Spirits of Ash and Foam by Greg Weisman Page A

door.
    Jean-Marc shrugged. “I don’t need more reasons not to, Josef. Like wondering what caused the death of our Tourist.”
    Strauss tapped at his keyboard and maneuvered his mouse, bringing up his preliminary report on this year’s Jean Doe #2, a.k.a. the Pale Tourist, a.k.a. (to Callahan) Cash. He printed out the document, though he glanced at neither screen nor hard copy, as he spoke: “I don’t have much for you yet. They’re backed up in Miami, and we won’t get final labs until Monday. Next Monday.”
    â€œYou must be able to tell me something.”
    â€œWhat I told you this morning. No visible wounds, despite massive blood loss, except on his neck. I did test a few samples here.” He flipped his thumb toward the double doors to the morgue and the small lab beyond it, which both men knew to be inadequate. “His system was pumped full of anticoagulants, which would explain how and why his blood drained so quickly.”
    â€œBut not where it went.”
    â€œNo. Not where it went.”
    â€œPlease don’t tell me we’re back to vampires.”
    â€œI think clearly we are. Though not in the way you mean.” Strauss raised an eyebrow, hoping for a response. Since Thibideaux refused to cooperate, Strauss simply continued. “That much anticoagulant in the bloodstream is not a natural phenomenon. It probably explains the rash all over his body. An allergic reaction.”
    â€œSo you think someone…”
    â€œSomeone incapacitated this man, shot him up with anticoagulants and drained his blood.”
    â€œThe marks on his neck?”
    â€œThe microscope confirmed they’re not the result of a single clean ‘bite.’ Too messy. But they could be multiple hypodermic needle punctures. Either to inject the anticoagulant or draw the blood…”
    â€œOr both.”
    â€œOr both.”
    â€œAnd why do that in the same place over and over again, unless you want people thinking Count Dracula?”
    Strauss nodded.
    â€œWonderful.” Thibideaux sighed, thinking it was anything but. That was all he needed. Someone trying to create a vampire scare on the Ghosts.
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    Four A.M.
    Isaac Naborías also had vampires on the brain. Vampires and vampire bats. Of course, Isaac had lived on the Ghosts for all of his sixty-two years, and he knew there were no vampire bats on the Keys. He also knew there was no such thing as vampires. Yet there was as much trepidation as determination involved when he forced himself to finally enter the cave before twilight. His flashlight soon found the guava husk, lying in the dirt. It appeared to be sucked dry and had definitely not been there this afternoon. Naborías knew bats ate guava. He also knew the old stories of his people. The dead favor guava too. He shuddered and backed out of the cave. I’m too old to be this superstitious , he thought. But he couldn’t help it. In the legends, bats are tricksters. And the dead are tricksters, too. Without trying, his mind summoned up the voices of his childhood, his uncles and aunties, telling him the Myth of First Bat.
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    Five A.M.
    In her bed, Rain Cacique—who had never heard such stories from uncles, aunties or anyone—dreamed the Myth of First Bat in excruciating detail …
    In the First Days, the First Bat was the most hideous creature in the world. All the other birds, brilliant and beautiful in their feathers, made sport of him.
    This so crushed Bat’s spirits that he asked First God for feathers to hide his shameful appearance. God saw how the birds had been unkind and ordered each to give Bat one feather.
    Every bird complied, some graciously, some not. First Parrot gave a green feather. First Dove gave white. First Flamingo, pink; First Cardinal, red; First Kingfisher, blue. And so on …
    Bat was made gorgeous by this new coat of feathers. He took to the sky, and First Rainbow was created