The Lamia

2-7

The next morning Dema had breakfast with Sedna and told her what had happened, then she returned to the DEA office and reported to Captain O'Mally. He already had a report from the Heights precinct that they had busted Dog Meat and his drug dealing operation.

"They said they found him right where you said he'd be, sitting at a table with drug money scattered all around him. There was dope all over the tables, too, and a small stash hidden in one corner. He was holding a little knife and babbling on about a giant white snake that came out of the rafters and tried to kill him with it. He seemed to think it was still up there, watching him, but the boys searched all around with flashlights and didn't find any sign of a snake, not even a little one. There was a small cut on Jackson's neck, but they figured it was self-inflicted.

"I gotta hand it to you, Dema, you worked that one mighty fast. How'd you find out what he was up to?"

"I talked to some of the kids. I've got more, too. I know where he got the stuff, his up-town contact."

O'Mally shook his head. "It's all yours," he said, "Just keep me posted on what you come up with."

Dema knew the uptown contact was little more than a flunky for a bigger drug mob, but it was a lead. The name was Joey Bonnuchi. A computer search pulled up a file and a mug shot, and the face matched the image she had from Dog Meat's mind. He had been brought in on a number of minor drug-related offenses, and more than one detective had speculated that he was connected to an outfit reputedly run by one Rum-Belly Rankine, a Jamaican.

Dema decided it was time to do a little street work. She left the office and headed for the Lakeside district, where most of Bonnuchi's activity had been reported. When she hit the street, she opened up her shaman-awareness and began to get a feel for Bonnuchi's territory. She knew that Dog Meat Jackson had made his contact with Bonnuchi through some Lakeside cons he'd met in prison. She had a vague idea of who they were from Jackson's mind, but even if she hadn't she knew the type. She trusted her shaman awareness, along with her police training and street smarts, to identify any that were nearby.

When she sensed she was in the right area, she parked her Jeep and walked. Unlike that fateful afternoon in Philadelphia, her service revolver was holstered at the small of her back, hidden by her windbreaker. As usual, her looks drew second glances from everyone on the street who noticed her. Accustomed to this since childhood, she rarely gave it a thought, but today she could take advantage of it.

Men were either intimidated or challenged by her appearance. Those who were intimidated drew a faint smile from her as they looked away. Those who were challenged and continued to stare at her got a cold appraisal in return. More often than not, this turned the challenge into intimidation and they too looked away. The few who were confident enough would break into a big knowing smile as she passed them, which she returned. They understood the game, knew she was their equal, and moved on.

During these exchanges Dema's expanded awareness, what she thought of as her shaman-sense, was at work, and she gained a brief insight into the mind of each one, especially the ones who were most responsive. She probed for any familiarity with Bonnuchi or Rankine, or any connection with the street drug traffic.

This was her first such use of her shaman-senses since she had mastered them, but she realized now that they had always been vaguely active, and had been the source of her interrogation skills and other useful insights. But with her new mastery they were much keener. She was sensing connections, the continual interplay of the spiritual side of existence with the mundane world, very strongly.

She was not too surprised at the number of those who were engaged in the drug scene in some way. She was more surprised at the number who were not, and found it heartening. She sensed that her probing left them all with a vague sense of familiarity, akin to the feeling of not being able to remember the name of someone you know perfectly well, or of not being able to place someone you know you have met before.

But this was not getting her what she wanted, until she was about to pass a nondescript man in his mid thirties who was so intent on getting somewhere that he almost didn't look at her. But he did, and when they made eye contact the image she conveyed of Bonnuchi resonated in his mind.

She stopped him with a gesture and said, "You know Bonnuchi, right? Any idea where I can find him?"

His mind switched gears from whatever he'd been so intent on and tried to place her in connection with Bonnuchi. "Bonnuchi?" he said, "I usually meet him over at the zoo. Do I know you?"

"Oh, right, thanks!" Dema replied, giving him a glowing smile. She had what she needed, an image from his mind of Bonnuchi standing near the tiger pit. She turned and walked on, leaving him in the middle of a déjà vu comprised of having heard her question in his mind before she asked it, and the implication that this strikingly beautiful woman who he would have taken for a complete stranger seemed to know him well enough from somewhere to connect him with Bonnuchi.