Home Improvement: Undead Edition

bring in?”

“I don’t know. And we don’t know exactly who might have been living in that mansion of yours.”

“I do—I know exactly who I’ve been in contact with, and if you tell me who they have, I can tell you who they don’t have. And then we can do some of that computer stuff. You know, look up their backgrounds, find out if they smothered kittens and liked to set fire to dogs’ tails and stuff like that!”

DeFeo had to admit it; the kid had a point.

“Well, if I take you to the station, they’ll start interrogating you, and the way the cops are feeling tonight, you will finally confess to anything.”

“I’ve got a computer!”

“There are unmarked patrol cars and plainclothes detectives watching the mansion.”

“No, no—my home. My real home. It’s a two-bit shotgun house, the other side of Esplanade. I’ve got a computer there. My folks left me the house.”

“They died?”

“They moved to St. Pete.”

DeFeo stared at him as seconds ticked by. If Austin hadn’t killed the girl, it was likely that someone he knew, someone in his association—maybe some other idiot involved in one of the other area vampire/demon/Satan cults—had. Or someone in his realm, at the least. Unless a new whacko had suddenly come to New Orleans, drawn by the legends, voodoo, and the city’s reputation.

But, used the right way—and not set down beneath a brilliantly burning bulb, deprived of water, dying to use the john—Austin Cramer just might have the key to the murder.

“Let’s go,” DeFeo said.

“Oh, my God. You’re not going to regret this. I swear, I will be your willing slave in the future. I will take such good care of that tomb—you’ll never need to do the least bit of maintenance again. I swear, oh, thank you —”

“Stop slobbering on me!” DeFeo said. “Let’s do this!”

Austin Cramer slunk down in the back seat of DeFeo’s car as they wove through the city to a small, ramshackle house in a poorer area of the city. The place still smelled of mold—almost as if someone had decided after the summer of storms to simply abandon it. Maybe that was what his parents had done.

The house had a living room, a kitchen, a dining room, and two bedrooms.

The computer was in what had once been Austin Cramer’s bedroom. There were rock band posters and Sports Illustrated swimsuit model pictures taped to the wall. There were books in rickety wooden shelves, and a plethora of old gaming boxes. It was the typical room any nerd might have—any poor, unpopular kid who spent his life in his room.

But the computer, set on a simple desk, was brand-new, and when Austin touched the keyboard, the screen snapped to life, showing a zillion applications.

He pulled up two chairs and DeFeo watched as Austin keyed in one of his word-processing programs, and then slid it over to open a Web page.

“There—there’s the list of the people in my group. Should I pull up their Facebook pages, or something like that? I know how to find out if they have criminal records!” he said proudly.

DeFeo grated his teeth, brought his finger to his lip, and called in to the station. He read off the names and asked the sergeant on desk duty how many of those he had listed had come in. “We’ve got them all, now. Except for Brian—Brian Langley,” the sergeant told him. “They’re all claiming that it was Austin Cramer—he took them to the cemeteries and made them drink human blood and then throw it on the wall.”

Austin could hear the sergeant, despite the fact that DeFeo was pacing with his phone. “It was never human blood!” he said in horror.

“Where the hell are you?” the sergeant’s voice cracked over the phone again. “Montville, the lieutenant brought you in on this, but when you’ve got something, you’re not a cop. You’ve got to keep us in the loop. You’re a PI, man. Not a cop!”

“When I’ve got something, the lieutenant will know. Right now? I’m on a search in the city,” DeFeo said. It was more or less true. He glanced at his watch as he spoke, and he frowned. It was already one A.M. He looked at Austin, feeling his jaw tighten. “Trust me; you’ll be informed. I’m going to find Brian Langley,” he said, and hung up.

“Wait!” the desk sergeant said. “What’s that one girl’s name—Sue. Sorry, I wasn’t looking right. We have Sara, but we don’t have Susan Naughton.”

“So, Brian Langley and Susan Naughton are still missing?” DeFeo asked.

“Of the names you gave me, yeah. Hey, where did you get that list?”

“Just something I’m working on.” DeFeo was growing irritated. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something and you can tell the lieutenant,” he said, and hung up quickly.

“So—Susan, and Brian Langley. Where would Langley go?” he asked Austin.

DeFeo stared back at him. “Brian? Oh, my God, Brian! Yes, he’s the biggest chump of them all. He used to be a bully, a big football hero—only he flunked out on his college scholarship. He’s always been an asshole who wanted to beat the hell out of everyone.”

Austin was elated, thinking that Brian was the killer.

“Doesn’t sound right,” DeFeo said.

“What do you mean? I told you—he was a bully!”

“Guys who get physical with their fists don’t usually turn into this kind of a murderer.”

“You have to be strong to hack up a girl, right?”

DeFeo shook his head. “You just need to know something about human anatomy—and own a good saw— like a bone saw. I know a few medical pathologists down at the coroner’s office who aren’t all that big or strong, and they can take a body apart pretty damned easily.” He hesitated, thinking about the way the body appeared to have been chewed. “Hell, let’s go find Brian. Where would he be?”

Austin was reflective. “I—I don’t know. I made a big deal about our constitutional rights, and the fact that we didn’t need to hide from the pigs—sorry, cops.” Austin offered up a weak, ironic smile. “Sorry, hide from the cops—use pig’s blood.”

DeFeo rolled his eyes. “Come on, think. He’s from this area. Where would he hide out? What about his folks?”

“They’re gone, too.”

“So did they move out and leave him their house?”

“No—they actually died. And the state took over the house for back taxes,” Austin said.

“Great,” DeFeo muttered.

“Oh, oh! There’s an old abandoned church down near Magazine Street. He used to go there. He might be hiding out there. Derelicts and prostitutes use it sometimes, too. I don’t think the cops have ever caught on. It’s like a safe house for the street people of the city.”

“Let’s go,” DeFeo said, rising.

They returned to his car. Austin hid in the back.

But they never reached the abandoned church on Magazine.

DeFeo’s phone rang.

It was the desk sergeant.

“You’re not going to believe this—but it’s gotten worse. Found both of those kids you were talking about.”

“What?”

“Susan Naughton and Brian Langley. Can’t be that they’re guilty; they’re chopped up like doll parts. Lieutenant is on his way. They found them in an abandoned-church-turned-nightclub up in Metairie. I’d get there quick if I were you.”

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Austin Cramer sat huddled in the worst misery and despair of his life.

Hell, he’d never expected this. He was in the Montville tomb at the cemetery. He’d wanted DeFeo to leave him at his old house, but DeFeo had told him that the cops weren’t stupid, and they owned