My Life as a White Trash Zombie
Page 43

Her eyes darkened. “Not every rape is physical,” she said in a quiet voice. Then she was out the door.
I sat where I was for at least a full minute before I stood and slowly made my way to her chair. The report program was already on screen. All I had to do was input the date. There were three death reports from that day, but only one that was listed as an MVA—motor vehicle accident.
I printed it all out without reading it—reports, pictures, everything—then logged out of the computer, retrieved my printouts, and headed out.
Chapter 33
I ended up going back to the diner, simply because I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go where I would have the room to spread out and look everything over. I felt a little silly as the waitress came up to me, but apparently it wasn’t the first time she’d seen a booth used as a temporary work desk. She merely poured me coffee and gave me a warm smile.
I sipped my coffee and started flipping quickly through the thick sheaf of papers. Right now there was only one thing I was really interested in.
Decedent—Herbert Singleton. White male, thirtyseven years old, lived in Longville. Only next of kin was an ex-wife who lived in Lafayette. There was a driver’s license picture, and I peered at it for close to a minute while more memories flashed into place. Yeah, this was the guy. I’d probably seen him at Pillar’s once or twice before. Not a local. Just someone who wanted a drink and a good time. Maybe too good a time.
So, Herbert, were you the one who made me like this? Were you a zombie? That he’d roofied me, I had no doubt. But he hadn’t counted on the fact that I already had a nice high rocking when he started buying me drinks and adding his special little touch of Rohypnol to them. The full effect must not have hit me until I was in his car. Maybe he realized I was overdosing and he panicked? Then why drive out to the middle of nowhere instead of a hospital?
Because, if he’d gone to the hospital, they’d have figured out that he was probably the one who’d roofied me. But if he made me a zombie, he could walk away from the whole thing. I was dying, so he did whatever zombies do and then dumped me on the side of the road.
I frowned. No, that didn’t hold water. I would have had to eat brains immediately, right? Okay, so he might have had his own stash. And then after dumping me he got into a wreck, or was hunted down by the zombie killer. . . .
My frown deepened. Nope. It still didn’t work. Someone had sent me the clothing and brain-drinks in the ER, and had arranged for the job at the morgue. Well, maybe there’s a big Protect New Zombies conspiracy going on?
I scrubbed a hand over my face. This was stupid. If this guy had been a zombie, why would he have gone to the trouble of making me one too simply because I was overdosing? It was far more likely that he’d taken me out to that remote highway to bash my head in and scoop out some nice fresh brains. Drug the white trash skank, take her out to the swamp, chow down.
And then what? The zombie killer had saved me?
I made a noise of frustration. None of this made sense. But I’d had it with being in the dark. I had the reports, and I was going to find the damn answer if it took me the rest of my undead life.
Well armed with coffee and workspace, I spread the pages of the death report out and began my search for any possible clues that could help me figure out what the hell had happened. On a separate piece of paper, I made notes of anything that might help things make sense. According to the state police accident report it appeared that dear old Herbert lost control of the vehicle on a curve and went off the road, at which time the car flipped once and hit a tree. The driver had been ejected and decapitated, and fragments of the skull had been found on the highway. Toxicology reports showed that Herbert’s blood alcohol was .06—technically not over the legal limit, but probably enough to impair his reactions on that curve.
But no mention of a passenger.
“Working hard?”
I looked up to see Ed with a coffee cup in his hand and a smile on his face.
“Because if you are,” he continued, “I feel somehow obligated to interrupt you.”
I grinned. “Aw, you’re so thoughtful.” I pulled the papers closer to me in order to make some room on the table. “C’mon, interrupt away. I’m just trying to figure out some stuff that’s been bugging me. What are you up to?”
He sat and set his coffee cup down. “I’m waiting for Marianne so I can give her the keys to my apartment, then I’m going to pick up Marcus, and we’ll be on our way for our annual fruitless attempt to murder Bambi’s parents.”
I laughed. “Male bonding at its best.”
“Testosterone heaven,” he added, grinning. “As well as a nifty excuse to play with ATVs.” He nodded toward the window. I followed his gaze to see a pickup with two four-wheelers strapped onto a platform across the back.
“So, what am I interrupting here?” Ed asked, peering down at the papers spread across the table. “Ew. Looks like work stuff.” He made a face.
“Well, it’s actually a sorta weird personal thing, to be honest.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m totally into weird personal things. Is it dirty as well?”
I laughed. “You wish!” I shook my head. “Actually, this accident happened the same night that you . . .” I sighed and screwed my face into a grimace, “saved me from killing myself from an overdose.”
“Ouch. Yeah. Strange night, that one. You’re talking about the fatality out by the parish line?” At my nod he leaned back. “I’d come on shift only about half an hour earlier. My unit was dispatched to that scene but it was pretty clear they weren’t going to need our services. The cops were pretty well tied up between that accident and then the murder scene out on Sweet Bayou Road.” He winced. “Which is where Marcus found you. We’d just left the accident scene when we got the call to his location. You lucked into it there.”
“How so?”
“Well, Marcus was actually assigned to be patrolling the district by the state line—where the accident occurred. He told me the only reason he was near Sweet Bayou was because he’d dribbled something on his uniform and had to run home to change.”
I had to smile at that. “A spot on his shirt? The horror!”
Ed laughed. “Yeah, for a tough guy he can be a bit of a priss. So, why are you so interested in this MVA?”
“Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but I’m pretty sure I was in that car. I left the bar with this guy that night.” I tapped the page with Herbert’s driver’s license information.
Ed shook his head firmly. “There’s no way you could have been in that car when it wrecked. You didn’t have a scratch on you. Or clothing,” he added with an apologetic grimace. “Besides, the accident was almost twenty miles away from where you were.”
“Yeah, there’s no way. I know that, but. . . . I don’t remember a lot from that night though, so maybe he pulled over and let me out. . . .” I trailed off as images of glass and metal and blood flickered haphazardly in my memory.
He frowned. “In the middle of the swamp? Naked?” His expression abruptly turned stricken and all traces of humor vanished. “Oh, fuck, Angel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to joke. Oh, man.”
I flushed and shook my head. “No, it’s okay. I . . . I wasn’t, um, attacked. At least that’s what the nurse in the ER said.” Monica’s words flashed through my head. I wasn’t raped. But I was drugged. I wouldn’t have gotten into his car, and I probably wouldn’t have overdosed. And I was attacked—turned into a zombie against my will. I sure as shit hadn’t been given a choice about that.
Ed was silent for several seconds, then nodded toward the printouts with the pictures. “May I look?”
I pushed them his way. “I haven’t done more than glance at them yet. But I haven’t found ‘Angel was here’ scrawled on the dashboard or anything.”
He chuckled, then started flipping through the pages. After about half a minute he paused, attention fixed on one picture. “It’s funny,” he said. “Marcus was on his way back out to help with the accident—after changing his shirt—when he saw you.”
“Like you said, I’m lucky,” I replied. Then I laughed. “If he hadn’t found me it probably would have been Detective Abadie. And he probably would have pushed me into the ditch!”
Ed’s expression stayed strangely sober. “How did you get the job at the Coroner’s Office, Angel?” he asked, not looking up. His voice sounded odd, as if he was working hard to keep control of himself.
I hesitated, briefly tempted to tell him the fiction about my probation officer arranging it. But I suddenly didn’t want to deal with evasions and lies. “I’m not really sure,” I admitted. “I, uh, got a letter telling me there was a job waiting for me. I asked around a bit, but the most I could find out was a rumor that someone with political connections arranged it for me.” I spread my hands and shrugged. “I don’t know why I would rate that, though. I wish I had a better answer for you.”
As I spoke, his face seemed to cave in, grief flooding in so intensely that it nearly took my breath away. I watched him, baffled. What memories could this picture be dredging up to make him look so stricken? And why would my explanation about my job seem to make it worse?
A few seconds later Ed took a shaking breath and set the picture down. The horrible grief in his eyes was gone, replaced by what looked like a weary acceptance.
“You okay?” I asked tentatively.
“I’m fine,” he said quietly.
“You don’t look fine,” I said, frowning. “Is something wrong?”
Lifting his gaze, he gave me a smile that completely lacked its usual spark. “I, uh, lost my parents in an accident like this. It just hit me all of a sudden.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching to touch the back of his hand. “Is that why you became a paramedic?”