She couldn’t see much of anything in the dark. No footprints, not a stray thread of cloth. She didn’t know what she was hoping to find.
One thing she vowed she’d never do was call in a psychic to work a case. But standing in the backyard of Manuel’s residence at night, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d missed something simply because it wasn’t visible to the mundane eye. Could a psychic stand here and see some kind of magical aura? Maybe follow a magical trail to the person who’d committed the crime?
The real problem was — how would she know she was hiring an actual psychic? Hardin was ready to believe just about anything, but that wouldn’t help her figure out what had happened here.
The next day, she made a phone call. She had at least one more resource to try.
Hardin came to the supernatural world as a complete neophyte, and she had to look for advice wherever she could, no matter how odd the source, or how distasteful. Friendly werewolves, for example. Or convicted felons.
Cormac Bennett styled himself a bounty hunter specializing in the supernatural. He freely admitted he was a killer, though he claimed to only kill monsters — werewolves, vampires and the like. A judge had recently agreed with him, at least about the killer part, and sentenced Bennett to four years for manslaughter. It meant that Hardin now had someone on hand who might be able to answer her questions. She’d requested the visit and asked that he not be told it was her because she didn’t want him to say no to the meeting. They’d had a couple of run-ins — truthfully, she was a little disappointed that she hadn’t been the one who got to haul him in on charges of attempted murder at the very least.
When he sat down and saw her through the glass partition, he muttered, “Christ.”
“Hello,” she said, rather pleased at his reaction. “You look terrible, if you don’t mind me saying.” He looked like any other con, rough around the edges, tired and seething. He had shadows under his eyes. But it was a lot different than he’d looked the last time she’d seen him, poised and hunting.
“What do you want?”
“I have to be blunt, Mr. Bennett,” she said. “I’m here looking for advice.”
“Not sure I can help you.”
Maybe this had been a mistake. “You mean you’re not sure you will. Maybe you should let me know right now if I’m wasting my time. Save us both the trouble.”
“Did Kitty tell you to talk to me?”
As a matter of fact, Kitty Norville had suggested it. Kitty the werewolf. Hardin hadn’t believed it either, until she saw it. It was mostly Kitty’s fault Hardin had started down this path. “She said you might know things.”
“Kitty’s got a real big mouth,” Bennett said wryly.
“How did you two even end up friends?” Hardin said. “You wanted to kill her.”
“It wasn’t personal.”
“Then, what? It got personal?” Hardin never understood why Kitty had just let the incident go. She hadn’t wanted to press charges. And now they were what, best friends?
“Kitty has a way of growing on you.”
Hardin smiled, just a little, because she knew what he was talking about. Kitty had a big mouth, and it made her charming rather than annoying. Most of the time.
She pulled a folder from her attaché case, drew out the eight by ten crime-scene photos, and held them up to the glass. “I have a body. Well, half a body. It’s pretty spectacular and it’s not in any of the books.”
Bennett studied the photos a long time, and she waited, watching him carefully. He didn’t seem shocked or disgusted. Of course he didn’t. He was curious. Maybe even admiring? She tried not to judge. This was like Manuel’s shed; she only saw Bennett as sinister because she knew what he was capable of.
“What the hell?” he said finally. “How are they even still standing? Are they attached to something?”
“No,” she said. “I have a set of free-standing legs attached to a pelvis, detached cleanly above the fifth lumbar vertebra. The wound is covered with a layer of table salt that appears to have caused the flesh to scorch. Try explaining that one to my captain.”
“No thanks,” he said. “That’s your job. I’m just the criminal reprobate.”
“So you’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Hell, no.”
“Have you ever heard of anything like this?” She’d set the photos flat on the table. He was still studying them.
“No. You have any leads at all?”
“No. We’ve ID’d the body. She was Filipina, a recent immigrant. We’re still trying to find the other half of the body. There has to be another half somewhere, right?”
He sat back, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“You’re sure you don’t know anything? You’re not just yanking my chain out of spite?”
“I get nothing out of yanking your chain. Not here.”
Scowling, she put the photos back in her case. “Well, this was worth a try. Sorry for wasting your time.”
“I’ve got nothing but time.”
He was yanking her chain, she was sure of it. “If you think of anything, if you get any bright ideas, call me.” As the guard arrived to escort him back to his cell, she said, “And get some sleep. You look awful.”
Hardin was at her desk, looking over the latest reports from the crime lab. Nothing. They hadn’t had rain, the ground was hard, so no footprints. No blood. No fibers. No prints on the shed. Someone wearing gloves had cut off the lock in order to stuff half the body inside — then didn’t bother to lock the shed again. The murderer had simply closed the door and vanished.
The phone rang, and she answered, frustrated and surly. “Detective Hardin.”
“Will you accept the charges from Cormac Bennett at the Colorado Territorial Correctional Facility?”
It took her a moment to realize what that meant. She was shocked. “Yes, I will. Hello? Bennett?”
“Manananggal,” he said. “Don’t ask me how to spell it.”
She wrote down the word, sounding it out as best she could. The Internet would help her find the correct spelling. “Okay, but what is it?”
“Filipino version of the vampire.”
That made no sense. But really, did that matter? It made as much sense as anything else. It was a trail to follow. “Hot damn,” she said, suddenly almost happy. “The victim was from the Philippines. It fits. So the suspect was Filipino, too? Do Filipino vampires eat entire torsos or what?”
“No,” he said. “That body is the vampire, the manananggal. You’re looking for a vampire hunter.”
Her brain stopped at that one. “Excuse me?”
“These creatures, these vampires — they detach the top halves of their bodies to hunt. They’re killed when someone sprinkles salt on the bottom half. They can’t return to reattach to their legs, and they die at sunrise. If they’re anything like European vampires, the top half disintegrates. You’re never going to find the rest of the body.”
Well. She still wouldn’t admit that any of this made sense, but the pieces fit. The bottom half, the salt burns. Never mind — she was still looking for a murderer here, right?
“Detective?” Cormac said.
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said. “This fits all the pieces we have. Looks like I have some reading to do to figure out what really happened.”
He managed to sound grim. “Detective, you might check to see if there’s been a higher than usual number of miscarriages in the neighborhood.”
“Why?”
“I used the term vampire kind of loosely. This thing eats the hearts of fetuses. Sucks them through the mother’s navel while she sleeps.”