The arms and legs were the worst, burned to blackened cinders in places. Where the skin remained, it was the leathery greenish black of third-degree burns. The left hand was nothing more than a skeletal talon covered with chunks of cindered flesh. The right hand was in better shape, almost free of burns, an oddly white area at the end of a shriveled, carbonized arm. Both legs were gone below the knee.
The corpse’s genitals were badly burned. Second-degree burns covered the abdomen and lower torso. Three large bullet wounds marked the chest, two within inches of the heart and one directly over it. Smears of blood were now bone dry, flaking away, leaving whiter spots on the scorched skin.
“What happened to his legs?”
“He cut them off,” Dew said. “With a hatchet.”
“What do you mean, he cut them off? He cut off his own legs?” “Right before he set himself on fire. With gasoline. My partner tried to put him out, and got a hatchet in the belly for his troubles.” “Jesus,” Amos said. “He chopped off his own legs and burned himself?” “That’s right,” Dew said. “But those nice bullet holes in his chest, those are mine.”
Margaret stared at the corpse, then back up at Dew. “So . . . does he have any?”
Dew reached down and turned the corpse over. For some reason it surprised her to see he wore surgical gloves. He flipped the body over with minimal effort — Martin Brewbaker hadn’t been a big man, and much of his weight had been consumed by fire.
The wounds were much worse on Brewbaker’s back, fist-size holes ripped open by the .45-caliber bullets, but that wasn’t what caught Margaret’s attention. She unconsciously held her breath — there, just left of the spine and just below the scapula, sat a triangular growth. It was the first growth she’d seen live, and not as a picture, since her examination of Charlotte Wilson. One of the bullet wounds had ripped free a small chunk of the growth. Flames had caused even more damage, but at least it was something to work with.
Amos leaned forward. “Are there any more?”
“I thought I saw some on his forearms, but I’m not sure,” Dew said.
“Not sure?” Margaret stood. “How can you not be sure? I mean, either you saw them or you didn’t.” She noticed Amos wince behind his faceplate, but it was too late.
Dew stared at her, anger visibly whirling behind his dead eyes. “Sorry, Doc, I was busy looking at the f.u.c.king hatchet the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was burying in my partner’s stomach.” His voice was slow, cold and threatening. “I know I’ve only been doing this s.h.i.t for thirty years, but next time I’ll pay better attention.”
She suddenly felt very small — one look at the body and she’d forgotten all about Dew’s partner laid up in critical condition. Jesus, Margaret, she thought, were you born an insufferable b.i.t.c.h or did you have to work at it?
“Dew . . . I’m sorry about . . . about . . .” The name of Dew’s partner escaped her.
“Malcolm Johnson,” Dew said. “Agent, husband, father.”
Margaret nodded. “Right, of course, Agent Johnson. Well...I’m sorry.”
“Save it for the medical journals, Doc. I realize I’m supposed to answer your questions, but you know, all of a sudden I don’t feel so swell. Something about the smell in here is making me sick.”
Dew turned and headed for the door.
“But Dew, I need to hear how it went down! I need all the information I can get.”
“Read my report,” Dew said over his shoulder.
“Please, wait—”
He slipped out through the airlock and was gone.
Amos went to the prep table. Among other instruments, the prep team had left them with a digital camera. Amos picked it up and started circling the body, taking picture after picture.
“Margaret, why do you let him walk all over you like that?”
She turned on Amos, her face flushing with anger. “I sure didn’t see you standing up to him.”
“That’s because I’m a p.u.s.s.y,” Amos said. He snapped another picture. “I’m also not in charge of this shebang — you are.”
“Shut up, Amos.” In truth, she was happy to see Dew leave. The man had an aura about him, a sense that he was not only a death dealer, but one waiting impatiently for his own demise as well. Dew Phillips gave her the w.i.l.l.i.e.s.
She turned back to the body and gently, ever so gently, poked the triangular growth. It felt squishy underneath the burned skin. A tiny jet of black ooze bubbled up from one of the triangle’s points.
Margaret sighed. “Let’s get rocking. Excise samples of the growth, and let’s send them out for a.n.a.lysis right away — the body has already started rotting, and we don’t have a lot of time.”
She picked up Dew’s Tootsie Roll wrapper, dropped it in a medical waste bin, cracked her knuckles through the large gloves, then got to work.
11.
RUMBLIN’, STUMBLIN’, b.u.mBLIN’
“That was a bulls.h.i.t call!” Perry’s booming voice joined the fused protests of the other bar patrons. “There’s no way that’s interference!”
While hooting and hollering football fans packed the bar, there was a noticeable s.p.a.ce around Perry and Bill’s table. The narrow-eyed scowl etched on Perry’s face was the same one he had unconsciously worn on the football field. The other patrons cast frequent, discreet glances his way, keeping an eye on his huge, tense form as if he were some predator that might snap at any moment.