Little Allie sprang to life and bitch-slapped my brain. For God’s sake, woman. Get a grip.
I jerked my hand off Rico’s arm and turned away, feeling my face blaze.
Ferris’s eyes sparkled from across the table. “Don’t tell me you’ve never flown before.”
Rico nodded. “Yeah. She’s got a thing about heights, and apparently…flying. Oh, almost forgot. Public speaking, too.”
“Good to know,” Ferris said, leaning across the table. “So, tell me. How is it that Allie Nighthawk, zombie hunter extraordinaire, who can single-handedly fight off a horde, panics at a little altitude?”
“Yuck it up, G-man. Sooner or later this plane will land, and I’ll kick your smug ass.”
Barbara peered out from behind her magazine and fixed Ferris in a thoughtful stare. “Actually, recent studies show that warriors often have fears and failings to overcome. It’s their ability to rise above those weaknesses, in the commission of their duties, that establishes them as heroes.”
“Yeah. What she said.” I flipped Ferris off and turned to look out the window. Big mistake. The sight of fluffy white clouds made my stomach roll.
I shut the blind and Ferris laughed out loud. “I’m loving the hell out of this. What were the odds?”
Barbara closed her magazine and squared it neatly on her lap. “Statistically speaking, five percent of the population has acrophobia, the fear of heights, while 6.5% of the population suffers from aviophobia, the fear of flying. These phobias frequently co-exist within a host, causing panic, shaking, vertigo, profuse sweating, heart palpitations, and oral outbursts.”
Rico snorted. “Oral outbursts—Nighthawk? How can you tell? That’s like twenty-four seven.”
“Really? You’re gonna poke the bear?” I asked, shooting him daggers.
Barbara’s pinched lips melted into a lopsided smile. “There, there, Ms. Nighthawk. These phobias can be overcome with cognitive behavioral therapy that exposes the victim to his or her fears in varying degrees.”
The plane banked to the left. My eyes flew wide. “We’re turning. Why are we turning?”
Ferris pointed out the window. “That’s where New Orleans is.”
“In the meantime,” Barbara added, “May I suggest a controlled breathing technique to help alleviate your anxiety?”
“No, Babs, you may not.”
She scowled at me over the rim of her cheaters. “My name, Ms. Nighthawk, is Dr. Barbara McMillen. I hold both an MD and a PsyD as well as an MS in Behavioral Analysis. I have an eidetic memory and speak seven languages. You may call me Dr. McMillen, Agent McMillen, or in more colloquial settings, Barbara, if you must. But at no time may you call me Babs. Have I made myself clear?”
Well slap my ass and call me Fanny. The bony bitch had balls.
“Crystal,” I said, having no intention of calling her anything but Babs.
She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Perhaps try visualizing yourself in a calm environment.”
“As opposed to 30,000 feet in the air?”
Rico pointed to the electronic flight monitor. “Actually, it’s closer to 41,000 feet.”
“Work with me, people.” Psycho Babs took off her cheaters and clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Ms. Nighthawk, picture yourself basking in the warmth of the summer sun, amid a field of glorious sunflowers. Or listening to the sweet, soothing strains of Debussy’s “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun.”
“What the…who the hell are you lady?”
Babs sniffed and stiffened her back. “No need for language, Ms. Nighthawk. I was merely trying to ease your discomfort.”
Ease my discomfort, my ass. Between De Palma and Ferris busting my chops and Babs’ sunflower fetish, I was praying for a parachute. The only thing that would have eased my discomfort was a fifth of Jack. Since we didn’t have one (massive oversight on my part), I pushed my seat back and closed my eyes, making a mental note to properly stock my future go-bags.
The next thing I know, the pilot’s voice flooded the cabin. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. We’re working our way around a thunderstorm. You might experience a bit of turbulence. Please remain seated with your seatbelts fastened. We’ll be arriving in New Orleans in approximately thirty minutes.”
Ferris winked at me. “See, Allie? Nothing to worry about. We’ll be landing soon.”
Rico smiled. “You know what they say about landings. They’re nothing more than controlled crashes.”
I flipped him off, settled back into my seat, closed my eyes, and tried a gruesome but effective visualization technique of my own: our jet suddenly encountering a sudden microburst and plummeting nose-down toward Earth at 508 miles-per-hour. Simply knowing that this planeload of asshats would be checking out with me made my chakras explode like an expired can of biscuits.
My fear disappeared. The negative energy that had been churning inside me was gone. I was Allie Nighthawk, dammit. The best of the badass zombie hunters. Toussaint had to be behind the attack on Vinny, and it was time to get on with the chase.
Maybe there was something to this psychobabble crap after all.
11
Saunter and Swagger
A black government-issued Suburban was waiting for us when we debarked at the NOLA Lakefront Airport. Our driver, Agent Philip Mouton, still had peach fuzz on his cheeks, and spoke with a down-home drawl.
My stomach growled as I tossed my bag into the cargo hold. It was noon in Louisiana, which made it one o’clock Cincinnati time. We’d been up for hours and hadn’t eaten a thing. I slid into the back seat with Rico and Ferris, leaving the front passenger seat to Babs. If I didn’t eat soon, they’d be scraping me up off the floor mats.
I leaned forward between the seats and took matters into my own hands. “Hey, we’ve been traveling all morning. Fiorella’s is right around the corner. How about a pit stop?”
Phil glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. “Wouldn’t mind popping in there myself.”
“And it’s crawfish season. Doesn’t that sound tasty?”
“It surely does, but the field agent in charge already ordered in lunch. He had a feeling you’d show up hangry.”
My stomach groaned. It had been a long time since I had a plate of red beans and rice. I could smell them from the car.
Rico cast me a suspicious eye. “Crawfish season? Fiorello’s Restaurant? How do you know so much about New Orleans?”
The brain bitch threw a hissy and flicked me hard between the eyes. Damned if my empty stomach hadn’t tricked me into opening Pandora’s Box. I had a hell of a history with New Orleans, a history I wasn’t prepared to share with anyone, let alone Rico. I’d give him the basics, but if push came to shove, I’d whitewash the truth with a big fat brush.
“I went to school here.”
“Really?” Rico swiveled toward me. “I didn’t know that. Tulane?”
“Yep.”
“What year did you graduate?”
“I didn’t.”
“Oh.”
It was an awkward ‘oh.’ I was hoping he felt awkward enough to drop the conversation, and he did. But that didn’t stop Ferris from picking a little deeper.
“Why not?”
“I tried it for a couple of quarters. Sitting in a classroom wasn’t my thing.”
Ferris snickered. “Talk about a square peg in a round hole.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Phil said, turning onto Leon C. Simon Boulevard. “We’re almost there.”
He pointed out the FBI office and I stifled a sigh of relief. Somehow, I’d managed to finesse my way through that conversation without telling a single lie. It was the facts I hadn’t shared that would have curled their toenails.
Phil signed us in at security and then led us to a conference room on the first floor.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, unlocking the door and showing us inside. “Be right back. I’m going to see where your lunch is.”
A massive oval conference table with microphones at every
seat dominated the room. A podium, projection screen, and audio-visual equipment filled what little space remained. Rico, Ferris, and I walked to the nearest seats, at the front of the room, and sat beside each other. Babs silently strode to the far end of the oval and sat in her own zip code, then placed her briefcase atop the table, carefully squaring it with the table’s edge. She folded her hands in front of her and stared impassively at…who the hell knew what? The woman was ten pounds of crazy in a five-pound sack. But the brain bitch just couldn’t let her be.
“How’s the weather down there, Babs?”
“My, my,” she said, slipping her cheaters up her nose. “You are an annoying little gnat, aren’t you?”
Rico kicked my foot beneath the table. I kicked him back.
Our game of footsy ended when the door opened. Phil had returned with a food cart. I craned my neck to see what was on it, but the plates were covered with metal domes.
“Bon appetit!” he said, as he handed us our plates.
I yanked off the dome and stared at a puny looking slice of ham on white, hold the…everything. “What the fuck, Phil?”
Phil’s face flushed. “There’s chips and pickles, too. Oh, and sweet tea.”
I picked off the top slice of bread and ogled the grey meat-like substance. “We’re in the freaking food capital of the world and you bring us…Oscar Mayer? Whose lamebrained idea was this?”
“It was mine, Ms. Nighthawk.”
The lazy, Luzianna drawl came from a suit who had sauntered into the room with impeccable timing. He carried himself like he owned the joint. Five-ten, trim, mid-forties, maybe, judging by his salt and pepper crewcut. His all-gray moustache suggested he might be closing in on fifty.
“Senior Agent Jake Boudreaux,” he said, extending his hand.
I gripped it and steeled myself, preparing for the bone-crushing handshake that follows with guys who feel the need to put me in my place. When it didn’t come, Agent Boudreaux earned back a couple of brownie points.
“Sorry about the Spartan lunch. Hectic morning. We’ll make it up to you at dinner.”
“Damn straight, you will. Bring your credit card. I’m talking everything from étoufée to crème brûlée.”
Boudreaux’s eyes gleamed. “So, you’re the whisperer I’ve been hearing about. Looking forward to rubbing elbows with you.”
After introducing himself to Ferris and Rico, Boudreaux glanced at Babs, at the far end of the table, and favored her with a nod. “Agent Boudreaux. And you would be…?”
“Doctor Agent Barbara McMillen, MD, PsyD, MS.”
“Impressive,” he said, though his eyes didn’t seem to share that assessment. “And your role on this team, Dr. McMillen?
She slid her glasses down her nose and gazed at him over the top of the rims. “I’m the profiler, Agent Boudreaux. The person who’s going to find the un-sub who’s orchestrating these zombie attacks.”
Rico and Ferris eyed each other silently. The brain bitch screeched so loud my eardrums nearly burst. I opened my mouth to eviscerate Babs, but Boudreaux beat me to the punch.
“You sound awfully sure they were orchestrated. If so, I hope you live up to your swagger. In the meantime, you might want to lower your nose a tad. We get some mighty big rainstorms ’round here. Wouldn’t want you to drown.”
Boudreaux didn’t wait for Babs to realize she’d been taken down a peg. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? At approximately 0200 this morning, our vic, twenty-one-year-old Tulane student, Vincent, aka “Vinny,” Abruzzi, was attacked at the corner of Audubon and Zimpel, while walking to Monroe Hall from his bartending gig at The Boot, a local campus watering hole.
“Witnesses report four zombies, shambling in from different directions, converged on Abruzzi, despite the presence of multiple persons in the vicinity. Many of these folks were screaming to beat the band, which theoretically, should have drawn the biters away from Abruzzi. But those present stated the biters appeared to target him.
“Campus police responded to the numerous 911 calls that ensued. They dispatched three of the Zs with single head shots. Apparently, Abruzzi took one down by himself.”
“The kid took one down?” Rico asked, leaning back in his chair. “Impressive. Even the campus police here know to go for the head.”
Boudreaux laughed. “Agent De Palma, New Orleans is the land of the undead. We wrote the book on this shit.”
I was liking this guy more every minute.
“The campus police reported the attack to NOLA PD, who turned it over to us, based on allegations from Abruzzi that you folks might have a handle on all this. Is that true?”
Little Allie told me to play it close to the vest. “That’s a little hard to say at this point. I’d love to talk to Vinny. Where is he?”
“He had an exam this morning. Said he’ll be in around three to chat with us. It’s a quarter ’til two now. Ferris, why don’t you sign out a car from the garage, take your team to the Marriot on Canal and get checked in? Be back here by three.”
In slightly more than an hour, I would meet Leo’s son, Vinny. I wondered if they would be anything alike. Then it occurred to me that there couldn’t possibly be more than one Leo. Right?
12
The Odd Couple
“Nice ride,” I said, as Ferris popped the hatchback on our FBI pool car. Judging by the sea of identical SUVs that lined the garage, dark and nondescript were the only game in town. “Nothing says G-man better than a black Suburban with tinted windows.”
After loading our gear into the back, we climbed inside, and Ferris chauffeured us to the hotel. We were a bit early for standard check-in, but Cherry, the desk clerk, scanned the reservations and advised us that wouldn’t be a problem. The FBI was a preferred customer.
Fluffy robes, cable, and a mini-bar coming up. Life was good.
Cherry handed us the keys. “Two rooms. Two King-size beds each.”
An awkward silence filled the air. Ferris looked at Rico. Rico glanced at me. None of us could bring ourselves to peer at Babs.
“There must be some mistake, Cherry,” I said. “Check again.”
Cherry pulled up the reservation on the computer and wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. You’ve only got the two rooms.”
“Preposterous,” Babs said, drumming her long, shellacked talons on the countertop. “We’ll require two additional rooms, please.”
Cherry blanched. “I’m afraid we’re booked solid.”
Babs cast me a withering glance, then turned back to Cherry. “Surely, you have at least one room.”
“I wish I did. It’s Thursday, convention check-in day. The Ancient League of Druids and The Disciples of Dag’theth are in town. If we didn’t hold back rooms for the FBI, you’d be sleeping in your car.”
Little Allie was having a seizure. A night bunking with Babs could push the brain bitch over the edge.
The two rooms were across from each other on the second floor. Babs led the way, trudging down the hall on her long, gangly legs. I followed several paces behind, racking my brain for some brilliant, but as yet elusive, last minute reprieve. Rico and Ferris hung back, whispering, barely within earshot.
Ferris’s voice caught my attention. “A hundred bucks, De Palma. You bunk with McMillen. I get Nighthawk.”
“Not a chance.”
“Seriously. If those two stay in the same room, there’s going to be a death match.”
“You think? Five to one on Nighthawk.”
Ferris grinned. “That’s cold, dude. But, yeah. Okay. You’re on.”
Damn Rico. I’d rather be bunking with Ferris. But push come to shove, I wouldn’t mind taking some of that action myself.
Babs stuck her keycard into the lock on room 232, but the green light didn’t pop on. She swiped the card a couple more times, giving me a chance to make up the distance between us. When she finally got the card to work and opened the door, I hurried in past her, and tossed my bag on the bed closest to the bathroom and the hallway. Ba
bs might be a brainiac, but I wouldn’t want her to be my first line of defense if someone uninvited slipped into our room in the middle of the night.
Babs scowled at me as she placed her Burberry suitcase on the far bed, squaring it perfectly with the edge of the comforter, just like she’d squared her briefcase with the tabletop on the plane. She systematically unpacked her clothes, one piece at a time, placed them all on hangers, and then sprayed them with wrinkle release. Curious, I watched as she laid out her toiletries on the sink and lined them up from left to right, shortest to tallest.
Shamed into action, I opened my duffel, pulled out my Dopp kit, and dumped my clothes onto the bed. Then I balled them up and wadded them into a dresser drawer. There. All unpacked.
I walked to the bathroom door and peered around the corner. Babs’ lotions and makeup covered the entire top of the sink, lined up with military precision like tiny, collagen-based warriors. She produced a travel-size can of Lysol from her cosmetic bag and sprayed the room from floor to ceiling.
I marveled at the strange and awful enigma that was Barbara McMillen, stepped away from the door, and placed my Dopp kit on the nightstand beside my bed. Babs emerged from the bathroom, grabbed her briefcase and purse, and then left the room without a word. But not before adjusting the thermostat. I followed behind her, mouth agape as I peeked at the temperature display.
Seventy-eight degrees.
I dialed it down to sixty-eight, thought about it, then cranked it back to sixty-two, and closed the door behind me on my way out.
The two of us were destined to go twelve rounds, and Psycho-Babs, aka The Profiler, would go down. Hard.
Rico and Ferris stepped out of room 234, looking somewhat relieved to find us both still in one piece. But the day was young. I followed Babs out to the parking lot, and climbed into the SUV, wondering which one of us would snap first. Twenty minutes later, we all filed down the third-floor corridor of the FBI building to Agent Boudreaux’s office. When I stepped through his door, I thought I’d fallen into a time machine.
Corpse Whisperer Sworn Page 8