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He shrugged. “There was no one else to play with. But now you’re here.” He waggled his eyebrows.

Another cra.s.s innuendo. Maybe that was his way of dealing with the pressure of the situation. Or … or maybe he was actually interested. Either way, she didn’t have time for it.

Thoughts of Tim Feely’s advances faded away. The missing arm still didn’t add up. If Candice had the crawlers, and crawlers that took over her brain, then why did she mutilate herself when no other known crawler host ever had?

“There’s something different about Walker,” Margaret said. “Are you finished processing Petrovsky’s brain?”

Tim nodded. “I am. It’s turning into black goop, but there was enough to see that it was riddled with the crawler mesh. If that ever happens to me, hopefully your hubby will put me down like the dog that I am.”

She didn’t know if Tim was serious about that request or just talking to deal with the stress. He had no way of knowing Clarence had done exactly that to infection victims in the past, and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again.

Margaret stroked Candice Walker’s hair one more time. In a few moments, Tim would slide a scalpel across the back of her scalp, then flip the scalp down over her face so he could use the Stryker saw to open her skull.

She heard a click in her helmet speakers, then, Clarence’s voice.

“Margaret, can you and Doctor Feely hear me?”

“I can,” she said. She looked at Tim, who gave a thumbs-up. “So can Tim.”

“Good,” Clarence said. “Listen, I’m finished with Cantrell’s interview. There’s some things I want to talk about.”

“So get in here,” Margaret said.

“Uh, can I report from the control room? This suit, I’ve been in it for two hours.”

Tim rolled his eyes.

“Yes, but make it fast,” Margaret said. “We’ll keep working until you’re ready. Tim, call up the images of crawlers from both Petrovsky and Walker. Let’s take a look while we wait.”

RED HOT MOMMA

For most of the last five years, Tim Feely had enjoyed collecting a huge paycheck and not doing a whole lot to earn it. He worked hard at whatever anyone asked him to do — well, at least he made it look like he was working hard — but he had harbored a hope that this infection c.r.a.p was over forever, and that his black-budget gravy train would last for decades.

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