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plan.”
    “Why wouldn’t he just conquer Earth and be done with it?”
    “That’s not how anyone narcissistic enough to will themselves not to die thinks. People like that are driven to show everyone how powerful they are. How smart, how clever.” She snorted. “We’ve seen necromancers like him before. They fail because their armies of the dead literally have nothing to live for. Besides, there’s nothing like a zombie horde to convince the living to put their differences aside and fight as one.”
    I added sugar and milk to my chai and turned on the late news. “I hope you’re right, and he really is dead. Killing him again might be kind of tricky.”
    Rose snuggled up to me and took a sip of her chai. “Everything burns,” she said. “Bring enough fire, and he’ll burn too.”
     

 
Chapter Seven
    Ishmael
     
    Monday morning started at my lawyer’s office. I was in for a non-stop series of questions, interrupted by fresh pots of stale coffee, restated questions, and stale questions freshly asked by people who hadn’t been around the first time. My lawyer told me what to say and when to say it. Other than that, I kept my mouth shut and drank the coffee.
    After lunch, the FBI showed up and things got a bit more intense. The Sherriff’s department had tried to serve a search warrant on Grover, but he hadn’t answered. They got an entry order and forced the door to his house. They found him upstairs in his bed, where he’d been resting peacefully for at least six months. Someone had obviously been living in the house and pretending to be Grover, but there was no sign of that person now. I did my best to look surprised and horrified.
    Grover’s phone records showed the two calls between us last night. I didn’t deny speaking with him. I said I had wanted to know how many people were on the project in total—a figure I already knew—and that he had called back to give me his answer. It wasn’t a lie to say I was having qualms over the number of people who were going to be losing their jobs.
    It still got me a stern look from one of the FBI agents, a guy named John Roberts. He asked me to step into a conference room for a private chat. He closed the door behind me and asked, “Are you sure that’s the only reason you called Dr. Page’s phone number? A suspicious person might think it looked like someone tipping off an accomplice. What do you think, David?” He stopped and shook his head. “My apologies, Mr. Fraser. I got ahead of myself. Do you mind if I call you David?”
    I shrugged. “David is fine. As for what I think? I think I’d love to know what I have to say to get you to move on to a real suspect.” I sighed, rubbing my hand over my face. “This whole thing with Grover has me freaked out. We weren’t friends, but I never had any reason to think someone was impersonating him. I had no idea he was dead until earlier today. What else do you want me to say?”
    “You don’t seem too broken up about it. A man is dead, David.”
    “A lot of people are dead. Some of them butchered and eaten. Grover caused that behavior with his chemical cocktail. He covered those killings up. He made today necessary. Sorry, but I’m saving my sympathy for the victims.”
    Roberts tapped his fingers on the desk. “Let me tell you what I think, David. You were in a car accident a year and a half ago. The hospital recorded your religion as ‘Whovian’. As it happens, I know what that word means. I’m a fan myself. Knitted myself a fourteen-foot scarf to wear to conventions. Hell, I even bought my first car because it was the perfect shade of blue.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think you called Dr. Page to convince him to turn himself in. You wanted to give him a chance to do the right thing. If he didn’t make the right choice, everything that happened afterward would be on him. Now, I’m giving you a chance to tell me the truth.”
    “What makes you think I haven’t told the truth? I’ve