Scarlet Rain Part 18

"My original guess was some kind of drug. PCP, bath salts, or another drug like that. His tox screen hasn't come back yet, so I don't know for sure that he wasn't on anything. However, with what happened at the hospital, it's pretty safe to say drugs are off the table."

"So, if he did this to her," Schilling contemplated aloud as he flipped through the photos of Monica's mangled face, "there's no way she could have retaliated, attacked him, and caused all of that." He pulled out Tyson's picture and tossed it on top of the pile.

"No fist fight, no matter how intense, would produce those effects," Pierce said.

"Since you're pretty positive this isn't drug related, what do you think it is?" James asked, pulling as much information from her as he could without arousing suspicion.

Pierce shrugged. "Some of the aspects hint at rabies, but others I've never seen before. At least, not all together like this. Also, I'm having a hard time with cause of death. Tyson's lungs were almost completely liquefied, and his trachea was practically torn to bits. Not to mention the obvious trauma to his face."

"That's putting it mildly," Schilling mumbled.

"And he's not the only one it happened to. The only way I can explain it is that something got into his lungs and each of the other victims', and then forced its way out again."

The scarlet cloud cloaked James's thoughts, and the memory of their pulsing buzz tickled his eardrums.

"I'm not following," Schilling said.

"It's like when you shake up a bottle of pop then unscrew the cap. It shoots out everywhere," James tried to explain.

"Something shook this guy until he exploded? I thought he died from going splat on the patio." Schilling's brow furrowed.

"No. Well, maybe. The two happened within such a close timeframe, it's a toss up as to which actually killed him. But whatever he inhaled rushed out of his lungs with a ma.s.sive amount of force. It not only tore apart the soft tissue, it also dislocated his mandible and lacerated the flesh around his mouth. Which is exactly what happened to these other victims." She plopped down a file onto the empty exam table and spread out its contents.

James grimaced as Pierce lined up pictures of the hospital victims.

"Ugh," Schilling grunted. "Same facial...."

"Explosion," James whispered.

He nodded his head in agreement. "Yep, sounds about right."

"At first glance, yes, which is how I knew the cases were connected. But there are a few slight differences. Their lung tissue and trachea aren't nearly as destroyed, and the damage to each of their oral cavities is much less severe. But the jury's still out on cause of death."

"But the jaws, they're all still...." James lost his words as his eyes locked on one of the photographs.

"Dislocated? Yes."

"Well, this is a f.u.c.king mess if I've ever seen one." Schilling scratched his rotund midsection. "Okay, we have to start at the beginning, with Tyson George. We're not taking the drug idea off the table. At least not until we hear about the test results. We'll start looking into anyone dealing higher-level drugs. There's also this new synthetic one making the rounds that I've been reading about. Flakka, or something. I didn't think it had gotten here yet, but looking at this makes me think I might be wrong about that. Graham, send a note to Winslow. Tell him to pull the list of top dealers operating in the area, as well as George and Carroll's financial records. We need to see if either of them made any big deposits or withdrawals, or has any outstanding debts."

Schilling's voice faded into the distance as James stared at the unnatural facial shapes in each picture.

"Dammit Graham, pull your head out of your a.s.s," Schilling bellowed.

James blinked a few times and looked around the room as if he'd just woken up. "Yeah, I'm on it." He pulled out his phone. "E-mailing Winslow now."

Schilling cleared his throat and turned his attention back toward Catherine. "Pierce, thanks for calling us down and sharing this with us. The chain of command might be changing here soon, and we'd appreciate it if you'd keep us in the loop."

"Don't mention it. If everything wasn't being locked up so tight, I would've called you while I was at the scene. But I was instructed not to say a word. I'm sticking my neck out telling you now."

"We both owe you for this, and for whatever you decide to share with us later on," James said.

"A lot of the big hush-hush is because of legal and medical s.h.i.+t I want nothing to do with, but it sure doesn't help that this case is coming right on the heels of the Kostas debacle. A lot of unanswered questions with that one, let me tell you."

"Winslow's on it," James interrupted before Schilling had a chance to question him again about Mohawk Park. "We'd best get back. I'm sure there are a lot of names we need to go through. Oh, Pierce, one more thing. You think the CDC will be brought in on this?"

"I'd be surprised if they weren't already called. It's just a matter of time when dealing with a potential outbreak like this one."

James's stomach flip-flopped. "Good to know."

"We'll get out of your hair then Pierce. Give Vee a kiss for me, and two from puppy dog eyes over there," Schilling chuckled, and pointed to James.

"Don't tempt me, Schilling." Pierce's blue eyes glinted as a smirk curled her lips.

"We are not starting this again. I'm outta here. I'll be at the car." James waved goodbye over his shoulder and pushed open the door. Luckily, Veronica's back was turned and she was too preoccupied cackling on the phone to notice James tiptoeing out the front door.

"That was a nightmare. And the CDC. Jesus Christ." He sighed and leaned against the trunk of Schilling's Buick. Fall was in the air, cooling the breeze as it swirled around him.

"I see you dodged Vee on your way out," Schilling tw.a.n.ged. "She told me to let you know that she has an extra ticket to the movies this weekend. Guess her sister's bailing on her or something. She's hard to understand sometimes, but, woowee, is that accent something else." Schilling started the car and maneuvered out onto the busy street.

"Hey, Schilling, the station's back that way." James pointed as Schilling pulled through the next intersection.

"We're not going to the station just yet. We're going to my house for an early lunch. And just in time, too. I could reach up a hog's a.s.s and pull out a ham sandwich I'm so hungry. I wrote you a text yesterday about coming over, remember?"

James thought back. "No, but I left my phone in my car, and I just got it back when I came in this morning."

"Well, I sent it. You didn't say anything back, but it was sent out either way."

"If someone doesn't respond to your text, you can't take that as a yes," James said.

"Oh, so sorry. That's my fault. I didn't realize your schedule was so demanding. Tell me, what exactly were your plans this afternoon? Because I thought eating some good home cooking would be loads better than staring at dead bodies or sifting through files all day, but that may just be my old age talking."

James remained silent.

"You're quiet again, and I'm taking it as you being compliant," Schilling said.

"Yeah, well, I do owe you. I just didn't think you'd be collecting so soon."

"How about we keep that fact between the two of us. My wife won't take too kindly to being a bartering chip." Schilling's phone blared, and he swerved into oncoming traffic as he s.h.i.+fted his body to dig it out of his back pocket. "This is Schilling," he grumbled, and held the phone over the center console.

"Detective, it's Winslow." The young man's chipper tone grated against James's increasingly frayed nerves. "I've got a witness for you. He's in pretty bad shape up at St. Francis Hospital, and has a few screws loose from what I've heard, but he's ready to talk."

James's forehead pinched. "A witness?"

"Yeah, I guess someone made it out of St. John's last night and headed over to a bar on Brookside," Winslow answered. "Apparently this guy was the only one left standing after he got through."

"And why are we just now hearing about this?" Schilling questioned.

"That was the very first question I asked when I got the call, Detective." Winslow's grin beamed through his words. "The nurse said our guy got lost in the shuffle. I guess he was freaking out, spouting all sorts of crazy talk, so they put him on a psychiatric hold. They brought him down from the psych floor a little bit ago. It wasn't until then that he calmed down and they figured out he wasn't some ordinary ER admit. Captain Alvarez wants you two to go up there and talk to him ASAP."

"So much for lunch." James bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling with relief.

James impatiently bounced his foot against the speckled tile floor of St. Francis Hospital. "You'd think having a badge would speed this process along."

"The whole world is full of hurry up and wait," Schilling groaned. "But if I would've known it was going to take so G.o.dd.a.m.n long, we could've at least pulled through a Wendy's."

"So sorry to keep you waiting," a young nurse greeted them. Her strawberry blonde bangs skimmed the tops of her eyebrows as she spoke. "Mr. Dennison had a little bit of a moment, and needed to calm down before he was able to talk with you. The doctor did green-light a sedative, but I only administered a small dose, so he's still coherent enough to answer your questions. If you'll follow me, I'll take you right to him." She adjusted her snug top and brushed her ponytail off of her shoulder. "Oh, and I also have to apologize for the small mix-up and not contacting you sooner. We've been swamped. Although, talking to him earlier just wouldn't have been possible."

"You said he needed to calm down. This isn't related to his overnight stay on the crazy floor of the hospital?" Schilling asked.

"We prefer to call it the psychiatric floor, Detective," she said, casting a sideways glance at the grumbly man. "But yes. Mr. Dennison has had a little bit of a problem distinguis.h.i.+ng frightening science fiction from reality. He's been quite the mess."

"Great," Schilling mumbled.

"This is Mr. Dennison's room." She paused in front of the closed wooden door and peered in through the small window. "A few minor quarantine precautions are in place, which you'll notice upon entry. If there is any problem at all, you can press the red b.u.t.ton on the wall or just leave the room. I'll wait out here for you in case there's any trouble."

"Hate to say it, but you're not making me feel at ease about going in there," James said.

"Well." She cleared her throat and plastered on an eerie, fake grin. "I'm sure everything will be just fine. And when you're finished with your talk, I can take you to visit with the doctor. She has more information on Mr. Dennison's mental state and the physical injuries he had when he arrived."

Schilling stepped back and motioned to the door. "On that note, you take the mental patient. I'll go find out what the doc knows. Mainly, how this whole f.u.c.kup happened in the first place."

"Yeah, no problem." Unsure of what to expect, James opened the door and stepped into the sterile hospital room. Plastic hung around the hospital bed, and hissing tubes stuck out of the clear, crinkled plastic-like quills on a porcupine. Anthony Dennison lay quietly on top of the wrinkled white sheets. Ashy grey tinted his skin like a fresh coat of slick lacquer. Sweat soaked through his hospital gown, darkening the yellowish fabric so much that it matched his pallor.

"Anthony Dennison?" The name came out as a whisper, and James cleared his throat and tried again. "Anthony Dennison?"

The man's eyes fluttered open, and he nodded sleepily. "That's me."

The room was unnervingly silent as James stepped closer to the bed. "Mr. Dennison, I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened last night at The Brook."

"Sabrina," he murmured, a faint smile flitting across his lips.

"Sabrina?" James pulled out his phone and scrolled through the list of victims from the bar. "Yes, Sabrina Masten was there. Can you tell me what happened last night?"

Fluorescent lights glinted off his gla.s.sy expression as he stared up at James. "I know the truth. I know what happened. You won't believe me."

"Try me. I think you'll be surprised."

"But this isn't normal. They think...." He lifted his head off the pillow and peered around James. His expression changed and, comfortable with what he saw, he settled back against the bedding. "They think I'm crazy."

James grabbed the chair from the corner of the room and slid it next to the bed. "If I told people what I've seen in the past few days, they'd think I'm crazy too. There's no judgment here. It's safe to talk."

"Something was inside of her," Anthony whispered. "Inside Sabrina."

"What do you mean?" James leaned in closer.

"She was different. Violent. Crazy. They made her that way."

"They? They who?"

Anthony pursed his lips and fixed his gaze on the door's small window.

"Anthony," James said, drawing the man's attention back to him. "Who? Who made Sabrina different?"

Tears leaked from the corners of his marble eyes. "The swarm." He pressed his thighs against his chest until his body resembled a muscular ball. "The scarlet rain."

"Scarlet rain." Images of Tyson's death and the pulsing cloud at St. John's stirred within James.

"They made her do the things she did. They made her cut me." He fingered the bandage sticking out of the top of his gown. "But I pushed her. I shouldn't have, but I did." He tucked his chin against his knees and moaned softly.

"It's okay, Anthony. Tell me more about the swarm. Did you see it?"

He shook his head. "I don't want to talk anymore. I'm not crazy. I'm not. I promise."

"I know. I don't think you're crazy, Anthony. I believe you."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not."

Anthony closed his eyes and rocked gently against his pillow.

"Okay." James gripped the seat of his chair and scooted closer to the bed. He leaned in, his face only inches away from the plastic, and said, "I've seen them too."

Anthony cracked his eyelids and peered up at James. His tear-streaked face and pale complexion softened his otherwise burly form. "I'm not crazy. They said I am, but I'm not. You've seen them too."

"Yes, I have. Now, tell me what you saw."

Anthony recounted his story from the bar, gradually growing more comfortable, speaking hesitantly, then more openly. His breath caught as he described the carnage.

James's phone chimed, making both men flinch. He opened the text from Pierce and read it quickly. Tox screens coming in. All results neg so far. Sending blood work from the office to CDC first thing Monday.

"Okay, Anthony. Listen to me. I have to go."

"You're not going to tell them what I told you, are you?" Childlike fear flashed across Anthony's face.

"I won't tell anyone, and I suggest you do the same. Keep your mouth shut and forget this ever happened, unless you want to spend the rest of your life locked in the psych ward."

"But what about Sabrina? Did I kill her?"

James stood and tucked his phone into his pocket. "No, Anthony. She was dead before you left the bathroom."

"Detective." He crept closer to the plastic and whispered, "The queen is coming." Anthony rocked onto his back and nodded listlessly. "The queen is coming."