Once upon a time I had worried only about myself. Now I had people to care for. There was a big part of me that missed living off the grid and in isolation.
I loaded up. Besides the cabbage plant’s pot pressed against my belly, I was carrying coffee in my metal travel mug and had a sealed plastic bowl full of leftover chicken stew and a half loaf of Mama’s bread in a carryall, dangling from an elbow, with a passel of fresh greens on top. I had my one-day gobag on one shoulder and my four-day gobag over the other. I was holding my ID in two fingers; I would use the same fingers to punch in the code as I made my way through the two entrance doors.
Except that Occam met me partway down the stairs and took my gobags. “Hey there, Nell, sugar,” he said softly. “You look pretty as a picture.”
“A still life with plants? Maybe a skull? Giovanni Francesco Barbieri did a painting with flowers and a skull sitting on top of a book. I sorta feel like that. Still half-dead.”
Occam chuckled and looked up at the camera in the ceiling corner. I had a feeling that if it hadn’t been there we might have kissed. My face warmed at the expression on his—just a little frustrated. Just a little needing. Just the way I felt.
My cat-man carried my bags to my cubby. Cubby was office-speak for cubicle. I kinda liked all the modern words and slang I had learned. It made me feel included, part of the team instead of the backcountry consultant I had been at first. The country hick chick I had truly been. I locked away my weapon in my desk, put the plant in the windowsill with the herbs and lettuces I grew in the office, and stashed my four-day gobag in the locker room and the food in the break room. I rejoined Occam at his desk and we drank our coffees, chatting about the weather and the cool air that was blowing in. Everything was quiet. I liked this time of day in HQ.
Half an hour later, we joined both day and night shifts in the conference room. Everyone looked more perky than I expected, even T. Laine, who had been working day and night. She had bruised-looking circles beneath her dark eyes and her shoulders were slumped, but her clothes were fresh and her hair was clean and combed. I got the feeling that she too had slept last night. Null pens were lined up on the conference table in front of her.
JoJo was dressed in bright reds, a silky skirt and blouse, with her braids up in a massive bun, full of beads and sparkly things, and a half dozen gold earrings in each ear. Tandy, who I hadn’t seen for what felt like weeks but was really less than one, looked dapper in khaki pants and a white shirt with a dark jacket. His reddish hair had been cut short and the Lichtenberg lines that traced across his skin, from the lightning strikes that gave him his empath gifts, were bright against his pale skin. He was sitting next to Jo, looking over her shoulder at the screens as they loaded up the files for the EOB/SOB (end-of-business/start-of-business) debrief.
Rick and Margot were still on the case in Chattanooga. They would be back by the full moon, to shift and run on Soulwood in safety and privacy. I’d have to talk with Esther about that, and soon, if she was going to be living at the base of the hill. Shemight see them at night and I didn’t want her shooting my werecats.
Occam and I took our seats and opened our laptops and tablets.
Coffee gurgled in the coffeemaker, a full pot brewing, the red bag from Rick’s place of choice, Community Coffee, on the counter. The scent was... was home. My second home. HQ. With friends. As if he caught that feeling, or perhaps that scent on me, Occam slid a look my way and smiled, his blonder hair catching the pale light from the windows. I remembered the texture of it in my hands from yesterday, more silky than it had been, as he continued to heal from being dead.
FireWind entered last, from his back office. As usual, he looked as if he had stepped out of a fashion magazine: crisp white shirt, charcoal pants, black jacket, black shoes. I was pretty sure he owned nothing that wasn’t some shade of black or white. “Good morning,” he said. “Clementine. FireWind. Mark current date and time and open file for SOB meeting.” He dipped his head in a gesture that told us to ID ourselves and, one at a time, we stated our names. He took Rick’s seat at the far head of the table, which I didn’t like, but I kept my mouth shut. Like my sister, I’d pick my battles.
“We have an update on the names of the deceased,” FireWind said. “Stella Mae Ragel, Monica Belcher, Verna Upton, Connelly Darrow, Ingrid Wayns, Cale Nowell, Erica Lynn Quinton, and one very expensive horse. Other bodies may have been liquefied at the shed behind the residence of Cale Nowell, though T. Laine has stated categorically that there are no death magics nor anydeath and decayinside Cale Nowell’s home, which in her mind is proof that Nowell is not our suspect.”
T. Laine pursed her lips at the words “in her mind,” but she didn’t argue. I wanted to know who else but the suspect would have been making people-soap in the shed behind his house, but I kept my mouth shut because the boss was still talking.
“Infected but recuperating in hospital are Thomas Langer and four others. The rest have been released from hospital. The doctors agree that time in the null rooms is the reason there are survivors at all.
“We have a mountain of trace evidence being worked up at PsyCSI in Richmond and at the military’s PHMT. I havedirected that we be updated straightaway on anything they find, even basic preliminary reports. But it will be days before we have final reports, and there is a great deal of pressure from up-line to discover something actionable. So far, we are treating as evidence: the box of T-shirts, the witch trigger that set off the working, thedeath and decay–treated soil of the plants in the basement studio, the liquid goo in the kettle at the shed behind Nowell’s trailer, the melted remains of the victims—” FireWind stopped abruptly and added, more slowly, “And not much else. Talk to me, people. Brainstorm. Guess.”
“I’m looking at the poly marriage,” T. Laine said. “Out of the original seven that lived together at the commune, four are dead. Connelly Darrow, Stella, Erica Lynn Quinton, Cale Nowell. All four were also in the band. Surviving the commune is Donald Murray Hampstead, who moved to New York City, and who, when interviewed, was able to offer nothing substantive. Also Thomas Langer and Racine Alcock. Per all surviving members of the poly marriage, Alcock left the commune early, for reasons no one knew, and was not in the band. I haven’t been able to find her and neither has Jones.”
I looked at JoJo, who didn’t glance up at me. If JoJo couldn’t find someone, they didn’t exist.
“She has no social media presence,” T. Laine said. “For all intents and legal purposes, she vanished.”
“What if Racine Alcock wasn’t her real name at all?” I said.
“I thought about that and we asked Hampstead about that possibility several times. He has no idea where she is or if she was using her real name in the marriage. He has not been part of Stella’s life since he left the commune.”
“Bad feelings?” FireWind asked.
“He says no,” Tandy said. “I was listening on the call and I believe he was speaking the truth as he knows it.”
“What about the photo albums FireWind and I collected from Stella Mae’s closet?” I asked. “They were old. Did anyone go through them?”
“The albums.” FireWind stood fast and left the room, returning in minutes with a cardboard box, sealed with evidence tape. He filled out the COC—chain-of-custody—paper with today’s date, time, location, and his name, and slit open the evidence tape. “I brought them back and entered them into evidence, butI’ve been here so seldom I never got around to going through them.” He passed around the albums, three of them fancy decorated leather books, the pages adorned with cutouts made from colored paper and cut pieces of metal. There were also loose photos in the bottom of the cardboard box, which FireWind handed to me.
“I didn’t know people printed out photos anymore,” Occam said, “let alone made albums of them.”
“It’s a thing,” T. Laine said. “There’s an entire craft market devoted to people creating albums like this one.” The album she was paging through was devoted to Stella’s school years, with photos of her family. “We got Christmases and Thanksgivings and teenaged parties Stella attended. There are a lot of photos from Stella’s youth, from middle school through high school, but nothing that looks as if it might help us.”
“I have the early years of the band,” Occam said. “Lots of faces. Nothing jumps out as incriminating or worthy of adeath and decay.”
“I have the commune years,” Tandy said. “And we may have photos here of the missing woman, Racine Alcock.” He turned through the book, eyes flicking up and down each page. “Unfortunately, her name has been removed from every single photo so I can’t prove it.”
JoJo said, “Hang on. I’ll put it on the screen.” She pushed a small stand over the album, a thin metal candy cane–sized and –shaped thing rising in the middle. On its tip was a tiny camera and the album appeared overhead on the main screen.
