Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Yep, cat got after the poor thing when it was dead. That’s about all I could salvage.”

  “Wow! You could make a necklace out of that.”

  Dora gave Peyton an amused look. Peyton shrugged.

  “We talked with Li Wang yesterday and he mentioned you had a few run-ins with Old Man Harwood before he died.”

  “Run-ins? That’s painting things a bit pale. We had some knockdown, drag ‘em out battles. He shot at guests we had here. Not once, but twice. Then he comes over here, cussing us out, demanding we sell back to him.”

  “Sell back to him? He wanted the land back?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t want our kind living next door to him.” The way she said kind, Peyton knew what she meant.

  “Why’d he sell to you in the first place then?”

  “He didn’t sell to us. Agnes did.”

  “Agnes?”

  “Yeah, when she married the old bastard, she had him put some of the land in her name and when things got bad, she’d sell part of it off.”

  “She had the forty acres.”

  “Yep.”

  “She sold you five, but who got the other 35?”

  “Sullivan Ballor.”

  “The developer?”

  “That’s the one. He wants these five too, but we’re definitely not selling.”

  “So you’ve met Sullivan Ballor?”

  “I have.”

  “Not impressed?”

  “Do you mean, do I think he’s the zombie killer?”

  Peyton gave a noncommittal nod.

  “Why? He wants to make this a tourist destination.”

  “Well, billing it as a zombie hangout sort of accomplishes that, doesn’t it?”

  “You think he’d go so far as to kill for publicity?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “The guy’s already got a butt-load of grief from the environmental front. He surely doesn’t need more. He’s not your zombie.”

  From the porch, Peyton could see Bambi staring at everything with rapt fascination. Lucy seemed equally pleased to show her. “I got a coyote in the house. Poor fella got run over on the levee, but the pelt is soft as all get out. You wanna see it?”

  “Hell yeah. Does it still have the head on?”

  “Sort of.”

  Dora’s brows rose.

  “She’s got a thing about how the face looks after something’s dead,” offered Peyton.

  “Good to know.”

  Peyton smiled.

  “I’ll tell you who your zombie is.”

  Peyton leaned forward.

  “Old Man Harwood.”

  “Who happens to be dead.”

  “Is he? Have you seen his corpse?”

  “Deputy Sharpe says he’s dead.”

  “All I know is if there is one person evil enough to become a zombie it was that man. You should have seen him when he’d come over here. His hair like a wild man, spouting gibberish, waving his arms in the air. Usually he had a gun in one of them. I tell you, he’s your zombie.” She drummed her fingers on the chair. “And one time, when I went to see Agnes after he died, to check up on her, someone was in that house. I could hear creaking on the stairs and when I asked Agnes, she said it was the wind, but I tell you it was still as death that day.”

  “Maybe it was Roy Junior, her son?”

  “He was in the hospital with the cancer by then. But it gets better.” Dora shot a look around the yard. “When I left the house, I saw something go darting across the roof.”

  Peyton shivered. She’d seen something zip around the corner of the house herself, but Sharpe said it was a coyote. “What do you think you saw?’

  “I have no idea, but it was bigger than a cat. A lot bigger. I just caught the motion from the corner of my eye and it was gone.”

  Peyton really didn’t want to play into this nonsense, but she felt compelled to ask. “Aren’t zombies slow? Isn’t that their things? You know?”

  “You aren’t keeping up with the lore. Nowadays zombies are wicked fast. They can be on you before you have a chance to make the sign of the cross.”

  Peyton chewed on her inner lip. “I have to ask this, Dora.”

  “You want to know where Lucy and me were last Wednesday night.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We were here. We held a séance. I’ve got a list of the participants I’ll give you. They can vouch for us.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Peyton rubbed her hands along her knees. “That stew sure smells good. Beef?”

  “Best kind.”

  “God, I miss beef. My fiancé’s vegetarian, so I haven’t had beef in months.”

  “How about I get you a bowl right now?”

  Peyton glanced over her shoulder. “My boss would have a fit if he saw me eating anything. This is just my second week. I’d better not.”

  Dora pushed herself out of the lawn chair, grunting as she stood. “I’ll put it in a to-go container. He’s got to let you eat sometime today.”

  “Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

  While Dora went to retrieve the container, Peyton paced off the yard, looking for a hooked knife or some other instrument that could have made the leg wounds on the first two victims, but she found nothing. When Dora returned, she brought Bambi with her.

  “Thank you for the tour, Lucy,” said Bambi.

  “My pleasure.” Lucy passed her a piece of paper. “If you want to come out for one of our celebrations, you’d be welcome, Emma.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dora dished up a container of stew and passed it to Peyton with the list of séance participants.

  “Give them one of your cards,” Peyton told Bambi.

  Bambi handed it over.

  “If you think of anything else, will you call us?”

  “We’ll call, but I tell you, you need to be looking in the cemetery.”

  “Thank you for talking with us.”

  The two women waved them off. Peyton and Bambi started walking down the long drive toward the men.

  “Did you see any weapons when you went in the house?”

  “No hooked knives,” said Emma. “And the knives in the kitchen are too small to have made the wounds you describe.”

  “I didn’t see anything in the yard either.”

  Radar paced away from the car when they approached. “Well?”

  “We didn’t find any weapons, at least not in plain sight, and they gave me a list of people who can corroborate their whereabouts last Wednesday. They were holding a séance.”

  “Of course they were.” Radar’s eyes fixed on the container. “They gave you lunch?”

  Peyton held it out to him. “No, I got a sample out of the cauldron for Igor to process. That way we’ll know they aren’t cooking brains.”

  Radar took it and gave a short nod, then he passed it to Tank. Just a nod, nothing more. This guy was worse than Marco with the praise.

  “Sharpe got us a meeting with Sullivan Ballor tomorrow.”

  “Dora doesn’t think he’s the zombie.”

  “And why does she think that and why do we give a rat’s ass what she thinks?”

  “She said he’s having trouble getting building permits because of environmental groups. He sure doesn’t need trouble with bodies being found adjacent to the land he’s trying to develop.”

  “She’s right about the environmental problems,” offered Sharpe.

  “So what now?”

  Peyton shifted weight. “How hard would it be to dig up Old Man Harwood?”

  “You want me to dig up a corpse?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “How long has he been dead?” asked Bambi.

  “Three years,” offered Sharpe. “Why do you want to dig up Old Man Harwood?”

  “Diner Doug and Dora Deuces both think the zombie killer’s Harwood.”

  Radar shook his head. “This sounds like an episode of Scooby Doo.”

  “Hey, you’re
the Ghost Squad,” said Peyton, holding out her hands. “Look, Radar, what’s the harm? Maybe there’s something there. Why do people keep pointing at him?”

  Radar started to answer, but Tank interrupted. “In the 12th century, a philosopher by the name of John Duns Scotus was found outside his coffin with torn and bloody hands, apparently trying to get out of his tomb.”

  Peyton motioned to Tank.

  “But with modern embalming techniques, the chance of burying someone alive is highly unlikely.”

  “What does this have to do with digging up a man who’s been buried three years?” demanded Radar.

  “Can you imagine what he looks like?” said Bambi.

  They ignored her.

  “I don’t know, but we only have one suspect and he happens to be dead. Shouldn’t we make sure?”

  Radar looked at Sharpe. Sharpe shrugged.

  “I’m not asking an old lady to dig up her dead husband because we didn’t do our job and find the real killer.”

  “We don’t have to ask Agnes. We can ask her son.”

  “A man with cancer?”

  “We should probably go talk to him anyway.”

  “Where are you going with this, Sparky?”

  “I’ve talked with three people who say Old Man Harwood had a violent temper, he’d scream gibberish, and before he died he could hardly walk. These are all signs of prion disease, Radar. I think that’s what killed him.” She gave a sheepish shrug. “If he’s dead.”

  Radar crossed his arms over his chest and studied her. “He’s dead, Sparky.”

  “But if we confirm he had the disease…”

  “It still proves nothing. The three bodies were found years after he died.”

  “What about his son?”

  Sharpe shook his head. “He was at Stanford when the last body was found in Locke. It can’t be him.”

  “We might as well suspect Mrs. Harwood,” said Radar.

  Peyton waved that off. “Whoever killed those men tore out their thighs, then pried open the skulls to get at the brain. She’s too frail. So where do we go from here?”

  “We need to check out the people at the séance. Give your list to Tank and Bambi. Then tomorrow you and I are going to talk with Sullivan Ballor. We’re going to focus on a living, breathing answer to this homicide, not get carried away with spooks and spirits.”

  Peyton sighed.

  “Wait,” said Bambi, “does that mean we’re not digging up a corpse?”

  * * *

  Marco had just pulled up in front of the Phelps’ place with Stan when his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket as he made the painful and awkward climb out of the Charger and onto the sidewalk.

  “D’Angelo.”

  “Captain?” Cho’s voice.

  “Yeah, what’s going on with the head shop case? Did you get into the guy’s records?”

  “We talked with an employee, Byrony Kennings, and she said he kept everything on his laptop. Any paper records went up in the fire and the laptop’s a melted bit of black plastic now.”

  Stan stepped up on the sidewalk next to him, carrying what looked like a purse, but it held his own laptop and a tablet and some other devices that Marco didn’t know what they did. He gave Marco a questioning look.

  “Maybe he kept his records in the cloud,” he told Cho.

  Stan nodded.

  “Huh, I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Suppose Stan can get to them?”

  “You can get to the records if they’re in the cloud, right?” he asked Stan.

  Stan gave him a disgruntled look.

  “He can get them,” Marco told Cho, smiling at Stan.

  “I’ll get Byrony’s login information. Thanks, Captain.”

  “No problem.”

  Marco disconnected the call, then he looked up at the house. It was as nondescript as a house could get, painted in earth tones, shuttered windows, and two potted plants on either side of the long staircase. Marco studied the staircase with dread. When he’d moved in with Peyton, she’d replaced her stairs for a ramp to accommodate his wheelchair, but after he’d moved to a cane, she’d kept the ramp. It was easier and although he bristled every time he used it, he realized he should be grateful for it.

  “You go first, but wait for me at the top,” he told Stan.

  Involuntarily Stan’s eyes tracked to his cane, but he didn’t say anything and Marco was glad. He moved to the stairs and began climbing. Marco followed him, fighting the grimace of pain. When they reached the top, he felt like ground glass had been sawing at what remained of his bones, but he reached for the doorbell, refusing to meet Stan’s worried look. He still had to get down the damn stairs and he didn’t want to think about it right now, but it was all that filled his thoughts, until Mrs. Phelps opened the door.

  Her hair was flat and mussed on one side and she wore a cardigan that she’d pulled around herself. Her eyes held an empty, haunted look.

  “Mrs. Phelps, thank you for letting us come over,” said Marco, holding out his hand.

  She took it in both her own. “Thank you for pursuing this, Captain D’Angelo. I’m sorry my husband isn’t here, but he had to go to work.”

  “No problem, ma’am. This is Stan Neumann, our tech specialist. He wanted to look at Carissa’s laptop to see if there was anything on there that might help.”

  “Sure. This way.”

  She led them into a pleasant living room with leather furniture and earth toned paint, then across to a hallway. Carissa’s room was the first door they came to. Mrs. Phelps pushed it open and motioned them inside. Stan went immediately to the desk before the windows and began working on the laptop he found there, while Marco stepped into the room, looking around.

  The room reminded him of his niece Cristina’s room – posters on the wall, mostly of kittens, pictures tacked to a corkboard near the desk, a collection of earrings hooked through iron rungs on a stand shaped like the Eiffel Tower. The bedspread was pink and black, the curtains a frothy sheer pink. Everything feminine and young – innocent.

  “My husband told me you found the video,” said Mrs. Phelps. She stood, leaning against the doorjamb as if she couldn’t make herself enter the room. It smelled faintly of perfume.

  “We did.”

  Stan glanced over his shoulder at the strange sound she made.

  “My daughter was a good girl, Captain D’Angelo.”

  “I know that, ma’am. She didn’t know she was being filmed.”

  Mrs. Phelps nodded, not able to meet his eye. Stan went back to working on the laptop, but he exchanged a pained look with Marco.

  Marco studied the pictures Carissa had tacked to the board. A lot of them were her with her girlfriends, some dressed in formal wear at a restaurant, a few at a school, one of her in a tennis uniform, holding a racket. Marco touched that one. She looked happy, smiling at the camera, the tennis court behind her.

  “She made sections that year. She was so proud to represent her school.”

  Marco nodded, then his gaze fixed on a picture that sat on the desk – Carissa and a brown-haired boy. The boy was looking at the camera, but Carissa was looking at him, her face alight with emotion. She’d cared for him deeply. “Is this Ryan Addison, Mrs. Phelps?”

  “Yes. I keep thinking about throwing it away, but it’s a picture of our daughter. I can’t get rid of it.”

  “Can I take it? I’ll bring it back when the investigation is over.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  She gave him the most gut-wrenching look, he almost felt sick. “You have children, Captain D’Angelo?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m not sure cops should have children. We’re gone too much.”

  She nodded, then she looked around the room. “I’d do it again.” She gave him a weary smile. “You know that? I’d do it all over again.”

  “Captain,” said Stan, drawing Marco’s attention. “I found the blogs. She wrote a lot of them.” He pointed to a spot on the scre
en. “I’ve just skimmed a few, but she was trying to warn other girls about what happened to her.”

  Marco stared at the computer screen. God, he needed a drink.

  * * *

  Marco heard the front door open. He shoved the bottle into his nightstand and closed the drawer, then he limped into the bathroom and grabbed the mouthwash. A few seconds later, he wandered out of the bedroom, looking for Peyton.

  A massive dog barreled into him and knocked him back into the wall, his leg buckling. He caught himself, holding the dog off with one arm. Tater.

  “Down,” he commanded and the dog obeyed. Marco reached out and scratched his ear. The German shepherd made a noise of contentment. Glancing up he saw Jake and Abe come through the door, carrying posters and boxes filled with God only knew what. Marco wasn’t thrilled with seeing Abe.

  “Sorry,” said Jake, dumping his paraphernalia on the couch and going after Tater. Marco waved him off.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re going over wedding plans,” said Abe. “Didn’t Peyton tell you?”

  “No.”

  Abe gave him a close look. “Are you in pain, Angel?”

  “I just got body slammed into the wall, so yeah, a little.”

  Abe studied him intently, forcing Marco to look away.

  “I’m sorry, Adonis,” said Jake.

  Marco ignored that and limped to his favorite armchair, throwing himself into it. Abe came around the end of the couch, carrying his box.

  “Did you call Greyson?” he asked.

  “Greyson?”

  “My friend at Stanford.”

  Marco remembered the name. Dr. Greyson Chamberlain. Just the name pissed him off for some reason. “No.”

  “Angel.”

  “Abe.”

  With a disappointed look, Abe turned and went into the kitchen, disappearing from view. Marco realized he hadn’t even noticed what Abe was wearing. Jake started setting up an easel in the middle of the living room.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Assisting Abe,” he said.

  “Assisting Abe? First you’re my secretary, now you’re Abe’s assistant?”

  Jake gave him an arch look. “Laugh it up, pretty boy. Just wait until you see what you’re wearing to the wedding.”

  Marco felt his heart drop. “Not a loincloth?”