“A stray bullet hit the propane tank at the back of the house,” the chief of detectives said. “Kaboom.”
“Jesus,” Lobison said. “Our bullet, or theirs?”
“Don’t know,” the chief said firmly, “and don’t want to know, so don’t ask again.”
Lobison felt dizzy, disoriented, and generally pissed off. It was, he felt, a reasonable response to nearly being blown up. Romanov, by contrast, looked barely ruffled, the moonlight giving her an ethereal, other-worldly glow. God, she was so gorgeous it made him want to bite.
Her eyes widened as if she could hear his thoughts, and he looked away and cleared his throat. “How many bodies?”
“Eight,” the chief said, “but they’re still counting crispy critters in there, and they will be for a while. It was a pretty efficient explosion. If anyone was in the house, they’re dead.”
Next to him Romanov said quietly, “The local cops say there were twenty-three family members spread over three generations, all residing at this address.”
“Three generations?” Lobison said.
“No children,” Romanov said, answering what he’d meant rather than what he’d said. “The youngest of them was twenty-three. They evidently . . .” She hesitated, seeming to search for the correct word. “It appears that each generation evidently married early and had children very young.”
In some distant part of his brain Lobison was relieved at the news, but it felt as if he had received it at a distance, one step removed from himself. He shook his head again, not in disbelief but in an attempt to shake off his disorientation. His stomach growled, loud enough for Romanov and the chief both to hear. That was nuts, he’d had a Pop All-Dark at the Lucky Wishbone just before they’d headed out, he couldn’t possibly be hungry.
Romanov looked at him and he felt the weight of her considering gaze. He shook his head a third time, almost angrily. The scent of her perfume seemed to increase in intensity, so that he could smell nothing but her.
The chief took Lobison’s demeanor as remorse over the slaughter. “I wouldn’t weep any real tears one way or another,” he said. “We found this.” He held out a dented metal box. “Explosion blew it out one of the windows. Looks like trophies from all thirteen victims. Your partner’s already ID’d some of them.”
Lobison took the box automatically, looking inside it, recognizing a ponytail holder, an earring, a pitiful jumble of personal objects that held no meaning except to the loved ones left behind.
“One for the books,” the chief said. “A whole family of serial killers. I put it in NCIC and the Feebs are practically pissing in their pants. They’re sending up a profiler from Quantico on the red-eye. A whole family,” he said again, marveling, and then brightened. “I guess the family that preys together stays together.” He laughed at his own joke and elbowed Lobison. “‘Preys together?’ Get it?”
“Jesus,” Lobison said again, only this time it was a whisper. “The guy who called. He was telling the truth. It was them.”
“Damn straight it was,” the chief said. “The way I see it, we’re damn lucky that stray bullet caught the propane tank and fried the whole bunch of them. This way we’ve got the perpetrators of thirteen bloodthirsty murders dead to rights—” He laughed again. “And we don’t even have to bring them to trial. Not to mention, you both get gold shields.” He grinned. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving, Sergeants. Merry Christmas.” He looked over Lobison’s shoulder. “Oh, crap.”
“What?” Romanov followed his gaze. A Channel 2 truck was pulling into the yard.
“Who called us?” Lobison said. “Who tipped us off?”
“Who cares?” the chief said, straightening his tie. “I’ll take these assholes for you.” He winked at them. “You two head on home. Sleep in, come in late. Reports on my desk tomorrow by end of shift.”
“Yes, sir,” Romanov said.
The chief headed for the television crew, and Lobison registered the logo on the side of the van for the first time. “Shit,” he said, and pulled out his cell. “I’ve got to call my family before this hits the news. They’re always expecting to see me dead or dying on film at ten.”
Romanov was amused. “Your family worries about you on the job?”
“You have no idea. Especially my brothers.” He hit the speed dial and held the phone to his ear. “All six of them.”
He didn’t notice how still she went at his words. “You have six brothers?”
“Yep,” he said grimly, “and it doesn’t help that I’m the youngest.”
Romanov drifted closer to him, too close. Her arm brushed his and that scent, floral deepening to musk, grew even stronger, to the point that he could smell nothing but her. Over the increasing roar in his ears he heard her say, almost dreamily, “You never told me you were a seventh son.”
He forced a laugh, at the same time contriving to take a small step away from her. He was startled and embarrassed to find that he was abruptly, rudely, achingly hard. “Everyone bursts into song when I do, so I don’t much. Hey. What’re you doing?”
This as she reached for his cell phone and closed it. He sensed a presence at his shoulder and his head snapped around. A dark man in a very sharp suit that looked very much out of place on a back road in the Valley seemed to coalesce out of the forest. There was nothing in his appearance to alarm Lobison, but when he found himself backing away, head down, rolling his shoulders, he realized that he was, in fact, alarmed. There was something menacing, something even threatening about the stranger, he didn’t know what, but he hadn’t survived this long as a cop by ignoring the heebie-jeebies when they announced themselves at this volume. He pressed his arm against the comforting weight of the nine millimeter in the shoulder holster. “Who are you?” he said brusquely. “What do you want?”
“It’s okay,” Romanov said, her voice soothing. “This is my uncle. This is my partner, Uncle Mannaro, Ben Lobison.”
“Sir,” Lobison said, with a quick, unfriendly nod. He could feel the hair on his neck standing straight up. “No offense, Romanov, but what the hell is your uncle doing at a crime scene?”
“Detective Lobison,” the uncle said in greeting, with what would have been a charming smile if his canines had been a little shorter. As it was, it looked as if he was about to bite into something. And was looking forward to it.
“Did you hear?” Romanov said to her uncle, her voice very soft. “He’s a seventh son.”
“I heard.”
“What the hell does my being a seventh son have to do with anything?” Lobison said.
She licked her lips, lips that looked fuller, almost swollen, over white, sharp teeth that looked suddenly as sharp as her uncle’s. Her lids drooped over heavy eyes, her gaze fixed on his face. Lobison felt heat begin low in his belly and radiate up and out over his whole body. He pulled open the front of his parka, the crisp, cold air welcome against his skin.
“Your birthday’s on the twenty-fourth of December, isn’t it, Ben?” she said.
“Really,” her uncle said, and gave Lobison an appraising look. “Well, well. Why didn’t you tell us, Neri?”
“I didn’t know he was a seventh son,” she said, without taking her eyes from Lobison. “The birthday by itself didn’t seem worth mentioning.”
“You think that old wives’ tale is true?”
“I think,” Romanov said, her head tilting back, a slow smile spreading across her face, “that all we have to do is wait.”
They were both looking at him with the same narrow-eyed intensity, Romanov still too close, her nearness making Lobison want to pace. The wind increased, the boughs creaked, the moon was bright enough to cast shadows. Lobison was uncomfortably aware that he was still hard. He hoped Romanov’s uncle didn’t know, but come to think of it he didn’t really care that much if Mannaro did. His clothes felt too tight, and he felt too hot in them, too hot in his skin. He glanced at the moon, and away, the light too bright for his eyes.