But I didn’t. I stayed. Like my Dad on the day he stood in that woman’s living room, staring at that bloody egg yolk, I had a feeling I couldn’t explain, but at the same time one that I couldn’t deny.
“We live in a bad time,” she said. “This is a bad place. The living and the dead are not so different.”
I frowned at her. She couldn’t see that behind my gas mask. I wondered how she could see anything at all about me behind my mask.
“What do you suggest I do?” I asked.
“Chocolate,” she said, her voice suddenly and strangely like that of a little girl, happy.
“Excuse me?” I wondered if she was teasing me. She must have known there was no chocolate to be had anywhere in San Antonio, at least none that didn’t come out of the black market.
“Don’t ever pass up the chance for chocolate,” she said. “It is a simple cure, but good for a woman. A woman needs chocolate to make her soul glad.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said. I wondered if she could tell I was between a smile and a frown, my mouth twitching in indecision.
“I’m going to…” I trailed off. I hooked my thumb and pointed out the back door.
She smiled. Nodded.
“Thank you,” I said, and slipped out the back.
The van was inside the garage, just like she said.
I opened the garage door and a wave of dust poured out onto the gravel driveway. A murder of crows took noisily to the air from the roof. The van looked undamaged. I walked around it, nodding to myself as I headed for the cab.
There, I stopped.
Inside the cab, in the passenger seat, was Kenneth Wade, face bloody and bruised, as dead as dead can be.
----
Chapter 13
I looked down at the dead cop. His gas mask had been ripped off his face and his head was leaning back against the seat, mouth open slightly, eyes milked over. He had a day or two worth of blond stubble on his chin. He’d been beaten badly. There were dark, livid bruises on his face, around his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth, where a thin stream of blood had dried and turned to black crust. His gun was missing.
Wade’s radio was as dead as he was. It had been left in the ON position, the battery drained.
His cell phone was on the floorboard, next to his left bootie, and I tried that. It worked. With a lot of difficulty, I manipulated the tiny phone around the contours of my gas mask so I could talk with the dispatcher’s office and tell them where I was and what I needed.
As I put the phone back as closely as I could to where I picked it up from, it occurred to me how many of the cardinal rules of crime scene management I had just violated. I probably shouldn’t have opened the garage door. I definitely shouldn’t have opened the van’s door. And any respectable defense attorney would have a field day with me using the dead man’s cell phone. I saw myself, several hours in the future, writing a very long report in which I would use the phrase “necessary due to exigent circumstances” over and over again.
Shaking my head, I closed everything up the way I’d found it and walked around to the other side of the garage, where I figured I could wait for the cavalry to show up.
It seemed to be my day for corpses.
Just around the corner, thrown with apparent haste and swarming with black, iridescent flies, were two more bodies. Looters, from the looks of them. I got close enough to see the bullet holes in their chests. “Lovely,” I said, dreading the extra work their misfortune was going to cause me.
I was staring at the corpses, thinking about how the scene got to look the way it looked, when I heard a twig snap. My gaze darted into the alley behind the garage, into the overgrown tangle of tall grass and weeds and shrubs there. Through the green and brown mess of vegetation I saw a man, a looter, with a shotgun, inching his way towards the garage.
I jumped back behind the corner of the garage, and looked around for a way out. I couldn’t risk going back into the street, and I
“We live in a bad time,” she said. “This is a bad place. The living and the dead are not so different.”
I frowned at her. She couldn’t see that behind my gas mask. I wondered how she could see anything at all about me behind my mask.
“What do you suggest I do?” I asked.
“Chocolate,” she said, her voice suddenly and strangely like that of a little girl, happy.
“Excuse me?” I wondered if she was teasing me. She must have known there was no chocolate to be had anywhere in San Antonio, at least none that didn’t come out of the black market.
“Don’t ever pass up the chance for chocolate,” she said. “It is a simple cure, but good for a woman. A woman needs chocolate to make her soul glad.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said. I wondered if she could tell I was between a smile and a frown, my mouth twitching in indecision.
“I’m going to…” I trailed off. I hooked my thumb and pointed out the back door.
She smiled. Nodded.
“Thank you,” I said, and slipped out the back.
The van was inside the garage, just like she said.
I opened the garage door and a wave of dust poured out onto the gravel driveway. A murder of crows took noisily to the air from the roof. The van looked undamaged. I walked around it, nodding to myself as I headed for the cab.
There, I stopped.
Inside the cab, in the passenger seat, was Kenneth Wade, face bloody and bruised, as dead as dead can be.
----
Chapter 13
I looked down at the dead cop. His gas mask had been ripped off his face and his head was leaning back against the seat, mouth open slightly, eyes milked over. He had a day or two worth of blond stubble on his chin. He’d been beaten badly. There were dark, livid bruises on his face, around his eyes, and at the corners of his mouth, where a thin stream of blood had dried and turned to black crust. His gun was missing.
Wade’s radio was as dead as he was. It had been left in the ON position, the battery drained.
His cell phone was on the floorboard, next to his left bootie, and I tried that. It worked. With a lot of difficulty, I manipulated the tiny phone around the contours of my gas mask so I could talk with the dispatcher’s office and tell them where I was and what I needed.
As I put the phone back as closely as I could to where I picked it up from, it occurred to me how many of the cardinal rules of crime scene management I had just violated. I probably shouldn’t have opened the garage door. I definitely shouldn’t have opened the van’s door. And any respectable defense attorney would have a field day with me using the dead man’s cell phone. I saw myself, several hours in the future, writing a very long report in which I would use the phrase “necessary due to exigent circumstances” over and over again.
Shaking my head, I closed everything up the way I’d found it and walked around to the other side of the garage, where I figured I could wait for the cavalry to show up.
It seemed to be my day for corpses.
Just around the corner, thrown with apparent haste and swarming with black, iridescent flies, were two more bodies. Looters, from the looks of them. I got close enough to see the bullet holes in their chests. “Lovely,” I said, dreading the extra work their misfortune was going to cause me.
I was staring at the corpses, thinking about how the scene got to look the way it looked, when I heard a twig snap. My gaze darted into the alley behind the garage, into the overgrown tangle of tall grass and weeds and shrubs there. Through the green and brown mess of vegetation I saw a man, a looter, with a shotgun, inching his way towards the garage.
I jumped back behind the corner of the garage, and looked around for a way out. I couldn’t risk going back into the street, and I
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