“Lopez!” I said with relief, realizing he was back. I leaped out of my chair and moved to sit beside him on the bed. I seized one of his hands and held it between both of mine. “How do you feel?”
He turned his head a little on the pillow to meet my eyes as his hand returned my eager grasp. He looked sleepy and confused. “How did I get here? I was . . . in the basement of the foundation, and we were . . .” He closed his eyes, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. “You wanted to leave . . .”
“How do you feel?” I repeated.
“Fine.” He opened his eyes to meet my gaze again. “Um, a little tired, I guess. What happened? How did I get here?”
“We brought you here.”
“We?”
“Max and Jeff helped me.”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because I couldn’t get you here on my own. You were unconscious.”
His frown deepened. I could see him trying to remember what had happened tonight. “I’ve been
unconscious?
”
“You’ve been dead to the world for . . .” I glanced at the bedside clock. “Almost two hours.”
“What the hell happened?” He started to sit up, then winced and put a hand on his head.
“Ow.”
“Do you feel hungover?” I asked, thinking about all the rum he had downed at the ceremony.
“What? No, of course not.” He made a gesture indicating he wanted help sitting up. Once in an upright position, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and took a few deep, steadying breaths. “Oh, no wonder you asked that. Jesus, I smell like a barrel of rum, don’t I?” Then he put his hand on his head again. “Agh.”
“You’re sure you’re not hungover?” I asked again, doubtfully.
“I’m sure. Someone hit me on the head.” He took my hand and put it against his scalp. I felt the slight lump there.
“Oh!” I realized guiltily how he’d gotten it. “Sorry.”
He looked even more confused. “
You
hit me?”
“Not exactly.”
I was surprised to realize that he seemed completely sober. Even with Max’s assurances that he wouldn’t have alcohol poisoning, I had assumed he would be very drunk—or at least hungover—when he finally regained consciousness. I realized now that when Max had said there would be no ill effects, he’d meant
none
.
I asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Uh . . .” Still rubbing his aching head, he thought about it. “I was going to take you outside to find a cab, but then . . . Oh,
right
. That idiot woman started throwing gunpowder into the brazier in a closed room full of people. So I went to stop her, and . . . and . . .” He shook his head. “That’s it. I don’t remember anything else.” Looking down at the burn marks scattered across his khaki pants, Lopez touched one and said, “I must have been standing too close to the next explosion, and I got knocked out. That must be when I got this bump on my head, huh?”
“Um, actually—”
“But why do I stink of rum? Did someone pour a bottle over me thinking it would wake me up?”
“You won’t like what I’m about to tell you,” I said.
“In that case,” he said with weary resignation, “I should probably pull myself together first.” He slid off the bed and stood up.
“Wait.” I was a little worried about him being on his feet only moments after regaining consciousness. “Are you
sure
you feel okay?”
Looking fairly normal, albeit tired, he said, “Yeah. Actually, for someone who was knocked out for two hours, I feel surprisingly good. But, uh, I need to get cleaned up.”
“Okay.”
He was familiar with my apartment, so he went down the hall, through the living room, and closed the bathroom door behind him. I sat on the bed with my chin in my hands, relieved that he seemed to be all right—and wondering exactly how much to tell him.
Everything, I decided. I should probably tell him everything.
He had made quite an impression at the Vodou ceremony. People were bound to talk about what had happened tonight. And I didn’t think Lopez would want to find out about his possession trance from a stranger or a suspect; he should hear about it from me. He still wouldn’t like it, but it was better than his getting broad-sided by someone else who’d seen him dancing half-naked around a Vodou altar with a bottle of rum and a fistful of hot coals.
Meanwhile, Puma was probably in danger, Biko was trying to kill Frank Johnson, and we thought the bokor had murdered Darius. With lives at stake, it seemed like it was time to pony up and tell Lopez what I knew, even though he wouldn’t like that, either.
He finished his ablutions and returned to the bedroom, using a hand towel to dry off his neck and face. Then he towel-dried the front of his hair, which was dripping a little. Still slightly damp, but now looking surprisingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he stood in the doorway and smiled at me as I sat on the bed.
“Thanks for helping me out tonight,” he said. “Thanks to Max and Jeff, too. I guess they left after they carried me in here?”
His shirt still hung open and, staring at him as he stood in the doorway of my bedroom, I forgot what I had intended to say. So I just nodded dumbly.
He stared, too. After a long moment, he started to speak, stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “There’s something we have to talk about, but I can’t remember what.”
“Maybe the bump on your head made you forget?”
My voice was husky, and my heart was starting to beat harder. Since meeting him, after all, I had thought often of him being in this room with his chest naked and his gaze pinning me to the bed.
“No . . .” he said slowly, his voice soft. “I don’t think it’s . . . my head.” He took a breath. “We shouldn’t be in your bedroom.”
“Where should we be?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t be on the bed.”
“Okay.” I slid off the bed, joined him by the door, and looked up at him. “Is this better?”
His black lashes were wet and spiky, his blue eyes intense as his gaze moved over my face. “Um . . .”
Lopez started breathing harder as he dropped the towel and lowered his head toward mine.
His phone rang, startling me. He froze, scant inches away from kissing me. I could tell from his conflicted expression that he was going to have to take the call. I started to back away from him, but his arm slid around my waist, stopping me.
His gaze locked with mine as he fumbled in his pocket for his cell. “This’ll just take a second.” He flipped open the phone and said, “Lopez.”
I leaned against him and slid my arms around him, feeling his naked skin under my palms and the warmth of his bare chest seeping through my cotton dress. I also felt him stiffen with surprise as he listened to his caller, his dazed, heavy-lidded expression suddenly growing alert.
“When?” he said. “And you’re sure it’s him? Uh-huh. Okay.” Looking at me with obvious regret, he said, “Yeah, I’m on my way.”
I sighed with disappointment as he hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Police business?”
“I’m sorry,” Lopez whispered. He pressed his forehead against mine, his hands caressing my arms. “I’ve got to go.”
I made an involuntary sound of protest and kissed him. He kissed me back.
“No, really, I’ve got to go,” he breathed against my mouth, starting to sound dazed again. “They didn’t even want to call me.”
“Hmm?” I inhaled scent of his skin, still tinged with rum, and nuzzled his neck.
He tilted his head back and tightened his hold on me. “If I don’t go, they’ll use it as an excuse to . . . to lock me out of . . . Mmm.”
“Out of?” I breathed into his ear.
“What? Oh.” His hands were on my back, searching for the zipper of my dress. “Out of the case.”
“It’s on the side.” Our lips met again as I tugged on his hand to show him where to unfasten my dress.
Lopez started kissing my neck—then he coughed a little. He gave up on my zipper and raised both hands to the back of my neck to untie the thin brown string that held my gris-gris pouch in place. “Okay, the bag of peppered frog toes has to go. How can you wear this thing?”
“No, leave it.” I reached up to move one of his hands back to my zipper.
“Esther . . .”
I kissed him again, getting things back on track. He made a sound low in his throat and got serious about what we were doing.
Until he sneezed. Then he gave a resigned sigh, still holding me tightly, and whispered, “I have to go.”
“What case is so important?” I grumbled as I pushed his shirt aside and nibbled on his shoulder.
“What?” he said faintly, his hands moving to my bottom.
I brushed his lips with mine. “The case.”
“I don’t . . . Oh! The
case.
Right. No. Esther, no. Stop that. Stop right now!” Breathing hard and laughing, he was simultaneously kissing me and trying to push me away. “I’ll be dropped off the case like a bag of cement if I don’t show up now that they’ve found one of the bodies.”
“Bodies?” Startled, I pulled away to look at him.
“Oops. Sorry.” He smiled wryly and touched my cheek. “I guess I’m not so good at pillow talk, huh?”
“What bodies?” I had a feeling I knew.
“Those four bodies that disappeared from the same cemetery where Darius Phelps was buried,” he said, smoothing my hair away from my face. “One of them just turned up.”
20
“W
hoa! They found a body?” I asked, stunned by this news.
“Yeah.”
“How could they have found a body?”
“It washed up in Queens.” He was watching me intently now. “They figure the body snatcher dumped it in the river.”
I couldn’t understand what this meant. Why wasn’t the dead guy a zombie? How could he just be an ordinary corpse? Had something gone wrong? Had the bokor lost control of the reanimated slave? Or was Max’s theory wrong?
If so, then . . . “Where are the others?”
“We haven’t found them yet.” Lopez prodded, “Esther? Is there something you ought to tell me?”
“Which one did you find?” I asked.
“The guy with the head injury. Why?”
“Was it the head injury?” I wondered. Had it made him unsuitable zombie material?
“Was
what
the head injury?” Lopez asked.
But why would the injury matter? Presumably all the corpses were damaged in some way, after all. Darius had died of a ruptured intestine, and that hadn’t prevented the bokor from turning
him
into a zombie.
“Maybe I’m looking at this wrong,” I realized.
“Oh?” Lopez’s hands were on his hips, and he was studying me with dark suspicion.
“Did this person die before Darius?” I asked.
“He died before any of the others.”
“He was the first one to die?” I said. “So maybe
that’s
it! Was he the first one to go missing, too?”
“We’re not sure yet.” Lopez took me by the shoulders and said firmly, “What’s going on?”
“If he
was
the first one, then maybe it didn’t work out,” I said. “Maybe the bokor hadn’t really figured out how to do it yet!” It made sense that there might be experiments—and failures. No one was
born
knowing how to raise a zombie from the grave, after all. It was a learned skill.
“Do
what?
” Lopez said impatiently. “And what’s the bokor?”
I met his gaze and realized we still did have to talk.
“You’re not going to like this,” I said.
“I really, really believe that,” he said. “Go on.”
“Okay. Here goes. And just remember, you
asked
me to tell you this.” I took a breath. “I did see Darius Phelps that night. He was raised from the grave by the bokor—that’s a dark sorcerer—who’s menacing Harlem. Darius is a zombie now.”
There was a long pause.
“A zombie,” Lopez said at last. “Now why didn’t
I
think of that?”
Ignoring his tone, I explained, “That’s why there was no blood when his hand was torn off. Zombies don’t bleed.”
“Ah.” He shrugged. “That explains it, then.”
I decided just to keep going. “Somehow or other, Darius broke away from the bokor’s control and was wandering the streets that night. The creatures that attacked him are baka. They’re deadly little monsters who do the bokor’s bidding. They killed Biko Garland’s dog, and they’ve been terrorizing Harlem by night.”
“I see.”
“The night I saw them, they’d been sent to retrieve Darius. We’re not sure—”
“We?”
“Max and I.”
“Of course.”