Helix: Plague of Ghouls (45 page)

IT WAS NOON
and Two-Trees was beside himself. They all were. Ferox and Dep hadn’t yet arrived, an official “Be On the Lookout” notice had been issued by the police for the Padre, and there was no fresh word from either Gil or Dr. Grey. Foster sat in the hotel lobby, waiting for any sign of the courier. Everyone else stayed outside, in vehicles and away from cameras. Foster was jittery, she said, because the very thought of change pheromones in the hotel made her squirm. A psychosomatic reaction is just as a bad as a physical one, she’d said. Two-Trees and Buckle stayed with her, watching for the first signs of change.

“So that’s what we’re treating her as?” Buckle asked. “A suspect?” He was talking about the missing girl, Sydney Mission. “You think she’s survived this long, after exposure to the Reids?”

“I think she makes for a good person of interest,” Two-Trees said. “I mean, how else are we going to be able to account for your time away from the investigation?”

“Palmer’s not going to go for this,” Buckle replied. “He’s already calling me four times an hour, demanding to know where I am. I can’t keep dodging him without risking disciplinary action.”

“Palmer, Palmer, Palmer,” Two-Trees griped. “God, it’d just be easier to conscript him.”

“And the longer I’m away from the investigation, the less news I get,” Buckle continued. “How are we supposed to keep tabs on the body count if one of us isn’t directly involved in the investigation?”

“Don’t you have friends?” Two-Trees asked. “Ask someone else who’s already there.”

“And go behind Palmer’s back?” Buckle shook his head. “That’ll only expand any disciplinary action to include—”

“Then how else are we going to get her access to something like a lab?” Two-Trees asked. “Really, what else do we need but a few tables, a couple of chairs, some electrical outlets . . .”

“I don’t know, maybe break into a clinic somewhere?” Buckle asked. “Not that I’m condoning any kind of criminal activity, especially if this does end up being a bunch of . . .” He blushed, checked for witnesses, and then muttered sheepishly, “Humans.”

“Are there any you could recommend? I mean, not that you would condone—”

“Some place far, far out of town,” Buckle said.

“Okay, I get that you don’t want to get arrested.”

“No, it’s not that.” Buckle rubbed his wrinkled forehead. “If what you guys are saying is true, then it’s just as likely that any local laboratory is riddled with pheromones too, especially if the evidence has been tainted by w . . . by were . . . By the suspects in question.”

Two-Trees hadn’t considered that. “Well, that kills my backup plan, too.”

“Which was?”

“Call Laura Maurelli.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Vice-principal of Oxley Collegiate,” he said. “All right, then we go with my backup,
backup
plan. Waabishkindibed High. I’ll call Michael Crow—”

“No, I know her name from somewhere else.”

Two-Trees shrugged. “Do you handle missing persons? Because she’s the one who called in about Sydney Mission.”

“No . . . the last name—” Buckle blinked back at him. “Maurelli. Son of a bitch.”

“What?”

Buckle grimaced. “Seriously, she’s the vice-principal of Oxley Collegiate?”

“Sure, why?”

Buckle snorted. “Remember that jungle punk we brought in for questioning? The one with the skull and the attitude?”

“One of three punks, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure, I remember him,” Two-Trees said. “Connection back to Maurelli?”

“Big one. Mother and son.”

Two-Trees closed his gaping mouth with a click. “He goes to Oxley Collegiate?”

“No, no.”

“Elmbury North?”

Buckle shook his head. “No, Alistair Secondary. Town of East Oxley,” Buckle said. “Huh—I wonder if there’s a connection between Sydney Mission and
both
Maurellis.”

“You didn’t ask him?”

“Of course we asked him. We asked all three if they’d seen Sydney. They said no. Doesn’t mean a damn thing, though.”

Two-Trees looked up at the sound of doors opening and at the sight of Foster getting quickly to her feet. A brown-shirted courier struggled through the door with a few boxes and went straight to the counter where Two-Trees’ favourite—and most understanding—receptionist stood waiting for him.

“Gotta few packages here for Eva Foster?” the courier asked.

“Oh
thank God
,” Foster said. “Thank you!”

“Great,” the courier replied. “All I need now is some form of ID, and you can sign . . .”

Shit
, Two-Trees thought.
She hasn’t got any.

“Actually,” Buckle said, taking out his own wallet, “she’s with me. Will this ID suffice?” He showed the courier his OPP identification and spelled out his badge number, and no, he wasn’t taking the shipment from him and had no subpoena for it. He was only vouching for Foster’s identity pursuant to his prerogative as a sworn officer of the law, and no she couldn’t provide any ID at the moment because there was an outstanding criminal investigation, Case File Number Blah-blah-blah, showing that she’d been accosted two nights earlier and had had her wallet stolen.

The receptionist watched all this with great interest.

The courier shrugged and turned to the receptionist. “Heck, I don’t care. You could sign for it yourself.” He turned over the electronic scanner and gave her a stylus to write with. “Do you have an Alex Selkirk registered here too?” The receptionist checked. There was no one there by that name.

“He might be staying at another hotel,” she said. “Do you want me to call around?”

The courier looked at the small box, turning it around so he could better read the label. “It’s definitely this hotel. Alex Selkirk, care of Hector Two-Trees?”

Two-Trees perked up. “Actually, that would be me,” he said, and almost added,
but I don’t know any Alex Selkirk.
He presented his driver’s license and special officer’s identification. Buckle half-heartedly offered to vouch for his identification too, but the courier said the photo ID was enough. It was a box big enough to house a camera with a zoom lens, and it was heavy.

The receptionist made a disappointed noise. Two-Trees followed her line of sight. Through the side door of the hotel, a younger woman was walking in, laughing and talking to a man behind her. Two-Trees’ favourite receptionist had just fallen back down the totem pole. The assistant manager, all twenty-some years of her, was walking in with her master key pass in hand.

“I have another box outside in the van,” the courier said to Foster.

“Okay, we can move it directly into my truck,” Foster replied. “Do you need help?”

“It’s heavy,” the courier warned.

“That’s fine. I have friends.”

The young assistant manager looked up and saw Foster and Two-Trees. She focused on Two-Trees. “What’s all this?” she asked the receptionist. The larger woman stood up to speak face to face with her manager. Foster, wisely, decided this was as good a time as any to show the courier the way out. “Yeah, so, what did I say about hotel policy and unchecked visitors loitering in the lobby?”

The manager’s young visitor looked up.

Two-Trees looked back at him.

They recognized each other in the same instant.

The boy turned and bolted.

Two-Trees tossed the box to Buckle, who threw it toward Foster, who may have fumbled it, Two-Trees didn’t know and didn’t care. Two-Trees was already halfway down the hall, shoes booming on the floor. The kid from the pharmacy crashed through the side door and spun himself around as he stumbled outside into the parking lot. Two-Trees slammed open the door and lengthened his stride. Standing beside the truck, Bridget spotted them. She threw down her cup of coffee and ran perpendicular to the thief’s flight, intent on taking the long way around. Two-Trees kept going straight ahead. Two-Trees had speed, but Bridget had stamina. The boy had youth and fear in his corner. The kid looked over his shoulder, tripped over a concrete wheel stop and fell onto the grass. Two-Trees poured on the gas, veering slightly to the punk’s right, giving him the option to run toward the driveway and away from the undeveloped lot east of the hotel. The kid got up and ran straight instead, toward the highway. He collapsed over a snagged foot and got up to run again. He was losing ground, and Two-Trees was determined not to let this one go, not again.

“I just want to talk!” Two-Trees shouted.

The boy stupidly looked over his shoulder, saw the knife sheath on Two-Trees’ belt, and he ran left, following the highway. They ran through the weeds like they were running across a tractor-tire obstacle course. Two-Trees’ chest and arms were burning, but this was a petty crook who had answers. This was a kid who was scared because he’d recognized Two-Trees and knew that if he didn’t disappear, Two-Trees would ask uncomfortable questions about diaper cream and hemorrhoid medicine. Two-Trees veered a little more to the right, trying to cut between the highway and his quarry. Normally it would be Bridget running the long way around, but Two-Trees had a lot of steam and he knew his old stomping grounds well.

The earth dipped toward Deer Jump River, and the kid went sliding, arms waving like Kermit the Frog, all the way down the embankment.

Two-Trees took four running steps toward the edge and leapt, knife unsheathed and clasped in both hands raised over his head, coat tails flapping behind him, long hair flying loose. The kid ran across the shallowest parts of the river with arms and legs pumping, jacket half off, things falling out of his pockets, water spraying everywhere, eyes on the knife-wielding Indian flying through the sky toward him.

Bridget’s arm appeared out of nowhere. The thief recoiled as if he’d run into a glass wall, and he fell into the river with his hand on his throat. A clothesline like that could have crushed his larynx.

Two-Trees stomped to a stop and doubled-over, completely out of breath, big chest heaving, arms on fire, ankles sore, hand loose around his knife. His mind was made up. He was going back to the gym the very second he found one.

“Shit, dude,” Bridget said. She sounded like she’d strolled the whole way. “I haven’t seen you move that fast since 2010.”

“Shut . . . up . . .” he panted. He sheathed his knife and grabbed the kid by the jacket lapels, dragging him to drier land. They were both soaked—the kid from half-frozen river water, Two-Trees from sweat. He dropped the gagging boy twice. Bridget moved Two-Trees aside.

Then she recoiled and put her hand over her mouth, repulsed.

“Is he . . . ?” Two-Trees asked.

Before she could answer, more feet came splashing through the river. Two-Trees had nothing left. If it was an ambush, he was a dead man. Bridget could fight her way out, but he didn’t even have the strength to lift his arms anymore.

It was Buckle.

“Wow,” Buckle said. “That was . . .”

“Never knew a fat guy could move so fast, huh?” Bridget asked behind her hand. “Do me a favour and roll that kid around in the water for a minute?” She turned away, covering her mouth and nose with the crook of her arm. Her eyes had already changed. “Damn, but he smells.”

Buckle squatted by the kid’s body, checking him over for the most life-threatening of wounds. “I don’t smell anything but Axe body spray and sweat.”

“Pheruh . . .” Two-Trees couldn’t get the whole word out. He stood, but the stitch in his side made him want to lie down and curl up in a ball.

“Pheromones,” Bridget said. She was in the middle of the river, up to her shins in ice water, and she was scrubbing her sleeves, hands, and face.

“But he’s not changing,” Buckle said.

“Don’t ask me to explain it,” Bridget replied. “Just wash him up.”

“Why the hell were you chasing him?” He took out his handcuffs just in case, and began applying them to the kid on the riverbed.

Bridget found one of the boxes of diaper cream floating downstream. She sloshed after it and picked it up.

“Why the hell did you run, son?” Buckle asked.

The kid was coughing, probably to give himself an excuse to not answer Buckle’s question.

“Wait. I shouldn’t wash this guy,” Buckle said, suddenly.

Bridget was fighting hard, but between the chase and the pheromones, her body wanted the change. Her fangs were showing. Buckle was shaking.

“The cadaver dog,” Buckle said, despite his obvious terror and disbelief, his voice sounding strained. “You need something to set him off. We have it right here. We take him in my car. Two-Trees and I interrogate him. As soon as we get back to that field, we introduce your man to this kid. Sparks fly. We can pick up that trail again, before more weather moves through.”

Bridget had stopped scrubbing herself so violently. Two-Trees stood up a little straighter, though he kept his hands on his knees. “Hey, Buckle,” Two-Trees said.