*
Grady Miller left that afternoon for a meeting with an association of marine-mammal-park owners. Cathy Barkley had left early for a dental appointment, and Nelson Amory and Myles Dawson left at exactly five. A few minutes after that, even the café staff were gone and the gift shop had closed. By six that night the trainers—other than Rick and Adrianna—had cleaned up and taken off for their homes. Lara knew, because she watched them all go from her office window. Rick checked in with her before going out to lock the gate.
“Meg and I are here for a while, Rick,” Lara told him. “Some of the other agents are headed back here to meet up with us. I’ll come and tell you when we’re going to leave.”
“Sounds good, but I’ll still lock up for now.”
“Thanks,” she said.
Meg, who was curled in a chair, looked up and thanked Rick, too.
When he was gone, Lara—who had picked up one of the books they had bought that afternoon—looked over at Meg and said, “Did you know that Papa Doc is estimated to have killed over thirty thousand people?” She set the book aside and rose to stretch. “I’ve read enough history to make my flesh crawl, but I haven’t found anything resembling a recipe for creating a zombie.”
“I’m not sure there is one,” Meg said. “I think it’s a combination of factors, starting with someone who has a suggestible mind. The toxin is part of it, but mind control through fear, that’s a part of it, too. And Haiti, especially under Papa Doc, was the perfect cauldron, poor and with a dominant religion that already focuses on the use of herbal substances to put people in a trance, and erase the boundaries between dreams and reality. The thing is, from everything I’ve read, if puffer fish toxin is used, even if the dead come back, before long they die. The interesting thing is, Randy Nicholson supposedly died months ago, but stayed ‘alive’ long enough to commit a murder after the more recently dead Miguel Gomez killed his wife.”
“Well, Miguel did die,” Lara reminded her. “And I imagine Randy Nicholson will die, too. Unless he’s dead already.”
“Right,” Meg said. “The thing is, will they ever find his body? Or has the killer improved his methods and made sure that we’ll never find him?”
Lara shook her head. “I don’t know. Did you find out anything from Matt?”
Meg grimaced. “Yeah, I found out that so far no one has found out anything.” She forced a smile. “It’s all right to go down to the water, isn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“But you’re not supposed to go jumping in to frolic with the dolphins, right?”
“No, not without their trainers and permission and all that,” Lara said. “But we’re certainly welcome to sit out on the docks, and it’s beautiful this time of evening.”
“Right when day turns into night,” Meg told her.
They headed out and wandered down to the docks. Cocoa immediately came to the water’s edge, clicking out a welcome. Lara slipped out of her shoes and hurried out to the dock, where she could sit and stroke the dolphin when she went by.
Meg stayed back, sitting on one of the benches where visitors sat to watch the shows. As Cocoa went back and forth, entertaining her at first and then just hanging around near her, Lara took in her surroundings. It was still light, since they were on daylight savings time, but there was a different feel to this time of day. The dead heat of the sun had slipped away, especially by the water. The air was cool at last, and that night a soft, sweet breeze was blowing. Looking out, she saw that the water was as calm and smooth as glass. The sky had gone a soft blue, with puffs of clouds that moved along like dancers in a show.
Cocoa rose in the water, letting out a strange sound.
And Lara felt someone settle next to her.
She was afraid to turn and see who it was. She wanted to believe that it was Meg, but she knew it wasn’t. She lowered her head for a minute, praying for courage and inner strength. Then she looked to her side and saw him, the man who had stood in her office doorway and later appeared in her backyard.
Miguel Gomez.
He was there, seemingly solid, and yet she knew he wasn’t real. He spoke, saying, “Please” very softly, and with the trace of an accent.
She couldn’t respond right away; she couldn’t help being afraid.
“You were the one who made sure they knew the truth,” he said into the silence.
She managed words at last. “What is the truth? I want to help—I do—but you need to help me understand.”
Miguel looked out over the water, sadness in his eyes, as if he knew that was where his body had been. Where parts of it still remained.
“I loved my wife, and I didn’t kill her,” he said brokenly.