by A. J. Aalto
She stared at me woozily. Her cheeks were flushed with irritation, but it looked like there wasn't enough focus in her head to form a response. That was not good. I snapped my fingers in front of her face.
“Agent Golden? We have to be absolutely sure. Do you understand?”
She nodded again. The hospital would have to shave her head to check every inch of her scalp for the tiniest mark, and hold her in quarantine for forty-eight hours to check for signs of infection. She probably didn't grasp all that just yet, and I didn't want to be the one to tell her. Instead, I put down the Taser and took her by the wrist.
“Gonna be ok?” I asked, lifting her arm. She allowed it. I peeked into both armholes of her t-shirt at her armpits to check for swelling; they were pale pink and smelled faintly of baby powder-covered sweat. “How ya feeling?”
Golden's face was wan. “I've got a bump on my head the size of Batten's balls, how do you think I feel?”
Not wanting to stop hating her, but frankly loving that assessment, I said what she expected to hear. “Quit whining, you joyless shitpail. You're starting to sound like him.”
Golden didn't bother clamping back a trembling smile, terror momentarily lifted by gratitude. “You take that back,” she said under her breath.
“When you give me a reason to,” I compromised with a shrug.
“We should torch the shed, Marnie,” Declan said over my shoulder, his Irish accent strong. “We have to torch it. If there were babies …”
“We should wait for confirmation from the health department before we destroy all our evidence,” I muttered, as de Cabrera handed me a biohazard bin and helped Golden to her feet. He walked her up toward the SUV to wait for the ambulance.
But, deep down, I agreed with Declan. If there was even the slightest chance that this momma spider had babies that she hadn't eaten, which had made a meal of the brain-eating beetle larvae, that had fed on Roger Kelly, who had blotches of creeping plague blooming on the inside of his skull. It was a long chain of ifs, but it led to an ugly destination. “Okay, find me even one egg sac, and we'll be proactive and torch the whole nest. Otherwise, protocol dictates we contain the spider and the body and wait for the health department.”
“The way to tell for sure instantly would be to use your psychometry and get results from the shed itself,” Declan suggested.
I heard Chapel make an affirmative noise in agreement but he didn't order it. I grabbed the yellow plastic bin with the red biohazard symbol on it and scraped the zombie spider's remains into it; the thing was now just a blackened ball of scorched hair and oozing innards. The smoke smudged the plastic in streaky, cloudy lines. I pressed the lid down tight.
“I'm too keyed-up for psychic stuff,” I said low. “Groping won't work, I'm too hyper.”
“You know that's not entirely true.” Declan studied the side of my face but I didn't want to meet his gaze. “In an emergency, I'm okay with pulling out a bit of magic to amplify your Talents. Bagged-cat, or moth-in-chains, both would get us results. I understand you have a problem tiptoeing on the left hand path, but …”
“Says who? I'll tiptoe through your fucking tulips, Irish.”
He spread his hands. “Is it untrue?”
Both of the spells casually dropping from his lips involved using animal parts. Even if we weren't the ones who killed the animals, it was a grey area, not white magic, closer to black. I'd promised Harry I would behave myself, and worse than that, I'd sworn to Harry on Mark Batten's life that I wouldn't tap into the infernal through my Bond. Even if I did want to deck Batten, especially now when he was glaring at me across the slightly-scorched beach with his arms crossed, radiating the expectation of failure, I didn't want Harry to exact the price of my disobedience. And he would. Harry would fall on Batten's throat like a fly on a fresh corpse.
“It would give us answers before the health department gets here,” I reasoned, craning up at Chapel. “Any guidance, boss man?”
“If there's a danger to the public, we torch it,” Chapel said firmly. “We can't wait on the health department only to start a …” He almost said the word zombie. I saw it in his face before he skipped over it. “An epidemic. Are you sure that's what's going on here?”
“No,” I admitted. “Just going by the lab work. If the CDC did find Yersinia repens in addition to Yersinia sarcophaginae, then we've got a serious contagion here and the possibility of an outbreak. If the spider didn't eat all the larvae and all the baby spiders, then other things fed on Roger Kelly, directly or indirectly, and therefore those other things are now infected.”
“Then let's haul out moth-in-chains and find out now,” Declan urged. “I've got the moths. We're not going to just stand around and wait for the babies to wander off into the woods, right?”
“You're the head of UnBio, your call, Marnie,” Chapel said, “I trust your judgment.”
I watched my boss hustle to wave Sheriff Hood's 4X4 back as it was pulling up to the do-not-cross tape. The Timberlake lookalike was widening the perimeter, pushing back a few nosy neighbors who had come to see what the yellow tape meant. I watched sleepy people in pajamas and robes, and tried not to catch any of their curious eyes.
“I trust your judgment,” he says. Well, shit.
CHAPTER 28
I NODDED TO DECLAN and led him back to the shed door to search the webs for evidence of living baby spiders. Someone had slammed it shut. I cracked it an inch while sweat rolled down between my shoulder blades, mimicking little spider creeps.
I asked Declan, “You're not in the least bit …” Don't say afraid, don't admit fear, “reticent about using black magic?”
“Here? Or in general?” Declan asked.
“In general.”
“Why would I be?”
“You don't believe it puts your soul at risk?”
Declan's sad smile said so much: he'd paid a price, wasn't entirely okay with it, but it was too late to change things. “You know, Marnie, you can say the word ‘afraid’ to me. Everyone is afraid of something. I won't think less of you. I can amp you without causing any more harm to Harry's soul, or yours, than has already been done by him.”
In the close confines of the stinking shed, crouched not two feet from the body of a dead guy whose blood once ran fresh and strong and lively through mortal veins, Declan's words sounded like a judgment.
“Harry believes in redemption,” I said, feeling the weight of my job's responsibility through the early morning exhaustion and the stress of Golden's possible injuries. My assistant's condemnation was not something I wanted to hear right now. “He's furious with me when I do anything even a little sketchy.”
“I understand that he believes, and I see that he's convinced you.” Declan shook his head. “But he's wrong.”
“I can't accept that.”
“The sooner you do, the easier your life will be, Marnie,” he said, “because the longer you deny Asmodeus, and the gifts He has offered to all of His brood, including the humans who serve Him, the more treacherous He will be when He finally comes to claim you.”
I blinked. “What do you mean ‘claim’?”
I never got an answer to that; Batten started bellowing. “What the hell is taking so long in here?” he demanded from the threshold. “It's five hundred degrees and we're waiting on a simple yes or no.”
His tone and the ball-twisted scowl on his face rocketed me toward defensive.
“Wow. You want this done faster, do it yourself,” I snapped, “or back the fuck off.”
“Dr. Edgar, could you give us a moment?” Batten said tightly.
Declan wavered. “It's not her fault, I—”
“Beat it, Irish,” Batten said.
Declan ducked out.
“Caffeine withdrawal?” Batten asked me.
I replied, “I was going to ask you the same thing. Whose idea was it to saddle me with that nitwit assistant, anyway?”
He exhaled hard. “You need another minute to calm down or are we
going to have a civilized conversation?”
“I'm sorry,” I said, “it's been a spectacularly shitty day. Not your fault, though your attitude's not helping.”
He used one elbow to close the shed door, careful not to touch anything with his unprotected hands. Giving me privacy despite his spider phobia earned him point: Batten.
“You think it's five hundred degrees out there?” I rubbed a trickle of sweat off my forehead with the back of my gloved hand. “Wait a second and see how hot it gets in this shed with the door closed.”
“Are you a zombie?” he asked. “Are you about to bash my skull in?”
“No to the first, yes to the second.”
“What did Irish say about Harry to get you wound up?” Batten said, rather more astutely than I expected.
“He didn't say anything about anyone,” I lied. “And if he did, he's wrong. He's always wrong.”
“About?”
“Seriously, Kill-Notch, it's hot. And I haven't had any coffee today. And I'm not feeling well. And there's a plague-ridden corpse at my feet, and I'm surrounded by webs and I just torched the mother of all spiders. And Golden has to shave all her pretty hair off.”
“And?”
I glared up at him, seeing the stress of the morning in every furrow on his forehead, not wanting to respond to his anger but feeling it hammer through my chest anyway. “Your tone is upsetting me,” I said as politely as I could manage. “How much do you think I can take before I clobber you in that pea-sized slop you call a brain?”
“You're lucky I don't have you arrested for threatening a federal agent,” he told me. “Now you're gonna tell me the truth, or we're going to broil in this fucking shed all day.”
“You're not the boss of me,” I tried, hearing the childishness and not caring. “Agent Chapel is my superior. He tells me what to do.” And who not to do.
“Tell me anyway,” he said determinedly. “What did Irish say to you?”
I rolled my eyes grandly. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to know what he said,” he insisted. “Tell me.”
“He said I might as well use dark magic because Harry is …” I tried to sigh it away, but I needed it off my chest, even though Batten was the last person on Earth who would understand. “He said that there's no such thing as redemption. That Harry can't be forgiven. His soul is damned and that's that. But Dr. Edgar is wrong.”
“And if he's right?” he asked. “If Harry is damned, would you turn to dark magic?”
I shook my head. “What the hell do you care, anyway?”
One hand rubbed at his mouth, eyes troubled. “Don't want to see you go off the deep end, if it's not too late all ready.”
I offered him a shrug to acknowledge the temptation. I thought of Ruby's grimoire, throbbing away like a sentient force in my herb cabinet. I wanted to stay on the right hand path. It would be easier to accomplish things if I didn't have to worry about consequences, but the cost… I saw worry replace impatience on Batten's face.
“Sometimes,” he said quietly, “you're not an easy woman to care for.”
It stung because I suspected it was true. “Only sometimes?”
“Maybe you should let someone be nice to you once in a while.” He advanced, encroaching on my space. I heard Chapel's warning in my head, noted the softening around Batten's eyes, and cleared my throat unhappily.
“And maybe you should just send my idiotic assistant back in so I can get to work. For someone so pressed for time, you sure waste a lot of it.”
He watched me kneel down and pretend to examine the body, and if he felt dismissed then I wasn't entirely proud of it, but the time had come for him to go. If he didn't leave now, I was going to say things that would either confuse every issue we ever had, or hurt him, not because I wanted to hurt him, but because I didn't want him chipping away at my defenses or witnessing my weak moments. I didn't want him coming to my rescue. I didn't want to need him.
“That all, Dr. Baranuik?” Batten asked.
“No, Agent Batten,” I said as calmly as I could. “Please get me some coffee before I lose my shit. It looks like Golden's off that particular hook. Unless the ambulance guys bring some, in which case, I'll take mine with a side of hot paramedic.”
He stood there for a moment, fuming, before opening the shed door. He sent over his shoulder, “Get your own fucking coffee,” as the crunch of his boots on gravel faded.
Declan returned to the shed with a cool wet paper towel, which I rejected.
“I'm fine. Let's just figure this damn thing out.”
“I only brought it so you could wipe the dust off your face.” His frown scolded. “The mighty river of thy pride overflows its banks, your nibs.”
Whatever the fuck that meant. “Let's just finish up, please.” I heard Agent de Cabrera's distinctive throat-clear behind me, and backed up an inch for him to take final pictures. Declan made procedural notes in his iPad. “Make a list of the additional samples and cultures we'll need for the health department, and get it to Chapel.”
Declan sounded chagrined. “Look, I'm sorry. I was out of line back there—”
“If I thought you knew what you were talking about, it might matter. Just get back to work.” I pointed at the webbing. “At least Mr. Kelly isn't moving. Maybe the CDC was wrong. Get samples of that heavy clump there, check for…”
My cell phone chirped in my pocket.
It was from Chapel. The arm is moving.
CHAPTER 29
“THAT'S SOMETHING YOU DON'T SEE every day,” de Cabrera offered.
Declan wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. His curls clung around his ears tightly now; under the frost-white glare of the floodlights, his true-black hair offered hints of blue. Beside him, standing in a very Batten-esque stance, legs spread slightly and arms crossed over his chest, de Cabrera watched me inspect the moving arm with a hands-off approach.
“Do either of you know what the fuck is going on?” he asked.
Everyone was in a tight circle around the writhing arm; despite my orders to stay the hell back, I had bodies pressing into my comfort zone, casting shadows. The flesh on the limb was badly decomposed, and from where I crouched, I could see that the humerus was discolored but cleanly disarticulated, as if it had just popped out of its joint, leaving the cushioning cartilage elsewhere.
I used my neoprene-gloved hand to point at the desiccated muscle fibers that were all that remained of the rotator cuff. “Left arm, male. This wasn't torn or broken off.”
“What other option is there?” de Cabrera asked, but his tone said he already knew.
I voiced it for him. “It fell off because the tendons and ligaments were too rotten to hold it on after the muscle was damaged. Note the discoloration on the remaining lymph node, there.”
Declan handed de Cabrera the camera and approached in a crouch-walk, keeping down so that de Cabrera could take pictures over his head. “Greenish-black,” Declan said. “Not furry like the ones on Roger Kelly. Pustules.”
“Buboes,” I corrected.
“As in bubonic plague? Black Death?” Chapel asked from directly over my head.
“You're talking about Yersinia pestis. Yersinia sarcophaginae also causes buboes, these are more greenish than black.”
Declan jumped ahead. “Yersinia sarcophaginae means this body was likely raised from the grave. Judging by the state of decomposition and the slowed rate of putrefaction as calculated by the Revenant Coefficient—”
“Whoa,” Batten said sternly. “Slow down for those of us who don't have an UnBio degree.”
Declan ignored him. His gaze was holding steady on mine. “The body this arm came from was raised on purpose, Dr. B. Whomever this arm belongs to, he was up and walking around, undead, with flesh-eater plague for a week before creeping plague set in and he became infectious.”
I nodded unhappily.
He continued, “It's probable that this arm belongs to the guy who disemboweled Co
smo Winkle, leaving behind in the abdominal cavity traces of both types of plague, as the CDC saw in the lab report.”
“Then it's possible …” I mused, but stopped. My belly was a cold fist of dread.
“Cosmo Winkle's body wasn't stolen,” Declan made the leap. “It got up and walked out of the morgue by itself. And Roger Kelly could rise any second.”
“Don't jump to conclusions,” I shot over my shoulder at Chapel as he turned away to start talking rapidly into his Blackberry, probably to Assistant Director Johnston. “And don't say the Z-word, whatever you do. Not yet.”
Declan did a rapid nod of agreement; though accurate, the Z-word wasn't going to come out of his mouth, either.
Batten let out a long unhappy noise and dialed his phone. When someone answered, he muttered, “Dr. Varney, how far out is your team? Our situation has some bad news.”
“What the hell?” I hissed. “You called Paul Varney? What'd you do that for?”
Batten put a hand over his phone. “You said he was the expert.”
“We've got the state health department.”
“Who fucked up once already. CDC is on their way.”
Dammit. Paul Varney. That's all I needed. Another prick for my thorny garden.
“We'd better find Cosmo Winkle's corpse,” Declan said excitedly. “Where would it go? Why didn't it stay at the hospital? Plenty to eat, there.”
Good question, but blerg. “First things first. Get forensics over here to take nail scrapings, then bag this arm. If we're right, and this arm belongs to the thing that killed Roger Kelly, that gunk under his fingernails will be Kelly's flesh. We should bag Kelly's head, hands and feet, then put restraints on the body just in case.”
“If this thing is what you're suggesting,” de Cabrera said carefully, also ducking the Z-word. “How are restraints going to do anything? Don't they have superhuman strength?”
“The restraints are just there to buy us time to react,” I said. “But you're right; they'll only hold seconds, long enough for us to jump back.”
Declan suggested, “Shouldn't you Grope the arm before they take it away?”
