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Box and mail in hand, I trotted up the steps and pushed the front door open. “Hey, Dad. I’m home—”
“Surprise!” my dad hollered and popped up from behind the sofa. All on his lonesome, but grinning wide enough for twenty people.
I grinned right back and placed the box on the coffee table. “You throwing me a one-man surprise party?”
“Sure,” he chortled. “I thought about inviting all your friends and zombie pals and such, then decided, screw ’em. I wanted it to be just the two of us.” He hurried over and wrapped me in a big, bony hug. “I’m so damn glad to have you home, Angelkins.”
“I’m glad to be home, Dad.” Tears stung my eyes as I hugged him. He’d done the best he could to raise me after my mom went to prison—where she killed herself a few years later. Unfortunately, my dad’s best had been pretty rough at times. But that was all behind us now. He’d sobered up, and we were closer than we’d ever been.
He smelled of Aqua Velva, toothpaste, and . . . cigarette smoke, damn it. He’d told me he was going to quit. I suppressed the urge to grill him about it since it would probably end up with us fighting. Not only would that ruin the moment, but Jimmy Crawford was so stubborn there was a good chance he’d go out and smoke a pack out of spite.
He finally released me. “Whatcha got in the box?”
“No clue. I thought maybe you’d ordered something for me.”
“I ain’t ordered nothin’,” he said. “Open it up and see what it is.”
Armed with a box cutter, I made short work of what had to be half a roll of packing tape and soon opened the package to reveal a brand-spanking-new PlayBox game console.
My dad gave a low whistle. “That sure looks nice. Who’s it from?”
“Hang on.” I dug out the packing slip. It didn’t show a price but had a gift note.
Angel, hope you’re feeling better and get a chance to play soon. Your friend, Arnold Stein.
Huh? Who the hell was Arnold Stein, and why would he send—
A chill raced down my spine. What if someone was trying to plant a bug in my house? Lord knew I’d made plenty of enemies during the past year—Kristi Charish along with everyone involved in zombie research at Saberton Corporation.
Easy enough to find out, though. Tomorrow, I’d borrow the lab’s listening-device scanner doohickey and do a thorough sweep of the house. Couldn’t hurt to be smart and suspicious.
My dad peered over my shoulder. “Who’s Arnold Stein?”
“No clue.” I didn’t want to get my dad worried in case it turned out to be nothing. “It has to be a zombie, though, considering this Arnold Stein knew I wasn’t well, and no way would work send me anything.” I kept my tone light as I lied through my teeth. “But I don’t know everyone in the Tribe. He could be the Tribe guy who takes care of shit like condolence letters and Christmas bonuses, y’know?” The Tribe was a tightly knit organization of zombies and a handful of humans whose objective and purpose was to ensure the welfare and well-being of zombies—by any means necessary, at times.
That seemed to satisfy him. While he peered at components, I reread the note. What if “Arnold Stein”—A.S.—was actually Andrew Saber?
Philip wasn’t my only zombie baby. Last fall, Andrew had been shot during a raid on Saberton in New York. I’d turned him—with his permission—to save his life, but becoming a zombie wasn’t all sunshine and roses for him. First off, he was a Saber. His mother, Nicole Saber, was the CEO of Saberton Corporation, as well as the driving force behind their heinous abuse of zombies. If she ever found out Andrew was a zombie, he’d end up as a guinea pig in one of Saberton’s special research labs. Zombie Hell.
Unfortunately, he’d come awfully close to exposure right before Mardi Gras, when Marla the cadaver dog indicated on him. I suspected one of Andrew’s bodyguards had then tattled to Nicole about the dog’s behavior.
Fortunately, Andrew had anticipated that kind of disaster, and with the help of his primary bodyguard, Thea Braddock, he’d executed his planned exit strategy. Now, as far as anyone could tell, Andrew was “visiting possible factory locations overseas.” Whether there was any truth to that or not, at least he was out of his mother’s clutches.
But why the hell would he give me a PlayBox? Sure, I’d saved his life but, to be honest, we really didn’t like each other. Andrew was the last person who’d send me a get-well card, much less an expensive gift.
With that, my brilliant theory went kablooey. I’d have to do more digging to find the real sender.
My dad poked at the console. “Well, don’t that beat all. I always wanted to try one of them things.”
“I’ll let you kick my ass in, uh”—I held up the included game cartridge—“Swords and Swagger later.”
“Yep, later. Cuz I got another surprise for you. A cake!” He grabbed my hand and hauled me to the dining room. Set out on the table were two plates and a sheet cake, still in its plastic container with the grocery store sticker on top.
Dad bustled around the table to pull the lid off. “I thought about having the lady decorate one with zombies and the like but then figgered she’d wonder why we was doin’ zombies in the spring ’stead of Halloween, and I sure didn’t want to draw attention to you. So I went with what they had in the store.” His nose wrinkled at the cake, where a plastic T-rex and palm tree were surrounded by raggedy green icing roses that were probably supposed to represent prehistoric plants. “They didn’t have much selection.”
“It’s awesome, Dad.” I hugged him again. “You even got them to write Welcome Home . . .” I held back a snicker. “Angle?”
“What? Jesus Flippin’ Christ!” He flushed and spluttered. “I’m real sorry, baby. I shoulda checked. But how the hell d’ya mess up a name like Angel?”
