How the White Trash Zombie Got Her Groove Back (39 page)

He shifted his feet, clearly not liking the direction of the conversation, though I caught a flicker of interest in his eyes. “This has been fascinating,” he said sourly, “but there's a board meeting tomorrow I need to prepare for.”

Brian leaned forward to adjust the items on the plate and murmured names to me.

“I understand,” I told Andrew. “We'll be in touch to arrange secure and discreet delivery of the brains.” I stood and smoothed my skirt. “That said, it would be a really great show of faith on your part if you could give as much information as you can about the two drivers and the security guard who were taken along with Pietro and Dr. Charish: Simon Sirtis, Felicia Godwin, and Lawrence Hawkins. They're in Dallas, right?”

Andrew's lips pressed thin, and he gave a curt nod. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Awesome.” I lifted my chin. “Since you're
almost
in charge of Saberton, I'm sure you're aware that the movie extras your people experimented on are dying. We're taking steps to prevent more stupidly pointless deaths. I'm sure Saberton is as well, hmm?”

His eyes widened, and the color dropped from his face. “I didn't know.”

“Seems to happen a lot,” I said with a low snort. “That shit would piss me right the fuck off if I was in your position.” I shrugged. “Who knows, maybe your mother will fill you in. She has
such
a great track record with that.” I gestured to the door. “There's a car waiting out front to take you back home, and a briefcase by the door with a week's supply of brain smoothies. We'll be in touch about more.”

Expression troubled, he turned to go, but before he exited I remembered one more thing. “Hey, Andy?”

He stopped, faced me again. I made a point of adjusting my sleeves before speaking. “We expect to have Chris Peterson's bomber jacket delivered to Pietro's Louisiana office no later than day after tomorrow.” I kept my tone uncompromising. “And make sure it doesn't have any of Edwards's stink on it.” I looked him straight in the eye. “Chris was
murdered.
He left a sister behind. I can't bring back her brother, but I'll fucking get the jacket he adored for the sister he loved.”

Brief, stark guilt flashed in his eyes, but an instant later he recovered and stalked out.

I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall, and the front door slammed, then I let out a little squeal and did a happy dance. “That fucking
rocked!
”

We stayed in New York until the following morning, mostly because I politely asked if we could see a few sights before we left. Okay, it's possible I whined and pointed out that who the hell knew when I would ever get a chance to see the city again, and I could hardly go back home without visiting a single tourist attraction and getting some souvenirs, right?

In a show of absolute and undying friendship, Philip gamely accompanied me while I managed to jam in visits to the Statue of Liberty, Grand Central Station, the Museum of Natural History—with DINOSAURS!—and Central Park, as well as Times Square where tourists seemed utterly fascinated by some guy playing the guitar while wearing only a cowboy hat and underwear. I didn't understand what the big deal was. They could see that sort of thing any Friday night down at Pillar's Bar. After noting how long the line was to go to the top of the Empire State Building I gave up on adding that to my list of places seen. Yet instead of returning to the house at the end of a long day of hard touristing, Philip told the driver to take us back to the Empire State Building, even though it was after ten p.m.

“Hardly any lines now,” he told me with a grin, and in less than fifteen minutes we gazed out at the lights of the city from the observation deck.

Approximately five minutes after that, we both agreed that yes, the view was spectacular but damn, it was really cold and windy. We returned downstairs, climbed into the car and headed back to the house, loaded down with a truly outrageous amount of souvenirs and touristy crap.

The next morning we piled into two cars: Dr. Nikas, Pierce, Brian, and Marcus, in the vehicle Brian had driven to the city; and Philip, Naomi, Kyle, and me in the car I'd borrowed from Randy. Pierce and Marcus used the long travel time to hammer out plans and, judging by short tempers at a couple of meal stops, it wasn't all smooth sailing. Dr. Nikas, who'd assumed the role of mediator, looked frazzled before we were even halfway home.

For our part, Philip and I swapped off on the driving while Naomi stayed in the back seat with Kyle. He looked like death warmed over, and his jaw and hands still didn't work right. For his sake, everyone was relieved when we finally pulled up to Dr. Nikas's lab in St. Edwards Parish.

Naomi hustled Kyle off toward the medical section, and Philip and I went to a treatment room. Dr. Nikas gave us each two injections, then had us drink a quart of medicine-laced brain smoothie to stop the whole MegaPlague imprinting thing and put us both back to normal—or as normal as we could be at the moment. Once that was done Jacques invited me to the back to look at the growth of the heads, where I was totally psyched to see that Kang's body was almost three feet long—though still as weird and gross-looking as before—and he'd been moved to the full-size coffin tank.

I finally left the lab and headed off on my own, this time to Nick's house where my dad was still staying, according to my latest phone call to him.

Nick lived in a much swankier area than I expected, a gated neighborhood with large houses and perfectly landscaped yards. It didn't seem to fit practical Nick at all, and the only reason I didn't stop to double check the address was because the gate guard had my name as a visitor. After I pulled into the driveway of a two story house on Seraphim Circle I sat for a moment and stared at the doors of the two car garage. How the hell could Nick afford this on Coroner's Office pay, and
why
did he need such a big ass house?

I shook off the questions as I climbed out of the car and walked up to the porch. Before I could ring the bell, my dad yanked the door open. “Angel, it's 'bout damn time you got here.”

Blinking, I took in the sight of him looking halfway
respectable
. Clean shaven, hair combed—and trimmed since I left—and with freshly laundered clothes judging by the Summer Breeze scent wafting from him. He lost “respectable” points due to the old spaghetti sauce stains, frayed collar on his shirt, and the rip in the side seam of his pants that he'd declared “didn't do no one no harm” when I'd once offered to sew it up for him. “Um, nice to see you too?”

The next instant he pulled me into a fierce hug. “Don't you ever run off like that again, you hear me?” he muttered, voice rough.

I hugged him back, hard. “I hope to hell I never have to,” I said, a little sniffly. “I'm so glad you're doing all right.”

“Yeah, I'm doin' okay,” he said, then pulled back. “C'mon in.” He waved a hand toward the inside as if he was inviting me into his own house.

I entered, still struck by the sense that none of the décor reflected Nick. Floor to ceiling mirrors lined one wall of the foyer, and a vase of fresh pale yellow flowers stood on a table against the opposite wall. Through an archway, I caught a glimpse of cream leather sofa on spotless matching carpet. It was all very lovely and tasteful, neat and tidy, without a thing out of place. Expensive and classy, and I couldn't for the life of me explain why it felt so very not-Nick.

“This is a really nice place,” I said, because it was.

“It's comfy enough,” Dad said with a bit of a shrug. Maybe he felt the same way about the décor and Nick. He gestured to a pile of books on the coffee table. “That's where Nick does his studying, and the kitchen is this way.”

I followed him into a kitchen at least three times the size of mine. White tile and black appliances. “Where's Nick now?”

“Should be home soon.” He opened the fridge and pulled out a Diet Coke. “With the short staff at the Coroner's Office he's had some long hours.”

I grimaced. “Yeah, I called Allen yesterday. I go back to work in the morning.”

He popped the top on the can and took a sip. “Allen and Nick were pretty worried about you.”

“I'm sure they were,” I said with a sigh, then gave him a brighter smile. “But everything's cool now.” I heard the sound of the door opening.

My dad leaned in close and lowered his voice. “And I didn't tell him anything about, um,
you know
.”

“God, I'd hope not!” I whispered back, then gave Nick a smile as he strode into the kitchen. “Hey!”

“Hey, Angel,” he said, trying to look casual but failing miserably. Anxious delight shone in his eyes, and he cleared his throat. “I'm glad you're back safe and sound.”

Grinning, I closed the distance between us and pulled him into a hug. He wasn't much taller than me, so it was a bit different than hugs from big guys like Philip or Marcus. Nick had his face right on my neck which made me glad I'd eaten recently. Nothing like getting a face full of rot smell.

Nick's breath shuddered out of him, and the hug he'd been holding somewhat awkwardly relaxed and shifted a bit closer.

I held him, deeply grateful that I had such amazing friends. “Thanks for watching out for my dad,” I murmured.

I felt him nod against my neck. He continued to hold me for another couple of seconds then abruptly released me, all but shoving me away, a strangely stricken look on his face. “Yeah. Sure. Wasn't any trouble.” He wiped his hands on his pants, and I had the weirdest feeling it was to remove any trace of me. “I . . . need to get some water,” he muttered before hurrying out of the kitchen.

I watched him go, then glanced to my dad with a
huh?
look.

He shrugged. “Never hugged me,” he replied in a low voice, “so I don't got nothin' to compare to.”

I bit back a laugh. “C'mon, get your stuff. I'm taking you home.”

“All right. It'll just take a minute.” He headed off down the hallway, I assumed to the guest room. I heard a strange strangled sound from the direction of the living room and headed that way, shocked to see Nick leaning over the coffee table, hands clenched to white knuckles on the edge, face pale and breath wheezing.

“Shit! Nick, what's wrong?”

“Inhaler,” he managed. “Bag . . . by door.”

I ran to the door where his brown leather messenger bag lay slouched against the wall. I quickly dug through it to find the inhaler, then hurried back to Nick and shoved it into his hand. Trembling, he gripped the inhaler tightly and gave himself two quick puffs. A few seconds later he seemed to relax a little, and the wheeze faded.

“You need anything else?” I asked, worried. “Should I call someone?”

He gave his head a quick, sharp shake. “No, I'll be okay.” He gave himself another puff, then straightened without looking at me. “Thanks. Sorry.”

“It's no biggie,” I told him. Poor dude was obviously self-conscious and embarrassed, but at least his color was back. My continuing to fuss over him would only embarrass him more. “I guess I'll see you at work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, Derrel isn't back until Monday, so I'll be in and out,” he said, continuing to recover.

“Cool. Let's grab coffee if we can squeeze out a few minutes.”

He flicked a quick glance at me, smile twitching. “Sure. That'd be great.”

I hesitated, then gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you tomorrow,” I said as my dad came out with a BigShopMart bag in one hand. Reluctantly turning away, I headed to the door, Dad following.

I was in the foyer when I heard Nick clear his throat. “See you, Angel.”

Glancing back, I gave him a smile. Something was going on with him, and as soon as I settled back into my normal routine, I intended to find out what the hell it was.

I got my dad settled back at home, changed clothes and then headed out to return the car to Randy. My car was still broken down by Top Cow Café, or at least I hoped so. Getting that taken care of had been pretty far down on my list of priorities. Worst case scenario was that the city had towed it off, in which case I intended to get the Tribe to cover the tow costs. Least they could do, right?

Either way, I'd wheedle a ride home from Randy, or if that failed I'd call my dad to come get me. Though I'd then have to explain why the heck I was with Randy in the first place, and ugh, all that crap. Maybe I could walk the hell home.

Randy stepped out of the garage as I pulled into the driveway, the crunch of oyster shells beneath the tires announcing my presence better than any alarm. He wiped grease from his hands then pulled a joint out of his pocket, lit it, and headed my way.

I stepped out of the car, closed the door and gave him a smile. “Not a scratch,” I told him. “I even ran her through a car wash.” The pleasant smell of a wood fire hung in the air, and an owl hooted off in the woods beyond the trailer.

Randy gave me a lazy smile. “Looks good. You got everything done you needed to get done with your people?”

“Sure did,” I said. “Or at least enough for now.” Getting our people back from the Dallas lab was next on the agenda, but I doubted the Tribe would need me for that, especially if Andrew cooperated.

“That's good,” he said. “Win win.” He held the joint out to me. “It's good stuff. Just in.”

“Aw, man, I wish I could take a hit,” I said with a grimace. “My medical condition, remember?” Except that, in a way, I kind of wanted to take a hit. Not for the high, but to be able to participate in this little social thing. Well, maybe for the high too.

“Oh, right.” He gave a little chuckle. “Sorry. Want me to light a cigarette for you?”

“Yeah, sure.” I'd settle for a fucking cigarette. “Is there any way you could give me a ride home?” I asked. “My car's still broke down by Top Cow.”

“I
could
drive you home.” He set the joint on a fence post, then lit a cigarette and passed it to me. “But it's probably not a good idea.”

Nodding, I took a drag. “Y'mean 'cause my dad hates you?” I said with a grin.

“There's that.” He chuckled, not seeming at all put out that he wasn't universally loved. He picked up the joint, took a hit. “I was more thinking 'cause your car's right over there under the big oak.” He gestured with the joint.

I looked over in shock and gave a surprised laugh. “Aw, you went and picked it up?”

He smiled, leaned against the fence post. “Didn't fly over here on its own, now did it?”

“I'm guessing you fixed whatever was wrong with it too, huh?”

He let out a soft snort. “Wasn't hardly anything wrong with it. Just needed a new alternator.”

“Yeah, well, I'm dumb about cars,” I said. “But thanks. That was really cool of you.”

He shrugged off my gratitude and hooked a thumb toward the back of the trailer. “I got a fire going in the pit. Was gonna grill up some deer sausage. Want some? Fire'll take the chill off, and you always liked hanging out by the pit.”

I started to make a polite excuse, then realized he was right. I used to enjoy kicking back by the fire with nowhere to go, no one to answer to, and nothing but socializing on the agenda. But who had time for that these days?
Me
, I decided, after a quick mental review of what I needed to do, where I needed to go, and who I needed to see turned up nothing more urgent than wash my uniform for work in the morning. Why the hell did that bother me? I'd been busting my ass for the last week, so I should be happy that things were back to normal and my to-do list didn't include smashing people's heads or cutting holes in myself. And I was, I told myself. Happy.

“That'd be cool,” I said.

His smile broadened with pleased surprise. “Allrighty. You grab blankets for the chairs, and I'll go get the sausage.”

And as easy as that, we slipped back into an old and comfortable routine. I knew where the blankets were, and I took care of getting the chairs unfolded by the pit and the blankets spread over them. Randy's dad had used a fifty-five gallon drum to burn trash in this spot for a couple of decades, but four years back Randy had moved the trash barrel over behind the garage and put in a brick and cement pit, a yard across, in its place. A wood fire crackled under a rebar grate now, sending up sparks with each pop, and citronella torches burned in a perimeter to keep the mosquitoes at bay—not that they bothered me anymore. The whole setup sure as hell wasn't anything fancy, but it was . . . comfortable. Casual. The pit was for relaxing, kicking back with friends to enjoy a nice evening. And getting high—though of course that couldn't be part of it anymore now that I was a zombie.