Helix: Plague of Ghouls (31 page)

“Ishmael.”

Is this what it’s like to go rogue?

He wanted to know what he looked like. He wanted to see himself wearing that power again. He wanted to run. He wanted to track prey and bring it to earth.

He’d killed with his mouth, once. He’d been starved and scrawny then.

He could do it again, effortlessly.

“Ishmael.” He jumped when Bridget touched his arm. “You all right?”

We need to get back to Varco Lake. We can’t stay here. Forget the mission. I’m the bigger danger.
“I need to find a bank machine,” he said. Sweat stung his eye. “And you need to come with me.”

“What, right now?”

“Yeah.” He put his napkin on the table.

“There’s a bank machine just inside the front door,” Bridget said. “I don’t understand—”

Ishmael pointed at his plate. “Don’t let them take—never mind. Padre, get those eggs boxed for me, will you?” When Ishmael left the table, Bridget followed. The ATM was between the outer and inner doors of the restaurant. Coatracks blocked their view of the seating area, but it afforded them some private conversation. Ishmael shivered and wiped his forehead. His blood was itchy again. “I wish I’d checked my phone earlier.”

“What does Gil mean, cash in your assets?” Bridget asked. “Wait—did Wyrd just find out about Foster too? Are we fired? Now, in the middle of a mission? Ishmael, what the hell is going on?”

“Try to get a cash advance on your card,” he said.

She cursed and fumbled her wallet from her pants pocket. As she did so, she started worrying out loud. She put her card in, took out an advance of $100, grabbed the receipt and showed him. “So . . . ?”

He tried his card next. He was also able to get a cash advance. After the first one hundred, he took his card out, then put it right back in for the maximum advance he could get on that machine.

“Take it easy,” Bridget said. “Too many cash advances, and they’re going to get suspicious.”

“God. Maybe I
am
getting paranoid.” He pulled his sleeve down over his wrist and mopped his face. His fever was rising, and his scarred arm was on fire.

“Ishmael.” She turned him to face her. He was head and shoulders taller than her, and then some. “Talk to me. There is a metric shitload of shit going down right now, and it’s better for us to figure out how deep it is before we can dig our way out of it.”

“Why would they send Dep and Ferox here, when they know Dep is a liability?” he began. “Why would they trust you and me in the field so soon after Wyndham Farms?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been too busy trying to wrap my head around why Wyrd would send the Padre to the one town where he was wanted for murder.”

“
In order
for him to be recognized, Bridget.”

“I don’t—” Her expression changed. She laughed. “Oh, come on.”

“Why else would they send us here? Why now? Why us?”

“We’re the only ones left, and these are dire circumstances,” she said. She grunted sarcastically. “At least that’s what Angie said.”

“Why are we the only ones left?” he asked. The restaurant entrance area was cramped but empty, and the fall coats hanging on the nearby racks helped to dampen the sound of their voices. “We’re standing at ground zero of another possible outbreak, and we’re the only agents left. Where the hell is everybody else?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know! Cuba?”

“Bridget, I’m serious. What if they sent us here to
be
killed?”

“And risk exposing all of us to the public eye?” She put her fists on her hips. “That sounds awfully un-Wyrd-like, Ishmael. Kill us, yes. But risk us exposing ourselves to the media? Wouldn’t it have been a lot cheaper and easier just to kill us at Varco Lake? Hell of a lot easier to dispose of the bodies, and no one in the outside world would have given a damn. But out here?”

Ishmael nodded. “But why send Dep and Ferox? I don’t get it!”

She put her hand on his arm. She hadn’t shown any tenderness toward him since the early 2000s. “Tell me honestly, Ishmael,” she said with Claire Bambridge’s voice. “How are you feeling?”

Ishmael averted his eyes.

“You lost control out there,” she said. “In public. To hell with Wyrd trying to expose you—you’re doing a hell of a good job of it on your own.”

He rubbed his arm. She caught his hand, lifted his sleeve to take a look at his scars. He yanked his sleeve down again and began chewing on his thumbnail.

“You
did
get infected out there, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

She put his hand on his forehead and he jerked away from her touch.

“I thought it was stress,” he said. “Honestly, I thought I was going rogue. Either way, my cycle is shrinking and . . . well, look at me!”

She nodded. “Yeah. Either you’re getting taller or I’m getting shorter.”

“I’ve never been this size before, Bridget. And I just can’t stop eating! For Christ’s sake, Bridget, what if
I’m
the one who ends up like Digger?”

“Hey,” she said, shaking him. “We’ll deal with it. Just the two of us.”

“How?”

She let go of his arms. “How do you think, Ishmael?”

He wanted out. He wanted air. He needed to run.

“Ishmael.”

He nodded tersely. “You deal with it like a field agent.”

She slowly closed her eyes. “Yes we do.”

“
You
do it,” he said. “Only you.”

She raised her hand again. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“I . . . I can’t concentrate. I’ve got twelve catastrophes on my mind, and I can’t pick which one to panic about first.”

“Well, how about we start with this one: there’s a long-toothed cannibal running around Elmbury, and it’s not you.”

“That’s a good one,” he said.

“It is, because we can still do something about it.”

“Bridget, I have to get out of town! I’m four hours off a recent change and
already
I—”

She covered his mouth with her hand. “Yeah. I know. And we’re going to use it to our advantage.” He grunted an angry question through the palm of her hand.

Restaurant patrons opened the inner door and gave them strange looks as they headed outside. Bridget removed her hand from Ishmael’s mouth. “He said he wouldn’t let me pay the bill,” Bridget said with a forced laugh. The other customers laughed back, politely, and left.

“How exactly do you figure me going rogue is a good thing?” Ishmael asked.

“The Padre’s the closest thing we’ve got to a bloodhound, right? Unfortunately, the Padre’s cycle doesn’t end for another few days. We could wait a week and a half while the trail gets even colder, or we can make use of your problem and trigger his cycle.”

“Are you crazy? Twice in one day?”

“Not necessarily. But we have to do it soon, or there won’t be anything left for him to smell out.” She raised her hand to stop his next protest. “We’ll go out in a field or in the woods or something. Somewhere near that one body dump site, so Two-Trees can bring him closer to get a sniff. You and me and Foster, we stay behind in the woods, and we get a better look at you.”

“I don’t—”

“Your human body is changing. We need to know how your
other
body is changing, too. If you’re going to take a turn for the hungrier, maybe we can spot some signs and . . .” She waggled her head uncertainly. “Deal with it.”

“Like field agents.”

She nodded. “Like field agents. Like
you
would.”

“And if I fight back?”

“Then
I’ll
bloody well up-cycle, because you can trust me to shred your ass.”

He smiled weakly. “So now we trust each other again.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I suppose we do.” She put her hands on her hips again. “One big old . . . messed up . . . shitacular situation we’ve got ourselves into, isn’t it?” She added, “Ishmael, are you genuinely sick? Or are you reacting like a normal human being would, after a traumatic experience like Wyndham?”

“And the sudden growth spurt?”

“Maybe it’s your lycanthropic reaction to a sense of powerlessness,” Bridget said. “Bigger equalling bad-asser, or something.”

Like Gil said. It’s all in my head.

“Look, just . . . just trust me on this much. We’ll get the Padre over to the dump site, we’ll have you both up-cycle, let Foster do a physical—”

He laughed at that.

“And when you get the clean bill of health, we can get back to the business of killing murderers and drinking shots off Two-Trees’ belly.”

He faked retching. “God, all that hair—”

“I know, right? It’s like he’s one of us, only
all the time,
and without all the perks.”

They stood a moment longer, not quite looking at each other, but being together, at least.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Foster,” he said.

She rolled her eyes and pushed through the inner door.

“Please,” Ishmael said, chasing after her, catching her before she had gone very far. “
Please
don’t tell anyone at Wyrd.”

“They’re going to find out eventually.”

“From you?” he asked, a little more loudly than he’d meant to.

“No,” she said. She flipped hair she no longer had. “Wyrd can wait. We’ve got bigger problems on our hands, and your growth spurt is one of them.” She approached their table and chucked her chin at Foster. “She come around with the bill yet?”

“Not yet,” Foster replied.

Two-Trees came in from outside and joined them. “And baby makes three,” he said. “Sorry to cut and run, but I’ve got to go. Can you cover the bill?”

“Wait—what?” Bridget asked. “Three—oh shit. No.”

“Yeah,” Two-Trees said. “I’m going to text you the location as soon as I get there. Leash is in your truck. You might want to look into getting an ID vest for him to, to mark him as a cadaver dog.”

“Wait—”

He tossed up his hands, helpless. “Just get him ready to go. I’m going to try and get special permissions to bring him onto that third body dump site.”

“Hector—”

“I’ll keep you posted,” he said over his shoulder as he ran for the door.

The restaurant was awfully quiet.

“Well shit,” Bridget said.

TWO-TREES SHOWED
his identification to the constable responsible for traffic control. She asked him to stand by the side of the road while she fetched the lead detective. He stopped her and asked if DS Buckle was on site. She said he was, but said that DS Palmer was the lead detective.

“Buckle’s expecting me,” Two-Trees said. “I’d appreciate it if you told him I was here.”

Because the last thing he wanted to do was tangle with Palmer. It wasn’t that he was expecting some carryover confrontation from their OPP days together. It was because Two-Trees had gone nearly eighteen months without returning any of Palmer’s calls, after news broke that the Reid murder scene had been torched. It wasn’t that he’d been trying to avoid Palmer, not entirely. Two-Trees had simply been too busy to deal with loose ends. The months that followed the Pritchard Park murder were the height of the quarantine hunting season. When he finally had a chance to catch his breath, Two-Trees had no plausible alibi to cover his negligence.

Two-Trees stood on the bridge over Deer Jump River, listening to the water rushing below. At this time of year, it was more rock than water, but in spring, they used to pluck trout out of the water with their bare hands.

His eyes travelled north up the river, where it formed the boundary between two farms. In the distance, illuminated by the sunset, were the treetops of Beshkwe Provincial Park. Beyond that, between Beshkwe and Waabishkindibed, there would be a cottage, a barn, and a garage. The garage, if it was still standing, had a tin roof. The cottage would be abandoned. The barn had been burned to the ground.

So close to home I could touch it
. He tapped his hand against the bridge railing, cursing soundlessly.
Stop pulling me back.
He didn’t believe in spirits. He didn’t believe in fate.
And yet I do believe in werewolves
.

He got out his phone and texted Bridget, sending her the directions and rough location of the scene of the crime—or at least, where CSI was going over the body dump site. He added,

“Doctor Boogidi, I presume,” Buckle called.

Two-Trees turned and leaned against the railing. “How bad is it, Detective Flatus?”

“Same as before,” Buckle replied. He stood facing north, toward Beshkwe. Toward the place where Red Cloud met his end, and where Two-Trees earned his status as Wyrd’s youngest agent in history, human or otherwise. “Same deal. No identification, no head, no hands, no feet. A little more clothing this time.”