Free The Voodoo Killings by Kristi Charish Page B

Mork. You scratch Lee’s floors, she’s going to be pissed.”
    A heavy cloud of carbon dioxide flowed over the edges. When the cloud dispersed, it revealed a dozen or so vacuum-sealed bags nestled amongst dry ice. I counted the bags.
    Twelve.
    I counted once more to be sure, then glanced back up at Mork. “You’re three vacuum bags shy.”
    He shrugged. “Price went up. Had to add a few security measures.” His eyes narrowed and he glanced in the direction of the bar. “Every time someone raises a new zombie…”
    I hate being accused of shit I didn’t do. I’d grown up in a household that was more concerned about apologizing nicely than figuring out who was actually at fault, which made it a real sore spot for me. I did not need accusations from Mork. I picked up the cooler and tossed him the envelope. “Not my zombie, Mork. I’m on cleanup duty.”
    “Not like I care one way or the other,” he said, and counted the money in front of me—twice—before stuffing it inside his leather duster. “Nice doing business with you, Kincaid. I’d say it was a pleasure, but…” He put his rubber work gloves back on and tipped his hat, then headed back into the walk-in.
    As soon as the door clicked shut, I felt a pull like someone stretching an elastic. There was a snap and Nate formed in front of me.
    “I hate that guy,” he said.
    I didn’t exactly hate Mork, but I sure as hell wanted out of that hallway.
    “You’re a ghost, Nate. Mork isn’t even a beginner practitioner. He can’t do anything to you—”
    “Dude, he’s terrifying.”
    I shook my head and pushed open the door into the bar. A few more zombies and practitioners had filtered in; other places in town must have filled up. My eyes went straight to where I’d left Cameron. A trio of zombies trying to order drinks blocked my view, though that had to be his blue hoodie just past them.
    “I’m not a dude….”
    I trailed off as two of the zombies moved. The one in the hoodie wasn’t Cameron. Where the hell was he? I scanned the rest of the bar. There was no sign of Lee either.
    “Son of a bitch, she promised she’d watch him.” Well, she hadn’t promised to watch him, but she hadn’t actively disagreed. This wasexactly where trying to do the right thing got you. “Nate, come on, he couldn’t have gotten too far.”
    A light ghost tap on my shoulder stopped me from sprinting out the front door.
    “Over there,” Nate said.
    At the end of the bar, enclosed by a set of photo-booth curtains, was the pinball machine. Zombies love pinball machines: the lights, the chimes, the rapidly careening metal balls. Since Lee had brought them in, they had proven a huge draw, but therein lay the problem: when sitting out in the open, they were irresistible to the zombies, like sticking a bottle of whisky in front of a recovering alcoholic. Too many of them spiralled into an all-consuming pinball bender, doing anything to keep the quarters coming. I’d seen zombies blow years’ worth of savings. For that reason, Lee kept the pinball machines along with their bright lights hidden from sight.
    I followed the line of curtains to the floor. A pair of sneakers, like the ones Cameron wore, stuck out underneath.
    I strode over and swung the curtain back.
    The pinball was careening around the top corner, setting off a cacophony of alarms and lights, and it took a moment for Cameron to register me.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    He raised an eyebrow and his glass of brains before turning back to the game.
    “Cameron, where did you get the quarters?”
    “Lee Ling,” he said, not bothering to glance up this time. “She said I could waste my time just as well playing pinball as staring at her.”
    Another free-game ball had dropped into his queue. “All righty, then.” I dropped the curtain, leaving Cameron in peace, and headed for the bar.
    Nate circled me. “Umm, not that I want to tell you what to do…”
    “Then don’t.”
    “Should you be leaving him