“Don’t know.”
Were the murders an inside job? Maybe in cahoots with the zombie maker? As usual, the more I learned, the further I found myself from the answer.
I didn’t want to ask the zombie question directly, not yet. The question would stay in Cavagnolo’s mind, and if someone else used supernatural hypnosis on him, he’d have no choice but to tell. I didn’t know what or who I was up against. The best strategy was to keep my undead tracks covered as much as possible.
I could plant subliminal commands but they wouldn’t last long. A couple of minutes for complicated orders. A simple instruction like wake up at a specific hour might remain until the next morning.
I let go of his hands and replaced my contacts. “On three, you’ll wake up.” I went straight to three and punched him across the face.
Cavagnolo fell from the chair and hit the concrete floor where he lay spread-eagle. He lifted his head from the floor and blinked. He turned onto his haunches and sat, looking groggy and confused. He rubbed his cheek and realized that I’d hit him. “You son of a bitch.”
“Quit jerking my chain, Sal,” I said, “or you’ll get more of that.”
“What the hell you talking about?” His eyes turned from me to the chair, clearly wondering how one moment he and I were playing cat-and-mouse chitchat, and the next, I had knocked his guinea ass to the ground.
He wouldn’t wonder about the lost time.
Cavagnolo acted like his knees were stiff and he couldn’t get up. I pushed his chair close.
“You want revenge for what happened to Gino? Let me handle it and stay out of my way,” I said.
Cavagnolo sneered. “Go screw yourself.”
“No, screw you.”
If zombies were involved, I had to destroy the infestation without human intervention.
Cavagnolo brushed dirt from his shirt and the back of his pants. He acted like we’d merely gone through a minor spat, but in his heart, I knew he wanted my dismembered corpse in a trash compactor.
I beckoned for Cavagnolo to accompany me through the office and out the door.
Vinny was gone, probably taking his buddy to the doc. The black pickup had moved to the other side of the street. Cleto eyed me from behind the steering wheel; his passenger watched through the open front window.
“Sal, some of your boys might decide to take me out on spec. Bad idea. Make sure we all stay friends. If I have to shoot, believe me I’ll use you for target practice.” I poked him in the side to emphasize my point.
Cavagnolo’s face went steam red with humiliation, but unless he wanted to die like a fool, what choice did he have?
We circled the Toyota and I checked for footprints in case somebody planted a little explosive souvenir under the chassis. Looked clean.
I stopped by the driver’s door of the Toyota. “Remember, make sure your men stay cool. You don’t want to start trouble in public like this. Might affect your cozy arrangement with the feds.”
Cavagnolo’s eyes could’ve burned holes though me.
I waved to his goons and drove off.
I checked my rearview mirror. Cavagnolo hustled across the road, oblivious to the mud. He got his cell phone and gestured in my direction.
This wasn’t over.
I needed something with more detail of the area than I could get from my Colorado road map. I drove east toward Alamosa, the big city of the San Luis Valley, to find better maps.
A Chevy Blazer appeared behind me. Sunlight reflecting off the windshield kept me from seeing the driver.
The Blazer tailed me for a minute, then zoomed close to smack my rear bumper. My Toyota shimmied. The moron driver was trying to ram me off the road.
Had to be one of Cavagnolo’s men. I didn’t have time to waste with this bullshit. I’d better take care of this loser quick.
I eased to the shoulder. The Blazer pulled behind me.
The driver got out. He wore sunglasses. Because of his ponytail I recognized him as Cavagnolo’s driver from a couple of hours ago. Apparently he’d dropped Phaedra off and had orders to bring me back to Uncle Sal. Or shoot me.
Sorry, you little punk. Not today. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.
His aura was an undulating bubble of confidence. He stood as tall as his five-foot-plus frame would allow. After making an obvious adjustment of the drape of his jacket over what had to be a pistol, he started for me in a tough guy swagger. Cavagnolo’s errand boy was as intimidating as a shih tzu wearing a spiked collar.
I took out my contacts and put my sunglasses on.
I waited with my window down.
The punk halted two paces from my door. “I got a message from Sal.”
My biggest complication would be getting his sunglasses out of the way. I acted like I didn’t hear him.
“What?”
He took off his sunglasses to demonstrate his seriousness and hooked them into a jacket pocket. His eyes showed no fear. Either this kid was high or merely stupid. I’d vote for both.
He reached to pull his jacket off his hip.
I gave a grin that belonged on the Joker. “Hold on.” I removed my sunglasses and gave a super-duper jolt of hypnosis.
His eyes dilated wide like everything in his mind wanted to spill out through them. His aura burned red hot. He slouched, mouth open like he wanted to catch bugs, and his head sagged toward me.
“Good boy,” I said. “Come here. Give me your right hand.”
He advanced and placed his hand on the windowsill. I took his hand in mine and caressed the web of flesh between the thumb and forefinger. His aura dimmed.
I could send the kid away or hurt him. Too easy. He was on Cavagnolo’s payroll and would have to learn the price of taking his money.
“Now go back to your Blazer, take off all your clothes, and lock them inside. Then stand with your back to traffic, bend over, and grab your ankles.” I patted his hand and sent him off.
He turned about and walked robotically to the Blazer. Since he was giving oncoming traffic the full moon treatment, I should’ve told him to stick a flower in his butt.
I wanted to wait until the cops came by. Better not push it. I put my contacts back in, signaled left, and accelerated onto the highway.
I reached Alamosa in ten minutes. With a population of eight thousand people, it was small town, but compared to Morada, Alamosa was a megapolis.
I found a sporting goods store and bought a compass and a topographical map of the Morada area. I gassed up, hit an ATM for more cash, and headed back to Morada.
I thought about what Cavagnolo had said. Maybe it’s an inside job. Who? For what reason? Was the insider working for the reanimator? If so, why?
I passed the spot where I’d left the punk kid in all his glory. He was gone and a tow truck was snagging his Blazer. I think the cops got him.
Back in Morada, I cruised the streets. The county buildings sat on F Street, on the tidy south side of town. The rectangular lines of the courthouse reminded me of a humorless, square-hipped chaperone. The jail was around the corner. I saw a state trooper’s patrol car and a van with sheriff’s marking but not Cavagnolo’s punk kid.
I stopped by the county museum in my hunt for clues. What I was searching for might be as obvious as an old framed letter, if I knew where to look. But there was no mention of zombies or walking dead among the artifacts belonging to the pioneers or Utes. I read a display of “sightings,” meaning UFOs, in the valley. A shiver ran through my kundalini noir. I’ve had enough of extraterrestrials for a decade.
The sun dropped close to the ragged horizon on the west. Long shadows slanted across Morada. I needed a drink, something to eat, and a place to stay-in that order.
The prudent course of action would be to head east to Monte Vista or Alamosa. Get away from Cavagnolo’s convenient reach. But if he wanted more trouble, I’d make it easy for him to get another lesson.