“I used to hear my parents fight,” he managed to get out as he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, his body shaking.
I blew out my breath as it all clicked together. Pietro and Dawn Quinn. Pietro didn’t kill her. Her husband shot her in a fit of jealous rage. But why didn’t Pietro turn Dawn into a zombie to save her? I thought, but then realized the answer. She was probably already dead, and it was too late. And then Pietro killed Sam Quinn in revenge….
Jesus fucking Christ, it was a zombie soap opera.
And I didn’t know what the hell to do with Ed while he cried. Ah hell, should I try and comfort him or hug him or some crap like that? I mean, the guy had obviously been through a ton of shit, but he had tried to kill me not all that long ago.
Fuck it, I thought with a sigh and pulled him to me so that he could cry on my shoulder. First Marcus, now Ed. What the hell was it about my bony little shoulder that made it so easy for men to cry on?
He regained control of himself after a couple of minutes—to my intense relief—scrubbed a hand over his face, put the truck back into drive and pulled back onto the highway. “Let’s find you another pay phone,” he said.
We didn’t want to go back to the pay phone we’d used before, since we both had our paranoia meters pegged on Everyone’s out to get us! However, it turned out that pay phones were rarer than phone books, and it took almost fifteen minutes of driving around to find another. We eventually located one at a decrepit gas station in an unspeakably dicey area of town, where I knew damn well we were being watched and sized up. I’d been in the drug scene long enough to know that if I’d ever wanted to switch from painkillers to crack or meth, this was the area to find it.
Ed parked and got out, then kept a scowl on his face and the gun in his hand while I scrounged quarters from the floor of the truck.
“Shit,” I heard Ed breathe even as the crunch of gravel warned me that someone was pulling into the lot. I straightened and stuffed the quarters I’d found into my pocket as I got a look at the newcomer.
“Shit,” I echoed.
“That’s a cop,” Ed muttered as he leaned against the truck in what looked like a completely casual pose. I didn’t see the gun. Both his hands were in plain sight, thumbs tucked into his front pockets. He looked bored and mildly impatient, as if he was waiting for me to finish up what I had to do so that we could get the hell out of there.
It would have worked great in any other location, most likely. But here his gothed-out look made him look like he was in the neighborhood trying to score drugs.
Then I got a good look at the car and my mood sunk even more. “Not just a cop,” I groaned, doing my best to keep from looking guilty or furtive, though I was probably managing to look even more so simply by trying to look all innocent and shit. One thing I certainly wasn’t was innocent. “That’s my probation officer.” Damn it! I could get into trouble just for being in a high-crime area if my probation officer wanted to be a jerk about it. And what if he happened to recognize Ed as Ed? Hanging out with a suspected serial killer probably wouldn’t look too great either.
Probation Officer Garza’s mouth was pressed into a thin, tight line as he got out of his car. He sure as hell didn’t look like he was too pleased with me. He gave Ed a long and measuring look as he approached us. I fought the urge to glance at Ed to see what he was doing. I could only put all my faith in the fact that he’d worked around cops for years and knew what to do—and what not to do—to keep from arousing suspicion.
“’Sup?” Ed said to Garza. “Y’got a light, man?” He slurred his words ever so slightly, and when I finally risked a peek at him I saw that he seemed to be having trouble focusing on the probation officer.
A sour look settled on Garza’s face. He ignored the question and turned his attention to me, apparently—hopefully—pegging Ed as a stoner who was too high to worry about at the moment.
“What are you doing here, Angel?” he asked. I could have sworn he looked disappointed in me.
I gulped, suddenly feeling oddly guilty even though I had no reason to. But, damn, he was intimidating. “It’s not what it looks like,” I said in a rush. “My car got busted up over on Highway 191, and I had to call my buddy for a ride. And then I lost my purse, and I wanted to call my dad to let him know I was all right so we stopped to use the pay phone. That’s all.”
He blinked, then frowned. “I see. That’s pretty far from here.”
I gave a sigh. “Have you ever tried to find a pay phone? There aren’t too many of them.”
He considered that for a moment. “True.” He cast a sweeping look around, eyes narrowing. “You need to finish your business up here and get out of here.” He delivered a scathing glance at Ed before turning back to me. “And be careful of the company you keep.”
I nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir. I will. Promise.”
“And don’t forget about Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?” What the hell was…shit. “Right! Wednesday. Our meeting.”
“Yes,” he said, mouth twisted sourly. “Please don’t miss it.”
“I won’t,” I said as fervently as I could. Cripes, with all the other shit going on, this was the last thing I needed to deal with. And how would he react if he knew I broke into a house and found a dead body tonight? I had a sudden cartoonish image of his head exploding, and I had to press my lips together to keep from busting out an entirely inappropriate laugh.
He let out a low snort, shook his head, then—to my immense relief—turned around and climbed back into his car. I hurriedly dug the quarters out of my pocket and moved to the phone so that he’d believe what I’d said about the phone call. Well, it was partially true.
I started feeding quarters into the slot, relieved beyond all reason to hear the crunch of tires as he backed up and turned around.
“He’s gone now,” Ed muttered. “Jesus, that was close.”
“I am so going straight back to jail,” I moaned as I fumbled with the coins.
Ed let out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, probably.” I shot him a glare, but he lifted his chin toward the phone. “Don’t tell Marcus about Sofia on his voice mail.”
I paused mid-number-punch. “Why?” Then I grimaced. “Oh, right. That would be evidence that I’d been there.”
“Exactly.”
Well here’s hoping he picks up, I thought, but of course he didn’t. No, that would be too easy. I hung up without leaving a message.
I asked Ed for Pietro’s number, amused that the last four digits were the same as my ex-boyfriend Randy’s, and was completely unsurprised when that call also went to voice mail. “Pietro, this is Angel. I’m trying to reach Marcus. I know you don’t like me, but I just want to warn him—and you, I suppose, as well—that Walter McKinney, the head of security at NuQuesCor shot me and tried to kidnap me tonight. I’m worried that y’all might be targeted as well.” I paused, trying to think of some way to tell them about Sofia. “I think he killed Marianne. And…someone else. Someone you both know.” Shit, this was pointless. “Tell him to watch his back,” I said, then hung up.
“I think you did better when you were spouting incoherent babble,” Ed said mildly as he continued to scan the area.
“I think you’re right,” I muttered as I fed more quarters into the phone.
“Who are you calling now?” he asked with a frown.
“My dad,” I replied. “If the cops find my car on the side of the road they might call him or come to the house, and I don’t want him to worry.” I paused before dialing. What the hell was his cellphone number? I had him in my contacts as “DAD.” I never had to actually dial the damn thing. Cursing under my breath, I checked my watch. Nine p.m. I knew the home phone number but at this hour on a Sunday there was no way he’d be home. He’d be down at Kaster’s watching football with the rest of his buddies.
But at least I could leave a message for him.
I jerked in surprise as the phone rang before I could punch the first number in. Ed and I exchanged a wary look, then I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Angel? This is Pietro. I’m sorry for not answering, but I always screen calls from unfamiliar numbers. What’s going on?”
I frantically waved Ed over so that he could listen in. “Sofia’s dead, Pietro. We’re pretty sure that Walter McKinney killed her. Oh, and—”
“Hold on, Sofia’s dead? How do you know? And who’s ‘we’?”
“Yes. We went to her house and saw her body. She’d been shot. And ‘we’ is Ed. And me.”
“Ed Quinn?” he asked, shock and anger in his voice. “Angel, this is ridiculous. You’re not thinking clearly and now you want to get Marcus involved in—”
“Shut up and let me talk!” I yelled. “I’m trying to protect Marcus! Look, it’s complicated, but that’s not the important thing right now.” I quickly explained about Zeke the zombie who was beheaded and then grown back, and my theory that whoever was doing it was escalating their experiments using Sofia’s fake brain research.
He was silent for a long moment. “You’re absolutely certain Sofia is dead?” he said, voice so even that it was obvious he was holding back a great deal of emotion.
“Yeah,” I said. “She was shot in the head. I’m sorry.”
He let out a long exhalation. “I see. As to your dead zombie, I’ll admit that it does seem that he was somehow, as you say, grown back. But that hardly means there’s some sort of secret lab doing covert experiments.”
Somehow I resisted the deep urge to shriek in frustration. “Y’know, I’m not a fucking moron,” I told him, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. “Look, I’m real sorry Sofia’s dead, but it’s pretty clear that she was playing both sides, and I don’t mean that she was bisexual.” Then I shrugged. “Then again, I suppose it’s possible that she was, but that’s not my point.” I took a deep breath to get myself back on track. “You weren’t the only one she was giving info to,” I told him. “And then McKinney shot me several times earlier tonight during an attempt to kidnap me. Ed was the one who fucking saved me. He was duped into killing zombies and turning over the heads to whoever is doing this shit.”
