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My spirits plummeted through the floor and into the dirt below. So much for a breakthrough.
My phone rang, forcing me to stop moping.
“Hey, baby,” my dad said. “Me and Andy had a nice little chat. He said Kristi has a good many projects of her own and, um, aw-ton-uh-me.”
“Autonomy. Means she doesn’t have to answer to anyone.”
“He’ll see if he can get hold of payroll records and check if Harlon Murtaugh or anyone else is getting paid for projects they ain’t supposed to be working on. But it may take a while.”
“Anything is better than nothing.”
“Andy said he can’t vouch for what she might or might not be fed up with, but Saberton’s starting to come ’round to the point of letting go of the defense contract crap.”
Hmm. It didn’t support her claim that they were still focused on the defense stuff, but it didn’t contradict it, either. Not the definitive answer I was looking for, though still useful info. “Thanks a million, Dad.”
After an exchange of “love you”s, I hung up, feeling not quite as morose. Sure, the water bottle thing had been a bust, but we weren’t out of leads. Dr. Nikas—with the help of Kristi—would figure shit out, then the shamblers would be cured, and I would never have to exchange a civil word with Dr. Kristi Charish ever again.
But the subject of helping Dr. Nikas reminded me of my idea to find someone to help him who had the necessary medical credentials, experience, and knowledge, who was also willing to be turned into a zombie. How hard could it be?
Very, I soon realized, after a Google search for “dying neurobiologists” yielded a handful of articles about already dead neurobiologists. Fine. I’d let the Tribe accountant deal with that particular job opening. “Wanted: Neurobiologist. Ideal candidate is near death. Perks—not dying. Salary—negotiable. Sociopaths need not apply.”
I was still too restless to go to bed for the needed two hours of sleep, so I texted
Justine.
Her reply was swift.
Relieved, I pulled up the video chat program.
“You look like shit,” she said once it connected.
“So do you,” I said, eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
She shook her head, dark hair swinging about her face. “Nope. You first. I saw the news tonight about the LZ-1 encephalitis. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Physically at least. How could I tell her that I was the source? “It’s just been kind of crazy and exhausting. I’m assisting the people who are trying to find a cure, as well as working my usual morgue job. I sent my dad out of town.”
“What about you?” she demanded. “You’re actually handling the bodies, aren’t you? What if you get sick?”
“I won’t. We have plenty of protective gear.” I hesitated at the worry on her face. “And the lead researcher says that because I’m recovering from mono, my immune system is ramped up high, so I have a crazy low chance of getting infected.” It was a steaming pile of bullshit from one end to the other, but, hey, she was an English major, so with luck she wouldn’t know enough science or medicine to notice the giant gaping holes in my argument.
To my relief, her expression relaxed. “Okay, good,” she said gruffly. “Not sure I could find anyone else who’d get my sense of humor.”
“There is no one else.”
“Probably a good thing.”
“Damn straight. And now it’s your turn to spill. What’s wrong?”
Justine pulled a face. “My ex-girlfriend called, wanting to get back together. She’s gorgeous and funny, but also over-the-top jealous. The last straw was when I found a digital recorder behind a bookcase in my apartment. She’d planted it to find out if I was talking to other girls.” Justine snorted. “And the only women I talk to regularly are my mom, agent, and you.”
“That’s crazy.” I rolled my eyes. “I mean, you’re awesome and cute, but I just don’t swing that way.”
“It was pretty nuts.” She sighed. “Once upon a time, I was head over heels for her, but I can’t go back to that kind of insecurity and nonstop suspicion.”
“No kidding!” I said. “I guess I’m lucky I don’t have any psycho exes. One is a loser—well, was a loser. Can’t really call him that anymore since he’s starting to get his shit together.” Never thought Randy would ever settle down with a real job, but the aviation repair stuff sure seemed to suit him. “And with my other ex, we flat out didn’t work as a couple. But he’s a good guy, and I’ll always care about him.”
“Aww, that’s the sweetest.”
