Helix: Plague of Ghouls by Pat Flewwelling Page A

long wet hair and wondered if he should pack up his computer or leave it on the hotel room desk. A body thumped on the floor overhead. He decided to work elsewhere, since it was clear he wouldn’t be getting any sleep.
     
    WHILE THE AMENITIES left much to be desired, the Marigold Hotel did have three things going for it: its proximity to the highway, its proximity to a 24-hour Tim Hortons drive-thru, and its proximity to the OPP detachment headquarters in Elmbury. He hit all three of these in order, and was buzzed through by a sergeant at the front desk, who seemed to have been expecting him.
    Oh, God, does this bring back memories. Some offices had been remodelled and repurposed, but for the most part, not even the wallpaper had changed. He accepted the clip-on “Visitor” tag and followed the desk sergeant down a hall, to the left, and down another hall. This wasn’t a detachment big enough to warrant a bigger building, even though Halo County was outgrowing its britches, so it wasn’t hard to figure out which was DS Buckle’s cubicle. In case of doubt, Buckle himself stood up and waved Two-Trees over. Three of every four desks were empty for the night. Otherwise, the place would have been too crowded for casual conversation.
    “We still have him in the interview room.” Buckle sounded stuffed up.
    “Have who?” Two-Trees asked.
    “One of the local high schoolers.”
    While they walked, Buckle gave Two-Trees a thick file folder. Inside was a stack of missing persons notices from around the province. Two-Trees counted the notices. There must have been close to a hundred.
    “You remember Steeper Lake?” Buckle asked.
    “Oh, you mean Reefer Lake,” Two-Trees said, scanning the papers. “Sure. Pritchard Park is along its shore. Oh hell, first the body, now Pritchard Park. You found this kid there?”
    “Him and two others, doing what the local kids do best.”
    “Macramé?” Two-Trees said. “They were up to something dull, I’ll bet, otherwise you wouldn’t be calling me out of the Waldorf Astoria at this time of night.”
    “They were . . . Uh.” He coughed into his fist. “They found something.”
    “Evidence? Wait, same case?”
    “That’s up to you to tell us,” Buckle said.
    “There’s a lot of space between that body dump site and Pritchard Park. Namely, the entire town of Elmbury.”
    Buckle shrugged. “It was portable,” he said simply. He snapped a tissue from a nearby box and sneezed airily, then blew his reddening nose. “Swear to God, this kid is made of cat hair and dandruff or something. We’ve all been sneezing since he came in.” He asked Two-Trees to watch one of the monitors that was fixed to a wall just around the corner from the interview room. A young man was sitting there, viewed from above by a sketchy surveillance camera. He sat in the very corner with his sleeves pulled down over his hands, his chin tucked down to his chest, his knees drawn up, and his blond hair curtained over his eyes.
    Two-Trees felt a tickle in his chest, so he cleared his throat. He leaned in close, watching for the tell-tale signs of a lycanthrope. The camera wasn’t great. He’d need to get in closer, see the kid face-to-face. “What’s that on his cheek?” Two-Trees asked, pointing to the scabby stripe.
    “War paint,” Buckle said.
    Two-Trees checked to make sure Buckle’s underfed face was serious. It was.
    “Jungle punk,” Buckle said. “You live in a cave or something?” He measured out progressive blocks of air. “Punk, Goth, Emo, Scene, Jungle Punk.” He let his hands fall. “Harmless stuff, for the most part. Loud music, funny clothes, one more reason to smoke up and get into trouble. Instead of going to school, they get out their iPhones and bitch on Facebook about how technology has destroyed human nature. The usual.” He sneezed again.
    “Yeah, but war paint?” Two-Trees asked. “And no one from the Waabishkindibed Reserve has complained?”
    “Not officially.”