Stones Unturned by Christopher Golden

straightened his tie as he studied Gillard's corpse more closely.
    A ghostly line traced through the room, a thick tether of ectoplasm that began at the center of the dead man's chest. It was not his entire soul, but only a fragment, a spiritual connection that linked every murder victim with his or her killer.
    Clay had been forged by God. He was the Clay of God. There was much about his eternal life he could not recall, and his earliest memories were cloudy at best. But in addition to the malleable nature of his flesh, the Lord had given him this gift as well, this curse. In the aftermath of a murder, if he arrived in time, with the touch of his hand he could see the soul tether that connected killer and victim . . .
    And he could trace it back.
    The susurrus of low voices in the funeral home surrounded him. There were tears and quiet sobbing and a great many faces that were simply numb. But as he turned, his gaze following the soul tether of Corey Gillard, he felt as though he was somehow beyond the perception of those in the room, as though they had been frozen in the depths of their grief and he could wander through, unseen and untouched.
    The tether snaked through the room toward the corner furthest from the door and around a massive arrangement of flowers complete with a card that read, "In Memory of Corey, From Your Family at the Arielle Gallery." Clay took up a position just beside the flowers. People were milling about, some already leaving, others just arriving, but from here he could clearly follow the trail of soulstuff that Gillard's murder had left behind.
    At the back wall, near a window, stood a small cluster of men and women who were the best dressed of the mourners. The eldest was perhaps fifty, a woman of obvious sophistication, who seemed out of place mainly for the utter lack of emotion on her face. She spoke quietly to a man beside her with a goatee and a polished, elegant look who was at least ten years her junior. They did not seem like lovers. In fact, Clay judged the relationship to be employer and employee, an observation that quickly spread to include the rest of their small group. There were four other people around them, two men and two women, all in their late twenties to early thirties, of varied races but each with the same sophistication.
    All but one.
    Even when not speaking to her, the way they stood around her made it clear that the group all deferred to the older woman. From their appearance, and in comparison to the others in the room, he presumed they were neither family nor old friends of the dead man.
    Coworkers, then, from the art gallery.
    But one of the men with them seemed out of place, a broad-shouldered, square-jawed tough in an ill-fitting suit, who held the hand of a petite, attractive Asian woman. There was a protective quality to the way he held onto her . . . or so Clay thought at first glance. When he studied them again, he corrected himself. Possessive, not protective. They both wore wedding bands and Clay guessed they were husband and wife.
    The Asian woman shook her head and wiped at her eyes. She smiled sadly as she looked at one of her coworkers and gave a self-deprecating shrug, perhaps mocking herself for being unable to stop crying. Her husband's jaw tightened and he cast her a sidelong glance, bitterness unmasked. She seemed to feel his disapproval, and her expression went blank. The woman took a breath and wiped a fresh tear from her left eye.
    Clay wondered if she knew that her husband had murdered Corey Gillard.
    The tether led right to him, not to the center of his chest, but to his right hand, which must have held the knife that he had stabbed Corey over and over with, twisting it in his gut.
    The man leaned over and whispered something to his wife. Regret creased her brow, and she turned to the others, exchanging hugs as she prepared to depart. Reluctantly, she allowed her husband to lead her from the room.
    Clay followed the tether, which floated in the