Zombies! (Episode 7): Conflicts of Interest (8 page)

Getting out of bed, he grabbed up the phone and looked at the caller ID. When he hesitated, Alicia asked if it was work.

"It's Abby," he responded. He didn't have to answer it. He really didn't. Why would she call him this late? Was something wrong? But she wasn't his responsibility and Alicia would be upset if he answered a phone call from Abby at a time like this.

But maybe…

But maybe not….

He put the phone down on his bedside table and crawled back under the covers. Alicia grabbed him around the neck and began to kiss him again. For her, that small gesture had been proof of his love. He didn't need to prove it. Not really. But that didn't dampen the gesture.

They were just getting comfortable again when the phone chirped a different ring tone.

"God damn it, Anthony!" Alicia cried. "Can't we have
one night
?"

It was a text message. Heron got lots of text messages. He got them all the time. And yet this one chilled him. Even before he looked, he knew it would be from Abby. Even before he looked, he knew it would remind him of the last message Shawn had sent him. After he looked, he knew what he would do.

"I have to go," he said.

Alicia gritted her teeth but held her response.

"I'm sorry," he said as he grabbed some clean clothing. No suit this time. Just a pair of jeans and a pullover. "I know that…"

"It's becoming too much, Anthony," she said to him. "When you first started with this it seemed so important for you to be available. It was as if you were holding back the end of the world. But I don't feel that way anymore. All I feel is resentment. You need to choose."

He nodded and said, "I know."

***

HE
called Smith on the way and dragged him out of a much needed sleep. In the background, he heard the man's poor wife complaining bitterly. She should meet Alicia.

Groggy but amenable, Smith promised to assemble a squad and meet Heron two blocks from the address Abby had sent him. It didn't take that long to get there. The Bronx wasn't so far away from Queens and the Friday night traffic was light between the hours of going out sober and alone and coming home drunk and with a stranger. Heron pulled up to the curb, killed his lights and waited, fidgeting with his fingers as if he had a much needed cigarette.

Zombie fights
. That's what Abby had said in her message. He still didn't quite know what it meant but he had some ideas. Zombie on person. Zombie on Zombie. Degenerates betting on the winner, the loser. Did anyone win? Killing a zombie was easy but killing one without getting bitten was not. Unless the people were armed. He got this image in his head of a man in boxing trunks getting into the ring and punching it out with a stumbling, shambling monster. Ironic that his vision wasn't so different from the truth.

A black van pulled up behind him shortly. It could have been anyone. In that neighborhood and at that time of night, Heron sitting in his car was as vulnerable to attack as an old woman on the street. But it was only Smith and his squad. Heron got out of the car, glad that the wait was over. Smith appeared from the passenger side of the van. He wasn't in uniform, but that was advantageous.

"Do you have a radio?"

Smith held up a small walkie.

"Good," Heron nodded. "You and I are going to take a walk. Who do you have that can be in charge?"

"Spinelli."

Satisfied, they gave Spinelli a few instructions and walked down the street. The lights and the noise became apparent from a block away. Smith looked but did not voice the question on his mind. Heron had been sketchy about the details. As they closed in on the location, they saw a large abandoned warehouse, made whole and living again. Through the dirty windows, they could see lights. Through the rusting walls, they could hear the shouts of men. A lot of men.

"What is it, a goddam spectator sport?"

Heron looked over the area and tried to take in all of the details he could. Details had never been his strong suit, but tonight he was focused. There was one entrance in the front and it was manned by two young thugs. They were smoking cigarettes and having a loud conversation in a language that only bordered on English. They could call in the van and march up with their badges, but he wasn't sure about what was inside. A squad of zombie fighters wouldn't do well against a crowd of rowdy fight-goers.

"Let's go around back," he whispered to Smith.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, the two men snuck around the back of the building, well under the radar of the two guards. They were way too involved in their conversation to notice the officers. There was little cover on the grounds but the darkness. Behind the warehouse, they saw a small car park, a shed, and a makeshift compound which looked to be filled with people shuffling around. They didn't have to get close to know that those people weren’t people anymore. From inside the building, a huge crowd roared.

"We're going to need a lot more cops," Smith whispered.

Heron nodded and told him to send for backup.

While Smith contacted Spinelli, Heron texted Abby.

I'm outside.

A moment later, there was a response.
Thank God. What are you going to do?

He thought about that. Honestly, he didn't have any idea. His instinct was to break the whole thing up right away. What he desperately needed was to get inside so that he could assess the situation.

Just stay where you are
, he texted back.

Smith reported that they were scrambling about thirty more men at headquarters. It would be at least thirty minutes before they had the kind of manpower they needed.

"Let's go inside," he said, indicating one of the back doors. At least they had the one squad at the ready in case of an emergency.

"No problem" Smith said.

The two men walked over to the door and tried it. It was locked, but Smith produced a small set of fine tools. Heron was impressed with the set, but even more so when the lock was picked and the door was open. While the lieutenant held it open a quarter of an inch, Smith packed his tools neatly and replaced them. Then the two moved inside.

***

SO
this was it. It hadn't lasted long, but the money had been good. Marcus had a talent for finding what was out of place and putting the pieces together. Between the two women, the phone call one of them had made, and the appearance of the cop who called himself
St. Francis
, there was little doubt that his business venture was about to come to an end. Right now, he needed to implement an escape plan. He also needed to figure out what to do with Shawn.

Arrick appeared at his side, taking the place of PJ, who had been there earlier.

"I need four zombies, John," Marcus said.

Arrick's forehead crinkled. "What for? The ring is stocked."

"There was a late comer."

"You don't permit late comers."

Marcus bit back his reply, surprised at the potential for temper. He was not a temperamental person. Stress, though, could bring out the ugly side of a person. "This is a special case."

Arrick seemed like he was about to say something else, but held it back. "Do you want them by the ring?"

Marcus shook his head. "Toby will meet you in the corridor and take custody of them."

Without any further questions, Arrick walked off. As St. Francis stepped into the ring, PJ and Damon loading it up with four zombies, Marcus pulled out his phone and sent Toby a message.

***

"
HE’S
here," Abby said to her companions.

"Who? The cop?"

She nodded.

Peter was looking around the arena. They had a pretty good view of almost everything from where they were sitting, but it would still be impossible to pick out one man in the crowd.

"Would you know him if you saw him?" Abby asked him.

"What should we do?" Melissa asked. "Are they going to raid the place?"

She shrugged. "He said to stay put so I'm going to stay put." What troubled her, though, was the answer she would have to give when he asked her why she was there in the first place.

***

TOBY’S
phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out. There was a message from Marcus.

Meet Arrick in the corridor and take 4 zombies. It's time for the exit strategy. Spread the word.

What the hell? Things were going better than ever and now Marcus wanted to bug out? Toby thought about sending him a reply but decided against it. It would take Marcus too long to explain what was happening. Toby either had to trust him or not. His gut told him to trust. The money in his pocket begged him not to.

Toby went with his gut.

Before heading into the corridor to meet Arrick, he waited for PJ to come down from the ring. Pulling the younger man aside, he whispered
exit strategy
into his ear and then walked off. PJ's eyes bulged and the color drained from his face. He recovered quickly enough, though, and then went to tell Damon.

***

THE
noise from the crowd was deafening. Heron and Smith had entered under a set of bleachers. There was no passage into the arena from here but they could move around through the framework. There wasn't much to see. Beyond the bleachers were rows of floor seats. Essentially, all that they had was the view of legs and the backs of chairs.

"I want a better look," Heron said and Smith nodded in agreement. Together, the two men moved forward until the scaffold like structure pressed down too far for them to walk. Then they cut to the left where there was a break in the structure a few feet away. Like the spot in which they'd entered, there was no passage forward here. Their only way out would be to climb the supports and lever themselves up into the audience. Heron reached up and lifted himself. As he poked his head through the break, he saw two men, one on either side, looking down at him. The first man was a stock broker if he was anything at all. He was wearing a brown suit with a funny red tie. He stared at Heron in surprise, his eyes bulging behind the lenses of his glasses. The other guy was much larger and scowling. There wasn't much room for Heron and Smith to squeeze in.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Just watch the show," Heron answered, pulling himself all the way up. A moment later, Smith's head appeared through the crack.

"What is this, a fuckin' party?" the man complained.

Heron pulled out his badge and showed it to him.

"Is that supposed to scare me?"

"It's supposed to remind you to show a little respect. After all, we're here to protect you."

There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to find Smith trying to get his attention. He was pointing at the ring. They were pretty far down, which left them only a few rows from the floor. There were several rows of chairs, but they were all below them, giving them a clear view of the ring. On their end, facing away from them, was a line of zombies, each bound and gagged. Four zombies, unbound, were in the ring attempting to square off against a man in what looked like pajama pants and no shirt. At first, Heron's view of the man was blocked, but as the zombies cleared the way and the fighter took his first strikes, he could see very clearly that it was Francis Culph.

"I'm not really surprised," Smith said.

Heron scowled. "He said he needed money. I wonder how long he's known about this place."

"What do you want to do?"

Heron looked at the ring, then looked around the arena. There was so much that he wanted to do, but he wouldn't be able to do all of it. Once Culph knew there was a police presence in the building, he'd clear out quickly. If they went straight to Culph and tried to arrest him, then the ringleaders of the operation would clear out just as quickly. Which was more important?

"Do you see that?" Heron asked, pointing behind them to the second floor. "I want to check that out."

"You're sure?" Smith asked, looking longingly back at Culph. He hadn't liked Culph. Few of the men had. He'd been friendly enough at first, but as time went by, the layers had stripped away. Truth to tell, Heron probably should have seen the end of that road long before they reached it. But he had chosen Culph and he had adopted him as a surrogate partner. His own attitude had blinded him to Culph's most obvious, and most dangerous flaws. And now here he was with the opportunity to, in some small measure, make it right. But still he felt a loyalty to the young man. So, in response to Smith's question, he nodded his head, and turned his back on the murderer.