Already Dead by Patrick Logan

Author:Patrick Logan [Logan, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pathological Ink
Published: 2022-05-13T23:00:00+00:00

“Floyd?” Margaret asked.

He shook his head and took a deep breath.

Tate could do his chameleon act, but he couldn’t.

“I-I was ju-just wondering if either of you has seen this girl before?”

Floyd showed the photo of the woman who had attacked Chase to the security guard first. He looked it over and shook his head before passing it on to Margaret.

Glasses up this time, she observed it closely.

“I don’t think so. I’m usually on the administrative sides of things, however, so I can’t say that she wasn’t here.”

“And I’ve been off for the past week,” the guard offered.

Shit.

Floyd had been hopeful.

“Is there anybody else I can ask? Somebody who’s maybe a little closer to the… uh… guests here?”

So far, Floyd’s approach had worked. But now, it was falling short.

“Why? Is she in trouble?”

It wasn’t that Margaret didn’t want to help, she just cared for these people and wasn’t keen on contributing to their problems.

“She’s in the hospital.”

Floyd was tempted to add more information but held back. Sometimes, less was more. And he thought, in his limited experience, that this was one of those cases.

“Is it serious?” Margaret asked. “We don’t allow drugs or alcohol inside the building. But outside…”

“It’s serious, but not drug or alcohol-related so far as we can tell. I’m trying to reach this girl’s friends or family or someone who knows her.”

Margaret looked at the guard.

“Steve, why don’t you take Floyd to see Martin. If she was here, he’d have seen her. He sees everyone.”

The guard nodded at the director.

“Martin?” Floyd asked.

“Head cook. If people come in here, they’re usually hungry. C’mon.”

“Thank you, Margaret.”

They left the office and entered the cafeteria. There were more people in line now and it looked like it was time to eat. A portly man sporting a white apron stood behind a massive metal pot of simmering soup. Having not eaten since his burger the night prior, Floyd’s stomach started to grumble.

“Stevie, you hungry?” the cook, presumably Martin, asked.

The man had tight, dark curls on his head and a scorpion or spider tattoo was creeping up his neck from beneath the apron.

“Not right now, smells good, though, Martin,” Steve replied. He indicated Floyd. “This man’s from the FBI. He wants to know if you’ve seen someone.”

Martin smiled, revealing a large space between his two front teeth.

“If they’ve eaten here, I’ve seen ‘em. You got a photo?”

Floyd showed the photo to the man behind the vat of soup.

“My eyes ain’t that good. Can I…?”

Floyd leaned across the soup and Martin reached for the photo. Before he came even close, his other hand came up and shoved the massive metal vat in Floyd’s direction.

Floyd cried out and jumped back, but while he avoided most of the scalding liquid, a fair amount splashed the thighs of his jeans.

“Fuck!”

Thinking that it was an accident, Floyd instinctively put his arm to protect the security guard from the soup that still sloshed from the overturned cauldron.

“He’s running!” Steve shouted.

Floyd looked up. Martin was sprinting toward the rear exit.

He cursed again and tried to go after the cook, but he slipped on the broth and dropped to one knee.

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