Lupi 09 - Mortal Ties

Scott White, who was a lot more
     interested in guns and knives than computers—Lily left the road for the soft grass,
     moving between the resting places of the dead.
    Her target lay in the newest part of the cemetery. Mount Hope was old for this side
     of the country, an accumulation of graveyards the city had assumed responsibility
     for overthe years, with lots of established trees and old-fashioned headstones. Here, though,
     it was what they called garden-style, with neatly trimmed grass and markers set flat
     into the ground, each with a little holder for flowers.
    The grass was damp and springy and perfumed the air. In other parts of the country,
     people associated the smell of freshly cut grass with summer. It evoked winter for
     Lily. That’s when the rains came, when grass grew lush and green and was in need of
     cutting. This year December had been unusually wet, bestowing nearly five inches of
     rain on them. Lily walked on soft grass between the graves of people she’d never known,
     heading for the one she had.
    She hadn’t brought flowers. It would be tacky to bring flowers to the grave of a woman
     you’d killed. Especially when you didn’t regret it.
    Lily counted rows, turned, and counted graves. She didn’t see Mike nearby, but she
     hadn’t expected to. Lupi were good at tucking themselves away where you couldn’t spot
     them.
    And there it was. Lily stopped.
    She hadn’t brought flowers, but someone had.
    Not an expensive bouquet. More like the kind you pick up at the grocery store, with
     a few dyed carnations supplemented by baby’s breath. Pink and red carnations, in this
     case. There was an inch of water in the glass cylinder holding the bouquet.
    Was this the right grave? Maybe she’d lost count. She knelt by the headstone laid
     flat into the ground, frowned at its unexpected decoration, then used her penlight
     to read the inscription on the plaque.
    H ELEN A NNABELLE W HITEHEAD
    When Lily killed Helen a year ago last month, she hadn’t known the woman’s last name.
     She hadn’t known much about her at all, save for a few vital facts. Helen had lived
     up to the common wisdom about telepaths—she’d been batwing crazy. She’d tortured and
     she’d killed; she’d triedto open a hellgate; she’d intended to feed Lily’s lover to the Old One she served.
     She’d also been doing her damnedest to kill Lily just before Lily put a stop to that
     and the rest of the woman’s plans.
    So…no regrets, no. Lily had done what she had to do. And Helen hadn’t had a spouse,
     lover, or any living family, so Lily didn’t even carry the burden of having brought
     grief to those who might have loved the woman.
    Yet here she was. She wasn’t sure why. In some murky, underneath way it was connected
     to what she’d done yesterday, when she and Rule had stood in line for a ridiculous
     amount of time at the County Clerk’s office. They’d left with a marriage license good
     for the next ninety days.
    The wedding was in March—two months, one week, and two days away.
    Yesterday had been the immediate catalyst for this visit, but the decision to come
     here had grown up organically in Lily’s mind over the last several months. She’d found
     out where Helen was back in June, but hadn’t come. Last month she’d swung by Mount
     Hope’s office and gotten directions and the map, but hadn’t gone to Helen’s grave.
     She hadn’t been ready.
    Ready for what? She wasn’t sure. She was here, and she still wasn’t sure why.
    Mount Hope had been San Diego’s municipal cemetery for about a hundred and fifty years.
     Raymond Chandler was buried here. So was Alta Hulett, America’s first female attorney,
     and the guy who established Balboa Park, and a lot of veterans. So was Ah Quin, who
     was remembered as one the city’s founding fathers…at least by its Chinese residents.
     And so were those who’d been buried at the county’s expense, though budget cuts meant
     the county was likely to cremate, not plant, these days.
    Helen had died a virgin, a killer, and intestate, but taxpayers hadn’t had to pick
     up the tab for disposing of her mortal remains. The trustee appointed by a judge had
     seen to that, paying for it out of her estate.
    Turned out Helen had socked away well over a quartermillion. Telepaths had an inside track on conning people, didn’t they? If they could
     shut out the voices in their heads enough to function, that is—which Helen had been
     able to