City Of The Damned: Expanded Edition

by Stephen Knight

  Acheson squeezed her. “I know.” He kissed the top of her head. “We’re going to get through this, one way or the other.”

  “Hopefully not the way where I turn into a full-on ghoul and you guys stake and behead me.”

  “I’m kind of rooting against that one myself.” He squeezed her again. “I love you, babe.”

  “Will you still love me when I’m trying to fang you in a couple of nights?”

  Acheson broke the embrace and pushed away, holding her at arm’s length. She smiled at him sheepishly.

  “Sorry,” she said softly.

  “It’s not going to come to that,” Acheson said.

  Sharon reached up and touched his face. Her fingertips were cool and gentle against his skin.

  “Mark…”

  Kerr reappeared suddenly. “Sharon, we’re ready for you now.” Belatedly he added, “Sorry to interrupt.”

  Acheson released her. “Let me know when she’s finished, Andrew. I need to check in with the others.”

  “Of course,” Kerr said. He reached out and put a hand on Sharon’s arm. “Now, if you’ll follow me?”

  Sharon allowed herself to be led away from Acheson. As they walked out of the office, she turned and looked back over her shoulder.

  “Don’t go too far, okay?” she asked, and for a moment, she looked nothing like a hardcore ex-Marine. She looked like a little girl being led off to some dark place that terrified her.

  “I won’t,” Acheson said with a smile.

  ***

  Willie Lopez, José Sanchez, and Johnny Mueller met at the county coroner’s office after lunch. Outside it was bright and sunny. It was a perfect fall day in the Southland, with clear skies and warm air. A postcard kind of day, Lopez thought as he and Sanchez parked their department vehicle in the lot and walked toward the tan-colored buildings.

  Mueller met them at the lobby entrance. He was tall and blond-haired, the kind of über-Aryan looks that Hitler salivated over. Lopez knew Mueller was a good and dedicated cop, but he had a heavy hand and was generally regarded as a loose cannon. He’d been through LAPD’s Rampart division and came out with a jacket that was decidedly less than stellar. Just the same, he’d found a place on the Hawthorne PD. Lopez didn’t much care about his background, just so long as Mueller had his back when things got dicey. The loose cannon aspect was Sanchez’s cross to bear.

  The assistant coroner they met with was a Hispanic woman in her forties, thick in the waist and butt. As Lopez eyed her with a kind of awe the song “Fat-Bottomed Girls” came to mind. She led them to a cramped briefing room and closed the door behind them without so much as an offer of coffee.

  “We have a backlog of cases to get through, so we only performed an autopsy on one of the deceased,” the woman said after taking a seat. She opened the manila folder she’d brought with her and handed out three copies of the autopsy report. Lopez fingered through the pages. It was still warm, apparently having been printed up as they walked in through the lobby doors.

  “We appreciate you taking the time to expedite one for us, doctor,” Sanchez said.

  “You’re lucky,” the assistant coroner said. “Your chief must know some people, because LAPD usually gets the priority handling. Right now, there are three or four detectives in Robbery-Homicide who are cursing your names.”

  “Hey, we’re all on the same team,” Sanchez said, “but if our chief’s got the juice, then he’s got the juice. So what do we have?”

  “It’s interesting, actually. Whatever wounded the victim—ah, Alonzo Arce—hit him right where it counts. Severed the carotid artery on the right side, resulting in a bleed-out. Some interesting bacteria in the wound site that we’re trying to identify. For a gang hit, it’s an odd one. I would have expected bullet wounds or even fragmentation wounds—the vic was part of MS13, right?”

  The three cops nodded.

  “I thought so. They’re known for lobbing grenades around when it comes to a fight, so we’ve had their kind in here before. Having grenades doesn’t do you much good if you pull the pin and drop it in the car you’re riding in. We carried that case, too. What a mess.”

  “Doctor,” Sanchez tapped the report in front of him, “it says—you say—that the vics bled out?”

  The assistant coroner shook her head. “I don’t know about the others. Only this one. And yes, he bled out. Just over 1.7 liters of blood remained in the body. He’d lost over three liters. It must’ve made quite a mess, though there wasn’t a lot of it on the clothing, I understand.”

  The cops looked at one another.

  “There wasn’t a lot of blood at the scene,” Mueller said. “SID showed up and went over the entire place, and all they found were a few splatters.”

  “Well. Perhaps the murders occurred elsewhere,” the assistant coroner said. Lopez rolled his eyes. Apparently she knew nothing about the case other than there had been a body placed on a slab before her.

  “The rest of the body formations were generally normal. The vic had been shot before, twice, once in the anterior portion of the thorax, and again in the right thigh. Both injuries were old, and he probably limped because of the one on the thigh. Beyond that, everything else was generally normal. Some traces of methamphetamine usage that likely occurred over the course of several years, but again, given the victim’s background, hardly unusual.” The flabby woman closed her report and folded her hands on top of it, staring down the three police officers sitting across from her. Apparently, the briefing was over.

  “That’s it?” Sanchez asked. Nothing like making sure, Lopez thought.

  “Those are the highlights,” the assistant coroner assured him. “If there had been any other findings, I would have told you. You have copies of the reports, and others will be given to your homicide detectives when they pick them up. If they can’t pick them up, we’ll mail them to your department.”

  “Did you do the autopsy, doctor?” Lopez asked.

  She nodded.

  “Any idea what kind of weapon was used?” Lopez continued. “‘Cause that didn’t look like a gunshot or a knife wound to me.”

  The woman shrugged. “It looks like teeth were used, to be honest. What we can’t determine is the species. We took casts of the wound to show to some local specialists, but the results will take some time.”

  Lopez flipped through the report. “‘Species unknown,’ it says.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I take it you haven’t seen anything like this before, doctor?” Sanchez asked.

  “Not personally. Others here have seen wounds from coyotes and even a mountain lion, but they tell me those wounds looked nothing like this one. The initial punctures were fairly deep, approximately thirty-five millimeters. Deep enough to damage the artery.”

  Sanchez flipped through the report again—he’d done it twice already—and turned it facedown on the table when he got to the last page. “This bacteria you found—anything to that?”

  “Not yet. We have some microbiologists on staff who will be looking at the cultures later today, but if they can’t identify them, we’ll have to transmit the images to the usual agencies.”

  “Usual agencies?” Sanchez pressed.

  “The CDC and the Army, lieutenant. Fort Detrick, where they study all sorts of bugs and the like.”

  “Ah. And how long will that take?”

  The assistant coroner shrugged. It was obvious that her interest in discussing the case had ended.

  “This bacteria, it couldn’t be infectious, could it?” Lopez asked nervously. “I mean, since you don’t know what it is…”

  The assistant coroner smiled indulgently. “It’s not ebola or anything like that, detective. It’s really just a trace amount in the wound site.”

  “It’s sergeant, actually,” Lopez said.

  “Yes, sergeant then.” The heavy woman checked her watch and nudged her horn-rimmed glasses up on her broad nose. “If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I really need to get goin
g.”

  Sanchez stood, and Lopez and Mueller followed suit. The lieutenant shook the woman’s hand.

  “Thanks for the briefing, doctor. We appreciate it.”

  Outside, the day was pretty much as they’d left it: postcard. Lopez checked his watch and saw that the meeting had lasted for slightly more than ten minutes. It must’ve been a record.

  “That wasn’t exactly thrilling,” he said.

  “Watching the paint dry is more exciting than that, and twice as informative,” Mueller said. He pulled a pack of American Spirits from his pocket, tapped one out, and offered the pack to the other cops. They shook their heads, so Mueller lit up solo.

  “Look, this is a detective bureau deal,” Sanchez said. “The lady said she never saw anything like that before, so it’s probably not going to lead us to a gang.”

  “Or fantasmas,” Lopez added.

  Sanchez grinned. “You sure that’s what Arce said?”

  “That’s what he said. Twice.”

  Mueller exhaled a puff of smoke. “My money’s on the Black Shadows,” he said, referring to Sombra Negra, a vigilante group based in El Salvador that killed MS members on sight. Supposedly, members of the same death squads that had formed MS now rode high with Sombra Negra.

  “They don’t operate outside of El Salvador,” Sanchez said. “They’ve got their hands full with Mara Salvatrucha down there, they don’t have the time to screw around up here.” He stroked his thick mustache. “Though sometimes I wish they would.”

  ***

  It took twice as long as usual to drive to Santa Monica because Acheson used every surveillance detection routine in the book. He piloted a Ford Crown Victoria through the streets of downtown Los Angeles, using the traffic as cover. Then he took the Hollywood Freeway for several exits, got off, doubled back, then got on again. The trip took almost an hour.

  “You know, vampires don’t normally travel by day,” Sharon said. From the passenger seat she admired the brilliant day. It felt good to be outside, if only for a little while.

  “But their flunkies do, and that’s probably how we got tagged.” As he spoke, he hit a speed dial button on the telephone mounted to the dashboard and activated the Blue Tooth headset in his right ear. “How’s it look?”

  “No signs of a tail,” said Nacho Delgado, traveling in another car almost a half-mile back. “I have you in sight, and you’re clear.”

  “Thanks. Keep your eyes out.”

  “Always do, amigo.”

  Eventually, they pulled into a parking garage off of Ocean Avenue. Acheson pocketed his cell phone and switched off the Ford’s engine, then climbed out. He started around to the other side to get Sharon’s door, but she threw it open herself.

  “Don’t worry about being the gentleman right now. We’ve got more important things to get through.”

  “Okay, you’re right. Hungry?”

  She shrugged and adjusted her sunglasses. “I guess.”

  “Come on.”

  He led her to a nearby restaurant called The Lobster, one of their regular haunts. Acheson requested a corner table on the terrace next to the thick glass partitions that diffused the breeze coming in off the Pacific. It was late for the lunch crowd, and he was pleased to see the nearby tables were vacant. He seated Sharon and sat down across from her, keeping the entrance in sight. Because he wore a pistol, he did not remove his jacket.

  The waitress brought menus and took their drink orders. Acheson went with spring water. Sharon did the same, and looked at her menu listlessly for a time.

  “Have the bodies been taken care of?” she asked. “My family?”

  Acheson nodded slowly. “Yes. It’ll be done.”

  She looked at him, but the sunglasses hid her eyes from him. “What kind of accident will they have?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Acheson said. “I didn’t handle that. Jules did.” He paused, stirring uncomfortably. “I can find out for you, but now probably isn’t the best time.”

  “And a good time would be when? What did you think Mark, you would take me to lunch and we’d make small talk?” Sharon flipped through her menu angrily, then stopped. “Look, I don’t mean to—” Her voice hitched suddenly, and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Acheson reached across the table and grabbed her free hand in his, and she held on tight. It took her a moment to pull herself together, and by the time the waitress returned with their drinks, she was under control. Just the same, she avoided eye contact with the waitress when she placed the water glasses before them.

  “We’ll need another minute,” Acheson said.

  “Sure, I’ll be back in a bit,” the waitress said brightly. She smiled radiantly at Acheson and walked away.

  “Sharon?”

  She sighed and pulled her hand away. “I’m fine. Sorry, I’m still raw.”

  “I know,” Acheson said softly. “There’s no way you couldn’t be.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to know what’s going to happen to them,” she said, looking through the glass at the beach and surf beyond. “Maybe it’s better to just put that away for now. I can’t believe I’m saying that, but it’s what I’ve got to do, right?”

  “You do whatever keeps you sane and gets you through the day.”

  “I want to kill that fucker, Mark. I want to take his head while he’s still alive. Even better, I want to drag his Undead ass out into the sun and watch him burn.”

  Acheson nodded. He had similar plans for Osric.

  “Where were you last night?”

  Acheson hadn’t been expecting the question right there and then, and he hadn’t figured out how to answer it when it came. The truth was out of the question. Sharon was far too fragile for that. And even if he wanted to approach the subject honestly, he was too cowardly to tell her at the moment.

  “Working,” he told her. “I must’ve been in the elevator or the parking garage when you called. I didn’t get your message or the alert until after I’d left the office.”

  Sharon merely nodded and continued watching the surf. Surfers and kids on boogie boards took turns trying to conquer the waves. Some of them were pretty good.

  Finally, she returned to her menu. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  Acheson signaled the waitress, who bounced over with excessive enthusiasm. Sharon ordered a grilled Southwestern chicken Cobb salad. Acheson went for a grilled swordfish BLT. The waitress took their menus and bounded off.

  “So what’s the plan, and how do you see me fitting in?” Sharon asked. “I don’t think you’ll want me as XO now.”

  “Well…”

  Sharon looked at him. “If Kerr pulls me out of the line for treatments and tests, I can’t watch over the troops like I’m supposed to. And I’m not really here enough”—she tapped her temple with one finger—”to square away the logistics. I take it we’re operating in contingency mode?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Julia should be acting XO, not Cecil. I know he’s got the seniority, but Jules has a mind for the details.”

  “Jules is working the intel side. I need her doing what she’s best at.” Acheson sipped some water. “Actually, I was thinking of tapping Chiho for the XO slot. She has the aptitude, and she can step into the role without wasting a lot of time spooling up.”

  Sharon nodded, but said nothing.

  “You disagree?” Acheson asked.

  After a long pause, Sharon shook her head. “No. If you think she’s competent, then give her the job.”

  “All right. What you said back at the Plant, is that true? You can feel Osric?”

  Sharon pursed her lips for a moment. She removed her sunglasses and rubbed her bloodshot eyes, then shrugged at him.

  “I can feel something. A presence. But only in my head. It might just be psychosomatic, but it’s not like we have a lot of experience with this kind of stuff.”

  “Why did Osric attack you? Why expose himself like that?”

  Sharon shrugged again and put her sunglasses back on. />
  “You feel sensitive to sunlight?” Acheson asked.

  “No more than usual.” Sharon looked around the terrace, at the street below, then at the beach again. She focused on the big Ferris wheel slowly rotating near the Santa Monica Pier.

  “It’s nice here,” she said. “Thanks for bringing me.”

  “You don’t have to thank me,” Acheson said. “Sharon… I should have been there for you. I wasn’t. I’m sorry as hell for that.”

  “I know,” she said as their food arrived.

  Sharon’s appetite seemed to increase the more she ate, and soon she was shoveling the salad into her mouth. It made Acheson feel a little better to see her acting so human, and he even managed to feel a little bit better about himself. Maybe things would work out. Maybe Kerr would perfect the treatment, and maybe Sharon would never have to fear the sun for a single minute.

  Maybe.

  “So how do we do this?” she asked when her plate was empty.

  “The same as always. We scour the intel, we start looking for things that don’t add up. Spikes in missing persons reports. Unusual activity at nighttime. Anything. Everything.”

  Sharon looked up into the sky. Seagulls cavorted nearby.

  “If I can feel Osric, he can feel me, too. He might come for us again.”

  “You think that’s his plan?”

  “I don’t know. If he knew where we lived, he could have killed us when we were together.”

  “That might have been risky, with both of us in the house at the same time. At the very least he probably wouldn’t have come away from that with all his minions intact.”

  “I don’t think he cares. More likely he’s hoping to wound us, break us down bit by bit. He might start coming after the others, too. The analysts, the office staff, who knows?”

  “Office staff was stood down and given furloughs. The rest of the team is staying at the Plant, so if he comes for us, he’d better be ready for a fight.”

  Sharon shrugged again. The unknowns were piling up, and she was in no position to shed any light on them.

  The waitress returned to clear the table, and Acheson handed her his credit card. When she returned Acheson signed the receipt and looked across the table at Sharon.