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

by M. L. Hamilton

  Snagging her gun off the peg, she pulled open the door and stepped out, waving to him over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah.” Then she was gone.

  Marco picked up his own coffee mug and took a sip, then went around the counter and climbed on the kitchen stool. Pickles jumped on the couch and turned around a couple of times, then settled himself. Reaching for his laptop, Marco booted it up and clicked on Carissa’s blog, picking up where he left off.

  He didn’t know why he was torturing himself with her words, but he couldn’t stop reading. If she had just gone through with her plan to post the blog, would things have turned out differently? If she had just reached out to other people going through the same thing, would it have made a difference?

  He thought of what Antonio had said to him yesterday. Antonio had felt the change came when he talked about the accident with others. Somehow sharing it had made it easier to accept. Marco wasn’t sure how the hell that worked. Sharing emotional shit went so against his nature that he wasn’t sure he could do it. Even with the woman he loved more than anything. Even with Peyton he was reluctant to give away that much of himself. And if he couldn’t do it with her, who the hell could he do it with?

  His thoughts turned to her as they did so much of the time. A strain was developing between them. They were circling around each other, afraid to really hear what the other one was saying. He felt out of his depths with her. She represented everything he wanted in life, but he felt her holding back. He felt her pulling away. This terrified him. He didn’t know how to live without Peyton and that fact went way beyond the new incarnation of their relationship. She’d been the central focus of his life for so long. Everything he did had her at its core.

  Was she pulling away because she saw they weren’t equals any longer? Was she pulling away because the guilt she felt about his injury completely eclipsed the love she once had? Was she pulling away because he couldn’t control his jealousy?

  He slammed the lid down on Carissa’s blog. He couldn’t read this anymore. He was starting to have nightmares about Carissa Phelps. He kept trying to stop her from going into the room where Ryan Addison waited, but he was always too late, he was always arriving at the wrong time. And once, when he actually reached her, it hadn’t been Carissa Phelps. It was Peyton.

  Marco hated his jealousy, he hated his insecurity. He’d never been insecure around women before. He’d never felt so vulnerable, so anxious all of the time. When he was with Peyton, he was okay, but the minute she left, the fear raged back to the surface. And he was self-aware enough to know this wasn’t good. For either of them.

  He swiveled on the barstool and stared at the little dog. “What’s say we go feed bread to the ducks around Stow Lake?”

  Pickles lazily thumped his tail, but even he seemed to sense the tension in their house. Marco felt guilty for that. Shit. How the hell would he and Peyton ever have children if they couldn’t even raise a dog without making him need therapy?

  * * *

  Peyton paced back and forth by the door of Igor’s lab, wearing a bulky blue lab gown. The body lay splayed open on the table and Igor, dressed like something from a horror movie, leaned over it, cutting out pieces and putting them in petri dishes. Bambi stood on the other side of the table, dressed in the same full body hazmat suit as Igor, but at least she was partially obstructing Peyton’s view.

  Tank sat on a stool at the other end of the lab, his back straight, his arms folded across his massive chest, his closely shaved head lifted as he watched Igor perform the autopsy. Once in a while, he’d make a face, but Peyton wasn’t sure he even knew he did it.

  Radar lounged in a chair near the door, his arms crossed, his legs crossed at the ankles, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. “You’re making me anxious, Sparky.”

  She shot an aggravated look at him. “You don’t look anxious. You look like you’re meditating.”

  “I am and you’re messing up my chi.”

  “Your chi?”

  Tank glanced over at them. “For the Chinese, the chi is one’s life force. Most cultures believe in it. In India, it’s called the prana, in Japan the ki, and for Native American’s it might be the Great Spirit. The idea is that one can build life force through relaxation techniques, such as meditation, and thereby inner strength, which also leads to strengthening the physical health and the mental wellbeing.”

  “You’re a Buddhist?” she asked Radar.

  He cracked one eye at her. “Does it help you to label people?”

  “No, I’m just curious.”

  “If I were going to follow any religion, it would be Buddhism, but I’m against organized religions on principle. Do you have a belief system, Sparky?”

  “I used to go to church all of the time when I was a kid, but…”

  “But?”

  “I stopped.”

  “Why?”

  “My dad was murdered.”

  Radar opened both eyes and gave her a full look. “You got a lot of baggage, kid. You might try meditation.”

  She gave that a thought. Did she have a lot of baggage? Who didn’t? Weren’t all people walking wounded? Why was her baggage any different than their own? She began pacing again. What the hell was taking so long? She didn’t want to be here today.

  “Pass these out,” said Igor to Bambi, holding out face masks and goggles. Bambi distributed them. “Put them on and don’t take them off until I tell you.” Then he reached for a saw.

  Oh, shit. A saw? That couldn’t be good.

  “Step back, Agent Redford,” he said, then moved to the head of the body.

  Peyton turned away as soon as she heard the saw begin grinding.

  “Oh man,” said Bambi over the noise of the saw blade. “That is so cool!”

  Peyton felt she might be sick. She fumbled for the button on the lab door, but Radar caught her arm stopping her. “Not right now,” came his muffled voice.

  Peyton sank to a crouch beside him and hugged her arms around herself. How the hell did she get herself into a job where a normal Sunday was sawing open a man’s skull? Finally the saw stopped, but the next sound almost made her vomit. It was a sucking, slurping sound as Igor removed the top of the skull.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Bambi, then her voice trailed off. “Is his brain supposed to look like that?”

  “That’s a very good sign, Agent Redford, a very good sign.”

  Peyton looked over her shoulder and watched Igor take samples out of the hole in Old Man Harwood’s skull. Then he slid a sheet over the body and moved to the bench on the back wall, placing his petri dish under the microscope.

  Peyton rose to her feet and watched his hunched form. Her stomach roiled and it wasn’t just from the horror of this room. When she thought about changing careers, this was the moment that always stopped her. This was the adrenaline rush that kept her going. The final solution to the mystery, the final proof that they’d put the puzzle together the right way.

  She trembled with excitement and nervousness. She could hardly breathe. Figuring out a case was as addictive as drugs, as alcohol, as any artificial stimulant known to man. And this was why she couldn’t give up this job.

  After what seemed like hours, Igor straightened and motioned for Bambi to take a look. She pounced on the microscope. Peyton could almost understand her enthusiasm, although she wished she’d tamp down on the creepy a tad.

  “Igor?” Peyton took a step toward him.

  He smiled behind the blast shield of his hazmat suit. “I feel comfortable declaring the cause of death to be…” He paused dramatically. “...prion disease.”

  Peyton whirled on Radar. He nodded behind his face mask and goggles, then he rose to his feet and pushed the button on the door to the lab. Peyton followed him into the hallway, stripping off the protective gear.

  Yanking off his own mask and goggles, he reached for his phone and dialed Arielle Tran from the U.S. Attorney’s office. Pe
yton could hear her muffled voice on the line. “We have confirmation,” said Radar. He didn’t bother with banalities like hello. “Roy Harwood, Senior, had prion disease.”

  Peyton’s phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it, intent on Radar.

  “Right. Right. Uh huh. Got it. We’ll be right down.” He disconnected the call.

  “What?”

  “We’re going to Sacramento.”

  “Wait. Now?”

  “Yep. The judge won’t grant the warrant to search the Harwood farm until we bring him the results of the autopsy. We’ll wait here for Igor to write it up, then head over there.”

  “No.”

  “No? This is what you wanted.”

  “I have plans today.”

  “Plans?”

  “Yes, I’m going to dinner at my future in-laws.”

  “You’re going to Sacramento, Sparky. You saw yesterday, that judge only listened to you.”

  Peyton closed her eyes. Marco was never going to understand this. “I have to call my fiancé.”

  “Fine. Get it done. I’ll go wait for the report.” He moved toward the lab as Peyton pulled out her phone.

  She expected the call she missed to be from Marco, but it wasn’t. It was from Sharpe. “Radar, wait.”

  He turned around as she dialed Sharpe’s number. “Bob, it’s Peyton.”

  “Peyton, I’ve got something interesting I thought you might want to know.”

  “So do I. Bob, Old Man Harwood had prion disease. We’re on our way to Sacramento for the warrant.”

  “Actually, that’s good. Wait until you hear my news.”

  “Go on.”

  “I did a little digging into the Harwood family.”

  “And?”

  “Agnes Harwood gave birth twice.”

  “Twice?”

  “Yep. Three years after Roy Junior, Agnes Harwood was admitted to Lodi Memorial Hospital’s Labor and Delivery floor.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “I can get my own warrants. I got curious after you questioned what she said about making arrangements. At first I thought it was funeral arrangements, but then I wondered if she meant something else.”

  Peyton’s fingers tightened on the phone. “What sex was the second baby?”

  “A boy, named Randal. Did a little more digging and found that Randal entered school briefly before his parents pulled him out to homeschool him. I can’t find out why.”

  “Huh?”

  “But the homeschool teacher quit after a few sessions, so Agnes took over.”

  “Does it say why she quit?”

  “Not a word. The academic records are really sketchy, but it doesn’t matter because I found police reports as well.”

  “What do those say?”

  “Six years after his birth, Mr. and Mrs. Harwood reported their second son missing. He’d escaped the house and wandered onto the levee. They believed he fell in the river. DART dragged the river for a full week, Peyton, but never recovered a body. A year later, he was declared dead.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Radar.

  “There was a second son.”

  “Harwood had a second son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Either he drowned in the river and crawled out as a zombie…”

  “Technically, wouldn’t that make him a swamp creature?” asked Sharpe.

  “The river’s not the same as a swamp,” answered Peyton.

  “Really, Sparky?” demanded Radar.

  Peyton held up a hand. “Or he’s hanging out on the Harwood farm completely unsupervised now that Agnes isn’t there.”

  “What the hell are we talking about here?”

  Peyton shook her head. “I’m not sure, but they kept this kid hidden for a reason, Radar. And I’m betting the luminal I found wasn’t for Agnes. I’ll bet it was for him.”

  Radar swallowed hard.

  “What do you want me to do?” asked Sharpe.

  “Can we get some patrol cars surrounding the Harwood place? We’re on our way with the warrant, but I don’t know how long that might take.”

  “We’ll be in place when you get here, but Peyton…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hurry. That place is starting to give me the creeps.”

  * * *

  Marco grabbed the phone off the coffee table. “Hey?” He glanced at the clock. It was almost 2:30.

  “Don’t be mad.”

  He slumped back on the couch, laying his hand on Pickles’ head. “You’re not coming home?”

  “I have to go to Sacramento.”

  Marco forced his clenched jaw to relax. “Fine.”

  “Marco, please.”

  “No, it is what it is.”

  “Please tell your family I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  She hesitated. “You’re angry?”

  “I’m not happy, Peyton, no.”

  “I don’t know what to do. I told Radar I had plans, but he said I had to go.”

  Marco forced himself to gentle his touch as he petted Pickles. “You’re spending a lot of time with this Radar.” Once he and Peyton had spent this much time together, working cases, tracking down leads. The jealousy that was always so close under the surface now came raging to the foreground.

  “You’re really not going to like the next part. I don’t think I’ll be home tonight.”

  He fought for composure. He had a sudden, irrational urge to throw something. “I see.”

  “Marco, don’t say it like that. It’s just this case. We’re so close to solving it. Please understand. This is my job.” But he could hear the excitement in her voice. This wasn’t just her job, this was her life, this was what gave her life meaning and he was incidental.

  “Yeah, I got it, Peyton. Look, I gotta go.”

  She fell silent, holding the phone. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yeah.” He started to disconnect, then he hesitated. “Peyton?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, okay?”

  “I will. I love you.”

  He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He felt so angry and hurt that he was afraid he’d say something spiteful instead. “Just be careful.” Then he disconnected the call. For a moment, he fought with himself. He wanted to call her back, he wanted to tell her he was sorry for acting distant, but he couldn’t. She was the sun and he was caught in her orbit, spinning around her, waiting for her to shine a little light on him. The problem was – he wasn’t the only planet in her solar system.

  He texted his brother Vinnie and begged off dinner, asking him to tell their mother. Vinnie began an instant text back, demanding why, but Marco set the phone face down on the coffee table and looked at Pickles.

  “It’s damn near 3:00 o’clock, bud. What do you say we have a drink?”

  Pickles tilted his head, then laid his chin on his front paws with a heavy sigh.

  * * *

  Sharpe met them in the driveway like he always did, but this time patrol cars filled the lane and Radar had a hard time finding space for the Suburban. Peyton jumped out and handed Sharpe the search warrant.

  “See anything?”

  “Not a damn thing. Called the hospital to talk to Agnes, but they said she had a heart attack. She isn’t conscious.”

  Peyton hated that. She’d liked Agnes, even if her whole family was a bunch of brain eating zombies.

  “All right. Let’s search this bastard from every rafter and roof to the cellars!” said Radar, stepping out of the Suburban in a flak jacket and black gloves. Tank and Bambi came after him. They all wore FBI issue ball caps. Coming around the front of the car, Radar slapped a ball cap on her head. “Just so we know who we’re shooting at if it comes to that,” he said.

  Peyton tightened her own flak jacket and unholstered her gun.

  “What exactly do you think we’re dealing with here?” asked Sharpe.
>
  “A zombie killer,” answered Radar. “I sure wouldn’t let him bite you if I were you.”

  Sharpe looked at Peyton for explanation. “Igor, our M.E., has a theory that Old Man Harwood started eating brains even before Roy Junior was born. Since prion disease has a long incubation period, he wasn’t sick yet when Roy was born, but when Agnes got pregnant with Randall, he was most likely infected.”

  “So he passed the prion disease on to his son?”

  Peyton shrugged. “That’s what Igor’s speculating, or possibly, the prion disease changed Old Man Harwood’s DNA enough to affect Randall. Randall may not have been able to attend school because he had behavioral issues.”

  “Why fake his death?”

  “The state probably wanted to know what was going on, why the boy wasn’t in school, so the Harwoods said he drowned.”

  “Then what? Old Man Harwood had the boys join him in his zombie rituals?”

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  Sharpe leaned away from her. “No, stranger things haven’t happened. Are you saying Agnes didn’t know?”

  “We trick ourselves into believing all sorts of things when we can’t face what’s in front of us,” she said. Like ignoring the fact that your fiancé has a drinking problem. She tamped down on that thought. She couldn’t let her worry for Marco cloud her mind right now.

  “If we’re finished with the rampant speculation, we’ve got a zombie to find,” said Radar. He gave his team an appraising look. “Stay close together. Don’t get separated. We search every inch of this farm. Got it?”

  “Got it!” Tank and Bambi said in unison.

  Radar gave Peyton a disbelieving look.

  “Oh, got it!”

  “Way to be a team player, Sparky.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know we were a glee club.”

  Radar rolled his eyes, then they moved out. Sharpe gave orders to his men to begin the search and Peyton saw patrol officers leave their cars, advancing on the Harwood farm with guns drawn. Adrenalin pumped through Peyton as she moved toward the house with Sharpe and Bambi. She knew she had blown the image of Randall Harwood out of proportion in her mind, but she couldn’t deny that the rosy light of dusk and the fog creeping in off the river gave everything a surreal feeling, like something out of a low-budget horror movie.