Milligan grimaced and looked away. "So, our boy not only has a taste for human flesh, but for pigs and rotted flesh as well. You think it was the same guy who killed Manning?"
"So it would seem." Davis sighed. "We don't have a lot of crime in Lebanon. For us, this is practically a spree."
"Then, our guy is driving that truck. Could be Paul Tremblay, could be his killer. Either way, we find that truck and we find some answers." Lopez snatched up the phone receiver and pushed a button. "I'll put an APB out on that truck. In the meantime, Milligan can get one of his boys to go interview Matt again."
Milligan nodded and whipped out his phone. He knew just who to call. If there were answers to be had, Gebhart would get them.
Matt was gulping coffee and stomping his boots onto his feet when he heard the knock at his door. In a good week, he would have maybe one person come to the apartment. This past week had sent a steady flow of people his way and he didn't like it. He would be late leaving for work in another five minutes and he hadn't even had anything to eat. He choked down the last mouthful of coffee and slammed the cup down on the table.
"Coming!" he barked, yanking on his remaining boot as he hopped across the living room. "Coming!" he yelled again when the knocking didn't stop.
"Sergeant Gebhart of the NYPD," the face announced as Matt yanked open the door. The chain hadn't been on it as he had been too stoned last night to check it. "I need to have a word with you."
"No way, man. I'm late for work as it is and my boss will fry me if I'm late again."
"Sounds like that's your problem, not mine." He was a large man with a receding hairline and deep-set eyes. His arms looked like he spent time wrestling bears when he wasn't working. That or he slung a pick axe in his off hours. He took a step toward the door.
Matt threw up his arms and stepped back, letting the door bang against the wall as he yanked it open. "Okay, man, but if I get fired, I'm suing the PD." He shut the door and went to his favorite chair, where he sort of slopped into it, slouching down and stretching out his legs like a petulant child.
Gebhart sat on the sofa and flipped open his notebook. He seemed pleased with himself, as though he had won some great battle or other. "You spoke to Detective Milligan a few days ago, regarding your friend, Paul."
"Yes." Matt was about to say something smart-assed, but it occurred to him that they might have heard from Paul. "Has he turned up? Paul, I mean?"
"No. But Milligan interviewed his girlfriend, Linda Gilchrist, in LA. According to an email that Paul sent her a couple of days ago, something happened on the job the last day Paul was here. We were hoping you'd know what that was."
Matt shifted, licked his lips, tried not to look guilty. He failed miserably. "Dude, whatever happened to Paul, I don't know anything about it."
"Bullshit!" Gebhart stared daggers through him. "The way Linda tells it, you and Paul work as a team. You're always together at work."
"Yea, I guess that's right. But I don't know what happened, man."
"Is that so?"
"Yea, that's so. Look, dude, I gotta get to work." He moved as if to stand up, but Gebhart never so much as twitched.
"I'll talk to your boss. Sit down." Gebhart watched as Matt slid back into the chair, dejected and jumpy. "Now, you and Paul were down in the tubes on his last day here, right?"
"Yea, we were. So?"
"Where?"
"Out in the industrial section. There's that pharmaceutical plant out there, and a couple of other factories." Matt started tapping one crossed foot against the other.
"We know that you called an ambulance that day. And we know that Paul was dead at the site. The EMT says that they took him to the morgue. And then, Paul just disappeared."
Matt felt like he was going to throw up. His face paled and he felt a sudden wave of heat and nausea wash over him. He sat up straighter, drew in a deep breath, and finally looked Gebhart in the eye. "I'm telling the truth when I tell you that I don't know what happened. Honest to God."
"Yea? Well, why don't you tell me what you do know and then what you think happened?"
Matt hesitated, looked around, trying to figure out just how much trouble he was in. He hadn't done anything to Paul. In fact, Matt hadn't done anything at all, and that might well be the problem. "We were in the tubes, like I said. We were running our tests and doing our measurements and such. We got to the end of that particular pipe and there was this heap of trash and shit between us and the last twenty feet. So Paul climbed the trash with the tape so we could measure."
"Did you lose sight of him while he was on the other side of the trash?"
"Yea. I couldn't see him but I could hear him. He was bitching about some nasty blue goo. When he came back over the trash pile, I could see it on him. We went back to the last junction, climbed up the ladder and got the heck out of there. It was quitting time, ya know?"
"So, Paul was okay then? When you saw him come over the trash?"
"Yea, he was fine. And when we got into the sunlight, you couldn't see that shit at all. We were halfway back to the truck when Paul just doubled over and fell to the ground, flopping around like a big old dead fish or something. I called for the ambulance right away, but when they got there, dude said he was dead. They took him off to the morgue."
"That part we got. So, if he's dead, then how the hell is he driving around in your car and playing with corpses?"
"I don't got any idea about that, man. All I know is that a couple of hours later, Paul comes waltzing in here, alive. He had shit all over his face like zits or something and when he talked, it sounded like when your wood chipper gets jammed up. But he was damn sure alive and he didn't remember anything about what happened down in the tunnel until I told him. That's when he decided to go to LA to see Linda. I tried to stop him, told him to call her or something. But he kept insisting. After that, I don't have any idea in hell what happened with Paul."
Gebhart flipped his notebook shut and stood up. "Okay, Matt. I just need you to do one more thing for me."
Matt frowned, screwed up his face as he stood. He had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. This was it. "What's that, dude?"
"I need you to take me out to that sewer tunnel and show me where you were when it all went south."
"Dude! I already told you, I gotta go to work." Matt pleaded with open hands and cocker spaniel eyes.
Gebhart stepped around the coffee table and clapped a hand on Matt's shoulder and squeezed. "I'll fix things with your boss, don't worry. Now, grab a jacket and let's go. I'll drive."
He was out the door then, Matt scurrying to catch up, lock the door, and put on his jacket all at once. Gebhart's car was parked out front and it was a police cruiser. Instantly, Matt could feel the eyes of the neighborhood on him. He wished he had a t-shirt that said MATT DIDN'T DO ANYTHING. Not that it would help.
They drove on for a few minutes in silence, neither looking at the other. "For the record, we don't think you did anything wrong," Gebhart said, breaking the silence. "And we're pretty sure Paul didn't do anything wrong either."
"Well, that's good. 'Cause neither one of us did anything wrong. Paul is my best friend in the world. He's like a brother to me, man. And if anything's happened to him . . . I'll just die." Matt began to cry softly, his shoulders hitching with each sob.
Gebhart wasn't good with that sort of thing. He felt bad for the kid, he really did. But he had a job to do. "So, where is this place, exactly?"
Matt swiped a hand over his face, tried to clear his vision. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Go four blocks down and turn right. You go over the bridge and then when you pull into the industrial park, take your first left and park out behind the old bottling company."
Gebhart nodded and took his turns. He had a natural aversion to anything that existed underground. Even the subways made him nervous. He supposed it all went back to his beat days, when he used to pick up overtime when he could, sitting the subways. By the end of his second year,
he had seen just about everything that the underbelly of life could produce.
"Which way?" Gebhart asked as he slid out of the car.
"Right over here. You have to go down here and then walk the rest of the way. You got a tire iron?"
"In the trunk." Gebhart stepped to the rear of the car and unlocked the trunk. He freed the tire iron and slammed the trunk lid with a sigh. God, how he hated going underground.
"Listen, man, I'm not going down there. You can arrest me or shoot me or whatever you want. But there's no way in hell I'm going down in that tube and I don't think you should either."
Gebhart look at him, assessing Matt's determination, and his fear. He was pale and his body language suggested that he might bolt at any minute. "Relax, kid. I'll go down there. You just have to tell me what I'm looking for."
Matt took the tire iron from Gebhart and lifted the sewer lid up and over. "You can't miss it. Walk about a hundred yards that way," he pointed to his right, toward the water tower. "You can't miss the trash heap."
Gebhart stepped to the opening and lowered himself onto the first ladder rung. "I want you here when I get back, pal. If you're not, I'll find you." He let his eyes say the rest.
"Is there any way I can talk you out of this, dude? Seriously." Matt's eyes were soft and pleading. He seemed genuinely concerned.
"I'll be back up in ten minutes. Then we'll go get a sandwich or something, okay?" Matt nodded but his frown stayed put. "I'm buying."
Gebhart slipped into darkness then, and when his feet touched down, they did so with a splash. Gebhart cursed and shook his feet, trying to get the water off his uniform shoes. He unclipped the flashlight from his belt and switched it on. The trash pile was not nearly as far away as Matt had indicated, so he made haste to it and began to climb to the other side.
He slipped twice and finally crested the heap, which was tall enough to leave a mere three feet between its top and the ceiling of the tunnel. Gebhart regretted those extra cheeseburgers as he slid over the top and made his way back down the other side. He promised he'd work out more, get his wind back and maybe lose a bit of that gut. And then his feet touched the floor of the tunnel and he forgot all about it.
He now understood what Matt was talking about. A few feet away from the base of the trash pile was a large blue puddle and it was glowing like a 60s black light poster. Gebhart watched his step closely, making sure not to get any of that stuff on him. He had a collection bag in his pocket, and he pulled it out, peeled it open. It occurred to him then that he had no gloves and that he would never get the thing to close without getting the stuff all over him.
He searched the trash pile, looking for anything he could use to contain a sample without risking a spill or contamination. There was a pudding container in the pile and he used that to meticulously fill the evidence bag about a quarter of the way. Then, he taped the bag shut and tossed the cup away. He checked himself carefully, making damn sure he hadn't gotten any of that blue crap on him. He had no idea what it was, but he knew it was bad . . . bad enough that just getting it on his skin had killed Paul . . . at least for a while.
When he was back on solid ground again, he heaved a sigh of relief, his eyes adjusting slowly and his face twisted with stress. Matt was there, pacing back and forth and his face drooped with relief when he saw Gebhart.
"You okay, man? You didn't get any of that stuff on you, did ya?" He reached over and grabbed the sewer cover with the tire iron, dragging it into place.
"I'm fine. Really. I got a sample, but I managed not to get any of it on me. What the hell is it anyway?"
"You're asking me? Do I look like a chemist?" Matt laughed then. It was a thin, nervous sound and it made him sound slightly insane.
"Let's drop this by the lab and go get some lunch."
"You're sure you're okay?" Matt looked him up and down, frowning, his brow deeply etched.
"I told you. I'm fine. C'mon." He clapped Matt on the back and made for the car, the bag held lightly between thumb and index finger. He opened the trunk and put the bag into a container, labeled the container with a marker, and slammed the trunk lid.
"I'll take you to my brother's place. He runs a little deli on the east side. They make a hell of a pastrami there. You like pastrami?"
"I guess." Matt didn't like much of anything anymore. Not since Paul had gone away. And if Paul didn't come back, he might never like anything ever again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Paul could see Las Vegas burning brightly from twenty miles away. It was like someone had opened up the darkness and let the sun shine on that town alone. He still had plenty of gas to make it to the other side, so he could stop in some out-of-the-way desert gas station instead of a big city mart. His face had seemingly begun to melt and, against his better judgment, he had taken two bites of his remaining piece of pig meat. He thanked his lucky stars that he couldn't seem to taste anything because the stuff had gone green and there was the furry beginning of mold on its surface. But the hunger had hit him so fast, gnawing at his insides and making his head – not just his ears, but his entire head – ring. Aside from that, he was afraid that if he waited too long, his decaying body might be too far gone to repair with any amount of meat.
Now, he had a scant half piece of pig flesh remaining. Would it be enough to restore him to normal Paul status, he wondered? Or was he going to need to get some more somehow? He really didn't want to go through another pig slaughter. That aside, there didn't seem to be a lot of farmland in the Vegas area. And Southern California, he knew, was devoted to oranges, tomatoes and the like. Paul sighed and pressed on.
More than anything, he wanted to avoid crowded places, cops, and busy streets. His mind wandered a lot, even with the meat in his belly. So, he took Highway 215 around the city, joining back up with Highway 15 on the other side. He had about fifty more miles and then he would need gas again, seventy-five if he stretched it. His plan was to take Highway 15 until it joined up with Highway 40 going west, then slide in to Linda's place. One more fill-up and he should be there.
He had made notes in one of his clear moments, having studied the GPS and written down each road and each turn he needed to make. Three times he had had to stop and look up Linda's address, but he finally got it right. Now, even if he lost the GPS or it stopped working, he would know where to go and how to get there. One of the notes warned that the cops were looking for him, but he doubted that the APB would extend this far west from Kansas. Besides, he hardly looked like himself. It would take quite the detective to recognize him now, with his drooping face and pock-marked skin.
Twenty miles after he left the 215, he spotted a small gas station in the middle of nowhere. The desert was flat and you could see for miles. Buildings were easy to spot if their lights were on, but it was hard to tell exactly how far away that bright spot in the night really was. He veered off onto a side road, which consisted of little more than a dirt path which had been cleared of all its scrub. Paul was sure they had poured some gravel on the makeshift road at some point, but most of it had been ground into the ruts and divots that the rare falling of rain had produced.
He watched the station carefully as he approached, hoping for no signs of life, for automatic pumps, for a blind attendant. The setting sun had turned the desert into a cold, barren place, where the chill seeped all the way into your bones and nestled there, like some sort of a parasite. Paul shuddered and pulled up to the pump. There was a sound like a loud bell as his tires crossed a pressure swittch and it made him yell in surprise. His mind shot back to a time, long ago, when he had been a little boy and had ridden with his dad to the filling station to get his bike tires tended to. There had been a hose across each pump lane and when you ran over it, a loud bell rang, alerting the attendant of an incoming customer. There were no more attendants, of course, and thus no more bells.
But things here in the far-away of the desert were different on a lot of levels. The bell had damn sure rung and now a short, grizzled man
who looked far older than he must be trotted toward the truck. Paul flipped his hoodie into place and tried to avert his face.
"Evening, mister. What can I do for you today?" Despite the location, the man's accent was deeply southern, approaching a drawl.
Paul coughed and made as if to hold his throat, then he flipped out a sticky note which said: FILL IT PLEASE. He waited for what seemed like a thousand years for the man to walk back to the pump, pull out the nozzle, and begin pumping the gas. Paul took every opportunity to cough loudly, to wretch his gut as though he were about to cough up a lung. Not only did it offer a good explanation for him not speaking, but it made the man less inclined to come near.
When the tank was filled, Paul whipped out his credit card and thrust it out the window at the man. He took it and walked slowly away, his face contorted and scratching his head. When the man returned, he handed Paul a clipboard with a carbon copied receipt and a pen. Apparently the digital age had completely passed this guy by. When Paul had signed, they exchanged the clipboard for the credit card, Paul waved, and drove away.
After the distance he had traveled and all he had been through, it was comforting to Paul to know that, in a few short hours, he would be with Linda again. This whole mad adventure would finally be at an end. He could finish his business with her and then turn himself in to the police, tell his story, and hopefully finish up the business of his life, such as it was.
He had never been to Los Angeles, but he had heard stories. Luckily for him, Linda lived in a nice suburban area where the apartments were more like townhouses than skyscrapers. Still, he looked a mess and was a complete disaster in every way. He would need to stop somewhere, eat his remaining chunk of meat, and try to regain some semblance of his humanity. Then he would drive to Linda's apartment where he could . . . where he could . . . He couldn't remember why he had come. He took a second to glance at his notes. There was nothing there covering this particular part of the journey. He knew he had driven out here to see Linda, but he had no earthly idea what he was supposed to do when he did see her. He couldn't speak in any form that she would understand and he didn't have a cell phone to text with, or anything at all with which to communicate with her.
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