Hardcore Twenty-Four (18 page)

“You smashed him.”

“Good. Now he's not depressed anymore.”

Lula's Firebird pulled up to the curb.

“Jail is going to be a relief after this,” Johnny said. “I can't wait to get locked up with some nice sane murderers and rapists.”

“How's your foot?” Lula asked him.

“It's freaking killing me.”

“I got some drugs in my purse,” Lula said.

“Hand them over,” Johnny said. “Mine are all on their way to Hawaii.”

COURT WAS STILL
in session when I turned Johnny over to the police, but he chose not to get bonded out again. He said he was exhausted, and he just wanted to sit in his cell and be happy he wasn't married. He said after he served his time and got released back into society, he was going to Hawaii and maybe he'd stay there.

“I totally get Johnny's point of view,” Lula said, driving out of the municipal building lot. “Sometimes when you're whackadoodle you gotta find a place where you fit in with other whackadoodles. Not that I'm saying Hawaii is full of whackadoodles. I mean, I've never been there, but it seems like it's calling to Johnny Chucci.”

The only thing
I
heard calling was lunch. I'd had a candy bar from the vending machine in the courthouse and nothing since.

“How did it work out with LeRoy?” I asked. “Did he make bond?”

“Yep. And we went to get something to eat after. We went to the deli on Line Street, and they have excellent coleslaw. You get a good dish of coleslaw, and it goes a long way at providing happiness for the rest of the day.”

Words to live by.

“What about LeRoy?” I asked.

“He's confused,” Lula said. “He doesn't know if his wife is coming back or not. I guess his kids got over him being naked on the cake, but the wife not so much. Sounds to me like they might have had problems before the cake incident. He's an okay guy, but I don't see a romantic future with him.”

“Because of the wife confusion?”

“No. From what I can tell every married man has wife confusion. LeRoy is a tapper. Tap, tap, tap on everything. On the deli table. On the dashboard. On his chin. Only time he wasn't tapping was when you had him cuffed or when he got food in his hand. Only thing worse than a tapper is a jiggler or a hummer. You find a man does any of those things and you
run
don't
walk
away, because if you get locked in a room with him, eventually you're gonna have to kill him.”

Lula stopped for a light, and I searched through my messenger bag, hoping to find a breakfast bar, finding only a cough drop.

I unwrapped the cough drop and popped it into my mouth. “Diggery got off with a fine this morning. Trespass at the wrong time of day.”

“Connie told me. She said she heard from the court cop that
Diggery was on his game. Besides, everyone wanted to get out to the food truck. The Cuban sandwich guy was there today.”

“I didn't know there was a food truck!”

“They let him park in the cop lot. Where were you parked?”

“Public parking across the street.”

“You're such an amateur,” Lula said. “You give the guy at the gate a BJ once in a while and he lets you park in the cop lot.”

Not only did I not want to give the guy a BJ, but I had no confidence my BJ would be good enough for entrance into the lot.

“Anyway,” I said, “I took Diggery home, and his neighborhood is filled with police rounding up zombies.”

“I heard that too. Connie's sister-in-law works on the lockup floor at the hospital. She said the whole place stinks like carnations. Something about the chemistry of the drug that makes carnation stink ooze out of your skin. I have my own theory.”

I was afraid to ask.

“I'm thinking that brains smell like carnations,” Lula said. “Probably some people know that, like undertakers and doctors who do autopsies, but they don't tell nobody. That's why funeral homes always smell like carnations.”

“They smell like carnations because people send flower arrangements with carnations in them.”

“That's what they like you to believe,” Lula said, “but downstairs they got dead people on slabs with their brains leaking out.”

I turned the air-conditioning up and powered the window
down. I needed air. The cough drop wasn't sitting great in my stomach. Probably what I needed was bread. With meatloaf between it.

“I need to go to my parents' house,” I said. “My car is there, and I want to make sure Grandma got home okay.”

And there would be bread and meatloaf. And if no meatloaf, there'd at least be bologna.

Lula cut down a couple side streets and crossed the train tracks. Ten minutes later she turned into the Burg and pulled to the curb, behind my Honda SUV.

“Is this CR-V a new Ranger car?” she asked.

“Yes. It's a loaner.”

“It's a shame it's gonna get destroyed by your bad car juju. It's freaky how the only car you can't kill is the Buick.”

Freaky and depressing. The Buick drove like a refrigerator on wheels.

I waved goodbye to Lula and let myself into the house. I heard little dog feet running toward me, and Henry skittered around the corner and into the small foyer. He spun in circles and jumped against my legs. Grandma followed.

“We got a welcoming committee now,” Grandma said. “Henry loves company.”

“He tinkles on people,” my mother shouted from the kitchen. “Don't let him near Stephanie.”

“He gets excited,” Grandma said. “It's only a little tinkle. He's mostly empty.”

I picked Henry up and carried him into the kitchen.

“How did it go with Judy Chucci?” I asked Grandma.

“Pretty good, except her house is a mess. Gnomes everywhere. You can't hardly walk. Henry tinkled on a bunch of them, but she didn't notice, and I didn't say anything. I didn't think it mattered, what with the state of things.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Well, she can fry up an egg and make coffee. Beyond that it's hard to tell. I told her she should take up bingo. It'll get her out of the house. She said Mr. Murphy would have loved bingo, even though he could see out of only one eye.”

I put Henry down and went to the fridge. “Do we have any meatloaf?”

“Sit and I'll make you a sandwich,” my mother said. “You look pale. Are you eating? You aren't living on candy bars, are you?”

“I try to get ones with nuts in them,” I said, taking a place at the kitchen table. “Keeps my protein level up.”

I couldn't see my mother's face, but I knew she was rolling her eyes and asking for help from whoever was working the help desk in heaven.

She gave me a meatloaf sandwich with chips and pickles. I broke off a small piece of meatloaf and fed it to Henry.

“We aren't feeding him at the table,” my mother said.

“Of course, we are,” Grandma said. “Look how little he is. Look how cute. And he was an orphan. Poor thing.”

My mom pulled a chair out, sat down, and Henry jumped into her lap. Her shoulders slumped a little and she scratched him behind his ear. She was doomed. She was a sucker for kids and helpless little creatures.

I finished my food and called Morelli.

“I'm at my mom's,” I said. “Do you need me to walk Bob?”

“No. I left Bob with my sister-in-law. I suspected I'd be late.”

“How's it going with the zombie roundup?”

“We've gone through almost the entire area and cleaned out the underground dens. We'll stay here until dark and then pack it in. We haven't found any more zombies. Impossible to get a grip on the numbers. I'm sure the users are scattered.”

“Why the underground dens? Why not abandoned buildings?”

“Don't know. Maybe we just haven't found the abandoned buildings. We have three users, but so far they're only talking gibberish.”

“I don't suppose one of them was Slick?”

“Sorry. No.”

“Do you have any more thoughts on the Tabasco zombie?”

“Yeah. I shouldn't be telling you this, but I think you need to know. They lifted Slick's fingerprints off the deli container.”

It took a beat for me to catch my breath. “Do you still think it was a setup?”

“Yes. But I don't know why. It doesn't fit the user profile.”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“Be careful,” he said.

I stood and stuffed my phone into my jeans pocket. I had an idea about the setup and Slick. He was making a video. It had started as a documentary, but now maybe he was fabricating. Maybe it had turned too ordinary when it became just another drug story. Maybe he had to sensationalize it. Problem was, I
didn't know how far he would go to get good film. And I didn't know if he was using the drug. Bottom line was that I had to find Slick.

“Gotta go,” I told my mom and Grandma. “I'm still looking for Zero Slick.”

“If you find him, I wouldn't mind meeting him,” Grandma said. “He's a real celebrity. He's the Zombie Blogger.”

I felt my eyebrows lift halfway into my forehead. “How long has he been the Zombie Blogger?”

“Not too long. I started following him over the weekend. He's got some good videos on YouTube, too. He's making a real name for himself.”

“I'd like to see some of his videos,” I said.

“I got my computer on the dining room table,” Grandma said. “All you have to do is look for Zero Slick.”

I sat down, typed in his name, and there he was. The videos were all short. The cemetery during the day. Just scenery. The cemetery at night, badly lit, as if he was holding his cellphone camera with one hand, and a flashlight with the other. There were zombies in the night videos. Dirty, dull-faced creatures. Their gait was halting and stiff-legged. One of them fell into a pit that I assumed was an open grave. The camera cut away to another zombie sticking a needle into his arm.

More dark footage from inside one of the dirt caves. What appeared to be part of a head on a small table. Some surgical instruments also on the table. Sickening to look at given the atrocities of the past week. No sound with the video beyond some scraping and heavy breathing.

“He's good at making horror movies,” Grandma said. “He has a real flair.”

I didn't tell Grandma this was probably real. Better only one of us has nightmares.

The last two videos were my door with the words
BRAINS
and
DIE
scratched into it, and Morelli's vandalized door. Two blurred figures could be seen very briefly staring at Morelli's door. Morelli and me. I doubt anyone else would recognize us. The video had been shot from a distance, and the quality was poor.

“That's it for the movies,” Grandma said. “According to his blog he'll be putting a new movie up tonight.”

I took some time to read through his blog. It was a diary of his nighttime wanderings and adventures with the zombies. Hard to tell what was real and what was fiction. He wrote about working with the Supreme Ruler of the Zombies, and he promised that something shocking was about to be videoed.

I thought the videos I just watched were already
too
shocking. I wasn't a horror movie kind of person. I was more romantic comedy. Indiana Jones was as violent as I could go.

I called Morelli back.

“Have you seen Zero Slick's videos on YouTube?” I asked him.

“There are videos?”

“Yes. And he has a blog. You want to check it out. He mentions the Supreme Ruler of the Zombies. Apparently, they're hanging out together. And there's a fuzzy picture of us in front of your house, looking at your door.”

“How did you discover this?”

“Grandma.”

“I should have guessed,” Morelli said.

I ended the call with Morelli, said goodbye to my mom, and walked to the door. Grandma went with me.

“Let me know if you need help with the zombies,” Grandma said. “I'm good with dead people.”

I DROVE OUT
of the Burg and cruised past the bonds office. It was closed for the night. Traffic was heavy on Hamilton Avenue and going through the center of the city. Rush hour. Everyone going home. Except me. I was going to Rangeman. I drove into the garage, stepped into the elevator, and exited into Ranger's apartment. It was nice, but it wasn't home. I went to the kitchen and said hello to Rex and poured myself a glass of wine. Ranger kept wine in his apartment, but he almost never drank it. He didn't mix alcohol and guns. And he almost always carried a gun.

It was five o'clock. Ranger usually worked until six or six-thirty. Ella brought dinner at seven o'clock. I had time to kill. I took the wine into Ranger's office, settled into a leather club chair, and brought Slick's blog up on my computer. I read through it for the second time, and again the thing that stood
out was his claim to be working with the Supreme Ruler of the Zombies. It smacked of a cheesy movie or a graphic novel. It was comic book stuff. Hard to take seriously. And yet, hard to ignore.

Someone had drifted into Trenton and set up shop to produce Zombuzz. That someone was an elusive entity. A freak who gave his drug away in exchange for human brains. And apparently he accepted brains that were mummified, embalmed, or fresh from the kill.

It was a little after six o'clock when I heard Ranger roll in. There was the
clink
of keys in the silver tray and soft footsteps in the hall. He smiled when he saw me in the chair with my computer.

“It's nice to find you here when I come home,” he said. “I'd forgotten what it was like.”

“Are you telling me you're lonely?”

“No. Just that I enjoy this once in a while.”

I nodded. “Me too. I have something to show you. Zero Slick has a zombie blog, and he's uploaded some videos on YouTube.”

“I've seen them. He needs better equipment.”

“Do you think he's serious about working with the Supreme Ruler of the Zombies?”

“It's possible. He was in one of the caves. Someone took him there.”

“Supreme Ruler?”

“It's a little Hollywood.”

“Do you think there's a Supreme Ruler?”

“I think there's someone who brought the drug to Trenton, is controlling the distribution, and is enjoying the experience.”

“Are you involved in this?”

“You're involved, so I'm involved.”

“Do you think we should go proactive?”

“There are a lot of people working proactively. Morelli and his team are making good progress, considering the drug has only been here for two weeks, tops.”

“Have you been in contact with Diesel?”

“Not directly. We see him moving around.”

“Do you think he could be the Supreme Ruler?”

“No. He doesn't have that kind of ambition. He does his job because he's one of only a few people who have the skill. He didn't choose his job. His job chose him.”

“Jeez. That's heavy.”

Ranger shrugged. “He's a specialist. He has a decent amount of downtime, and he's well compensated.”

“You know a lot about him.”

“I was curious. I did some research.”

A text message dinged on my phone.
It's showtime. You know where to find me. Midnight. Come alone or not at all. ZS.

I showed the message to Ranger.

“Text him back and tell him midnight isn't going to work for you. Tell him you'll meet him at ten o'clock.”

“Why ten o'clock?”

“I have an early meeting tomorrow. I don't want to be wandering around a cemetery until two in the morning.”

“You think he's at the cemetery?”

“I assumed he was referring to the grave site where he was camped out. That was where you met him when his video career began.”

“How do you know about that meeting?”

“I have a transmitter in your messenger bag, and another attached to whatever car you're driving. And we monitor the police band.”

“Yep. That would do it.”

I texted Ranger's message to Slick, and got a response back that ten o'clock would be okay.

• • •

Ella delivered dinner at seven o'clock. Grilled snapper, asparagus, soft polenta. Fresh fruit for dessert. Delicious but not up to Cluck-in-a-Bucket standards. No rancid grease. No sugar-fortified apple pie. No bacon, full-fat cheese, or deep-fried onion rings.

I finished my fruit and stared down at my empty plate.

“Babe,” Ranger said. “You look like you'd kill for a cookie.”

That had me smiling. “A cookie would be good, but I wasn't thinking about a cookie. I was thinking about Zero Slick. I have a sick feeling that he wants me to play a role in the shocking new video he promised his viewers.”

Ranger's phone buzzed, and I saw a picture come up on the screen. I thought Ranger's initial reaction was annoyance, but that fast changed to amusement. He didn't smile, but the corners of his mouth tipped up a little. I'd produced this same reaction from him on many occasions.

“Send him up,” Ranger said.

He turned his phone so I could see the screen. It was Diesel. He was relaxed, thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets, smiling up at the elevator camera.

“We have company,” Ranger said.

“Was he invited?”

“No. But he's not unexpected.”

Ranger opened the door to Diesel, and we all went into Ranger's office.

“Long time, no see,” I said to Diesel.

“Yeah, I haven't had much social time on this trip.”

He slouched into a club chair, I sat in the second club chair, and Ranger sat at his desk. Ranger was chairman of the board. If it came to a power struggle between the two men, I couldn't predict a winner.

“I assume we're looking for the same man,” Ranger said.

Diesel nodded. “I should have wrapped this up by now, but there are qualities to this person that make him hard to track. And now I have an additional problem. The police are shutting down his playground, and if he stops having fun, he'll pack up and move on. If that happens, I'll have to start over.”

“Is this his first playground?” Ranger asked.

“No. He was in Berlin for a short time, and then he moved to Atlanta. This time I have a better shot at catching him because he's chosen to hang out with Zero Slick. And Zero Slick isn't smart.”

“Who are we looking for?” Ranger asked.

“His name is Daryl Meadum. He's brilliant but childlike.
He's a savant. And he's a sociopath. He's Canadian born. He has an American passport. He speaks five languages.”

“Do you have a photo?” I asked.

Diesel pulled a photo up on his phone.

Daryl Meadum had an impish grin, pale skin with freckles, and red to blond hair cut short. He was a nice-looking kid. Maybe fourteen. And I was pretty sure he was the boy I saw on Diggery's road.

“How old is he?” I asked.

“Thirty-two.”

“He looks like he's fourteen.”

“That's part of the problem. People tend not to notice kids. And Daryl looks like apple pie. He's soft-spoken. He appears shy. He exists in shadows. He's always pleasant. He also has heightened senses and instincts like a cat.

“He isn't capable of feeling remorse, unless it's for losing a video game. His emotional age would be somewhere between nine and twelve. His passion is neuroscience. He's held research positions at various universities since he was eighteen years old. For the last seven years he's been working for the government. I'm told his knowledge and insight make him irreplaceably valuable. He has handlers who make sure he doesn't starve or walk in front of a train or kill someone as a scientific experiment.

“Daryl slipped away from his guardian and disappeared from a conference in Munich four months ago. When a new street drug surfaced that was based on brain cells, I was called in to find Daryl.”

“And you think Daryl is the Supreme Ruler of the Zombies,” I said.

Diesel grinned. “Yeah. He loves zombies, vampires, superheroes, werewolves. His dossier says he wears Power Rangers underwear.”

“Why does he need an underground cave to make his drug?” I asked.

“He doesn't,” Diesel said. “He's playing. You need to think like a nine-year-old boy. His drug makes zombies. Burrowing underground and playing hide-and-seek in a cemetery is part of his zombie play.”

“How does he survive?” I asked. “Where does he live? How does he get food? All that costs money. Where does he get money?”

“He steals. He cons. He hacks into systems. He improvises,” Diesel said. “And right now, he has Zero Slick to help him.”

“Two mental twelve-year-olds with delusions of fame,” Ranger said. “Engaged in role-playing.”

“Exactly,” Diesel said. “Daryl's role is Supreme Ruler of the Zombies. It's not clear if he knows he's pretending or if he thinks he really
is
the Supreme Ruler. Slick is easier. He's convinced he's making an award-winning video.”

“His blog promised a new shocking video tonight, and he just asked me to meet him at the cemetery at ten o'clock. I'm worried he has video plans for me.”

“I've seen those videos,” Diesel said. “They need help. Smart of him to realize he needs to spice things up with a pretty girl.”

Being part of Slick's video was sort of a depressing turn of events. On the other hand, Diesel thought I was pretty.

“He wants me to come alone,” I said. “How could he possibly believe I'd do that? He wants me to meet him at night in a cemetery that's rampant with zombies.”

“He's a YouTube sensation,” Diesel said. “In his mind, any woman would jump at the chance to be part of his video. And either he looks at you as a stupid, inferior female, or else you represent power and you would be stupidly fearless. Either way, you would think nothing of meeting him in a cemetery late at night.”

Jeez Louise. Now I was really depressed.

“This is good,” Diesel said. “We know where to find Slick. And if we find him, there's hope that we can find Daryl. There's even a decent possibility that Daryl might be on hand for the video.”

I was trying not to think too much about the video. I suspected it involved my brain.

“I can put a few key men in the cemetery, and I can put a drone in the sky,” Ranger said to Diesel. “I'm afraid if we involve the police there will be too much presence.”

“What about Stephanie?” Diesel asked.

Ranger looked at me. “Stephanie speaks for herself.”

Oh great. It was going to be my decision to risk my brain for the cause. The way I saw it I was going to look like an idiot if I was in, and I was going to look like a jerk if I wasn't.

“Babe?” Ranger said.

I blew out a sigh. “I'm in. What's my role?”

Diesel grinned. “You have a choice. You can be the stupid inferior female or the stupid powerful female.”

“How about if I'm just myself?”

Diesel glanced at Ranger. “I'm not going to touch that one.”

Ranger shook his head. “I'll pass.”

“Funny,” I said. “Very funny.”

“I'll put a wire on her,” Ranger said to Diesel. “Come down to the control room with me, and I'll get you equipped to communicate with the rest of the team.”

From the little I knew about Diesel I thought he probably didn't need the equipment. Diesel wasn't normal. It wouldn't surprise me if he read minds and could stick a lightbulb in his mouth and light up a room.