by J N Duncan
Her sense of body drifted away to nothing. The world of the dead evaporated into darkness, and Laurel braced herself for the inevitable assault. She could only hope this tiny slice of herself that remained would disappear beneath Rosa’s blind anger, and she would be left with the sliver of hope that Jackie, Shelby, or Nick might find her and give her enough energy to come back from the brink.
Laurel quieted her mind—emptying it of all thought, focusing on nothing—and waited while somewhere out there her spirit bled away, one violent slam at a time.
Chapter 25
Jackie covered her ears. The baby’s wailing was incessant, a droning, endless cry born of injustice and pain. Her hands did little to quell the sound. The gray fog of Deadworld drifted through the sky above her, cold and unforgiving.
“Great,” she muttered. “Another damn Deadworld dream.”
Only this time she got to be the ghost. Her flesh gave off the familiar soft light and was gray as the ground beneath her bare feet. At least the pounding in her head was gone. She reached up and felt the long stitched welt on the side of her head. Dreams apparently could only do so much.
She turned around to get her bearings and recognized the home of Rosa Sanchez, clear and colorless, appearing quite unlike what she had seen here before. It had a glow to it not unlike her own flesh, throbbing in syncopated time to the infant’s cries. Somewhere in there, probably writhing on a bloody mattress, was the source of the awful sound. Jackie thought for a moment to tell her dream to fuck off and just walk in the other direction, but she knew how dreams worked. No matter what direction she went, the house would reappear. Jackie went to shove her hands in her pockets only to realize she had on her sweats, and so huffed in annoyance and began to walk toward the house.
“Stay out of my house.”
The voice came from all around and inside her head. Jackie stopped and turned in all directions. Nobody was in sight.
“Rosa?” She was fairly sure that’s who it was. The voice was rushed and low, bordering on a growl. The accent was certainly Latino.
“You keep away from my house,” she said, “or I shall make sure you stay broken. Do you understand?”
Jackie winced. There was that phrase again, in all its awful simplicity. “What are you talking about?”
“Just keep out of my house!” Her voice was an intense whisper around Jackie, almost like she did not want other people to hear.
“Yeah, whatever. It’s my dream. I’ll go in there if I want to,” Jackie said to the air. “Besides, I’m dead. Doesn’t fucking matter now, does it?” For a brief, stomach-clenching moment, Jackie wondered if perhaps she was indeed now dead, having drifted off into some drug-induced coma while she slept. What a shitty way to go that would be. But she was in front of Rosa’s house, which would not have happened if she were really dead. She would have been at her apartment, looking down on her corpse with half its hair shaved off and a wretched football lace running along the scalp. Nick would surely want to kiss her now. And she cared about this, why?
“To kiss or not to kiss,” Jackie said and began to walk around the house, the wail pushing against her with literal force, forcing her to lean toward the house as though she were walking in a strong wind. This was one of the most intensively tactile dreams she could ever remember having. Her previous dreams of Deadworld had been very muddled, full of swirling images, violence, and cold that caused your bones to break into tiny shards. Of course now she had a screaming babe to deal with.
Jackie wondered how she would feel about this if she were a mother. Would those cries sound different to her? Probably so. But she did know about innocent lives stolen in the worst of ways, and this was just an extreme example of that.
“What was his name going to be, Rosa? If you’re going to be talking to me I may as well see how I answer.”
She was in the backyard when the answer came. “Antonio.”
Jackie nodded. “OK. I like that name; good, strong, male name. After the father? Or was Rennie Vasquez the father?”
A string of Spanish clapped down around Jackie like a sonic boom and knocked her to her knees. Likely, the words were not kind ones for Rennie Vasquez.
“Wow.” Jackie got back to her feet, more surprised than hurt. “So we don’t like Rennie.” She was coming back around to the front door. She stared up at the upstairs windows where somehow the wailing siren of Antonio continued to blare, his rhythm and intensity perfectly constant. “What is little Antonio saying, I wonder?” Jackie stepped up to the door and turned the handle. “Is he crying for mother or screaming for vengeance? What do I think?”
Rosa said nothing until she was near the top of the landing. “He cries for blood.”
Jackie stopped and looked around, half expecting to see Rosa. Her voice had gained a sudden clarity, but this time there were tears. There was rage for sure, but behind it, Jackie could hear the voice of someone on the verge of tears. “Maybe he’s crying for you, too.” As all children do for the parent they have lost. Jackie felt her throat clenching up. “OK, let’s get this conversation going in a different direction. I am really curious and a bit petrified of just how I think Antonio must look here on the other side. Will he be a normal crying infant or something . . . else I really don’t want to see.”
“You are in my house?”
Jackie chuckled. “You mean you can’t tell? How does that work?”
“Get out! Get out now.”
“Rosa,” Jackie said, more flippant than she might have been had this been real, “fuck you. I want to see him.”
Spanish expletives faded into the backdrop of the baby’s cries. Jackie walked forward and grabbed a hold of the master-bedroom door.
“No!” Rosa yelled. “Stay away from my baby!”
“I’m not going to touch him, Rosa. I swear,” Jackie said. “I just want to see.” And hopefully not turn this dream into a nightmare.
“Jackie!” The voice was faint, barely discernible over Antonio’s, but still instantly recognizable. Laurel.
Jackie turned away from the door. “Laur?”
“Damn you, you broken bitch,” Rosa’s voice sounded dangerously close.
She spun around to see the yawning bright door between worlds, and Jackie felt herself being sucked through. And it had just been getting interesting, too.
Jackie gasped awake, sucking in a huge lungful of air as though she had been suffocating. She lay sprawled over the end of her bed, covers thrown aside. Her head played a horrid techno-beat on a big bass drum in time with her pounding heart. Roughly ten miles away, the bottle of Percocet sat on her end table. Jackie flopped over and fumbled for the bottle, focusing at last on her alarm clock. It read 7:12 AM. She lolled her head over and could indeed see the sky was getting lighter, even if it was soaked with rain.
“Shit. No way.” Jackie groaned. She felt exhausted and lay on her back until her body calmed itself from the shock of jumping through that doorway. Apparently even in dreams it fucked you up. Bickerstaff leaped up on the bed and poked his wet nose at her face. “Hey Bickers. Give me a minute, would you? Mommy is still out of it.” He gave her a lick and then proceeded to jump down and trot back toward the kitchen.
Jackie realized she had to pee about thirty minutes ago. Her bladder pleaded no matter how she turned. A moment later, the phone rang. It could be any number of people trying to reach her. She reached over and picked it up, rolling painfully over on her bladder. Caller ID said it was McManus. Jackie remembered now. He was going to call last night, but she probably had slept right through it.
She clicked the TALK button. “Hey, McManus. I just woke up.”
“Finally,” he said in an exasperated tone. “I called twice last night, but figured you must have been pretty much drugged out. How you doing, Jack?”
“Percocet party,” Jackie said. “Sorry. I had to. My head is still throbbing. Hard to believe a couple of smacks against the floor can do this.”
“Don’t mess with a concussion, J
ack,” he said. “Just get some rest.”
“Trying to,” she replied. “I slept all night, but feel like shit right now. Anyway, I have to pee and get coffee in me. Let me call you back in a few minutes.”
Jackie struggled to the bathroom and relieved herself. It took a great deal of effort just to flush and get back up. The toilet wasn’t all that uncomfortable really. She could lay her head against the counter on her arm and doze for a bit longer. Bickerstaff nudged the door open and meowed.
“OK, fine. I’m coming.”
She opened the can and let him eat off the kitchen counter while she put some coffee on. It was then she remembered Nick had bought her cold coffee drinks. There were still two Doubleshots in there. She grabbed one and went back to take a shower and another Percocet. Once naked, Jackie caught sight of herself in the mirror and realized how much of a beating she had taken. There were bruise marks from Morgan’s fingers around her throat and a huge purple and brown patch in the middle of her back where the screen door had hit. Her left elbow ached, her knees were scraped, and her feet felt like she had been walking for miles. Of course there was her head, a tender welt the size of a damn golf ball on the back and shaved down the left. She could handle the cuts and bruises. That was just part of the job, but the exhaustion and the throbbing made it difficult to think, and an FBI agent who couldn’t think was pretty much a dead one.
The shower felt so good, Jackie stood beneath the hot spray until it ran out and cold water snapped her back to being half-awake. The phone rang again the moment she sat down on the couch with her coffee. It was 8:01.
Jackie clicked the phone on. “Hi, Nick,” she said, attempting to sound more chipper than she felt. “I’m still sore, tired, and my head hurts. But I’m clean and I have coffee. How are you?”
“Not as sore or clean,” he replied. “How’s the head? No signs of major concussion?”
“No, Dr. Nick. It seems to be just a normal, minor concussion.”
His soft, deep chuckle rumbled in her hear. “Sorry. Habit. You tend to just ignore things when you shouldn’t. So I’m playing it safe.”
“I can’t ignore a concussion,” she said, wondering if he was being just a little bit patronizing. “It makes it difficult to function. Not that it matters. I won’t be doing much of anything for a while.”
“Perhaps. I can bring you something from Annabelle’s. You hungry?”
Do I really want him over here right now? “Sure, that’d be great.” Thank you, mouth. You’re a big help.
“One or two?”
Not all that hungry really, and don’t want to sound like—“Two. I need to call McManus, though. Told him I’d call him back a bit ago about the case. See you soon.”
Jackie dialed McManus and laid back on the couch, sipping her coffee. He was already at headquarters, and if the speed of his voice was any indication, his nerves were rattled. They had to get their story straight, make sure there were no inconsistencies or errors in logic.
“The Standards guys aren’t out to get us, McManus. You realize they’re on our side.”
“Yes, I know,” he said and blew out a deep breath away from the phone. “Sorry. They stress me out, and they will get on us if our stories don’t match.”
“Why wouldn’t they?” Jackie felt the gnawing worm of worry in her stomach. “They find something there, Ryan? Did something . . . weird happen?”
“You mean besides killing a Chicago detective who was offing gang members who may or may not have been responsible for the deaths of Rosa Sanchez and her husband?”
“Yes,” Jackie said. “Besides that.”
There was a pause, maybe half a second before he replied. “Isn’t this case weird enough without all the ghost shit getting in the way?”
The ghost shit. Jackie frowned. It did not sit well with her. “Yeah. Well, Ryan, why don’t you give me the official run down of what’s in the report and I’ll just make sure my story matches up. OK?”
“Sorry, Jack,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just the Standards guys aren’t going to like the sound of anything weird.”
“Didn’t Belgerman gag you on talking about ghost stuff?”
“Yes.”
There was a lingering “but” in there. Jackie could feel it. “But what, McManus?”
He paused for several seconds. “I’ve got the impression you don’t always do what Belgerman asks.”
Jackie wasn’t sure if she should laugh or be pissed. “From who? You’ve been here for, what, a week? Who gave you that impression?”
“Um . . . everyone, really. Don’t get me wrong,” he added hastily. “I actually find that refreshing. Bosses don’t always know everything.”
She laughed. “This one does. Don’t cross John. You’re not a pigheaded bitch like me, so you’d never get away with it. Speaking of which, has he come in yet?”
“Yeah. He was here before I got here at seven thirty.”
“Great. Shit is hitting the fan already,” Jackie replied and closed her eyes. John really must love me right now. It would be a good idea to make sure their knowledge of events didn’t contain any inconsistencies. “All right, Ryan, tell me what you’ve told anyone so far about what happened. I had a few in to see me last night but my answers were all the same. I saw Morgan about to enter the house, I approached, he shot whomever it was that answered the door. I tried to tell him to stop and he attempted to shoot me. I returned fire and then tackled him in the entry of the house. In the struggle to subdue him, he got his hands around my throat and slammed my head against the floor until I blacked out. No memory of anything after that.”
“That’s about what I figured,” McManus said, but Jackie could hear that wasn’t all he had to say about the events. He told her his side of things until he got to the part about finding her in the dining room. “Wait a minute. How the hell did I get from the entry into the dining room?”
“I’d hoped you had an explanation for that,” McManus said. “I’m guessing you were delirious from the concussion and crawled over there before passing out.”
“OK, maybe, but Morgan was dead in the entry?” She was in the dining room? The other victim was in the kitchen. It didn’t make any sense.
“The presumption is that he staggered around the corner to kill the second vic and then fell back into the entry.”
“Oh. I didn’t actually see him die, so that’s possible. That must have been what happened.” Had to be. She was going to have to look at the evidence soon and verify what the hell had gone on there. “I’ll be in later today so I can go over the evidence. We can get some official paperwork written up for this.”
“That would be great, Jack. Thanks.” He sounded clearly relieved. “Be nice to get this case out of the way as soon as possible.”
“We still have to find Vasquez,” she said.
“That’s still a different case,” McManus replied. “He’s not who you and I were after.”
Jackie let out her breath, chin sagging to her chest. How ironic was this, to be explaining supernatural case elements to her partner? I miss you, Laur. I really, really do. “If Rosa’s ghost isn’t done and she believes Vasquez was a part of her death, then this case isn’t done, McManus. I’ll bet Vasquez is hiding because he knows someone is killing those involved in Rosa’s death. He just doesn’t realize that it’s Rosa that’s after him and eventually, if she wants to, she’ll find him and spill his entrails all over the floor like everyone else.”
“Thanks for that,” he said with a pained sound. “So much for breakfast.”
“Vasquez is gang stuff, Ryan. This is your gig, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know Chicago gangs very well, but I should be able to help out.”
“Then find him before Rosa does, because she’s only got one goal and doesn’t give a rat’s ass who gets in the way.”
Nick arrived about ten minutes later, a white bag in his hand, the familiar brown with gold trim lettering partially obscured by his han
d. Jackie snatched it from his hand and stuck her face in the bag. “Damn it! I can still smell blood even through the chocolate. This is so gross.”
“It should hopefully clear with your concussion,” Nick said. “Is it really strong?”
“Other than wondering if there’s a beheaded body stuffed in my piano, no.” She took the bag over to the couch and sat down. “You can have one of these if you want. I’m not all that hungry actually.”
He shook his head. “Keep it for later then.” He sat opposite her on the couch. “Are you going in today?”
“They’ve all got questions. The sooner it’s out of the way the better, and I’d rather they didn’t come out here.”
“Any more memories of the events come back?”
“Nick, it was a mild concussion. I’ve got the headache from hell, not amnesia.”
“OK. You just look really tired. Will it be safe for you to drive in?”
“Nick!” His concern was actually kind of endearing, but too much was going to drive her batty. “If I need a ride, I’ll let you know. OK?”
“All right. Sorry.” He sighed and gave her a wary smile. “It’s just you come up to a gun fight and see a head wound and nine times out of ten, it’s not good.”
Jackie swallowed the lump in her throat. Christ. It really had freaked him out. What did that mean? Was it just sweet or should she be worried he was stressing over her getting shot? These weren’t questions she had needed to consider, except with Laurel. She had not needed to worry about wanting to sleep with Laurel either. “You’re right. You’re right. I was this close to being dead yesterday. It was reckless and—”
“Brave,” Nick finished. “It was brave and foolish and, for the most part, worked. I don’t think you could have stopped Morgan without killing or seriously wounding him. It’s just unfortunate Rosa kept him going long enough to kill the other guy.”
Jackie held her breath and chewed on the chocolate-filled croissant. If she did that, at least she could enjoy the flavor without it being tinged with the metallic, pungent flavor of blood. “Would Morgan’s ghost be there, you think?”