by E. A. Copen
The ME was busy cutting off Jane’s clothes, chatting away into one of those medical recording devices, while I tried to think of a good way to excuse myself. She worked the scissors through the fabric of the corset with no trouble, carefully avoiding so much as bumping the hole in Jane’s chest. When she had the fabric split in two, the stiff garment fell open and I felt a whole new wave of nausea at what I saw.
At the scene, both the doc and I had observed the black, spidery veins resting just under the surface of her skin. They’d extended a few inches away from the hole in Jane’s chest. Now, they went all the way from her chest to under her arms, up into her neck and down below her navel.
“What the hell?” muttered the doctor.
I leaned in closer, my nausea replaced by curiosity. “How is it possible that it spread if she’s dead? And what is it?”
A small sound escaped from Jane’s mouth and I jumped back with a curse.
Doctor Kalma shrugged it off. “Happens all the time. Trapped air gets dislodged sometimes when you’re moving bodies around. Nothing to be alarmed at.”
“What about that?” I swallowed and pointed to Jane’s eyes as they slid open, the pupils dilated behind a cloudy white haze.
Before the doctor could respond, Jane started moving her jaw. A strange, sucking groan sound came out of her mouth. She turned her head and stared straight at me. These weren’t the muscle spasms of rigor mortis. No, this was an intentional and deliberate act.
In a flash of movement, Jane sat up and lunged for me. I dove out of the way and into a table holding surgical instruments. The scalpels and bone saws clattered to the floor around me as I raised an arm to defend myself. Jane barreled into me, grabbing at my arm with her fingers. And damn were her fingers cold. I know dead people aren’t supposed to be warm, but touching them doesn’t normally feel like grabbing onto liquid nitrogen. Everywhere she touched immediately prickled and went numb. Jane sucked the warmth out of the air around her. Even though I was fighting, my teeth were chattering.
Jane clicked her teeth and made a high-pitched sucking screech. My fingers swept across the floor, searching for something, anything I could use as a weapon and I came up with…a tiny pair of forceps. Great. Just my luck. I didn’t have time to grab for another weapon, though, as Jane jumped on top of me, jaws snapping toward my face. I managed to hold her back, but only barely. For a dead girl, she sure was strong.
“A little help here!” I called to the doc who stood, wide eyed, pressed against the refrigerated drawers. That snapped her out of it but, instead of running to my aid, she made a panicked rush for her desk. I was on my own. “Dammit,” I grunted, holding the girl back with my hands on her shoulders. “Why’s it always me who has to put down the scary monster?”
I tried to swing the end of the forceps at her eye and grazed her cheek instead, slashing her face open. She didn’t even notice. All I managed to do was to lose ground in keeping her from biting my face off. She was so close I could feel the air moving when she snapped her teeth at me. Worse, my palms had gone numb and my hands were slipping. In mere moments, Jane was going to sink her undead teeth right into my face. I turned my head, offering up my good side, and awaited the inevitable.
A deafening boom echoed through the morgue. My head was suddenly wet and covered in chunks. Jane’s body went limp against my hands. I cracked open an eye to see Doctor Kalma pointing a forty caliber revolver at me through a hole in Jane Doe’s head.
Once the shock wore off, I pushed the body aside and scrambled up from the floor. The doctor came to stand beside me, her gun still trained on Jane Doe. “Were you bit?” she asked me.
I glared at her. Real zombies are made with magick, not by being bitten or scratched. Then again, whatever Jane Doe had been didn’t look or act like any zombie I’d ever seen.
“No,” I answered and wiped off my face. “Nice shootin’, doc.”
“Holy shit,” she breathed and lowered the gun. She looked at me as if I could offer her an explanation. “You think I should double tap it? You know…just in case?”
I handed her the forceps and picked a big red chunk off of my shirt. Then I put a hand on her shoulder and, in my best Bones McCoy voice, I said, “It’s dead, Jim.” Doctor Kalma turned and gave me a confused stare so I elaborated. “No, I think you’re good.”
She nodded and lowered the gun. “Now, what?”
I looked back at the body lying limp on the floor. The struggle had tainted anything useful we could have gotten from the autopsy. Any prints or trace evidence was ruined, and the cause of death—or a second, more final death, as it were—was obvious. I mean, zombie or not, Jane wasn’t living without a heart. The best lead we had for identifying her would come from my next stop, which was lucky since the gunshot had torn apart her face and jaw. Even if we did identify her, we were going to have a hard time explaining to the family why she had a posthumous gunshot wound to the head. As far as evidence for the investigation went, Jane’s body was useless, as any good defense lawyer would poke holes in any evidence from the body.
But it wasn’t a total loss. There was one person in particular who could get me something useful out of Jane’s body.
I pulled out my cell and scrolled through my contacts. “Think you can get her back on the table?”
The doc nodded slowly and then frowned as she looked down at the mess on the floor. “But I’m not ready to put my hands anywhere near that again. Why?”
“Because it just so happens I know someone who’s an expert on zombies.”
CHAPTER NINE
Doctor Eugene Ramis was introduced to me as the world’s most foremost expert in the field science of weird dead things. Based on my experience with the afro-sporting stick of a white guy, it was true. The man was a medical genius. More importantly, Doc was the keeper of about half a dozen zombies.
He pulled up behind the service exit of the morgue in his RV and then inched forward so the solar panels on it were in direct sunlight. Doctor Kalma stood beside me, tapping her foot. She arched a chiseled eyebrow as she read one of Doc’s bumper stickers out loud. “I brake for zombies?”
“He’s an expert,” I assured her.
The passenger side RV door snapped open and Doc all but fell out. Hair and eyes wild, he stumbled over to me, grabbed me by the shirt and said, “Tell me you didn’t kill her!”
“She was about to eat my face,” I answered, picking his fingers off of me. “I thought I made that clear when I called.”
He snapped his head back and forth. “The only two words I heard before I was out the door were zombie and stripper.” Doctor Kalma cleared her throat. He looked at her, blinked once and then explained, “If she’s a stripper, she can dance. You wouldn’t believe how hard a decent dancer is to find.”
“Sorry, Doc.”
He sucked in a deep breath and his shoulders slumped forward. “I suppose it can’t be helped. You said something about black veins?”
“Thought you said all you heard was zombie stripper before you dropped the phone and ran?” Doctor Kalma pointed out.
“Yes, well…” He pushed his thick, black rimmed glasses up his nose. “I may have listened a little further.”
I gestured to the door behind me. The three of us went back into the morgue, Doctor Kalma leading the way and me bringing up the rear. In the time it took Doc to get there, Doctor Kalma and I had cleaned up the mess. And by that, I mean I let the trained professional handle all the body parts while I changed into a spare set of nursing scrubs and washed my face and arms off in a sink. Jane’s body was now the only one out, displayed on a table. Doc stopped to wash his hands in the same sink I’d used before slapping on a pair of extra-large rubber gloves and a facial mask. Then, he went over to the table.
“Oh, rats.”
I leaned in closer, thinking he’d noticed something on the body I had missed. “What?”
“I know her.”
“What?” I uncrossed
my arms.
“Oh, Annie…” he shook his head. “Annie Cox. At least, that’s how she billed herself at Aisling.”
My jaw was practically on the floor. “I didn’t figure you for the clubbing type, Doc.”
“I make house calls,” he explained quickly after clearing his throat. “Few doctors do these days, just like not so many take cash. I only know her as a patient.”
“What were you treating her for?”
Doc’s mouth opened and closed. Then, he lifted his chin a little. “If I don’t tell you, you’ll get a warrant, won’t you?”
I crossed my arms. “Are you going to make me, Doc?”
He turned back to the body, a deep frown set on his face. “Anxiety and depression. She’d been having anxiety attacks. For a public performer, that kind of thing can be debilitating.”
“What about the black veins?” I asked, pointing to them. “Ever seen those before?”
Doc poked at them with a gloved finger. My stomach turned as the black veins rolled under the surface of Annie’s skin. “No,” he said, his voice taking on a curious air. “Never. I’d like to draw some samples and take them back to the lab for some tests.”
“Poke, prod, and sample away,” I said, glancing down at my watch. “I’m late for a very important date. Keep me in the loop?”
Doc gave a grunt in reply. He was already absorbed in poking at his new project. Oy, scientists. And I thought vampires were creepy.
*****
Twenty minutes late for my meeting, I pulled my beat up old Firebird up to the massive wooden gate at the end of a polished sandstone driveway and whistled. Lowering my head and pulling off my sunglasses, it was hard not to be impressed. The wooden gate was over two stories tall. It connected to a white washed wall topped with wrought iron tips, each one sharp enough to draw blood. It wasn’t razor wire but it sure as hell was pretty discouraging. I mean that in the most literal way possible. It was literally pretty and discouraging to any would-be prowlers. The remote security cameras moving to focus on my face and license plates were overkill.
As soon as I pulled my car up to the gates to idle, the engine coughed, sputtered and died. I cursed and tried to start her up again. A dead car wasn’t too out of the ordinary for me. She was a classic but she was always breaking down only to start fine the next day. Sometimes, a few choice words were enough to get her up and going again. This time she was going to have to cool off. The temp needle was all the way up at the top of the red bar.
The giant redwood gates opened inward on a gently curving private road of white sandstone lined on either side by stubby palm trees. Three bald Latino guys with goatees wearing earpieces, bowties and suits stepped out from either door and approached my car. One tapped on the driver’s side window. The others took up a strategic place at the side and rear of my vehicle, blocking me in. They folded their hands one over the other and waited for me to just try and pull away. The way they held themselves it was obvious they were carrying at least four guns.
I ignored them and rolled down my window. It creaked loudly as I turned the manual handle over and over to bring it down. Not knowing what else to say, I simply announced myself. “Special Agent Judah Black to see Kim Kelley.”
The guard at my window gestured down the road. “She’s expecting you. Bring your car down the lane and park to the side of the estate.”
I put my hand on the door handle and pulled it, intending to step out and explain to them my car had overheated. The minute they realized I was moving to get out, all three of them stiffened. The one closest to my door put a hand on the car, holding the door closed. “Do not exit the vehicle,” he commanded and then added, “for your own safety.”
“Uh…” I blinked. “Well, my car kind of overheated. I can’t drive it down the lane until it’s cooled off.”
The suit frowned at me, pressed a finger to his earpiece and relayed the information. As if they were puppets on a string, the other two placed their fingers on their earpieces, too. After a moment, the first one said, “Confirmed. Stand down.” He gestured to me. “Miss, please exit the vehicle, keeping your hands visible and turn to place your hands on the hood of the car.”
My jaw fell open. “I’m just here for lunch. I’m not going to let you frisk me.”
“I can’t allow you on the premises without a search.” He pulled open the door and held it. “Please. No one wants an incident.”
I lifted my hands off the steering wheel where I’d placed them and held them up in a gesture of surrender as I got out of the car. Something black shifted on the roof of a smaller building ahead and I thought I saw the glint of sun against metal. Holy hell. They had a sniper set up? Was this a house or a compound?
Urged by the goon in the suit, I turned around, spread my legs and placed my hands on the hood of the car. A decade or so before the Revelation, a little something known as Stop-and-Frisk was the talk of the nation. It was a practice whereby police officers stopped pedestrians who were doing nothing but going about their business to pat them down for contraband. People were up in arms mainly because it was minorities being targeted. The white male establishment argued it was better to be safe than sorry, especially given the level of violence in major cities at the time.
Clearly, they’d never been frisked.
It’s not just a gentle pat down. Professionals can get through one pretty quick, searching up and down the ankles, inner and outer thighs, backside, ribs and so on. A proper frisk also goes through the pockets, looking for small, easily concealed weapons. While I acknowledged it was necessary in certain situations to find and remove weapons, too often when male officers took it upon themselves to pat down a woman, there was more behind the motive than a search for weapons.
But I wasn’t going to bust any heads so long as Brutus the Suit and his buddies kept it professional.
He pulled the nine millimeter I kept at my hip, handed it off and then kept looking. I rolled my eyes. “You know, if I wanted to hurt your boss, I don’t need a weapon. I’ve got magick, in case you haven’t heard.”
“You read auras,” said Brutus. “The Mistress’ mage is ten times the practitioner you are. And if you did try anything, you’d be dead before the thought finished crossing your mind.”
“Watch it, bud,” I said as his hands came around my front, patting my waist.
I let out a little curse as he found the silver stakes I kept on a special holster there. Well, stake wasn’t the right word, even though they’d function just fine for staking vampires. They were also useful for sticking angry werewolves, the large dose of silver often incapacitating them. A sharp stick made of pure silver was never not useful. That’s why I carried two.
Brutus found them and hesitated once he realized they were under my shirt. If I’d meant him any harm, his hesitation would have cost him. In the end, he tugged up my shirt, pulled the stakes free and handed them off to one of his assistant goons. Then, he used a meaty palm to tug me away from the car. He pointed down the walk. “Let’s go.”
I walked down the driveway, leaving my car behind, flanked on either side and behind by a suit. On the roof, the form I’d seen earlier stood up, revealing I’d been correct in assuming he was an expertly positioned sniper. Unlike the others, though, he wasn’t dressed in a snazzy suit. He was wearing a cap and tan, lightweight body armor, the kind I would have expected to see in the deserts of Afghanistan or Iraq rather than Texas. As he shifted, I was able to make out the emblem on his chest: a bright red fleur-de-lis.
I didn’t get too good of a look at him because the big house beyond the little guard post caught my eye. Two stories tall, the sprawling mansion was modeled after a Spanish hacienda, though it wasn’t as big or grand as the one I’d seen earlier on TV. Warm reds, vibrant blues and pristine whites colored the roof, doors, and walkways. The main house was a perfect contradiction of curves and sharp angles, each one in an architectural tug of war against the other and yet somehow working along
with it.
Brutus led me up to an arched entry way where we paused to radio ahead. While I waited, I noticed the windows were all fake. Oh, the glass was real enough but, behind each, there was only a walkway and not a whole house. The house proper was one of those custom built homes, guaranteed to keep out every shred of UV light.
See, the old adage about vampires bursting into flames in the sunlight…Well, it wasn’t exactly true. They could go out but, depending on their diet and how long it had been since they last fed, most were extremely sensitive to sunlight. Even brief periods in the sun led to a sunburn. Extended exposure caused sun poisoning. But I’d never known one to burst into flames or die in the light of dawn. And, with a steady diet of human blood, they could sit out in the sun all day long with few adverse effects. Still, since there was no telling how long was too long, most vampires avoided sunlight altogether. Unless they had no other choice, vampires preferred a nocturnal lifestyle.
My guides moved forward and I went with them into the house. The inside was just as lavish as the outside. Narrow corridors ensured we were never more than one abreast and copious windows facing the outside terrace guaranteed I was never out of a sniper’s scope. I saw a few more security guards inside with the same emblem on their chests, usually standing next to doors or patrolling hallways.
This must be the private security Robbie mentioned, I thought. Seems odd she would surround herself with bodyguards if she wasn’t expecting trouble.
Brutus and company led me to an arched doorway at the end of a second corridor. One of the security guys pushed the door open for me. He gave me an old fashioned tip of his cap as I walked by. “Ma’am,” he said in the form of an acknowledgment.
The room beyond was a standard meeting room, much like the one I’d left behind at the precinct in Paint Rock…only nicer. The table was long and black with a glass polished top. Set in the middle was a high-end computer with a heads up display projecting on a screen of rotating clear glass. The chairs were plush red and had arm rests and a reclining feature.