We hurried up to Mrs. Saldana, making sure she was in no danger.
“It’s horrible, horrible! Right before my eyes, he just . . . melted!” The old woman’s teeth chattered together. Through the open window, Jerry handed her one of the worn Bibles, and she clutched it to her chest, rocking back and forth.
“Who melted? What happened?” McGoo pulled out his notebook. “Shamble, can you ID the vic?”
I glanced down at the shapeless goo. Broken window glass. Black top hat. Among the reek of soupy flesh and bone, I smelled the distinctive scent of Zom-Be-Fresh. “My guess is that it’s Franklin Galworthy. He was here replacing glass for Mrs. Saldana.” I nudged the hat with the toe of my shoe. “And he liked to wear a lot of cologne.”
The old woman finally found her voice. “Yes, Mr. Galworthy was here working late installing the new window. He’s been so busy lately with all those smashed windows around town. I had just stepped out to bring him some lemonade.” She glanced down, and I saw a paper cup in a little puddle. “I dropped it. I’m sorry for the mess, Officer.”
“Don’t you worry about it, Mrs. Saldana.”
Her voice hitched as she relived the nightmare. “Poor Mr. Galworthy! He groaned in pain, then squirmed, and dropped the glass pane he was carrying. Shattered all over the sidewalk. I thought he was hurt, and then . . . this happened. The poor man!”
“Nobody came by and doused him with acid?” I asked. “You didn’t see a warlock cast some kind of dissolving spell?”
“No, Mr. Chambeaux. Why would anyone want to hurt a hardworking businessman? He spent all day fixing windows.”
Jerry finally shuffled outside, reassured now that I hadn’t melted in front of Mrs. Saldana. He carried a shovel and a bucket. “I’ll clean this up.”
“Not until the detectives get here. This is evidence.” McGoo wrinkled his nose. “But it is disgusting.” He nudged the collapsed frock coat that lay in the ooze and bent over to inspect it with great reluctance. In the pocket, he found two sample sachets of Zom-Be-Fresh, which he plucked out. “Samples from JLPN’s new line. Looks like Brondon Morris gets around.”
Remembering how Sheyenne had suffered a severe rash from using the necroceuticals, I wondered if this horrible meltdown might be the result of another JLPN glitch, just like the garlic shampoo. “Can I take one of those packets and a sample of the goo? Run a comparative analysis?”
“Help yourself.” McGoo handed me one of the packets. “You’ll probably get to it faster than the department crime lab. All you zombies are buddies, right?”
“You might say I’ve got some skin in the game.”
The police radio squawked again. “Officer McGoohan, what’s your 20?”
“I’m still 10-8 at the mission—what’s up?”
The dispatcher rattled off an address. “Domestic disturbance, possible 10-10 fight in progress. You’re the nearest officer available.”
He grumbled something about the precinct being understaffed. “On my way. That’s just a few blocks from here.”
I turned to McGoo, my interest piqued. “I recognize that address—it’s Straight Edge headquarters.” I recalled the angry crowd around Sheldon Fennerman’s apartment. “Things got ugly on the streets earlier today. The Straight Edgers insulted a lot of unnaturals. Maybe somebody decided to take the law into their own hands.”
McGoo looked as if a hairball had caught in his throat. “Maybe I should let them deal with the problem themselves.” He let out a weary sigh. “My job would be a lot easier if I didn’t have to protect idiots from being idiots.”
After making apologies to Mrs. Saldana, we hurried off to the next emergency. Before we’d gone a block, we could hear the screams—truly bloodcurdling screams—and loud smashing sounds, as if someone were playing Find the Breakable Object with a baseball bat inside a curio shop.
The lights were on but flickering inside Straight Edge headquarters. The front door had been torn off its hinges and hurled across the street, as if someone had tossed a playing card. I could hear nostril-burbling roars.
As we ran closer, McGoo yelled, “Stop! Police!”
In response, the broken body of one of the three Straight Edge boys—Scott, I think—sailed through the smashed window and tumbled into the gutter. His red T-shirt was now saturated with other shades of red.
McGoo yelped, drew his weapon, and charged toward the open door.
“Call for backup!” I shouted.
“What do you think you are, Shamble? You’ve got a gun, come on!” I drew my .38, and we both approached.
The head of another Straight Edger—beanpole Todd, with red marks from the duct tape still prominent around his mouth—rolled out like a bowling ball and stopped in the middle of the street, eyes wide open, as if disappointed that he hadn’t scored any points in the game.
Inside the headquarters, we came upon a scene of further carnage. Priscilla lay dead in two pieces on the floor. Patrick had been dismembered, as if some malicious child had plucked off his arms and legs, like a doll.
A battering sound as loud as a bomb blast came from the back, and McGoo and I charged in pursuit, armed and ready. A huge shape had hammered its own opening through the brick wall, and as soon as we entered, the suspended ceiling collapsed. An explosion of mortar and cement dust flew up in the air, obscuring our view, but I could see the thing was enormous.
McGoo, due to his training, shouted another quick warning; I didn’t bother—I just opened fire. My silver-jacketed bullets did no good; McGoo also fired his weapon. One of the ceiling panels tumbled down and doused him with gypsum dust.
The hulking creature lumbered out into the alley and the darkness, completely ignoring us. I scrambled over the rubble and emerged just in time to see the huge shape scuttle with freakish speed up a drainpipe. It swung over a roof ledge and bounded away.
McGoo stood beside me, eyes wide. His cap had fallen off at some point during the chase, and his hair was mussed and covered with gray gypsum dust.
In the back room, we found the headless body that obviously belonged to Todd’s head, the bowling-ball wannabe. One of the Straight Edge signs—UNNATURAL, UNCLEAN, UNWANTED—mounted on a wooden stick had been thrust entirely through his skinny chest, pinning him to the linoleum floor.
McGoo looked down at the impaled headless body. “What a clusterfart. We’re gonna be out here all night. Why did I ask to be assigned to this precinct again, Shamble?”
“You didn’t,” I said.
“Oh, right.” He got on his radio and called in the crime.
Chapter 34