Praise for the Mutant Files novels
“Action-packed and entertaining.”
—The Book Plank
“Entertaining and fast-paced.”
—The BiblioSanctum
“Part police procedural, part apocalyptic, part John Woo movie, and unapologetic with violence . . . A fun read.”
—Seattle Geekly
“Gripping and intriguing . . . [A] fascinating new science fiction detective drama.”
—That’s What I’m Talking About
Praise for the Legion of the Damned novels
“Filled with intrigue, danger, and page-turning battle sequences . . . Once I started reading I did not want to break away from the story.”
—SF Signal
“[Dietz] allows McKee a bit (but just a bit!) of softness and vulnerability, making this debutante turned army sergeant into a completely engaging three-dimensional character.”
—RT Book Reviews
“An exciting plot and engaging characters made this novel impossible to put down. Fast-paced and action-packed with plenty of suspense, intrigue, and drama.”
—SciFiChick.com
“A page-turner.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“A fast-paced, deep-space military tale with enough sci-fi details to fire the imagination.”
—The Kansas City Star
“A pedal-to-the-metal plot jam-packed with intrigue, deep-space adventure, and futuristic combat.”
—Publishers Weekly
Ace Books by William C. Dietz
Mutant Files Series
DEADEYE
REDZONE
GRAVEYARD
Legion of the Damned Series
LEGION OF THE DAMNED
THE FINAL BATTLE
BY BLOOD ALONE
BY FORCE OF ARMS
FOR MORE THAN GLORY
FOR THOSE WHO FELL
WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST
WHEN DUTY CALLS
A FIGHTING CHANCE
ANDROMEDA’S FALL
ANDROMEDA’S CHOICE
ANDROMEDA’S WAR
Drifter Series
DRIFTER
DRIFTER’S RUN
DRIFTER’S WAR
Sam McCade Series
GALACTIC BOUNTY
IMPERIAL BOUNTY
ALIEN BOUNTY
MCCADE’S BOUNTY
Sauron Duology
DEATHDAY
EARTHRISE
Jak Rebo Series
RUNNER
LOGOS RUN
Jak Cato Series
AT EMPIRE’S EDGE
BONES OF EMPIRE
FREEHOLD
PRISON PLANET
BODYGUARD
WHERE THE SHIPS DIE
STEELHEART
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
GRAVEYARD
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2016 by William C. Dietz.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-15012-6
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / February 2016
Cover art by Gene Mollica.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For my dearest Marjorie.
Thank you.
CONTENTS
Praise for William C. Dietz
Ace Books by William C. Dietz
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
ONE
SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHER Misty Roker was having a nice day until her students found a body behind St. Patrick’s Church. Roker was in her classroom, putting instructional materials away when sixteen-year-old Emily Stills burst into the room. “Miss Roker! A man is lying in the parking lot—and there’s something wrong with his face!”
Sunday school was over, but the children’s parents were still attending Mass, so Misty instructed Emily to remain in the classroom while she went out to investigate. A playground had been built behind the church and was surrounded by a fence. The children were gathered in front of the gate that opened into the parking lot, clearly looking at something. She clapped her hands. “Go inside, children . . . Emily’s waiting for you.”
When the children turned, Misty could see the worried looks on their faces and felt the first stirrings of concern. She had assumed that a drunk had passed out in the parking lot. That would require an explanation, but she could handle it. Now, based on the complete lack of chatter, Misty sensed that something worse was in the offing.
As her charges filed inside, Misty approached the gate. The man was lying a few feet away, eyes wide open, staring up into the bright sunlight. That was when the nurse noticed the facial discoloration, the swelling, and the hundreds of tiny stitches that ran around the circumference of his face. What the heck?
Misty opened the gate and knelt at the man’s side. She felt for a pulse. The results were unequivocal. The man was dead—and had been for some time.
Misty fumbled for her phone, dialed 911, and reported the find. “My name is Misty Roker. We have a man down behind St. Patrick’s Church. He’s unresponsive, cyanotic, and I can’t detect a pulse.”
The dispatcher promised to send an aid unit and, as Misty waited for the medics to arrive, she noticed the white envelope. It was protruding from the man’s shirt, and when Misty pulled it free, she saw that Father Benedict’s name was written on it. Deep down Misty knew that she shouldn’t open the envelope but curiosity got the better of her. So she took it out, opened the unsealed flap, and looked inside. That was when Misty saw the five one-hundred-nu notes and a single piece of paper. She read what was typed on it:
Dear Father Benedict,
This man has gone to a better place. His name is Joel. Please use the money to cover his burial expenses.
Thank you,
Alcmaeon
Misty frowned. Alcmaeon? What kind of name was that?
A siren could be heard in the distance. So Misty stuffed the note back into the envelope—and slid it back into Joel’s shirt. The EMTs arrived a minute later, along with a police car. The me
dics went through the motions of checking Joel out, but he was dead, and all of them knew it. The envelope went to a patrol officer who was careful to hold only the edges of the object before sliding it into a larger envelope. Then, after taking Misty’s name and contact information, he turned her loose. Sunday school was over.
• • •
Cassandra Lee and Lawrence Kane were looking for a condo. The decision to live together had been made during a recent vacation, and now they were looking at condos in Santa Monica, an area that both of them liked.
But they were very busy people, which made finding the time to tour properties difficult. And, now that Kane’s home was up for sale, the task was that much more urgent. Which was why they’d toured two different possibilities that morning and were about to discuss them over lunch.
The restaurant was called Mac’s and was located about a mile away from the famous Santa Monica Pier. It had large windows that looked out over the highway to a sandy beach and the pale blue ocean beyond. “So,” Kane began once they’d been through the buffet line, “what did you think?”
Lee nibbled on a huge strawberry. It was delicious and gave her an opportunity to stall. Even though they’d been through a great deal together, they hadn’t known each other for long, and she wanted to give him a considered response. “Well, the first place is the larger of the two, and I liked that. But it needs a new kitchen.”
Kane had a straight nose, even features, and was wearing a white polo shirt over jeans. He nodded. “True . . . And the head chef needs a good place to perform his culinary miracles. It might be fun to do a reno. Then we could have the kitchen exactly the way we want it.
“How ’bout number two?” he inquired. “It’s smaller but it comes with two parking slots plus a place to keep your bike.”
Lee’s Harley Road King Police Edition motorcycle was a problem, since most condo buildings provided only two parking places, and she hoped to keep the bike nearby. Lee was about to respond when her phone began to dance across the table. Kane made a face. But Lee was on call and had to answer. “Hello, Detective Lee.”
“Sorry,” Deputy Chief Jenkins said. “Life sucks.”
“No kidding. What have you got?”
“Something weird,” Jenkins said. “That’s why I called you.”
“Screw you,” Lee replied. “And the horse you rode in on.”
Jenkins laughed. “Somebody dumped a body in the parking lot behind St. Patrick’s Church.”
“Okay,” Lee said. “But that doesn’t qualify as strange. Not in LA.”
“True,” Jenkins admitted. “However, based on a preliminary evaluation by the coroner, this guy probably died as the result of a botched face transplant.”
“That is weird,” Lee agreed.
“Oh, but there’s more,” Jenkins added. “The dead man is B. nosilla positive.”
Lee was surprised. The John Doe was a mutant! Thirty-one years earlier, back in 2038, a terrorist called Al Mumit (the taker of life) had turned a spore-forming bacteria called Bacillus nosilla loose on the world.
The bioengineered bacteria was delivered to Kaffar (unbelievers) all around the world by 786 Shaheed, or martyrs, each of whom had been selected because they had light-colored skin, were elderly, or only a few months old.
The results were even better than what Al Mumit had hoped for. Billions fell ill as Bacillus nosilla spread, and of those who contracted the disease, about 9 percent survived, with slightly better odds in developed countries. And of those who survived, many went on to develop mutations. Some of the physiological changes were good, but many caused disfigurements or were lethal.
“Patrol officers responded,” Jenkins put in, “and they found a note on the body. According to the person who wrote it, the deceased is named Joel. But that isn’t a whole lot to go on. Head over to St. Patrick’s and collect what information you can.”
“I’m on my way,” Lee replied.
“Yanty will meet you there,” Jenkins said. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Lee heard a click.
Lee looked at Kane as she put the phone away. “Sorry, hon . . . Gotta go.”
Kane had been through it before. He smiled. “No problem . . . Let me know if you’ll be home for dinner. If you had to choose between the condos we looked at today, which one would it be?”
“The larger one,” Lee replied, as she took a final sip of coffee. “It had an incredible view of the ocean. There’s a room for your office—and a kitchen reno would be fun.”
“And your bike?”
“There’s bound to be a storage unit somewhere nearby.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“I can be nice,” Lee said as she got up from the table. “Sometimes.”
Kane laughed. “Shall I get a box for your food?”
“Please,” Lee said. “I’ll call you.” And with that, she left.
Because Lee was on call, both of them had driven to Mac’s alone. Her vehicle was a so-called creeper, which was street slang for an unmarked car. Except that most creepers had not only been tagged a dozen times but often bore the letters TIACC. “This is a cop car.” Her sedan was no different.
Lee’s vehicle was equipped with a rarely used nav system. She’d gone straight into the police academy after college, graduated near the top of her class, and spent four years as a patrol officer prior to being promoted to detective. And, like most street cops, Lee knew the city like the back of her hand. She took 10 East onto National Boulevard, which morphed into Jefferson Boulevard, which delivered her to the church with a minimum of fuss.
St. Patrick’s was a large building with a green roof and towers that were somewhat reminiscent of the Spanish missions only with a more modern aesthetic. That’s Kane talking, the voice in her head said. Since when did you care about architecture?
So? Lee answered. That’s how it is when you have a relationship with someone. They rub off on you.
Or they come to own you.
That’s bullshit, Lee thought, as she pulled in behind the church. Maybe you would like to spend the rest of your life with a bunch of cats. Personally, I’d prefer a man.
“This is 1-William-3. I am Code 6. Over.” There was no need to say where she was since the dispatcher could see the creeper’s location on the computer screen in front of her.
Church was over, and only a few cars remained in the parking lot. The body had been removed by then, but a police cruiser was still there, as was the middle-aged crime-scene investigator everyone called “Moms.” She was busy taking pictures of the area while the bored patrol officers looked on.
Detective Dick Yanty had seen Lee pull in and made his way over to meet her. He was balding, wore wire-rimmed glasses that had a tendency to slide down his nose, and was wearing the usual plaid sports coat. Technically, both of them reported to Lieutenant Brianna Wolfe. But Yanty and a detective named Prospo had been assigned to work with Lee on the Bonebreaker case, “the Bonebreaker” being the name the media had bestowed on the serial killer responsible for killing Lee’s father and eight other cops over the last sixteen years. “Hey, Lee,” Yanty said. “Does this suck or what?”
“It sucks,” Lee agreed solemnly. “So what, if anything, do we have?”
“First there’s this,” Yanty said as he handed her a sheet of paper. “It’s a copy—so don’t worry about prints.”
Lee read it:
Dear Father Benedict,
This man has gone to a better place. His name is Joel. Please use the money to cover his burial expenses.
Thank you,
Alcmaeon
“Alcmaeon? Who the hell is that?”
Yanty pushed the glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. “What did you do while you were in college? Everybody knows who Alcmaeon of Croton is.”
“That’s bullshit,” Lee replied. “You ran a search on it
.”
Yanty grinned. “Yes, I did. It seems that Alcmaeon of Croton lived in the fifth century B.C.—and was one of the most eminent medical theorists of his time. Although he spent most of his time writing about medical stuff, he studied astrology and meteorology, too.”
“So he was a nerd.”
“Yup.”
“That’s interesting,” Lee said. “And it seems to support what Jenkins told me.”
“Which was?”
“The coroner thinks Joel might have died of complications following a botched face transplant. We’ll know after the autopsy. But try this on for size . . . The hack who botched the operation felt guilty about Joel’s death. So he dumped the body here along with some money to pay for a burial.”
“And signs the note Alcmaeon because he or she identifies with the old goat for some reason,” Yanty put in.
“Exactly,” Lee said. “And how much you wanna bet that the perp is Catholic?”
“Perhaps,” Yanty replied cautiously. “But maybe Joel was Catholic—and the doctor knew that.”
“Good point,” Lee said. “How ’bout video? Do we have any?”
“Yes,” Yanty replied. “The church is equipped with a full-on security system, so we might get lucky. A guy named Mike agreed to work on that. Come on . . . Let’s see if he found anything.”
Lee followed Yanty through a small playground and into the church. They found Mike in a nicely furnished office sitting in front of a monitor. He turned to look over his shoulder as they entered the room. Lee assumed that Mike was a parishioner. He had mocha-colored skin, a buzz cut, and serious eyes. “I have it,” he announced. “At least I think I do.”
“This is Detective Lee,” Yanty said. “You sound doubtful . . . What’s the problem?”
Mike nodded to Lee. “They say a picture is worth a thousand words,” he said. “Watch this.”
So the police officers stood behind Mike as he started a black-and-white video clip. Lee could see a time and date stamp in the lower left-hand corner of the screen. It read: 05/12/69 04:12.
As the three of them watched, a white box truck drove into the lot behind the church, did a U-turn, and came to a stop. Lee expected to see someone get out, open the back, and remove Joel’s body. They didn’t. The truck drove away. And there, lying on the pavement was the corpse. “Damn,” Yanty said admiringly. “That was slick!”
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