Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(55)

“I can find out who it was.” Adam took out his own phone and texted.

George grinned. “Are your people illegally hacking into the phone system?” he asked. “Again?”

“You are a cop,” Adam said. “How stupid do I look?”

“If you can’t find anything, you can give it to me,” George offered. “I have friends.”

I looked at Zee. “Do you see what I have to put up with? A telemarketer calls and all hell breaks loose.”

“I told you what would happen when you started dating an Alpha werewolf,” Zee said without sympathy.

The call over–dealt with, George’s face grew serious. “How many people died, Zee?” he asked. “When was this? I’ve served my time on cold cases and attended some serial killer seminars, a couple focusing specifically on the ones who operate or have operated in Washington, and I haven’t heard about people being killed with a sickle.”

“You would not have heard of this,” Zee said. “Most of the victims were never reported—like your disappearing witches. I think there were official reports on three—though those were destroyed. The situation was managed so that nothing was publicized, and the investigating officer was shut down.” Zee frowned. “I did not like that part. He was a good man doing a hard job, and the way he was quieted was crude. He quit his job soon after.”

“You caught the killer,” I said.

“It stopped,” Zee told me heavily. “It was not me. The sickle and the boy it had used were left for me. They were left where Uncle Mike could find them, but it was understood by both of us that they were left for me.”

“What happened to the sickle?” Adam asked.

“I destroyed it.” Zee’s lip curled. “It was crude old black craft. Witchcraft.” He paused as if reconsidering his opinion. “Effective,” he allowed. “But still crude.”

“Bodies slashed as if they were harvested wheat,” George said. “That’s how I’d describe the boy last night. But you destroyed the sickle.”

“I destroyed a sickle,” Zee said. “One that was presented to me as the murder weapon. It was not the sickle I’d come here to find.”

A thoughtful silence followed his words.

“I should have heard about them,” George said with certainty. “Paperwork or no paperwork, people saw the bodies. Whoever hushed it up did a good job.”

“And yet”—Adam’s voice was careful—“we have a movie.”

“Yes,” Zee said. “We have a movie. Based on whatever stories an old policeman told his grandson. Outside of the broad strokes—a killer controlled by a cursed sickle—the movie is completely fictional.”

“Huh,” I said. “I guess I’m going to have to go to the movies.” I looked at Adam. “Date night.”

He nodded but didn’t look happy about it. Slasher-type horror movies were not healthy fare for a werewolf. Sudden noises, too much tension, and a theater packed with fear-laden people was a recipe for disaster.

“You could take Tad instead,” suggested Zee. “When I told him this morning that the story of the Harvester was based on an actual occurrence, he sounded as though he planned on watching it a second time.”

“The kid at the grocery store could certainly have been killed with a sickle,” George said, not to be distracted by a movie. His phone chimed and he looked at it. “Tony says he’s ready to leave the Kennewick crime scene to the forensic people. If we go now, Tony will meet us at the grocery store in Pasco.”

I eyed Zee. “How would you like to come with us to look at a crime scene?”

Zee shook his head. “No.”

“You are staying here,” Adam told me firmly. “Your feet hurt.”



* * *



—

We all went, of course.

“Alpha werewolf meets coyote,” murmured George gleefully from the back of Adam’s SUV as I hopped in. “Fae—”

“Stop,” said Zee, climbing in beside him.

George didn’t lose his grin, but he quit talking. George was not stupid.

The grocery store was closed.

“We don’t want to hinder any investigation,” the manager said as he locked the front doors behind us.

He was a solidly built man in his late forties or early fifties, his hair the silvery-wheat color of a platinum blond going gray. He had a rounded, Santa Claus–type face, an impression that was enhanced by a short white beard. He’d given me a sharp look but hadn’t said anything.

“You need to find out what happened to that poor boy.” He sounded a little fierce.

“Was it you who saw something in your rearview mirror?” Adam asked.

He shook his head. “Nope. That was Andy. Andy Vargas.” He paused, keys halfway to his pocket. “Andy isn’t someone you’d think would make things up,” he said soberly. “He’s an honest man, and he was terrified last night.” He shrugged. “Today he’s mortified and regrets saying anything to anyone. He is convinced it was someone in a costume.”

I put my nose to the floor and did a quick sniff around the entrance. There were a lot of scents, nothing that stood out as unusual to me.