Rachel was studying her right thumbnail as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Without looking up she asked, "Where was he buried?"
"In one of the city-owned plots at the public graveyard."
"Well, that's something," she said. "No hassles with the Church to worry about. And it's not hallowed ground. When did interment take place?"
"Day before yesterday. But he died a week ago. They kept him on ice at the morgue for a while, in case somebody claimed the body. When nobody did, they planted him."
"And in life he was a wizard, you say."
"Yeah," I said. "He had the mark on him – and about a gazillion books on magic in his library. Why – does it matter?"
"Indeed, it does. It means his spirit will be harder to control, once it's raised. I'll have to take extra precautions."
"So you will do it." I didn't bother keeping the relief out of my voice.
"Against my better judgment, yes, I will," Rachel said, sounding tired. "And I suppose you need this done immediately, if not sooner?"
I shrugged. "Afraid so. The longer we wait, the greater the perp's chances of getting away with it. And a guy who'd do Kulick like that, you gotta figure he won't be squeamish about torturing somebody else to get what he wants."
She gave me a look that said she knew I was trying to manipulate her emotionally, and she didn't like it.
But she didn't tell me that I was wrong.
"As you're aware, Stan, I'm a practitioner of white magic. But what you're asking for here is gray magic."
I knew that one. "Black magic, performed for the purpose of good."
"Exactly right. Normally, necromancy is one of the blackest of the black arts." She sighed deeply. "I'll need to get permission before I can proceed."
I tapped the court order that lay on her desk. "We've already got this. What more do you need?"
The thin smile she gave me didn't look much like the one I'd received walking in. "The kind of permission I need comes from a court you've never heard of, Stan. But it is one that I dare not disobey. I'll let you know, one way or the other, as soon as I find out."
I stood up and slid the court order back in my pocket. "When do you plan to put in the request, or whatever it is you have to do?"
"A few seconds after I see that door close behind you. So, get."
I got.
The next day, I was getting ready for work when "Tubular Bells," the theme from The Exorcist, started playing in my shirt pocket. I touched an icon and brought the phone to my ear. "Markowski."
Rachel Proctor's voice said, "Tomorrow night, at midnight. I'll need a day to prepare. Pick me up at my house about 9:00." She paused a moment. "You're going to be there, you know."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I said. I might even have been telling the truth.
• • • •
The next night, I brought the car to a stop in front of Rachel's house at 8:59. A few moments later, she was tapping at the passenger-side window.
"Pop your trunk."
I pulled the lever. She disappeared from view, and then I felt the springs shift a little as something heavy was placed in the trunk. The lid slammed shut, and then Rachel was slipping into the passenger seat next to me.
She looked terrible.
Even in the light from the street lamps, I could see circles under her eyes that she hadn't bothered to hide with makeup. The skin of her face seemed looser, somehow, like someone recovering from a bad accident.
"What're you staring at?" she snapped. I was stammering an apology when she laid a gentle hand on my arm. "Sorry, Stan. I know I look a fright – almost like one of the stereotypes of my profession."
"Are you sick? Maybe we can–"
"No, I'm not sick, in the usual sense of the term. I haven't slept, that's part of it. I last ate something... this morning, I think, but I forget what it was. I've been working pretty much nonstop since you left me yesterday. Necromancy takes a lot of preparation, and we're not exactly blessed with time, are we? A lot of the work involves setting up protections for the necromancer." She paused, then added, "That would be me."
"Protections against the corpse? I thought–"
"We won't be raising his corpse, Stan. You've been seeing too many movies. What we're going to resurrect, if this works, is his spirit – and that is infinitely more dangerous."
"How come?"
"Protecting myself from a physical body is a piece of cake, comparatively – there are a hundred spells that could do it. But guarding against a pure spirit is harder, because of all the different ways it can manifest. And the fact that he was a wizard makes it even trickier."
"Why should it? Dead is dead, no? Except when it's undead."
"I wish it were that simple. A dead man is a dead man, Stanley. But a dead wizard is... well, a dead wizard."
Rachel turned to face forward. "Come on, let's get this circus on the road, before I come to my senses."
After a while, the silence in the car started to get uncomfortable. For me, anyway. "Proctor," I said. "That name has... associations for me. Something to do with the Salem witch trials, maybe?"
"Very astute. I'm a descendant of John Proctor, who was hanged as a witch after being denounced by his housekeeper."
"Your family history of witchcraft goes back a long ways, then." I said.
"That it does – on both sides. My mother, whose maiden name was Brown, was a direct descendant of the Mathers – Increase, and his son, Cotton."
"Mathers – like in Leave it to Beaver?"
From the corner of my eye, I saw a glimmer of a smile.
"I've always thought that ought to be the title of a porn flick. Or maybe it was, and I missed it."
"I didn't know witches liked porn."
"Don't generalize from one example, Stan. And d beplay dumb, either. You know who the Mathers were."
"The guys behind the witch trials."