Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [110]
I said, “A glass of water for Max.”
“Oh! Okay.” Jeff left the room and went to the kitchen.
“I’m still really worried about alcohol poisoning,” I said to Max as I looked down at Lopez’s peaceful face.
I put my head against his chest and listened. His breathing and heartbeat were steady and even. The temperature of his skin felt normal. He didn’t seem to be in any physical distress. But he smelled like a distillery and was dead to the world.
After his collapse, I had realized we would have a hard enough time explaining Lopez’s unconscious condition to a cab driver without also having to explain why he was half- naked; so I had found his shirt and, with Jeff’s help, wrestled him back into it. I unbuttoned the garment now and pushed it aside, so that I could examine his torso and confirm under calmer circumstances that he had not suffered any burns or injuries during his bizarre experience at the Vodou ceremony—where celebrants had assured me with reverence and good cheer, as he lay unconscious on the floor, that what had just happened to him was a good thing.
Lying on my bed now, motionless but breathing evenly, his body was smooth and warm. There was a light dusting of black hair across his chest and a thin, faded scar on his stomach—possibly from an appendectomy.
“No burn marks,” I said, torn between relief and amazement. “Nothing.”
“I believe it is likely that the alcohol he consumed will also have no ill effects,” Max said soothingly. “Ah! Thank you, Jeffrey!” He accepted the glass of water that Jeff carried into the bedroom.
“I just turned on the AC,” said Jeff. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure,” I said absently, realizing it was stuffy in here. I turned off the air-conditioning whenever I went out. I couldn’t afford to waste money cooling an empty apartment. “Take off his shoes.”
Jeff shot me resentful look, then knelt down and wrestled with a surprised Max for possession of his foot.
“No, I meant Lopez’s shoes,” I said with forced patience. “We need to make him comfortable. I don’t know how long he’ll be like this.”
“Oh! Right.” Jeff sat down on the other side of the bed and tugged off Lopez’s sandals, which he tossed on the floor.
We had initially argued about where to take our unconscious companion. Scared to death by his oblivious condition, as well as by having just watched him consume a shockingly large quantity of rum, I’d wanted to go straight to a hospital. But Max had thought it unnecessary, and Jeff had considered it a terrible idea.
“A cop turns up in the ER unconscious and floating in booze?” Jeff had said. “When he wakes up there, how’s he going to explain his condition to the staff or to the NYPD?”
I didn’t want to inflict a professionally damaging situation on Lopez, or possibly even a career-ending one. So, hoping that it was the right decision, I had chosen to bring him here, where I could keep an eye on him while he slept it off.
I leaned over him now and stroked his dark hair away from his forehead. Gazing down at him, I prayed that Max was right and he didn’t need medical attention.
“How did this happen to him?” I wondered aloud.
“Yeah, what gives?” Jeff said. “One minute, he was being a cop. The next, he was playing with fire. Weird.”
“Spirit possession often occurs very quickly,” Max said. “It just usually involves much more preparation—dancing or worship or meditation.”
“He wasn’t preparing at all,” I pointed out.
“Preparation is simply a way of inviting the spirit to possess the worshipper,” Max said. “It does not necessarily follow that possession will occur. Nor does it mean a spirit cannot choose to possess one who hasn’t actually invited it.”
Jeff said, “I guess if you’re a spirit, you get to do what you want, huh?”
“Within reason,” Max said. “Preparing for possession creates favorable conditions for the spirit to manifest. It is an offer to surrender the self and relinquish conscious control.” He thought it over for a moment. “The detective was close to the brazier when the mambo threw more gunpowder