Scarla by BC Furtney Page A

The lab was even colder than last time, his breath visible. He moved quickly past the tables, noting that half the bodies were gone. The pill press sat silent. Harris was typing on a computer, one-handed. The other hand was latex-gloved and bloody. Beside him, a naked woman hung upside down by her ankles, arms hanging free. A metal tub sat under the body, catching blood that drizzled from her mouth.
    Harris spoke without turning, still plucking keys. “I’m glad you’re here, you need to see this.”
    Facil set the teeth, still wrapped in bath tissue, next to the keyboard. “Can’t, I’m late for a meeting with the Chief. Test this, yeah?”
    Harris looked. “Charmin.”
    Facil eyed him. “How do you know that?”
    Harris pointed a bloody finger. “The two-ply perf.”
    Facil smirked, appreciating the lab humor. “See, you
are
full of shit. Look inside.”
    Harris unfolded the tissue, eyed the teeth. Facil walked away.
“LeTour,”
Harris called. Facil looked back, still moving. Harris’ tone was grim, unlike him. “Have you spoken to anyone from CDC?”
The Center for Disease Control?
    He shook his head. “No, why?”
    Harris paused. “Come back after your meeting.” He was serious. Facil nodded, hit the elevator button, the doors opened.
    * * * *
    Facil stepped into the Thai Den, the smell of stir fried everything sweeping his senses. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust in the cool darkness. Dozens of red paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and he eyed faces, until a petite Asian hostess grabbed a menu and greeted him.
    “Just one?” she asked, in valley girl lilt.
    “I’m meeting someone, is the dining room open?”
    She’d been briefed, dropped the menu. “Right this way.” She bomped off and he followed, watching her swishing hips all the way to a lamp-lit hall in the back. She spun to face him. “They’re waiting for you. Can I get you something to drink?”
    They?
“No, thanks.” She nodded, returned to the front. A large painted dragon snaked the length of the hall. He followed it tail-to-head, and when orange flames exploded from its snarling maw, he was in the dining room.
    It was dark. Facil could barely see his hand in front of his face, but he saw the three men seated by candlelight at a table in the middle of the room. Chief Rattan rose to greet him, fit at fifty, military buzzcut and dark mustache over a classic square jaw.
    “Welcome, Lieutenant.” His voice was formal, unlike their private meetings last year. On Rattan’s right was the department’s longtime Bureau Chief, Tommy Delmones. Baby-faced and gel-haired, but far older than he looked, Delmones could still go clubbing and not be mistaken for his date’s dad. He was the one largely responsible for spinning, smoke-screening, or stonewalling the press, depending on the reporter, channel, or publication. For that alone, Facil thought Delmones deserved either sainthood or death. Maybe both. On the Chief’s left sat a pallid, angular fifty-something with jet-black slicked-back hair. He wore a pricy power suit and sat with both palms on the table, as if a magic trick were coming. Facil didn’t know him, and somehow didn’t want to.
    He strolled to the table, finding a fourth chair empty. “Sorry I’m late, I just got the message.”
    Delmones patted him on the back. “Don’t worry about it. Good to see ya, Facil.”
    Rattan interrupted. “Lieutenant, I want to introduce you to our new partner,
Mr. Ray Smith
.” The third man stood slowly, extending a limp hand. Facil shook it. Smith’s skin was cold, and while his mouth had curled into something resembling a smile, his eyes were dead.
    “I didn’t know we had a new partner,” Facil said to the Chief. Then turning back, “Ray Smith?”
    “Center for Disease Control,” Smith replied, still gripping Facil’s hand.
    “Sit down, Lieutenant. Let’s discuss some things,” Rattan said, easing back into his chair.
    Facil sat. “Such as?”
    The Chief