Zombie - A Love Story

by Patricia Lee Macomber

  "I'm supposed to meet Detective Davis and a Detective Lopez here," Milligan told the desk officer. "We're working a case together."

  "I'll take you to Lopez," the sergeant said with a sigh.

  "Thanks," Milligan grumbled as he followed the man into the precinct offices.

  Lopez was a middle-aged, hard-nosed detective of Mexican descent. He had come up through the ranks from the streets, where most of his friends had turned out to be either gang-bangers, or dead. He had soft brown eyes and an easy smile. Life was good for him. Better than he had hoped it could be.

  He stood quickly when Milligan came through the door, that easy smile leading, a handshake following. "This is one hell of an interesting case you've got here, Milligan. I don't mind telling you, I had to fight three other detectives to get it."

  Davis laughed then. It was disingenuous and shrill. "I fought NOT to get it. Sadly, I'm the only horse in a one-horse town."

  Lopez and Milligan exchanged amused glances, and Milligan took a seat next to Davis. "So, I guess the big guy here has filled you in?" The big guy reference came from the fact that Davis was as wide as he was tall. He had floppy jowls that shook when he spoke and hands whose fingers could only barely separate due to the fat on them. That, coupled with his farm boy attitude, might have led most people to think he was slow. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

  "Yea, I get the gist. Dead guy in the back seat, half eaten. Owner and driver missing, his fingerprints all over the door. Sounds to me, though, like this Manning guy needed killing. Not exactly a model citizen, was he?" Lopez was gathering things as he spoke: cell phone, keys, walkie, his cuffs.

  "Still, we need to know what happened." Davis frowned. "We've never had a murder in my town before."

  Lopez slid the small stack of pictures across his desk and spun them to face Davis and Milligan. "You still haven't, Davis. From the condition of the body, the body temp when you found him, the lividity . . . I'd say that guy had been dead for at least 30 hours before he hit your little town. He may have been killed in that car, but he wasn't killed in your town."

  "Lopez is right," Milligan agreed with a nod. "It's possible that the car was jacked, Manning killed, and then the whole crime scene was driven to the SuperMart."

  "Well, let's go talk to this Linda. Maybe she knows something that will help us find Paul Tremblay." Lopez gave his keys a shake. "Anybody mind if I drive?"

  The meat beside Paul had begun to smell. If he had had any choice in the matter, he would have tossed it out the window. But he still needed it. On those rare occasions when he actually had to go inside and pay for gas, he needed a bite of that meat to look normal. And he was saving the very last big chunk of it for when he reached Linda. The note on the rear view mirror said so.

  Another note warned him to keep away from the cops, but he couldn't remember why until he saw the note telling him that he was wanted for murder. MURDER! The word was deep and ominous and it scared him. In all his life, he had never thought of killing anyone; had never hated anyone enough to even wish they were dead. And yet, the note said that he had killed someone.

  Paul's skin had broken out in a rash of those pustules. They were black and oozing and they smelled. He avoided looking in the mirror because his own face frightened him. That's why he was saving the last piece of meat for Linda. He wanted to look normal just long enough that he could explain to her what had happened and how much he loved her. Then, he would just slip away and die, letting Linda have a nice, normal life with someone else. He loved her enough to do that much for her.

  He remembered their second date. She had barely agreed to go out with him in the first place and he hadn't blown it on the first date. So, he had wanted the second date to be special. Beyond special. He wanted it to be the most romantic, amazing, epic date of all time.

  The senior dorm building was five stories tall and its roof looked out on the entire campus, plus half of the surrounding city. Paul had spent two days in between work and classes, hauling things up onto that roof. By the time he was finished, he had set up the perfect restaurant vignette with a table, two chairs, some potted trees and plants. He strung Christmas lights everywhere, brought up a stereo, even went so far as to get one of those fire pits and some fire wood. He put a loveseat in front of the fireplace. If Linda wasn't in love with him at the end of that date, it wouldn't be for lack of trying.

  So it was that on a clear night with a star-speckled sky, Paul brought Linda to the top of their world. He was wearing a tux at the time, she a powder blue chiffon dress that looked like it had been stolen from the fifties. She was gorgeous. The look on her face when she saw the set-up was incredible. And she'd grabbed Paul around the neck, kissed him hard, and hugged him until he couldn't breathe.

  "You did all of this?" she asked softly. "For me?"

  He nodded dumbly and smiled. "And to keep that look on your face, I'd do it every night for the rest of my life."

  Tears had gathered in her eyes and she had kissed him again. From that moment on, she was in love with him. The moment she took her first bite of his cooking, she was his, lock, stock, and barrel. No other man stood or would ever stand a chance with her. She was Paul's Linda.

  Paul almost ran off the road thinking of that night. The sobs shook him hard and though his heart no longer beat, it broke. She had taken him back up to that roof three weeks later and they had made love on a Flokati rug with the fireplace burning brightly next to them. They had rolled themselves into a Flokati burrito and slept there, in each other's arms.

  He almost couldn't go on. It occurred to him that Linda should remember the good Paul, the handsome Paul, the romantic Paul. Not the decaying corpse of Paul that he had become. Perhaps this whole thing had been a mistake. Perhaps he should just go curl up somewhere and wait to return to the earth.

  Still, she had to know. She couldn't spend the rest of her life searching for him . . . for what they had been together. He reached out and turned on the radio, hoping for some happy music to cheer himself up by. He searched the channels, found a lot of religious stations, one oldies station, and a top-20. He kept the dial there.

  The miles were rolling by slowly . . . too slowly. When Paul looked down at the speedometer, it said 35. He was doing thirty-five in a seventy zone. Grumbling, he pushed down on the accelerator and felt something in his ankle give. He hoped that something wouldn't prevent him from walking when it came time to get out of the truck.

  He was close now . . . so close that he could almost feel Linda.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The three detectives stood outside of Linda's apartment, Huey, Dewey and Louis with gold shields. It was Lopez's jurisdiction, so he took the lead, wrapping lightly on the door and then stepping back in line with his fellows. The door creaked open and an eye appeared, blinked, dulled.

  "Linda Gilchrist?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm Detective Lopez of the LAPD. This is Detective Davis of the Lebanon, Kansas police department, and Detective Milligan of the NYPD. We'd like to have a word with you, if we could."

  Suspicion eclipsed the normally soft lines of her face. It hardened and her jaw set. It was obvious that she had been crying. "Is this about Paul?" Her voice cracked, choked.

  "Yes, ma'am, I'm afraid it is. Could we come in?"

  She pushed the door further shut, then took off the chain and flung the door wide open. "Of course, sir. Please come in."

  The apartment inside was something out of a time-warp. It had been decorated in the sixties which, Lopez figured, was the last time they had renovated the building. There was orange shag on the floors in the living room, orange and aqua linoleum in the entry and the kitchen. The walls wore flocked and Mylar paper; the curtains were mostly beads.

  Linda noticed their expressions and she smiled. "I rented the place furnished. It's all I can afford until I get tenure."

  They nodded in unison and followed her slowly to the sofa. It was upholstered in crushed velvet and it dragged at their pant
s as they sat down.

  "How long have you known Paul Tremblay?" Lopez asked, taking lead.

  "Oh, I've known him ever since college. That's when we started dating and fell in love. We lived together for a while in New York. And he's going to join me out here as soon as his job for the city is done. Was. Was going to join me." She looked like she might cry then and all three men shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.

  "So, it's safe to say that you know him better than anyone?" Milligan played with the crease on his trousers. The heavy velvet upholstery was making him sweat.

  "Yes, I think so. Paul and I are very close. We talk a couple of times a day on the phone . . . or we did until . . . you know."

  "Ma'am, when was the last time you heard from Paul?" Milligan felt sorry for her, he really did. But he needed answers.

  "Well, let's see . . . it was three days ago. We didn't really talk, because he was sick and had laryngitis. So we texted. And he emailed me to let me know what was going on."

  The three detectives exchanged glances, then Lopez took a chance. "Would it be possible for us to read that email? Would that be okay with you?"

  She nodded but didn't move to stand. For a moment, she looked as though she might collapse, but then she suddenly shot up off the sofa and walked to the foyer table. When she came back, she was holding the cell phone out to him. "This is the email he sent me. You can actually look at anything on the phone you want to. I don't have any secrets."

  Lopez took the phone and the three of them scrunched together to read the email. When they were done, Lopez passed the phone back to her with a thin smile. "Do you have any idea at all what happened to him at work? He talks about it changing him forever."

  "No, I haven't a clue. I'm so stunned by this whole thing. See, I thought he was at home and sick and then he tells me that he was really driving out here the whole time. I spoke to his roommate, Matt, and Matt said he couldn't tell me everything that was going on. He just told me that Paul's car had been found in Kansas with a body in it and it was . . ." She fought back a rising gorge, her eyes closing with the effort and her face paling. "Is this true?"

  "I'm afraid so, Ma'am. I wish I could tell you more than that, but I can't." Lopez gave her his most sympathetic look. Truth be told, he wanted to give her a hug. She looked like she needed one very badly.

  "I understand. But I have to tell you, Paul Tremblay is the kindest, most gentle, caring man I've ever met. And that's not just blind love talking. It's a fact. Ask anybody."

  "Yes, ma'am." Milligan let her run with it. She needed to get it off her chest and he meant to let her.

  "He would never kill anybody. Never. No way. He can't even eat a lobster or a crab because he says it makes him feel uncomfortable the way they stare at him."

  "We're not sure what happened, ma'am," Lopez continued gently. "There's still a good chance that Paul is alive and well. But we need to find him so we can know what happened. He's coming to see you and if he makes it, that's our best chance to talk to him. So, if he calls, emails, shows up here . . . you give me a call." He handed her his card with a smile.

  "Oh, don't worry. I will." She tucked the card inside her cell phone case. "One other thing. I get the feeling that Matt is keeping something from me. He was with Paul every single day on the job. If something happened to Paul at work, Matt knows about it. But he won't tell me."

  "I understand and we'll be talking to Matt again. Whatever we find out, we'll share with you if you'll agree to do the same."

  "Absolutely."

  "All right, then. Thank you for your help, Miss Gilchrist. And if you think of anything or if Paul shows up here, you can reach me on my cell phone. The number's on the card." Lopez offered his hand and a smile.

  She showed them to the door and the three men tipped their imaginary hats to her as they left, walking down the sidewalk slowly and leaning in to talk.

  "You're just going to trust her to call us if he shows up?" Milligan snorted.

  "Not a chance," Lopez laughed. "I'm going to put a man on her right away."

  For some reason he couldn't begin to explain, Paul had become obsessed with whistling. It had started when he tried to remember the song that had been playing the night that he had taken Linda to Tavern on the Green for her birthday. He had saved up for a whole month for that dinner because she had told him the story of when her grandmother had taken her there when she was little. She had made over the food, the atmosphere, the service, and of course her grandmother's stories. So Paul had gotten the reservations for her birthday, reserved the perfect table. And in the middle of the meal, a violinist had strolled up to them and started playing.

  Linda had said the song was the most beautiful song she'd ever heard and now Paul couldn't remember how it went. It was the theme from Love Story he knew, but the tune eluded him. He had begun trying to whistle it, found that he couldn't whistle a lick, and had spent the last hour and a half trying.

  The speedometer had dropped again; this time to forty. He pushed down, carefully, and made the truck speed up. He didn't want to attract attention by driving thirty miles an hour under the speed limit.

  Three more sticky notes had appeared on the dashboard. One alluded to the birthday-Tavern on the Green-song memory. The other two were in reference to the buttons on the GPS and how they worked. The gas gauge was edging toward "E" again, so he knew he would have to stop for gas.

  Paul looked in the mirror and cried out. His lower lip had dropped a good two inches and his right eyelid had begun to droop. There wasn't a square inch on his face that wasn't covered in those hideous pustules, and his hair had begun to fall. That, he had noticed when he ran one hand through his hair and drew it back with a healthy clump of hair – and scalp as well – clutched between the fingers. It had sent him into another sobbing fit.

  He studied the exit signs, hoping for a nice, small, automated station he could fill up at. He was so horrible in his countenance now that he couldn't escape notice. The hoodie no longer protected him and he had to wear gloves to hide his green and black hands. There were still two pieces of pig meat rotting beside him on the seat. He thought to take a bite of one of them in order to pass for human at the next gas station.

  As it happened, the meat wasn't necessary. When he pulled up to the station, there wasn't a soul in sight. Minimal lights burned, one flickering like a disco ball directly over the truck. Paul slipped out of the truck, his eyes trying to focus, scanning the area for approaching cars. Nothing moved.

  He slid his card at the pump and pulled the nozzle from its cradle. He stood stock still and stared then, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with it next. He blinked and stared and looked over the body of the truck. There was a small opening at the back, just above the fender. That must be it, then. He pulled the little door open and removed the cap. While the tank filled, he went back to the cab and wrote on a sticky note. PUT THE GAS IN THE LITTLE DOOR OVER THE DRIVER'S SIDE FENDER. He put it on the dashboard right above the radio.

  He had been leaning into the truck, intent on forming the words which would keep his truck going all the way to Linda. When he was done, he stood up straight and turned, spinning right into the face of a very tall man with tattoos on his face. Paul screamed and the man screamed and a gun hit the ground. Scared as he was, Paul couldn't remember what the gun was or what it was supposed to be for. He blinked at the man, who, in the face of stark raving terror, backed away from Paul.

  He watched the man go, wondering what the hell was wrong with him, and then stooped to pick up the gun. He turned it over and over in his hand, looking at every part, every detail. Still, it made no sense to him. He tossed it into the truck, letting it land softly on the seat next to the rotting meat. Then he went to remove the nozzle from the truck and replace the gas cap. He knew that by the next time he stopped for gas, he might well require a set of step-by-step instructions for gassing the truck.

  He climbed back into the driver's seat then, closing the door after him and
gripping the steering wheel. Beyond that, he hadn't any idea in the world what to do. He began reading notes, placed there in the order that he had forgotten each one. CONNECT THE WIRES TO START THE TRUCK. PULL THE STEERING WHEEL LEVER UNTIL IT SAYS "D". PUSH ON THE RIGHT PEDAL TO GO, LEFT PEDAL TO STOP. FOLLOW THE GPS UNTIL YOU GET TO LA.

  He performed all those tasks in order, wondering why the hell he was driving all the way to LA and where the hell he was now. The signs told him where he was. The rest he was left to wonder about until he could stop and read the rest of the notes.

  Lopez eased into his seat, a smile on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand. He pulled himself closer to the desk, realized that his belly kept him from getting as close as he used to, and pushed back. "I've got two of my best guys watching the house. If Paul shows up, we'll nab him the minute he steps out of that truck."

  Milligan nodded and Davis started to say something, but then his phone rang. He tilted to one side to grab for the phone, grimacing as he leaned on his left arm. "Davis." He listened for a moment, his face darkening as he did so. There was a pen and a pad within reach and he grabbed it, began scribbling. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Got it. Okay. Later."

  "Everything okay, Davis?" Milligan asked, his eyebrows raised and his eyes hopeful.

  "Cause of death was exsanguination. The bastard bled out when somebody bit a chunk out of his neck. The other damage, to his arm and shoulder, was done after the fact. Long after the fact." They exchanged disgusted looks, shaking their heads in sympathy for a man who didn't deserve it. "My guy also says that a truck was stolen last night, long about eleven. It was a brown 1982 Chevy C-10, license number AZP-4130. At that same location, the owner of the truck reports that one of his pigs was attacked, partially eaten, and left for dead. Whoever did it took some of the meat with him."