The Acolyte by Nick Cutter Page B

scene with blood spatters, a murder weapon, tissue samples, footprints, fingerprints—Lord, anything . That’s the problem with bombings—the blast erases everything. No trace to work from. Back when we used forensic science, I could’ve scraped a shred of meat from the boots and gotten a DNA fingerprint. But never mind that. Here’s one thing that still confuses me.”
    Newbarr pointed out a series of burnt discs climbing like ladder rungs up the tungsten plate. “The vertebrae of the bomber’s spinal column—they’re fused directly to the metal.”
    I said, “What’s so odd about that?”
    “If his chest was girded with explosives, it’s hard to see how it could occur. The combustion should’ve scoured every vestige of tissue and bone.”
    Newbarr grabbed folders from a file cabinet. “I need your John Hancocks on these evidence reports. Eve’s remains need to be interred in a state burial, plus Kincaid’s manager has been hassling me.”
    The doctor gave a disgusted snort. “Apparently he’s packaging the ashes in crucifix-shaped ampoules for fans to wear round their necks. A sick little piece of Kincaid-iana. He wants the remains pronto, before his client’s star goes on the wane.”
    Before leaving, I handed Newbarr a packet of Hallelujah Energy Boost.
    “No, thanks,” the coroner said. “I’ll stick to rotgut coffee.”
    “Could you give me a breakdown of the ingredients?”
    “Says here it’s packed with vitamin V,” he said, examining the ingredients archly. “What more proof do you need?”
    “If you’d rather not . . .”
    “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, son.”
    Doe and I rode the elevator up together. It was the first time we’d been alone since the night I’d said in a roundabout but sincere way that I was in love with her.
    She stood very still, watching the elevator buttons light up floor by floor. Shallow incisions radiated from her left eye; I could only speculate as to which of Hollis’s subtle tortures had inflicted those.
    I said, “You were in Little Baghdad this morning?”
    She nodded.
    “Everything okay? I thought the residents might have been angry, on account of all the casualties. I . . . I was worried about you.”
    She performed an ironic curtsy. “Don’t you go worrying your pretty head.”
    A trapdoor opened in my belly. I’d never told a woman I loved her, not once—was this how it worked? You told someone you loved them and they did an abrupt about-face, dismissed you and made cynical quips?
    The elevator doors eased open to admit Chief Exeter.
    “Acolyte Murtag. The very man I was looking for.”
    He guided me out into the hallway. Doe slipped past us and was gone.
    “The boys giving you a rough go of it?” Exeter set a hand on my shoulder. “No fun being on the outside looking in, is it?”
    I resisted the urge to crack him in the mouth and leave him spitting up his pricey enamel crowns.
    “I’m fine,” I told him, keeping it diplomatic. “Busy.”
    “Anything I should know about?”
    “It’s Acolyte business.”
    Exeter bristled. His veneer slipped. I glimpsed the razor-toothed leer that lurked beneath his empty smile. It struck me there was little difference between Hollis and Exeter: both were wolves. Exeter wore his sheep’s clothing more convincingly was all.
    “A man on a tightrope should ensure he’s got allies on both sides.” He gave my shoulder a sly tweak. “Otherwise he risks finding his rope cut one day.”
    I held his stare. “The Lord is my keeper. There but for the grace of He go I.”
    “Yes, well . . . you have been summoned.”
    “By whom?”
    “The Prophet.”
    I couldn’t keep the astonishment out of my voice. “Why me?”
    The angle of Exeter’s cocked head said I was an idiot for asking.
    “You were the last servant of the Republic to see Eve alive. I expect he wants to allay any lingering unease in his mind that his daughter’s final moments were overtly traumatic.”
    I wasn’t convinced. Men