Broken

by Kelley Armstrong

"And will be unleashed to wreak unholy terror on an unsuspecting world," Clay drawled. "He's doing a half-assed job of it so far."

  "Maybe he's just warming up."

  Two hours later, Jeremy walked into our room, looked around and sighed.

  "So much for resting," he said as he righted the broken floor lamp.

  "It wasn't us," I said. "Anita Barrington stopped by and all hell broke loose."

  Another sigh.

  "You think I'm kidding? Seems Shanahan wasn't the spellcaster who broke into our room last night."

  We told him what had happened.

  "And after all that--plus nearly giving me a concussion last night--she had the gall to ask again if she can speak with Matthew Hull."

  "Probably hoping he knows more than he's saying, which, after speaking to him today, I doubt. But as for the letter, I can't imagine what she hopes to learn from that."

  "Our theory? She's hoping to use it as leverage with Shanahan. If the zombies seem to want it back, what better offering to the man she believes may hold the secret to immortality."

  "Did you confront her on that?"

  I shook my head. "It seemed better not to. Not yet."

  "Good. She may still prove useful."

  Our lunch having been interrupted, we ate a delayed one with Jaime, Nick and Antonio in the hotel restaurant. The restaurant was bright and open, with huge windows and market umbrellas--the feel of eating on a patio without the bugs, heat and smog.

  According to Jeremy, Hull had scored about 80 percent when he'd quizzed him on the geography and minor current events of 1888 London--the kind of things it would be hard for a nonresident to answer, but equally hard for a resident to get perfect.

  Jeremy had even mentioned that we had a source who might attempt to contact Jack the Ripper through the portal tonight, to see how Hull reacted, but he'd been all for it, and even offered to help, making no attempt to retract or change his story.

  The server appeared with our plates before he could continue.

  "So," Clay said after the server left. "He seems legit. But besides winning the sympathy vote, can he do anything for us?"

  Antonio opened his mouth to answer, but Nick cut in. "He thinks he can lead us to Shanahan. He says he can feel a pull or something, like Shanahan is trying to control him. He's offered to try following that pull tonight."

  Antonio swirled a french fry through his ketchup puddle, gaze down.

  "You aren't buying it," I said.

  "It felt like when a middle manager books a meeting with me, shows up and swears he can get some big industry name on board for a joint project because his third cousin married the guy's niece. He might have convinced himself he has an in, but all he's really doing is trying to find an in with me, to get the attention of the guy whose name is on the sign outside. Hull might think he feels some connection to Shanahan, and he'll probably try his damnedest to make it work, but what he really wants is some connection to us, to make himself seem useful so we'll help and protect him."

  "Parasite," Clay said.

  Antonio nodded. "A harsh way of putting it, but yes. Still, can you blame the guy? He's lost and alone in a strange world. All he wants is a little of our time."

  I glanced over at Jeremy. "So are we going to give it to him tonight?"

  "Yes, but only because it's a lead, and we don't have many else to follow."

  "You do have one more," Jaime said, then looked up from her salad and met his gaze. "Dimensional portal fishing, courtesy of your very underworked necromancer."

  After eating, we switched hotels...again. Dealing with Anita Barrington was a complication we really didn't need.

  Notorious

  JAIME STOPPED AT THE END OF THE PORTAL ROAD. "THIS is it?"

  "It's not going to be easy, is it?" I said.

  "Jeremy warned me it was a residential area, but I figured, being downtown, that meant high-rises, walkups, busy roads..." She scanned the empty street. "...people. We're going to be a tad obvious, conducting a seance at dusk, in the middle of the road."

  "If it's not going to work--"

  "There are two ways we can do this. One, come up with a plausible story to explain why we're hanging out on a sidewalk for an hour or so."

  "The other?" Clay said.

  "I play me--flaky celeb spiritualist trying to contact the souls of those who disappeared."

  "Option A," Clay said.

  "I thought you'd say that. Let's get some props then."

  We bought an inexpensive camera and a notepad, and Jaime assigned us our roles. Clay would play photographer. I'd do the note taking. Jaime would be our boss, gathering source material for a proposed television special on recent events.

  We'd still attract attention. If it was too much, we'd have to abort.

  Clay and I wandered up the road, taking notes and pictures. I knew Jaime wouldn't accept help if offered; she didn't even allow onlookers when she was doing the setup work. I guess even seasoned performers can get stage fright, particularly when they aren't comfortable in a role.

  Once Jaime was ready, she called us over and began peeling back the dimensional layers, looking for our lost souls. Less than ten minutes later, she had one: seventy-eight-year-old Irene Ashworth.

  Only Jaime could hear Irene, so the conversation was pretty one-sided. After a few minutes of confirming her identity, based on some basic facts we'd gleaned from the newspaper, Jaime was about to let her go.

  "Not yet," Clay said. "Gotta be sure."

  "Sure of what?" Jaime said, whispering so Irene wouldn't overhear. "You don't think this could be Jack? But she's a wom--" She shook her head. "Of all people, I should know better. There's no reason Jack the Ripper couldn't be a woman. But she answered the questions right."

  I shook my head. "If she had contact with the real Irene Ashworth in that portal, that wouldn't be hard. You have to ask her something only someone from our time could answer, like what the Internet is or a DVD."

  "DVD?" Jaime's voice rose as she laughed. "At her age, we'd be lucky if she knew what a VCR was." Jaime froze, then turned. "Oh, y-yes, of course you could hear that."

  Pause.

  "No, you're not deaf. I didn't mean--"

  Pause.

  "Well, yes, I'm sure the Internet is great for online brokerages and, yes, you're right, voice-over-Internet protocol must be a cheaper way to talk to the grandkids..."

  Strike missing person number one off the list.

  "There's another one already," Jaime said. "I wish trolling for ghosts was this easy. Okay, here he comes...Got a male. Midthirties. He's almost here..."

  While the description sounded promising for Jack the Ripper, it also matched that of the second missing person, Kyle Belfour, the thirty-six-year-old systems analyst who lived one block over and had vanished while jogging. Initial probing suggested the spirit was Belfour, but Jaime ran into some difficulties with the questioning.

  "We just need your name and some basic--"

  Pause.

  "To confirm your identity--"

  Pause.

  "Why do we need to confirm it?"

  She looked back at us for help. I murmured a suggestion.

  "Right," she said. "Because, when we pull you out of there, we need to be sure it really is you."

  Pause.

  "Who else could it be? Er, well..."

  "Just tell him to answer the damned questions," Clay said. "Or we'll leave him in there."

  Jaime started to respond, then stopped. "Government conspiracy? Uh, no, this isn't--"

  Pause.

  "No, it's not part of a military test either."

  Pause.

  "Well, yes, I suppose sending enemies of the state into a dimensional holding cell wouldn't be such a bad idea, but neither the CIA or the mil--"

  "CSIS," I said.

  She looked over her shoulder at me.

  "In Canada, it's not the CIA. Remind him that if this was a Canadian intelligence or military operation, it would have to have been
dreamed up by CSIS and funded with our military budget."

  She did.

  After a moment, she said, "Well, yes, I suppose that is kind of funny."

  Pause.

  "No, no, don't apologize. You've been under a lot of stress. Now, if you could just tell us--"

  Pause.

  "An American-designed-and-funded experiment? Using hapless Canadian citizens?"

  She looked back at us. Clay rolled his eyes.

  We never did get Belfour to admit to his name. It didn't matter. After ten minutes of spouting a conspiracy diatribe on the growing U.S. military power under Bush, sprinkled with references to CIA mind control experiments, The Manchurian Candidate, and even an X-Files nod, we knew our guy was from the twenty-first century. We gave him the same reassurances we'd given Mrs. Ashworth, then let him slide back to his dimensional holding cell.

  By that time, we'd started to attract notice from the neighbors. I'd fielded a few questions while Jaime had been listening to Belfour, cutting off the onlookers' approach before they got close enough to hear her arguing with herself. After she sent Belfour back and started trolling again, Clay and I took our show on the road, taking pictures as I played reporter and asked questions of the curious. Ask the right questions, and you can get rid of people pretty fast. Once the first wave had retreated to their homes, I slid over to Jaime.

  "Any luck?" I whispered.

  "I'm...not sure. I'm picking up one more presence, and I think it's male..."

  "Could be our boy. Is he playing shy?"

  "Seems more confused."

  "Not surprising if he's been in there for over a hundred years."

  "I'm trying to lure him over. There--He sees me. He's coming this way. Yep, it's a man, maybe late fifties...Here he comes. Showtime."

  Lyle Sanderson, sixty-one, claimed to have been walking his dog the evening before when "everything went black." Very suspicious...except that he'd answered all our test questions about the twenty-first century with flying colors. A quick query to the next onlooker who'd popped from her house confirmed that a man named Lyle Sanderson lived just down the road...and that a neighbor had found his dog running free last night.

  Jaime continued hunting for another person inside the portal, but finally, she shook her head.

  "Empty," she said.

  "So Hull's lying."

  "Or Jack the Ripper is somewhere else. But he's not here, and that means he's not getting out."

  I glanced at the hairline crack in the road, where everything started. "The door going the other way is still open, though, isn't it? More people can go through. Like Lyle Sanderson."

  "It's not easy. You have to hit just the right spot, at just the right angle. Think of how many people have walked across it in the last few days. Only three went through. You could probably stroll over there and dance on it, and nothing would happen." She looked at the crack again. "Though I wouldn't recommend it..."

  Clay shook his head and walked toward the sidewalk.

  "They won't...remember any of this, right?" I said. "Being in the portal, talking to you...?"

  "Nada. Just like that Hull guy. He only remembers going in and coming out, which makes me think that part of his story is true."

  "And the rest?"

  She shrugged. "I haven't met the guy, but this business about feeling a 'pull' from the zombie controller?" She shook her head and adjusted her oversized purse. "I told Jeremy I think that's bullshit--if Hull didn't die, then he's not a zombie, so he has no connection to any controller. But, like Jeremy said, it can't hurt to try."

  "Time to call and see how it's going."

  "Hold on," I said to Jeremy. "There's a police car whipping up Yonge. I can't hear you."

  He waited a second, then said, "We're over--"

  "Wait, got another one."

  "I can hear the sirens. How much trouble did you three cause?"

  "Very funny."

  "We're near Bay and Gerrard if you want to take a cab over."

  "It's close enough to walk. How did it go with Hull?"

  Silence.

  "He's standing right there, isn't he?" I said. "Did he lead you on a wild goose chase?"

  "So it would seem."

  "We'll be right there."

  I called Rita Acosta, a reporter I'd known at Focus Toronto. She now worked at the Sun, and we still traded the occasional lead. Now, though, I needed to check on Lyle Sanderson, make sure he was really missing.

  "Sanderson, you said?" Her fingers clicked away on the keyboard. "Got him. No missing person report yet, but it's only been a day and if he lives alone, that's not unusual. A third person missing in the neighborhood would be a helluva story to break. I owe you on this one."

  "No problem. Can you call me back after you check it out? It's yours to break, but I might see if I can sell it as a tidbit south of the border. Count the trip as a write-off."

  She laughed. "Smart girl. How much longer are you in town for? We should--Oh, hold on, someone's here."

  She put me on hold. A minute later, she came back on.

  "Gotta run," she said. "Just got a tip. Working girl killed over on Yonge Street."

  "Just now? I heard the sirens."

  "Well, if you're in the area, hustle your butt on over." She rattled off an address. "It's a knifing, and a nasty one. First guy that found her lost his dinner. Sounds good. Could be my ticket to the crime desk." A pause. "Gawd, that sounded awful, didn't it? Time for a new job." A rustle as she grabbed her purse. "Will I see you there?"

  Prostitute? Knifed? Mutilated? With Jack the Ripper not in his portal cell where Hull swore he should be?

  "I'll be there."

  A half block from the crime scene, a cab pulled up beside us. Nick got out, then Antonio, while Jeremy paid the driver. Hull was still with them.

  "Mr. Hull is concerned," Antonio said. "If this could be our--" A quick look at the crowded sidewalk. "--notorious friend, he doesn't feel it would be safe for him to be alone."

  "Tell him to stay clear," Clay said.

  I'd never been at a murder scene. At least, not while it was an active crime scene. I'd always stayed away from crime reporting. I'd have a hard time talking to a victim and just taking the story, without wanting to do something about it. Maybe that's because I'm a werewolf or maybe it's just me.

  This victim wasn't talking, but everyone else was. That's what struck me first--the swell of voices as we turned the corner. So much for respect for the dead.

  The body had been found in an alleyway near an intersection popular with urban nightlife--the sort that did a brisk trade without the benefit of a business license. It seemed everyone within blocks had heard about it, and they'd all converged on the site. Police had erected barriers across the sidewalk on either side, but that only forced the crowd onto the road.

  We split up to cover as much as we could. Clay and I stood on the edge of the crowd, trying to eavesdrop, hear what they knew.

  "Elena?"

  A short woman with dark curly hair waved and strode my way. Then she stopped dead and stared in feigned shock at my stomach.

  "Holy Christ. Where'd that come from?" She gave me a hug that nearly toppled me over. "Congratulations." She reached for Clay's hand. "Rita Acosta, we met a couple of years ago."

  Clay shook her hand and murmured a greeting, which for him was downright friendly.

  Rita waved at the crowd. "Not a hope in hell of getting a firsthand look, although, in your condition, you probably shouldn't."

  At a high-pitched squeal from the alley, Clay turned sharp, eyes narrowing.

  "Is that--?" I began.

  "Rats," he said, lip curling.

  Rita nodded. "They've got animal control in there now, but it's a real mess. They must have come out the minute they smelled blood. I heard that the first cops on the scene had to beat the suckers off. Apparently, that's why the rookie puked. They were feeding--"

  She stopped, gaze dipping to my stomach. "Sorry. Anyway, point is you can't get nea
r the crime scene, and you don't want to. Come over here, and I'll fill you in. Unless..."

  She looked at Clay, as if checking to be sure that murder details would be okay, considering my "condition."

  "It's fine." I patted my belly. "All is quiet--it must be nap time."

  She laughed. "I'll keep my voice down so I don't give the little guy nightmares."

  Contact

  THE YOUNG PROSTITUTE HAD BEEN TENTATIVELY IDENTIFIED as "Kara," last name still unknown. Her throat had been slashed, a deep left to right cut that seemed to have been done from behind, and she'd died quickly, a blessing considering what the killer had done next.

  She'd been cut open from sternum to pubis. Rita had heard that several organs had been removed, though that wasn't confirmed. The coroner was still working on the body, and not about to talk to reporters. What didn't need to be confirmed were the facial mutilations, which had been seen by witnesses before the police arrived...including a few who had snapped pictures with their cell phones. According to Rita, Kara had sustained multiple deep cuts to her face, splitting her nose and severing part of her right ear.

  I tried not to jump to conclusions.

  "That's exactly what you're gonna read on the front page of the Sun, so don't you dare scoop me," Rita said.

  I struggled to smile. "Wouldn't know how."

  Jeremy caught my eye. Rita noticed, and her gaze traveled over him.

  "Friend of yours?"

  I nodded, but wasn't about to introduce him to a human acquaintance if I could help it.

  She kept looking at Jeremy, sizing him up. "Single?"

  I was about to say something noncommittal when Jaime saw Rita looking, and shifted closer to Jeremy, her hand moving up behind him so she seemed to be resting her hand against the small of his back.

  "Guess not," Rita murmured.

  Clay made a noise between a snort and a laugh. Rita's photographer waved to her.

  "Gotta run," she said. "About that other lead, the missing man? I'll follow up on that, and give you a call."

  When we got within ten feet of Jeremy and Jaime, I said, "Better wait here. They're arguing about something."

  Jaime's face was taut, her eyes flashing as she spoke. Jeremy leaned back with his arms crossed.

  "Doesn't seem like much of a fight," Clay said.

  I stared at him.

  "Yeah," he said. "For Jeremy, I guess that's a fight."