Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues wtz-2

by Diana Rowland

  The broad atrium at the entrance to NuQuesCor looked a hell of a lot different during the day when there were people there, all seeming to be walking with great purpose, or clumped together having Very Important conversations, or waiting not terribly patiently in line at the coffee stand.

  Panic shimmered through me briefly, but I managed to choke it down and force myself to move forward to the broad desk that dominated the center of the area.

  The security guard looked up as I approached. He gave me a quick once-over assessment and apparently decided that I didn’t immediately warrant expulsion since he then gave me a thin, professional smile. “Can I help you?”

  Ha! It should be ‘May I help you?’ I mentally jeered, though I knew this wasn’t the time or place to display my newfound knowledge of grammar, courtesy of Nick. Instead I simply echoed his professional-level smile. “I hope so,” I said. “I’d like to apply for a job.”

  His smile shifted immediately to a slight frown, and I received yet another raking glance. “I see. Do you know what position or department you wish to apply to?”

  Oh my god, I really was becoming sensitive to grammar. What the hell was happening to me? “Um, custodial…?” That was probably the only department I could hope to qualify for.

  A smirk danced across his mouth, and he nodded. “Of course. We happen to have a recent opening in the custodial department.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a single sheet of paper, but paused before handing it to me. “I’m assuming you don’t have a resume or a CV?”

  I had no idea what a CV was, but I figured I didn’t have one. “No, sorry.”

  The smirk increased by a few millimeters. “Then you’ll need to fill this out,” he said, passing the sheet over to me. A quick glance confirmed that it was a basic employment form. I’d filled a few million of these out in my years of skipping from shitty job to shittier job.

  “You can fill it out right over there if you want,” he said, gesturing toward a grouping of tables in the corner by the coffee stand.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Oh, wait,” he said as I began to turn away. He let out a low chuckle. “Almost forgot to give you the other part.” The smirk was at full power now as he set a sheaf of paper that had to be at least ten pages thick in front of me. “This is a secure facility, you understand. We need this information for the background checks we do.”

  I plastered on a smile and picked up the stack of paper. “Even for the janitors?” I asked gamely, though I knew what the answer would be.

  “Absolutely,” he replied. “After all, they go pretty much everywhere.”

  “Right.” I tried to see his name on his security badge but it was cocked around, and I couldn’t read it. “You’ve really been a lot of help,” I said, gushing just a little. “What’s your name?”

  “Lombardo,” he replied.

  “Lombardo…?” I gave a titter that sounded stupid and obnoxious even to me. “That’s your first name?”

  His eyes narrowed with a touch of disgust. “No. First name is Steve.”

  “Gotcha!” I chirped. “Thanks a million, Steve. I’ll just go and fill these out. Can you answer one more question for me?”

  He was really ready to get rid of me, but he sighed and said, “Sure. What is it?”

  “Is there any way I can get an interview today? Or maybe just a tour?” I put on my best bubbly attitude. “See, I’m just starting college, and I want to major in biology, and I would so love to do research and stuff and would love to see more of what y’all do here!” Damn, I wished I was cuter. Or bustier. Or both.

  His expression didn’t waver one bit as he pulled out yet another paper and practically slapped it onto the desk. “Tours are only given in groups of four or more and have to be scheduled in advance and on the dates indicated on this sheet.” He said it all in a monotone that told me he’d said it about a billion times before. I noticed he didn’t answer the part about the interview.

  I looked down at the sheet to see a calendar with a smattering of dates marked out in green, and below that a list of rules and guidelines for tours that included things like “Government-issued ID required for all tour members” and “No cameras or recording equipment of any kind allowed” and “All tour members consent to a search of their property and person.”

  “All righty then,” I said, then gathered up the various papers and headed on over to the tables in the corner.

  Scowling down at the papers, I settled in to work. So far I was batting zero in my Quest To Break In Without Breaking Laws. I saw Lombardo eyeing me from the desk, so I made sure to pull out a pen and look like I was actually filling the shit out. I figured I’d give it a few more minutes to give the appearance that I was at least making an honest effort, and hopefully some sort of miracle would occur that would allow me to get beyond those security doors. Like, maybe an asteroid hitting the security desk in the lobby. I sighed. At this point that was probably the most likely scenario for me to get past him.

  I had a bit of fun making up a name for myself along with all sorts of improbable educational background. Honors programs? Sure! Summers abroad? Hell, yeah! The stack of papers for the background check wanted me to list every job I’d ever worked at, everywhere I’d ever lived, and provide an insane number of references. Needless to say, I lied about every single one of those. Mostly because there was no way in hell I’d be able to remember all the jobs I’d had.

  After about half an hour I’d plowed through the whole stack of paper. And, sadly, no asteroid had yet landed on Mr. Steve Lombardo. Gathering up the papers, I made ready to return to the desk and once more try to bluff my way into an interview, when the man I recognized as the head of security walked past me and to the coffee stand. Hard to miss with that square jaw, military-grade haircut, and Secret Service-type suit.

  “Morning, Sandra,” he said to the barista. “Medium Americano, please.” He paid then casually scanned the area while he waited for his order. His eyes rested briefly on me, and he gave me a polite nod with no hint of recognition in his eyes. I returned the polite nod with a chin lift of my own, though I had to do everything in my power to keep my face as neutral as possible.

  Because, after hearing his voice, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was the man who’d held me up at gunpoint and stolen the body of Zeke Lyons.

  Chapter 16

  I gave the stack of fiction-heavy employment paperwork to Mr. Lombardo, and got the hell out of there, doing my best to not draw any more attention to myself than possible. Head Security Guy hadn’t seemed to recognize me as the chick he’d held up, but I wasn’t going to give him any more opportunity for that little fact to click in.

  Besides, I’d already confirmed what I’d suspected: someone in that lab was up to something completely fucked up. And Sofia was either involved or in a shitload of trouble.

  I headed straight for the sheriff’s office and the entry marked “Investigations.” I didn’t take any chances and identified myself to the receptionist as “Angel Crawford with the coroner’s office” before asking to see Detective Ben Roth. However, I was told that Detective Roth was out observing an exhumation.

  Ding! “Of Zeke Lyons?”

  “That’s the one,” she replied.

  I thanked her and left. I knew exactly where Zeke was buried. Since no one had come forward to claim his body, he’d been given a pauper’s burial at Riverwood Funeral Home.

  Ten minutes later I pulled up at the cemetery. The area set off for the pauper burials was distinct mostly because it lacked any headstones. Riverwood had a contract with the parish to bury any body that remained unclaimed. However, since they didn’t want everyone to get the idea that this would be a great way to get around the cost of having a proper funeral and burial for their loved one, the graves weren’t marked, which meant that if the families wanted a grave they could actually visit, they’d have to pay for a plot. Riverwood kept track of who was buried where using markers and GPS coordinates, which
was how they now knew where to dig.

  I’d stupidly expected there to be men with shovels, but instead a backhoe was busily excavating earth—which really did make a lot more sense. Standing on the other side of the backhoe was Allen Prejean, looking as sour as ever. He was facing away and didn’t see me, which suited me just fine.

  Detective Roth was on this side of the grave, saving me from having to pass by Allen. Ben looked like he hadn’t changed clothes since I’d last seen him—and had probably slept in them as well, to judge by the impressive array of wrinkles that patterned his shirt. As I approached he jerked his head up in a way that made me suspect he’d been dozing standing up, or at least close to it.

  It took him a couple of seconds to focus on me. “Oh, god, not you again,” he moaned. “Haven’t you done enough?”

  Stunned, I groped for something to say, finally coming up with, “What the fuck, dude?”

  He sighed, scrubbed both hands over his face. “Sorry. But you have no idea the shitstorm that’s been going on,” he said, face falling into mournful folds.

  “Um, you mean because the dead guy was someone who was supposed to already be dead?” I ventured, gesturing at the backhoe.

  “God. Yes.” He let out a groan. “You should hear the various theories being thrown around. People are batshit insane.”

  “Sorry, Ben,” I said. “I was only hoping to help y’all figure out why someone would want to steal the guy’s body.”

  He heaved a sigh. “I know. But on one side I have people insisting that the first victim was identified wrong and couldn’t have possibly actually been Lyons, though the prints that were taken from that body have been checked three different times now and still come up the same as the ones taken from the watch. So now I also have people trying to figure out how the dead guy from the lab could have the headless dead guy’s watch—without getting any of his own fingerprints on it.”

  “And the scar…” I said.

  “Yeah. That’s the part that’s freaking everyone the hell out. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve looked at those crime scene pics and compared them to the Driver’s License pics I have of Lyons.” Ben spread his hands helplessly. “It looks exactly like the same guy. So, what? A father and son who happen to have the same scar?”

  “They wouldn’t have the same fingerprints,” I said.

  He smiled grimly. “Yeah. Well, I also have the people who say that the older guy’s from an alternate dimension, or that the killer who took the head somehow managed to regrow the guy’s body.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m telling you, the crazy theories are all over the place. But the ‘real’ Norman Kearny hasn’t been back to his apartment since the night his imposter died, according to his neighbors. They also confirmed that he worked at NuQuesCor.”

  I had no doubt that the real Norman Kearny was dead. But did Zeke kill him to take his place, or did someone at the lab kill him to help cover up an escape attempt of a captive zombie? Either way, I doubted we’d ever find a body.

  “Wow,” I said. “Well, I don’t know if it’ll help you figure out what the deal is with Zeke Lyons, but I’m pretty sure I know who held me up.”

  He perked up at that. “Seriously? And how do you know that?”

  Shit. I couldn’t tell him that I had a grand plan of somehow sneaking in, albeit as legally as possible, under the guise of applying for a job there under a fictitious name. “I, uh, was over at NuQuesCor to see a friend of Marcus’s.” That wasn’t a complete lie. Sofia was a friend of Marcus’s. And I might have been interested in seeing her. “I overheard the head of security,” I told him. “And I swear to god it’s the guy. I’d know that voice anywhere.”

  “His name is Walter McKinney,” he said absently. I wondered briefly how he’d know this, then realized he probably got the guy’s name and info on a witness statement. Ben pursed his lips while he considered what I’d told him. Hope flared in me as it seemed that he wasn’t rejecting it outright. But the hope sputtered as he grimaced. “I don’t know if I can get a warrant just on the basis of recognizing his voice, Angel. The brass is going to want a lot more to go on before they risk making waves with NuQuesCor and their backers. Besides, why would this guy want to steal a body?”

  I knew why. Because he knew that the body would be ID’ed during the autopsy, and it would come back to someone already dead. And it totally would have worked if I hadn’t put the watch into property storage.

  I gestured toward the grave. “Look, we already know something completely screwed up and weird is going on, right? I mean, we have a guy who somehow died twice.” I knew what they’d find when they opened the casket up. A body with fingerprints to match Zeke Lyons and the ones on the watch.

  “Supposedly,” Ben stated. “Until the coffin is opened up, I’m reserving judgment.” He shook his head. “But even so…I’ll admit there’s some precedent for a voice lineup, but with everything else going on with this case, and…” He trailed off, and I knew without a doubt he was holding back from saying that, with my history, I wasn’t exactly a reliable witness. “With all the weird stuff,” he said instead, “it’s just too, well, X-Files. No judge in the world would take this seriously enough to grant a search warrant.”

  I could feel a knot building up in my throat, made worse by the look of pity that Ben gave me. He was being nice, damn it, and it fucking sucked. I was trying so damn hard to change my life and yet my past still kept biting me in the ass. “It’s cool,” I said as calmly and evenly as I could manage. I even forced out a smile that hopefully didn’t look too sickly.

  “I’m sorry, Angel,” he said. “I just need more.”

  I nodded. “It’s cool,” I repeated. “Lemme know what you find in the coffin,” I said, then turned and left without waiting for a response. I knew if I stayed there another second I’d either start crying or punch someone in the throat—though I liked to think it would’ve been Allen Prejean instead of Ben.

  And, damn it, I still had a little pride left, even if my self-control was hanging by a thread.

  Chapter 17

  I went home, stripped off my clothes, and crawled under the covers in an effort to grab something resembling a nap. I was tired enough to fall right asleep, until a loud banging on my bedroom door yanked me awake.

  “Angel!” my dad yelled from the hall. “Wake the fuck up and open this goddamn door now!”

  I groaned and sat up. “I’m awake!” I croaked. “What the hell’s wrong?” I looked blearily at the clock on my nightstand. Wow, I’d managed to get a whole hour of sleep. Go me.

  “Get the fuck out here! I need to talk to you!”

  It didn’t sound like a I need to talk to you about what color we should paint the house either. More like You’re a fuckup and I want to yell at you because it will make me feel better. Trust me, I knew the difference.

  “Gimme a sec,” I shouted.

  “I mean it!” More pounding, as if he wasn’t sure if I was awake. “I’ll break this damn door down!”

  “Gimme a fucking second, Dad! I’m putting on some fucking clothes so, unless the goddamn house is on fire, chill your ass out!”

  I heard him muttering under his breath, but the pounding and yelling both stopped. Maybe he remembered the last time we had a confrontation—the one that had ended with me using only one hand to hold him pinned against the wall a foot off the floor.

  I yanked on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, quickly spun open the combination lock that I’d installed on my mini-fridge, and downed about half a bottle of brain-shake. Things had been decent and non-violent between my dad and me for the past several weeks, but that didn’t mean I trusted it to stay that way. Besides, I felt like shit and needed the push of awesome that being full on brains gave me. It wasn’t a physical thing—mostly a fucked up accumulation of the past few days’ emotional knocks. Marianne’s death, the holdup, the bullshit with Pietro, and the breakup with Marcus. And Ed. That right there was damn good reason to stay tanked up.

&n
bsp; “Dear Universe,” I muttered as I tugged slippers on. Damn this house was cold. “I’m ready for things to swing back my way now.” Yeah, I was selfish like that.

  I stomped out to the living room—or at least, as much stomping as fuzzy slippers would allow. “Okay, what’s the deal?”

  In answer he thrust a newspaper in my face, so closely that I had to take a step back in order to actually see what it was. Scowling, I took it from his hands and peered at it. It was the front page, with a picture in the middle of a house with crime scene tape strung across the front of it—Marianne’s house, I realized.

  And then I saw what had my dad so riled up. There in the bottom left were two people sitting on the curb: Marcus, and me with my arms around him.

  I lifted my eyes to his, utterly refusing to show any sort of guilt or shame or chagrin or anything else. “Yeah? So? A friend of mine was murdered.”

  That took him aback, but only for a second. He jabbed a finger at the picture. “Yeah, well why the fuck you bein’ all huggy and shit with that cop? Y’know who that is, right? He’s the motherfucker who arrested me!”

  I set the paper down on the table, crossed my arms over my chest. “Uh huh. He was.”

  My dad’s face reddened. “What the fuck are you thinking? Why’d you betray me like that?”

  I probably shouldn’t have, but I let out a bark of laughter. “Betray you? Are you serious? Dad, get a fucking grip.”

  He jabbed his finger at me, though I noticed he was careful not to actually touch me. “That cocksucker put me in handcuffs! I spent three days in that shithole jail because of him!”

  “No, Dad,” I replied, raising my voice. “It wasn’t because of him, and you know it! You got arrested ’cause you were beating the shit out of me. Remember that? Huh? So don’t go fucking blaming him, and don’t you dare tell me who I can and can’t talk to or date or anything else like that!”