Hellforged
Page 11Everyone looked at Sykes.
The big zombie’s nostrils twitched as he caught the scent. He shook off his partner like he was flicking dandruff from his shoulder. Even Axel couldn’t hold him. Sykes took two staggering steps toward the detective, dragging Axel behind. The detective screamed, high-pitched like a terrified animal. He tried to climb to his feet, but he couldn’t get his legs under him. The best he could do was push himself halfway under a table. He lay on his side, cupping his hands around his nose like he could hide the blood with his fingers.
I ran to help Axel, grabbing Sykes’s arm and doing my best to dig my heels into the slippery floor. Maybe the two of us could hold Sykes back. The last thing this city needed was a Goon Squad zombie chomping one of Boston’s finest.
But I’d forgotten about the second detective. He stepped in front of his partner, gun drawn. “I’ve got exploding bullets,” he warned.
Sykes lurched forward.
“For God’s sake, shoot him!” shouted the detective on the ground.
“You do and you’re dead.” To my left, Norden had his gun out, too, pointed at the armed detective.
Sykes seemed oblivious. He pulled his arm from my grasp and yanked free of Axel. He took two heavy steps toward the norm, who covered his head with his arms.
The norm with the gun looked back and forth between Sykes and Norden, his eyes wild. He kept the gun on Sykes.
Then Sykes stopped.
He stood in the center of the room, his shoulders shaking, his face contorted. He made a strangled, gasping noise. And he turned around. Sykes actually turned and walked away from a cowering, bleeding human.
I’d never seen anything like it. When zombies smell human blood, they have to feed. It’s their nature.
Sykes staggered behind the bar and tore open a bag of peanuts. He tilted his head back and emptied the packet down his throat. Then he did it again. And again. He stopped and looked at his hand, where blood streaked the knuckles. He sniffed. A black tip of tongue appeared between his lips. But he didn’t taste the blood. Instead, he picked up a bar towel and wiped it from his hand. Then he went back to demolishing Axel’s peanut supply.
“You better get the hell out of here,” Norden told the detectives, but there was no need for him to say it. The bashed-up one was already on his feet and halfway to the door.
The CSI team wasn’t far behind. They finished packing their gear, every single one of them giving exaggerated concentration to the task to avoid catching either Goon’s eye. Within five minutes, the bar was empty except for Axel, the two Goons, and me.
Sykes stood ankle-deep in crumpled peanut bags. He pulled out a wallet. “How much do I owe you?” he asked Axel.
Axel shook his head, slowly. “On the house.”
Norden whirled on me. “What the hell are you hanging around for? You can go back to bed now that those assholes have pulled the goddamn rug out from under our investigation.”
“What investigation?” Sykes said bitterly. “There can’t be an investigation if there’s no crime.”
“Maybe I can help,” I said. They looked at me like I’d just suggested we all join hands and play Ring Around the Rosie. “No, really. I know Alexander Kane, and he—”
“Kane is in D.C., all tied up in that Supreme Court case,” said Sykes.
“Yes, I know, but …” I didn’t finish the sentence. But what? What was I thinking? Kane was putting in a hundred hours a week on his case. He hoped to make history. What was one local, shut-down investigation next to that? Kane would care—I didn’t doubt that for a second. But he had no time to do anything about it.
“That’s why Hampson’s pushing it,” said Sykes. “No paranormal rights lawyer in town to give him a hard time. This isn’t the first time the commissioner has yanked resources from a JHP case.”
JHP? Oh, right. Joint Human-Paranormal Task Force. Not quite as catchy as “Goon Squad,” but a little more dignified.
Norden was right, much as I hated to admit it; there was no point in my hanging around. I said good-bye to Axel, nodded to the Goons, and pushed through the door into the cold, clear day.
As I headed home, I thought about T.J.—smiling, friendly, eager to please. Something had obliterated that poor kid. And nobody cared. Nobody who counted, anyway.
Kane might be too busy to deal with local problems right now. But Kane wasn’t the only one who could help. I had a friend in the Boston PD. A good-looking friend with curly blond hair and blue eyes. Maybe even a bit more than a friend. As soon as I got home, I was going to call Detective Daniel Costello.
I SAT IN A COFFEE SHOP NEAR GOVERNMENT CENTER, WAITING for Daniel. I couldn’t describe what happened over the phone, so I’d asked him to meet me, even for a few minutes. Sometimes, you need someone there. Kind eyes, a sympathetic tilt of the head—sometimes those things can help push back the horror.
I wrapped both hands around a mug of strong coffee. I’d changed out of my borrowed clothes into something more normal for me: black jeans and a sweater. Yellow. I needed something cheerful today. I was having trouble getting warm past the deep, lingering bone-chill that had taken hold when I found T.J.’s ring and realized what it meant.
For the moment, I pushed that out of my mind. I’d have to go through it all over again when Daniel got here, but not now. Not yet.
I sat in a booth at the rear of the shop. I liked to sit with my back to the wall whenever possible, giving myself the widest possible view of a room and its entrances. It’s an action-movie cliché, yeah, but when your job puts you in situations where all kinds of nasty jumps out at you, it makes sense. Today, it seemed particularly important.
Had T.J. seen his killer approach? What the hell could have done that to him?
I wasn’t thinking about that now, I reminded myself.
The coffee shop was the kind I like best. Not flashy and trendy, but old-school Boston, the kind of place where you ordered coffee, not a half-caff soy-milk latte or double espresso mocha cappuccino whatever. The black-and-yellow floor tiles had probably been black-and-white once, but not in my lifetime. The counter was edged in chrome and fronted by those round stools that make kids spin around and around until they get dizzy. The bustling waitresses called everyone “hon.”
“Need a refill, hon?” one asked me now. I nodded. I’d managed only half an hour’s sleep, and that had been disrupted by a nightmare. It was going to take lots of refills to keep me vertical until I could crawl back into bed. I ordered a cranberry-nut muffin to put something solid in my stomach and checked the clock on the wall. Ten twenty-five. Daniel had said he’d try to get here between ten and ten thirty.
He was true to his word. The door opened to reveal his silhouette against the dazzling light outside. He came into focus when he entered: the blond curls, a little longer than you’d expect to see on a cop, the kid-in-a-candy-store smile, the eyes that were almost the same blue as the January sky outside. Seeing him reminded me there was a normal world out there. I hated pulling him into the horrors of mine, but I didn’t know who else could help.
“Hi.” Daniel slid into the booth across from me and pulled off his gloves. For a homicide detective, he didn’t have any qualms about sitting with his back to the door. Maybe we hadn’t seen the same action movies. He put a hand over mine. Although he’d just come in from the cold, his hand was warm. “This is a nice surprise,” he said. “I never get to see you during the day.”
A nice surprise. He’d change his mind about that once he heard what I had to say. Gently, I pulled back my hand. “I wish this was just a coffee date, but I need your professional help.”
The waitress brought over my muffin, called Daniel “hon,” and took his order for coffee. When she came back with the pot, she refilled my mug for good measure.
“So what’s up?” He sat back, waiting, letting me figure out how to start.
Daniel blinked. “Jesus. Where?”
“Creature Comforts. I found him.” What was left of him.
“Vicky, I’m sorry. That must have been awful.” He took my hand again and squeezed it once. “What happened?”
I repeated the story, the same way I’d told it to Sykes. Daniel listened attentively. When I’d finished, he ran a hand through his curls.
“And you have no idea what killed him?”
“None at all. I’ve never seen anything like it, Daniel. Never.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. There’s not much I can do. It’s JHP’s jurisdiction.”
“That’s the problem. The Goon Squad was there, but two human detectives showed up and stopped the investigation.”
Daniel’s blue-sky eyes darkened a shade. “Hampson.”
I nodded. “That’s what the detective said—their authority came straight from the commissioner.”
He sighed. “There’s still not much I can do. Hampson won’t listen to me. I’m lucky to have my job after what happened in New Hampshire.” Back in the fall, a crazy biogeneticist intent on studying shapeshifters kidnapped my ten-year-old niece Maria—my sister Gwen’s kid—and held her at a research facility in New Hampshire, a state where PAs have no rights. Daniel helped me get her back, pissing off several law enforcement agencies in the process.
“There’s got to be someone in your department who can do something,” I said. “It was a homicide, after all.” I didn’t think zombicide was an official word. “Kane can’t help right now, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”
Something flickered across Daniel’s face when I mentioned Kane. “Let me talk to the CSI guys,” he said. “The way you describe the scene, it sounds like something no one’s ever come across before. Even with the investigation called off, I’ll bet somebody kept some evidence, out of curiosity if nothing else. I’ll ask around, but I can’t promise anything.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">