Hellforged

I explained all this to Daniel, who listened without interruption, nodding from time to time. “When did Sykes die?” I asked.

“Between the time he talked to that reporter and the time his partner knocked on his door at about two thirty A.M.”

That fit. I’d been in Tyler’s dream until two. “Norden found him?”

“Yeah. He wanted to see how Sykes was holding up after the commissioner suspended him. When Norden discovered Sykes’s remains, he went straight to headquarters and tore the place apart. That’s how I heard about it.”

“What happened?”

“Norden got suspended. There’s talk of pressing charges against him.”

“Hampson has to open an investigation now,” I said. “A police officer has been killed.”

Daniel shook his head. “Not going to happen. He’d like nothing better than to dismantle the Goon Squad. He can’t because they’re the only ones willing to patrol Deadtown and the Zone. He’s probably hoping that whatever did this will wipe out all the zombies in Deadtown.”

“I won’t let that happen.” I’d beaten Difethwr once before; I could do it again—somehow. We stopped walking and stared gloomily over the Charles. “I get it that the Destroyer is using our bond to sneak into dreams. What I don’t understand is how it’s killing the zombies. You know how the Hellion kills. It burns.”

“Yeah. Without leaving a mark on the body.”

I nodded, touching my jacket sleeve over my own demon mark. The scar there wasn’t from Difethwr’s fire; my aunt had slashed the spot with a knife to let out the Hellion’s essence. If she hadn’t, I’d have died within days, burned from the inside out.

“I’ve never encountered a demon that kills this way.” That didn’t mean such demons didn’t exist, of course. It’s time for the next level of your training. I’d thought I was an expert demon fighter, but apparently I still had a lot to learn. “I was hoping you could tell me more about that. You said you had information about T.J.”

“Right. I talked to one of the lab guys.” A half-smile touched his lips. “It’s ironic. If there’d been an official investigation, we would’ve waited at least a month to get test results. But because the guy was curious, he stayed late last night to run the analysis.”

“And what—?”

“Ms. Vaughn!” A woman’s voice shouted behind us, from the direction of Storrow Drive. I stepped away from Daniel and turned around to see a woman in a red parka running over the frosted grass.

“It’s Lynne Hong,” I said. Damn it, how did she know I was here? “The reporter Sykes talked to. Maybe you should take off.” Daniel was already walking a thin line at work.

He watched her approach, then turned to me. His blue eyes searched my face. “I’ll stay.”

Hong was panting by the time she made it across the grass to where we stood.

“We’re out here freezing our butts off because we wanted some privacy,” I said by way of a greeting. “How did you find me?”

“My driver was waiting outside the checkpoint. I called and told him to follow you.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “He almost lost you when you cut across the Common.”

I wasn’t in the mood to praise her driver’s people-following skills, so I didn’t say anything. Plus I was annoyed I hadn’t spotted the guy.

She held out a mittened hand to Daniel. “I’m Lynne Hong,” she said. “And you are?”

“Not sure I want to talk to you.” He kept his hands in his pockets.

Hong let her hand drop. Her eyes went back and forth, regarding us both. “How can I convince you I’m not the enemy?”

“By going away and leaving us alone,” I said. It was a good suggestion. I liked it a lot. But somehow, I didn’t think she’d take it.

“Ms. Vaughn, Officer Sykes wants me to get this story out. I haven’t been able to reach him today, but as soon as I do, I’ll set up another interview.”

“You didn’t care enough about the story to air it yesterday,” I said, my voice thrumming with anger. “And today Brian Sykes is dead.”

Her mouth dropped open, but no sound emerged.

“Sykes died the same way as the other two,” Daniel said. “And Hampson is suppressing all attempts to investigate.”

“How do you know this?”

“I’m a cop.”

Hong’s eyes widened, and she started digging in her bag for her notebook.

“Wait.” I laid my hand on Daniel’s arm. “You don’t have to talk to her. Don’t endanger your job.” Sykes had wanted to be a voice for T.J. Who was going to speak for Sykes? Someone, but it didn’t have to be Daniel. I could do it. I turned to Hong, “I’ll—”

But she was eyeballing Daniel and seemed to have forgotten all about me. “You can remain anonymous.”

Daniel stared off into the distance, the wind ruffling his curls. He ran both hands through his hair. “What Hampson’s doing is wrong,” he said. “He’s supposed to uphold the law. If three humans died like that in two days …” His voice trailed off. He offered Hong his hand. “My name is Daniel Costello. I’m a homicide detective, and I have some information about the zombie deaths. But if I talk to you and Hampson finds out, I’ll lose my job.”

“I won’t release your name.”

Daniel barked a bitter-sounding laugh. “Not even when Hampson subpoenas you? He will. When this story hits the airwaves, expect a knock on your door within an hour.”

“I’ve been subpoenaed before. I protect my sources.” Hong squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She seemed to mean it, even though she looked kind of like a Chihuahua getting ready to do battle with a Great Dane.

“Daniel, are you sure?” I asked. He was a third-generation Boston cop. His job was his life.

He nodded. “Someone’s got to speak for Sykes.” The same thing I’d been thinking a few minutes ago. All right. Daniel would speak for him. And I’d stop the Destroyer—for good this time—to avenge him.

Hong looked at Daniel admiringly. Or maybe her eyes shone that way because she was on the trail of a big story. She opened her notebook. “So bring me up to speed.”

Together, Daniel and I told her the story. I talked about T.J. and Gary; Daniel talked about Sykes. “And,” he said, “as I was telling Vicky when you arrived, one of the CSI techs saved a sample from Creature Comforts. He analyzed it last night on his own time.” He glanced at me, then at Hong. “I hope you have a strong stomach.”

“Go on,” she said.

“According to the lab guy, that black liquid was a by-product of an anaerobic decomposition process.”

“And did the lab guy happen to translate that into English?” I asked.

“It’s kind of like what’s left behind when digestive fluid does its thing on meat.”

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. “They were eaten,” I said. And I’d gone surfing through the leftovers. Lynne Hong looked a little green, too.

“Did he say what could do that?” she asked.

Daniel shook his head. “No clue. He said the sludge—that’s what he called the black stuff—is similar to the end result of a process that’s used to dispose of diseased animal carcasses. But that happens in a special machine, called a digester, without oxygen, and at temperatures of at least a hundred degrees.”

A gust of wind blew grit into our faces. “So Boston in January isn’t what you’d call the right conditions,” I said.

“Exactly. But the result is the same.”

Hong’s forehead wrinkled as she wrote. “Will the technician talk to me?”

“You can call the lab on a fishing expedition if you want, but I can’t give you his name.”

“I’d love to ask him if this was due to some new virus, or a mutation of the one that created the zombies in the first place.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “Viruses don’t rip their hosts into tiny pieces.”

“You’re a demon expert,” she said to me. “Do you think these deaths have a supernatural cause?”