Quinn nodded. “Can I see the medical examiner?” he asked.
Mason smiled at that. “Sure. He’s in his bed, sleeping. He’ll start on our fellows first thing in the morning.”
Quinn nodded. “Okay. Thanks.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something lodged against one of the gravestones.
The cemetery was filled with people in gloves and booties—forensic teams collecting evidence. A hard task here, where tourists came daily.
But they hadn’t been to that area yet.
Mason was done with him. Quinn walked over to the grave he noted and hunched down. It was an old stone—there since the 1901, according to the remembrance on the tomb. Time had ravaged the stone and it was cracked and missing little chunks.
Right at the base, where tufts of grass were growing high against it, was a piece of cloth.
Quinn hunkered down and then reached into his pocket for a pen with which to pick it up.
It was a piece of black cotton about two inches by three inches—and jaggedly torn. He didn’t have to see the zombie-nun in boxes at Colby’s place to know it was the same as the material in the robe that had covered the mannequin.
He pictured the scene that Davy had described to him and looked around. Davy had probably been hunched down behind a nearby tomb. He had stayed there, frozen in fear, watching as the zombie-nun had gone by.
It had gone by on its own; just the nun, walking.
The jagged stone here had caught the skirt of the nun’s black outfit—and ripped it.
One of the corpses had been found just feet away….
And he could see the stack-tombs that had allowed Davy to escape.
He hesitated and then called to Mason and handed it to the gloved detective with the pen.
“Just might mean something,” he said. And he showed Mason the place where he’d found the fabric, where Davy had hidden—pointed out where the corpse had been found—and where Davy had escaped.
Mason offered him no thanks but reached into his jacket for an evidence bag.
“You need a ride somewhere?” he asked Quinn. “You’re welcome to look around the city for a zombie-nun. Or a real killer.”
“Right. On the ride, no, thank you. Just point me toward Duval,” Quinn said. “I’ll look for a zombie nun—or a real killer—along the way.”
Mason gave him easy directions.
Quinn exited the cemetery and moved through the onlookers and headed for Duval. Bit by bit, in the quieter area before the main street, he realized that he was more and more alone.
He watched the streets.
And the shadows.
And he wondered if someone else in the city of Key West had scored a zombie-nun animatronic when the auction had taken place. He had almost reached Duval when he heard something behind him. He paused, as if looking at his watch.
There was a shuffling sound—then silence behind him.
He walked again, and stopped abruptly, taking off a shoe, looking back. He was being followed. Beneath the shadows created by the moon and the streetlights—and encompassed by a bougainvillea—was a figure.
Watching him.
No.
Stalking him.
***
It hadn’t been difficult to meet up with the film people.
Colby Kennedy had been in contact with the director, Andrew Bracken, telling him only that his sister had been in an accident. He called again to tell him that Danni was an old friend from New Orleans, alone while her boyfriend was working, and looking for someone to be with in Key West. He’d especially appreciate if they’d let Danni hang with them—since he’d now heard there was a murderer on the streets of Key West.
No mention had been made of the zombie-nun.
And so Danni sat with a new crew of friends in a rustic and charming bar just in on a little side street off Duval. So far she’d met the two main actors—Joe Tybalt and Vanessa Green—the director himself—Andrew Bracken—two cameramen, a set coordinator, the costumer, and six members of the supporting cast, all hired out of Key West. Three usually worked in shops, one was a hotel clerk by day, one was a tour director, and one was a manicurist.
“The thing is,” Joe Bracken explained to Danni, “it’s my film. Mine. An indy film. I raised the funds for it on a site by selling T-shirts! Yeah, we’re on a tight budget, but it’s the only way you have artistic control.
“Yeah, go figure, though,” Joe said, shaking his head. “We come down here to film—and some real whacko knocks people off. In the cemetery, no less. Creepy.”
“And there’s a rumor going around,” Vanessa said, looking around and lowering her voice. “A rumor that a zombie nun killed the frat boys!”