I knew that voice. Credence Pacillo had reentered the barn.
Silently, I got up and moved to where I could see him but he wasn’t likely to see me, my weapon hidden at my thigh. Pacillo stumbled slightly in the open central area, unsteady on his feet, as he walked through the barn. When I didn’t answer, he stopped and looked down at the ground, but not where Ingrid’s body had lain, which I thought was telling. Instead, he stared at the prints of horse and humans, overlaid with the deep ruts of a vehicle in the barn dust. “Wha’ da fu...”
“I’m here,” I said.
He whirled and nearly fell. I stepped into the light, gave acome herefinger wave, and backed into the office. He followed. I took his former seat again. He stood in the doorway, wavering slowly, breathing the sour scent of old liquor into the office. I closed my laptop, reseated my weapon in its holster, and sat back in the chair, my arms out to the sides, my hands on the chair arms, making myself look bigger. Internet Spook School class, Interrogation 201—Body Mechanics. More importantly, the mamas had always said to start out as you intend to go forward. And I wanted to appear accusational. “You looking for Ingrid? You two were having an affair, right?”
“What? Ingrid? No. Why you askin’ ’bout Ing?”
I focused intently on his face. “She’s dead.”
Pacillo sat down hard, landing on the office floor with an ungainly thump. “Why would Ing be dead?”
Not “why would anyone be dead.” Of course, he was drunk,so I didn’t know what importance to assign to that. “Did you kill Ing?”
He didn’t answer right at first and when he did it was a peculiar, distraught whining sound. He raised his head and I was shocked to see he was crying. “No. Why would I killIng?”
“Did you kill Stella?”
He shook his head, his confusion growing. “No.”
I leaned forward. “Did you kill Monica?” Head shake. “Did you kill Connelly?”
“No,” he breathed.
“Did you kill Racine?”
“Who?”Head shake. “I didn’t kill them.”
Not “I didn’t kill anyone.” But “I didn’t kill them.”
“Were you having an affair with Ingrid?”
“No. Not with Ingrid. I’d never touch Ing.” He closed his eyes and slid to the floor. Out cold.
FireWind leaped out of the darkness and over Pacillo’s body. I nearly jumped out of my skin. My shriek echoed through the night. My boss’ dog form skidded under the table, ramming into my knees. He grabbed my hand in his massive teeth and pulled me out of my chair. My boss was no gentle service dog.
“Bite me and I’ll kick you,” I warned. He let go and raced into the barn. I followed.
At the bottom of the ladder, which I had replaced at the entrance to the loft, he turned, looked at me, and made one of those soft chuff-barks dogs do when they’re excited. At the bottom of the ladder, he bounced on all fours and looked up at the big square hole in the ceiling/flooring above, the kind built for access to hay and feed. I had spotted another such opening outside, at the back of the barn, with a lift for carrying up the hay and feed. FireWind bounded up the ladder and disappeared. It was a comical view from below, but I didn’t laugh. I had likely pushed my improving relationship with the big boss as far as I could. I retrieved my flashlight and followed him into the barn loft.
Hay in rectangular bales was stacked here and there. The light was dim, and what light there was shone up from small holes in the floor, situated over each feeding trough. Dust hung in the unmoving air, caught in my flashlight beam. Support beams ran from the foundation below to the rafters overhead,and hammocks were strung between them, all empty except for cats, which raised their heads and peered over the hammocks at us. “So that’s where you’ve been,” I said.
One gray-striped cat jumped down and sauntered closer, curious or thinking I might have food for it. Then it spotted FireWind and arched its back, hissing. FireWind growled and the cat leaped straight up to land on a joist. The mouser peered down, its tail tip twitching in annoyance.
“Be nice to the kitties,” I ordered my boss as I looked around. He snorted.
There were old saddles on supports, and a line of bridles hanging from hooks, all dust covered. There were rectangular bales of hay and fifty-five-gallon plastic barrels with heavy-duty lids. I peered into several to see different kinds of feed. There were buckets and scoops and brooms and shovels and openings into each stall for hay and feed to be dropped.
There were cardboard boxes and an old trunk along one wall. A cat was sleeping in a plastic laundry hamper that was full of folded clothing. Other than that, the loft was amazingly clean and free of the kind of old, rusted equipment I was used to seeing in church barns. The only surprise was a long, narrow bench holding a candlestick and several puddles of melted dark red wax. FireWind trotted to the bench and sniffed. His body went stiff and quivering, his hair standing on end. A snarl curled his muzzle into something fearsome. St. Bernards had seriously big fangs.
“FireWind?”
He whirled to me and growled. There was nothing human left in his eyes. It occurred to me that I should be angry, frightened, something. Instead I recalled Occam’s words describing the boss: nose-suck. Dogs’ brains were hardwired for tracking from back in the day of being wolves, and scents could take over that part of their brains, just latch on and not let go.
FireWind whirled back and buried his nose in the candle wax, huffing and puffing in the scent. Yeah. Nose-suck. I moved up beside him in the dark and touched the wax with a pinkie. I jerked away. Mega death magics. I looked closer and I realized that there was blood mixed into the wax, giving it the strange reddish color. Black magic? Death-magic practitioners didn’t usually practice blood magic. One was raw power, the other was ritualistic and required a blood sacrifice. Anddeath and decaywas actuallyneither, so why the focals? And then I remembered the intruder. We had been wondering how the energies had been restored and repowered. Someone had been up here.
FireWind breathed deep, his nose touching the wax.
