Dead and Alive

CHAPTER 35

At this hour, only a battered Mustang, a pristine but forty-year-old Mercedes, and a Ford Explorer occupied the fourth floor of the public parking garage.

Carson let the Honda idle beside each vehicle, while Michael got out to determine if anyone might be sleeping in it. No, no, and no. They had the fourth floor to themselves.

Through the open sides of the building, a growing wind flung glassy beads of rain to shatter on the concrete floor. Carson parked the Honda in an empty row in the dry center of the garage.

Let out of the car, Duke trotted around the immediate area, investigating a discarded candy wrapper, a half-crushed Starbucks cup, an empty Big Mac container….

They left the Urban Snipers in the Honda. They still had their service pistols in shoulder rigs, the.50 Magnums in belt scabbards.

As Michael fished his phone out of a coat pocket and keyed in Deucalion’s number, Carson watched for movement among the forest of concrete columns, listened for footsteps. She recognized the danger of prudence sliding into paranoia; nevertheless, she stood with her right arm across her body, thumb hooked on her belt, which brought her gun hand within inches of the Desert Eagle under her blazer, on her left hip.

For anyone drawn into an orbit around Victor Helios, the word impossible no longer had any meaning. So maybe in his spare time, the Transylvanian transplant scored some pterodactyl DNA, combined it with a sociopathic homeboy’s genes, and cooked up a man-reptile cop killer that would swoop in from the storm. Chances were she wasn’t going to die from a heart attack or from anything else that would leave a neat corpse, but she was for damn sure not going to be torn apart in the jaws of a gangbanger-dragon hybrid wearing a do-rag and a gold nose ring.

Deucalion must have taken the call, because Michael said, “Hey, it’s me. We’re in a parking garage. Fourth floor.”

After giving the address, Michael hung up.

As the phone produced an end-call beep, Deucalion stepped into the garage about twenty feet away, as though he’d come out of Narnia through a wardrobe, except there wasn’t even a wardrobe.

Carson always forgot how big he was until she saw him again. In his long black coat, as he approached them, he looked like Darth Vader on a steroids-only diet.

“You’re wet,” Deucalion said.

“We were in a monster mash at Audubon Park,” Michael said. “One of them had a nice butt.”

Duke padded around the car, saw the tattooed newcomer, halted, and cocked his head.

“Whose dog?” Deucalion asked.

“He belonged to the district attorney,” Michael said, “then to the district attorney’s replicant, but the replicant walked smack into a bunch of shotgun slugs, so now Duke belongs to us.”

“Things are going to get apocalyptic soon,” Deucalion said. “A dog will get in your way.”

“Not this dog. He’s one of those highly trained service dogs. When we switch from shotguns to.50 Magnums, he can reload the empty weapons for us.”

To Carson, Deucalion said, “I’m never sure I understand half the things he says.”

“Eventually you don’t care,” Carson assured him. “Michael has hyperactive disorder, but he talks fast enough to keep himself entertained, so he’s not a lot of trouble.”

Duke approached Deucalion, tail wagging.

Holding one of his hands down to allow the dog to lick his fingers, Deucalion stared so intently at Carson that she felt X-rayed, and then he turned the same stare on Michael.

“It was not an accident that I crossed your path rather than that of other detectives. You’re different from most who carry a badge, and I am different from everyone. Our difference is our strength. We have been chosen for this, and if we fail — the world fails.”

Michael grimaced. “That wouldn’t look good on my résumé.”

“Earlier, at the Luxe,” Carson said, referring to the just shuttered movie theater where Deucalion lived, “you said Victor has progressed doggedly for so long, in spite of his setbacks, he has no fear of failure, he believes his triumph is inevitable. So he’s blind to the rot in his empire. At the time, I thought the rot might not be as extensive as you hoped. But after our lark in the park with those replicants … maybe collapse is coming even sooner than you think.”

Pulses of inner light passed through the giant’s eyes. “Yes. The clock is ticking.”

After listening to Deucalion’s one-minute abridged version of his discoveries in the Hands of Mercy, Carson was left with stomach acid burning in the back of her throat and a clutching chill in the pit of her stomach.

“When does the place melt down?” Michael asked.

“In fifty-five minutes. When Victor hears about the fire, he’ll know I did it, but he won’t know how out of control things were in there tonight. He’ll continue to trust his New Race to defend him. But he won’t risk staying in the Garden District. He’ll fall back to the farm.”

Carson said, “The creation-tank farm, the New Race factory Pastor Kenny told you about?”

“As I learned tonight, it’s farther along than Kenny thought. The first crop begins rising from the tanks tomorrow night — five hundred a day for four days.”

Michael said, “We way underestimated our ammo needs.”

“Victor owns large tracts of land north of Lake Pontchartrain.” From an inside coat pocket, Deucalion withdrew a packet of papers. “I retrieved the information from his computer. There’s a place called Crosswoods Waste Management, owned by a Nevada corporation, which is owned by a holding company in the Bahamas, which is held by a trust in Switzerland. But in the end, it’s all just Victor.”

“Waste management?” Carson said. “Is that a dump?”

“It is a very large dump.”

“What would he want with a dump?”

“A graveyard for his failures and for the people his replicants replace.”

Michael said, “It must have a more memorable smell than your average dump.”

“The tank farm is on a twenty-acre property adjacent to the dump. We’re going to be there well ahead of Victor. In fact, I will be there in ten minutes.” Deucalion handed the packet of papers to Carson. “Addresses, background, a little reading for the road. If you take Interstate 10 east to Interstate 12 west, then the state route north as I’ve marked, it’s about seventy miles, less than an hour and a half.”

“A lot less if she’s driving,” Michael said.

“When you’re getting near, call me,” Deucalion said. “We’ll join forces there.”

“And then what?” Carson asked.

“And then … whatever’s necessary.”