Broken

Theories

I SLID INTO THE BACKSEAT BESIDE NICK. CLAY SQUEEZED IN on my other side.

“Hey, Jer?” I said as we shifted around and fished for our seat belts. “Remember when you replaced the Explorer and I suggested buying the model with the third-row seat? Really would have been a good idea.”

“That’s why I offered to sit back there,” Jeremy said from the passenger seat.

“And how would that help? I’m not any wider than you. All my extra load is up front.” I bumped Nick’s hip. “You’ve got another couple more inches. Shove over.”

“This is fine.” Nick put his arm around me. “Nice and cozy.”

I swatted him away. “Move.”

“Settle down and buckle up, kids, so I can drive,” Antonio said, looking in the rearview mirror. He glanced over at Jeremy. “Maybe we should finish raising this generation before we start another one.”

Jeremy shook his head.

“I didn’t want to bring this up in the terminal,” Antonio said as he turned out of the parking building. “But does this have something to do with your problem?”

He handed Jeremy a folded sheet of paper. Jeremy read it, face expressionless. When he lowered and refolded it, I undid my belt and reached through the opening between the front seats. Jeremy hesitated, then handed it to me.

“They gave us that when we got off the plane,” Antonio said.

Clay looked over my shoulder as I read: it was a public health announcement, warning of cholera in the municipal water supply.

“Cholera?” I said. “I thought it was E. coli.”

“So did they, at first, I suspect,” Jeremy said. “That would be the natural assumption, given the source and the symptoms.”

“What’s cholera?” Nick asked.

“It’s a bacterium that gets into the water. Overcrowding and poor sanitation are the usual culprits. It’s almost unknown in the Western world now, but it was a serious problem in the nineteenth century.”

“Victorian England,” I said.

Jeremy nodded.

Cholera is an intestinal infection, not unlike E. coli. The main symptoms are diarrhea and vomiting, which can lead to dehydration and eventual death, but only if left untreated. With treatment and fluid replacement, the fatality rate is less than 1 percent.

Cholera is transmitted through feces, primarily by food and water becoming contaminated with raw sewage. Jeremy was pretty sure London ’s cholera problem had been resolved shortly before the time of Jack the Ripper, but sporadic cases had continued, as the problems of overcrowding and poor hygiene continued.

As for how cholera got into Toronto ’s water supply…according to Jeremy it was well-nigh impossible. It shouldn’t happen with modern sewage and water systems. Not by any natural means. But by now we were pretty sure “natural means” had nothing to do with the problems Toronto was experiencing.

Opening that portal had let out more than a couple of Victorian zombies. Jaime had warned us about smallpox leaking through that other portal. Somehow these zombies had brought a little of their home with them…and all of our modern precautions couldn’t protect against it.

“Cholera isn’t a cause for concern,” Jeremy said. “If it was, we’d be leaving. Tourism will suffer, which the city doesn’t need after last year’s SARS outbreak, but that’s likely to be the extent of the damage. It was caught quickly enough to avoid fatalities or long-term health problems.”

When I didn’t answer, he glanced back at me. “If you’re concerned, go ahead and call your local media contacts.”

I made those calls. I’d been dying to since all this started, but Jeremy had wanted me keeping a low profile. He didn’t think they could add anything we weren’t finding in the papers, and he was right. They did, however, reassure me that the city didn’t seem to be downplaying the severity of the cholera outbreak. If anything, after SARS, they were being overcautious. Right now, they were busy trying to clean up the system, which seemed to be far more difficult than it should be, confirming this was no natural outbreak.

We stopped in Kensington market on the way back to the hotel to load up on food. While the guys did that, I stayed in the SUV and listened to the radio. Clay stayed with me, although after five minutes hearing him grouse about wanting fresh air and a leg stretch, I shoved him out, locked the door and let him get his air and exercise pacing around the vehicle and pounding on the windows.

Finding reliable news updates on the cholera situation wasn’t easy. The national broadcaster, CBC, paraded a steady queue of public officials, who all repeated the same message: “Everything is under control.” As if, by getting enough people to say it, it would become truth.

Then there were the private stations. A talk radio show had a historian on who was giving graphic accounts of Victorian cholera outbreaks. Then I hit a classic rock station located outside Toronto that kept gleefully referring to the situation as a cholera “epidemic,” and speculating that it was caused by the city’s high population density, congratulating themselves for living elsewhere. Next came a station playing only prerecorded music-I suspected a lone sound technician had lost the straw-draw, staying behind while all his coworkers headed for the hills…or at least Barrie.

I’d reached a contemporary station morning show, complete with giggling hosts, when Jeremy rapped at the window. I opened the door and climbed into the back as they loaded the groceries into the rear hatch.

Back to the hotel. As we walked into the lobby, Nick was telling us about his trip to Cleveland last week, where he’d sat in on labor dispute talks at one of his father’s factories.

Clay looked over at Antonio. “What’d he do to deserve that?”

Antonio laughed. “It wasn’t a punishment. He volunteered.”

I nudged Nick. “So what’d you do…that you haven’t told him about yet?”

“Ha-ha. I volunteered with no ulterior motive. I told you I’m trying to learn more about the business.”

“So how’d it go?”

“It was…interesting.”

“In other words, boring as hell,” Clay said as we passed the lounge. “In Cleveland, no less.”

“ Cleveland ’s not that bad-”

“Jeremy!” a woman’s voice called.

We all turned, tracking her to the lounge. There, in one of the oversized armchairs, a woman was getting to her feet, hand raised in a hesitant wave, an even more hesitant smile on her face. She wore a yellow sundress that showed off a generous portion of bare leg. Red hair tumbled down her back in that sort of artless, sexy tangle you usually only see on cover models.

“Jaime,” Jeremy said, and headed toward her.

She stepped forward…and tripped over the suitcase she’d propped at her feet. Jeremy lunged to steady her, and we all hurried forward, except Clay, who let out a small sigh before bringing up the rear.

Jaime regained her balance with mumbled apologies, her face going as red as her hair. She reached down for her suitcase and bopped heads with Jeremy, who was already picking it up. More apologies.

“Hey, Jaime,” I said, walking forward. “This is a surprise.”

Behind me, Clay made a small noise, as if it wasn’t a surprise to him at all. Jaime’s gaze swung to mine and, with a soft exhale of relief, she sidestepped Jeremy and hurried over to me.

“Elena. God, you look-”

“Huge?”

“I was going to say ‘great.’ So how’s the baby? Kicking yet? Keeping you up at night?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I-”

“What are you doing here, Jaime?” Clay asked.

I glowered at him.

“What?” he said. “If no one else is going to ask…”

“I’m sure you’re all wondering the same thing,” Jaime said. “I had a late show last night, and didn’t get Jeremy’s message until the wee hours.”

“So you hopped on a plane to deliver your reply in person?” Clay asked.

Jaime only laughed. “Something like that. Actually, I’m planning a Toronto show this winter, and I’ve been meaning to check out potential venues. I hate relying on staff for that-they always get a place that fits all the requirements but…” A small shiver. “Well, there are things they can’t check. I’ve done one too many shows in a spook-infested auditorium. Anyway, this seemed like a good time to visit. I can offer my services to you guys while I’m here, and save you some money on long-distance phone bills.”

“Great,” I said. “Maybe you can contact-”

Jeremy motioned for me to wait before he interrupted. “Let’s take this conversation upstairs, where we can talk privately…and get Elena a proper breakfast.”

Jeremy bent to lift Jaime’s carry-on bag, but Clay and Nick stepped forward, one grabbing the suitcase, the other the carry-on.

“Jaime, you remember Antonio and Nick?” Jeremy asked.

She did. Last winter, the five of us had gone skiing in Vermont at the same time Jaime was doing an appearance at a nearby resort, and we’d spent an afternoon and evening together. As I might have expected, Nick had been keen to get to know Jaime better, but once he’d realized her interests lay elsewhere-and where they lay-he’d backed off.

We laid out a spread of bagels with cheese, blintzes and fruit in Jeremy’s room as we talked things over.

“So you guys could probably use some on-scene necro help to deal with the zombies,” Jaime said.

“This might be more than you bargained for,” Jeremy warned her. “Did you get a notice about the cholera on the plane? That appears to be connected. And the reason I called you last night was to say that these zombies aren’t as easy to kill as we thought. This might not be the sort of thing you want to get involved in.”

She managed a smile. “Because I have a bad habit of needing rescue every time I do get involved?”

“There is that,” Clay muttered.

Jaime waved me off before I could jump in. “Clay’s right. My track record sucks. I always end up playing damsel-in-distress.”

“No,” Jeremy said. “You’ve had some bad luck, but only because your skills made you a target.”

“And the bad guys love to pick on the defenseless necromancer. This time, though, I swear I won’t get kidnapped or possessed.”

The corners of Jeremy’s mouth twitched. “All right, then. If you’re sure you want to-”

“I do.”

“Then I’d welcome the help.”

Antonio, Nick and I chimed in with our agreement, but Jaime’s gaze swept past us to Clay.

“Long as you’re here, you might as well stay,” he said. “Hang around and do your stuff until we can use you.”

“What Clay means is-” I began.

“Exactly what he said,” she said. “If Clayton says I can stay, I feel almost welcome. Now, let’s talk about zombies.”

“Controlled zombies,” she said after I finished. “Don’t ask me how that’s possible, but that has to be the answer. Remember I said I’d make some calls? Well, I didn’t find out much that seemed helpful at the time, but I did learn a few things about controlled dimensional zombies. Like ones controlled by a necromancer, they can’t be killed until that control is severed. Instead of just staying alive, though, they disintegrate, and their soul returns to the dimensional holding tank. If the door’s still open…”

“They walk back out.”

“Logically, these shouldn’t be controlled zombies. But if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…It would also explain why that one at the truck stop was so quick to follow you.”

“His controller sent him after me,” I said.

“Right. The controller must want the letter back, and he’s convinced the zombies that getting it will benefit them.”

“Would they need that incentive?” Jeremy said.

“It would help. Zombies have to do what their controller says, but they do a better job when properly motivated.”

“Like any worker,” Antonio said.

Jaime smiled. “Exactly. They still have conscious will, if not free will.”

I pushed off the end of the bed and crossed the room to stretch my legs…and get another peach. “But we’re back to the original problem with the controller theory. The portal was created a hundred and twenty years ago. To still be alive, that sorcerer would need to have found the secret to immortality, which, unless I’m mistaken, is unlikely to the point of impossible.”

“Could something like that be passed on generationally?” Jeremy asked.

“Like ‘I hereby bequeath control of my zombies to my son’?” She paused. “I suppose it’s possible.”

I nodded. “If so, then it would also make sense to pass on the portal itself…or the device that contains it.”

“Patrick Shanahan?” Clay said.

Jeremy nodded, and explained who Shanahan was.

“Shanahan could be it,” Jaime said. “If his grandfather commissioned the theft, it could have been to get his own portal back.”

“It would be more likely to be a great-grandfather,” Jeremy mused. “Or even great-great, given the timing.”

“Maybe he was Jack the Ripper,” Nick said. “The great-grandfather.”

I waved my half-eaten peach at him. “So he created the portal, with the zombies, and sent it to the police, knowing it would go into the files. Then, if the police started getting close, he could just release his zombies-”

“Who could destroy the evidence,” Jaime said. “The ultimate inside job.”

“Only the police never did get close, so he emigrates to Canada. At some point, his son or grandson, Theodore Shanahan, hires a local thief to get the letter back.”

“Yes,” Jeremy said. “It makes sense, but there are too many-”

“Creative jumps and leaps of faith,” I finished. “I know. Regardless of how the portal could have been created, Patrick Shanahan is the best, if not the only possible, zombie controller.”

“If there is a controller,” Clay said. “But no harm hunting the guy down.”

“That part you don’t mind,” I said, grinning as I gave him half my handful of blueberries. “Let’s just hope he hasn’t hightailed it to parts unknown.”

“Can’t,” Jaime said. “When the zombies are resurrected at the portal, they return to him. Like homing pigeons. So the controller has to stay close by.”

“There’s our plan, then,” I said. “We find one of the zombies, then kill him, and someone waits at the portal to follow him back to his controller.”