Simon Green - The Spy Who Haunted Me

“This . . . was weird,” said Honey. “ All the local stations going off the air at the same time? If it was just a technical thing, the screens would be showing the usual variations on Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible, accompanied by lots of Be happy, don’t worry music. No . . . those broadcasts are being jammed, just like ours. Which, if nothing else, must take a hell of a lot of power. Someone doesn’t want this news getting out of Roswell.”

“So it’s not just our comms that have been targeted,” I said. “The whole town’s been cut off from the outside world. Isolated . . . So that whatever’s going to happen, or maybe even already started . . . no one from outside will know till it’s all over, and it’s too late to do anything.”

“But even so, cattle mutilations?” said Walker. “They’re just rural myths, aren’t they?”

“Not when it starts happening to people,” I said. “I think we have to assume this is the mystery we were sent here to investigate.”

“King knew in advance this was going to happen?” said Walker.

“Who better?” said Honey. “The man was and is seriously connected.”

“That farmer’s body should have got here by now,” said Walker. “I think it behooves us to visit this new morgue and take a look for ourselves.”

“I love it when you use words like behoove, ” I said. “Oh, please, Walker; teach me to talk proper like you, so I can sound like a real agent.”

“Shut up, Eddie,” said Walker.

“We can go take a look,” said Honey. “And then you can make the poor guy sit up on his slab and tell us what happened. Right, Walker?”

“It was just the one time!” said Walker. “I do wish everyone would stop going on about it!”

“Any idea where the local morgue might be?” I said. “It’s not the kind of thing you can just go up and ask complete strangers. They tend to look at you funny.”

“Maybe we should look for someone in local law enforcement,” said Walker.

“And just maybe you two should try living in the twenty-first century with the rest of us,” Honey said scathingly. “We passed a cybercafé just a few blocks back.”

It didn’t take long to log in on the town site, call up a map, and locate the new morgue. It wasn’t that far from where we were. Walker and I carefully didn’t look at each other. Honey looked decidedly smug as she led us out of the cybercafé.

“What’s the matter, Walker? Don’t you have computers in the Nightside?”

“Of course,” he said stiffly. “Some of my best friends are artificial.”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me,” said Honey.

The new morgue was a calm and civilised structure, very modern and stylish and not at all threatening. Honey bluffed her way in with a fake Homeland Security ID that she just happened to have about her person while Walker and I did our best to look properly mean and hard and American. No one gave us any trouble; the locals were only too happy to have someone experienced on hand to come in and take over. A local deputy carrying too much weight and topped off with a hat far too small for his head led us through the outer offices to the morgue at the back of the building. People watched us pass with wide eyes and spooked, scared expressions. It was one thing to make your living exploiting alien visitations, and quite another to have them turn up in your backyard with chain saws and scalpels, intent on playing doctor. The deputy looked more openly nervous the closer he got to the morgue. He was sweating profusely despite the arctic air-conditioning and jumped at every sudden sound.

“All communications systems are down,” he said abruptly. “Can’t get a word in or out. You folks know anything about that?”

“Sorry,” said Honey in her best brisk and professional voice. “Information only on a need-to-know basis. You know how it is.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” The deputy actually relaxed a little in the presence of such obvious authority and competence. “Good to have someone here who knows what they’re doing. We’re mostly part-timers. Sheriff’s off sick with his allergies, and Doc Stern’s busy with a car cash on the other side of town. This is all . . . a hell of sight more than I signed on for.” He looked at Honey sharply. “Did your people know this was going to happen? Is that why you’re here?”

“It’s our job to know about things like this,” said Honey. “Has there been any panic in the town? Any rush to get out of Roswell?”

“Well, no,” said the deputy, frowning heavily. “Everyone here was expecting the tourists to get in their cars and head for the hills once the news got out, with the townsfolk right behind them, but . . . everyone’s being real calm about it. Doesn’t make a blind bit of sense . . . I’d leave, if I had anyone halfway competent to leave in charge, but . . . it just doesn’t seem right to go off and leave old Jim Thomerson lying there in the morgue. Not . . . respectful. Here; this is it.”

He showed us a large reinforced steel door with a keypad lock. More security than I’d been expecting. We all waited impatiently while the deputy keyed in the six-digit number with great concentration.

“I don’t normally get back here much,” he said. “Only the sheriff and the doc ever come in here. Doc’ll be back as soon as he can. You want me to stick around . . . ?”

“No,” said Honey. “Go back to your post, Deputy. We’ll handle it from here. And, Deputy: no one comes back here till we’re done, and no one says anything to anyone. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the deputy. He hurried away, not looking back.

“Potentially bright young fellow, I thought,” said Walker.

We went into the morgue, shutting the door behind us. It was a lot bigger than I expected, with bright lights and immaculate gleaming walls.

“This . . . is not normal, for a small town,” said Honey. “Maybe . . . ten times larger than it should be. This is more the kind of thing you’d expect to find in a major city. Makes me wonder if they might have had to contend with . . . unusual situations before.”

“This was custom-made,” said Walker. “By someone expecting trouble.”

“Maybe something did happen here back in the day, “ said Honey.

“And no one told you,” said Walker. “Shame on them.”

“Never mind that,” I said. “Look at that! They brought one of the bloody cows in here!”

Two mortuary slabs had been pushed together on the far side of the room, and a cow was lying across them on its side. The four legs stuck stiffly out over the edge of the slab. We all gathered around the carcass. The cow had been sliced open the whole length of its underside, from throat to udder. The sides of the belly had been pulled out and pinned back to reveal that the whole interior had been . . . rummaged through. Some organs were missing, others had been cut open and had pieces removed, still others had been moved around, rearranged. Large holes had been drilled through the hide and the head to no obvious purpose. Both eyes were gone, and all the top teeth had been neatly extracted. The tongue had been sliced in half lengthwise, and then left in place. One stiff leg had been dissected to show the nerves, another to show the muscles.

“Interesting,” said Walker, leaning in close for a better look.

“Extremely,” said Honey, leaning right in there with him.

“Gross,” I said, staying well back. “I want to know how they got that thing in here through that little door.”

We all looked back at the distinctly human-scaled door, shrugged pretty much in unison, and turned our attention back to the cow.

“The work looks professional enough,” said Walker. “Definitely used scalpels rather than knives. And since there’s no damage from local predators, it was done not long ago. Some burn marks on the internal tissues. Laser drill, perhaps? But none of this work makes any sense . . . It’s not just a dissection. I feel sure there was a definite end in mind, but I’m damned if can make out what . . .”