I had to hide a smile. Deputy Marcus Ivanov deserved an Oscar for the performance he was giving.
Two weeks ago Marcus’s best friend, Ed Quinn, had disappeared during their annual hunting trip. At least that’s the story Marcus had given the authorities when the two of us returned to town. The reality was quite a bit harsher. Ed was a zombie hunter who’d been methodically hunting down zombies and chopping their heads off. After discovering that Marcus and I were also zombies, he’d tried to kill us as well. I’d saved Marcus’s life and defeated Ed…and then gave Ed a choice: he could run, or I could eat him. Well, eat his brain. And I probably wouldn’t have actually killed him and eaten any part of him, but Ed hadn’t known that.
Needless to say, he’d decided to run. Marcus and I did our best to make it look like the two men had become separated in the woods, and then we returned to civilization and dutifully reported Ed missing. It probably hadn’t been the best possible plan, but it was the best we’d been able to come up with considering the circumstances.
The one part of it that we’d both hated was the fact that a search party would have to be organized, and we’d have to play along with it while money and resources were spent on a pointless search. But at the last minute providence smiled upon us. Before the first man-hour could be wasted tromping through the woods, activity was discovered on Ed’s credit cards. Moreover, surveillance video clearly showed him at a local sporting goods store purchasing camping and hunting equipment as well as an eyebrow-lifting amount of ammunition.
At that point the entire thing had been viewed as out of character for Ed, but the authorities had no choice but to simply shrug and chalk it up to a possible early mid-life crisis. After all, there was nothing illegal about a grown man suddenly deciding to go on an extended camping or hunting trip. But a few days ago an anonymous caller tipped off the cops that Ed was responsible for the recent series of decapitation murders. Within no time at all search warrants were obtained, and incriminating evidence in the form of bloodied clothing was found in his apartment.
But the real mystery was that Marcus had sworn up, down, and sideways that he hadn’t called in the tip. And I certainly hadn’t. So who the heck could have known Ed was the killer? And, more importantly, did they know that the victims were zombies?
“It’s tough for Marcus,” I told Ben. “He’s known Ed most of his life. I just hope Ed is really gone.” I gave a shudder that I didn’t have to fake.
Ben scowled. “Yeah, well I want to catch him before he does it again.” He muttered a curse. “It fucking kills me that he was under our noses this entire time.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak so I simply gave him a sympathetic grimace as guilt curled through me. I’d let him go. And I wasn’t so convinced Ed was long gone. I’d scared him off, but I found it hard to believe that he would have picked up and relocated, leaving two “monsters” like Marcus and me to roam free.
Despite my reluctance I found myself looking over toward the cadaver dog and handler who’d been called in to help locate the source of the dead body smell. The petite woman was still sitting on the steps to the foreman’s office, her dog sitting patiently at her feet. Part of me wanted to avoid talking to her at all costs, but I knew that was the coward’s way out. And while I was really damn good at being a coward, I was trying hard to change my ways. Besides, this woman sure as hell didn’t deserve to be shunned by me or anyone else simply because she was Ed’s girlfriend, and I knew she was having a tough enough time of it as it was.
Forcing a friendly smile onto my face, I made my way over to Marianne. The sun was low enough in the sky to paint a broad swath of the floor in jagged shadows as it filtered through broken and grime-streaked windows, and I had to shield my eyes from the glare of the sun off the river as I approached.
She looked up as I neared, eyes wary and haunted.
“Hey, Marianne,” I said. “Hey, Kudzu,” I said to the dog as I scratched its head. It gave me what had to be a puzzled look. Kudzu was a cadaver dog, and I had a feeling I confused the hell out of it. I smelled dead, yet I kept moving around.
“Hi, Angel,” the dark-haired woman replied, wariness fading slightly.
“How you holding up?”
“Shitty,” she said with a wavering smile. “But at least they seem to be done questioning me.”
I gave a grimace of sympathy. “Yeah, Marcus had to go through that as well.” It only made sense that, as soon as Ed was established as a suspect, the people closest to him should be grilled in case there was anything they could add to the investigation and search for him. I could only imagine that it was even harder for Marianne since they surely had to wonder if she’d been involved in any way. But apparently she’d requested to take polygraphs and voice stress analysis or whatever the heck was used nowadays in order to prove her innocence, and it had been enough to clear her of any suspicion.
Personally, I was relieved that she didn’t seem to be involved. I didn’t know her all that well, but from what I’d seen she seemed to be a genuinely nice person. It was bad enough that I’d been snowed by Ed. If Marianne had also turned out to be a zombie killer I’d have been seriously pissed.
A loud crash made us both jump. I spun to see that the workmen had peeled up an entire section of flooring and tossed it aside. “Time for me to get back to work,” I said. On impulse I leaned in and gave her a quick hug. “Hang in there. Shit gets better.”
She seemed shocked at first, then relaxed and returned the hug. When I released her she gave me a grateful smile. “Thanks, Angel. Maybe we can do lunch or something sometime…?”
“I’d like that,” I replied, only lying a little. I’d feel much better about hanging out with her once I knew for certain Ed wasn’t lurking somewhere close.
Squaring my shoulders, I made my way back to help separate the corpse from the wreckage. At least I had the legendary iron stomach going for me.
Chapter 3
By the time we got the body extricated and into the body bag, the evening sun was busily painting the sky over the highway in brilliant shades of orange and yellow while also making it hard as hell to see to drive. As I got closer to Tucker Point, election signs became more frequent for everything from school board to state senator, including several for the parish coroner, Dr. Duplessis, AKA my boss. Elections were still a few months off, but politics were a spectator sport in Louisiana, and quite a few candidates started campaigning well before qualifying even opened. I’d heard whispers that the coroner might actually face some competition in the next election, but even though it was doubtful there was anyone who could pose a real threat to Dr. Duplessis, he wasn’t taking any chances.
I heard my phone buzz with a text message, but I waited until I could pull into the parking lot of an XpressMart to read it. I wasn’t worried about dying in a car wreck, but I sure as hell didn’t want to do the same to anyone else.
In the past months I’d developed a much higher appreciation for the value of life.
It was from Derrel. No rest for the wicked. Just got a call re another death—accidental fall at NuQuesCor Lab. Meet me at front gate.
Well, it wasn’t the first time I’d gone from one death scene straight to another. I knew from experience that I could fit four bodies in the back of the van, though it wasn’t pretty. I texted back an “OK”, then pulled the GPS off the dash and stuck in the address he’d sent. Hunger nudged at me again, but I was pretty sure this was hunger for real food. At least part of it was, and satisfying that much would help keep the brain-hunger at bay—at least for a few hours.
This whole “controlling my urges” thing wasn’t as easy as it sounded.
I killed the engine of the van and hurried inside the convenience store. The girl behind the counter looked about my age, maybe twenty-three at the most, pale-skinned, with hair that looked like it suffered from a distinct lack of shampoo use. She lifted her head as I came in, gave me a vacant look before returning her attention to her phone. A brief wave of sy
mpathy went through me. I’d done more than my share of shit jobs like that. And while there were lots of people who wouldn’t see my current job as a step up, I knew there was no comparison.
I quickly grabbed chips and a Coke, giving the clerk as friendly a smile as I could manage while I paid, silently urging her to hurry the hell up, and for chrissakes I’d seen roadkill move faster. She finally managed to fumble out something resembling the correct change, delivering it with the same glazed-eyed, slack-jawed look she’d worn the entire time I’d been in there.
Did I ever look like that? I wondered briefly. Probably so, I thought with mild amusement as I shoved my change into my pocket and hurried out. There’d been plenty of times I’d gone to work high as a kite.
My navel-gazing had me distracted enough that I nearly barreled right into someone about to come into the store.
“Oh, shit, sorry!” I exclaimed.
“Angel?”
As the door swung closed behind me I blinked and focused on who I’d run into. Hispanic, not much taller than me, and a little bit stocky. I didn’t recognize him at first, until I realized he was wearing a uniform. Khaki pants, black boots, navy shirt with an insignia shaped like the state of Louisiana with “Agent” and “Probation and Parole”…
Shit. This was my probation officer.
Almost two years ago, while I was deep in my “Angel is a moron with zero judgment” phase—a phase which had lasted for most of my life—I’d made the mistake of trusting my then-boyfriend and had believed that there was nothing shady about a nearly-new Prius that he could get for me for only five hundred dollars. A couple of weeks later I was pulled over and promptly arrested for possession of stolen property, and spent a terrifying three days in jail before making bail. Eventually I was sentenced to three years probation.
I managed an unsteady smile as I clutched the chips and Coke to my chest like a shield. “Um, yeah. Hi, Mr. Garza. How’s it going?”
“I’m doing fine,” he said. His gaze raked over me, pausing on the insignia on my own shirt. “Still with the Coroner’s Office, I see.”
For a second I couldn’t figure out how the hell he would have known I was working there. I was a low risk offender which meant that I only had to meet with him in person every six months. Yeah, but I have to turn in those stupid forms, I reminded myself. Every month, along with a check for sixty-five dollars, I had to give all sorts of details about my living conditions, work situation, and any possible incidents that might affect my probation.
“Yeah. Still with the C.O,” I replied. “Two months now.”
“That’s some sort of record for you, isn’t it,” he said, mouth curving in a humorless line.
I fought the urge to hunch my shoulders or shuffle my feet uncertainly. “I’m doing a lot better now,” I said, possibly a little defensively.
“I see that,” he said. “I’m real glad to see it.” He didn’t look very glad, but then again, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him smile.
I cast a longing glance at my van. I needed to get going, but I couldn’t exactly blow my probation officer off. “Yeah, thanks. I, um—”
“How’s the studying going?” he asked, cutting me off.
My response was to blink stupidly. “Hunh?”
“The GED,” he said. “It’s one of the conditions of your probation, remember?”
“Oh, right!” I said, plastering a smile onto my face. “Sure, it’s going just great. I, um, I’ll be taking it in just a coupla months. No problem.” I kept the smile frozen on my face while inside I cringed. God damn fucking shithole crapstains! I’d completely forgotten about that little detail. Since I was also a high school dropout, one of the conditions of my probation had been that I had to get my GED—the General Educational Development test which could serve as a substitute for a high school diploma.
He probably could tell I was handing him a line of complete bullshit. “Do you have a few minutes?” he asked. “There are a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I can’t,” I practically gasped. “Sorry. I’m on call, and I just got texted to go pick up a body.” I fumbled my phone off my hip and waved it for emphasis.
He pursed his lips, but nodded. “Sure thing. But don’t forget, we do have a scheduled meeting next week.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a couple of screens. “Wednesday. Nine a.m..”
“I’ll be there,” I assured him, smiling in what I hoped was a confident manner though I had a feeling I looked more manic.
“Good. Please don’t forget,” he said. “There are some important matters we need to discuss.”
“I won’t forget,” I promised. “I gotta go now!” I ducked around him before he could say anything else and practically sprinted for the van. I had a feeling he was watching me as I drove off, but I was too chicken to look back and see.
Great. My probation officer had “important matters” to discuss with me. There was no way in hell that could be a good thing.
And the GED…? I groaned as I followed the directions from the navigation system. Sure, I’d dutifully listened to the judge’s conditions when they’d been handed down. But, at the time, three years had seemed like such an insanely long time that I didn’t feel any sort of rush to get started on it.
And, more importantly, there’d been a little part of me that felt it didn’t matter. In three years I’d be dead, or arrested again, or something equally self-destructive. I certainly hadn’t been thinking of any sort of future.
But, I realized with a sense of mild shock, it had been close to a year and a half since that arrest. And now I had to learn all the shit from high school that I never bothered to learn back then.
I am so screwed.
It was probably a good thing that the trip to NuQuesCor was somewhat convoluted, forcing me to pay close attention to the GPS, and helping take my mind off my educational shortcomings.
The lab turned out to be not quite in the middle of nowhere, but certainly far from anything anyone gave a crap about. It was full dark by the time I pulled up in front of the building, and the only way I could be sure I was in the right place was because of the small cluster of emergency vehicles near the front entrance. A black Dodge Durango was parked next to an unmarked police car, and I saw Derrel leaning against the front grill. As I climbed out of the van he gave me a casual lift of the chin in greeting, then pushed off the Durango and started my way.
“Sorry it took me so long,” I said as I yanked the stretcher out of the back of the van.
“Not a problem,” he replied. “Crime scene is still taking some pics. Figured I’d meet you out here since getting to where the body’s at is a bit complicated. You ever been here before?”
I swept my gaze over the ugly white exterior, only now seeing an unlit sign that identified the place as NuQuesCor. Otherwise it resembled little more than a large white brick. A few narrow windows here and there marred the surface, looking out of place and rather pathetic.
“I didn’t even know this place existed before today,” I admitted.
Derrel’s eyes crinkled. “They’re one of the top tech employers in this part of Louisiana.”
I snorted. “Derrel, up until a few months ago my grandest career aspiration was to get off the night shift at the XpressMart.”
He chuckled under his breath. “Well, it’s also quite possible that NuQuesCor is the only tech employer of any note in this part of Louisiana.”
“Again,” I said, “minimum wage girl here.”
“Not anymore,” he said.
“Not anymore,” I agreed, somewhat surprised at how certain I was of that fact.
“Good deal,” he said. “All right, let’s get to it. Oh, and you’ll need your badge and ID.”
“My badge…?” Grimacing, I returned to the front of the van and spent a slightly frantic few seconds digging through my belongings. To my relief the badge in question was still at the bottom of my purse where I’d tossed it after it had first been issued to
me, along with my Coroner’s Office ID card. I retrieved both, then went ahead and grabbed some extra gloves and stuffed them into the side pocket of my cargo pants.
Derrel had his badge clipped to the front of his belt, and I quickly copied him. He gave me an approving smile, then together we headed up the sidewalk to the entrance with the stretcher and the empty body bag in tow.
The inside of the building was a lot more impressive. The double glass doors opened up into a large two-story lobby that looked more like the entrance to a hotel than a lab. Panels of burnished metal covered the walls and the floor was a grey marble with dark black flecks. Off to the left was a shuttered coffee stand along with an assortment of tables and chairs. Beyond that were couches and coffee tables, with an odd sculpture of what I thought might be birds in flight looming over the seating area. A balcony/walkway type thing overlooked the lobby, with a set of curving stairs and an elevator off to the right. And in the center of the lobby was a circular desk, but instead of a concierge it was manned by a security guard who gave us both a tight-faced glower as we approached.
I was asked to produce both badge and ID, which were subsequently scrutinized as carefully as a bouncer would in a college town. For that matter the guard looked like he could totally be a bouncer—tall and thick. Thick neck, thick shoulders, thick arms. Even his nose was thick.
Fortunately my ID looked sufficiently authentic, and I was allowed to continue on to a doorway on the far side of the lobby, this one manned by another dour guard who required us to sign in on a clipboard. I hid a smile at the sight of Deputy Marcus Ivanov’s neat signature further up the page. He was busy tonight as well.
Angel Crawford #2: Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues Page 2