Page 9 of Deadly Deception (Necromancer Tales #2)

Chapter

Nine

Erasmus

Witkowski parked the cruiser, and Franklin and I stumbled out. My head pounded. I’d asked Franklin how much candy he’d brought with him, but the more important issue might be how many pain charms I had. Pops made sure to load me up before he left a few months ago, so I figured I was set and went ahead and activated one. The relief was immediate, the pounding in my head subsiding to little more than a faint whisper.

I shuddered to think this was the area Navarre had been hanging out in. If it was this bad for me, I couldn’t imagine what he went through. Most of the background noise came from echoes of upset souls, the soul itself having already moved on. But there were others I could feel on the periphery—souls that felt more whole. Souls that hadn’t been able to move on. Those were the ones Navarre attracted. They were the ones desperate for help that he couldn’t provide.

Finding the victim Sheriff Henson was after would be like finding a needle in a haystack. The area certainly didn’t lack for corpses, most of them not properly buried or given their final rites. They were lost to loved ones and their pain saturated the area. I shivered and burrowed deeper into my parka. The extra fabric didn’t help. Franklin’s hand on the small of my back offered a small amount of warmth and a larger amount of security.

Unaware of my difficulties, Witkowski asked, “Where to?” He stood there, hands on hips and eyes scanning the area. It was a rough area by any standard. The buildings had more boards than glass covering their windows. The streets stank of urine and refuse. The cold, overcast sky added to the blighted picture and the sound of barking dogs in the distance did little to soothe my nerves.

Closing my eyes, I attempted to push out the fainter, more distant spiritual echoes. Energy remnants tended to fade with time. While I mourned for these upset dead, they weren’t fresh enough to be the ones I was after. Even doing that, the possibilities were numerous and overwhelming.

When I remained silent, Witkowski said, “I suppose we could just start walking and see if you pick up anything.”

I shook my head and finally answered, “ Picking something up isn’t the problem.”

When Witkowski only appeared confused, Franklin clarified by saying, “I think you’ve got a pretty big homicide issue in this area and a lot of missing bodies.”

Witkowski’s eyebrows shot sky-high. “That’s more correct than you know.”

“Doubtful,” I murmured but didn’t push it. This wasn’t a pissing contest for who could detect the most corpses. As a necromancer, the odds were already heavily stacked in my favor.

With a heavy sigh, I said “This is going to take some time. Mostly to weed through the more recently deceased. You might want to have the coroner on speed dial. I expect we’re about to fill the morgue to the brim.”

B eing right wasn’t always all it was cracked up to be. So far, I’d identified seven bodies. While all of them were recent deaths, none of them were recent enough . While I didn’t pull their souls back from beyond the veil, I did give them their identities back. After the third body, the coroner called in reinforcements, and we had an impromptu entourage along with gawking local residents in tow. So much for Sheriff Henson’s desire to keep my presence low-key .

“This is amazing,” Witkowski said. “Many of these are open cases.” Most of the bodies were found in the rusting carcasses of failed industrial businesses, their deteriorating buildings held together by drug paraphernalia and graffiti. Two were homeless victims that I thought might have died of natural causes, who lay beneath layers of cardboard and old rags. No one had reported them missing. One body was encased in concrete and would need to be jackhammered out.

We stopped for lunch, and I activated another pain charm afterward. Franklin’s obvious concern grew, and he said “Maybe we should call it a day.”

I shook my head. While I was pushing myself, I still had enough stamina to keep going. If I’d been asked to call each soul back, that wouldn’t have been the case. “I think I’ve got a few more hours in me.” I gave Franklin a wan smile. “But you may need to stop by a convenience store and buy some more candy.” Eating lunch would help with my wonky blood sugar levels, but assuming we did find the victim we were looking for, I’d need the extra sugar boost.

“Consider it done,” Franklin said warmly before leaning down and placing a kiss on my forehead. He did it in front of every officer we’d attracted. I’d been careful not to engage in a lot of PDA, so when Franklin openly flaunted our relationship, I couldn’t help but preen inwardly.

We’d begun our search around the convenience store Navarre had been found in, and circled outward from there. Another body called to me. I didn’t think it was fresh enough, but I couldn’t leave it there. Franklin, Witkowski, and a member of the coroner’s team followed me through a broken window. I avoided the boarded-up door and the tetanus infested porch. Sascha Elaine Prusakova’s decaying corpse lay under a disease- and insect-infested mattress.

“Shit,” Witkowski whispered. “Her parents reported her missing a year or more ago. She was only fifteen at the time.”

That would make her about sixteen now. While I didn’t know how she died, I could guess both her death and the last year of her life had been hell. While I wasn’t a medical examiner, I’d seen enough of the dead to be able to estimate a time of death and given the amount of decay, Sascha’s body was more than two weeks old. Sascha was a victim, but she wasn’t the one we were searching for.

Our tag-a-long called the coroner, reporting our latest find. Sascha’s body would have to wait a little longer. Our little field trip had resulted in the whole of the LaPorte County police force descending on a few blocks of Michigan City. I felt sorry for anyone who had a day off today, because they weren’t getting it.

Careful to try and preserve any evidence that might be left, Witkowski, Franklin, and I backed out of the room and exited via the window we’d entered through.

“This is insane,” Witkowski said, and I wasn’t certain if he was commenting on the number of dead bodies in the area or the fact that I’d managed to find them in less than three hours. “Is this what you do?”

I kept walking, hands stuffed in my pockets, head down and necromancer senses open. “Yes and no. Most of the bodies I’m involved with are either waiting for a proper burial or have been dug up from a known grave. I do occasionally find an unclaimed or unaccounted-for one.”

Witkowski grunted. “Every department needs one of you.”

I didn’t think that was true. Most areas of the country weren’t like this. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure what to call this. I desperately wanted to get Franklin alone and ask him if this was typical. It wasn’t in my neck of the woods. I was avidly trying not to judge, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. If this level of violence was common around the Chicago area, then I could easily understand why Franklin moved away.

We rounded another corner, and I felt a strong mental tug. My feet stuttered to a stop. Franklin’s hand found my shoulder and he leaned in and asked, “What is it?”

I nodded toward the alley. “There. I think this might be it.” Walking cautiously, I headed down the small alley. It was strewn with trash that appeared to be weeks old. I wasn’t sure if the local refuse company even made it down this direction. Most likely everything I saw was discarded waste that never made it into the proper receptacle. The building was just as old and derelict as the rest. Heavy block windows rested against the street, most of them surprisingly intact, but one area was busted out and uncovered. There was absolutely nothing on the outside that pointed to a body lying within.

I pointed at the opening and said, “He’s in there.”

Witkowski motioned us back while he got on hands and knees, flashlight leading the way. Scooting down until his belly was on the ground, Witkowski inched forward until his head and right arm were inside the building. Muffled curses drifted to my ears, growing louder as Witkowski wormed his way out of the opening. Sitting on his rear, legs bent, Witkowski clicked off his flashlight and reached for the radio on his shoulder. Franklin and I listened as he called it in. When Witkowski was done, he stared up at us. We’d seen a lot of death today, and I’d yet to see Witkowski look that pale and visibly upset.

“You think it’s our victim?” Franklin asked.

“I’d say it’s a good bet. The body looks fresh enough and…” Witkowski inhaled deeply, most likely regretting the action by the scrunched look on his face. “There’s a lot of damage. I didn’t get a great look. My flashlight’s good, but not as good as the flood lights that’ll be brought in to examine the scene better. It’s difficult to tell if what I’m seeing is dried blood or something else. If it’s blood…there’s a lot of it, whatever it is. We’ll need to wait for the M.E.’s report, but I can tell you this: that guy didn’t die peacefully.”

Franklin reached out a hand and helped Witkowski stand. “Thanks,” Witkowski said before brushing off the debris from his chest and rear. “If all of that’s blood, then I don’t think Navarre is our guy.”

“No?” I asked remaining exactly where I was. I didn’t need to get any closer. “Why not?”

“Easy. That looks like a massacre.” Witkowski hooked his thumb in the direction of the body. “If Navarre did that, he would have been drenched in blood, not just covered in it.”

S heriff Henson was far more haggard than usual. A five o’clock shadow had begun forming along his jaw, slightly covering his flushed skin. The purple discoloration below his eyes was so prominent I thought for a moment that someone had punched him in the face.

“This is a clusterfuck,” Henson lamented while scrubbing his hands up and down his face. His roughed-up skin looked like he’d been doing that all day. “Everyone on the force is going to pull overtime for the next few weeks.”

This time, Franklin was sitting next to me in Henson’s office. I saw him tense out of the corner of my eye and laid a hand on Franklin’s thigh, stilling his voice. Mine, however, was fully operational. “Forgive me for bringing home the dead and solving cases for you.”

Henson’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Watch it, necromancer. My patience is currently razor thin.”

“Which is not Boone’s fault,” Franklin said, tension leaking through every word.

Henson’s lips pulled back, exposing his perfect white teeth. The human would have made a good werewolf. Knuckles white, Henson gripped the edges of his chair. “We’ll get to the other cases soon enough. Right now, the last body brought in is our priority.”

“Agreed,” Franklin answered, and since I didn’t think differently, I remained quiet.

Henson’s gaze lingered on Franklin a few seconds too long before shifting to me. His eyes were hard, but his tone lacked his earlier condescension when he asked, “Can you bring this one back too?”

I nodded. “Yes, but it’s not so much bringing him back because DeWayne’s soul never crossed over.”

Henson’s narrowed eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged and answered, “Only that I suspect he’s one of the souls currently haunting Navarre. Regardless, now that we have his body, I can pull his soul back. I’ve got both puzzle pieces.” I wasn’t sure if removing DeWayne’s soul from Navarre’s mental orbit would offer any more peace or not. Regardless, I couldn’t imagine it would damage Navarre any further.

“Then let’s get to it.” Henson pushed out of his chair, heading for the door. Franklin stood as well.

“Not so fast,” Franklin said, turning so he could look Henson in the eyes. “Today’s taken a lot out of Boone. I’m not sure if—”

“Thank you,” I said while grasping Franklin’s wrist. I’d yet to stand and was still seated comfortably. When Franklin’s concerned eyes connected with mine, I hoped what he saw was how much I appreciated his concern and care. “I’d like to get this over with just as much as Sheriff Henson.”

Franklin’s jaw worked. The man could be stubborn at times and when it came to my well-being, Franklin O’Hare could be the king of stubborn. “You’re tired. I can tell. I don’t want you pushing yourself again. I don’t want to repeat what happened before.”

I finally stood, cradling Franklin’s cheeks within my palms. He’d opened Pandora’s box earlier when he’d kissed me in front of LaPorte County’s finest. “I love that you’re worried, but I promise you, this won’t be like what happened with McCallister and the souls he damaged. DeWayne’s soul should be intact. You’re right, I’m tired, but not too tired for this.” Going up on tiptoes, I pressed my lips against Franklin’s, relishing the warmth of his skin. Although we kept it chaste, Franklin kissed me back, making no room for misunderstanding what we meant to each other. When I pulled away, Henson was staring at us with impatience but not disgust.

“Can we get on with it now, or would you like me to give you the room first?” Henson asked snidely.

I pressed my hands against Henson’s desk and disappointedly shook my head. “I don’t believe your desk is sturdy enough to withstand what Franklin and I would put it through.” With an exaggerated sigh, I added, “Things just aren’t built as well as they used to be. Lead the way, Sherriff. Let’s get this show on the road.”

I had the pleasure of watching Sheriff Henson’s internal battle, his blotchy face growing increasingly crimson as he struggled to control his words and emotions. I’d give the man that—in the end, he pulled himself together, stormed out the door, and headed down the hall. Franklin and I followed. Thankfully, the morgue was in a building attached to the LaPorte County Sheriff’s Office.

Like all morgues, this one was cold. It was also underground. Franklin told me a lot of Midwestern morgues were underground due to the threat of tornados. The land in this area of the country was also conducive to basements, unlike some of the lower-lying areas of many of the southern states. The climate was easier to control too. It didn’t take as much to cool in the summer or heat in the winter.

Being underground meant there wasn’t a lot of natural light, and the florescent overhead lighting didn’t help my headache. Without thought, I activated another one of Pops’s pain charms and relaxed instantly.

The last body I’d seen hadn’t been in the morgue. Henson had it brought into a room upstairs. I wasn’t certain why and didn’t think the man would be open to questioning right now. In fact, Henson hadn’t said a word the entire trip to the morgue.

The sheriff pushed the door open. He didn’t hold it for Franklin and me to go through. I thought that rude, but again, kept my mouth shut. Momma wouldn’t have. She would have called the sheriff out on his bad manners. Midwesterners had a reputation for being congenial. I think Sheriff Henson missed that cultural memo somewhere along the line. Then again, maybe it was simply because I was a necromancer. I’d also laid a shit ton of work at his feet.

“Doc,” Sheriff Henson said by way of greeting. The M.E. glanced up from her clipboard. Her nametag read “Dr. Emily Scott, M.E.”. Dr. Scott’s black hair looked too dark to be natural and made her milk-pale skin shimmer. The woman had either been blessed with fantastic skin or she’d learned the secret to skincare somewhere along the line. Dr. Scott’s paleness could have gone in the morbid or luminous direction. She seemed ethereal. I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Sheriff Henson stood there like a male bird, posturing and preening, showing off his best colors.

“Sheriff Henson,” Dr. Scott replied, her voice tired but kind. “You’ve kept us very busy today.”

“Sadly, not me.” Henson appeared embarrassed, and I wondered if that was the true thorn in his side. That it was me, a necromancer, who’d found so many missing victims instead of his police force. Was the man jealous? Of the fact I was a necromancer? Not a chance. But did it stick in his craw that I’d done what he couldn’t? Yeah, that I could totally believe.

“This is Necromancer Erasmus Boone and Detective Franklin O’Hare,” Sheriff Henson introduced us with barely a hint of malice. I was beginning to like Dr. Scott more and more if only because her presence tamed a bit of Henson’s bite.

“Dr. Scott,” I said, not holding out my hand. Franklin followed my lead, only he reached out and shook Dr. Scott’s offered hand.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Dr. Scott’s gaze focused in on me and she amended. “Both of you.”

“Thanks,” I answered easily. Most days I tried starting out kind. I could always get bitchy later. Besides, Dr. Emily Scott struck me as benign overall. She was probably prejudiced against necromancers, but she wasn’t overly dramatic about it. She also struck me as someone who could change their mind with a little reeducation. I could work with that.

There were several bodies laid around the room. Four of them were on the floor as they’d run out of tables. Henson walked to the nearest one on the closest table. Like all the others, it was covered in a white sheet. Evidently, the sheets weren’t in as short supply as the tables.

Henson waved a hand at the sheet and simply said, “That’s him.”

While I already knew that, I nodded and offered another round of thanks. Rolling my head from side to side, I cracked my neck. It wasn’t so much to loosen up as my muscles were stiff with fatigue and cold.

“You might want to record things this time,” I offered.

“Damn.” Henson patted his pockets until he found his cell phone. “Will this be good enough?”

“Probably,” I answered before taking a step forward and getting ready. Before I called for DeWayne’s soul, I said, “From what I understand, the body’s in rough condition.”

“That’s true,” Dr. Scott answered. “I haven’t conducted a full autopsy, but a cursory exam indicates the victim went through a lot of trauma.” I’d asked them not to start cutting into DeWayne’s body, or any of the other victims’ remains, until I had a chance to bring them back.

“I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page as to how the victim is going to look and… Well, he might be upset given the state of…things.” I cringed at the last. How a soul responded was always a crapshoot. Some were very understanding. Some weren’t. I’d often wondered if the difference came from how much of their ending the soul remembered. Take someone who died suddenly in a car crash and didn’t remember their bodily trauma. Those souls were often shocked when brought back. Curiously, Cody Stevens hadn’t been.

But in the case of DeWayne… I had a feeling he’d been awake for most of it. Most likely he’d remember and wouldn’t be so surprised when he found his body so torn and disfigured.

“Okay.” I inhaled, held that breath, then deeply exhaled. Franklin came up behind me, a solid presence. My back warmed and I leaned into his strength. I’d done this alone for years. Having Franklin at my back was a luxury I never wanted to give up.

With the body in front of me, I found the thread connecting DeWayne’s body to his soul easily. As I’d thought, DeWayne’s soul was far closer than it should have been. “DeWayne Joseph Foster, I call you back to your body.”

DeWayne’s soul flew back. Eager souls often did that, but his was even faster given the short distance. I didn’t have to command him either. DeWayne’s body immediately sat up, the sheet falling to his waist.

I’d seen a lot of bodies in very poor condition. The fresher trauma was always harder to look at. I was nauseated to learn that Officer Witkowski hadn’t exaggerated when he’d explained the state of DeWayne’s body. The man had numerous gashes meticulously sliced into his skin. The lacerations were too precise to be were claws. A knife had been used, indicating this was human-on-human violence, not that I’d expected differently.

DeWayne’s left arm hung at an odd angle, making me think the shoulder was dislocated. His face was discolored with harsh bruises and some of his teeth appeared fractured or missing. The man was covered in crusted blood that flaked away from his lips as he worked his mouth.

Sheriff Henson had his phone out and was actively recording. I was impressed with how little his hands visibly shook. For the record, I said my name. Again, I wasn’t sure what the local laws were like, hopefully they’d take DeWayne’s statement into consideration.

“DeWayne Joseph Foster,” I started. “I’ve called your soul to your body so you can give Sheriff Alfonse Henson the details of your death. We seek justice for your obvious suffering.”

DeWayne’s swollen eyelids blinked. His eyes had been deep brown at one time. Death had polluted the color.

“Justice,” DeWayne hissed. “There’s no such thing.”

I felt Franklin stiffen behind me. Henson’s jaw tightened, and Dr. Scott had a hand on a nearby desk, steadying herself. Dr. Scott’s eyes were large and her lips were parted, but otherwise she maintained her position.

“We’ll see about that,” Henson said before asking, “Do you know who did this to you?”

DeWayne’s attention fixed on me. His voice remained silent.

“DeWayne Joseph Foster,” I placed more of my power into my voice. “You will answer Sheriff Henson’s questions honestly. I will know if you are lying.”

I could feel Dewayne’s reluctance as he hedged, “I know who’s responsible.”

That was in interesting way of phrasing things.

“Was it Navarre?” Henson asked. Honestly, I was surprised he hadn’t opened with that line.

“Who?” DeWayne shook his head and more blood flaked off. “I don’t know who that is.”

“The necromancer,” Henson said stubbornly.

“Necromancer?” DeWayne answered, his tone full of awe. “Is that what he is?” There was something in the way DeWayne said those words, like he’d been searching for an answer and suddenly been handed the cheat sheet. Using his better arm, DeWayne pointed to me and said, “You’re a necromancer.”

I nodded. “I am, but I’m not the one Sheriff Henson is asking about, and I believe you know that.”

DeWayne’s head tilted and he finally answered, “That’s what he is? He felt good. Right. Like maybe he could help.”

I glanced across the room, gauging Henson’s reaction. For now, he seemed content to let me take the lead. “Navarre is a necromancer, but I’m afraid he can’t help you.”

DeWayne made an indecipherable sound but nothing else. When his corpse remained silent, I asked, “Navarre was found covered in blood. We think it was your blood. Did he do this to you?” Again, I glanced at Henson. This time, our eyes connected, and he inclined his head. I hoped that meant he agreed with my line of questioning.

“No. He came later. Soon.” DeWayne’s eyes scrunched and he appeared confused. “Time is…difficult.”

Henson spoke up and asked, “But you’re certain the other necromancer, Navarre, didn’t kill you?”

“Yes.” DeWayne was confident.

“Then who did?” Henson asked.

DeWayne fought against the question, stubbornly remaining mute. I silently pushed more power into him and DeWayne finally answered, “I don’t know their names.”

Henson looked at me, and I shook my head. “He’s not lying.”

“But he said he knows who’s responsible.” Henson’s shoulders stiffened and his lips thinned into a stubborn line.

“Then maybe you should ask him that.” I was getting irritated. DeWayne’s soul had returned to his body eager enough, but his reluctance to answer our questions was causing me physical discomfort. Morally, I was becoming increasingly torn. DeWayne Foster was scared, and the longer we pushed this line of questioning, the more frightened he became.

You know the old saying, “you can’t take it with you”? Maybe the physical things, but not the emotional. It was interesting what remained even after death. Affection for their loved ones, dissatisfaction for the way their life played out or ended, dislike and downright hatred for certain individuals, you name it—whatever the emotion, the soul remembered. The stronger the emotion, the more tenaciously it hung on, and fear was one powerful emotion.

Henson shot me an annoyed glance before asking, “Who’s responsible for your death?”

DeWayne’s soul shut down, pushing hard against my control. While I might not have known DeWayne while he was alive, I knew him in death. DeWayne’s soul wasn’t the purest, but it wasn’t foul either.

My head pounded as DeWayne’s soul actively denied answering.

“Boone.” My name sounded part curse and warning coming from Henson’s lips.

Franklin’s whispered breath ghosted across the shell of my ear. “What’s wrong?”

My eyes squinted with the pain. “He’s afraid. DeWayne’s fighting my control.”

“Afraid?” Henson asked, clearly not believing me. “Of what? The man’s already dead.”

My glare was automatic. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I believe we already know DeWayne is deceased. Obviously, he’s not afraid of dying again.”

“Then what? I need a damn answer here.”

“Let him work, Alfonse. This is what Necromancer Boone is trained to do.” Dr. Scott’s words were like a cold drink of water, instantly cooling Henson’s anger.

I gave Dr. Scott a grateful nod before turning my attention back to our victim. “DeWayne, what are you afraid of? Why won’t you tell us who’s responsible for your death?”

“He’s a ghost. The devil.” I had to strain to hear DeWayne’s words.

I glanced at Henson, expecting to see irate confusion. Instead, what I saw was worried understanding. I started to ask Henson what he knew, but the man surprised me by asking, “Describe him. What does this ghost look like?”

DeWayne shook his head, the motion stiff. “Don’t know. Never seen him. That’s why he’s a ghost. No one ever sees him. That don’t matter. He finds you anyway.”

Much taller than me, Franklin’s words traveled over my head as he asked Henson, “You know who he’s talking about, don’t you?”

Henson rubbed his jaw before giving a reluctant nod and answering, “Vanja.”

DeWayne’s corpse rolled in on itself, shoulders hunching and eyes scrunched shut. His fists clenched, and DeWayne’s mouth opened in a silent scream. DeWayne’s reaction was more powerful than any words.

“Fucking shit,” Henson spat.

“Wait, I know that name,” Franklin said. “It’s the same name Hemsworth said.”

Elias Hemsworth hadn’t been nearly as afraid as DeWayne Foster. I wasn’t certain why and had a feeling I didn’t want to find out. I also had a feeling I wouldn’t have a choice.

Anger swept fleetingly across Henson’s features, tightening his jaw and narrowing his eyes. I didn’t think he was angry at Franklin per se, more the fact that what Franklin said was true and pointed to a rather upsetting scenario. I had no idea if this Vanja character hadn’t suffered the fate Henson thought of, or if he’d been resurrected and was out there tormenting the local area once more. Regardless, the very idea the Vanja was responsible for at least two bodies currently sitting in the LaPorte County morgue raised Henson’s hackles. I had a strong suspicion some of the others I’d found today could also lay their C.O.D. at Vanja’s feet.

“Let him go,” Henson ordered me. “I’ve heard enough.”

I silently wondered about that, but didn’t feel like arguing, especially considering the fear lacing DeWayne’s soul. Fear soured the soul and left a filmy ick lingering on my insides. I hated bringing fearful souls back even more than furious ones.

“What was said in this room goes no further,” Henson needlessly warned Franklin and me.

“It won’t matter,” DeWayne said unprompted. “He’s got eyes and ears everywhere. The cops ain’t no different. He’ll know, and he’ll come for you before you can come for him. He’s the devil. A ghost devil.” DeWayne’s corpse shivered, hopelessness filling in the cracks in his fear, making his soul heavy and morose.

Acting on Henson’s earlier request , I said, “DeWayne Joseph Foster, I release your soul. May you find peace.”

Dr. Scott ran forward, her hands catching DeWayne’s corpse before it could tumble off the table. I quickly moved to help her while Sheriff Henson stood wide-eyed at the sidelines. Between the two of us, we laid DeWayne’s body back down on the gurney, and Dr. Scott covered it back up with the sheet.

Silence encompassed the room. DeWayne’s parting words sat in my belly like food poisoning. At least the nausea took some of the attention away from my aching head. The last pain charm I’d activated was running out. Reaching into my pocket, I activated another one, thankful that the charms didn’t negatively affect me. The relief was instantaneous, and I practically melted into Franklin’s broad chest as he came up behind me again.

“You’ve got a problem, Sheriff.” Franklin’s tone was soothingly deep, contradicting the severity of your words.

Henson grimaced and answered, “I’ll handle it.”

Franklin’s large palm landed on my shoulder. “I don’t doubt your intentions, and I’m not questioning your leadership. I’m just saying that what Foster just implied is a very prickly situation. Ridding a house of rats is difficult. Ridding a police force of vermin is even more difficult.”

“You don’t know we’ve got an officer on the take,” Henson retorted, although there was a distinct lack of fire behind that statement.

“You’re right, I don’t. However, I don’t think it’s normal for a town the size of Michigan City to have so many unaccounted-for dead bodies just lying around, and I don’t think you’re okay with that either.”

Henson’s jaw tightened, working back and forth as he remained stubbornly silent.

Franklin inhaled deeply. “I’m just saying, if you need a safe ear to bounce ideas off, I’m offering you mine. Boone and I accomplished what we came here for. Navarre isn’t responsible for this man’s death.” Franklin pointed toward DeWayne’s corpse. “Navarre was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any earlier and he’d probably be dead also. I don’t have any more skin in this game. That’s all I’m saying.”

It was a long, drawn-out minute before Sheriff Henson gave a begrudging nod. I figured that was all the thanks we were going to get for our services and Franklin’s generous offer.

“Come on, Boone. Nana’s waiting.” Franklin gave my arm a gentle tug, and I readily followed. I offered a polite goodbye to Dr. Scott and a less polite, but neutral farewell to Sheriff Henson.

Despite Pops’s pain charm, I still felt queasy walking out of the LaPorte County Sheriff’s Office. I’d told DeWayne Foster to go in peace, but I was left feeling anything but. Suddenly, this situation had gotten a hell of a lot more complicated than saving a haunted necromancer.