the skin peeled back meticulously from around her staring eyeballs. Her liver dangled, deliberately on display.
‘You have Aztecs?’ said Ax. ‘Commiserations. We get loonies too.’
‘Hm… See that?’ Agent Roche, seeming disappointed, pointed to a shallow pit in the ground, to the left of the altar and ringed in stones, natural water-worn stones that didn’t belong to the wasteland. It held newly flensed bones. ‘Those aren’t human, they are the leg bones of a horse and a hound,’ said the FBI man. ‘There are other details I t’ink you would recognise, if you look close?’
‘So you have Celtic Nazi wannabes,’ said Fiorinda, cutting the crap. ‘I do apologise, on behalf of the four nations, but I still don’t get it. Why are we here?’
Agent Roche looked at Harry, Harry looked at the ground. ‘Well, ma’am,’ said Roche, ‘The fact is, human sacrifice as a h’act of public worship is not a common pastime in LA. We get ritual murder. We get snuff, faked and genuine. We have folks who are convinced they are vampires or werewolves and behave accordingly. We have all kinds. The first of these dates from a year and a half ago. It became a federal investigation after what we now t’ink was number four: this is number eight, far as we know. All of them in LA County. Always in empty places, desert wastes, always the pair, nubile young male and female. No sexual element, far as can be determined after the way they’re killed. Always the blood-letting, though the method varies, and the bodies left on display. And the fresh animal bones, horse or hound, ritually placed at the scene.
‘But you know what keeps me awake at night? We’ll question the ferals. We may hear there was a party here last night. We’ll examine the ground. Forensics will tell us between thirty an’ forty people attended the rites, they’ll promise us DNA profiles, they’ll promise us shoe-sizes—’
Harry gave a sharp, impatient sigh. Roche ignored him, and continued.
‘And it will go nowhere. Statements will vanish, and the witnesses will never be found again. There’ll be no forensic evidence worth a shit. If there is any lead to follow, that might identify a single one of the congregation, it will close up, it will fold down, it will slip t’rou our hands, and there will be not’in we can do.’
He watched their faces. The English experts looked politely blank.
‘Well, that’s it. Far as the LAPD is concerned, we cleared the site and called you in because this is a copy-cat crime, a replication of a ritual murder MO known in England, h’in the green-nazi occupation. You should know, Harry and I are working for the same boss. I called you because I hoped you could break the spell, an’ tell me somethin’ real while the scene is fresh.’
‘This happened last night .’ said Fiorinda, not a question but a realisation.
Roche nodded. ‘On the night of your reception. But don’t alarm yourself: the date was prob’ly fixed before you left h’England. H’it’s Beltane in three days.’
‘They follow the so-called Celtic calendar?’
‘Yes, ma’am. We t’ink they repeat the English procedure way a scientist would, not knowing what is essential, an’ what is jus’ old wives tales.’
Fiorinda was tallow pale, but she studied the tableau in silence, without flinching. At last she turned from the bodies, and considered the FBI man.
‘Do you believe in magic, Mr Roche?’
‘The LAPD don’t. Their experience is, evil always turns out to be of mean, ugly living human origin. At the Bureau we are divided. Me… I was never so sure that witchcraft doesn’t exist. You tell me, Ms Slater. Is what happened here part of a new science, ugly as gunpowder? Or is it straight from hell?’
‘Agent Roche,’ said Ax, ‘Could we continue the discussion further off?’
‘You’re right.’
They had been standing in the warm miasma of death as if before a carved alterpiece, a brutal sculpture that required
‘You have Aztecs?’ said Ax. ‘Commiserations. We get loonies too.’
‘Hm… See that?’ Agent Roche, seeming disappointed, pointed to a shallow pit in the ground, to the left of the altar and ringed in stones, natural water-worn stones that didn’t belong to the wasteland. It held newly flensed bones. ‘Those aren’t human, they are the leg bones of a horse and a hound,’ said the FBI man. ‘There are other details I t’ink you would recognise, if you look close?’
‘So you have Celtic Nazi wannabes,’ said Fiorinda, cutting the crap. ‘I do apologise, on behalf of the four nations, but I still don’t get it. Why are we here?’
Agent Roche looked at Harry, Harry looked at the ground. ‘Well, ma’am,’ said Roche, ‘The fact is, human sacrifice as a h’act of public worship is not a common pastime in LA. We get ritual murder. We get snuff, faked and genuine. We have folks who are convinced they are vampires or werewolves and behave accordingly. We have all kinds. The first of these dates from a year and a half ago. It became a federal investigation after what we now t’ink was number four: this is number eight, far as we know. All of them in LA County. Always in empty places, desert wastes, always the pair, nubile young male and female. No sexual element, far as can be determined after the way they’re killed. Always the blood-letting, though the method varies, and the bodies left on display. And the fresh animal bones, horse or hound, ritually placed at the scene.
‘But you know what keeps me awake at night? We’ll question the ferals. We may hear there was a party here last night. We’ll examine the ground. Forensics will tell us between thirty an’ forty people attended the rites, they’ll promise us DNA profiles, they’ll promise us shoe-sizes—’
Harry gave a sharp, impatient sigh. Roche ignored him, and continued.
‘And it will go nowhere. Statements will vanish, and the witnesses will never be found again. There’ll be no forensic evidence worth a shit. If there is any lead to follow, that might identify a single one of the congregation, it will close up, it will fold down, it will slip t’rou our hands, and there will be not’in we can do.’
He watched their faces. The English experts looked politely blank.
‘Well, that’s it. Far as the LAPD is concerned, we cleared the site and called you in because this is a copy-cat crime, a replication of a ritual murder MO known in England, h’in the green-nazi occupation. You should know, Harry and I are working for the same boss. I called you because I hoped you could break the spell, an’ tell me somethin’ real while the scene is fresh.’
‘This happened last night .’ said Fiorinda, not a question but a realisation.
Roche nodded. ‘On the night of your reception. But don’t alarm yourself: the date was prob’ly fixed before you left h’England. H’it’s Beltane in three days.’
‘They follow the so-called Celtic calendar?’
‘Yes, ma’am. We t’ink they repeat the English procedure way a scientist would, not knowing what is essential, an’ what is jus’ old wives tales.’
Fiorinda was tallow pale, but she studied the tableau in silence, without flinching. At last she turned from the bodies, and considered the FBI man.
‘Do you believe in magic, Mr Roche?’
‘The LAPD don’t. Their experience is, evil always turns out to be of mean, ugly living human origin. At the Bureau we are divided. Me… I was never so sure that witchcraft doesn’t exist. You tell me, Ms Slater. Is what happened here part of a new science, ugly as gunpowder? Or is it straight from hell?’
‘Agent Roche,’ said Ax, ‘Could we continue the discussion further off?’
‘You’re right.’
They had been standing in the warm miasma of death as if before a carved alterpiece, a brutal sculpture that required
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