Eleventh Grave in Moonlight(10)

Fifteen minutes later, Parker’s assistant told me he was in court, so I meandered that way. I didn’t know what case Parker was prosecuting but found the courtroom easily enough. A few spectators in the gallery were just going back in after a break, so I fell in line and went with the flow, following a tall white-haired man who reminded me of Colonel Sanders.

We sat behind the prosecutor’s table. Hopefully, Parker would see me and I could pass him a note to meet for coffee. I needed to know if he’d heard from Guerin.

But Parker was too busy to look up when he walked back into the courtroom, shuffling papers and speaking quietly to his colleague. All very important. Very Zen. I didn’t want to screw up his Zen, so I sat patiently, searching for my own Zen.

We stood as the judge came into the room, much like one would when a king entered, or the president, or a male stripper when the women in front of you are really tall.

Parker called his next witness, a woman who’d been held up at knifepoint by the defendant. This seemed a pretty open-and-shut case. The guy was guilty. I felt it on him the moment he walked in. The woman was nervous. She stuttered and mumbled and had to be asked to speak up more than once, and every time she had to repeat herself, the defendant smirked and shook his head.

The poor woman was scared. Terrified. And he was enjoying it. She was a mouse, and the defendant, a large, hairy man with sideburns straight out of the seventies, was a cobra. And his behavior caused her to stutter even more.

Normally, this was the point in ADA Nick Parker’s life where he turned a hilarious shade of red. He had the patience of a pit viper and zero empathy to boot. But not this time. He was frustrated. I could feel it. But no red or purple or even a soft shade of pink. What the hell? Where was the entertainment value in that?

“Let the record reflect that the witness has pointed to”—Parker had turned toward the peanut gallery and met my gaze at last—“has pointed to the defendant, James Wi…”

Parker’s voice trailed off, and he just sort of stood there, staring at me.

“Mr. Parker?” the judge said, trying to get his attention.

I smiled and wiggled my fingers as inconspicuously as I could. Then I flashed him a piece of paper. I’d planned on gesturing toward his associate, letting him know I was going to give my message to her, but Parker did something I never expected. Something pretty much no one expected, so I wasn’t the only one having to scrape my jaw up off the floor thirty seconds later.

He stilled.

I stilled.

He blinked.

I blinked.

He took in a sharp breath.

I blinked.

He dropped to his knees in the middle of the room, clasped his hands over his head, and bent forward, laying his forehead on the carpet and rocking.

Was he…? No. He couldn’t be. I mean, why would he worship me? Was worship the right word? Maybe he was seizing.

I blinked.

The judge blinked.

The bailiff blinked.

We all sat speechless for several long minutes.

“Mr. Parker,” the judge said at last. “What are you doing?”

Parker’s shoulders started to shake, and I realized at that moment that there was a chance, an ever-so-slight chance, that showing him the supernatural world around us may have affected him a tad greater than I’d imagined.

* * *

The judge called the bailiff over and pounded the gavel, calling for a recess.

I rushed past the bar to Parker’s side. “Dude,” I whispered, patting his head, “you can’t worship me. I’m not that kind of god.”

But he was gone. Praying and chanting and kind of whimpering. The bailiff helped him up, and I followed them into the judge’s chambers despite the bailiff’s stern, questioning brows. He had great brows.

“He just needs water,” I said. “He does this all the time. It’s a nervous condition.”

Parker wouldn’t look at me. On the bright side, his face was finally that hilarious shade of red I knew and loved. He kept his hands clasped and his head bowed.

“Do we need to call an ambulance?” the judge asked.

The court reporter had followed us in as well. “I’ll do it.”

The judge nodded. The bailiff went for water. And I kicked ADA Parker in the shin.

His head snapped up, and he looked at me at last.

“Cut it out,” I said from between gritted teeth. “What the hell?”

“You. It’s you.”

I leaned closer as the bailiff brought him a tiny white cup of water. “Yes. It’s me. Now cut this shit out.”

“But you … you’re—”

“I don’t get it. You’ve known me for years. You’ve never worshiped me before.”

“You’re … a god.”

I pushed the cup to his mouth and chuckled at the bailiff, dismissing Parker’s statement with a wave of my hand. “I think it’s his blood sugar. I solve one case for him, and suddenly I’m a god.” I added air quotes for effect.

The bailiff shot me another warning. With his brows. They were very expressive.

Parker slowly slid off the chair onto one knee, his head bowed again.

I lifted him back up. “Stop it,” I said, my voice more of a hiss than an actual whisper. “I mean it. Stop worshiping me. Jehovah is already pissed.”

“Okay,” the court reporter said. “An ambulance is on the way.”

I was beginning to think he really needed one. He was sweating and panting, and his red face was turning more of a fuchsia. I figured he was somewhere between a panic attack and a heart attack. Either way, the guy had to calm down.

I took his jaw into both of my hands and lifted his face to mine.

“Nick,” I said softly, soothingly, “be still.”

He calmed instantly. A cool warmth left my fingers and soaked into him, like a supernatural version of Icy Hot.

Whatever it was, it worked. His breaths slowed, and his face paled to leave red splotches along his cheeks.

“I think he’s okay,” I said to the others.

He just stared at me, unable to speak. When the ambulance arrived, they gave him oxygen and started an IV before wheeling him out. I followed until they loaded him in the van.

“I’m sorry, Nick,” I said as he watched me. “I just wanted info on your CI. We never found him.”

He took off the oxygen mask. “My wife is pregnant.”

That was fast.

I showed my palms. “I swear it’s not mine.”

“What do I call you?” He was serious.

“Charley. Charles. Chuck. Goddess Divine.”

He didn’t crack. I was losing my touch.

“I’m kidding about that last one. Parker, I’m just Charley.”

“You were never just Charley.”

Damn. What the hell did I show him?

“I—I had no idea.” He was shaking, and the ambulance guys really wanted to head out.

“Grant Guerin?”

“I don’t know.” He wasn’t lying. “But I can try to find him.”

I squeezed his hand before turning to jump out. “Thank you.”

“Nobody knows, do they?”

I turned back. “Knows?”

“What’s coming. Nobody knows.”

I scooted closer again as the EMT took Parker’s blood pressure. “What are you talking about? What’s coming?”

He’d been a million miles away. He blinked and focused on me again. “You.”

“Miss, we need to go.”

“Me? Parker, what do you mean?”

“Miss.” The guy was getting more impatient.

So was I. Left with little choice—aside from knocking the guy out with a defibrillator, which was probably bolted down—I slowed time. First, to buy more of it. And second, to shut the guy up.

His movements came to a complete stop in suspended animation. A roll of tape he’d dropped hung in midair, his hand just below it ready for the catch.

Parker didn’t notice. Nor did he notice the shadow pass by. I looked over my shoulder. An angel stood at the doors to the ambulance. It was the one that had been crouching on Misery. His massive wings blocked the sun as he looked in the van.

I ignored him. At least, I pretended to. As I spoke to Parker, I reached toward the ground, my palm facing the floor of the van.

“What do you mean?” I asked, just as I felt Artemis, my guardian Rottweiler, rise into my palm.

She paced around to my back, her teeth bared, her growls low as she watched the angel. Her sharp eyes would miss nothing, and I would have some sort of warning should the celestial being try anything. Though what he would try, I had no idea.

Parker’s eyes filled with moisture as he thought back. “You should warn them not to make you angry,” he said, his voice full of sadness. “They should never make you angry.”

“Who? Those guys?” I gestured toward the EMT.

“No. Everyone. All of them. Any of them.” He gave me a chastising frown. “You were a hungry, hungry hippo.”

Ugh. This was like talking to Rocket, a savant friend of mine who’d died in the fifties. He’d had electroshock therapy before he died. Had I done the same thing to Parker? Had I scrambled his brain?

“Parker, what did you see?”

“You.” He lifted a hand to my face. Parker wasn’t the tender, loving type, so it startled me. Time slipped, but only a little before I caught it again. “I saw you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You ate too much, and now your power is too great even for you, god eater.”