White Trash Zombie Unchained (White Trash Zombie 6)

Flee. That could work. Keys in hand, I sprinted up the hallway toward the front of the building. At the door to the foyer, I paused and cautiously peered out in case the wily FBI agent had decided to come around to the front.

No Sorsha. Only Reb on the phone at the reception desk. Thumbs in my pockets, I sauntered by, gave Reb a wave and smile, then continued out the glass double doors as if I was merely heading to Dear John’s for a mid-morning latte. Once out of Reb’s field of view, I broke into a run to the corner of the building then did my sneakiest sneaking around to the back, crouching in the bushes until I could see Sorsha’s car parked beneath the morgue entrance overhang.

She was still in the driver’s seat, talking on her phone, dammit. I stayed put, branches poking my butt, and glanced at my watch only six times. Maybe seven.

After four agonizing minutes, she climbed out of the Impala and knocked sharply on the morgue door. A few seconds later, Dr. Leblanc ushered her in.

The instant the door closed, I dashed to my car and got my ass out of there.

First thing I did was call Dr. Nikas and tell him about the mosquito bites and the details of the CDC visit. Did he cringe every time my name appeared on the caller ID? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d phoned him with good news.

After I hung up, I made a quick side trip to BigShopMart to purchase a toaster, tissue paper, and a gift bag that proclaimed “Happy Engagement!” in bright gold letters. I felt a little guilty using Ben’s engagement as an excuse to go see him, but at least it was a darn nice toaster.

The Sheriff’s Office HQ was only a couple of miles away—barely outside Tucker Point city limits. The two-story building was painted a jaundiced yellow with dull beige trim around small windows. The green entryway might have been attractive on its own, but against the sick yellow it looked like a decomp.

I stuffed the toaster into the gift bag, shoved tissue paper over it and fiddled with the arrangement in an attempt to make it look nice. Half a minute later, I muttered, “It’s the thought that counts,” gave up, and headed inside.

After getting directions to Ben’s office from the deputy at the front desk, I navigated my way upstairs and down a long hall to the back of the building. His door was ajar, and I peered in to find him parked behind his desk, scowling at his computer screen.

“Are they hiding you back here for a reason?” I asked.

He looked up, a broad smile replacing the scowl. “Hey, my Angel of Death! What brings you here?”

“Prezzies!” I set the bag atop the inbox on his desk.

His eyes filled with pleased surprise. “Aww, you didn’t have to do that. You’re the sweetest.”

“You can open it if you want. Or, y’know, pull out that crumpled mass of tissue paper. No actual opening required.”

He chuckled and obliged. “Oh, wow. A four-slicer with separate controls! How did you know we needed one? Neil and I both love toast, but we only have a two-slicer with wonky heating elements. Been meaning to replace it for a month.”

“And you can do bagels in it, too,” I said, delighted that I’d managed to strike gold with the spur of the moment excuse-gift.

“That’s awesome.” Beaming, he replaced the toaster in the bag.

“Hey. I meant to ask you the other day. A guy nearly ran me off the road Monday morning—same day that drowning victim came into the morgue. Then he got stopped at a roadblock a couple miles later and Abadie arrested him. What’s the deal with that?”

“Why don’t you ask Abadie?” Ben asked with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Cuz Abadie and I aren’t exactly bosom buds.”

“You mean he’s a prick.”

“I was trying to be nice.” I paused. “But, yeah.”

Ben grinned. “Well, lucky for you I know the deets since I got passed the case. What little there was

of it. It was weird. FBI wanted our help nabbing a Reno Larson, then all they did was charge him with trespassing, criminal mischief, and reckless driving.”

“Trespassing where?”

“Admin building for the hospital. You know the brick single-story out back?”

“The one for authorized personnel only?” A tingle started at the base of my skull, telling me this was important.

“That’s it,” he said. “Even with the lightweight misdemeanor charges, the guy’s bail was crazy high—way more than anyone would have thought. But he was out twenty minutes after it was set. Didn’t even get his car out of impound. Not that it could be driven with four blown tires.”

“Huh. That is weird.” Had Sorsha arranged to have the bail set high to try to keep Reno Larson in jail for a while? And why? “Did anyone search the car?”