Thunder Moon Page 10

  He’d been a doctor for over fifty years, beginning as a GP, then becoming the ME. The man knew more about the human body than anyone I’d ever met. He also knew more about werewolves than anyone in town, even Malachi.

  According to Doc Bill, Adolf Hitler had ordered Doctor Death, aka Mengele, to create a werewolf army. Doc had been there when that army had been unleashed, just after the Allied landing. The fruits of that experiment were still running around causing havoc at every opportunity.

  “Sheriff.” He lifted his bushy white eyebrows.

  I knew what he was asking without the words. “Not this time.”

  “Then what’s the rush?”

  “That’s what I want you to tell me. Am I nuts or is something weird going on?”

  “Better be more specific.”

  Quickly I told him about the strange increase in mortality since the Thunder Moon.

  “No wolves?”

  I hesitated, then decided to keep Granny to myself. She wasn’t relevant.

  “Not this time,” I repeated. “No wounds on the body. No visible signs of death.”

  “You’re pushing it, Grace.”

  “Humor me.”

  “You’re the sheriff.” He headed for the embalming room.

  The place smelled of chemicals that I really didn’t want to put a name to. Everything was sparkling clean, though I didn’t see the point of sanitization for the dead. Grant had decamped after leaving the shrouded body next to a stainless-steel table covered with instruments and bowls, a scale, and a saw.

  “You going to watch?” Doc Bill washed his hands and put on a gown, cap, gloves, and paper boots.

  I nodded.

  “You’ll need to gown up. Don’t want any of your hair or skin cells finding their way into a specimen.”

  I did as he asked, then stood as far away as I could get and still see.

  Doc Bill drew back the shroud, revealing a marble-pale Abraham Nesersheim. I started at the expression on his face, which was very similar to the one I’d observed on Ms. G. after her death.

  “Is that common?” I asked.

  Doc, who’d been scribbling on a clipboard, paused. “Is what common?”

  “He seems frightened to death.”

  Doc Bill tilted his head, contemplated Abraham. “Not common, no. But not necessarily unusual.”

  He returned to work. Since there was no convenient X-ray machine at the morgue, he skipped that step and moved on to describing the outer appearance of the victim, then weighing the body. Next, Doc sliced Abraham’s chest open with what I knew to be a solid-silver scalpel. If Abraham were a werewolf, we’d already know about it.

  But nothing happened. No smoke, no flames, no explosion. No shouts, no screams, no getting up and running off. Abraham was definitely dead.

  Doc Bill worked with painstaking efficiency. As he did, he spoke of his findings into a tiny mike he’d pinned to his collar.

  The smell of chemicals had just begun to make me light-headed when Doc froze, making a strangled, garbled sound of surprise.

  I stepped forward, hand already on my gun, expecting Abraham to sit up, despite the hole in his chest, grab Doc Bill, and snap his neck like a twig. However, the corpse lay there, as a good corpse should.

  “What is it?” I drew my gun. No point in being unprepared.

  “Impossible,” Doc managed, his voice hoarse and thin.

  “What’s impossible?”

  His hand shook as he directed my attention to the chest cavity.

  I’d never been a whiz at anatomy, but I knew what a heart looked like.

  Abraham didn’t have one.

  Chapter 15

  “A human being can’t survive without a heart,” I said.

  “Precisely.”

  “So what is he?”

  Doc lifted his hand to rub at his face, saw his bloodied glove, and lowered it again. “I don’t know.”

  My mind ran in several directions at once, searching for an explanation.

  “The heart wasn’t removed after death?” I asked. Anything could have happened between the time Abraham had died and Grant had been called.

  “No scar.”

  “What kind of monster appears human but doesn’t have a heart?”

  “A woman?”

  I gave Doc a quick glance.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I make jokes when I’m nervous.”

  “You and me both.” Unfortunately, I couldn’t think of a single one, not even about Chuck Norris.

  “He’s not a werewolf,” Doc mused.

  “You’re sure.”

  He lifted the silver scalpel. “As I can be.”

  Problem was, according to the Jäger-Suchers, there were more supernatural beings out there than either they or anyone else knew about.

  “What else was Mengele making?” I wondered.

  Just because Hitler had ordered a werewolf army didn’t mean he hadn’t ordered a whole lot more. He’d been a greedy bastard. Start with the Jews, why not toss in the Gypsies and a few Catholics? Create a werewolf? Let’s see what else we can come up with.

  “I don’t know,” Doc said. “I was just a kid, dropped behind enemy lines, fighting my way back home. We dealt with the werewolves, but I didn’t see anything else.”

  “Did you hear of anything else?”

  “No. For years when people brought up the war, I didn’t listen. I didn’t want to know.”

  “What walks like a man, talks like a man, but isn’t made like a man?”

  Doc spread his hands. “Zombie? Ghoul? Vampire?”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Hell.”

  “On earth,” he agreed.

  Mengele’s monstrosities weren’t the only beings we had to consider. Many of the legends that had come down through the ages, terror-inducing tales told around campfires in every culture, were real. Which just meant I had no idea what we were facing or any hint where to begin searching for clues.

  “Finish the autopsy. Let me know if any other crucial body parts are missing. Then get going on the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Abraham isn’t the only one who’s died around here since the storm.”

  “You want an autopsy on every one of them?”

  “Yep.”

  “Some of them were buried already.”

  “Dig them up.”

  “Grace—”

  “Do it, Doc.”

  I only hoped they were still there.

  * * *

  I headed straight for Claire’s office. She needed to know what we were up against. Too bad I didn’t.

  On a typical day there would be several constituents sitting in the waiting area, vying for a moment of her time. Today there weren’t any, which should have struck me as strange, but I was on a mission.

  “Grace!” Claire’s assistant, Joyce Flaherty, jumped between me and the office door. “She’s in a meeting.”

  “Not anymore.” I moved to the right. So did Joyce.

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to decide if I could take her. Probably not. Joyce was at least six feet tall and built like the lumberjack her father had been. Though her hair was as dark as the day she’d been born, most estimates put her between prehistoric and antique.

  She’d been a high school phys ed teacher before she’d become assistant to the mayor, Claire’s father. Joyce had mothered both Claire and me for most of our lives, and she wasn’t about to start taking shit off of either one of us now.

  “It’s an emergency.” I moved to the left.

  So did Joyce. “Can’t it wait?”

  “What is it about ‘emergency’ that you don’t understand?”

  “Do you really want to be sarcastic with me, Grace?” she said with deceptive gentleness.

  I gulped. “No, ma’am.”

  “I didn’t think so. Now sit down and wait until Claire’s done.”

  I turned away. Joyce went to her desk; I turned back and opened the office door. Then I shut it again. I should have caught a cl
ue when I noticed that all the shades on the outer windows were drawn.

  “Told you so,” Joyce murmured with gleeful satisfaction.

  “My eyes.” I shaded them with my palm. “I’ve been struck blind.”

  “Karma.” Joyce began to hit the keys on her computer in a rat-a-tat-tat rhythm that only made my brand-new headache worse.

  The door to Claire’s office opened. She scowled as she buttoned her blouse and motioned me inside.

  “You missed one.” I pointed to a gaping hole in the center of her chest, which revealed she’d forgotten to put on her bra. Or maybe she’d just lost it.

  I used one finger to lift the lacy white garment from under the visitor’s chair. Claire snatched it out of my hand and shoved it into a drawer.

  Malachi lounged against the wall completely dressed except for his feet—bare. He lifted an eyebrow and shrugged. I couldn’t help but smile.

  Claire was on the floor picking up papers and pencils, which appeared to have been swept from the desk by a whirlwind, or maybe just an arm. I wished I had a husband who’d come to my office for a nooner—even when it was long past noon.

  The thought made me straighten. I had more important things to worry about than my love life, even if it had taken a turn from loserville toward exceptional.

  “Next time lock the door,” I said.

  “Next time keep your ass out unless you’re invited in.” Claire’s fair Scottish skin had turned beet red.

  “Where’s the baby?”

  Mal pointed toward the car seat, which had been hidden by the desk.

  “Won’t that cause irreparable psychological damage?”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Oh.” I knew nothing about babies. Only that I wanted some.

  “What’s so important that you had to interrupt the only alone time we’ve had in weeks?”

  “Sorry,” I said, then went silent.

  “You want me to go?” Mal asked.

  “You’d better stay. We’ve got...” I paused. What did we have?

  Claire glanced up from putting her desk in order. “Werewolves?”

  “No.”

  She frowned. “What then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is this twenty questions? Because I’m really bad at games, and my patience right now is shot.”

  I told her everything, from last night, when I’d seen the messenger wolf on my porch, until ten minutes ago, when I’d seen a gaping hole where Abraham’s heart should have been. I purposely started the tale after I’d had sex with Ian. Just because I’d walked in on

  Claire and Mal didn’t mean they got to walk in on me, even in their imaginations. Besides, I knew what Claire would say. The same thing I’d said to her when I found out she’d kissed an itinerant Gypsy horse trainer.

  He’s out of your league.

  I hadn’t said it to hurt her but rather to keep her from getting hurt. Mal had looked like a player—a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy. How could he not be when he’d once performed in a different town every week? What I hadn’t known then was that he’d been searching for Claire for centuries.

  In the same way, Ian was out of my league. He might not leave town at the end of every week, but he was just as emotionally unavailable. The man was still in love with his dead wife.

  Boy, could I pick ‘em.

  At any rate, I didn’t want Claire worrying about my love life any more than I needed to worry about it right now. We had to focus on what was ripping apart our town.

  “You talked to Doc Bill?” Claire asked.

  “He only knows about werewolves.”

  “And the Jäger-Suchers?” Mal wondered.

  “Elise called this morning.”

  “That must have been a pleasant conversation,” Claire said.

  “It wasn’t bad, considering.”

  “What did she have to say after the two of you got done with your pissing contest?”

  Claire knew me so well.

  “She was going to check into eagle shifters.”

  “Huh?” Claire’s face went blank.

  I guess I hadn’t told her everything.

  “Grace has seen an eagle a few times,” Mal explained. “According to her, they’re rare around here in the summer.”

  “They are.” Claire studied me. “I hear the new doctor wears an eagle feather in his hair.”

  “He does. Though if he were the shifter, do you think he’d be that dumb?”

  “Maybe not so much dumb as arrogant, which a lot of supernatural creatures are. With good reason.”

  “I doubt an eagle’s our problem.”

  “Because?”

  “The heart wasn’t ripped out of the victim’s chest by a bird beak; it was just gone. Or maybe never there in the first place.”

  “You’re thinking the victim is a supernatural being?”

  I nodded.

  “But if that’s the case, then what killed him?”

  “And why?” Mal added.

  “So many questions, so little time.”

  “Let’s get cracking.” Claire pushed her intercom. “Joyce, cancel all my appointments.”

  “Already done.”

  My eyes met Claire’s and we shared a smile. Joyce could be downright supernatural herself sometimes.

  “We need to call Elise.”

  “Your turn,” I said quickly.

  “Fine. Mal, any ideas about what we could be dealing with?”

  “I only know Gypsy legends. The chovhani, the witch.”

  We’d already dealt with the effects of one of those.

  “Any bird legends?”

  “Crows are good luck. Ravens, too. The hoot of an owl is a harbinger of death, as is the howl of a dog.”

  “No shape-shifting birds?”

  “No. The leading supernaturals for Gypsies are the werewolf and the vampire.”

  “I don’t suppose the Gypsy vampire has no heart?” I asked.

  “I haven’t heard that, although one of my uncles told of a mulo—a vampire—literally one who is dead, that returned without a finger, and another who was marked by the tail of a dog.”

  I made a face; so did Claire.

  “But for the most part, the mulo look like every other person on earth.”

  “Except they were dead and buried, which could be a little noticeable to the ones who buried them.”

  “Giving rise to that popular invention, the torch-carrying mob,” Claire said.

  Malachi gave her an exasperated glance. “I’ve met a few torch-carrying mobs in my time, and they aren’t anything to joke about.”

  “Sorry.”

  Sometimes it was easy to forget that Mal had been born in a world completely different from our own.

  “My people believe that the dead are angry at being dead and come back as vampires. Most often the mulo is someone who died by accident or design, and returned for vengeance.”

  “Doesn’t really fit,” Claire said. “The victims are dead, right? None have come back?”

  “Not that I know of, though I’m having Doc do autopsies on the ones who’ve died since the storm.”

  “How do you kill a mulo?” Claire asked.

  “The Rom use a dhampir—part human, part vampire—the only being capable of hunting down the undead and ending their existence.”

  “A Gypsy vampire killer?” I asked, and Mal nodded. “Know any?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. However, there’s no need to call one.”

  “Because?”

  “None of the victims are Gypsies.”

  “We did gloss over that one very important point,” Claire murmured. “Any other ideas?”

  “If we’re going with the notion that the victims are the ones with the powers, maybe we need to research Scotch-Irish legends.”

  “And what about the one who’s killing them?”

  “Once we know what the victims are, it should be easier to figure out what or who’s after them,” I said. “But fir
st, let’s make sure it isn’t a Jager-Sucher.”

  Claire frowned. “Wouldn’t Elise have mentioned that?”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” I motioned to the phone.

  Claire sighed and made the call.

  Chapter 16

  Five minutes later, Claire hung up. “Elise insists there are no Jäger-Suchers in town.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “She’d have no reason to lie, especially since we already figured out there’s something rotten in Lake Bluff.”

  “I suppose she’s sending an agent to take over for us idjuts and save the day.”

  “Not so much,” Claire said. “According to her, all their agents are otherwise engaged. The last full moon was a doozy.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. From both Claire’s and Malachi’s expressions, they didn’t, either. If supernaturals were acting up all over the place, that more than likely meant they were acting up here, and we were on our own.

  Nothing we hadn’t been before.

  “Any advice from the great werewolf in the impenetrable fortress to the north?”

  “Sounds like a fantasy novel.”

  “Never sell,” I said. “Too unrealistic.”

  “Got that right. Elise thought we were doing all that we should—exhuming the bodies, ordering the autopsies, checking the legends.”

  “Damn, we’re good.”

  Claire shot me a glare, and I shut up.

  “She hadn’t uncovered any eagle shifter information, but suggested we check local Native American traditions, as they’ve been having a few problems in that direction.”

  “She mentioned witchie wolves.” At Claire’s lifted brows, I elaborated. “Ojibwe. Not from here.”

  “Doesn’t mean they couldn’t catch a plane, train, or automobile.”

  “Most Native American legends are tied to the land of their people, the way those people are part of the land they love.”

  “Like you and these mountains.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We should be checking Cherokee legends,” Claire said. “You do that. I’ll take the Scottish ones and Mal can take the Irish.”

  “Unless he already knows them.”

  Malachi shook his head. “We lived in Ireland, but we weren’t truly Irish. We were Gypsies, remaining outside of every society we lived among, only trusting of ourselves.”