I pocketed my phone and secured my gun. Taking care not to touch any of the dolls, I pulled myself onto the lowest branch of the tree, then onto the next, then the next, testing each before releasing my weight. Being a six-four, two-thirty former SEAL is a lot for any branch to take on. I climbed the path laid by the dolls—by whoever had done this.
“’Scuse me, Chucky,” I muttered, passing a doll that I swear had changed positions since I’d started climbing.
At the top, I gripped the branch above me for stability and peered down at the cemetery in the distance, at the exact spot I’d been sitting not ten minutes earlier. A beam of moonlight highlighted the fresh grave. It was a perfect view of the gravesite, and of the funeral hours earlier.
Coincidence?
Swatting a cloud of gnats, I climbed down the tree, this time with faster, swift movements reflecting my racing thoughts. The moment I hit the ground, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Tanya, it’s Jagg.”
“Detective, good to—how can I help you?”
“Send someone out to the city park. I’ve got a fire hazard and some sort of Wiccan shrine I want to get eyes on.”
“I’m sorry… a shrine?”
“Yes. A shrine.”
“Okay, where would you?—”
“Six yards east of the cemetery. Tell them to follow the music.”
“Music?”
“Is there some sort of connection issue here, Tanya?”
“No. Sorry. Shrine, music, got it. I’ll have someone there right away. Can you please tell me?—”
I clicked off and swept my light along the forest floor, kneeling beside a boot print. I followed them past the Voodoo Tree into the thicket, where they disappeared. Weeks of no rain and sweltering temperatures would make it impossible to pull a cast from the prints, or discern the length, width, or tread of the shoes worn. Assuming shoes were worn, of course.
I was photographing the shrine when a twig cracked behind me.
“Holy sh?—”
“Watch your step, kid.”
In full uniform, Tommy Darby, a recent high school graduate and even more recent academy graduate, froze mid-stride, his big brown eyes wide, his mouth squeezed into a little “O.” Darby was so new, his paperwork still had creases. The department only hired him because no one else applied.
He was eager. He was polite.
He was absolutely hopeless.
“What is this, sir?”
Sir. It was always sir.
“You tell me, Darby.”
“Looks like a shrine.” He didn’t move beyond the bush he’d frozen behind.
“Was that your deduction? Or Tanya’s?”
His eyes flicked toward mine.
Snap back at me. Come on, pup. Grow a spine. But he didn’t.
