Hellhound

Page 8

Someone in a front seat twisted around to face us. Foster. I hadn’t noticed the dome light gleaming off his bald head. “Don’t tell me a creature of the night is afraid of the goddamned dark.”
Daniel ignored his partner’s remark. “Yes, the interior is fully lit,” he said to me. “But we’re required to travel this way—even Foster and me. The detention center is in a secret location. Only a few people, at the very highest levels of security clearance, know where it is.”
“And we’ll never make it there if you don’t get in,” Foster griped. “Not that I’d care if we left you behind. I still think it’s a lousy idea, hiring one of your kind.”
At that, I climbed into the van. “And what kind would that be, Foster? Shapeshifter? Woman? Or the kind who could save your ass in a demon attack?” Foster’s mouth dropped open, but no words emerged. “Now that I look at it that way, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should stay home and leave you dangling out there as demon bait.” If the only thing I accomplished tonight was annoying this bigoted detective, it’d be a good night’s work.
Daniel grinned like he was thinking the exact same thing as he climbed in behind me. As soon as the door shut, Foster picked up a phone and spoke to the driver, who peeled away fast. I lurched sideways into a seat, and Daniel grabbed the seat beside it. Foster smirked at us, then turned to face the front.
Jerk, I thought, buckling myself in. Wherever we were going, and whatever happened there, it was going to be one hell of a long night.
6
I WAS RIGHT ABOUT IT BEING A LONG NIGHT. BY THE TIME we reached our destination, I’d already suffered through what felt like several lifetimes of Detective Foster’s charming company. First, we pulled over in a deserted underground garage somewhere so the driver could frisk me. I thought I was going to get a hard time about Hellforged again, but he wasn’t looking for weapons. He was checking for a cell phone or other GPS device that could transmit information about our location. Daniel got the same treatment because he’d left the “secure area”—I assumed that meant the back of the van—at the checkpoint. Foster stayed inside, radiating his pleasure at our humiliation.
Once we got underway again, Foster’s presence stifled any attempts at conversation. Every possible topic seemed off the table. We couldn’t talk about our personal lives, because Foster’s ears would be wide open for any mention of Kane, and Daniel’s girlfriend—a TV reporter—was barely a step above paranormals in Foster’s worldview. Family, work life, the unrest in Deadtown, even the case we were investigating, it all felt like material that Foster could smear and twist into something nasty in his report to Commissioner Hampson. So we sat in silence.
“Do we get any in-flight entertainment?” I asked, pointing at the screen at the front of our compartment. I was joking; I assumed the screen was a computer monitor for police business.
“Good idea,” Foster said and reached for a control.
Daniel groaned as a video game loaded. “He does this every time.”
Zombie Kill. Clever name for a game that was all about killing zombies. By machine gun, by bomb, by machete, by fire—every sort of damage you could inflict on a body was directed at staggering, oozing, decaying ghouls-from-beyond-the-grave. Men, women, even zombie kids were obliterated as Foster worked the controls. He whooped as he decapitated an undead toddler clutching a ragged teddy bear.
“Ignore him,” Daniel advised. “I’ve learned to pick my battles.”
I didn’t want to cause Daniel any problems at work. So instead of tearing the controller out of Foster’s hands and breaking it over his bald head, I leaned back and closed my eyes. I pictured Foster in Deadtown, surrounded by zombies. Real ones, who’d laugh at his puny machete. And first up was Tina with her rhinestone gun. I smiled. CODE RED? KILL IT DEAD! would make quite the fashion statement sparkling across Foster’s forehead.
THE PARANORMAL DETENTION FACILITY WAS UNDERGROUND. Or at least that was my impression as I walked through the place. Like the van there were no windows anywhere. Harsh fluorescent lights glared down from the ceiling on tiled floors and cinder-block walls. Daniel walked beside me as we followed Foster through a labyrinth of corridors. We made so many turns I could’ve sworn we were back where we started when we came to a massive metal door.
“This is the maximum security wing,” Daniel said.
“You really think witnesses, who didn’t commit any crime, deserve maximum security?”
Daniel glanced at Foster, who watched him closely. “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I don’t make the rules.” His words reminded me of what Pam McFarren had said earlier. The rules weren’t perfect, but unless they crossed a line you couldn’t pick and choose.
A buzzer sounded, and a light by the door lit up. Gears turned and clanked. The heavy door slid open.
We stepped into a corridor lined with metal doors on both sides. Each door had a small, barred opening, about five and a half feet off the ground, shuttered by a gray metal plate. Behind us, the door shut with a resounding clang.
The silence felt as heavy as the door that sealed us in.
“Let’s get this over with,” said Foster. He went to the guard station, where two norms sat behind thick glass. “We’re here to do some interviews,” he said into an intercom. He paused, then turned to Daniel. “Which one you want to start with?” he asked.
“Andrew Skibinsky.”
“We’ll start with number 721,” Foster said into the intercom.
One of the guards stood up. A moment later he was escorting us down the hallway. He stopped in front of a door with 721 stenciled on its surface and slid open the metal plate over the window. “Skibinsky,” he said. “You got company.”
He opened the door. Daniel went inside. Over his shoulder I could see a narrow cell, six by ten at most. A toilet and sink occupied one corner. A cot was bolted to the side wall. There was no other furniture.
Skibinsky didn’t react to our entry. He sat on the cot, one leg resting across the other, examining his ankle. A splint held it straight, and a long row of black stitches wound its way crookedly up his leg.
The door shut behind us. Foster stayed in the hallway, but he watched us through the bars.
At the sound of the door closing, Skibinsky tugged his pants leg over the ankle splint and looked up. It’s hard to guess a zombie’s age, but I’d say he was in his midthirties. He had thinning, sandy hair and a sparse mustache. A scar marked the bridge of his nose, but it had healed, so he must have had it before he became a zombie. He wore a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. His red eyes went back and forth between Daniel and me.
“I see the doctor has been by.” Daniel gestured toward the zombie’s ankle. “How does it feel?”
Skibinsky’s forehead wrinkled. “When can I go home?”
Daniel ran a hand through his curls, looking uncomfortable. “We won’t keep you here any longer than is absolutely necessary.”
“‘Absolutely necessary.’” Skibinsky snorted. “I know what that means. I ain’t never getting out of here. This is the place zombies disappear to, right?”
“You haven’t disappeared, Mr. Skibinsky. You’re a witness, here for your own safety.”
“Yeah, right. Guess that means you told my wife where I am.”
Daniel said nothing.
“Just like I thought. Poor Deb. She must be half out of her mind with worry. And I didn’t even do nothing.” When Daniel didn’t reply, Skibinsky snorted again. Then he looked at me. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Vicky Vaughn. I live in Deadtown, too.”
“You look human. What are you, a werewolf?”
“I’m a shapeshifter. I change form, like a werewolf, but I can change into any creature, not just a wolf. And my shifts aren’t tied to the full moon like theirs are.” I wasn’t in the mood to give a lecture on the differences between the Cerddorion and werewolves, but maybe this zombie would look at me with less hostility if he understood I was a paranormal, too.
“Vicky is an expert on demons,” Daniel said. “She’s here to help us determine whether there was demonic involvement in what happened last night.”
Skibinsky laughed, a deep baritone chuckle. “You mean horns and pointy tails and pitchforks—that kinda shit? I didn’t see nothing like that.”
“Just tell me what happened,” I encouraged. “When did Mr. Malone start acting strange?”
Skibinsky’s amusement vanished. “How ’bout when he snapped the driver’s neck? That strange enough for ya?”
“So before that, he was his usual self, is that what you’re saying?”
A shrug was his only reply.
I decided to back up a bit. “How would you describe Mr. Malone? What kind of guy was he?”
“Well for starters, I wouldn’t describe him as ‘Mr. Malone.’ Who the hell calls a zombie ‘Mister’ anything? When the bloodbags start using ‘Mister,’ you know you’re in trouble.” He glared at Daniel, even though I was the one who’d spoken. “He was Tom. Tommy to his ma. She lives out in Revere, but she comes into town to take him out for the day, first Sunday of every month. Guess she won’t be doing that no more.”
Silence stretched through the cell.
“If you don’t like Mr. Skibinsky,” I said gently, “what should I call you?”
My question seemed to surprise him, like he’d never expected anyone to ask. “Andy. Day I was born, Ma said, ‘Put Andrew on the birth certificate, but we’ll call him Andy.’”
“Andy, then. Tell me about Tom.”
“He was okay. Quiet. A good worker. I liked being on the same shift with him. He did his share.”
“And that’s how he was last night?”
“Just another night at the warehouse.” He examined his hands. Though the skin was zombie-green, they looked strong, with short, square nails. Hands that worked for a living. “You gotta understand. I was there to do my job. Not study my coworkers to see if maybe one of ’em was gonna suddenly turn into a homicidal maniac.”