We might have had a court order to raise Powell, but Little Allie made it clear there was a matter of moral importance that needed to be addressed, before we began.
Denise Powell, Greg’s widow, stood behind the glass walls of the conference room in the City Administration building, watching Rico and me approach.
Someone needed to explain what was about to happen to her husband and why. That someone was me. Rico had known Denise for years, so I asked him to come with me. I hoped he could comfort her. And maybe me, too.
It was late in the day. Denise’s husband had been dead for almost ten hours. And while that wasn’t long enough for her to fully grasp the impact of his death, she’d already witnessed the shameless intrusion of the pandering press—which included Jade Chen, uber-bitch.
When we walked through the conference room door, Rico immediately moved to Denise and wrapped his arms around her. He was sturdy as an oak, eyes flat, lips taut, as she sobbed against his chest. She struggled to compose herself, then sat in a chair and turned to me with sad, inquiring eyes.
I spoke softly and chose my words with great care. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mrs. Powell. Please accept my condolences. Your husband was a wonderful officer, and although I didn’t know him well, he struck me as a caring, selfless man, who devoted himself to his family as well as his job. He will be missed by all who knew him.”
Denise’s unblinking eyes never wavered.
“Greg was working with us on a special project for the FBI. He died before he could give us information about his attackers. We need to raise Greg, to find out who killed him and Officer Ortega.”
She sucked in a breath and waited for me to continue.
“I want to personally assure you that I will handle this raising with the utmost respect and decorum.”
Denise let out a muffled moan. “No! No, you won’t. Leave him in peace. He’s given his life. Isn’t that enough? What are you? Some kind of freak? Some kind of monster?”
Although I’d wondered that myself on occasion, I doubted she cared to hear that. I tried to find an answer she could accept, but the words wouldn’t come.
Rico sat in the chair beside her and took her hands. “I know this is the most difficult decision you’ve ever had to make in your life, Denise. But ask yourself what Greg would do.”
“I don’t care! He’s my husband,” she cried. “You’re not going to desecrate his body. You’re not going to destroy his sweet…face.”
With that she collapsed against Rico’s chest, and clung to him like a lost child, crying with a sorrow so deep it pained me to watch.
“I want to see his face,” she whimpered. “I want his family to see his face at the funeral, to say goodbye. You can’t take that away from me, too! You can’t.”
“Denise, you can still have an open casket, if that’s what you want. I will use all of my skills to make sure that can happen.”
This was getting more complicated. The only way to give her his unblemished face was to take him at the back of his neck. That was a lot to promise.
She turned to me, her head still resting on Rico’s chest, and murmured, “We’re Catholic. What you do, this thing you do, where does the power come from?”
I knelt beside her and looked straight into her eyes. “It comes from God, Denise. It’s this amazing, inexplicable power from God that helps me right wrongs. Something Greg did every day. Please, Denise. Please. Other lives depend on information only Greg can give us.”
I was starting to doubt my decision to talk her through this. The last thing I wanted to do was pull rank on her, by whipping out the court order. Not because Jade and the press would shred me, although they would. But because I didn’t want to cause this woman another minute of grief.
Rico gently pulled Denise back and looked in her eyes. “Honor his memory, Denise. It’s what Greg would choose if he were here.”
Denise pulled herself upright and smoothed her hair. Her voice shook, but rang clear. “You promise me that if you raise him, we can all see Greg’s face at his funeral.”
Promise was such a strong word, given the unpredictable nature of raising, but I stuck out my neck and said, “Yes.”
Rico wrapped his arms around Denise’s shoulders and escorted her out of the office.
I stood at the door and watched him pull one of his cards from his wallet, and write what must have been his personal number on the back. He showed it to her, slipped it into her coat pocket, and kissed her cheek.
She climbed into the passenger seat of a cruiser and let the officer take her to her empty home, where she could dream of kissing Greg, just one more time.
God help me, if I couldn’t deliver on my promise.
Rico and I walked into the city morgue wondering what kind of reception we’d get from Doc Blanchard.
Sure, earlier at the safe house we’d been working in tandem, singing Kumbaya, doing our level best to smuggle the trace evidence we’d collected past Director Dickhead. We were on the same team, the team that got kicked to the curb by the FBI. It was all for one and one for all, right?
But my recent efforts at the morgue had resulted in…significant…damage. The insurance adjuster declared it catastrophic, but what did she know? She’d never witnessed the havoc that I…that raising a corpse could wreak.
Doc hurried out of his office to meet us in the foyer. It was time to find out how tight we’d bonded in our battle against the Evil Director.
“Nighthawk, if it weren’t for us losing two good men today, I wouldn’t let you within fifty feet of this office.”
Well, that was short-lived. I’m not a bonder anyway.
“I’ll try to keep the scene contained,” I said. “You know the drill. Is Powell restrained now?”
Doc sighed. “Yes, much as I find that distasteful. Powell was a good, good man. Let’s make this as fast and painless as possible.”
Jesus. Did he really think he had to tell me that? Did he not realize that this was ten times harder for me than it was for him? Taking a soul at rest, the soul of a “good, good man” and bringing it back to a pitiful state of fear and confusion? Sometimes, it seemed like my gift was more of a merciless monster.
All the other bodies had been put away in the morgue drawers, with the exception of one aging corpse that was stored in the freezer.
Rather than risk contaminating the inside of the freezer, I decided to take my chances raising Powell on the open morgue room floor. If a clean-up was necessary, at least the bodies would still be properly stored to ensure their integrity.
Such a sterile environment, the morgue, with its stainless-steel sinks and sparkling white tile.
Powell rested on a gurney parked about twenty feet from the vestibule door. Blinds covered the window for privacy. I picked up a scalpel from an instrument tray, then glanced at Rico, standing beside me, and nodded that it was time to begin.
Cap walked through the door and took his place next to us, in a gesture of solidarity.
I bowed my head and prayed.
Rico turned away. I didn’t blame him, really. He had been longtime friends with Powell and knew him far better than I did. In that split second, I got a taste of what raising a loved one is like for civilians who happened to be in attendance.
Can’t say I liked that feeling any better than I liked my own kettle of fish.
Greg Powell was one of the few officer’s corpses I’d ever been asked to raise. And he’d been dead less than twelve hours. It gave me hope that the humanity that made him both a good, decent man and a stellar officer, still glimmered inside him.
Eyes closed, I centered myself, and made the sign of the cross.
Then I took off Powell’s restraints and channeled the strange, awesome power God had given me.
Energy coursed like blood through my veins.
I placed my hands on Powell’s chest, and began. “In the name of God, I command you to rise.”
Powell’s body twitched.
“Rise, Greg Powell, Rise!”
He moaned low and long, then bolted upright on the steel table, dazed, confused, an empty husk of the Powell he had been, only hours earlier.
His tongue was thick. “Cold. Cold.”
Rico grabbed a linen from the supply shelf and wrapped it around Powell’s shoulders.
“It’s Nighthawk, Powell. Can you see me?”
Powell, shivering, cocked his head toward me.
“Who did this to you? Who killed you and Ortega?”
“Sleep,” he mumbled trying to lay back, but I stopped him.
“Powell, answer me. Who did this? What did they look like? Anything. Tell me anything you can remember.”
Powell’s body tensed. He flailed his arms and tried to climb off the table.
“No! No! Stop.” He thrashed like a fish tail and screamed. “Don’t shoot!”
Oh, God. He was reliving his death.
“Stay with me, Powell. It’s Nighthawk. That’s all over now. Who were they, the men who attacked you?”
His eyes swept from side to side. “Don’t know.”
“Help me, Powell,” I begged. “What did they look like?”
“Didn’t see,” he whimpered.
My heart sank. After all this, he really didn’t know a single thing that could help us.
“Nighthawk?” he said, his fingers brushing against mine.
I looked in his eyes, and for a moment, the Powell I knew stared back at me.
Tears trickled down his face. “Am I dead?”
Oh, sweet God. If you want me to do this, you’re going to have to help me.
I sat behind him on the gurney and cradled him against me. My voice quivered as I offered what little peace I could.
“It’s okay, Powell. Can you feel me holding you? I’m not letting go.” I leaned my head against his and whispered, “Denise loves you. She’ll be seeing you again, someday. It’s end of watch, buddy. Time to go home.”
When I felt him relax against me, I pulled out the scalpel and drove it deep into his brain stem.
He went down easy. Denise would get her wish.
Rico stepped away and vomited in the sink, then sat down beside it, staring at the floor.
I took Powell’s precinct pin off his shirt, then brushed his eyes closed and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Cap asked.
“Give me a moment,” I muttered.
“Nighthawk, we need to get these bastards. For Powell and Ortega.”
I stopped and turned, flipping Cap Powell’s precinct pin. Denise would need it for his dress blues. “Consider it done.”