“Is there anything that can be done?” I asked, fumbling for anything to say to get past this horrific topic. “I mean, about this, um, rogue. Whoever it is.”
Kang looked up, and it seemed to take him a couple of seconds to focus on me, as if I was drawing him out of a terrible place. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t exactly have a directory of the local zombies.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Let’s hope that whoever it is sticks to killing losers and old farts.”
A flare of anger coiled in my belly. “Wait. That’s it? Sit back and hope he doesn’t kill anyone important? Kang, that’s bullshit.”
“What the hell do you want me to do about it?”
“I don’t know! You’re the expert here. You said yourself that this sort of thing could draw unwanted attention to us.”
“So would making a big stink about deaths that are completely unrelated in every other way. There’s no link except for the missing brains, and that’s easy enough to explain away.” His face twisted into a sneer. “Go on, I dare you to go to the police. Tell them that these people were all killed by the same person.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I said dully. I hated him right now, but I also hated the fact that he was right.
He stood, then leaned forward and put his hands on the table. “There’s nothing we can do, Angel. Sometimes shit happens that way. One way or another, this will get worked out. It always does. This zombie will either move on, or someone will take him out.”
With that he straightened and spun. A second later he was out the door while I stared after him in confusion and anger.
Would this zombie move on? How long would it take before people started to wonder about all of the “accidental” deaths? And would anyone ever notice that the victims were all low on brains? I clutched the mug like a damn lifeline, thoughts tumbling in jangled disarray.
All he needs to do is start hiding the bodies so they aren’t found for a while—enough time for them to decompose. Then no one would ever realize that the victims had been killed for their brains. Half of this parish is fucking swamp, too. It’s not like it’s tough to hide a body around here.
Of course, that thought also gave me a chill. How did I know there weren’t bodies slowly rotting in the swamp already? Prey on people who wouldn’t be missed. It would be so easy to get away with it.
The very fact that I was working out how to do it left me nauseated.
The waitress came by, and I went ahead and ordered another hot chocolate, along with a piece of apple pie. The comfort food was going to be working overtime.
On the other hand, Zeke had been so out in the open with these three murders that I kinda had a hard time believing he had a secret pile of bodies hidden in the swamp. That made me feel ever so slightly better. I could maybe believe that the murder of the drug dealer had been planned—I mean, even I could get behind the idea that if you have to kill someone, make it someone who was a piece of shit. I, the former druggie, endorsed this. Now that was damn funny.
And the murder of Mr. Harris with the lawn mower had to have been spur-of-the-moment. Zeke was hungry, saw the guy outside working on his mower, and seized an opportunity.
“Angel?”
I jerked and nearly spilled my hot chocolate. Standing by my table were Ed and Marcus, both looking at me with questioning smiles. The two men were dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, which probably explained why I hadn’t noticed them coming into the diner since I’d only ever seen them in uniform before. That and the fact that I was so deeply absorbed in my thoughts they could have paraded around nude and it might not have registered.
My mind wanted to continue exploring that line of thought, but I ruthlessly yanked it back to the here and now. “Hi. Sorry. I was a million miles away,” I said, smiling weakly.
“You looked like you were doing some serious thinking there,” Ed said. “Everything all right?”
“Yeah, just letting my mind wander.” I waved toward the empty chairs around the table. “Y’all wanna sit? I’m killing some time.”
In answer, both men seized chairs and sat. The waitress materialized and slid my pie in front of me, then turned to Ed and Marcus. “Y’all eatin’?”
Ed smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll have the double bacon cheeseburger with fries, loaded baked potato, cinnamon apples, mac and cheese, and a side salad with ranch dressing. Oh, and a Barq’s.”
“And I’ll have a Diet Coke,” Marcus said as soon as the waitress had finished scrawling down Ed’s incredible order. “Also a turkey club with extra bacon, a cup of gumbo, garlic bread, and an Italian salad—with extra olive oil.”
I stared at the two of them as the poor woman finished writing and hurried off. “Holy shit. And I was feeling guilty for indulging in pie.”
Marcus grinned. “I can’t hold a candle to Ed. This is a light snack for him. He has the metabolism of a hummingbird.”
Ed spread his hands and gave a rueful shrug. “He speaks the truth. I have an overachieving appetite. But surely you could eat more than that,” he said with a nod to my pie. “You don’t have a spare ounce of fat on you.”
“The word is ‘scrawny,’ ” I retorted. “And I think I’d barf if I tried to eat as much as either of you.”
Ed raised an eyebrow. “You of the legendary Iron Stomach? I think not.”
I cast a doubtful glance at him. “Legendary?”