Angel Crawford #2: Even White Trash Zombies Get the Blues

  I felt self-conscious as all hell, but I went ahead and stood in front of him. I didn’t ask him to pretend to hold a gun on me though. That would have just been weird as shit.

  “Not quite as tall as him,” I told Ben, returning to my side of the table. “About somewhere in between.”

  “All right then,” he said with a smile. “It’s a start.”

  I didn’t think it was much of a start, but I wasn’t about to say anything.

  Pierson leaned forward and clicked the recorder off. I looked up at him warily.

  “Thank you, Angel,” he said, surprising me with the use of my first name. “We appreciate your help.”

  “Do you believe me?” I asked him bluntly.

  He pushed his chair back in. “I do not believe you are attempting to deceive me,” he said with a tight smile, then gave Ben a nod before moving to the door. But he stopped with his hand on the doorknob and turned back to me. “One more question, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t say anything about being afraid that he would shoot you,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Why is that?”

  “I, um, was just shocked more than anything.” A cold hard knot began to form in my belly. I wasn’t stupid—I could see how my apparent lack of fear could possibly be read as my being somehow involved.

  “Of course,” he said. He gave me an understanding smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a good thing you were able to keep calm. The last thing any of us want is another body.”

  I gave a stiff nod. I didn’t really trust my voice at the moment.

  Pierson opened the door, but before he could exit Marcus slipped in and made a beeline for me. “You okay?” he said, gaze sweeping over me as if to check for himself that I was free of pesky bullet holes. “I just heard about the holdup.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling absurdly self-conscious. I thought for an instant he was going to lean in and kiss me, but he apparently thought better of doing so in front of the others. Instead he simply gave my arm a squeeze. Over his shoulder I could see the Captain eyeing him with a slightly narrowed gaze. But to my relief, Pierson continued on out, with Ben right behind him. “I’m fine,” I repeated as the door swung shut. “It’s cool.”

  “Good to know,” Marcus said. He gave a sigh of relief, then pulled me into a hug. I allowed myself to relax against him. “You need to eat more,” he murmured. “Weird shit is going on, and now’s not the time to be at less than full strength.” He pulled back and held my shoulders while he looked intently into my face. “I know you’re trying to ration your supply, but I can always help you out if you get into a bind.”

  “I know. I was just about to. And you’re right.” He’d always been more than willing to share, but I’d decided shortly after we started seeing each other that I would only hit him up for brains if I had no other choice. I didn’t want to be dependent on him—or anyone. “Look,” I said, “there was something weird about that dead security guard.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Well, he had a fractured skull, and I was pretty hungry, but I couldn’t smell his brains.”

  A frowned tugged at his mouth. “Are you sure? Maybe it wasn’t fractured enough for you to be able to tell.”

  I shook my head. “It was fractured. Trust me. I could see pieces moving around under the scalp. And back at the lab I was hungry enough to smell brains in living people.” Hell, I still was. The little bit that I’d chugged in the van had been more than used up during this whole incident.

  The troubled expression on his face deepened. “I don’t know, Angel. You shouldn’t let yourself get so hungry—it affects your thinking and judgment.”

  I tamped down my growing irritation. “Yeah, I know that, but it wasn’t so bad before the holdup. I had some in the van on the way over. I think stress burned a bunch up.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “The only reason I can think that you wouldn’t be able to smell the brains is if he was a zombie. But that’s not possible. He was definitely dead-for-real. The paramedics ran a strip on him and everything.”

  “How do you know he wasn’t a zombie?” I asked. “I don’t think that the EKG strip showing he was dead is enough proof he wasn’t. When you were shot I’m pretty sure you didn’t have a heartbeat.” Or maybe he did, I thought, suddenly unsure. It wasn’t as if I stopped and checked. Ed shot Marcus right in the head, and as soon as I scared Ed off I grabbed Marcus up and hightailed it back to my car where I proceeded to stuff him full of brains. Thankfully it worked.

  “I’m simply saying that I think it’s more likely your sense of smell was off.” He gave me a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring, but he was seriously misjudging my mood and the day I’d had.

  I pulled back from him, narrowed my eyes. “Seriously? My sense of smell was off? Marcus, are you fucking kidding me? I was just held up at gunpoint. Some mercenary motherfucker stole the body, and now I’m telling you that there was something weird about it. Why the hell won’t you believe me?”

  “I’m sorry.” He grimaced. “You’re right. I guess I was really wanting this to be something random—”

  “You weren’t here when I was describing this guy and what he did,” I said, planting my hands on my hips. “Dude, it wasn’t just some random asshole grabbing a body for shits and giggles. This guy was some kind of fucking pro. He fucking zip-tied me!” I held up my bandaged wrists for emphasis.

  He took a deep breath. “Okay. I’m sorry. Then there must be some explanation.” Yet there was still a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I won’t say that I know everything about zombies but, the thing is, a fractured skull is pretty minor for one of us. And his body would have started rotting while it worked to fix up the fracture. Does that make sense? He was just…a corpse.”

  Reluctantly, I nodded. “Okay, so maybe not a zombie. But there was still something wrong with his brain. I know that.” Maybe the guy had cancer? But, no, I’d seen—and smelled—cancer-ridden brains before.

  “I believe you,” he said. “I swear. And my uncle is the person to ask why that might be.” He smiled and squeezed my shoulders. “So it’s a good thing we’re going to see him tomorrow, right?”

  I heaved a sigh. “Right. I’m really looking forward to it. Can’t wait.”

  He laughed, pulled me into a hug. “You’re a shitty liar.”

  “Don’t know why. I’ve had tons of practice.”

  Chapter 6

  Marcus insisted on walking me out to the parking lot, which was more than fine with me. I retrieved my lunchbox and purse from the van and slugged down the rest of the brain smoothie as I walked to my little Honda Civic. By the time I reached my car the cuts on my wrists had healed up, and my mood in general was much improved.

  My dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway when I got home. I sat there for a minute without getting out of the car while I looked at the house and considered my options. Dad and I had spent the last two weeks getting the house cleaned up a bit, though there was still a long way to go. The crushed beer cans “paving” the driveway had taken three full days to rake up and get into bags, and I’d borrowed a weed whacker from Marcus and managed to tear through about a quarter of the overgrown weeds in the side yard before running out of the string. It’s also possible there’d been plenty of string left and that I quit and ran shrieking when I uncovered a snake that was in the process of eating a mouse.

  The first thing I saw was that the bags of crushed cans were gone from the porch. I had zero doubt that Dad had taken them down to the recycling center to see what cash he could get for them. Probably a decent amount, considering how many we’d had. However, I also knew that the recycling center closed at six, and it was almost midnight now.

  Dad didn’t have a job. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t out buying groceries, not at this hour.

  I silently measured my exhaustion level, then sighed, backed out, and headed down the highway. I didn’t really expect to
see his truck at Pillar’s Bar, but I was a bit surprised that it wasn’t at Kaster’s, his usual hangout. Of course he knows I’ll be looking for him.

  I finally spotted the beat up truck at Puzzles Bar. I almost didn’t see it, and if I hadn’t been looking hard I certainly wouldn’t have spied it parked all the way in the back and tucked behind the dumpster. I pulled into the lot, but once again, didn’t immediately get out. Should I even go in and confront him? Or, maybe not even confront him, but….

  Shit. I squeezed my eyes shut and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. This was going to suck no matter what I did. I could ignore the fact that he was drinking—ignoring it was what I’d pretty much always done, ’cause, godalmighty, it was so much easier and less stressful and less painful.

  But that’s what I’ve always done. Hey, Angel, how’d that work out for ya?

  Sighing, I turned off the engine and got out of my car. Either way this was going to suck, but this way I was in control of the suck.

  At least that’s what I told myself.

  The interior was lit primarily with various neon beer signs and the two TVs positioned at either corner of the long bar. It wasn’t a big place. It didn’t need much more. The bar itself was about twenty feet long, but there was only room for four tables beyond that. This was the sort of place you went by yourself, when all you wanted to do was sit and drink and pretend to watch TV.

  Dad saw me pretty much as soon as I saw him. I watched the emotions crawl across his face—shame, anger, defiance, resignation. Hell, it was like the stages of grief.

  I plastered a smile onto my face and headed toward him. The smile caught him off guard; it was clear he was expecting me to be pissed or resentful. And I was, but I wasn’t about to show it.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said as I slid onto the stool next to him. “Saw your truck as I was driving by and figured I’d come in and say hi.”

  He looked confused, but only for an instant. He wasn’t stupid by any stretch. “Yeah, right. You saw the cans gone, you knew I had money. How many bars you check before y’found me?”

  I shrugged. “Five. Maybe six.”

  He lifted his beer after a second’s hesitation, took a defiant gulp. “So what now. You drag me back home like a fucking kid?”

  “I’m not your enemy. And I’m not your jailer. I can’t make you come home, and I can’t make you stop drinking.” I shrugged. “I just want you to know I’m in your life no matter what.”

  He set the beer down, scowled at me. “Where’d you learn to fight so dirty?”

  I grinned, then nodded to the bartender. “Coke, please.”

  Dad scowled, rolled his eyes, pushed the beer away. “Larry, give me the same.”

  We sat in silence for a while, drinking our respective non-alcoholic drinks. It wasn’t exactly a companionable silence, but it wasn’t quite hostile either.

  “I dunno what to do, baby,” he said after a while. “I didn’t wake up this morning and decide to go cash in the cans and then go get a drink.” He muttered a curse. “Damn it, I went to cash in the cans, and I was gonna buy a new damn lawnmower, surprise you.”

  I had to smile. I believed him. “Those fuckers are expensive now.”

  “More than I expected. I mean they had some cheap ones, but I’m too old and tired to be pushing a lawnmower around, and I was hoping to get a self-propelled one.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “So I left the store and instead of just going home and thinking about it, I decide I’m pissed and I need a drink.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know what that’s like.” I didn’t bring up the possibility of rehab. We’d talked about it. He’d even agreed to do it, but we couldn’t afford it. That was it, plain and simple. Rehab was expensive, and Dad didn’t have health insurance. And don’t get me started on the state-run facilities. The only other option was AA. I wasn’t a big fan of the preachiness of Alcoholics Anonymous, but at least it was affordable. Not that he’d gone to a meeting yet.

  “I’m sorry I’m such a piece of shit, Angelkins,” he mumbled, gazing with hound dog eyes at the bubbles in his Coke.

  “What do you want me to say to that, Dad?” I said, showing a bit of my anger for the first time. “That’s such a bullshit statement. You want me to feel sorry for you? I feel sorry for you the same way I feel sorry for me. We both got fucked in a lot of ways, but at the same time we fucked ourselves. Or do you just want forgiveness? ’Cause, to be honest, if all you want is forgiveness you gotta know that I sure as shit wouldn’t be here right now if you didn’t have it.”

  My dad blinked at me. “I ain’t near drunk enough to handle how much you’ve changed.”

  “Me neither,” I said fervently. “C’mon, I’ll take you home. You can call one of your buddies to bring you back for the truck in the morning.”

  To my relief he didn’t protest, though I’d been prepared to give him the speech about how he’d been arrested not long ago for domestic violence, and he didn’t need a drunk driving arrest on top of that. He silently paid his tab and then followed me out to my car, and as soon as he was in, he tipped back the seat and closed his eyes. I was pretty sure he wasn’t really asleep, but I didn’t mind. In fact it made for an easy way out of any need to come up with conversation. The domestic violence arrest had been for him beating the crap out of me, and even though we were both working hard to put things back together, there were still plenty of raw spots.

  He opened his eyes as I stopped the car in front of the house, confirming my suspicion that he’d simply been avoiding the need to talk to me. I followed him up the steps and inside. We’d come a long way toward getting the house fixed up and cleaned up, but we still had a long way to go. The broken window in the front was still held together by duct tape, the furniture looked like yard sale rejects, and the carpet held numerous stains from who the hell knew what. But there was a lot less clutter, and I was trying my best to not let the dirty dishes go for more than a couple of days.

  “I’m going to bed,” my dad mumbled, heading for his bedroom. I simply nodded and headed to my own, wishing the wounds between us could be healed as easily as the cuts on my wrists.

  My dad was still asleep when I got up the next morning—not surprising since I popped awake at eight frickin’ a.m. despite my intense desire to sleep as much of the day away as possible. Or at least until eleven since I wasn’t back on call again until noon.

  I stared at the ceiling for a while, hoping to fall back asleep, but instead my mind decided to go racing around the whole business about me needing to pass my GED, and I eventually gave up and got out of bed. After taking a quick shower and pulling on cargo pants and a coroner’s office shirt, I crept out of the house, closing the door quietly behind me as I tugged on a jacket. Things were a lot better between my dad and me, but old habits of tiptoeing around him died hard.

  The closest bookstore was in Tucker Point, and the only reason I knew how to find it was because about a month ago an elderly patron had been found dead in one of their reading chairs; and apparently had been dead for a few hours before employees realized that he hadn’t turned a page in the book in his lap in quite some time.

  The woman behind the counter had pitch-black hair with a bright blue streak in it along with pierced lip, eyebrow, and nose. But the greeting she gave me was warm and friendly. I managed a smile in response, feeling absurdly like an utter imposter. When had I last been in a bookstore with the intent of actually buying a book? Had I ever? Now that’s pathetic, I thought with a sigh.

  “Can I help you find anything?” she asked with a bright smile.

  “Um, no, just looking,” I mumbled, then hurried toward the back of the store. Almost immediately I began to regret dismissing her help, since I didn’t have the faintest idea where GED study guides would be. And if I went back and asked now, I’d look like a double dumbass, since not only could I have asked when I came in, but also because I needed to take the GED in the first place. Yeah, I knew I was being a moron, but hey, I wasn’t famou
s for being rational.

  It took close to ten minutes of wandering, but I finally found a section that had guides for all sorts of tests—most of which I’d never even heard of. MCAT, LSAT, GMAT…? I finally spied the GED guides near the bottom. But, good grief, there were so damn many. I stared in dismay at the two full shelves.

  “This series is a good one,” the clerk said from beside me, startling me thoroughly. She gave me a nice smile as I recovered my composure, then reached to tap the spine of a blue and white volume. “It has good explanations of the procedures, the instructional sections are clearly written, and it’s reasonably priced.”

  “Um. Thanks,” I said, trying not to flush in embarrassment.

  “You getting it for a relative or a friend?” she asked.

  I realized suddenly that she could tell I was ashamed of my need to take the GED and was trying to give me an “out.” To my surprise I relaxed and found myself smiling.

  “No, it’s for me,” I said. Screw it. It was stupid for me to be embarrassed or ashamed. Okay, so I’d dropped out of high school. At least I was trying to do something about it now.

  Her smile widened. “That’s awesome. I took it about eight years ago.” She chuckled. “That’s how I know that one’s a good study guide.”

  “You were a dropout?” I blurted, then grimaced and shook my head. “Sorry, that’s none of my business.”

  “It’s cool,” she reassured me. “But yeah, I was a weird kid. Was bored with school so I dropped out halfway through my senior year.” She rolled her eyes. “Dumb move since there are a lot of universities that won’t take the GED and make you go to a junior college for a year or two before you can apply to transfer.” Then she shrugged. “Not the end of the world, though. Just took me a little extra time to get my degree.”

  I managed a weak smile. University? Hell, I just wanted to avoid going back to jail.

  “You ready to check out?” she asked. “Or do you want to browse some more?”