Cameron Haley - Skeleton Crew

“Wasn’t planning to stick my neck out. I was planning to let Simeon Wale stick his out. Plus, we got Anton’s crew. He already growing that motherfucker, Domino. Got Zeds hooking up with him that ain’t even in our game.”

“Zeds?”

“It’s what they call the zombies. Anyway, maybe it’s just that Anton knows more about eating than anything else but he makes a pretty fucking good zombie. They turning Mobley’s hoods into a slaughterhouse and Anton’s keeping the peace with the civilians. I figure Mobley will need a couple demons just to keep Anton’s hands off his fucking brains.”

I chuckled. “Maybe he’s found his calling.”

“Yeah. The rest of it, we’ll lock this shit down and see how it goes. I got some of my guys working on wards, maybe give us a couple safe houses the demons can’t get to.” He looked at me and cocked his head to the side. “Maybe you got some assets could help with that.”

“I’ll send you some warders and I’ll get some taggers working so you can draw juice from our blocks. You should be able to keep at least some of the demons out of some of your juice boxes. Truth is, Oberon could have kept the demon out of his club if he’d been thinking ahead. It’s kinda nice to know you can catch the motherfucker off guard, I just wish we hadn’t been there at the time.”

“Yeah, Mobley can still bring them in somewhere else and put them on us, but it be nice to know a demon won’t show up in my bathroom while I’m taking care of my business.”

I stood up and swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “Just stay alive, Terrence. I’m going to make this right.”

“I know you will, D.” Terrence walked over to me and we clasped hands. Then I pulled him in and hugged him. Just a couple slaps on the back, but I had to do it. I wasn’t sure I’d ever have a chance to do it again.

The Department of Homeland Security’s Special Threat Assessment Group had purchased an ashram just east of San Bernardino when the resident guru had been convicted on multiple counts of tax evasion, fraud and sexual assault. The compound was nestled at the base of the mountains, a hidden oasis of landscaped lawns and gardens and brightly painted cottages and bungalows built in the forties and fifties. At one time, before the lawsuits and criminal charges, the ashram had been a favorite destination for spiritualists and New Agers from all walks of life-as long as they could pay the price of admission. Now it had been turned into Area 51, Southern California style.

When I’d called Agent Lowell and told him what I was after, he’d seemed pleased. Maybe it gave him some sense of affirmation in his career choices, or maybe he figured I’d be easier to control if I actually needed him for something. Either way, he was probably kidding himself. But the fact that the Ashram-the Feds were nothing if not creative-was a black operation with no official oversight or budget meant Lowell could extend an invitation to a gangster on nothing more than his personal authorization.

I checked in at the front gate and a soldier in black fatigues with no insignia or identification handed me an access badge. The badge was just a white plastic card with a barcode on it-no name, no photo. It did have some juice, though, and I could smell Lowell on it. I drove the Lincoln along a winding road and parked in a gravel parking lot.

Lowell and Granato had set up offices in a yellow building with white shutters and trim, and flower gardens flanking the wide porch. The whole compound had a Dharma Initiative vibe I approved of, but maybe with a little more style. I slapped the access badge against the card reader by the front door and walked in. Lowell saw me through the open door of his office and waved, and he and Granato both came out to greet me.

“Couldn’t you have found something a little closer to civilization for your secret hideout?” I always felt an irresistible compulsion to annoy Granato, and his scowl didn’t let me down. “Malibu Canyon is nice. You could probably pick up something on the cheap, with the foreclosure crisis and all.”

“We had specific requirements for the work we do here,” said Lowell. “And the isolation is convenient.”

The truth was, it had taken me less than an hour with my traffic spell. There was no getting around the fact it was San Bernardino, though. “You can skip the nickel tour,” I said. “I hope you’ve got something for me now that I drove all the way out here. You mentioned something about zombie experiments.”

“Let’s go,” Lowell said, and he and Granato escorted me back outside and along a narrow path that wound its way deeper into the compound. We walked in silence and arrived at a cluster of cottages arranged in a semicircle around a small duck pond. “This is where we’re doing the CMI research…uh, that’s Critical Metaphysical Instability.”

“I remember,” I said.

“Okay, let’s go to Building Thirty-four,” Lowell said, and led the way to one of the cottages. He swiped his badge and then hesitated. “What you’re going to see isn’t pleasant, Ms. Riley. It’s not pretty but it’s necessary. We’re doing what we have to do to protect the city.”

“I guess I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise,” I said. “And most of the shit I see from day to day isn’t all that pretty, either.”

Lowell nodded and pushed open the door, and we went inside. The interior of the cottage had been remodeled in sanatorium chic. The front door opened into a small viewing area where a young woman in a white lab coat sat at a metal desk and occasionally tapped on the touch screen of a tablet computer. She looked bored.

Most of the far wall was dominated by a rectangular window through which I could see a large, padded cell. A little girl in a straitjacket huddled in the corner with her knees drawn up and her head down. I drew in a sharp breath, and even to my own ears it sounded like a hiss.

“Runaway,” Granato said, glancing at me. “Multiple stab wounds. Homicide. We picked her up before LAPD found her.”

“I guess it doesn’t bother you they won’t find her killer,” I said, my voice tight.

Granato shrugged. “Not my job, Riley. What is my job is figuring out why she can’t rest, and making sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.”

“How’s that going?” I asked. The words had a little more bite to them than I’d intended.

“Cindy,” Lowell said, speaking to the woman in the lab coat, “this is Ms. Riley. Tell her what we’ve got.”

“This is Subject Number Eighteen,” Cindy said. “She’s a Stage One-”

“What’s her fucking name?” I said.

Cindy’s mouth opened and froze. She looked at Lowell and Granato. “We, uh, find it easier not to think of them as people.”

“Easier for you, right? I guess it’s not easier for them.”

Cindy swallowed hard. “Gretchen,” she said. “Her name is Gretchen. She’s eleven or twelve years old.”

I nodded. “Go on.”

“She’s a Stage One. She died between one-thirty and three this morning.”

“What are you doing with her?”

“We’re observing the transition. Ideally, we’d monitor and record vital signs, but…”

“…Gretchen doesn’t have any vital signs,” I said.

“That’s right. Physiologically, she’s dead. No pulse. No brain activity. So there’s not much we can do except observe and record changes in her appearance, behavior. When she reaches Stage Two, we’ll do some tests, measure her response to various stimuli.”

“Sounds fascinating,” I said. I didn’t want to know what kinds of “stimuli” she had in mind. “Have you actually learned anything?”

“Her animation is completely nonphysical,” Cindy said.

“Um, it’s paranormal. I mean, there are absolutely no physical processes animating her body-no chemical activity, no electrical activity.”