None of them had the boils, tumors and pustules indicative of Fallen Oak syndrome.
“Are you bagging them already?” Heather asked.
“The bags were already here,” Nolan said. “Mine are still in the truck. We ain't touched nothing.”
“They came with their own cadaver pouches?” Schwartzman asked. “That's convenient.”
“We ought to take 'em into evidence, though,” Nolan said. “Still gonna use fresh ones to cart ‘em off. Looks like these bodies was already checked in at the MUSC morgue over the past week or so. They still got the toe tags.”
“I'm sorry?” Heather asked. “You're saying these came from the hospital morgue?”
“Yep.”
“How did they get here?” Schwartzman asked.
“Still trying to get somebody from the morgue on the phone,” Nolan said. “Ain't nobody answering down there tonight. Real strange.”
“So...these are stolen bodies,” Heather said. “Some kind of, what? College prank?”
“Take a lot of doing,” Nolan replied. “Need a lot of people to carry this many bodies. Somebody at the morgue had to see something, but like I said, nobody's picking up the horn. Hospital administration's supposed to get back to me any second.”
Heather squatted for a closer look at the bodies. It looked like an assortment of bodily injuries and disease, as well as a few elderly people who might have passed from natural causes. They were all barefoot and hung with toe tags.
“This doesn't make any sense,” Heather said. “You'd need a truck to carry all these. There must be witnesses.”
“There must be,” Nolan agreed. “But the police are spread a little thin tonight, with all the crazy hippies tearing up the city. Thank the Lord we have so many state and federal folks here. Almost like somebody knew a big mess was coming.”
Schwartzman looked at Heather with a slight smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Do we have any more incidents like this?” Heather asked.
“If we do, it'll come over the police band and we'll let you know directly,” Nolan said. “Now, seeing as how this is mostly a case of theft and vandalism, do y'all mind if we scoop these folks up and get them back in the fridge? There's a City Council member lives in this neighborhood, and it's best to keep things tidy.”
Schwartzman glanced at Heather, and she shrugged.
“It doesn't seem like we're needed here,” Heather said. “Do what you need to do.”
As they walked away, Schwartzman whispered to Heather, “I guess your ass is covered. Not the event you were expecting, but nobody's going to complain about the National Guard being put on alert now.”
“Who cares about my ass?” Heather asked. “This thing gets weirder and weirder. I still think we need to find Jenny Morton.”
“The cops already have an APB for her,” Schwartzman said. “And the Guardsmen are rolling in. This city will be locked up tight. We'll find her.”
“I hope you're right,” Heather said. “The idea of Jenny running wild out there scares the hell out of me.”
Darcy dozed on the nice comfy bed, waiting for the angels to return, until she heard the sudden pounding on the door. Her eyes drifted open, and she turned her head toward the racket.
“I’m sleepin’,” she whispered.
A keycard thunked into the lock and the door popped open. A man with a pencil-thin mustache, wearing a seersucker suit with a brass name plate at the lapel, stepped into the room, accompanied by a large black man in gray coveralls and a work belt full of tools.
“Excuse me,” the mustached man said. “Are you the only one here?”
“Me?” Darcy asked.
“Yes, you, thank you.”
“It’s just me. Until the angels come back.”
The two men shared a worried look.
“Ma’am,” the man said. “I am Pervical Daughtrey, the manager of The Mandrake House.”
“Hi,” Darcy said. She gave him a warm smile. She was still feeling so good from when the angel touched her.
“Yes,” he said. “This is extremely unfortunate news, but it seems this room has been charged to a stolen credit card.”
“Oh,” Darcy said. “Really?”
“Yes,” the manager said. “Really, ma’am. It was recently reported stolen by its owner, whose credit card provider then forwarded the information to us, as you can imagine. Now, if you would be so kind as to surrender Mr. Morris Metcalf’s credit card to me, and then I will need you to vacate this room immediately, I’m afraid.”
“Morris Metcalf’s my dad,” Darcy said.