A Small Degree of Hope. Lyndi Alexander

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      The officer guarding the half-lit, reeking alley behind Restaurant Row directed Agent Kylie Sanderson into the shadows behind him. “Your partner’s already down there. And, it’s two of them, ma’am.”

      Kylie, wearing designer alpaskin boots, picked her way through the mud and discarded piles of food. Her mother, who found these things so important, must have called in every favor she was owed just to get her hands on a pair. She’d hate her daughter wearing them in stinking garbage. The thought made Kylie smile.

      Her smile faded as she approached the heavy black dumpster. Behind it, her partner puked the contents of his stomach. Based on the history of this case, though, his indiscretion was likely not entirely due to his rookie status.

      It was bad, then. But they always were.

      Steeling herself, she climbed up on the plastic fruit crate in front of the dumpster and looked inside. The odor rising from the mélange of trash, rotted meat and spoiled dairy products sickened her, too, but not as much as the two women’s bodies on top did. Or at least what used to be women.

      Holding one hand over her mouth and nose, Kylie shone her flashlight on the pile. The bodies were similar to the six others who’d turned up in the last few months in different areas of Muraco. Each dead woman was naked, and horribly mutated. Their flesh and organs had transformed by varying degree into green, scaly reptiles. Others had lost arms or legs to the change, their bones elongated, their hands narrow with nails turned into hard claws. This was the first one whose face was gone.

      Blank yellow eyes stared, her nose and mouth distorted into a pointy chunk of mottled green hide. Fangs protruded from under the desiccated lips.

      Yeah, this one was bad.

      Kylie stepped off the box, never so glad she’d skipped lunch for a drink with an old friend.

      She composed herself while the local officers held off clamoring media. Word had passed quickly that the planet’s Scientific and Investigative Research Taskforce elite team had again been called in from their headquarters in the Jescoan subdivision, on the other side of the world. Everyone knew something big was up. The “lizard women” were news.

      She straightened her heavy black jacket then fluffed her hair. One of three women on the SIRT, she knew she was judged on her looks as well as her skills. She’d studied six long years for her criminal/paranormal degree, craving the opportunity to investigate the oddest and most inexplicable cases puzzling the universe. Her father had forbidden her to do it, but her fierce pride had driven her to defy him. She got that pride directly from him; he should have expected no less. She even used it as an asset in the unit. Whenever she was spokesperson for a case, she remained conscious of her status as a Sanderson.

      The Colonel wouldn’t have it any other way.

      “Pax, hon, you all right back there?”

      Paxton Loring, a new officer and most junior on the SIRT squad, muttered amid more vomiting.

      “Guess you’ll skip the mushu next time, huh?”

      More muttering, with several obscenities added in.

      Poor kid. She dug in her bag for some hand wipes for him. She’d certainly had her own embarrassments in her early months with the squad. When one dealt with aliens, perverts and psychotics, anything could happen, and usually did. Better to laugh than to cry.

      Giving Pax time to pull himself together, she took out a pad and quickly scribbled some notes she could refer to when speaking to the press. Nothing too specific, keep the details private. Enough to feed the hyena pack, but she’d save the rest for the SIRT team to pore over until they solved this repulsive mystery.

      Still no clue who might be doing this.

      She bit her lip to chase away the nausea crawling up her throat. Not knowing who, or really why, was the worst part of her job. The planetary subdivision of Muraco, population 150,000, had its share of sickos, no question. One DNA experiment might belong to a nutso or a whacker. Two, maybe. Eight seemed purposeful.

      Why in the hells would someone want women to look like lizards?

      Some ninety-five percent of Andan’s population was human. Most likely, a lizard the size of a man, or as smart as one, would have to come from off-world. Off-worlders moved freely throughout their planetary system. What brought one here with nefarious intentions? Kylie’s team had to figure out the ultimate purpose of these twisted corpses.

      Bureau chief Jaco Rand expected answers yesterday.

      Media buzz echoed along the cracked bricks of the buildings beside her, photographers’ bright lights flashing from the far end in staccato rhythms. She growled at the utter uselessness of their bloodlust. As the evidence collection workers in their olive drab uniforms approached down the alley, she stepped aside. Show time.

      “Pax, get a move on. We’ve got to go. Crime scene team’s here.”

      “Coming, coming.” Paxton stepped out, wiping his tie with a yellow handkerchief. His normally ruddy face was pale and his wide-set blue eyes bloodshot. His thin frame shuddered as he made a wide detour around the dumpster, pointedly avoiding it, headed back to their СКАЧАТЬ