Johansen’s eyes fixed on mine, and they said: Don’t hurt me. I jerked the sunglasses from my face and gave him a blast of hypnosis. His pupils unscrewed into enormous black dots. His aura flashed with a silky red texture.
He went limp in surrender. I wouldn’t fang him unless I had to. I asked what he knew about Chambers. Under hypnosis Johansen had to tell the truth, which he readily did. Johansen had no idea what had happened to Chambers or where he had last gone.
To deepen Johansen’s hypnosis, I led him to a chair, sat him down, and rubbed the webs of flesh between his thumbs and index fingers. His face and posture relaxed until his head tipped forward in sleep. He should stay under for twenty to thirty minutes.
I left him slumped in front of his TV. A ring of keys hung from a nail on a post by the counter separating the living room from a tiny kitchen. I put on a pair of latex gloves and took the keys.
Outside of unit three, I tried the keys until I found one that worked.
I stood back and pushed the door fully open. The air gushed out in a wave of musty odors and harsh chemical smells. A pile of mail scattered along the threshold.
I entered and closed the door. The interior was dark. His place was one with aluminum foil over the windows.
Propane tanks were stacked along one wall. The tanks had markings of the stores I was certain they were stolen from. Drug labs used the empty tanks to cook meth.
Was Barrett Chambers a tweaker? If he was, didn’t mean he was a zombie, just acting like one.
What had happened during his last days as a human? Who reanimated him—step one of the process was killing him—and why?
Shredded cartons of Sudafed—more evidence of meth trafficking—filled a large cardboard box. Stacks of old pizza boxes and empty cans of beer and diet soda littered the floor. Heaps of dirty clothes, car stereos, and all kinds of hand tools lay everywhere.
I opened the fridge and immediately regretted it. The smell was like a cow decomposing. The shelves held lumps of hairy shapes in shades of green and yellow. Even the water pitcher had stuff growing in it.
The bathroom and bedroom weren’t in better condition. Interestingly, dry-cleaned trousers still in plastic hung in the closest. That was the extent of any tidy habits.
I searched the drawers and found a large mailer tucked beneath loose underwear and socks, beside the porn. Inside the mailer were letters with postmarks going back seven years with the most recent being from two years ago. Every letter had been sent to a different address. Barrett had flitted from place to place like a plastic bag in the wind.
One letter was from his mom—the return address said MOM—and the rest were from someone named Robbie. Turned out to be his younger brother. Robbie kept sending updates of his progress in school. He asked when Barrett was going to get “right” and come home again. Home was Emporia, Kansas.
I looked at the squalor in the room. Barrett never got right—whatever that was.
I thumbed through the mail piled up by the door. Most were stamped: Past Due.
Barrett Chambers, it seemed, was skidding to the end of the earth and one day fell off the edge.
The problem was that Barrett returned from that edge as a zombie.
How?
I locked up and returned the keys. Johansen would remember hearing me knock and then nothing until he awoke in his chair.
Next stop, Chambers’s ex, Adrianna Maestas.
CHAPTER 10
Adrianna lived south of Abundance Boulevard. Here the roads were paved, the lawns neat, the fences straight and in repair. Most of the streets had sidewalks. No cars or tractors sat dismantled in the yards. The contrast between north and south Morada seemed mandated by law.
The address was a tidy cottage in pristine white stucco protected by walls of rectangular hedges. I parked next to a white picket fence. Cottonwood trees flush with gold and copper leaves shaded the porch. Lace curtains were drawn behind the windows.
After using my vampire powers on Johansen I decided to keep a low supernatural profile, so I had put my contacts back on. I figured I could charm anything I needed out of Adrianna.
I rang the doorbell. The door curtains parted briefly. The deadbolt clicked and the door opened a crack, secured by a chain.
A woman with a slender olive-skinned face and black hair shiny as gloss enamel peered at me. She wore a colored blouse and a neck lanyard with a plastic badge I couldn’t read. I got the feeling she was on the way to work. Despite her pleasant looks, her eyes smoldered with distrust.
An older woman inside the house called out in Spanish. “Who is it?”
“Some strange man, Mama,” the woman at the door shouted back, also in Spanish.
Strange? I’ve been called worse.
To my left, the curtains in another window parted and a set of young eyes watched.
“My name is Felix Gomez,” I said in Spanish, hoping that by leaning on our common heritage, she would soften and welcome me in. “Are you Adrianna Maestas?”
She gave a guarded nod. I couldn’t imagine what such an attractive woman had seen in a loser like Chambers.
I handed her my business card.
She read the card and passed it to someone behind her. Adrianna brought those pretty eyes back to me and remarked in English. “So?”
“I’m looking for Barrett Chambers.”
Her face shriveled with disgust like she had milk curdling in her stomach. “Why the hell you asking me?”
I tried to play the sympathy angle. “I’m afraid something bad might have happened to him.”
“Oh yeah?” Her voice turned gleefully poisonous. “Well, I hope the worthless bastard drowned in a toilet while rats chewed his balls.” She slammed the door with the clank of the deadbolt as an exclamation mark.
Being married to this harpy might have driven Chambers to become a zombie.
I remained outside the door, not sure what to do next. I could break in and use hypnosis to make Adrianna talk. But she wasn’t alone. At least two more were in the house. Corralling so many witnesses wouldn’t be worth the trouble, especially if Adrianna didn’t know much. I’m sure she and Chambers parted ways long before he was recruited into the undead.
The Araneum suspected the reanimator was nearby but where? What new leads could I follow?
I returned to the Toyota. The crystal in the diviner gave a faint glow, on duty and vigilant for more psychic signals.
Faces in the windows of the cottage kept watch until I drove off.
So far, my investigation proceeded as expected. In other words, I had practically zip to show for my efforts. The one break was that I was now certain psychic attacks caused my hallucinations.
To plan my next step I circled back to a café that I had passed on the way to Adrianna’s.
This time in the morning, I could use a cup of coffee to stimulate my thinking. The café had a short adobe wall surrounding an outside patio. The picnic tables closest to the café door were busy with customers. I paid for a cup of dark roast and got a table at the far end of the patio. The coffee was good but needed a little blood to round out the taste.
The skies were darkening and a breeze drummed along the café’s patio awning. We were due for an autumn rain and I wanted to enjoy a drink in the fresh air before the clouds drenched us.
My cell phone vibrated. The incoming call had a local prefix but I didn’t recognize the number.
Who in Morada knew my number? I answered with a simple hello.
The caller—a younger man, I guessed by his voice—asked, “You Felix Gomez?”
“I am.”
“You looking for Barrett Chambers?”
The hairs on the back of my hand stood. The breeze had a sudden weight and chill.
“I know something about him,” the man said.
CHAPTER 11
One moment this case was a dark closet and the next moment it was like the door had been flung open and the light shone in, intense and scalding with opportunity.
&nbs
p; Who was this stranger? “Your name?”
“Gino. Gino Brunatti.”
He emphasized his last name like it should mean something. Which it did.
Brunatti. Any Colorado PI worthy of the license knew that name. Along with the Smaldones and Carlinos, the Brunattis were one of the organized-crime families who had moved to Denver from Chicago and the East Coast in the 1920s. They arrived hoping to expand their rackets. Other than adding color to local history and extended stays in the iron-bar hotel, none of the families accomplished much.
Once they were chased out of Denver—too much competition from the other crooks, including the police—the mobsters had moved south. Their descendants set up shop in Pueblo and west into the mountains surrounding the San Luis Valley.
So he was a Brunatti. If he lived in Morada and hung out with a lowlife like Chambers, then Gino wasn’t much of a big-time player in the crime world.
Gino said, “That’s you at the café.”
How did he know? I ducked and swiveled my head, convinced that he was using a sniper rifle to count the hairs on my scalp. Gino might not be a big-time player but he had cojones. Where was he? “How’d you get my number?”
“From Adrianna.”
Adrianna? Morada was a smaller town than I thought.
“She gave me your number and a description of your Toyota. I drive down Abundance and here you are. Listen, you can’t wipe your butt in this town without everybody knowing how many squares of paper you use.”
“Where are you?”
“Look to your right, asshole.”
A silver Nissan Titan pickup rumbled into the gravel parking lot and halted alongside my Toyota. The driver snapped a phone closed, and in the same instant, the connection to my phone went dead. Gino.
And he had a passenger.
The Nissan was a large truck. Despite this, when Gino got out, the impression was like watching a giraffe climb out of a wall locker. His long arms and legs unfolded, his lanky torso straightened, and he stood to a height of six foot four at least.
Gino looked to be in his late twenties. Picture a Mediterranean complexion, Roman nose, and thick glossy hair the envy of any man over forty. He wore a leather Broncos jacket in royal blue and vivid orange. I could tell he liked showing off the jacket, and I’d bet he never took it off, even in the middle of summer.
Another man got out from the front passenger’s side of the Titan. He appeared older—mid-thirties—swarthy, and tall, with an unzipped nylon jacket hanging around a doughy middle. He made his way to the front of the truck, where he remained facing me.
They wanted to bully me and I wasn’t in the mood to play along. I especially wasn’t going to let the “asshole” comment slide.
Gino approached the patio and levered his gangly legs over the wall. Jeans sharply pressed. Cowboy boots shiny as oil.
He sat across from me and placed his long-fingered hands on the table. The top of his jacket hung open and showed a wealth of gold chains, each heavy enough to anchor a small boat.
Gino took a napkin from the holder and reached down to wipe the dust from his boots. A bracelet of chunky gold links dangled from one wrist. He tossed the napkin to the ground.
Outwardly, Gino looked every bit the self-assured hustler except for one detail. His eyes. Instead of arrogance, I saw worry.
I thumbed in the direction of his friend. “Why don’t you ask him to join us?”
“Vinny’s okay where he’s at. I got things to say that are none of his business.”
I hoped Gino’s secrets dovetailed with mine.
“Adrianna told me you’re a private investigator.”
Gino knew too much about me and I knew next to nothing about him. But he’d come here to talk and this was my chance to listen and learn.
I said, “That’s true.”
Gino asked, “What’s your concern with Barrett?”
“My client hasn’t heard from him.”
“Who’s the client?”
“A client,” I answered. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“I didn’t know Barrett had business in Denver.”
“So we’re even. I didn’t know Barrett had business here.” I gave Gino a fake smile.
He reciprocated with an equally fake smile.
“If you think I care about any moneymaking arrangements you had with Barrett or with anyone else”—I made an obvious glance at Vinny—“don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not.”
“Barrett was your friend?”
“We’ve known each other awhile.” Gino’s eyes keyed on mine. “You said ‘was.’ Is he all right?”
“I’m sure he’s looked better.”
“What’s that mean? Is he dead?”
Actually undead. “He’s not alive.”
“You sure?”
“I saw his remains.”
Gino whispered, “Fuck.” His lips drew back and showed clenched teeth. He acted like he was going to bite his way out of this problem. “What happened to him?”
“I don’t know.” About the zombie part. “That’s why I’m in Morada.”
“Doesn’t make any sense. He just disappeared.”
“I’m acquainted with Barrett’s past,” I said. “Seems to me that in your line of work, someone disappearing is an occupational hazard.”
“Not in this case. I was supposed to meet Barrett to pay him big. The fucker was always scrambling for money. But he never showed up and I haven’t seen him since.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Six weeks ago.”
This jibed exactly with what I’d found out about Chambers’s final days as a human.
“Where did he go?”
A grim mask settled on Gino’s face. “That is what’s so spooky about this. I don’t want Barrett to end up like this guy.”
“What guy?”
Gino unzipped his jacket and reached inside.
I tensed. At the first sign of a gun, I would spring over the table, talons and fangs bared to kill.
Gino raised his other hand. “Relax.” He pulled out a folded copy of the Morada Mountain Weekly and set it before me.
“You wanna see what’s got me spooked? This.” He set an index finger over an article “Local Man Missing.”
The accompanying photograph was of a dumpy-looking middle-aged man in a cowboy hat smiling for the camera. The article said he had vanished. The police were looking into an accidental death. Maybe he fell off his horse and into a ditch. No reason to alarm the family by mentioning the obvious—foul play and murder.
“What’s this got to do with Barrett?”
Gino hunched his shoulders and leaned toward me. “I feel like I’m in the opening minutes of a horror movie. You know when all kinds of freaky gruesome shit happens and no one but the audience has a clue what’s going on?”
Sounded like a typical day in my life. “How so?”
“I had another friend disappear. Stanley Novick.”
That made three. Chambers. The cowboy. Novick. “What freaky shit happened to him?”
Gino’s face grew tight like his insides were compressing. Then his hands shot from the table and he gestured wildly. “He’s fucking dead.”
Gino’s conniption caught me by surprise and I got ready to punch him.
“Stanley didn’t stay disappeared for long.” Gino scissored a hand over his middle. “I found him with his guts gone.” Gino chopped across his thighs. His voice got louder. “Plus both legs.”
Words spewed from Gino’s mouth like blood gushing from a severed artery. “His skull was empty as a coconut. They took his brains.” Gino cupped his hands in offering and practically shouted. “His fucking brains. How sick is that?”
A couple of women at another table stared and then averted their eyes. They gathered their cups and plates and slinked to the café door.
Vinny leaned toward us and cocked an ear.
Gino must have sensed this and turned to Vinny. He waved an okay.
Vinny nodded and relaxed.
Gino’s nostrils flared and the breath huffed from his nose. His skin turned white as an eggshell and his expression became as brittle. “Who would do this?”
Hungry zombies. The missing brains were the best clue. As for the guts and legs, the zombie reanimator could’ve been harvesting parts for new victims.
I said, “I don’t know.”
Gino asked, “Did Barrett have all his stuff? His arms? His legs? His brains?”
Until Mel sliced and diced him with an excavator. “As far as I could tell.”
Gino took the newspaper and shoved it back into his jacket. “What happened to Stan and Barrett gives me the serious willies. Sometimes there’s a scuffle over turf—another gang moving in—and if someone gets his, it’s usually a drive-by or a simple one right here.” Gino touched the back of his head. “I’ve heard of Colombians and Mexicans doing crazy torture shit, but that’s never happened around here.”
A gust of cool, moist air whisked dust across the patio. Napkins fluttered off the tables. Gino put a hand over his forehead to keep the wind from mussing his hair.
Vinny called to him and held up a cell phone. “It’s Uncle Sal. We gotta go.”
Uncle Sal who?
Gino got up from the table. “My cousin told me that if someone came asking about Barrett, that guy would be the one who knew what the score was.”
My kundalini noir twitched. Was that guy me? I’d come here unannounced to investigate zombies and psychic signals, and yet Gino’s cousin anticipated my arrival.
“What cousin? What score?”
“The disappearances.” He backed away, shoulders hunched, as if afraid to say more. “We’ll talk again.” He stepped over the wall and headed for the Titan pickup.
“When?” I got up to follow.
Vinny scowled and hitched the side of his pants to warn he had a gun handy. In other circumstances, I’d take that gun and give him a bullet suppository. But I couldn’t risk the gunplay out here in public, with so many bystanders. For now.
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