“Cheerio, mate. Ow!” I bit back a yelp as Naomi delivered a kick to my leg, apparently not appreciating my dramatic attempt at vocal disguise. As soon as Andrew passed I glared up at her, only to see that she’d forgotten all about digging in her purse and stared after him as he climbed into the car. She began to step that way, and I grabbed her hand to stop her. “Naomi, you can’t.”
A second later the door closed, and the car pulled off.
She turned to watch as it continued down the street. “He walked right by me!”
“Damn good thing too,” I snapped as I stood, unnerved by the close call. “Did you want all that surgery and pain to be for nothing?” After a deep breath I continued more gently, “You look different, and he sure as hell isn’t expecting to see his dead sister here.”
Her breath came in hard, fierce pants, and I wasn’t entirely sure she’d heard me. I gave her hand a little tug. “Hey, is this going to be a problem?” I asked, putting on a bit of a scowl. Down the street I noticed Kyle and Philip being very aware of what was going on with us without actually looking our way, though they’d progressed to looking like tourists, complete with foldout map. I almost hoped some pickpocket or mugger made the mistake of thinking they were easy marks.
“No, I’m cool,” she said tightly. “I’m fine.”
“Okay, then let’s get inside.”
Naomi pivoted and marched up the steps to the door, jabbed the code into the keypad, then jerked when the light flashed red. I kept my mouth shut as she took a deep breath and re-entered the code more slowly. This time the light turned green, and the door buzzed. Relief stark on her face, she pulled the door open and entered with me right behind her.
She moved to a bank of mailboxes and a table that held what I guessed was mis-delivered mail. Scooping up a stack of envelopes, she proceeded to flip through them, but I saw that she was also checking out the locations of security cameras.
I pretended to text on my phone. “Clear?” I asked, voice low.
“Looks good,” she said, dropping the mail back to the table. “Same old system. Not monitored.” She snorted. “The building manager said that if something happens they can pull the recording, but six months ago he was still using a system that recorded on VHS tapes and used the same tape over and over.”
“Cool. I’ll let the boys in.”
“I’ll go hit the elevator.”
I went to the door, opened it and peered out as if looking for a taxi or anything besides the two men striding down the sidewalk. They came up the steps, and I held the door for them as if I was simply being polite.
“Nice to see you again, ZeeEm,” Philip murmured as he passed.
“Right back atcha, ZeeBee,” I replied quietly.
We headed straight for the elevator. Naomi pushed the button for the top floor, and I resisted the urge to hum dorky elevator music. When the elevator stopped Kyle exited first and checked the hallway carefully before moving to a door at the end that I figured was Andrew’s. He pulled a slim wallet from a pocket of his jacket, then crouched and opened it to reveal a set of lock picking tools. I desperately wanted to watch and see how he did it, but I forced myself to be a mature and responsible spy, and instead leaned against the wall in a way that would keep anyone coming into the hall from seeing what Kyle was doing.
It only took about twenty seconds for him to get the knob lock open, but I was starting to sweat our oh-so-casual lounging in the hall by the time the dead bolt finally turned. When Kyle opened the door and slipped into the apartment I moved to follow, but Philip caught my arm.
“Wait,” he said softly. After a few seconds I heard a series of low beeps. “He’s putting the code in for the alarm and hoping Andrew didn’t change it,” Philip continued, then smiled. “If the code’s wrong, it’s easier for us to skedaddle from out here.”
“Gotcha.” I grinned as I had a sudden absurd image of everyone trying to cram through the door at once.
I heard a low ping, and Philip nodded. “Now we can go in.”
We entered and closed the door behind us. Philip threw the deadbolt and put the chain on, and when I gave him a funny look he simply shrugged. “Habit. I don’t like worrying about someone coming in when I’m busy searching.”
Couldn’t argue with that. I turned and took stock of the place. The apartment was more than a little cozy, but it didn’t feel at all cramped. To the left was a small and neat kitchen with butcher-block counters, glass-fronted cabinets, and an adorably tiny gas stove. Past it and down a short hall a half-open door revealed a bathroom with a claw-foot tub on blue and white tiles. To the right was a little dining nook, and beyond it the apartment opened out into a modest-sized living room, tastefully furnished with antiques—and not the pretentious kind. The entire far wall contained bookshelves, with a desk built into the middle of it. A stained glass picture of flowers hung in front of a large window to the left, and French doors to the right opened into a bedroom, tidy and decorated in warm colors.
I loved it. It was gorgeous and homey and awesome. And not at all the kind of place I’d expected Andrew to live in.
Naomi stood in the middle of the small living room, eyes forlorn and glistening as she turned slowly around in place. “He got rid of my pictures,” she said, the hurt in her voice palpable.
“Naomi,” I began, then stopped as memory rose in a choking wave of sixteen-year-old me ripping up pictures of my mother as my dad struggled to get them away from me, screaming at me to stop, that I was crazy. I’d been sixteen for a whole twelve hours when the officer came to the house to inform us that my mom had killed herself in prison, slit her wrists and bled out before anyone found her. In my sixteen-year-old eyes it was so obvious that he was trying to save those pictures because he loved her more than me, so obvious that he’d smacked me hard to get me to let go of them because he hated me for wanting to destroy them, hated me for being so angry at her for doing this with less than two years remaining in her sentence. At the time all I’d seen was my dad defending her, siding with her once again. He’d taken the remaining photos and gotten drunk and cried over them because—I was certain—he loved her and wished he’d chosen her over me and didn’t give a shit that she’d gotten one last vicious lick in on me by picking that day of all days to kill herself.
And now, looking at Naomi, it felt as if a layer of dried mud crumbled away from the memory of that hideous day. My father and I didn’t know how to share our grief, and so we’d used it against each other and ourselves, and gouged the wounds even deeper.
My mouth was bone dry, and I had to swallow a few times before I could speak. “Naomi,” I said again, “people deal with grief in different ways.” Had Andrew raged and ripped up the pictures of his sister? Had his mother? I couldn’t guess how Andrew might deal with grief. I knew he was her brother, the Saber heir, and that he either tolerated or supported the zombie experimentation, but I didn’t know anything about him beyond that.
“Yeah.” Her mouth firmed, and I watched her push it down to deal with later. “And I have work to do.”
“Where do you want us to start?” I asked.
“Angel, you and Philip can check the bedroom,” she said, getting her focus back. “Bedside table, bottom dresser drawer, and shoeboxes in the closet are places he usually puts stuff. I’ll go through the desk and bookcases, and Kyle can search the living room and in the kitchen.”
“Got it.” I headed to the bedroom with Philip. Maroon and dark green and dusky blue in this room. Bed cover, curtains, and upholstery coordinated with one another, but didn’t match. Not like one of the “bedroom in a bag” deals from BigShopMart. No dirty underwear in sight, though one sock lay half under the end of the bed.
“Put everything back exactly like it was,” Naomi called after us.
I dropped to my knees in front of the nightstand and began going through the books stacked on top of it. Two thriller
novels, a book titled Hungry Flesh with a picture on the cover of a rotting zombie reaching through a window, a field guide to medicinal plants, a manual for lucid dreaming, and a big photo book of Reefs of the World. Interesting, but nothing helpful. The drawer held more potential, and I carefully lifted out a big stack of photos and envelopes and placed it on the bed, while doing my best to remember how everything had been arranged.
Still in the drawer were a bunch of smaller items. A little flashlight, a bottle of ibuprofen and another, almost empty, of anti-anxiety meds. Several pens, a remote control, and a hand gripper exercise thing. Oh, and a bottle of lube and several condom packets. Vaguely interesting, but probably not at all what we needed.
I picked up a large, fat envelope from the stack and opened the clasp, wincing when one of the metal prongs fell off. So much for “exactly like it was.” Since I couldn’t fix it, I dropped the bit of metal into the drawer then slid the contents of the envelope out onto the bed.
Photos. Tons of them. Photos of Naomi were here—some that looked as if they’d been removed from frames plus a bunch more that probably hadn’t ever been displayed. There were some of Naomi—Julia—on her own, but more with her and Andrew when they were younger, both with blond hair and bright blue eyes. Birthday parties, boating, playing on the beach, holidays, and more. Plus one of two newborns cuddled close together.
They’re twins, I realized with surprise. She’d never mentioned that. And it sure as hell looked as if they’d been pretty close, at least when they were younger. There were more recent ones of Julia on her own as well, including a four by six smiling headshot taken in front of a blue curtain, and “HM” followed by a six digit number printed in the lower right corner. Like a combination of a school picture and a mug shot. HM. Heather Miller, the cover name Julia Saber had lived under for the last decade, before her untimely death and rebirth as Naomi Comtesse.
Mixed in with the photos were a half dozen scraps of paper with complex and beautiful geometric drawings on them that I recognized as Naomi’s doodles. I snagged my phone from my pocket and quickly took a few pictures of the collection, then carefully tucked everything back into the envelope and sealed it with the one remaining prong.
A second packet, smaller and not so thick, yielded more photos and a regular white envelope. A chill went through me as I emptied the contents onto the bed and saw me smiling up at myself from the top photo. Me, happy, exiting Paco’s Tacos arm in arm with Marcus. Me loading a body into the morgue van. I spread the photos with a quick swipe of my hand. Pietro, Rachel, Jane, Brian, and others of the Tribe, plus a few people I didn’t know. None of them posed. All of them obviously taken without the subjects’ knowledge, and likely some taken by Heather/Naomi before she broke away from Saberton. Unsettled, I took more phone pictures. It was one thing to know photos like this existed, but actually finding them in Andrew’s nightstand was majorly creepy.
The plain white envelope contained two more photos. One was of Kyle walking past the police station in Tucker Point. The other was of him as well, but in the blue-curtained school mugshot style with the initials “KG” and a number printed at the bottom.
I peered at the second one, bothered by it but unsure why.
“How are you guys coming along?” Naomi called out.
I quickly took pics of the Kyle stuff, then glanced up to check Philip’s progress. He’d finished with the dresser drawers and was rifling through a neat stack of papers on top. “We still need to go through the closet,” I replied. “We won’t be too much longer.” I slipped the Kyle photos back into their envelope and the packet with the rest of the Tribe stuff, then carefully replaced everything in the drawer and slid it shut.
“Find anything?” I asked Philip, standing.
“Nothing noteworthy yet,” he said. “Social stuff. Party invitations, a wedding announcement for Audrey Robinette.”
“Hey, wasn’t she the lead in High School Zombie Apocalypse!!?”
“That’s the one,” Philip replied. He set items aside. “Everyone wants to hang with Andrew. Or wants his money.” He let out a low snort as he held up an invitation on fancy cream card stock with raised lettering. “Charity event tomorrow night to benefit the Child Find League.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve heard of them—founded by a Louisiana guy after his daughter disappeared.” His eyes narrowed as he peered more closely at the invitation. “Shit. Check this out.” He flicked a finger at penciled writing in the upper right hand corner.
“What?”
“Jane Pennington.”
My skin prickled. “Let me see that.” I damn near snatched the invitation from his hand as he held it out to me. Jane Pennington. The congresswoman and Pietro’s girlfriend. “Shit,” I echoed. “That sure as hell isn’t his date.” Back when I saw her at Dear John’s she’d told me she was heading to New York for this fundraiser. I took a quick picture of the invitation, then moved out to the main room. Naomi, camera in hand, scowled at the contents of a file folder, and Kyle meticulously searched through books in the living room.
“Philip found something,” I announced.
“So did I,” Naomi all but snarled, eyes still glued to the folder. “Andrew’s in bed with the fucking Dallas lab.” Her hand tightened on one side of the folder, crumpling it.
“The zombie lab?” I said.
“Yes!” she said. “From the little bit I’ve scanned it looks like they’re now using zombies in longevity research. And Andrew is totally okay with that.”
Duh. You saw him in a zombie video with your mom not too long ago, I thought, and even started to say so, but the edge of a photo sticking out of the folder caught my eye. “What’s up with the pictures in front of the blue curtain?” I asked instead, pointing to the photo.
Naomi tugged the photo free and flipped it around to show me a man of about sixty with gold wire rim glasses and a scar across the bridge of his nose. “Saberton personnel photos. That’s Dr. Kerazny, the head of R&D. Why?”
For a moment I could only stare as the connection between the blue-curtained mugshot of Kyle and Saberton personnel clicked in, then I abruptly remembered I needed to be super cool. “No reason. Just wondering.”
She gave me a dubious look, but before she could question me we both jerked our heads toward the front door at the sound of a key in the lock.
Kyle moved like a whirlwind, closing drawers, and shoving Naomi and me toward the bedroom. “Out. Fire escape.” A hard bang on the door punctuated his words, and right before Kyle pushed me into the bedroom I got one good look behind me of a man in a dark shirt and fatigue pants as he burst the door chain. I knew him. Boat Launch Guy. He was the Saberton man at the boat launch when Philip—working undercover—dragged me from my car and held me down for their tech to draw my blood. A few days later I saw that same man at the filming of the zombie movie and slugged him with great pleasure.
Voices from the living room told me Boat Launch Guy wasn’t alone. Philip had the window open and practically threw me out and onto the fire escape. “Climb down!” he ordered—unnecessarily, since I had no problem figuring that much out on my own. Naomi was a few feet ahead of me, already clattering down the narrow metal stairs. My mind whirled as I tried to remember if I’d put everything back in place in the bedroom, then realized it didn’t matter since obviously someone had known we were there and sent the goon squad. Those guys hadn’t shown up to water the plants.
Philip climbed out as soon as I was near the bottom and started down the stairs, taking them several at a time. Naomi shoved the folder into her jacket as we reached the last landing, then did something to the ladder to make it drop to the ground. As soon as it clanged down she leaped nimbly onto it with a cool move where she put her feet and hands on the outer edges and slid down like a goddamn action movie star. For a brief instant I was tempted to try it, then decided I’d end up with two broken ankles, and therefore simply climbed down as quickly as
possible using the normal method. I looked up as I did and saw Kyle finally climbing out the window. I didn’t see any men in black fatigues, so I could only assume he’d dealt with them. He was still hurrying, though, so apparently it wasn’t a permanent “dealing with.”
I hit the ground a few seconds after Naomi. She looked up to make sure both men were on their way down, then took off at a run for the end of the street, me at her heels. I heard boots hit the ground behind me but didn’t waste time looking back. If it wasn’t Philip and Kyle I sure as hell didn’t want to slow myself down by looking.
At the corner Naomi dropped to a normally paced walk, then gripped my arm to pull me close and make sure I slowed down as well.
“Don’t look back,” she warned, somewhat breathless as we proceeded down the sidewalk. She pulled her phone out and did something, and when I heard the click of the camera I realized she’d taken a picture behind us. “Philip and Kyle are going the other direction,” she told me. “No sign of pursuit, but we need to do some traveling before we head back to the hotel.”
“To make sure we aren’t being followed?”
“Right.” She flashed me a slight smile. “You’re getting the hang of this espionage shit.”
I snorted. “Hey, illegal activity is kind of my thing, You know?”
She snorted right back at me, turned a corner and ducked down another street, then broke into a run again. I kept up with her, and this time was ready for the abrupt shift to a walk when we reached a larger avenue.
“They’re in a drawer,” I said as I settled into an amble beside her.
She did a quick scan of the traffic then motioned for us to cross the street. “What’s in a drawer?”
“Pictures of you,” I said. “Tons of them, all the way back to when y’all were babies.” I gave her a sidelong glance. “You never told me you and Andrew were twins.”
Naomi shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and quickened her pace slightly. “Who wants to be twins with an asshole?”
How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back Page 17