Prey (11 page)

Whatever had killed them had been locked inside with them, and had gotten out the only way it could, by breaking through the window. And he was afraid of just who it might have been. But he couldn’t think that; he had no proof.

Just because Danny was tentatively identified as being here didn’t mean he ever was, it didn’t mean he’d been infected and already transformed. It could just be a terrible coincidence.

But Roan had never trusted coincidences, and the more there were, the harder they were to believe.

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8

Object Definition

ROAN sat against the hood of the Mustang in the blazing hot sun, then took his jacket off and threw it inside the car, wondering if he’d ever get the smell of death out of his clothes. Probably not; he might as well take them home and burn them. They wouldn’t be the first clothes he’d had to torch.

The cops had been here for ten minutes, along with the meat wagon and a useless ambulance, and finally the man he was waiting for came out of the house, looking slightly dazed. “How do you find them?” Sikorski wondered, coming up to him. “That’s one of the worst kitty crime scenes I’ve seen in a long time.”

“Me too. They’ve been in there what, about a day?”

Sikorski shrugged, squinting as he looked back at the house. “I think so. It’ll be up to forensics to give us the final verdict, though.”

Paris had given him one of his ultra-strong mints, the kind that made Roan’s eyes water and his nasal passages sting, but it only covered up the taste of rot in his mouth, and hardly did anything about the smell clogging his nose. He was seriously considering inhaling Scope when he got home to see if it could burn the smell out of his sinuses. “I hope the maggots didn’t eat away too much of the evidence.”

“Doesn’t matter much now, does it? The way the bodies were torn up, I think we’ll be lucky to get a partial bite imprint.” When he turned his gaze back on him, Sikorski was dead serious. “I mean it, Roan. How did you find this?”

The broiling sun was making it feel like the sweat was being forcibly expressed through his pores; the sunlight felt as heavy as a burden. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, one of the handful of shirts he always wore when meeting new clients. He’d probably have to burn this one too. “I told Officer Stanhope—”

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“The whole story, down to approximate times,” Sikorski interrupted.

“You’re a cop’s wet dream; if only all our witnesses were so accurate and attentive to detail. But I don’t want the official report, Roan, I just want to know how the fuck you ended up here.”

That almost sounded like a rhetorical question, like what was the meaning of life, or why did people over sixty always leave their left-turn signal on. He sighed, not really wanting to go over this again. “I was following a lead on a case, like I said.”

“Parents who want you to find their runaway kid. How often do you look for runaway kids?”

“They’re rich and desperate. They think there’s something fishy about his disappearance.”

“Is there?”

Roan shook his head, wishing he’d brought sunglasses since the glare was making his eyes water. “He was a pressured kid, perfect, he probably couldn’t take it anymore. The problem is, it seems he got fascinated with kitties at some point. His parents don’t know that, though.”

Sikorski groaned and briefly closed his eyes, as if in pain. “Shit.

How can smart kids be so stupid?”

“Stupidity comes along with puberty. Even the smartest can’t escape it.”

“Even you?”

Roan weighed whether to answer that question or not. Instead, he answered with sarcasm. “You wouldn’t have to ask that if you were ever a teenager, Gordo. But your people are grown in pods, right?”

“Ha.” He paused briefly. “Was he in there?”

“The kid? No. He’s a seventeen-year-old Asian male, and that type of victim was missing from the murder demographic.”

“Could he have done this?”

The billion-dollar question, the one Roan kept asking himself. “The time frame doesn’t match.” Which was kind of a lie. Although it was extraordinarily rare, there were one or two cases where people had transformed as little as five days after infection, but it was even rarer than surviving the tiger strain. Still, if Danny had run away and got himself Infected: Prey

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infected that very same day… it wasn’t completely impossible.

Sikorski glanced back at the house as some of the forensic techs came out to confer with the coroner. Paris was still talking with a cop named Ferlinghetti by his patrol car, but Paris had never set foot inside the house, so there really was no need for him to talk to him this long. Was he flirting with him? Jesus, he just couldn’t turn it off, could he? Roan shifted his attention back to Sikorski before he noticed he was watching Paris.

“What did you touch inside the house?”

Ah, back to formal police questions. “Nothing. I visually confirmed the victims as dead”—well, visually and nasally, but they never ask about that, do they?—“saw the egress point, and came out to wait for the patrol cars, the first of which arrived approximately seven minutes later. I did break down the door, but I had to confirm that there was no one still alive on the premises. If the chief wants to slap my hand about it, fine; I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Civilian safety is paramount in situations like this.”

Gordo smirked slightly. “You packing?”

“My HK is in the car, holstered under the driver’s seat.” Although he doubted there’d be much call for guns in his line of work—private detectives only needed weapons when they spun off into personal security; the movie and novel shit was just that, shit—he did have two to his name, and he usually carried one in his car (or on his person if he was using his motorcycle) on jobs, just in case the improbable happened. His favorite was his .40-caliber Heckler & Koch P2000 SK: compact, lightweight, low maintenance and low trouble (which was also how he liked his men, so it was a bit of a mystery how he ended up with Paris). He was carrying a Taser too, but there were no regulations about or licensing for those. Well, not yet.

Gordo nodded, but he was still smirking. “You know, when I tell people one of the toughest cops I’ve ever known is a gay infected man, they never believe me.”

“Then leave out the gay part. Look, any physical evidence you find tying me to the scene will be minimal; maybe a stray hair. I avoided stepping in the blood and spilt milk too. I know how not to taint a scene.”

“Oh, I know. But you are aware you’re technically a civilian now, yeah?”

“I’m an infected, Gordon. I never feel like a civilian.”

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He clearly didn’t know what to say to that, so Sikorski looked obscurely grateful when one of the forensic techs summoned him over for a talk. Roan just wiped the sweat from his brow and wondered when it would be considered kosher to go. He really wanted to go burn his clothes.

Paris finally came back, and proffered a bottle of water. “It’s warm, but it’s what he had in his patrol car.”

He took it with a grateful nod, but as he twisted the cap off, he asked, somewhat sarcastically, “Are you always this manipulative?”

Paris gave him a brilliant smile as he leaned against the hood. “Hey, I can’t help it if I play people like a cheap Casio. They just make it too easy.”

“You missed your calling as a criminal mastermind.”

“Who said I did?” He winked at him, then added, “C’mon, I’m your femme fatale… only, not femme.”

“Well, I’d hope not. I’d never get it up then.”

Paris made a strange noise as he snorted a laugh and then desperately tried to hide it, as laughing at a hideous crime scene really wasn’t a very good thing to do. Roan had to swallow his own smirk, but having the water to drink helped a great deal. It was inappropriate to make jokes right now, but actually, many cops and techs who worked violent crime scenes did; it was gallows humor, laughing so you didn’t cry or scream. There was only so much horror a person could take; you had to have some kind of outlet.

Sikorski went inside the house again, and the other cops seemed to be ignoring them, so Roan figured it was as good as any time to go.

Certainly Sikorski had his number if they had any follow-up questions.

They got in the Mustang, which was as hot as a toaster oven, and drove off, with no one apparently caring.

They headed back home in silence, Paris using the radio to fill the void (oh, Roan would have given his left arm for a decent punk station, or at least something different—canned pop made him irritable and depressed), until Roan voiced what was bothering him. “I’m missing something.”

Paris, who had been leaning against the passenger door, letting the wind from the open window cool the sweat on his face, looked at him with Infected: Prey

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surprise. “What? Did you drop your wallet or something?”

“No, I mean about the case. I get the feeling there’s something staring me in the face, but I just can’t see it for some reason.” He slammed his palm on the steering wheel. “Son of a bitch, I hate feelings like this.”

“Maybe you just need to get your mind off it, distance yourself,”

Paris suggested. “You know if you try and force it you can never get it, and then you just get more frustrated and crabby.”

“I do
not
get crabby,” he snapped, aware that sounded crabby. Fuck.

He was right and he knew it, but it irritated him to know he was missing something, and not have his mind instantly acquiesce and churn it up. Damn thing. “Fine,” he said reluctantly. “How do you suggest I get my mind off things? Oh, wait—did I really ask that?”

Paris leaned over and squeezed his thigh, giving him a sly smile.

“You really are distracted, aren’t you?”

Yes, apparently he was. But not for much longer.

THERE was nothing like sex to make you hungry and tired, even if you’d seen something that you thought would keep you awake and keep you from eating anything forever. If only it could cure diseases instead of spread them, it’d be damn close to a panacea.

Once they got out of the shower, Roan dozed off, but he jolted awake when he thought he heard the buzzing of a thousand flies.

It was just a noise on the television, and not even a hum; nothing even close to the buzz of hundreds of blood-craving flies. Well, okay, a bit close—an American Idol winner.

He grabbed the remote off the nightstand and hit the mute button.

He’d have thrown the remote at Paris—he had to turn the TV on?—but he wasn’t here. Listening hard, he heard him downstairs talking to someone.

The pizza guy; Paris had talked about ordering a pizza before he nodded off.

He glanced at the alarm clock on his side of the bed, and figured he’d been asleep for about a half hour. Perhaps it should have helped, but he just felt logy and more tired than before. This was pretty 62

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unprofessional; he was supposed to be working … but on what? His clues had dead-ended, in the most sadly literal way imaginable. Danny might not even be in this state; he could be in Canada, Mexico—hell, he could be in Australia. A runaway rich kid with cash, who had a week on all of them.

He could be almost anywhere.

For some reason, that sparked a thought.

It was too obscure to be helpful, and his brain was still fogged, but he got up and walked over to the computer he had set up in the corner on a small desk—an informal “work area” since he still had to repair the floor in what was essentially his study—and booted it up. While it came online, he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts, and turned down the air conditioner.

He had a vague idea, and he followed it. Entering the address of Tweaks’s place, he compared it to the address of DeSilvo’s place: according to MapQuest, they were separated by two point seven miles. A cat could have easily covered the distance in a night. But that was insane!

There were lots of places between point A and point B, and there’s no way a cat as seemingly bloodthirsty as this one would avoid so many targets in between.

“Oh dear,” Paris said, coming in the room. He held a pizza box in one hand, and in the other the four-pack of the far-too-expensive microbrew that Roan found to be the only beer he could tolerate. It was a pale ale, surprisingly light, and it didn’t smell or taste like piss, which is what most beer tasted like to him. “Working again? You do stop at some point, don’t you?”

“I was just trying to make sense of something.” He went to the online White Pages and typed in the name “Marley Hanson,” the name of Danny’s friend. He got a phone number, and rather than wait much longer, he got up and grabbed the portable phone, punching up the number. He motioned to Paris to be quiet as the phone rang, and a rather young-sounding woman picked up. “Yeah?”

Charming. “Hello, I was wondering if Marley Hanson was there?”

“Who’s this?”

“My name’s Roan McKichan, I’m a private detective hired by the Nakamuras to find Daniel. I was hoping to talk to Marley about him.”

“Oh.” The girl paused thickly, and he thought he heard a stereo playing in the background. Coldplay—the most innocuous band since Al Infected: Prey

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Stewart. It wasn’t bad music, it was just so aggressively vanilla that blandness was the only objection you could make about it: music as plain, boiled oatmeal. It probably kept you regular. “Well, um, Danny’s not in trouble, is he?”

This was Marley? He was expecting a boy, but okay—why not a girl? Marley was kind of an odd name, but then again, he was named Roan. He had absolutely no room to talk. “No. His parents are simply worried about him, and I have reason to believe they should be.”

“What d’ya mean?”

“Are you Marley?” He only asked for official confirmation.

She sighed, in that special way of teenage girls—you could just hear the implied eye roll in it—and admitted, “Yeah.”

“I think Danny may be in danger.”

“Why?”

“I can’t talk about this over the phone. Perhaps we can speak in person?” A gamble—she might not take the bait. But he preferred face-to-face interviews, as it was easier to tell when people were lying, when they were hedging or fudging the truth a little. Only a sociopath or a psychopath didn’t have some kind of tell, some little tic that gave them away.