Heather Graham - Waking the Dead

Natasha didn’t rise when she saw Danni arrive. She beckoned her to the table where she sat, a burning sconce on either side.

Danni took the seat opposite her. Natasha had set out two cups of tea.

“Where’s Wolf?” she asked.

“With Billie and Bo Ray,” Danni said, shaking her head. “How do you know when I’m coming?”

Natasha met her eyes. She was beautiful in a grand way, with nearly perfect bone structure and an ageless face. Tonight she wore a red-and-orange turban that complemented her orange robe and dark mahogany skin.

“The air tells me, child. The air...you can feel the crackle when something’s up in the city.” She paused. “I’ve also seen the news. There was a massacre today.”

Danni nodded. “I don’t know much about it yet.”

“But Quinn was there, at the site.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here. He thought you might want to come to my place around seven. We’ll have a meal and talk about it. We—”

“Drink your tea,” Natasha interrupted.

“Pardon?”

“Drink your tea.”

Natasha was renowned for her palm reading, her insightful reading of tarot cards—and tea leaves.

Danni shouldn’t have been surprised by Natasha’s insistence. One way or another, she could “read” any situation.

“Drink up. I have to see what there is to see.”

“This isn’t like the situation we had with the bust last year,” Danni said “There’s no object that we know of associated with any of this. Quinn was called in by Larue. It may not have anything to do with me.”

“There’s going to be an object. We just don’t know what it is yet. So drink up.”

Danni sighed but dutifully drank the tea. When she’d finished, Natasha took her cup and studied the leaves. She shook her head and made a tsking sound; before Danni could groan or ask what she’d seen, she leaned back in her chair, eyes closed.

Then her lids opened, but her eyes were rolled back and only the whites were visible. Danni was about to spring to her feet, about to call for Jez. But before she could, Natasha started speaking. “So much darkness! I see that the day is dark, there are clouds, and there is no rain, and then there is rain—thunder and lightning! Death spewed from the earth, darkness covered much of the globe. In the shadows, in the corners, in the most stygian places...evil was born. There was one who knew, and he guided the other, and there was a bright stain of blood against the darkness...and it’s coming here. It’s coming to New Orleans.”

Natasha’s head fell forward. Danni did spring to her feet then, rushing around to touch her friend. Natasha lifted her head and stared at Danni.

“Are you all right?” Danni asked urgently. “I’ve never—I’ve never seen you do anything like that! What’s going on? Do you know what you said?”

Natasha patted Danni’s hand where it lay on her shoulder. “I’m fine...and yes, I saw...I heard my voice. This has happened to me a few times....”

“You might need a doctor, Natasha—”

“I’m fine, Danni. Sit, please.”

Danni took her seat again, studying Natasha worriedly. Her skin had grown a little ashen, but she appeared to be in control.

“What did that mean?”

“It means that something very, very bad is in the city. It’s a good thing Quinn’s back. We’d have to send for him if he wasn’t,” Natasha said.

“But...what is it?”

“I don’t really know. I just saw the sky, and it looked as if there’d been a great storm, and then there was a great storm...but when the rain went away, the sky was still dark.”

“Okay...we’ll check the weather?” Danni said hopefully.

Natasha gave her a disapproving frown. “Something is coming,” she repeated. “And I don’t think it’s another storm, another Katrina. Storms are real. They kill, ruin, devastate, but we know them. They’re forces of nature and they can be understood. This is different.”

“Did you see anything else?” Danni asked.

Natasha was silent for a minute.

“Natasha!”

Natasha nodded. “I saw...you.”

* * *

Quinn was eager to get back to The Cheshire Cat and Danni when he left the morgue, but before he’d gone very far, his phone rang. He answered on his hands-free unit. It was Larue.

“Where are you?” Larue asked.

“Heading back to the French Quarter. Hubert said you were due at autopsy,” Quinn replied.

“Yeah, well, there’s been another situation.”

Quinn’s grip tightened on the wheel.

Five already dead and there was another situation?

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “How many?” he croaked.

“Nobody’s dead. This is different. Can you get to the station?”

None dead. He let out a sigh of relief.

“Uh, sure.”

Twenty minutes later he arrived at the station. Larue was there to meet him at the reception desk.

“What took you?” he demanded irritably.

“Uh, let me see? This area is filled with one-way streets, construction—oh, and we block off a few of our one-way streets now and then to accommodate fairs, wine tastings and musicians? Oh, yeah, and then there are the tourists who wander into the street. I always try to avoid hitting them.”

Larue wasn’t amused. “My office. Come on.”

Quinn followed Larue down a hallway to his office. As usual, a few of those who’d overpartied were being booked, some still grinning sloppily, some sobering up far too quickly and realizing the trouble they’d gotten themselves into. There was one kid, wearing a college football jersey, Quinn was sure he recognized.

“Up-and-coming quarterback,” he said quietly as they walked. “What did the kid do?”

“Thought one of the horses being ridden by a mounted patrol officer was making fun of him,” Larue said.

“And?”

“He punched the horse.”

“Horse okay?”

“Yeah, the kid will be, too. His parents are coming down.”

They went into Larue’s office. A man in uniform was sitting in front of Larue’s desk, his head in his hands. He glanced up when Quinn and Larue entered the room.

The cop was about forty and appeared to be in generally good health. Except that he looked haggard and drawn, as if he hadn’t slept for a week straight and had faced every demon in hell. Quinn thought he seemed familiar. He also looked as if he’d been in a fight; there were scuff marks on his clothing and a bruise under his eye that promised to become a massive shiner.

Larue sat on the corner of his desk. “Quinn, this is Officer Dan Petty. Dan’s been with the force for fifteen years. He’s received medals for his extraordinary valor in times of stress. He was here for the aftermath of Katrina and the summer of storms. Dan, Michael Quinn. You two might’ve met years ago. Quinn was with the force for a while.”

Dan Petty nodded at the introduction. He started to get up to meet Quinn, then fell back into the chair. As he watched Quinn, a certain expression came into his eyes—a spark of hope.

“Yeah, I remember you!” he said. “You’re that football hero who died and then became a cop!”

“I was a cop, and now I’m a private investigator,” Quinn responded.

“But you really died, huh?”

“I was resuscitated.”

“Yeah, but still...” To Petty, it was clearly a good thing. He might have been clinging to the hope that Quinn knew the secrets of the universe.

“Dan, do you want to tell Quinn what happened?” Larue suggested.

“There was something there...something in the evidence lockup. Something that wasn’t right,” Petty said. He swallowed. He’d probably tried to explain himself a few times now and hadn’t done well.

Petty grimaced. “It was coming at me... It was...well, you know how the fog sets over Lake Ponchartrain and it’s so damned misty you can’t see anything but shapes? The room was filled with the stuff...gray, with black shadows. It...it touched me. The gunk touched me and it was jerking me around and...I couldn’t stop it! I couldn’t stop it—I couldn’t control my own muscles, my own body—it was in me, do you understand? The damned gunk was in me. I started picking up confiscated knives and guns and then...”