back to the office.”
The shrouded figure pulled back the mask to reveal a slightly plump woman of about forty, who gave him a less than friendly look. Blaine pulled out his ID and held it out to her; she did look at it, scrutinising him, and it, very carefully.
“Vanguard? Never heard of it,” she finally pronounced, adding just a hint of disdain with a carefully arched eyebrow. A fellow Scot – that should have warmed him to her, but didn’t.
“Any reason you should have?” Blaine asked, defensive now. There was an exchange of semi-hostile looks, and then Blaine relented and smiled his surrender. “It’s a unit that deals with unusual incidents – and you have to admit this is about as unusual as it gets.”
The woman’s features didn’t soften, and she looked ready to send him packing, but obviously realised she couldn’t do that because he had every right to be there.
“We’re nearly done,” she said. “You can come in for a quick look before we move the bodies out. Unless you want to suit up. I think there’s a spare set somewhere, although looking at the size of you, I’m not sure it will fit you,” she said, taking in his six-four frame and looking doubtful. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep out of our way until then.”
Blaine gave her what he hoped was a winning smile.
“I think we started off on the wrong foot. I appreciate you must be sick of people like me trying to muscle in. Sorry, but I do have to do this.”
She relented a little, and smiled back, pulling off her rubber gloves and holding out her hand. She peeled back the hood to reveal a curly head of tousled ginger hair.
“Sarah Mills. I’m in charge of the forensic team, although you wouldn’t think so sometimes. Sorry, this has unnerved me a bit. I’m not usually a bitch.”
“Ah, forget it, this is enough to unsettle anyone. I’d really love to know what the hell happened here,” he said.
There was a raised eyebrow.
“I thought that’s what you were here for – you’re the expert, aren’t you?” she replied. Unfortunately, he was.
“I’ve got a few ideas, but it’s only best guess at the moment, same as you.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She nodded and gave the tiniest of smiles.
“Okay, we’re all done here,” someone called across.
“All yours then,” Mills said, “but if you spot anything, make sure you bag it an
d put it into evidence, won’t you? Someone will be around to make sure it gets put in the right place. Try not to make too much of a mess.”
Blaine couldn’t let that one pass.
“I’m a biochemist, I know about procedure,” he replied testily. “So, is it okay if I take a closer look at the bodies?”
“I suppose so; we’ve finished here, just waiting for the vans to take them to the mortuary. Just be circumspect will you?”
“I’ll try and restrain myself,” Blaine replied.
Blaine pulled some rubber gloves from his pocket and moved over to the nearest body, ignoring the dirty looks he was getting from the technicians who were now tidying up around him. He crouched down and pulled back the cowl to reveal the face of a man he recognised all too well. As soon as he heard the name Dalbert Winchard, he should have guessed this bastard wouldn’t be far behind.
“You recognise him?” Mills asked.
“Oh, yes, a real charmer. Elias Gaunt, a very nasty piece of work, I’ve had him on my radar for years. We think he might have been responsible for a number of disappearances, the latest a young lad a few days ago. We’ve just never been able to prove anything against him. It does my heart good to see him get his just desserts.”
“You mean they really were into human sacrifice? Sick fucks,” Mills said, shaking her head. “There’s a body downstairs, a man, could have been the intended victim. There were some marks on him that showed he’d been in some sort of a struggle, some scratches and bruises; he looks as if he has a broken nose as well.”
“Curiouser and curiouser. This one is going to give your boys a few headaches,” Blaine said.
He glanced around at the bodies; all of them looked peaceful, or just a little surprised. He wouldn’t really have expected anything else – even if a person’s death throes were hideous, most of the time the body relaxed in death, leaving a vacant and peaceful expression on the corpse’s face. He’d need to muscle in on one of the autopsies to get a better idea of what had happened here. One thing was certain, this case was going to give the conspiracy theorists years of YouTube air time.
Blaine pulled open Gaunt’s robe to reveal the top part of his chest; he couldn’t see much of it, but enough to get a glimpse of the tattoos that covered almost every inch of it. They were arcane symbols that Blaine recognised as occult protection against demons, some of which were the same wards that decorated Blaine’s own chest.
“God, these people give me the creeps,” Mills said, looking down at the tattoos. “Any idea what they are?”
“All occult sigils, wards against demons and dark forces. This creep was into some very heavy shit.”
“I have to admit this is one case I really wish I’d missed,” she said.
Blaine stood and pulled off the gloves.
“I’d value your first best guess on what might have killed them, totally off the record. Any ideas?” he asked. “Just a best guess at first glance.”
Mills shrugged.
“Off the record? Not a clue. There are no obvious signs of a heart attack on any of them, no flushing on the upper body, no swelling around the neck, no blueish grey tinge around the nose, eyes or fingertips caused by lack of oxygen. But if it’s nerve gas, I’ve never seen anything like it. Sarin or VX aren’t responsible for this. I’ve seen victims of those, and the effects were hideous, convulsions, really nasty after effects, usually leaving the poor sods surrounded by their own body waste. Whatever this was it was sudden, merciful. They didn’t know anything about it. Best guess at the moment is that it was some kind of self-administered poison. What’s your take on it?”
“Maybe it was magic,” Blaine said, giving her a wry smile.
Mills laughed, and she was almost pretty when she let the sour expression slip from her face.
“Yeah, of course. Voldemort and the Death Eaters just popped in, waved their wands and said ‘avadacadavra’.”
“Maybe there is more in Heaven and Earth than any of us might imagine,” Blaine said, just the hint of devilment in his voice. Mills scrutinised his face for a moment, not sure if he was teasing her or not. She must have seen something there that made her believe that he was serious.
“Oh come on, you’re a scientist. You surely don’t believe in any of that crap?”
Blaine shrugged.
“They were obviously performing some kind of black magic ritual. That’s set up for a sacrifice,” he said, tipping a nod towards the altar, “they believed in it.”
Mills looked relieved – that was obviously an explanation she could buy into.
“Oh, I see what you’re getting at – the power of suggestion, the way the old Voodoo priests work; they think they’re cursed, so the curse works on them. But to kill seventeen people? No, sorry, I can’t buy that. Perhaps one or even two, but not all of them. I’m still going for poison as the most likely cause of death, some slow-acting poison that they administered earlier.”
And if that wasn’t clutching at straws, Blaine didn’t know what was.
“Maybe,” he replied. “It’s as good an explanation as any. Will you let me know when the first autopsy takes place? I want to be there.”
“What do you think you’re going to find that we won’t?” she asked.
“I’ve studied toxicology in relation to occult practices – I can probably spot poisons the average pathologist might not be familiar with.”
That seemed to satisfy her.
“I’ll send an owl,” she said, with a smile.
Blaine made his way to the door, zig-zagging his way around technicians and trolleys as they began taking the bodies out.
They were going to have to bring in a truckload of extra staff to get through that many autopsies, which were probably all going to show precisely the same cause of death. Undetermined – which meant an open verdict. They gave an open verdict if the death was suspicious, but the jury was unable to reach any other of the verdicts open to them. They avoided it as much as possible, but in this case, there couldn’t be any other possible verdict. He’d bet his reputation on it. The only exception might have been Winchard. He was very close to Gaunt, had been for years, and Blaine would love to know why he wasn’t up there with the others, taking part in the ritual.
He was just about to head off to his car when he caught sight of them bringing out a trolley from a side entrance. It had to be Winchard. Widget was tagging along behind and Blaine moved across quickly to stop them before they could get the body into the van. He ignored the very dirty look he got from Widget and mumbled an apology to him, which Widget accepted with more grace than Blaine deserved.
“Sorry, can you hold on a second?” Blaine asked, flashing his ID at the technician who was pushing the trolley. ‘I need a quick look at the body.”
“You’re joking, give me a break,” was the reply. Blaine grabbed the end of the trolley, forcing it to a halt.
“Sorry, I’ll only be a second, honest.”
Blaine took the corner of the sheet between thumb and forefinger and pulled it back, being careful not to touch the body. There was Dalbert Winchard, the weaselling little shit. Blaine gave him a quick once over, which was all he dared hope for. There were scratches on his face, some bruising and signs of a struggle. Mills had been right – his nose was definitely broken; the blood had congealed on his upper lip, which meant that it had still been bleeding when he died. More interesting, though, were the two puncture wounds on his neck, like a vampire’s bite; they were already healing over so the wounds had to be a good day or so old.
And then Blaine noticed something that he should have picked up on before. For a couple of days after a soul left the body, it left behind a kind of residue, a ghost, if you like, a shadow of the soul that seemed to cling to the body for a short time after death, before it moved on to wherever it moved on to – in this case, down and very deep. He should have noticed it when he knelt by Gaunt’s body, but he’d been preoccupied. Now he noticed. There was nothing, a total vacuum, as if the soul
had been sucked from this body with incredible force, so fast that it left just a hollow shell behind. The technician yanked the trolley away from him, and Blaine couldn’t do much but let them go.
“He looks like a scum—” Widget began, then he suddenly paled, stumbling a little and pressing against Blaine, who had to grab his arm to keep him from falling. Widget had lost all of his colour, his face turning into a sickly shade of green; he looked as if he was going to be sick.
“Not much fun being up that close to a dead body, is it?” Blaine asked. “You’ll get used to it.”
Widget just stared at him for a moment, his eyes glassy, vacant.
“No, I’m just not used to this sort of thing. I’m fine now, just fine.” Widget replied, giving Blaine a crooked smile. Blaine watched him walk away, wondering what the hell that was all about.
