Haunted Honeymoon (31 page)

“Please,
mujer
,” Mercedes said, “the day you start being tech-savvy is the day I’ll start flirting outrageously with every pretty boy I see.” She was grinning, though, and so was I.

After Mercedes and Rosemary left, I put the composition
books with my second fauxoir on my desk and turned back to my cogitating.

As I was musing, I noticed that one of my first dog’s toys, a chewed-up squeaky bear, was on my windowsill. Ford’s mother must’ve been suffering from the loss of her son and her cat, and I knew she was the only one who could influence Professor Poindexter.

I made a phone call to
Don
Pedro. He said, “My sweet little bat, I have been sending my spirit guide to help you. I am very worried!”

“
Don
Pedro, I definitely needed a spirit guide, but the blanket you gave me was very useful. What are my chances of getting more?”

“
Chula
, I will answer a question with a question. Have you finished transcribing the riveting story of my adventures among those who are in the twilight world before death?”

“I’ll finish it in two weeks,” I said. “I composed the story in my head while I was being held captive by a mad scientist, and I somehow was able to access that part of my mind while I recently had amnesia. I recovered from the amnesia when a zombie kissed me.”

“Your adventures are almost as exciting as my own, little bat! What will you give in exchange for the weavings?”

“What about the second installment of my payment?”

“The weavings are so especial and valuable, are they not?” he said. “What price is life?”

“Real life is priceless, but zombified life should be on the clearance rack.”

“Or is it even
more
precious for having almost been lost?”

“
Don
Pedro, you are a shifty little bastard. Yes, you can keep the second installment in exchange for two cloths. I need them as soon as possible. Where are you?”

“The second and
final
installment of your payment,” he said.
“I came to the City because I knew you would need me. Let us meet in thirty minutes at the same restaurant as the last time.”

Last time, we’d met at a waterfront bistro. “Somewhere else?” I asked.

“It must be there, little bat, or not at all. Bring what you have written so far.”

I said good-bye to the crafty little fellow and took a quick glance at the notebooks. I would have liked to clean up the story, add interesting metaphors, delete redundancy, and develop the imagery, but perhaps I could do that if
Don
Pedro gave me a chance at the copyedited manuscript.

I put the composition books in my backpack and walked quickly toward the restaurant.

Because it was the middle of a chilly gray afternoon, the restaurant’s deck was empty except for
Don
Pedro. He was sitting at the table nearest the bay, dark green water lapping only a few yards away.

I glanced around and saw one of his bodyguards/followers, leaning against the wall of the building. I took a deep breath and walked toward the table. I kept my eyes on the gray wood planks beneath my feet and took a seat that faced away from the water.

“Good afternoon,
Don
Pedro.”

He had a pot of tea in front of him, and he poured a cup for me. “
Mijita
, I am quite delighted to see you well again.”

“I’m glad to be well.” I took a sip of tea and then reached into my backpack and took out the notebooks. “I’m about halfway through. The weavings?”

His old brown leather shoulder bag hung from the chair. He placed it on his lap and withdrew a package wrapped in plastic. “Use them wisely, Milagro de Los Santos.”

“I will,” I said. “Also, I’m available to line edit for a reasonable fee.”

He was about to say something, but he stopped and squinted his big brown bug eyes behind the glasses and said, “We shall meet again on your island, Isla Milagro, with your friends back from death.”

“It sounds like a plan,” I said. “I’ll be in touch when I’ve finished your fauxoir.”

He stood up and I thought he was going to try to hug me, but the little man took off his huge black-rimmed glasses, set them on the table, and slipped off his soft brown moccasins.

He smiled at me and took a few steps to the edge of the deck. I didn’t want to look at him standing so close to the water, but I couldn’t help myself.

Then he stepped over the edge and splashed into the water.

I waited for him to bob up again, and I squeezed my fists so tight that my nails dug into my palms. When he didn’t come up, I turned to his bodyguard/follower and shouted, “
Don
Pedro fell in! Get him.”

The stolid man looked at me impassively.

“He’ll drown,” I shouted. “Save him.”

The guard said, “He will transform into a fish. Or maybe a frog.”

“Goddamn!” I pulled off my shoes and went to the edge of the deck. I couldn’t see
Don
Pedro, and I was cold, cold from the wind blowing across my nervous sweat. Superheroes couldn’t be afraid of water. I closed my eyes and jumped.

For a moment all I felt was fear. Then came the shock of cold and consuming panic. I thrashed in the water, turned about, and saw the lighter surface above me.
Don’t panic
, I told myself.

I looked around until I saw
Don
Pedro’s white shirt billowing in the water. I swam to him, and he reached out his small hand to me. When I took it and pulled him upward, he was as light as a rubber duck.

He clutched the edge of the deck and I pushed his butt up to help him scramble out of the water. Then I pulled myself out.

Don
Pedro was shaking the water off like a dog and he beamed.

“You crazy little—” Then I realized that I’d faced the water and survived.

“I thought I was a platypus again.”
Don
Pedro winked at me. “Until we next meet, my miracle girl.”

I started laughing and said, “Yes, until next time,
Don
Pedro.”

I trudged in my wet clothes to the grocery store. The clerk stared at me as I bought a big juicy steak, red cabbage slaw, cranberry juice, and crusty whole grain bread.

I went to my loft, ate dinner, and studied maps on the Internet, looking for street views. None of the satellite photos available showed the compound, which allowed me to pinpoint the location by its very absence.

This was just the occasion to wear my new black leggings, a black tank, a jacket with lots of pockets, and black tennis shoes. I put my hair in a bun and shoved a lot of bobby pins in it in case I needed to escape from handcuffs. I pulled on a black beanie, which made me look as if I had a giant tumor on my head.

My plan wasn’t very good, but it was the only one I could think of that wouldn’t endanger anyone else.

When darkness came, I drove the truckasaurus toward the south end of the City, and after some searching I found the sewer pipe where I’d left Average Joe’s keys. I had to reach into muck, but they were still there.

I drove to a block of shut-up warehouses near the Professor’s facility. I parked between two buildings, with the truck facing toward the street, and left my keys in the ignition so I could make a fast getaway.

After putting on my backpack, I jogged on dark and empty streets until I saw my destination. A few lights were on at the
perimeter gate and on the second floor, where I thought the Professor had his living quarters.

There was an olive green post office drop box across from the property. I watched as the guard patrolling the grounds walked back into the building, and then I dashed to the drop box and hid behind it.

Several minutes later, I heard the engine of the nightly delivery van, and then I saw its headlights.

When the van turned into the facility’s driveway, I ran so that I was hidden behind it on the passenger side. The gates slid open, and I kept pace with the van as it crossed the lot and entered the garage. Once inside, I dropped to the cement floor and rolled under a vehicle.

I heard the van’s engine stop, and then clanking as the driver opened its doors. While he unloaded his cargo, I crawled to the car parked closest to the lab.

Waiting is hard. One of the cat clones found me under the car and curled beside me. I pet its soft fur while the minutes passed. I heard the delivery van driver say “See ya,” then doors closing. The engine started and the van drove off.

I peeked out from under the car. The garage was empty. I crept out and found the Professor’s car. When I clicked the transponder key to unlock it, the beep echoed in the garage, but no one came. I unlatched the trunk but didn’t raise it, and left the driver’s-side door slightly ajar.

Then I made my way to the autopsy room door and pressed myself flat against the wall in the shadows. To stay calm, I thought about
Don
Pedro’s story and the chapters I had yet to write.

My tension made my wait seem interminable, but then the door opened and the lab tech stepped out. He held a pack of cigarettes in his hand and began walking to the garage exit.

I slipped through the autopsy room door, before the automatic doors slid shut.

The scene was more gruesome than I recalled. I was momentarily transfixed by the glass cases of limbs and organs bobbing in the viscous yellow fluid.

I opened the heavy metal door of the chill room and the frigid air hit me. Cricket and Ford Poindexter were still lying on gurneys, their medical machines beeping and buzzing around them.

I didn’t know if
Don
Pedro’s weavings would work after so long a time, but I took them from my backpack. I detached the tubes from Cricket, lifted her small, cold body, and rolled her in the fabric.

The jealousy I’d once felt seemed stupid and petty.

Then I removed the tubes from Ford and wrapped him in the fragrant shroud. I’d intended to take Señor Pickles, too, but something stopped me.

I put the Poindexters together on one gurney and pushed it out of the chill room.

I went to the computer at the lab tech’s desk. I might not know how to fix a computer, but I had a talent for screwing them up. Too often in my temp jobs I’d accidentally sent an embarrassing personal message to the entire company.

I took the flash drive out of my pocket and inserted it in a port. A few seconds later, I’d sent the toxic file to everyone in the company with the tantalizing subject title “Hawt zombie azz in sexxxy axtion!”

To help get things started, I opened the worm file. A button popped up that said “Run?” and I clicked “yes.” A second later, the screen started flashing with files being automatically opened and, I hoped, irrevocably corrupted.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. I’d been in the lab for three
minutes. I rolled the gurney to the door that led to the garage, hit the button to open it, and looked out. The garage was empty, so I pushed the gurney to the Professor’s car.

I placed the bodies in the trunk and gently pressed down until I heard it click locked when I heard a familiar sound, the
shsh-shsh-shsh
of corduroy pants.

The Professor came across the garage and said, “I had an alarm set on the bodies because I expected you to return.” He looked at me with a satisfied smile. “Your recovery is excellent.”

I leaned back against his car. “How did you know I wouldn’t go to the police?”

“Because they don’t take vampire abuse very seriously. My men are now stationed outside the building.” The Professor took his hand from his pocket and held up a dark plastic device. “If you even move to hurt me, they’re instructed to slaughter you.”

“Sounds unpleasant for the both of us. Can you suggest any alternatives?”

“Give me a few organs to work with and I’ll let you live. A kidney, a lung, and an eye to start.”

“Can I think about that and get back to you?”

“My time is valuable and I need to get Ford and Cricket stabilized before degradation sets in.”

“In that case, no, I will not let a mad scientist use my organs for evil.”

“Your sense of self-righteousness compromises your already limited intelligence. You’re a stupid girl with a delusional sense of your value to the world.”

That’s when the building rocked and huge boom sounded. I thought it was an earthquake when it started, but the building shaddered from above, not from the ground. The Professor looked around, bewildered.

“I’m not stupid,” I said. “I’m a Miracle of the Saints.” I jumped
in the driver’s seat of his car as a second explosion jolted the building. A frightened cat was crouched nearby, and I grabbed it and tossed it to the backseat, slammed the door shut, and turned on the ignition.

The garage gate opened and a few uniformed men stormed inside, and I could see others scrambling around the lot.

“Get me out!” the Professor yelled at me, and then one of the garage walls exploded and chunks of concrete rocketed out. A hunk of cement struck the Professor’s head and knocked him off his feet.

He was a man with too much brilliance and no moral compass. He was a danger to the world and I couldn’t take the chance that the military contractors might save him. I hit the gas and ran over his body, crushing his skull, and I screeched out of the garage.

More explosions sent shattered glass hailing down on the car. I glanced back and saw orange flames blazing out from every level of my prison.

The entrance gate opened for a black SUV turning into the asphalt lot, and I streaked around it, missing it by inches, and careened onto the street and away.

Shots were fired as I escaped, but the car windows were bulletproof, and they spiderwebbed without breaking. A black SUV tore after me, but I could drive in the dark faster than anyone else. Almost anyone else.

As soon as I evaded my pursuers, I returned to the truckasaurus, put the cat in the cab, and transferred Ford and Cricket to the back. I drove the Professor’s car to the bay and sent it over the barrier, watching only for a moment as it sunk in the dark water.

I ran back to the truckasaurus and was safely driving away when I heard the helicopters in the distance, their propellers beating the air, and their searchlights piercing the night.