Free 4 Blood Pact by Tanya Huff Page A

reply.
    “The service is due to start momentarily,” he said as he released the latch and began to raise the upper half of the lid, “so I’m afraid you’ll have to . . . have to . . .”
    Her fingers dug deep into satin cushioning as Vicki’s hands closed over the padded edge of the coffin. In the center of the quilted pillow lay the upper end of a large sandbag. A quick glance toward the foot of the casket determined that a second sandbag made up the rest of the necessary weight.
    She straightened and in a voice that ripped civilization off the words asked, “What have you done with my mother?”

Four
    “This would probably go a lot easier if you’d get Ms. Nelson to go home.” Detective Fergusson of the Kingston Police lowered his voice a little further. “It’s not like we don’t appreciate your input, Sergeant, but Ms. Nelson, she hasn’t been a cop for a couple of years. She really shouldn’t be here. Besides, you know, she’s a woman. They get emotional at times like these.”
    “Get a lot of body snatching, do you?” Celluci asked dryly.
    “No!” The detective’s indignant gaze jerked up to meet Celluci’s. “Never had one before. Ever.”
    “Ah. Then which times like these were you referring to?”
    “Well, you know. Her mother dying. The body being lifted. This whole funeral home thing. I hate ’em. Too damn quiet. Anyway, this’ll probably turn out to be some stupid prank by some of those university medical school geeks. I could tell you stories about that lot. The last thing we need scrambling things up is a hysterical woman—and she certainly has a right to be hysterical under the circumstances, don’t get me wrong.”
    “Does Ms. Nelson look hysterical to you, Detective?”
    Fergusson swept a heavy hand back over his thinning hair and glanced across the room where his partner had just finished taking statements. A few months before, he’d been given the opportunity to handle one of the new high-tech assault rifles recently issued to the special weapons and tactics boys. Ex-Detective Nelson reminded him a whole lot of that rifle. “Well, no. Not precisely hysterical.”
    While he wasn’t exactly warming to the man, Celluci wasn’t entirely unsympathetic. “Look at it this way. She was one of the best police officers I ever served with—probably ever will serve with. If she stays, think of her as an added resource you can tap into and recognize that because of her background she will in no way disrupt your handling of the case. If she goes,” he clapped the older man lightly on the shoulder, “you’re telling her. Because I’m not.”
    “Like that, eh?”
    “Like that. It’d be convenient that you’re already in a funeral home. Trust me. Things will probably go a lot easier if she stays.”
    Fergusson sighed, then shrugged. “I guess she’ll feel better if she thinks she’s doing something. But if she goes off, you get her out of here.”
    “Believe me, she is my first concern.” Watching Vicki cross the chapel toward him, Celluci was struck by how completely under control she appeared. Every muscle moved with a rigid precision, and the intensity of suppressed emotion that moved with her made her frighteningly remote. He recognized the expression; she’d worn it in the past when a case touched her deeply, when the body became more than just another statistic, when it became personal. Superiors and psychologists warned cops about that kind of involvement, afraid it would lead to burnout or vigilantism, but everyone fell victim to it sooner or later. It was the feeling that kept an investigation going long after logic said give it up, the feeling that fueled the long and seemingly pointless hours of drudge work that actually led to charges being laid. When “Victory” Nelson wore that expression, people got out of her way.
    At this point, under these circumstances, it was the last expression Celluci wanted to see. Grief, anger, even hysterics—“. . . and she