Ghosts of Koa, The First Book of Ezekiel (64 page)

"
Morgan... what'd you get your dick into this time?"

The naked Salvatore Morgan, or what was left of him anyway, had died howling terribly, and certainly not in the throes of passion. Sheets wrapped in knots around his neck and nearly dismembered limbs, his gaze jaundiced and swollen, his penis laying limp and gangrenous against crimsoned sheets... as though some insane cowgirl had hog-tied him with barbed wire until his body broke. Or cow
boy
. Someone he pissed off bad.

Xakiah smiled. He had planned to make Morgan pay for helping Beige to betray the Order, but whoever had done this certainly had surpassed his own imagination. The killer was a luminary of physical torment if he'd ever seen one. He would have to kill the murderer of course, because no witness could be allowed to walk away with information, no matter how little they knew or how innocent they were. But for now, he applauded the assassin's genius. And, luckily for him, the murderer had left Sal belly up and at the edge of the bed, which made his job much easier.
 

He pulled his blade from his holster as he walked over, and he stuck the tip into Sal's abdomen, at the diaphragm. He worked carefully, making sure to not let any part of him touch the crime scene, and he shoved the blade deeper into Morgan's stomach before working it down to his groin. He savored the rhythmic
squelch
of the rotting flesh beneath the blade, the distinct buzzing of flies that became louder with each cut, the flies' buttery offspring crawling out of Morgan's body with each jerk of the knife. Disgusting, and yet so satisfying.

He grinned, pleased that his boyhood on the farm had finally amounted to something. This was just like gutting pigs... and there was a strange nostalgia to it, one he hadn't felt for decades. Vindication filled him, creeping into his loins as he dragged the blade through the traitor's soft stomach, spilling the entrails. He squatted and looked into the mess and searched, trying to feel out the warm and quiet hum of the Page's presence, just like he'd felt when he'd first touched it.

"Not here," he seethed.

His warm feelings extinguished beneath disappointment. It was official, and now he had to go back to his Vassal and report the bad news. He snarled, but he resisted the strong urge to drive the knife over and over into Sal's head. Instead, he remembered the kind whisper of his Vassal, always reminding him to remain calm. Instead, he called forth his Echo.

"Clean it," he commanded, handing his knife to the creature. "Clean everything. Then gather. But leave some for the APs."

The Echo nodded, wrapped its inky hand around the blade and dragged it through its palm, absorbing the blood and matter into its being. Then, it very carefully stuck its fingers into Sal, running its formless digits through the corpse's mouth, under the fingernails, through his hair, across his genitals and anus. Then, it began to move through the shadows of the estate, collecting data and cleaning up any traces of Xakiah ever having been there, down to the scuff marks on Sal's bedroom floor.
 

Xakiah didn't bother to make sure the Echo was doing its job. Instead, he was lost in his own thoughts, putting together a plan. He'd analyze some of the evidence himself, then tap into what CSI and forensics would pick up at the precinct's lab. He'd determine who, exactly, terminated Morgan. Then he'd explain things to Vassal, sketch out a plan to catch the assassin and the Page, and then he'd execute that plan, close this circle of hell for good.
 

Things would be fine.
Even if the murderer had been Koan, things would be just fine.
 

The affirmation looped in his thoughts, becoming a crucible around the inferno in his chest. The killer would pay with blood, gallons of it, because now Xakiah was sure: whoever killed Salvatore Morgan now had a piece of the Final Page.

Caleb hadn't come this close to vomiting since his first year out of the Academy. He stood in the doorway of Sal Morgan's bedroom, and for a moment, he could barely get himself to walk in. The scene had already been secured, photographed, and sketched. Joseph's forensics team had combed the mansion, but no one had touched the room too much, and Caleb didn't blame them.
 

The blood stunk as it slowly rotted against the walls. It was everywhere, spackled against the ceiling, marinating into the sheets, clumped and jellied onto the shining mahogany floor under the bed. The ruddy chunks of flesh had begun to decompose, the now-black entrails hanging from his gaping belly, resting against the sheets like dead fingers. His mouth and cheeks had sunken inward, his lips twisted in surprise beneath maggot-ridden eyes.

"Ugh, GOD!" Luke had just walked in behind him, and his accent bent as he turned his head away from the scene. "Bloody fuck!"

"Too quick," Caleb shook his head. "Way too quick."

"You could have warned me!" Luke reached into his pocket and pulled a particle mask over his face. He handed one to Caleb.

"There's something wrong here," Caleb muttered, slipping on the mask.

"You don't have to be a Druid to figure that out, now do you? Jesus..."

Caleb looked to his partner and smirked. "What I mean is that the body decomposed way too quickly." He lifted his walkie to his face. "Joseph?"

A buzz, then a clear signal. "Yeah."

"Were you able to determine the cause and time of death?"

"Cause: I'm still determining that. Looks like asphyxiation via some sex game that got out of control. Though to be honest, the bruises are way weird... I still need more time to look at it after the coroner removes the body. As for the time of death, that's also weird. The body looks a few days old. Maggots have already set up shop. Limbs are bloated, livor mortis and autolysis have already set in--"

Caleb walked over and knelt down near the bed to look into Sal's face. "But his head."

"Yeah. Exactly. It's decaying faster than the rest of the body. No swelling, nothing, as though it literally just skipped over the rest of the decomposition process. I've never seen that happen before
ever
. I mean, unless the guy had most of his face tissue removed in life... I don't know what to tell you right now. We're going to have to wait until the autopsy. Take a look at the bed, though."

Caleb cocked his head examining the stains. "The stains are fresher," he said. "Not even hours old."

"Right."

"So, okay. Fresh stains, old corpse?"

"Yeah. Like I said. Weird. We're really gonna need you to wrangle up the witnesses on this one. The body's puzzling, but whoever did this cleaned up and cleaned up good. Bleach, mops, the whole nine."

"The APs find anyone here?"
 

"Nope. The wife's away in the islands, and no one's heard from her, either. APs are trying to track her down now, but they've been weighed down with other cases. Grave robberies, or something like that. It took us forever to document this scene because the other half of our team's been working on
that
bullshit. We're stretched pretty thin, man."

Caleb raised his brow. He hadn't been to roll call since his suspension, but this sounded pretty ridiculous. "Grave robberies?"
 

"Yeah, I don't know. A few dozen stiffs were dug up around the Protecteds last week. Wild. Anyway, one thing at a time. We should all have a report on the Morgan murder in the next few hours or so."

"Thanks, Joseph. Let's get a drink later."

"Hell yeah. I'm headed back to the station right now with the team. We got all we need. Over."

Caleb stood up and turned to Luke, who was scribbling furiously on his pad. "I think whoever killed him was the one who called it in. Can you get me a warrant?"

"Absolutely," Luke said, still writing. "Send me the affidavit with me as the witness, and I can have it to you by morning."

Caleb pulled out his phone. "Sent. I also sent you the information that I dug up at the Silver Chamber and around the Fifth. People connected with Morgan, with the Articles39... with Ezekiel."

Luke looked up, his blue eyes wide with surprise. "You think they're all related? To the murder, I mean."

"Yeah. Just read the files. There's one more witness I need to track down, but call me if you hear anything new. I'll be in later."

Luke waved him off before going back to his work, and Caleb walked out, pulled up the directions to Guildmaster Kenneth Taitt's house.
 

Zeika had waited until after 11:30 PM, after AP activity around curfew had slowed down. Cold biting wind whistled through her clothes, and her back itched terribly. Yet she continued to walk, boots crunching in the snow, Caleb's duffel bag on her shoulder. She passed under the Kingsbridge Road train station as she approached the front doors of the Demesne Five Headquarters, and almost lost her nerve when she saw a cop smoking in the distance. He extinguished his cigarette against the stone, not noticing her as he turned to walk back into the station. She clenched her gloved fists, to steady the trembling in her fingers.

You can do this. You
have
to do this.

She leaned against one of the metal balustrades holding up the empty train station, the front of the police headquarters in clear view. There was little traffic tonight, so she stood there in the middle of the street, gathering all her courage. The cold gnawed her ears and close-shaven head; she missed her hair now more than ever, never realizing how warm it had kept her most of the time. Finally swallowing her fear back, she reached into her robes, pulled out her black ski mask, and rolled it down over her head and face. She threw on her hood and started walking towards the police station.

Inside her robes, she put a firm grip on her Beretta, fully loaded and chambered. She stretched her vocal cords, dropping her voice an octave, and making sure to keep it there, though not much talking was going to be done.
 

She walked through the gate and into the front doors, where the warmth and the light of the station filled her, where
purpose
filled her--
 

Do it.

--and she lifted her gun into the air and fired three times, filling the warm place with angry
 
bursts of thunder. People in the lobby began to scream, duck, and run.

"Get on the ground!" Her deeper voice fell foreign on her own ears, but it felt in control. Powerful. "Or I'll blow your fuckin' heads off."

"In most recent news, a bizarre string of crimes very rarely seen in the Protecteds: a rash of grave-robberies have been reported throughout all three Civic Demesnes over the past month. Troubling to city officials but even more disturbing to Civilians in the wake of the Ninkashi attacks, police are now scrambling to solve these strange crimes as soon as possible. WKCO6 news reporter, Frank Romana is live in Demesne Six's Saintland with a story you'll see only on WKCO6."

"Thank you, Alicia. The citizens of local neighborhoods are shocked and appalled, but most of all, they're frightened. Here's what some of them had to say."

"I mean, it's crazy, but this doesn't really surprise me. The Protecteds are so poor, people probably think the bodies have gold on them or something," one witness said. "Ugh, barbarians!"

"It's one thing to steal stuff from the coffin, but to actually take the (beep)-ing body? That's gross. What are they gonna (beep)-ing do, a blood sacrifice? Eat it? Boink it? What the (beep), man. Sick."

"Zombies. Let's just call it what it is. Zombies. With those vampire things walking around, you didn't think this would happen next? After the attack on Guild Five, I'm scared to come out my home! Seriously. The world has gone crazy."
 

Caleb scoffed as he came out of the shower into the living room, drying off. He'd heard the whole thing from the bathroom and snatched up the remote to change the channel to something more reasonable. He had hoped Joseph had been pulling his leg, but clearly not. Stealing corpses? People were officially going nuts.
 

He flipped channels, but nothing was on this late, so instead, he found the public access channel that broadcasted proceedings in the Silver Chamber. There was nothing nearly as pivotal as the Articles39 repeals, but he liked to stay informed-- even if they
were
only talking about demesne budgets.
 

He threw on some clothes and walked into the kitchen to start breakfast. He cracked a window, lit a cigarette, and before long, a shot of espresso and a slice of pound cake had been neatly arranged on a tray. Next to it sat a bowl of miso soup and steaming hot rice. It had been a long night after he'd left the murder scene, and it wasn't over. His search for Taitt had once again turned up a lot of dead ends, locked doors, and busy signals, as though he and everyone he'd ever known had collectively decided to skip town all at the same time. So Caleb had come back home to score a few hours' sleep and a meal before going back out and re-doubling the search. It'd done him some good.

He blew a long string of smoke out his window before turning back to beating his eggs. He'd just started to pour the yolks over his rice when the Congressional crawl was interrupted by a siren blare-- all coming from the television.