“We’re still typing all the spills. There’s more in the bathroom and even some in the bedroom. I’ll tell you right now it’s not all from the victim. You hit that nail right on the head.”
Mitchell walked into the kitchen, being careful not to disturb the cluster of evidence for technicians gathering samples from the floor and the table. “I think there’s another victim we haven’t seen yet,” he said.
“Another victim? You mean Dawsey had another victim and he took the body with him?”
Mitchell gave the apartment a sweeping gesture. “How else could you explain all this?”
“Ever think it might have come from Dawsey himself?”
Mitchell laughed. “Yeah, right, from the perp himself. I’d like to see someone lose this much blood and keep on kicking.”
“Find anything else?”
Mitchell nodded and pointed to the kitchen counter. An evidence bag held a wrongly folded map. “Maybe something, maybe nothing. That map was on the kitchen counter. There were some tacky, bloody fingerprints, not dry yet, so he was looking at it not very long ago. He’d circled Wahjamega.”
“That a town?” Dew asked as he picked up the evidence bag holding the map. The bloody fingerprints were still wet enough to smear the plastic. The words This is the place were scrawled on the map in handwriting so bad it was barely legible.
“Yeah,” Mitchell said. “About, oh, ninety minutes or so from here.”
“You notify Wahjamega police to be on the lookout?”
“They don’t have any-town is too small-but we let the Tuscola County Sheriff ’s department know, yeah. Hell, every cop in the state is on the lookout anyway.”
Dew nodded approvingly. Maybe something, maybe nothing, as Mitchell had said. Dew leaned more toward the “something” side-it didn’t take a genius to figure out Dawsey hadn’t circled Wahjamega on a whim. The map didn’t show much in the way of civilization around the town. In fact, it looked like there might be a shitload of trees.
Trees.
Deep woods, even.
As soon as he got out of this apartment, he’d have Murray’s boys focus the satellite coverage on Wahjamega instead of Ann Arbor.
The brown-polyester-wearing Bob Zimmer wove through the crowded apartment, dodging the photographer and another cop before stopping in front of Dew and Mitchell.
“This just gets better and better, Phillips,” Zimmer said. “I just talked to the governor. Again. FBI says Dawsey and the Vietnamese kid were working together-they found a bunch of emails. Homeland Security raised the alert level to fucking red, to ‘severe.’ Dawsey has knowledge of a bomb.”
Dew nodded. “I told you someone else might be involved in those murders. We figure it was Dawsey.”
“To think there’s a cell right here in our midst,” Zimmer said. “And why didn’t someone bother to pick up a fucking phone and let us know there’s terrorists in town?” His eyes showed doubt, as if his bullshit meter was going off, but they also showed he’d follow through. Bullshit or no bullshit, Bob Zimmer wasn’t taking any chances with the safety of his men or his town.
“Nguyen was what we call a sleeper, Bob,” Dew said. “He’s just another foreign college student. He stays quiet until he’s needed, then boom. Only we don’t think he’s operating under directions, we think he just snapped. Somewhere along the line, he or his buddies recruited Dawsey.”
“Why the hell would a white-collar American fall in with terrorists?” Mitchell asked.
“We don’t know yet,” Dew said. “Maybe he was bitter at ‘the man’ because he worked some shit computer job and didn’t pull in millions in the NFL. It doesn’t fucking matter. Dawsey might know about a bomb-we don’t know where it is, we don’t know what it is. We have to get to him and fast.”
Zimmer stared at Dew. “I’ll tell you right now, I don’t like this,” he said. “We’ve got nine people dead, at least one killer is on the loose, and there’s a goddamn bomb out there somewhere. I can’t help but think we could have prevented this if you’d let us know you were watching this Vietnamese kid.”
“We had to see who would contact him, who would supply him,” Dew said. “It was a sting, Bob, but it went bust. The key thing to remember is we don’t want anyone else getting killed. And if you want to save lives, just make sure your men know exactly what they’re dealing with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go make some calls.”
Dew walked out of the blood-splattered apartment, leaving Bob Zimmer to grind his teeth in frustration.
70.
His shoulder pulsed with a deep, steady, low-frequency throb. His ass echoed the beat. This internal-rotting thing was getting serious.
He had no idea how close his own Triangles were to hatching. The areas where he still had them-middle of his back just below the shoulder blades, left forearm, his left testicle-had stopped itching or hurting. A brief glimmer of hope flashed in his head that they might be dead, that they had just passed on in their sleep like some beloved grandpa. But that was bullshit.
He’d rather have the itching back than what he felt right now. The spots felt numb. Completely numb. Something in his mind flashed “localized anesthetic.” He wondered if they were doing so much damage that the pain would have incapacitated him, shut him down, so they had to block the pain, letting him continue normally, letting him pursue those all-important duties of eating, of avoiding the Soldiers.
He shuddered, remembering the black tentacles snaking underneath Fatty Patty’s skin minutes before the hatching. She hadn’t looked as if she were in pain or any discomfort at all. Perhaps she’d felt this same numbness. Perhaps she’d been numb for days. The real problem was he had no concept of the timetable.
When his slumbering Triangles awoke, how long before they started screaming in his head? How long before their final death-song?
He didn’t have the luxury of waiting. He had to assume that when they awoke, he’d lose his last chance to purge them from his body. On top of that, the Columbos were outside, and it would only be a matter of time before they figured out where he was. Dawn was about to break. They’d see him when he made a run for it. They probably had bugs in every apartment anyway, listening, doing their Big Brother gig. Spy satellites could be searching for him right now, X-ray vision peering through the walls and ceiling, seeking him out.
“I don’t know if you can hear me, Daddy, but I know you’re right,” Perry said. “Time to shit or get off the pot. Time to show them who’s the strong one-time to show them all.”
71.
Her bathroom layout was identical to his, but there the similarity ended. Hers was decorated in seashell colors, everything matching perfectly, from the pale yellow towels to the porcelain clamshell soap dish. Every surface sparkled.
It wasn’t until Perry swallowed six Tylenol from a bottle he found in the immaculate medicine cabinet that it clicked. The pills slid down his throat, and it all fell into place.
At times the Triangles had acted weird, showing emotions instead of talking in their monotone robotic voice. Not just when they were mindscreaming incoherently, but when they were talking to him in a singsong voice, a lilting mental speech that sounded almost silly compared to their normal businesslike vocal patterns.
They acted like that right after he took Tylenol. And silly wasn’t the right word for it-the right word was stoned. Stoned out of their collective little gourds. Something in the Tylenol got them higher than a kite. He’d
