Unsympathetic Magic - Laura Resnick [123]
Max was less surprised than I had been by the news that one of the missing bodies had been found.
“Mr. Johnson was just telling us that he saw four zombies,” Max explained to me.
“Do we have to use that word?” Frank said.
“I don’t see why we have to use it,” said Jeff.
Max soldiered on. “Including Darius Phelps, there should be five zombies, based on the information we have from Detective Lopez. Since our companion only saw four, it’s possible that one of them was out performing a task at the behest of the bokor at that time. Or that the missing zombie had escaped the bokor’s control and fled captivity, as poor Darius later did. But another possibility, of course, was that—”
“That the bokor’s first attempt at zombification didn’t work,” I said. “So now there are four zombies and one incriminating corpse that the bokor had to get rid of.”
“Precisely.”
Nelli walked slowly up to me, the tip of her long bony tail wagging faintly. She was panting heavily, despite the coolness of the air-conditioned store, and her nose was dry as she poked me with it in feeble greeting.
“Max,” I said in shock. “Nelli looks terrible.”
“Yes. Only the importance of our meeting with Mr. Johnson—”
“Oh, call me Frank, man.”
“—has delayed me from taking her to the all- night clinic for treatment.”
I put my hand on the familiar’s huge head. “I think she has a fever.” I touched her bandaged paw. “Is this infected?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Max. “Jeffrey and I changed the bandage a little while ago, and it seemed to be healing properly.”
I cast Jeff an inquisitive glance, and he nodded in agreement with Max.
Nelli sat down and rested her massive jaw on my thigh, squashing my leg into the hard chair that I sat on. I stroked her ears as I said, “All right, out with it, Frank. Then we have to get Nelli to a vet.”
“First things first.” Jeff, who liked dogs, sat down next to me and stroked Nelli’s back soothingly. “Tell us how the bokor just tried to kill you.”
“My bed burst into flames a little while ago,” I said. “While I was in it!”
“Oh, shit,” said Frank, rocking back and forth. “That does it! I’m leaving New York.”
“Where was Detective Lopez?” asked Max.
“He was in the bed, too.”
“And you were . . . what?” Jeff said. “Ministering to his wounds? Playing gin rummy? Discussing the Middle East peace process?”
“Okay, fine,” I said, feeling my cheeks get hot again. “We had argued, and we were making up.”
“In the bed,” Jeff said, clearly enjoying my embarrassment.
“Yes.”
“And did your dress get torn to shreds during the argument, or was it during the making up?”
“Um, the argument. No, the making up.” Wishing the floor would open up and swallow me, I said, “Does it matter?”
“Just trying to get the facts straight.” Jeff reached over to me and brushed aside my hair. “Is that a hickey? No, it’s several hickeys. The boy plays rough, doesn’t he?”
“Stop that!” I slapped aside his hand.
“Please continue, Esther,” said Max, deliberately assuming his most scientifically detached expression.
“Well, uh . . .” I tried to think of how to phrase it. “The occasion, um, called for the removal of the gris-gris bag.”
“Oh, dear,” said Max.
“And the bed exploded,” I concluded.
“Just like that?” Jeff asked.
“Yes.” I touched the pouch that hung around my neck and inhaled its reassuring stink. “Max, will this thing protect me now?”
Jeff said, “Well, have any beds exploded into flames since you put it back on?”
“Shut up,” Frank and I said in unison.
Max said to me, “I believe it would be unwise for you to remove the charm again until we have confronted our adversary and gained control of the poppet made in your image.”
Frank asked anxiously, “Is there a poppet made in my image?”
“Has your bed caught fire?” Jeff asked him.
Frank had experienced no ill effects (apart from anxiety, terror, and insomnia) in the time between fleeing Mount Morris Park on Monday night and fleeing his apartment this evening after being attacked by Biko. So Max decided that he was probably not in danger from a voodoo doll.
“Nonetheless,