A Trail of Deception
Staring out the window of the morgue, I barely notice Raven’s small talk with the technician. They say the mind doesn’t discern the past and future, and that memories and their emotions are experienced as present tense. In this moment, I’m not lost in the sterile harshness of the morgue, but within the gossamer threads of my memory, where warmth and tenderness find refuge. The outside world blurs as I surrender to the reminiscences of my past, a stark contrast to the present reality.
I remember the cabin overlooking the mountains on one side and the town of Vail on the other. Shelby and me, our bodies intertwined on a bed of soft cotton sheets, the outside world a distant murmur. Our first time had been sweet and tentative, our shared nervousness seeping into every hesitant touch and lingering gaze. We were two beings exploring the landscape of the other for the first time, delighting in the discovery of soft skin, racing heartbeats, and hidden sighs.
The rented cabin was swathed in the soft light of the full moon, the dim glow casting long shadows that danced along with us. His eyes, dark and full of longing, had mirrored my anticipation. The world had reduced to the space between us, an unspoken promise hanging in the air.
As the night deepened, our bond strengthened. We shared our hopes and dreams, our words weaving a shared reality that was just ours. The second time we made love, it was with an untamed passion, as opposite as possible of our initial hesitancy. The barriers were down, the uncertainties washed away, and it was just us, raw and unguarded.
The last time, slow and bittersweet, still lingers like a fresh scar on my heart. As we slept and woke in each other’s arms, the bitter reality of parting loomed over us. Me, to my recruitment duties, and Shelby, to briefings back in Washington, D.C., before his new assignment. Yet, it was in that vulnerability that we found a profound connection, an unspoken acknowledgment of the fleeting moments we shared.
I’d learned refuge in my memories that we would be together again soon, that we’d talk frequently during his days away on the East Coast while I remained in the mountains, and that I could wait for his return in a few days because I’d waited forty-five years already.
Shelby, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to see the future. All he knew was that he was taking a couple of days to see Vail after a technology transition briefing to cadets at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, and then off to a series of interagency collaboration briefings at the Pentagon, followed by what he’d thought was going to be an assignment with the Air Force Special Operations Command at Hurlburt Field in Florida, only a few hours’ drive from where his parents and sister lived. He hadn’t known yet, as I did, that his assignment would be changed at the last minute to a special project just south of Denver, and then a sudden deployment to the other side of the world that would convince him to retire as a Senior Master Sergeant. His household goods were already packed and headed to Florida before his assignment shifted from Florida to Colorado.
That very first night with him, I’d known already how quickly his assignments would change and that our time together was only beginning. No magic required. The shift in his work priorities had been a gift I didn’t create for myself, but I was happy to accept it. I knew then, as we said our very first goodbye, that I could wait a little longer for him because I’d known it before, like looking at a photograph of a mirror within a mirror within a mirror, except with memories instead of mirrors. I’d soothed my anxieties of his absence with the memory of him returning from his next deployment with a plea to marry him and be his partner for life, and I’d shrieked, “Yes!” before he could get the words out.
What I knew then about “us” had been enough for me, and we’d spent that last hour of our first tryst gazing into each other’s eyes like two lovesick adolescents.
“Veronica? Veronica!”
The world snaps back into focus as the sound of Raven’s voice pierces my reminiscing bubble. The soft hum of my memories fades, replaced by the crisp reality of the present. The contrast couldn’t be more pronounced.
“Y-yes?”
“Are you okay? You seemed lost in thought,” Raven asks, concern carved on his face. “Did you have a question for Mr. Moyer?”
Mr. Moyer is an older man, definitely older than I am, with graying hair and black-rimmed glasses. He wears a white lab coat over his clothes and has an air of seriousness and professionalism. A digital tablet in his hands and a stethoscope draped around his neck, he has spent the last five minutes speaking with a deliberate, measured voice, and I’ve missed every word, including his first name. He raises both eyebrows in anticipation of my contribution to their conversation.
I offer Raven a small smile and nod, hoping to ease any worry. “I was just thinking about…Mr. Vanderholt,” I reply vaguely, not wanting to betray my daydreams of Shelby.
Raven’s expression softens, and he reaches out to squeeze my hand. “Mr. Moyer was just explaining that he wasn’t present when the medical examiner was assaulted. Usually, he prepares the body for the autopsy, assists in any way needed, and takes photographs for the official record.”
“But you weren’t there?” I look pointedly at Mr. Moyer and wish I could remember his name, but only his surname is embroidered in dark blue on his lab coat. “Why not?”
Most people wouldn’t notice, but I see the slightest hint of his lips tightening in a micro expression of impatience. Obviously, I missed the previous explanation when I was dreaming of Shelby’s caresses.
“As I was telling your partner here, I took the elevator from the fifth floor, and it stopped—rather abruptly—between floors with concrete on all sides of me in the shaft. It took almost two hours for the fire department to get me out.”
I blink at him. I read somewhere that the odds of a mishap in any given elevator ride is one in over twelve million, and that includes elevators with repeat problems. “Wow, does that happen often in this building, Mr. Moyer?”
“Never. Just lucky, I guess.”
Or someone wanted to delay him.
“So just you and the ME?” I press.
“Usually. It’s a small lab, and we don’t have a lot of crime here other than bar fights between college kids and the locals.” Mr. Moyer rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, bumping his glasses higher on his face as he does. “This time, we had another technician coming in to observe, but he had car trouble. Both detectives on the case were no-shows, even though they’d called ahead.”
Raven and I exchange glances. We both know that magic frequently takes the path of least resistance. A thousand things could have kept both technicians away from the autopsy, but mechanical problems for an elevator or an automobile were easy pathways to keep other members of the forensics team at bay without doing extreme harm or being dramatic.
I’ve seen this method before—cast a spell intending to block any interference or action for a particular period of time, then allow the magic to carry that intention forward, not directed at any one individual but at everyone who might interfere. The witch could have cast their intention with no care for the well-being of others so something far more dire than mechanical troubles could have permanently delayed both technicians and the detectives. However, such carelessness might be noted by other witches.
Whoever is working behind the scenes knows enough to be discreet.
“I rushed straight to the autopsy as soon as the fire department pulled me out of the elevator,” Mr. Moyer continues as he settles the black frames firmly on his nose. “I’m claustrophobic, so I was still a tad shaky when I got there. I found Herbie on the floor. Mr. Vanderholt’s body was on the table. I thought at first he’d fainted. Not Herbie’s style though, so then I thought maybe a heart attack. His head was bleeding. The other technician showed up right behind me.”
Pressing my fingers to my lips, I listen intently. I watch Raven for cues but see none.
“Maybe,” I begin, “we should talk to the ME if—”
“Not much point.” Mr. Moyer extracts a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the screen of his digital tablet. “Herb’s still in the hospital. Whoever knocked him out…well, it’s not like on TV. He didn’t wake up groggy a few minutes later and go about his day. Best case, the docs think he may have headaches and mood swings for the rest of his life. In all probability, he’s performed his last autopsy.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I murmur.
“We had to transfer the body over to the neighboring county so their ME could conclude the autopsy, but—” with a heavy sigh, he turns to Raven— “I’m authorized to allow you, Mr. Darbyshire, as legal representative of the deceased, access to the autopsy report.” He scowls at his digital tablet and presses the screen. The printer behind me whirs to life, pumping out page after page after page. No one speaks as he collects the pages and hands them to Raven, who has already signed several documents while I was daydreaming.
Raven frowns at each page, studying the conclusions, pausing at the photos. A sound like a whimper or maybe a grunt escapes his throat, and I lean in for a closer look.
“Ma’am! Ma’am, you don’t want to do that!”
The technician stretches one palm between the photos and my eyes, but he’s too late. I’ve already seen the graphic images. I’ve seen worse, especially in the months after The Shift: I’ve seen the bodies washed away for miles after the tsunami that rolled inland past Atlanta, then cleansed the continent as it washed away cities and farmland and everything between, all the way from the East Coast to the Mississippi River and everything south of Huntsville, Alabama, as it drained back into the ocean and left unimaginable debris where it had touched. Even worse, there was the aftermath, the survivors, the desperate search for water uncontaminated by either bacteria or residue from destroyed chemical plants.
Most of the survivors of The Shift didn’t live another month because of starvation and dehydration, and a third wave of population died within another month as supplies of insulin and other medications dwindled. Even the survivalists couldn’t prevent the destruction of their precious stores of weapons, food, and medicine as the tsunami washed away decades of preparations, and preppers, too.
The last wave of death was the worst: the animal nature of human survival had taken hold by the end of the third month after The Shift. Survivors traveled in packs, like wild and hungry dogs, cutting down anything that stood between them and filling their bellies.
Except in the compounds created by the priesthood where, after Aoife’s failures, I led nearly 144,000 chosen ones to safety and gave the human race a chance to still be human.
Or close to human, with some angel DNA and nanotechnology thrown in.
That’s how I remember it, anyway. Somewhere in the future, well past the end of this month when both Virgil and Raven have seen my end.
“Veronica?” Raven’s voice cuts through the haze. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Sorry. I guess those photos were more graphic than I realized.”
Still, I can’t look away from them. Terre had never been a muscular guy or imposing in any way. He had the physique of a marathon runner, with slender arms and a concave chest, but whatever he lacked in strength, he had in confidence. Only, that night, he’d needed both to survive.
Raven shuffles through the images one last time. His eyes scan each one for details, but he shakes his head. “Hmmm, nothing useful here. Thank you, Mr. Moyer, for—”
“Wait!” I motion for Raven to back up to the previous photo. “Terre’s tattoo.”
The technician raises an eyebrow. “The body didn’t have any tattoos. No markings at all. Not even a mole.”
I jab my index finger at the photo of Terre’s wrist where a square of missing flesh stands out against the rest of his scrawny forearm. No tattoo. No Walking Lightning bind rune to signal Terre’s place in the Priesthood of Daegan, let alone his reputation as the most powerful witch in the world.
“It’s gone!” is all I can manage.
Raven’s jaw tightens but otherwise, he retains his composure. His lips press into a thin line as he glowers up at the technician. “Why would you—the ME, I mean—desecrate Terre’s body like that? You removed the tattoo from his wrist?”
Mr. Moyer looks confused. “Only if it’s pertinent to the investigation, but no, not part of the autopsy Herbie was performing when he was interrupted. The other ME who finished the autopsy reported that a portion of the dermis from the right wrist had been excised post-mortem, but I don’t think Herbie removed it. If so, where is it? Herbie’s report may be incomplete, but he would have noted it. In my opinion, it was removed by whoever killed Mr. Vanderholt.”
Raven shakes his head vigorously. “No, I don’t think it’s the same person. I’ve seen the pictures from the crime scene myself—Terre still had that tattoo then.”
We lock our eyes, and I can see the realization dawning in his. My memories might not be clear yet, but as I’ve already told him, I do recall that Terre’s murderer had nothing to do with the priesthood. Only another Daeganean or one of our allies would know how important that tattoo is.
At least now we know why the ME was attacked—and what was taken from Terre’s body.
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