Okay, yeah, he wanted the inside scoop.
Still, I stuffed the note into my pocket and grabbed the towel. The piece of gravel dropped off and bounced into the grass, and my blood went cold as it landed beside a piece of red, white, and blue paper.
A hand-rolled cigarette butt with little American flags printed on it.
Chapter 10
Heart pounding, I stared at the cigarette butt as if the thing was a water moccasin about to bite me. Another coincidence. That’s all. Judd drove this highway damn near as much as I did. This stretch probably had a few hundred of his stupid butts. Didn’t matter that this made three coincidences. The number didn’t make them any less coincidental. Circumstantial evidence. That’s what it was called. What I needed to do was call Ben over, let him make his own determination as to whether a cigarette butt a quarter mile away from the body was the least bit important.
Randy was with Judd and Coy last night. The thought ricocheted within my skull. But Randy wasn’t a murderer. None of them were. Couldn’t be. Coy had a good reputation that didn’t need to get screwed up by dumb suspicions. And Randy didn’t need to be hassled by the cops.
I snatched up the cigarette butt before sanity could return. It wasn’t tampering with evidence if it wasn’t actually evidence. Right? My hands shook as I unrolled the paper to dump the tobacco out, and I cursed under my breath as a greasy smudge of dark green smeared across my fingers. Bug shit, with my luck. I crumpled the paper and shoved it into my pocket, then scrubbed my hand on my pants to get the green crap off.
I got my ass into the van and drove to Nick and Ben, loaded the body up while anxiety and brain hunger stewed in my gut. Nick gave me a funny look, likely wondering why I was acting like a guilty spaz, but he backed off quick after I mumbled something about female trouble.
Once I was on my way, I grabbed a brain smoothie out of my lunchbox and chugged it down. Though the grumbling hunger settled, my tension and worry stuck tight. Randy lived just a few miles away. It would only take a couple of minutes to swing by and see what he was up to, ease my mind, and confirm that my imagination was running wild.
Shit. No, that wouldn’t work. The Coroner’s Office vehicles had GPS trackers on them. While van drivers on call were allowed to run personal errands in the van, protocol was no stops or detours between picking up a body and reaching the morgue except for absolute emergencies. I didn’t need to give Allen any more ammunition to use against me. Not to mention, Randy might get a little suspicious if I showed up in the van with a body in the back.
I pulled the cigarette paper from my pocket. Too late to put the thing back where I’d found it, especially since now my fingerprints were all over those dumb American flags. But I didn’t want to be caught with it, either.
Another two miles down the road, I rolled my window down, checked for witnesses, then flicked the crumpled paper into a water-filled ditch.
• • •
At the morgue, I transferred Mr. Seeger from the gurney onto a rolling table then unzipped his body bag. Even though Nick and I had performed a cursory search of the body on the scene, I still needed to do a full property inventory.
Hunger grabbed my belly in a sneak attack and squeezed a sharp gasp from me. Hissing, I grabbed the edge of the table as an itch began in my bones. Invisible ants walked up my arms. A mini-dose, a tiny hit was all I needed to—
No! C’mon, Angel, don’t be a fucking wimp.
Jaw clenched, I sucked air through my teeth and focused on a spot on the wall. The clock behind me ticked out seconds, and I used the sound, imagined myself shoving the need a little farther back into its hole with each tick.
The hunger eased. The itch faded to mild buzz. The desire to climb out of my body went away.
Straightening, I wiped my mouth and let out a strangled laugh. I’d won. I’d fought that bitch down. It was all good. I could do this “no more V12” thing. A tendril of fear slid through a crack, and I slapped it down hard. No. Everything was going to be just fine. Beating this shit was all about willpower, and I had plenty of that. Time to get my head back in the game.
I went to the bathroom and washed my face and hands, then pulled on fresh gloves and began a meticulous search of Mr. Seeger. No jewelry, watch, keys, or phone. Jeans pockets were empty except for a damp Kleenex, and the front pocket of the flannel shirt held lint and nothing more. Shoes and socks contained feet and nothing else. I even tugged his jeans down to check his underwear and found only the expected boy parts and shaved pubic hair. Interesting, but not at all what I was looking for.
Sighing, I pulled his clothing back into place. Later, I’d remove them for good, after I photographed him on the table and before the autopsy. It was silly, but I hated leaving the bodies naked in the bag before autopsy. Why not let them have a few more hours with that tiny shred of dignity?
Something crinkled beneath my hand as I adjusted the flannel shirt. A quick investigation revealed an inner pocket that held a folded piece of paper. My pulse quickened as I slid the paper out. Bingo.
It was a list of filenames, on battered Infamous Vision Studios letterhead, with several handwritten notes scribbled on it. The word “zombie” leaped out at me from several places, but that didn’t surprise me considering Grayson Seeger was a producer for a zombie movie and was in town for a zombie fest.
The list header read Contents of USB Flash Drive from D.R. and was followed by more than a dozen filenames such as *zombie_feeding and **zombie_turn_1. One file named *zombie_frenzy had a hand-drawn arrow pointing to it with Zombie Frenzy! written beside it. I snorted. Gee, that was a tough code to crack.
Most of the filenames were marked with asterisks or double asterisks which matched up with a handwritten note at the side:
* approved by DR for ZAAU
** use for deal with SASA
Seeger sure liked his acronyms. DR was most likely someone’s initials. The others could be studio names or—
ZAAU. Zombies Are Among Us? That was the short film title on the “coming soon” display I’d seen at the movie premiere. Could be the asterisk meant the file was used in the “documentary THEY don’t want you to see.” But I had no clue at all what SASA could stand for. Sharks Are Sexy Also? Secret Aardvark Social Action?
My focus sharpened on a double-asterisk filename. **Zombie_heal_2. I frowned. Heal? The zombies in High School Zombie Apocalypse!! were typical mindless rotters. When they got blown to bits or chopped up they stayed that way—no healing involved at any point. An uneasy chill walked down my spine even though plenty of reasonable explanations came to mind. Maybe the zombies would get to be badass and heal up in the sequel, College Zombie Apocalypse!! Or, more likely, the filename had zilch to do with zombies healing. It probably stood for “zombie_healthy” and was a video of zombies who weren’t all rotted yet.
Whatever the reason, it hit too close to home, especially since I was already on high alert for anything zombie-like and suspicious. I didn’t care if the paper might be evidence. Hell, I didn’t care if it could lead to the cure for the common cold. It damn sure wasn’t staying here for anyone else to find and speculate about.
Mr. Seeger went into the cooler, and the paper went into my bra.
• • •
As soon as I left the morgue, I headed straight to Randy’s place. Casual visit, nothing more. Dropping in to say Hi, that sort of thing. After all, I knew there was no way Randy could’ve been involved in the murder. Knew it. He could be a Grade-A Prime Loser, but murder? Nuh uh. I was sure.
Almost sure. Only a teensy bit of doubt lingered, but it was like a grain of sand in my eye. I’d swing by and see how he was doing, what he was up to. Laundering bloody clothes. Burying a machete. Innocent shit like that.
Randy lived at the very end of a long-as-hell rural road, on several acres of land that held a rusty corrugated metal garage and a halfway decent trailer. The garage was w
here he made his living as a mechanic and—when he needed some extra cash—it served as the occasional chop-shop. After I parked, I made my way around puddles to the trailer steps where I could hear a TV blaring the morning news from within. Worry twisted in my chest. Randy never watched the news.
I knocked, hard enough to be heard over the TV. The sound went off, and a few seconds later Randy yanked the door open, looking surprised, relieved, and disappointed to see me. He was fully dressed, with a half-smoked cigarette in one hand. His eyes flicked to the van and then farther down the driveway. Checking to see if I’d brought anyone with me?
“Dude!” I put on my excited-and-horrified act. “Did you see the news about the serial killer?”
“Uh.” He glanced at his TV then gave me a nod. “Yeah, I was listening to it.”
He made no move to invite me in, but that was a minor obstacle for a pushy bitch. “The body was found not far from here,” I said and slid past him before he could stop me. “Figured I’d make sure you were okay.”
Randy made a face as if I’d just pissed in his Cheerios but went ahead and closed the door. He picked up a plastic cup and knocked ash into it. “I’m good. Crazy shit, huh?”
“Totally crazy!” I flopped onto the sofa and made myself at home. “Did you hit Pillar’s Bar after the Fest?”
He shrugged. “For maybe an hour.”
Was he acting guilty? Hungover? Hell, I couldn’t tell a damn thing. “Oh man, you might’ve knocked back a beer with the sicko who chopped off that guy’s head and never known it!”
Randy gave me a sharp look. “The cops think the guy was at Pillar’s before he—?”
“Before he murdered the guy?” I spread my hands. “I don’t think they’ve made any public statements about it.” I wasn’t lying. It was Randy’s fault if he took that to mean there were private statements floating around.
He sucked on the cigarette and sat on the arm of the sofa. “The news said the cops didn’t have any leads.”
I scoffed. “You believe that? The dumbass left plenty of evidence at the scene. It won’t take long.”
Surprise flashed across Randy’s face, as if he suddenly remembered what I did for a living. “You were there?”
“Sure. I was on call. Picked up the body. Dude, that shit was gruesome. Y’know, it ain’t like the movies where it’s one clean slice.” I warmed to my topic as Randy paled. “Nah, it must’ve taken a dozen hacks with a dull ass machete to get this poor dude’s head off.” Hunger shimmered through me. The brain would’ve been nice and warm and fresh and—
Saliva flooded my mouth, and I quickly swallowed before I started drooling. The smell of Randy’s brain filled the room, overpowering the scent of bacon grease and cigarettes.
“Jesus, Angel. I don’t need the gory details.” Randy crushed out the cigarette then shook a fresh one from a pack and lit it. In the next instant he jerked to his feet, eyes wide in rising horror. “Is that body out in the van?”
Randy’s reactions would’ve been awfully funny if the stakes weren’t so high. “Nah, I already took it to the morgue. What was left of him, at least.” I plastered on a grin. “Why’d you leave Pillar’s so early? I thought you and the guys were gonna stay ’til closing.”
His expression turned sour. “Judd thought we were about to get ambushed during the zombie hunt, spun around and accidentally whacked me in the head with the butt of his paintball rifle.” He pulled his cap off to show me a small butterfly bandage atop a decent-sized goose egg. “I left Pillar’s ’cause I couldn’t deal with the shitty band pounding my skull.”
Frowning, I peered at the lump. That wasn’t faked. And such a fine brain under it. I quickly stepped back. “You feeling okay? You don’t want to mess with head injuries.”
“Hell, I got knocked a lot worse that time Chester Albertson dumped me off the back of his four-wheeler.” His shoulders twitched in a shrug. “The EMT at the Fest checked me out and told me I just needed to take it easy.”
Well, that was good. Hard to be up for cold-blooded murder with a splitting headache. If it was true. What if Seeger had walloped Randy in self-defense? I might have to track down the EMT and verify.
Randy’s phone shrilled on the end table, startling us both. He grabbed it and stared at the caller ID as if the phone was poisonous, then glanced at me, hesitating.
“You get that. I need to use the can.” I popped up off the sofa and headed down the hallway, then snuck a quick peek into the open lid of the washer. Bone dry and empty. No late night laundering, at least not here. I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door, then eased it open a crack and listened.
“Okay okay, now hang on,” Randy said, low and urgent. I heard a scuff of shoes on carpet as he moved farther away. “Yeah, gotta show up for the zombie shit today and tonight, both hunts, as we planned.” Stress gave his words a sharp edge that made them easier to hear. “We’re already registered.” Another pause. “I know, but we’ll have to deal with it tomorrow.”
Deal with it? That could be anything from hiding evidence to scrounging lunch. I did a quick search of the bathroom and laundry hamper for any sign of blood—or murder weapons. Randy’s zombie hunter equipment vest lay in a crumpled heap at the top of the hamper. My heart skipped a beat as I spied scattered dark spots of dried blood.
He got conked on the head, I reminded myself. The blood was probably from that. Plus, I was no blood spatter expert, but I knew there’d be a lot more than a three or four drops if he’d been anywhere near a head being chopped off.
Hunger spiked again, this time joined by the bone itch as the need for a dose clamored. The scent of Randy’s brain filled my nose, and a growl built in my chest. No, not now! Aghast, I fished the emergency brain packet from my pocket and slurped it down, then stared at the peeling wallpaper and focused my willpower to shove the beast away again. It grudgingly settled back, but I had a sinking feeling this was a temporary truce.
“Yeah. That works,” I heard Randy say. “See you at the gun shop in an hour.”
I closed the door, flushed the toilet and ran water over my hands, then opted to dry them on my pants instead of the grungy towel. “Hold your shit together,” I snarled at my reflection. I’d never find out the truth about the murder if I ate my ex.
Back out in the living room, Randy was peering out the blinds.
“Everything cool?” I asked.
He let them flick closed and gave me a crooked smile. “Uh huh, just gotta get my shit together and head to the Zombie Fest.”
“I’m on call ’til noon,” I said, “but I’m supposed to go over there this afternoon. Maybe I’ll run into you.”
A frown tugged at his mouth. “Yeah, since I’m the one what invited you.”
Crap. Forgot about that. “Oh, um, a guy I work with has two VIP passes. I figured it’d be dumb to turn down free shit.”
Randy took a drag off his cigarette, shrugged. “Good for you.”
Not even a weensy bit of disappointment. “Where will y’all be this afternoon? Maybe I’ll stop by.”
“Hard to say. We’re gonna be hunting . . . and stuff.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “I need to run, so I’ll let you get ready.”
He nodded, flicked off ash. “See you around.”
I gave him a quick hug then left the trailer, skirting puddles as I returned to the van. Though he hadn’t given anything away, he hadn’t acted normal either. Randy was a pro at being a piece of shit, but I’d never known him to be cold-blooded. If he’d been involved in a murder, he’d be a helluva lot more freaked out.
Okay, great. I was almost certain Randy hadn’t killed anyone. But my Angel-sense told me there was a big stinking pile of shit not far off.
The beast awoke the instant the van door closed. Fire raced through my marrow, and blades of ice sliced at my gut. Whimpering, I fumbled the lunch box open to grab my
brain burrito, then stared at the three duct-taped vials that should have been at home in my fridge. But of course they’d be here. Even though I didn’t remember packing them, the beast had taken care of it for me. I couldn’t possibly leave home without V12 because what if something happened and I needed it?
Oh thank god. I snatched the vials and held them in a shaking fist.
No. Fuck no. Cold turkey, goddammit.
Sweat beaded my lip as I willed my fingers to open. A gasp of relief and despair sagged out of me as the vials dropped back into the lunchbox. Another battle won? No. Bullshit. That was like saying the beach won every time the surf retreated. That wasn’t victory. The waves would keep coming, keep scraping away at the sand.
A harsh sob clogged my throat. I peeled out of the driveway, palms slick against the wheel. As soon as I was out of sight of Randy’s place, I pulled onto the shoulder.
Cold turkey was kicking my ass. I got myself into this state all on my lonesome, but now I needed a boost to claw my way out. Time for me to put my big girl panties on and ask for help before I ruined what was left of my life. I’d have to face Dr. Nikas eventually. Might as well be now.
I called the lab, and a baritone voice with a lilt of French accent answered. “Angel.”
“Jacques. Hi.” Shit, could my mouth get any drier? “Um, I need to talk to Dr. Nikas.”
“He’s working with Philip.”
Guilt shuddered through me. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Did Philip get worse?”
“You sound like shit.” His words slapped out. “When was your last dose of V12?”
Oh god. Jacques knew. Shame and humiliation rolled through me in waves of hot and cold. Of course Dr. Nikas would’ve told him. “I . . . last night.”
“Are you out?”
My blood cells turned into spinning razor blades as they flowed through my veins. I sucked air between clenched teeth and clung to the outrage. “You think I took three whole vials since yesterday?”