Carole Douglas - Silver Zombie

I knew I looked offended, and I felt offended. My spine stiffened as I sat up straighter in the cramped backseat. Ric had been telling other people about me, and not me about them? He didn’t trust me, after I’d beaten down the gates of mortality and thrown the dice on my soul with Snow to save his life?

Tallgrass’s red-brown eyes on my face drove as deep as rusty railroad spikes.

“You understand,” he said softly, “we all have blood family, and some of us have foster family, but the wisest of us have chosen family. I have no children but one, and now maybe two, and possibly three.”

Wow. I was feeling adopted again. Was he saying Ric— and me and Quick—had a foster father?

“And now,” Tallgrass said, looking only at me, “I’ll show you what’s been running on WTCH-TV in the week before you two showed up here.”

Ric reached for my hand over the seat back. Stiffly, I extended it. It had been a rough couple of days. Holding hands like rapt teen lovers at a drive-in, we watched the tape Leonard Tallgrass had recorded from local TV.

A discordant synthesizer caught the ear. A streak of camera pan teased the eye.

“The mystery woman was first seen as an anonymous corpse on a Las Vegas autopsy table,” a deep male voice-over announced.

The camera panned over a naked Lilith from black hair to Glitz Blitz Red–polished toenails, pausing on her nostril pierced by that damn tiny blue topaz stud I used to wear. I flinched to see those staring blue eyes identical to mine. Tattoos would have added some visual interest and helped cover all that dead-white motionless flesh. Where had that adolescent ink gone? Body makeup? Or had it been removed?

I was cringing at Lilith’s exposure, which was my own.

Then the ad spot featured reflections of a faint face seen through a plastic visor. Mine, filmed far more recently. Hector Nightwine wasted no time, or no wine before its time. I could see the fat-cat bastard sipping a rare vintage as he previewed this totally unauthorized footage in his office.

“But …” his voice-over announced, “the drama continues on CSI Madame X, as this bewitching mystery woman lures a crack forensics team into deciphering the enigma of her life … or death, and finding that every turn of every criminal case on their books leads to the limpid corpse and possible reincarnation of … Lilith. Premiering in Wichita and worldwide for the fall season.”

“That bastard!” I was hopping in my seat, hitting my head on the headliner. “He’s using my attempt to use a bit part in his seriously sick show as a lure.”

“Naked?” Ric asked. “You filmed a bit for Nightwine as a corpse?”

“No! Not exactly. This is not the time to go into it, Ric, other than that when I get back to Vegas I’ll take the CinSim King, Hector Nightwine, apart from cravat to spats. I’ll liberate his CinSims and set up shop for my own show.” I sounded like the Cowardly Lion on a tear.

“What’s your definition of a bastard?” Tallgrass asked.

“You try to use him because he’s such a slimeball and find out he’s used you first.”

“Agreed,” he said. “I know a few of those. In fact, one such creep may have used the local man behind Wichita’s costly side trip to theme-park Oz.”

“It sounds like your local investigations on my behalf have borne unexpected fruit for your concerns,” Ric said.

Tallgrass’s lips twisted. “Underhanded dealings thrive where big money is involved. Sometimes too close to home. How about we soak the fuse on this particular would-be entrepreneur’s dynamite show concept in cold water?”

“We?” I asked.

“ Mi hijo is a man of endurance and integrity. I am the long-tried soul of patience and power. Your dog is a creature of two times and one spirit. Your former city and talents are the intersection for us all, Delilah Street. Shall we go see what we can kick in the area of big crooked butt?”

HONEST TO GOD, when you opened the glass doors to enter Emerald City’s first-floor, business-operation office, your toes encountered a yellow brick road painted on the recycled glass floor tile.

“Cute,” Ric said, tight-lipped and suspicious.

“It’s a homegrown operation,” Tallgrass noted, “but don’t kid yourself. Millions are at stake here. Ben has been nervous as hell about the final costs, so nervous that he spilled something to me about ‘outside pressures’ on the project.”

Tallgrass flicked me a stern look.

“So you and your oversize Toto here give us Kansas rubes a break, Miss Ex-reporter. Just because we’re ‘country’ doesn’t mean major crime isn’t trying to mop up the cornfields with us. I think Ben is finally scared enough to let us in on what’s happening.”

I nodded, glad I was wearing my serious navy suit and pumps and not checked gingham, pigtails, and ankle socks.

I started down the yellow brick road. Quicksilver sniffed and studiously avoided putting one furry foot down on the design.

A small sign outside the main office read WICKED WITCHES NEED NOT APPLY.

Tallgrass knocked, and then entered, the three of us following. A plump receptionist with long, skinny fingernails nodded Tallgrass through to the inner office.

The place was unadorned business vanilla, not trying to broadcast the usual developer ego.

The man behind the desk jumped up to greet us. “Leonard Tallgrass, you old Cayuse! You see what a mighty fine hot spot on the prairie we’ve raised here? Way bigger than barns. All we need to install is a few more showstopping features and this hotel-casino is gonna make Wichita and Wicked Wild West the new destination vacation.”

He stepped around the desk. “These are your FBI friends, with a K-9 dog, yet? Don’t think we need that, but you never know. Sit down, folks.”

You had to like Ben Hassard. He ran close to three hundred pounds. He wore his Sears white dress-shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and his tie knot down toward the first flush of curly gray hairs on his chest.

“Pardon my informal air, folks. I’ve just finished some scary negotiations with a big shot from Vegas. Very showy fella. I woulda sworn he was going to sweat deal-killing concessions outa me, but I bought him off with a taste of Emerald City hospitality, a sweet bit of luck, and a bottle of Old Crow.”

He came around the desk for introductory handshakes with Tallgrass’s crew.

“Ric, eh. Nice suit for an FBI type. Almost as good as that Vegas bigwig’s. Miss Street. Glad Tallgrass brought some class along.”

He hesitated, then held out a hand to Quicksilver.

Quicksilver didn’t do doggy tricks. I held my breath as Quick’s intelligent, almost-human blue eyes studied the plump, lined palm, then looked in Ben’s eyes. He slapped a clawed paw into the hand. Ben had the sense to give it one, firm shake and retreat behind the desk.

“Old Crow?” he asked.

Tallgrass nodded, so Ben pulled four water-spotted lowball glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey from a desk drawer. I couldn’t imagine which “Vegas bigwig” would negotiate in person in these modest circumstances. Or for what. Except maybe Hector.

“You seem in a better mood, Ben,” Tallgrass noted, sipping the amber alcohol.

“Yup. Drink up. I got the special features Emerald City needed to open. At an unbelievably good price, which is lucky, because construction overrun costs were killing me and the backers. Really, I kinda think I took the guy, Las Vegas or not.”

“What kind of construction overruns, Mr. Hassard?” Ric asked, setting down his homely glass after a polite sip.

“Oh, the usual.” He waved away Ric’s question to eye Tallgrass. “Leonard, I overreacted on the phone with you earlier. Things aren’t that bad. We just have to open fast to start recouping investment, and now the last, best pieces are in place. Wanta see?”