The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get (13 page)

Outside, the other two soldiers who’d accompanied us bayoneted the few remaining draggers through the head so we could leave. Larry and Judith ran out, concerned.

“Bob’s not here,” Larry said. “And one of the vans is missing.”

I grabbed Larry’s arm. “But wasn’t he sedated?”

“If he’s a morphine addict,” Warnick said, “the drug might not have the same effect.”

Judith moved closer to her husband. “Larry, I’m worried.”

The sky was darkening and the automatic lights clicked on. Warnick approached our vehicle. “We need to get back to the command center.”

“Are you going to report this?” Judith said.

“I have to let my supervisor know. But we’re treating this as highly confidential.”

We’d climbed into the Humvee and Larry was unlocking the gate when two police cruisers appeared at a crest in the road, approaching the facility fast, dust billowing behind them. Larry rolled the gate open and the vehicles passed through. They stopped in the middle of the driveway.

Two officers got out of the first cruiser and stood on either side of the Humvee, their hands on their weapons. The driver of the second vehicle got out and approached our driver’s side. Through the open window I saw that he was young, with steel-grey eyes and black wavy hair. His nameplate read
HANNITY.

“Please exit the vehicle,” he said to us.

We did as he asked. As I got out I saw another cop climbing out of the second cruiser. He was in his fifties, large and out of shape, with short, curly grey hair and sharp blue eyes. Two silver bars decorated each shoulder—it was the new police captain.

The older cop made his way slowly around our vehicle and stopped dead in front of me, giving me little room to move. His nameplate read
O’BRIEN
. “David Pulaski?” he said.

“Yes.”

“You’re under arrest.” Though his manner was vicious and threatening, his face betrayed no emotion. He smelled faintly of bourbon and cigarettes.

“What for?” Holly said, taking my hand.

“For being an accessory to the murder of James Stanley.”

O’Brien never moved or looked away as Hannity handcuffed me and read me my rights, ignoring Holly’s protests. They placed me into the backseat of the second cruiser and we were off.

I’d known all along this was coming.

I spent the night
in jail and, although I was certain Warnick and the others had followed me there, they were not allowed to see me. As Hannity led me through the building to the holding cell, I passed through a front office bursting with activity. Twenty or thirty cops sat at desks, up to their necks in paperwork. The room was noisy and the jokes were flying.

Entering the large holding cell, I found I wasn’t the only occupant. A teenager, wearing a Billabong T-shirt and ripped jeans, sulked at the end of a long bench. Tattoos covered his forearms and his ears were gauged.

“What are you in for?” I said. He was surly and didn’t look like he wanted to answer. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

“B and E,” he said. “It’s not like there’s anything left worth stealing.”

After a couple of hours, Hannity showed up again with an MRE and a bottle of water for each of us. Like old times.

“I guess a lawyer is out of the question,” I said. No response. “What happened to the former captain?”

“Red Militia got him.”

“You guys aren’t from Tres Marias, are you?”

“No. LA.”

“So, no outbreak down there?”

“Stop asking so many questions.”

He left me for the night. I ripped open the MRE and stared at the off-color beef franks that the real soldiers liked to refer to as “five fingers of death.” The beans didn’t look any better. I set the container aside and opened my water. Took a swallow and lay down at the other end of the bench.

The kid finished his MRE and sat there eyeing mine. Smiling, I waved vaguely towards it. “Be my guest.”

As he ate with his fingers, I wondered what would happen to him. I doubted he would come back with me to the command center. And the thought of him being left on the streets to fend for himself … How long could he last out there?

“So where did they pick you up?” I said.

“Some residential street—I forget the name. I don’t get it. I was looking for food. There’s nobody in those houses anymore.”

“Run into any draggers?”

“What?”

“You know, undead?”

“Oh, the freaks?” He laughed, revealing the beans stuck to his teeth. “Me and my friend—well, he’s dead—anyways, we used to get ’em in a corner and throw gasoline on ’em, then light ’em up. It was
sick
, I swear. It’s like they’re too stupid to know they’re on fire.
So fun
 …”

At first, the kid hadn’t wanted to say anything. Now, I couldn’t get him to shut up. I closed my eyes and tried ignoring him. Eventually, he got the hint and quieted down. Outside, heavy Black Dragon vehicles patrolled the streets. Occasionally, there was a shout followed by a burst of gunfire. Sometime after midnight I drifted off.

Bizarre dreams haunted me. The last one I remember clearly.

I was in the medical lab at Robbin-Sear, naked and strapped to an operating table. Doctor Royce, his head twitching like he’d been Tasered repeatedly, came at me with an oversized scalpel. Starting below my Adam’s apple, he made a vertical incision down the length of my torso. I noticed that my skin was dry and rubbery, and there was no blood. He reached deep inside me and pulled out Perro’s head. It snapped and snarled as it was forced to leave my body.

I screamed.

When I looked up, Jim was standing there holding the dog in his arms, the fetal thing dripping with the gore from my mutilated insides. The gash around Jim’s neck pulsed with wriggling kidney worms. He smiled at me with bean-encrusted teeth.

“It had to come out eventually,” he said.

In the morning Hannity forced me into a police cruiser. O’Brien was already waiting in the front passenger seat.

“Where are we going?” I said. No answer. “What’s going to happen to that kid you’re holding?”

“I’d be more worried about what’s going to happen to you,” O’Brien said.

Though they’d taken me to the yard behind the police station where no one could see, I couldn’t help but feel a burning shame getting into that police vehicle. And to make things worse, they’d handcuffed me again.

We drove in silence to a sprawling house on a hill overlooking the valley. The estate was vast, with no signs of draggers. A wrought iron gate fronted the long, curving driveway with stone pillars on either side, a security camera mounted on each. As our vehicle approached, the gates opened automatically and we passed through.

Though the house was impressive, it didn’t look overdone. I was surprised there was anyone with money left in Tres Marias. After we parked O’Brien got out and, grabbing one of my arms, walked me to the front door and rang the bell while Hannity remained in the cop car. A moment passed and a Latina housekeeper answered. When she saw us, her eyes got huge and she let us through without speaking.

The foyer was minimalist and elegant, with recessed lighting. A staircase with a polished banister led upstairs. The housekeeper brought us into the ultramodern kitchen. O’Brien released my arm and took a step back.

“What now?” I said.

O’Brien ignored me. Looking through the French doors I was surprised to see the mayor, wearing blue jeans and a yellow golf shirt, out on a massive lawn playing touch football with two pudgy young boys who were maybe seven and nine. The mayor was of average height, with wiry red hair, a ruddy complexion and a wide amorphous body that had gone from high school jock muscle to politician flab.

A slim, pretty blonde woman in her mid-thirties—the mayor’s wife?—wearing beige pants and a pink cashmere sweater, entered the kitchen and was momentarily startled to see a stranger in handcuffs lurking there. Not having showered, I was pretty ripe and felt bad for her. She made the best of it, though, and smiled. Then she went outside and spoke to the mayor. He tossed the football to his older son and jogged towards us.

“Sorry,” O’Brien said, feigning humility as the mayor entered the kitchen. “But you said to bring him right over.”

The mayor gave me a once-over and led us into his home office, which was tastefully decorated—probably by the missus. The walls were covered with framed photos of his family. Through the sheer white curtains that hung over the French doors I watched the boys playing football on the lawn as their mother sat on the patio, drinking coffee from a china cup. It was hard for me to comprehend that outside this place was a town ravaged by the undead. And Mrs. Mayor? How did this affect her? And what did she do all day? Shopping trips were out.

“Close the door,” the mayor said to the cop. “I don’t think we need those handcuffs.” Then to me, “You’re not planning on running away, are you?” He sounded like Ray Liotta.

“No,” I said.

I had never met this guy. I recalled that six years before, he’d been elected after a bitter campaign between him and the affable, elderly, long-time “Mayor Bob,” who had recently suffered a stroke but had no intention of retiring even though now he talked like Carl from
Caddyshack
. I recalled seeing the old guy playing cards at the command center.

During that campaign, this upstart had promised us state redevelopment funds courtesy of his close ties to Sacramento, as well as new business investment in the community. He himself was a successful real estate developer who apparently had a hankering for politics. Since the people were tired of the previous do-nothing Mayor Bob, this piece of work had been easily elected.

“You can wait outside,” he said to O’Brien as if he were the gardener. When we were alone, he gestured for me to take a seat. He went over to a small refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Can I offer you something?”

“I’m fine. What’s this all about?”

“What, the arrest? Well, as things return to normal, we’re going through case files to determine who’s been breaking the law during all this.”

He opened the middle drawer of his antique Chesterfield desk and pulled out a dark green file folder with a coffee stain on the front. I recognized it as the one Detective Van Gundy had kept on me during the investigation into Jim’s death.

“Seems you’re the subject of a murder investigation,” he said.

“So am I going back to jail?”

“We’ll see. I wanted to have a chance to talk to you first. Look, Dave, I won’t lie to you. Things are still chaotic around here. We don’t even have a police chief for shit’s sake. I’m not just in real estate—I’m also a lawyer. So I’m pitching in.”

I waited while he scanned the file. I knew it was all for show. He’d studied it thoroughly way before I ever got here, and he already knew what he was going to do. If this was his way of building suspense, it wasn’t working. I’d seen better theatrics in a high school play.

“You last spoke to Detective Van Gundy in the summer, that right?” he said, not making eye contact.

“Yes. From what I can recall, there was never enough evidence to connect me to anyone’s death.”

“You married, Dave?” I love the way lawyers ask questions they already know the answer to.

“Yes.”

“Why were you seeing Melyssa Soldado?”

It always came down to this—the stain on my life that wouldn’t wash out. I hated thinking about my past—about what I did to Holly. I’d thought that when I’d destroyed the maniacal creature Missy became, the whole sordid business would be over and done with. Hearing her name conjured up her image in my mind—not the rasping dragger but the sex-starved girl I refused to save.

“I had an affair with her,” I said, not meeting the mayor’s eyes.

“Your wife know?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Marriage is hard sometimes. We go in with the best intentions, but sometimes … we slip.” I couldn’t tell if he was talking about me or him. “Is that what happened, Dave? Did you slip?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You’re Catholic, right? Confession will put you on the right track.”

It was an odd comment. I scanned the room and found a photograph on the wall of the mayor wearing a Knights of Columbus uniform complete with ceremonial sword.