The Corpse Whisperer

by H. R. Boldwood

  Then Rico and Ferris joined me at the rear of our group, holding off the endless swarm of rotters that followed us, as we funneled down the passage.

  Leo reached the bedroom door first and threw it open. We all piled inside and slammed the door shut, locking it behind us. Rico and Ferris slid the dresser in front of the door, to hold the horde at bay.

  The wooden door shimmied in its frame as the biters flung themselves against it, over and over again. Each time they pushed forward, the door creaked and groaned. It would only hold so long.

  Where in the hell had I put the key to the weapons cabinet Nonnie installed?

  No time to figure that out. I shot the lock off the cabinet and pointed to the stockpile of ammo inside it.

  “Leo, take our empty mags and fill them with 9 mils.”

  Leo plopped on the floor and started filling our empties. The hinges on the door were beginning to give. Leo struggled to fill our mags, his hands shaking so bad, he kept fumbling the bullets.

  Rico and Ferris scoured the cabinet for alternative weapons and I joined Leo on the floor.

  “You’re doing fine, champ,” I said. “How ‘bout tossing me a mag, so I can get in on the fun.”

  Nonnie’s eyes gleamed when she spied the flamethrower propped inside the corner of the cabinet. She dove for it and Little Allie screamed, nearly bursting my eardrums.

  “Don’t even think about it, Nonnie,” I scolded. “We’re not sending my house up in flames.”

  My house—with its busted windows, flattened furniture and wall-to-wall zushi. Splatz wouldn’t know what hit them.

  Sirens roared in the distance. Lots of them. No sooner did I breathe a sigh of relief than the top hinge on the door broke free. Rico and Ferris pushed the dresser tighter against the door.

  I tossed a fresh mag to Rico, as a lone biter smashed through the door, toppling the dresser and knocking Rico over.

  The airborne mag sailed over Rico’s head. The biter fell, landing on the overturned dresser, inches from Rico’s neck.

  It rolled off the dresser to its knees, and lunged for him.

  I slapped a fresh mag into Hawk and took aim, but Nonnie obliterated the biter’s head with a single swipe of the skillet.

  Kitchen Accessories: Two. Biters: Zero.

  Tires squealed and gravel pelted the house as cars roared up the driveway. Loud voices and rapid fire burst through the house. Bullets strafed through the bedroom wall and we dove for cover.

  “It’s us!” I screamed. “For God’s sake, stop. We’ve got live ammo in here.”

  The shooting slowed to an occasional shot and soon stopped altogether.

  I climbed to my feet and walked to what was left of the doorway, hung back from the opening, and called, “Friendlies. Coming out.”

  We wandered into the hallway and beheld the carnage. My house. My battered, beaten, block of Swiss cheese house. Rotters lay on top of rotters, piled three deep, in some places, even higher.

  Leo and I stood at the end of the hallway, heads on a swivel.

  “You payed up on your homeowners?” Leo asked.

  Something plopped on my head. I glanced up and cringed. Oh. This was so going to suck.

  Hundreds of biter bits dangled like spitballs from the ceiling, waiting for gravity to work its magic. One by one, the bits fell in random order, bombing everything in their path.

  I took Leo by the arm and meandered to the couch, shoving a pile of dead rotters off the cushions, making room for us. There we sat, me leaning over him, sheltering him from the rot bombs.

  Dickhead, Cap and Weston finally arrived and entered my house through the gaping hole where the back door used to be.

  Dickhead hung at the opening and hollered in. “How’s Leo?”

  The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow.

  Leo was horrible. Leo would probably die soon. But one look in his proud, tired eyes and I realized that I would rather cut off my arm than give up on him.

  “Leo? Leo’s a fucking hero,” I said. “Not to mention a kickass zombie hunter. He helped keep us alive. But I think he should go to the hospital, now. You know. Just to make sure he’s okay.”

  The EMTs were already there. Rico and Ferris said they would ride with Leo to the hospital and take the next shift.

  I winked, my tears nearly spilling, as they carried Leo out. “You’re tough as they come, buddy. See you in a bit.”

  Nonnie walked alongside him to the ambulance, and then stooped to kiss his forehead. “You come home tomorrow. I make lasagna.”

  She glanced back at what was left of my kitchen, and added, “Maybe, my house.”

  Dickhead and Cap trailed after Rico and Ferris, no doubt hell-bent on getting their debriefing at the hospital, while Leo was being evaluated.

  Weston stayed behind, taking pictures of my house…the crime scene.

  The sun would be up soon.

  I dialed Splatz. “Hey, it’s Allie. Oh, you heard on the scanner. Yeah, it’s bad… No. Way worse than the morgue. Like the morgue times infinity. Bring a carpenter…and a drywaller…and paint…and primer. Lots of primer. See you in five.”

  I started to hang up, but stopped. “Hey, I almost forgot. Before you get started here, hit my neighbor’s back yard. The Winstels. The ones on the right. Okay?”

  Jimmy asked me where to send the bill.

  I looked at the phone and blanched. “Sure as hell not to me. Send it to Director Horton at the FBI office, here in town. One more thing. This place has to be livable within twenty-four hours.”

  I waited for him to stop yelling.

  “Bullshit,” I said. “You work miracles every day. Just do your magic and make sure the walls and doors are up. The finishing work can wait. Thanks, man.”

  I leaned back on the couch, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath for the first time in hours. It wasn’t long before I drifted off.

  Damned, if Weston’s phone didn’t ring, rousing me from my nap. He answered it on the third ring. “Yo!”

  Yo? Yo…

  Yo! The brain bitch screamed. I bolted awake and craned my neck toward Weston, who was already immersed in conversation.

  What do you know? The answer had been right in my face all along.

  Now, where did I leave that phone?

  31

  Why?

  I opened my bedroom door to search for Dom’s phone and held my breath, steeling myself against the damages that lay in store for me.

  As it turned out, my bedroom was the least ravaged room in the house, with the possible exception of the bathroom. Dom’s phone lay on my dresser, right where I’d left it after my failed attempt to finger the mole during Cap’s meeting.

  I picked it up and walked back through the hallway, ripping myself a new one with every step.

  How had I not figured this out earlier? Why hadn’t my instincts served me better? Little Allie never missed a trick. She…I…should have seen this coming. But then it occurred to me that I actually had.

  When Weston first arrived at the safe house and I raised a red flag, a certain cop, whose first name begins with Rico, and last name begins with De Palma, blew me off and vetted the son of a bitch. It would be a long time before I let De Palma live that down.

  I stopped at the end of the hallway and pressed redial. Not twenty feet away, Weston, who’d been using his pen to flip shell casings into an evidence bag, answered the call.

  “Yo.”

  That moment didn’t feel anything like I thought it would. I expected to feel pumped, even proud that I’d finally nailed the mole. But all I felt was sorrow. Sorrow for Rico, who had been blindsided by an old friend, sorrow for Cap, who would see someone he trusted fall, and sorrow for all the people who died because of one man’s unimaginable betrayal.

  How could a good cop go so wrong?

  “Hello?” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  Weston must have sensed me in the archway. He turned and stared at the burner phone in my hand. Our eyes
locked and the color drained from his face. His shoulders slumped.

  So many questions, so many thoughts swirled through my head, and yet the only word I could utter was, “Why?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked.

  “It does to me.”

  Weston didn’t offer an explanation. He simply slid the burner phone back into his pocket, pulled out a fresh evidence bag, and continued to scoop up shell casings, as if the events of the last few minutes had never happened.

  “Put your gun on the floor and kick it over to me now, Weston. Careful,” I said as he reached for his holster, “One finger. Cuffs, too.”

  “For what it’s worth, Nighthawk, I’m sorry.”

  He nudged his .44 across the floor with the toe of his shoe, tossed me his cuffs, and then turned back to the carpet, sweeping his gloved hands lightly across its bloody, soiled nap, feeling for any brass he might have missed.

  After a moment, he stood up, with his back to me, squared his shoulders and said, “Did you know I was the youngest badge to ever make detective at CPD? I beat De Palma by two months.”

  “No shit,” I said.

  “Yeah. It was always like that with us. We pushed each other, but in a good way. You know?” He bent back down and continued to hunt for casings.

  What the hell was he doing? We both knew he was going down. But if I let him settle into it, maybe he’d tell me something important. Or maybe not. What the hell did I know? My gut said to give him some space.

  So, I backed off, slipped into the hallway and called Cap to fill him in, while Weston continued to work the scene.

  From where I stood, it looked like he’d found all the brass. But he seemed almost desperate to find more. Like, as long as there was one more casing, he could stay there indefinitely and never face the ugly road ahead of him.

  I needed to be at the hospital with Leo. Time was at a premium. “Listen, Weston, I—”

  “Please,” he said, without looking up. “Let me finish. I haven’t gotten to the kitchen, yet. It won’t take long.”

  “Someone else can do that. C’mon, now. Let’s go.”

  “Please.” His voice quivered.

  He turned to face me, a shadow of the man he’d been only minutes earlier.

  “I wanna finish,” he said. “I was a good cop, once. Let me go out with my head up.” A sad smile tugged at the corner his mouth. “That’s not too much to ask, is it? Besides, Splatz’ll be here any minute. Somebody’s got to let them in.”

  There were still a few badges milling around out front. They could escort Jimmy and his crew inside. Did Weston really want to go out with a little class? Or was this some kind of ruse to catch me off guard?

  “Ten minutes, tops,” I said. “Cap’s sending a car for you.” I looked at Weston, sizing him up. “You aren’t thinking of running, are you?”

  His red-rimmed eyes looked weary. “Where would I go?”

  He was right about that. There was nowhere to hide. Too many lives had been lost.

  Oblivious to Weston’s situation, Jimmy and a dozen or so of his guys burst through the door, dragging their industrial strength hoses behind them.

  Jimmy quietly totaled the cost, as he strolled through the house surveying the carnage, and then let out a whistle.

  “I ever tell you how much I love you, Nighthawk?”

  “Bite me, Jimmy.”

  “I never bite the hand that feeds me, baby.” He threw me a wink. “But I’ll be chowing down good tonight.”

  Within minutes, Weston’s police escort appeared and eyeballed the scene, then skirted around Jimmy’s guys and closed in on Weston. His ten minutes were up.

  “You ready, Weston?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Thanks for…you know.” He stood tall and stuck out his wrists.

  “Take off your jacket,” I whispered.

  He handed it to me and we locked eyes, as I slapped on the cuffs, then draped his jacket across his hands and led him out of the house, through the yard, past seven or eight of CPD’s finest. Weston’s peers.

  One of the badges called out, “Hey, guy. Beer and wings at Chicken on the Run. Eight o’clock, tonight. Be there.”

  Weston stopped and smiled back. This was the last time they would see him as an equal, the last time they would be proud to have served with him. He lingered in the moment.

  Committing it to memory, maybe? What the hell. I’d give him that much. But only that much.

  My neighbors gawked at the scene from beyond the caution tape, so I blocked their view by stepping in front of him, as he climbed into the back of the squad car.

  “Damn you, Weston,” I whispered. “Just…damn you.”

  We waited in the chairs across from Cap’s desk, listening to the hustle and bustle of the 51st just outside his door.

  Weston fidgeted and picked at the upholstered arm of his chair. Every so often he let out a sigh, tilted back his head, and stared at the ceiling. Minutes ticked by and sweat began to glisten on his forehead.

  A half hour later, Cap walked in, closed the door, and strode to his desk without so much as a glance at Weston. For the first time I could remember, Cap had a three-day beard. His clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  He cleared his voice, as if he intended to speak, but instead, remained quiet and stared at his hands, folded on the desktop. After a long, awkward silence, he raised his eyes and shot Weston a withering glare.

  “Why?” Cap asked.

  Weston squirmed and fought for his voice, eventually spitting out the answer we’d all been waiting for.

  “Fifty large,” he mumbled. “I was in fifty large to Connie Hodges.”

  I glanced at Cap.

  “Conrad Hodges,” he explained. “A local bookie.”

  Weston shrugged. “I like the ponies.”

  He put his elbows on Cap’s desk and lowered his head into his hands. “Don’t ask me how I got in so deep. It was like falling down a fucking rabbit hole. Fifty big ones. I don’t have that kind of money. I got a wife and kids. What the hell was I supposed to do? Then this guy emails me, from out of nowhere. Says he’s got $50K with my name on it. All I have to do is stall the biter investigation and tip him off if the heat turns up. That’s all I did. I swear.”

  Cap’s eyes flickered. “What was his name?”

  “I don’t know. I never even saw the guy. All I had was an email address.”

  Jesus. This was sounding like a spy novel. It was time to play follow the money.

  “How did you get paid?” I asked.

  Weston slumped in his chair. “A box of cash, in the mail. Along with the burner phone.”

  Cap nodded and then paused, wiping his eye with the heel of his hand. “And Miriam?” he asked quietly. “What about Miriam?”

  Weston frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Before Little Allie could stop me, I sprang from my chair and grabbed Weston by his collar. “You killed her, you clueless son of a bitch.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!” His voice turned pitchy. “I would never have killed Miriam. That…that BOLO Guy killed her.” He grimaced and his eyes began to water. “Jesus. Why would you even say that?”

  “Because you did kill her,” I said. “Just like you killed Powell, and Ortega, and Capple, and those FBI agents in the warehouse. You killed them all, the moment you sold your soul for $50K. Christ, you make me sick.”

  I sank back into my chair, desperately hoping I wouldn’t puke on Cap’s floor.

  Weston self-imploded in front of us, rambling on about how he never meant to hurt anyone and that he’d only done it for the money.

  I would have loved to have stayed there and bitch-slapped him a few times, telling him his greed made the killings all the more senseless. But I had to get to the hospital. Leo needed me.

  “One more thing,” I said, as I walked to Cap’s door. “All those biters at my house. How in the hell could they have marched through my neighborhood, sight unseen?”

  Cap took a deep breath
and leaned back in his chair. “There were some semis parked up the street, behind the Hyde Park Shopping Plaza on Paxton. A patrolman noticed them and called it in. Said he was going to do a drive by. When he didn’t report back, another unit was dispatched. They found him dead. Shredded by biters, the semis gone. We checked with the shop owners. None of them had overnight deliveries. It’s a short walk from the plaza to your place. It was the middle of the night, and people were asleep.”

  Cap shook his head and then stared at his desk blotter. “Trailers hauling rotters. Lethal and low-tech. Scary shit, huh?”

  On my way to the hospital, I couldn’t get Cap’s words out of my head. If this attack had happened at any other time of day, the results would have been catastrophic.

  I pictured hundreds of zombies, eating their way through the streets of Cincinnati, killing, maiming, and potentially spawning more and more deadheads with every bite. And all it would take to make that happen was a few semis.

  So simple. So brilliant. So incredibly evil.

  The bastard behind all this understood the meaning of terror.

  32

  Some Days Suck Worse than Others

  For the second time, I scrambled to the fifth floor of University Hospital, not knowing Leo’s condition. I hated walking into his room blind. What if he wasn’t bouncing back? What if this was the end? If not today, that day was coming soon.

  The promise I’d made to Leo weighed on me. But how much worse would it be, if for some reason, I wasn’t there to stop him from turning? I didn’t want either one of us to go through that.

  As I rounded the corner to Leo’s room, I realized there was another reason I dreaded today’s visit. Rico was there. Even though part of me wanted to rub Weston in Rico’s face, the bigger part of me knew how crushed Rico would be. And I’d be the one doing the crushing.

  The room was dark and still. I stuck my head inside to find Ferris and Rico, minus the zushi they’d been wearing when they left my house. They were dressed in scrubs, sitting in the visitor’s chairs, with their feet propped up on the trash can.