Devoted(47)
With the wind gibbering and howling past the windows and the park trees shaking their shaggy shadows in the frosty light of the tall lampposts, Halloween seemed to have come six weeks early. When a van-type morgue wagon, a converted ambulance with roof-mounted lightbar, cruised past the diner, bearing on its door the seal of the attorney general’s office of the State of California, the sip of coffee Carson was just then taking seemed to go from hot to cold in an instant. The vehicle could not have been more ominous if it had been a long black Cadillac with tinted windows and a license plate that bore seven zeros. A chill stepped down his spine, for he knew intuitively that this had something to do with the two corpses in the morgue’s cold-holding drawers.
Sacramento, the state capital, was two hours away, but the trip could have been made faster if they used their lightbar and siren.
Although some show windows glowed warmly, the shops around the square were closed, and no one was afoot at this moment.
The morgue wagon slowed at the north end of the square, turned left, slowed further, and turned left again, no doubt bound for the county buildings on the west side of the park.
That narrow greensward, about eighty feet wide, featured a three-tiered central bowl fountain and a few benches. Seven pines graced the park, all of them so old that their lowest branches were above an average man’s head. Carson had a clear view of the attorney general’s vehicle as it braked to a stop, hesitated, and then turned right into the service alley between the sheriff’s headquarters and the morgue, its headlights washing the brick walls of the buildings.
Leaving his pie and coffee unfinished, Carson put enough money on the table to cover the check and the tip. On his way out, he told the young waitress, Angela, that he was wanted in the zombie vault, which was what she insisted on calling the morgue.
Although summer officially still had another week to rule the mountains, the chilly wind previewed the autumn, scented with pine and the filtered woodsmoke that issued from fireplace chimneys. It buffeted Carson, forced him to tuck his head down and squint against the threat of the dead pine needles and fine grit that it carried in its currents.
He crossed the street, the park, the street again, and entered the alleyway as the van hearse turned right and out of sight into the municipal parking lot behind the morgue. As he was approaching the side entrance to the sheriff’s headquarters, the door opened, and Sheriff Hayden Eckman stepped into the alleyway.
His face ghastly white in the fall of light from the security lamp directly over his head, Eckman appeared not merely surprised to encounter Carson, but unsettled. The office of county sheriff was an elected position, however, and being a consummate politician, Eckman instantly converted his startlement into a smile that seemed to say, Ah, what a relief to have you here.
“Carson! I thought you were home in bed. I’d have called, but you’ve had such a long day, I didn’t want to bother you.”
Hours earlier in the evening, Carson had met with the sheriff in the morgue to go over the results of the autopsies. They agreed to delay a press announcement until the families of the deceased could be found and notified, and until the department’s community-relations officer had time to craft a statement that conveyed the facts of the murders without using language that would unduly alarm the public.
Considering the extreme violence and the cannibalism, Carson thought the public ought to be unduly alarmed. But his position was not elected, and having come from a city in which political power mattered more than any other force in society, he knew the folly of asserting the full truth of anything when those who had ascended through the ballot box preferred to support a version of the truth made more palatable to the voters.
Now, as the blustering wind rattled an empty beer can along the alleyway, Carson said, “What’s happening?”
“Damnedest thing,” said Hayden Eckman. “Come with me, you’ll see.” He hurried along the alley to the municipal parking lot, into which the morgue wagon from Sacramento had disappeared.
50
In the strange dream, Woody and some old woman named Dorothy were riding in the back seat of a car, and a younger woman whom Dorothy called Rosa was driving, and they came upon this hitchhiker by the side of the road, a tall and strong-looking guy. Woody knew that it was very unwise to pick up a hitchhiker, especially one who was a tall strong-looking guy, but Rosa stopped for him nonetheless. When he got into the car, Rosa said, “We need protection from Frank the Hater. He’s going to put us in cages and never let us out.” The man smiled—he had a very appealing smile—and said, “I’ve dealt with Frank the Hater before. Don’t you worry about him.” From outside the car came the sound of wind, although there hadn’t been wind before, and Woody felt it in his face, though all the windows remained closed. Then the tall, strong man looked into the back seat and winked at Woody and said, “How’re you doing, Scooby-Doo?” Rosa pulled the car onto the highway again, and the wind in Woody’s face increased, blowing on his eyelids and lashes, and Dorothy said to the man, “My sweet boy’s just fine now that you’re here,” and she put an arm around Woody. Although he didn’t mind being touched by nice people, Woody was surprised when he licked Dorothy’s hand.
The wind made him blink, blink, blink, and when he opened his eyes, he found himself lying in bed on his left side. A man was kneeling next to the bed, clearly visible in the low light of the lamp, leaning close and blowing on Woody’s face.