Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(17)

Fifteen minutes later, Parker’s assistant told me he was in court, so I meandered that way. I didn’t know what case Parker was prosecuting but found the courtroom easily enough. A few spectators in the gallery were just going back in after a break, so I fell in line and went with the flow, following a tall white-haired man who reminded me of Colonel Sanders.

We sat behind the prosecutor’s table. Hopefully, Parker would see me and I could pass him a note to meet for coffee. I needed to know if he’d heard from Guerin.

But Parker was too busy to look up when he walked back into the courtroom, shuffling papers and speaking quietly to his colleague. All very important. Very Zen. I didn’t want to screw up his Zen, so I sat patiently, searching for my own Zen.

We stood as the judge came into the room, much like one would when a king entered, or the president, or a male stripper when the women in front of you are really tall.

Parker called his next witness, a woman who’d been held up at knifepoint by the defendant. This seemed a pretty open-and-shut case. The guy was guilty. I felt it on him the moment he walked in. The woman was nervous. She stuttered and mumbled and had to be asked to speak up more than once, and every time she had to repeat herself, the defendant smirked and shook his head.

The poor woman was scared. Terrified. And he was enjoying it. She was a mouse, and the defendant, a large, hairy man with sideburns straight out of the seventies, was a cobra. And his behavior caused her to stutter even more.

Normally, this was the point in ADA Nick Parker’s life where he turned a hilarious shade of red. He had the patience of a pit viper and zero empathy to boot. But not this time. He was frustrated. I could feel it. But no red or purple or even a soft shade of pink. What the hell? Where was the entertainment value in that?

“Let the record reflect that the witness has pointed to”—Parker had turned toward the peanut gallery and met my gaze at last—“has pointed to the defendant, James Wi…”

Parker’s voice trailed off, and he just sort of stood there, staring at me.

“Mr. Parker?” the judge said, trying to get his attention.

I smiled and wiggled my fingers as inconspicuously as I could. Then I flashed him a piece of paper. I’d planned on gesturing toward his associate, letting him know I was going to give my message to her, but Parker did something I never expected. Something pretty much no one expected, so I wasn’t the only one having to scrape my jaw up off the floor thirty seconds later.

He stilled.

I stilled.

He blinked.

I blinked.

He took in a sharp breath.

I blinked.

He dropped to his knees in the middle of the room, clasped his hands over his head, and bent forward, laying his forehead on the carpet and rocking.

Was he…? No. He couldn’t be. I mean, why would he worship me? Was worship the right word? Maybe he was seizing.

I blinked.

The judge blinked.

The bailiff blinked.

We all sat speechless for several long minutes.

“Mr. Parker,” the judge said at last. “What are you doing?”

Parker’s shoulders started to shake, and I realized at that moment that there was a chance, an ever-so-slight chance, that showing him the supernatural world around us may have affected him a tad greater than I’d imagined.

*

The judge called the bailiff over and pounded the gavel, calling for a recess.

I rushed past the bar to Parker’s side. “Dude,” I whispered, patting his head, “you can’t worship me. I’m not that kind of god.”

But he was gone. Praying and chanting and kind of whimpering. The bailiff helped him up, and I followed them into the judge’s chambers despite the bailiff’s stern, questioning brows. He had great brows.

“He just needs water,” I said. “He does this all the time. It’s a nervous condition.”

Parker wouldn’t look at me. On the bright side, his face was finally that hilarious shade of red I knew and loved. He kept his hands clasped and his head bowed.

“Do we need to call an ambulance?” the judge asked.

The court reporter had followed us in as well. “I’ll do it.”

The judge nodded. The bailiff went for water. And I kicked ADA Parker in the shin.

His head snapped up, and he looked at me at last.

“Cut it out,” I said from between gritted teeth. “What the hell?”

“You. It’s you.”

I leaned closer as the bailiff brought him a tiny white cup of water. “Yes. It’s me. Now cut this shit out.”

“But you … you’re—”

“I don’t get it. You’ve known me for years. You’ve never worshiped me before.”

“You’re … a god.”

I pushed the cup to his mouth and chuckled at the bailiff, dismissing Parker’s statement with a wave of my hand. “I think it’s his blood sugar. I solve one case for him, and suddenly I’m a god.” I added air quotes for effect.

The bailiff shot me another warning. With his brows. They were very expressive.

Parker slowly slid off the chair onto one knee, his head bowed again.

I lifted him back up. “Stop it,” I said, my voice more of a hiss than an actual whisper. “I mean it. Stop worshiping me. Jehovah is already pissed.”