and stumbled to the bathroom. It took seven minutes, not five, before we were downstairs and I was still not awake. Because I was so sleepy, I rode with Occam, trying to wake up but not able to get my brain in gear. He pulled through a fast-food drive-through and I frowned at the arches, not sure what was happening until he placed a McDonald’s muffin sandwich and a cup of mocha in my hands. As I stared at the food, a peculiar warmth spread slowly through me and turned into a blush when he took the sandwich back and unwrapped it for me. It wasn’t a cat mating ritual. It wasn’t a churchman act of courting. It was simple kindness, a kindness so foreign to me that tears gathered in my eyes. “Thank you,” I whispered.
“Eat. Drink the coffee,” he said as he pulled back onto the street. I ate. I drank the large coffee. By the time we turned off the Nashville highway, I was moderately awake.
“Who’s dead?” I asked as Occam pulled onto a gravel road.
“Cale Nowell’s car was found. FireWind said he’s dead but decomping slowly. Not fast like Stella Mae and the others.”
“He’s male. It seems to be the females who are melting.” I frowned. “Except for the stallion.”
“Gender-specific death working. I read your report. It’s an interesting theory.”
“Except the stallion,” I repeated. “He was decomposing like the females. His feed and water trough were affected by death and decay, dropped from the loft. The horse was deliberately killed. Stella and her most expensive horse? Dead by the same means?”
“We got no motive, and a suspect pool that’s going nowhere fast.” A moment later he said, “Up ahead.”
Blue lights were flashing. Lots of blue lights. I counted five sheriff’s deputies’ cars from two counties, two city cop cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance. “Why an ambulance? He’s dead, right?” I asked.
“That’s what I heard.”
We weaponed up and grabbed a bin of blue spelled unis from behind the seats. No one approached us, but that was because FireWind and T. Laine pulled in front of Occam’s car and went straight to the gathering of law enforcement. We went the other way and approached the side of the road.
A deputy was guarding the vehicle, twenty feet away, standing hipshot on the uneven ground, lit by the blue flashes. He touched his hat brim as we approached, recognizing us. “It ain’t pretty,” he said.
“Seldom is,” Occam agreed.
The car in question was off the road, down a slight embankment, resting against trees, the front driver’s-side panel and door dented in. I flicked on my flash and shined it in through the dirty window. Cale Nowell’s face was resting against the glass, one hand trapped in the steering wheel. His lips and fingertips were green, and he was covered in a fine, glistening green froth. “He’s decomposing,” I said. My theory about it hitting women harder might be disproven.
“One vic,” Occam said, walking around the car, inspecting it with his flash. “No sign of other vehicle damage. Tires look okay. Deputy,” he called. “Any skid marks or debris?”
“No. Nothing. We’re treating it as a single-vehicle accident, but it’ll be worked up as a murder-by-paranormal-means investigation as soon as all your people get here. All paras should be gathered up and shot.”
“Ummm,” Occam said. He returned to me, where I stood on the street by his car, and said softly. “Charmin’ fella.”
“I reckon being shot is marginally better than being burned at the stake?”
Occam chuckled, the tone harsh, and began removing P3Es from their small bin.
“When will the para hazmat team be here?” I asked, my eyes on Cale Nowell.
“PsyCSI and the military PHMT will arrive here by seven a.m. Soon,” Occam said, placing our protective gear in the seat of his car. “The local LEOs brought in a drug- and bomb-sniffing dog and got no hits. We need to get our workup started.”
I had no answer to that. I accepted the sky blue P3E and dressed out.
Clad in one-piece P3E null unis and thick gloves, masks, and goggles, we took Geiger counter readings; performed quick tests on the air and the ground beneath the car for on-scene chemical residue; took soil and air samples; photographed the street, the ground, the trees, and the victim inside the car; sketched the scene; and started to take fingerprints from the vehicle body and door handles to send to IAFIS, the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System, but there was a problem. Green goo