The Dead Series (Book 2): Dead Is All You Get Read online

  “Please exit the vehicle,” he said to us.

  We did as he asked. As I got out I saw another cop climbing out of the second cruiser. He was in his fifties, large and out of shape, with short, curly grey hair and sharp blue eyes. Two silver bars decorated each shoulder—it was the new police captain.

  The older cop made his way slowly around our vehicle and stopped dead in front of me, giving me little room to move. His nameplate read O’BRIEN. “David Pulaski?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re under arrest.” Though his manner was vicious and threatening, his face betrayed no emotion. He smelled faintly of bourbon and cigarettes.

  “What for?” Holly said, taking my hand.

  “For being an accessory to the murder of James Stanley.”

  O’Brien never moved or looked away as Hannity handcuffed me and read me my rights, ignoring Holly’s protests. They placed me into the backseat of the second cruiser and we were off.

  I’d known all along this was coming.

  I SPENT THE NIGHT in jail and, although I was certain Warnick and the others had followed me there, they were not allowed to see me. As Hannity led me through the building to the holding cell, I passed through a front office bursting with activity. Twenty or thirty cops sat at desks, up to their necks in paperwork. The room was noisy and the jokes were flying.

  Entering the large holding cell, I found I wasn’t the only occupant. A teenager, wearing a Billabong T-shirt and ripped jeans, sulked at the end of a long bench. Tattoos covered his forearms and his ears were gauged.

  “What are you in for?” I said. He was surly and didn’t look like he wanted to answer. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

  “B and E,” he said. “It’s not like there’s anything left worth stealing.”

  After a couple of hours, Hannity showed up again with an MRE and a bottle of water for each of us. Like old times.

  “I guess a lawyer is out of the question,” I said. No response. “What happened to the former captain?”

  “Red Militia got him.”

  “You guys aren’t from Tres Marias, are you?”

  “No. LA.”

  “So, no outbreak down there?”

  “Stop asking so many questions.”

  He left me for the night. I ripped open the MRE and stared at the off-color beef franks that the real soldiers liked to refer to as “five fingers of death.” The beans didn’t look any better. I set the container aside and opened my water. Took a swallow and lay down at the other end of the bench.

  The kid finished his MRE and sat there eyeing mine. Smiling, I waved vaguely towards it. “Be my guest.”

  As he ate with his fingers, I wondered what would happen to him. I doubted he would come back with me to the command center. And the thought of him being left on the streets to fend for himself … How long could he last out there?

  “So where did they pick you up?” I said.

  “Some residential street—I forget the name. I don’t get it. I was looking for food. There’s nobody in those houses anymore.”

  “Run into any draggers?”

  “What?”

  “You know, undead?”

  “Oh, the freaks?” He laughed, revealing the beans stuck to his teeth. “Me and my friend—well, he’s dead—anyways, we used to get ’em in a corner and throw gasoline on ’em, then light ’em up. It was sick, I swear. It’s like they’re too stupid to know they’re on fire. So fun …”

  At first, the kid hadn’t wanted to say anything. Now, I couldn’t get him to shut up. I closed my eyes and tried ignoring him. Eventually, he got the hint and quieted down. Outside, heavy Black Dragon vehicles patrolled the streets. Occasionally, there was a shout followed by a burst of gunfire. Sometime after midnight I drifted off.

  Bizarre dreams haunted me. The last one I remember clearly.

  I was in the medical lab at Robbin-Sear, naked and strapped to an operating table. Doctor Royce, his head twitching like he’d been Tasered repeatedly, came at me with an oversized scalpel. Starting below my Adam’s apple, he made a vertical incision down the length of my torso. I noticed that my skin was dry and rubbery, and there was no blood. He reached deep inside me and pulled out Perro’s head. It snapped and snarled as it was forced to leave my body.

  I screamed.

  When I looked up, Jim was standing there holding the dog in his arms, the fetal thing dripping with the gore from my mutilated insides. The gash around Jim’s neck pulsed with wriggling kidney worms. He smiled at me with bean-encrusted teeth.

  “It had to come out eventually,” he said.

  In the morning Hannity forced me into a police cruiser. O’Brien was already waiting in the front passenger seat.

  “Where are we going?” I said. No answer. “What’s going to happen to that kid you’re holding?”

  “I’d be more worried about what’s going to happen to you,” O’Brien said.

  Though they’d taken me to the yard behind the police station where no one could see, I couldn’t help but feel a burning shame getting into that police vehicle. And to make things worse, they’d handcuffed me again.

  We drove in silence to a sprawling house on a hill overlooking the valley. The estate was vast, with no signs of draggers. A wrought iron gate fronted the long, curving driveway with stone pillars on either side, a security camera mounted on each. As our vehicle approached, the gates opened automatically and we passed through.

  Though the house was impressive, it didn’t look overdone. I was surprised there was anyone with money left in Tres Marias. After we parked O’Brien got out and, grabbing one of my arms, walked me to the front door and rang the bell while Hannity remained in the cop car. A moment passed and a Latina housekeeper answered. When she saw us, her eyes got huge and she let us through without speaking.

  The foyer was minimalist and elegant, with recessed lighting. A staircase with a polished banister led upstairs. The housekeeper brought us into the ultramodern kitchen. O’Brien released my arm and took a step back.

  “What now?” I said.

  O’Brien ignored me. Looking through the French doors I was surprised to see the mayor, wearing blue jeans and a yellow golf shirt, out on a massive lawn playing touch football with two pudgy young boys who were maybe seven and nine. The mayor was of average height, with wiry red hair, a ruddy complexion and a wide amorphous body that had gone from high school jock muscle to politician flab.

  A slim, pretty blonde woman in her mid-thirties—the mayor’s wife?—wearing beige pants and a pink cashmere sweater, entered the kitchen and was momentarily startled to see a stranger in handcuffs lurking there. Not having showered, I was pretty ripe and felt bad for her. She made the best of it, though, and smiled. Then she went outside and spoke to the mayor. He tossed the football to his older son and jogged towards us.

  “Sorry,” O’Brien said, feigning humility as the mayor entered the kitchen. “But you said to bring him right over.”

  The mayor gave me a once-over and led us into his home office, which was tastefully decorated—probably by the missus. The walls were covered with framed photos of his family. Through the sheer white curtains that hung over the French doors I watched the boys playing football on the lawn as their mother sat on the patio, drinking coffee from a china cup. It was hard for me to comprehend that outside this place was a town ravaged by the undead. And Mrs. Mayor? How did this affect her? And what did she do all day? Shopping trips were out.

  “Close the door,” the mayor said to the cop. “I don’t think we need those handcuffs.” Then to me, “You’re not planning on running away, are you?” He sounded like Ray Liotta.

  “No,” I said.

  I had never met this guy. I recalled that six years before, he’d been elected after a bitter campaign between him and the affable, elderly, long-time “Mayor Bob,” who had recently suffered a stroke but had no intention of retiring even though now he talked like Carl from Caddyshack. I recalled seeing the old guy playing cards at the
command center.

  During that campaign, this upstart had promised us state redevelopment funds courtesy of his close ties to Sacramento, as well as new business investment in the community. He himself was a successful real estate developer who apparently had a hankering for politics. Since the people were tired of the previous do-nothing Mayor Bob, this piece of work had been easily elected.

  “You can wait outside,” he said to O’Brien as if he were the gardener. When we were alone, he gestured for me to take a seat. He went over to a small refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “Can I offer you something?”

  “I’m fine. What’s this all about?”

  “What, the arrest? Well, as things return to normal, we’re going through case files to determine who’s been breaking the law during all this.”

  He opened the middle drawer of his antique Chesterfield desk and pulled out a dark green file folder with a coffee stain on the front. I recognized it as the one Detective Van Gundy had kept on me during the investigation into Jim’s death.

  “Seems you’re the subject of a murder investigation,” he said.

  “So am I going back to jail?”

  “We’ll see. I wanted to have a chance to talk to you first. Look, Dave, I won’t lie to you. Things are still chaotic around here. We don’t even have a police chief for shit’s sake. I’m not just in real estate—I’m also a lawyer. So I’m pitching in.”

  I waited while he scanned the file. I knew it was all for show. He’d studied it thoroughly way before I ever got here, and he already knew what he was going to do. If this was his way of building suspense, it wasn’t working. I’d seen better theatrics in a high school play.

  “You last spoke to Detective Van Gundy in the summer, that right?” he said, not making eye contact.

  “Yes. From what I can recall, there was never enough evidence to connect me to anyone’s death.”

  “You married, Dave?” I love the way lawyers ask questions they already know the answer to.

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you seeing Melyssa Soldado?”

  It always came down to this—the stain on my life that wouldn’t wash out. I hated thinking about my past—about what I did to Holly. I’d thought that when I’d destroyed the maniacal creature Missy became, the whole sordid business would be over and done with. Hearing her name conjured up her image in my mind—not the rasping dragger but the sex-starved girl I refused to save.

  “I had an affair with her,” I said, not meeting the mayor’s eyes.

  “Your wife know?”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed. “Marriage is hard sometimes. We go in with the best intentions, but sometimes … we slip.” I couldn’t tell if he was talking about me or him. “Is that what happened, Dave? Did you slip?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You’re Catholic, right? Confession will put you on the right track.”

  It was an odd comment. I scanned the room and found a photograph on the wall of the mayor wearing a Knights of Columbus uniform complete with ceremonial sword.

  “And James Stanley,” he said. “How does he fit in?”

  “He was my best friend.”

  “Also having an affair with Missy?”

  “No.”

  “Interesting. Detective Van Gundy made some notes here saying that’s what you told him.”

  “I lied.”

  “I see. So no romantic triangle here.”

  “No.”

  “How did Mr. Stanley die?”

  My instinct to avoid the truth came on strong, but I resisted. I was finished with lying. I decided to tell this fat clown what really happened that day. “Missy killed him with an axe, out of fear for her life. He’d turned, and he chased us through the forest. I panicked and hid inside a ranger station.”

  “Where was she?”

  “Outside. With him.”

  “And you didn’t try to help her?”

  “No.” My mouth tasted like copper, and I realized I’d bitten the inside of my cheek.

  “Wow, that’s cold. I’ll bet she was screaming too. ‘Dave, help me! Help me, Dave!’ Am I right?” The son of a bitch was having fun with this.

  “Something like that.”

  “What happened next?”

  “She found an axe and killed him?”

  “And then?”

  “She ran away. But Jim bit her, so … Eventually she turned, too.”

  “Well, that sucks. So all in all, not a very good day for Melyssa Soldado.” He closed the file. “Let’s take a walk.”

  He led me through the French doors into the patio. When his wife saw us, she gathered up the boys and took them inside through the kitchen. We made our way to a meticulously maintained garden. The mayor stared straight ahead as we walked.

  “I’ll be straight with you, Dave. I think I have enough evidence to go to trial. I can prove that, by your own admission, you were with James Stanley and Melyssa Soldado at the time of Stanley’s death. I might not be able to get a conviction on first-degree murder, but I’m confident I can get the jury to find you guilty on an accessory charge. I’ll paint the picture as romantic in nature. I’m sure jealousy will come into play. And I might suggest something kinky. Juries love that.” He turned to me. “How does that sound?”

  Rage boiled in me like hot lead. The mayor bent down and picked a few brown petals off his camellias. I wanted to stomp on his fat neck and beat him with one of his kids.

  “What are you after?” I said.

  He straightened up, brushed himself off and got up in my grill. I could smell the beer on his breath and, angry as I was, wished I had one.

  “Stay out of my business,” he said.

  “What business is that?”

  He backhanded me hard across the face, his class ring busting my lip open. The stinging made my eyes water. It took me a second to refocus.

  “I don’t have time for your games, Pulaski. You need to stay out of my way. Or you’ll be saying goodbye to that pretty little wife of yours.”

  “Leave her out of it, or …”

  “Or what? A lot of people are going to be arrested over the next few weeks and months. And we’ll process them as fast as we can. I have every intention of making your case a priority.”

  “There’s no evidence,” I said.

  He smiled with small, pointy teeth, his orange eyes gleaming. “Don’t be an idiot. It’s like I said. We’re all pitching in. Who knows? I might have to step in later and … comfort Holly. My boys over at the police station tell me she’s a looker.” He saw my balled-up fist and smiled. “That’s all I need to seal the deal. You taking a swing at me.”

  He looked past me, and I turned to find Hannity walking towards me. The fact that my mouth was cut didn’t appear to faze him.

  “I think we’re going to keep Mr. Pulaski under observation for now,” the mayor said, wiping off his ring with his handkerchief. “Give him a ride to the high school. I’m sure they miss him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As I followed the cop, the mayor called to me. I wanted to keep walking, but I stopped and glared at him.

  “What we discussed?” he said. “That goes for your friends too.”

  Instead of walking me to the police vehicle, Hannity escorted me through a side door into the detached garage. Inside was cold and dark.

  “Why are we here?” I said. But I already knew.

  The light came on. O’Brien stood a few feet across from me between a silver Volvo Cross Country and a candy apple red Audi R8.

  “Hold him,” O’Brien said.

  Hannity grabbed my upper arms from behind and thrust his foot between mine to brace me. I prepared myself for what was coming.

  O’Brien stepped closer. “We need to make sure you don’t forget what the mayor said.”

  O’Brien hit me solidly in the solar plexus. The wind went out of me, and I would have collapsed if Hannity hadn’t been propping me up. O’Brien hit me again. And again. I lost count h
ow many times. I must have blacked out. When I awoke, my abdomen was on fire. The older cop was gone. Hannity tried getting me to my feet. I made it as far as my knees and vomited, the pain shooting straight up through the top of my head like a volcanic eruption.

  Finally, Hannity got me to stand and walked me outside to the police cruiser, where I collapsed on the backseat.

  O’Brien stayed behind and Hannity drove me. He kept eyeing me in the rear view mirror. I avoided his gaze. Finally, he spoke.

  “You gotta understand, Pulaski,” he said. “The mayor has a lot on his plate. The governor breathing down his neck, the feds, Black Dragon. He wants what’s best for the community, is all.”

  “So I should keep my mouth shut.”

  “You should do like the rest of us and help get this community back on its feet.”

  “Easy for you to say. You guys are not even from around here. What, did LA have a yard sale? Who are all those other cops?”

  “A community is a community.”

  “Sure. Can I ask you something? Did you ever lose someone?”

  He hesitated. “My sister. Drunk driver.”

  “Sorry. Well, we lost a lot of people too—good people. And now I come to find that the mayor might be involved. That’s why he’s threatening me, isn’t it? Doesn’t that kind of thing piss you off?”

  The cop drove past the command center guard station and parked in front of the administration building. Turning around, he stared at me. “Yeah, it pisses me off. But I’m keeping my head down. It’s the only way to survive around here. The sooner you learn that, the better chance you’ll have to make it out of here alive.”

  He got out and opened my door. I stood looking at the administration building, the people coming and going, the kids playing. I saw the community starting to thrive. Priorities. It was all about priorities. I felt lost.

  When I got to my trailer, Holly and Warnick were waiting for me.

  “Dave, are you okay?” she said, touching my swollen lip with her finger. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” I said, pushing her hand away. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not.”