Cerulean Sins - Laurell K. Hamilton [12]
I took a deep, steadying breath, breathe in and out, in and out. I would not be sick. Nope. I would not embarrass myself in front of this many people.
When I thought he’d had enough, I said, “Gordon Bennington.”
He didn’t react, but kept his mouth pressed to the wound, his hands clutching my wrist.
I tapped the top of his head gently with the side of the machete. “Mr. Bennington, people are waiting to talk to you.”
I don’t know if it was the words or the tap with the blade, but he looked up, and slowly began to pull back from my hand. His eyes held more of him now. The blood always seemed to do that, fill them back up with themselves.
“Are you Gordon Bennington?” I asked. We had to be all formal.
He shook his head.
The judge said, “We need you to answer out loud, Mr. Bennington, for the record.”
He stared up at me. I repeated what the judge had said, and Bennington spoke, “I am, was, Gordon Bennington.”
One of the upsides to raising the dead with only my blood was that they always knew they were dead. I’d raised some before where they didn’t know that, and that was a bitch, telling someone that they were dead, and you were about to put them back in the grave. Real nightmare stuff, that was.
“How did you die, Mr. Bennington?” I asked.
He sighed, drawing in air, and I heard it whistle, because most of the right side of his chest was missing. The suit hid it, but I’d seen the forensic photos. Besides I knew what a mess a twelve-gauge shotgun makes at close range.
“I got shot.”
There was a tension behind me, I could feel it over the buzz of the power circle. “How did you get shot?” I asked, voice calm, soothing.
“I shot myself going down the stairs to our basement.”
There was a cry of triumph from one side of the crowd and an inarticulate scream from the other.
“Did you shoot yourself on purpose?” I asked.
“No, of course not. I tripped, gun went off, so stupid, really. So stupid.”
There was a lot of screaming behind me. Mostly Mrs. Bennington yelling, “I told you so, little bitch . . .”
I turned and called, “Judge Fletcher, did you hear all that?”
“Most of it,” he said. He turned that booming voice on overdrive and shouted, “Mrs. Bennington, if you will be quiet long enough to listen, your husband has just said he died by accident.”
“Gail,” Gordon Bennington’s voice was tentative, “Gail, are you there?”
I did not want a tearful reunion on top of the grave. “Are we finished, Judge? Can I put him back?”
“No,” this from Fidelis Insurance’s lawyers. Conroy stepped closer. “We have some questions for Mr. Bennington.”
They asked questions, at first I had to repeat them for Bennington to be able to answer, but he got better at answering. He didn’t look any better, physically, but he was gathering himself up, being more alert, more aware of his surroundings. He spotted his wife, and said, “Gail, I’m so sorry. You were right about the guns. I wasn’t careful enough. I’m so sorry to leave you and the kids.”
Mrs. Bennington came towards us, with her lawyers in tow. I thought I’d have to ask them to keep her off the grave, but she stopped outside the circle, as if she could feel it. Sometimes the people that turn out to be psychically gifted surprise you. I doubt if she was even aware of why she stopped moving forward. Of course, she was holding her hands tight to her body. She was not reaching out to touch her husband. I don’t think she wanted to find out what that waxy looking skin felt like. I couldn’t blame her.
Conroy and the other lawyers tried to keep asking questions, but it was the judge who said, “Gordon Bennington has answered all your questions in detail. It’s time to let him get back to . . . rest.”
I agreed. Mrs. Bennington was in tears, and Gordon would have been too, except his tear ducts had dried up months ago.
I got Gordon Bennington’s attention. “Mr. Bennington, I’m going