Dying for Her: A Companion Novel (Dying for a Living Book 3)

by Kory M. Shrum

  I open it, beginning to recognize Micah’s artwork by sight.

  In the picture, Jesse is in Caldwell’s arms. He is carrying her somewhere and she is either dead or unconscious, I can’t tell which. I search the picture for clues, anything to tell me where or when this happens.

  I try to form questions that will keep him talking. Maybe it is harder to read my mind if he’s wrapped up in his own. “If you wanted her, you could just step in and take her at any moment. Why haven’t you?”

  His eyes darken. “We both know Jesse is different.”

  “Because she’s your kid. Don’t tell me something so trivial is going to hold you back from your plan of world domination.”

  “She’s much more than that and you know it.”

  I think of the angels, of what Rachel has told me and her theories about what else is going on.

  “Ah, so Rachel has been called?” Caldwell says, his face lighting up with interest. “That is one less rat to smoke out.”

  “If you hurt either of them, I’ll kill you.” My head is hot and the anger warms my arms and chest. It feels good.

  “You’ll try,” he says, dismissing me. “What I don’t understand is why you don’t tell Jesse more? Why haven’t you told her about Maisie? Why haven’t you told her about us and what you did for me?”

  “What can I tell her about Maisie?” I ask, seeing an opportunity. “Is she alive?”

  He doesn’t answer me.

  I focus on my hands, rough and square on the coverlet. I breathe. I don’t let a stray thought seep into my mind. “What did you come here for? Just to show me another picture and gloat?”

  “Maybe I was feeling nostalgic,” he says. “Like you with that little memoir you’re writing. I can’t help but think of how this all started and marvel at how we got here.”

  “Do me a favor,” I say, yawning. “If you want to stop by for another late night chat, next time bring some beer, would you? And maybe a burger. I love the Hawaiian Handful from Rudy’s, just so you know. They put this—”

  My throat slams shut. I gag, reaching up to grab ahold of my neck and claw at it. Caldwell is right in front of me then, his face inches from me. He shoves my gun against my temple. “I’m not an errand boy.”

  I cough and open then close my mouth like a fish out of water. I suddenly feel like a bastard for all those summers on the lake with my father and his brothers. How many perch, sunfish and catfish had we thrown on the deck to choke out like this?

  “Stop investigating me. Stop looking for clues for how to stop me. There is no stopping me.” Caldwell spits the words into my face, shoving the barrel harder into the side of my skull. “You have one job. Be the fuckup you are. Make the stupid decisions that you make and if you try anything else, I’ll kill the little spic you’ve got holed up in the hospital. Do you understand?”

  He releases me and disappears.

  My gun falls through the air and bounces against the coverlet beside me. I breathe, slow my thoughts and adrenaline as best I can. I am alone again.

  And once again, I must swallow my questions about Maisie.

  Chapter 25

  Friday, March 28, 2003

  I made it all the way back to my apartment, even dragged my ass up the stairs to the front door before I decided I couldn’t go in. As I stood outside my door, the intensity of the silence weighed on me. I’d been down this road before. Silence at a time like this could drive a guy crazy. I put my fists in my pockets and turned back the way I came.

  It took me seven minutes to get to Blackberry Hill. I must’ve come in with my tail tucked because just one look at me and Peaches harrumphed.

  He placed two shot glasses on the bar as I slid onto a stool. “Who died?”

  “Maisie Michaelson,” I said. “She was 6.”

  His mouth fell open and his eyes went wide. “Fuck.”

  I nodded because I had nothing to add. What was there to say? Worst case scenario, the Michaelson girl was dead. Best case scenario, she was alive but there were a slew of insurmountable roadblocks between me and her, stretching the distance farther and farther between us. I had Jackson and her magic eyeballs. Maybe that would be enough. I’d run so many of these operations that I knew killing someone was an easy solo job, but finding something and bringing it back took resources we didn’t have.

  Peaches sloshed tequila over the rim of each glass and pushed one toward me with a fat finger. “On the house.”

  I picked it up and threw it back, slamming it unnecessarily against the wood. But the pain felt good in my palm, sobering. He filled it again and I threw it back once more. We went four rounds that way and he matched me shot for shot. It was the third shot before I realized what I’d done, my heart plummeting into my chest. I’d called her the Michaelson girl, not Maisie. I was creating distance in my head. I was giving up.

  No, I thought. Maisie. Maisie. Maisie— I won’t give up on you, kid.

  “Oh God, not again.” Peaches grimaced and looked over at the jukebox.

  “Have you tried reprogramming it?” I asked. I realized the high-pitched whine was not in my head, nor was it an injured cat. It was another boy band song blaring from the jukebox.

  His eyes went wide and he slapped the bar top. “Of course, darn it. I’ve torn the thing apart and there is nothing in there. Just the AC/DC, Johnny Cash, Aerosmith and all that.”

  I grunted. “One of life’s great mysteries.”

  “OK, we’ve got to switch to the soft stuff,” he said, returning the tequila to the top shelf. “Or I won’t be able to count the till.”

  “If I shoot your jukebox,” I added. “Don’t take it personally.”

  I accepted the frothy mug with the house pint fizzing inside and also put a twenty on the bar. Peaches shook his head and scraped a thick nail over the white stubble lining his jaw.

  “Put it away, B,” he said. “Save it for another day.”

  He left me to my thoughts then. He played barkeep to his customers while the noise of darts hitting the board sounded behind me and pool balls clacked on a table across the room. The televisions above us broadcasted a soccer game and a Grand Prix race. Slim pickings Peaches would say, since he preferred boxing or football himself, neither of which were in season. The best he could hope for was baseball, which wouldn’t start up until next month.

  I let the sounds of the room, the familiar warmth of these walls, soften me until a man slid onto the stool on my right. My fingers were cold from the frost on the glass and I tried to warm them by rubbing them against my jeans. I stole a glance at the man without being rude. I tried not to be the grumpy bastard who gave everyone the evil eye, but I was too seasoned not to inspect a man who’d come this close.

  He had freckles across his nose and hazel-green eyes. His thick brows were a different shade than the shaggy hair framing his face. A dye job maybe. The scars around his jaw and neck were interesting, almost a clean line from ear to the chin. I assumed it went all the way around, but I didn’t ask. Maybe his overgrown scruff was meant to hide it, or maybe it was none of my fucking business. It was rude as hell to ask a man what shitty thing had left its mark on him.

  “What do you recommend?” he asked.

  His voice was low, almost too low to be heard over the din of the bar, as if he wasn’t accustomed to talking to others.

  “If you don’t order the house pint Peaches will take it personally,” I said, which was true enough.

  “Peaches?” he asked. He measured me with his eyes and I let him. Sometimes, when work went bad, I would rough up the first guy I saw. Some punk like this one would bother me at the wrong time and leave with a bloody mouth for no good reason. To say I was reformed was an understatement.

  “What’ll it be?” Peaches asked him, placing both hands on the bar and waiting for instruction. His long gray ponytail had fallen forward over his shoulder and was resting on his big paunch of a belly, stretched beneath a black AC/DC shirt.

  “The house pint,” the man sa
id, almost like a question.

  Peaches liked the answer and pulled a frosted mug from the mini cooler behind the bar. “House pint it is.”

  “What jerk chose this song?” the stranger asked, looking at the jukebox against the far wall.

  “I’ll give you $100 if you can solve that mystery, man.” Peaches washed mugs in the sink and still wet, pushed them into the back of the fridge to freeze.

  The guy beside me asked a couple of questions, but I didn’t gratify him with an answer. My silence made him nervous I guess, because he laughed. Peaches must’ve felt sorry for him.

  “Don’t bother B, here,” he said. “He’s had a rough night.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” the guy said and gulped his pint. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “He’s a federal agent,” Peaches said.

  “Peaches,” I said and squared my shoulders. “Come on.”

  “Drugs?” the guy asked.

  Peaches corrected him. “Missing people.”

  “Seriously?” the guy said and sat up straighter.

  I didn’t want to talk about work. I sure as hell didn’t want to talk about Maisie to the first yahoo who walked through the door.

  I left my half-finished drink on the bar top and stood. Then I zipped up my leather jacket and left.

  “Aww, B,” Peaches called after me. “Don’t get pissed, man. I’m just proud of what you do.”

  I said nothing, choosing instead to step out into the cold city night.

  Chapter 26

  12 Weeks

  Caldwell left me the picture. I spend the rest of the night in front of the big open window in the kitchen overlooking the city, watching the night fade to dawn and then catch fire with daylight. I stare at the image of Jesse in Caldwell’s arms and try to decide what to do.

  It could be a trap.

  Taking this picture to Gloria might very well set us on the path that leads to this. Or doing nothing could be our downfall. I’m not a god. How the hell am I supposed to know which choice is best?

  I stuff the folded page into my pocket and go out to the cold Impala. I drive across town to a little squat house overgrown with weeds. The kitchen light is on when I pull into the gravel driveway and I marvel at that for a moment. Jackson has a tendency to walk from dark room to dark room long after sunset.

  Then I see the hearse in the driveway.

  I creep up to the back of the house and let myself in. I hear Kirk’s voice for only a moment before the front door slams shut. I don’t have to creep. I could say hello. After all, Kirk is one of the few to know I am alive. But I’m not in a chitchat mood. I slide through the house toward the kitchen and find Jackson there alone. She reaches up and turns off the light.

  “What’s going on?”

  She grabs a Coke from the fridge and offers me a beer. I turn her down. “He believes someone has been stealing Jesse’s clothes from the funeral home. He can’t be sure, so he’s going to wait awhile. He asked me to check on her.”

  “So what will you do?” I ask and sit opposite her at the table.

  “I’m not a goddamn Magic 8 Ball,” she says. “You can’t just shake me and find out what will happen.”

  The picture in my pocket grows heavy. She takes a long drink and then puts the can down to look at me. Her face scrunches.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I would never take your gifts for granted,” I say, realizing I’m completing my internal train of thought rather than answering her actual question.

  Her face hardens. “Did he come see you again?”

  I pull the folded sheet of sketch paper from my pocket and hand it to her. With a furrowed brow I’ve seen many times over the last decade, I watch her open it up and smooth it flat with her hand. Her expression punches a hole in my chest.

  “Micah drew this,” she says, softly. The tenderness is unmistakable. I nod.

  She studies it the way someone might study the Mona Lisa or a Van Gogh. Her finger touches some of the lines as if they are butterfly wings. “He’s good. See how clearly he draws the shadow and the light. The chiaroscuro—I taught him that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  “No,” she says. “Thank you. I’ve always wanted to see his work.”

  I tell her about Caldwell’s visit.

  “You’re still dreaming about the boy?” she asks.

  I snort. “I don’t think that’s the most important thing I just said to you.”

  “You have to forgive yourself for that. It was a direct order.”

  I snort again. “A direct order.”

  “We’ve all received an order or ten that we didn’t agree with. It doesn’t mean we had the power to refuse it.”

  “Do you think Sullivan would have done it, if she thought it was wrong?”

  A smile quirks in the corner of Jackson’s mouth. “No.”

  “No,” I agree. “As much as it irks me, I love that about the kid. I could tell her to kill someone and she’d tell me to put my foot up my ass. You’d never get her to do something wrong unless you convinced her it was the right thing to do.”

  “You believed it was right,” Jackson says. “If the bomb had been real, it would’ve killed a lot more people. You acted on what you believed to be right.”

  She drinks her Coke and looks down at the sketch lovingly as if it had been drawn for her by her own children—if she’d ever had any.

  “How is Jesse’s training going?” she asks.

  “Slow. She argues more than she listens, but maybe that’s a good thing. She’s got the lockpicking down. Her aikido is getting better and her Shotokan is pretty good. She gave me a kidney shot the other day that brought tears to my eyes.”

  “Is she ready for the Lovett job?”

  “She’ll do all right.”

  She looks up at me then. “Is she ready for him?”

  I see Jesse defenseless in Caldwell’s arms. A trick or not, it’s there in black-and-white.

  “I don’t know if she’ll ever be ready.”

  Chapter 27

  Saturday, March 29, 2003

  I showed up at Chaplain’s fifteen minutes before 9:00 P.M. to scope out the scene. I considered calling Jackson. She was good with a gun and had an instinct about her. There were worse people to have as backup. Besides, the deeper we went into this, the more I trusted her. She seemed the only one willing to do what was right—whatever the cost.

  I decided to go in alone.

  For ten minutes, men filed into the large house near Beckett Park. Both sides of Page Street were filled with parked cars, arranged horizontally along the curb. Some cars had a single soul. Others had four or five.

  I recognized a few—drug peddlers and pimps—and marveled at what classy company Chaplain kept. But there were plenty of faces I didn’t know, and some of the men were far too polished to be anyone’s Eastside pimp. And why they were here, filing into the large, dark house on Page Street, I really wanted to find out.

  It wasn’t until I saw Fizz climb out of a car with two other men, all three of them with unnatural hair colors: pink, orange, and green, that I made my move. First, I watched them approach the front door, then pause on the porch to present what I assumed was the admission fee.

  I took a breath and made sure I had a boot knife and my loaded Beretta before I climbed out of the Impala.

  I came up behind two men trying to enter the house. I hoped the door men would assume I was with them, grouped together with more familiar faces, I wouldn’t look so suspicious. I also watched their actions carefully so I wouldn’t fuck up. They handed over the money and then were patted down. I realized then my gun was a mistake even before the large man to the right of me placed a beefy hand on it.

  “No guns,” he said. He had a big neck, little head. Not the most flattering combination.

  “Shit, I forgot,” I said. “I’ll put it back in the car.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

  I hesitated and saw his fea
thers ruffle. Fine, I’d give up the gun if I had to. “Sure, hang on to it for me.”

  $500 lighter, I stepped into the dark house. A soft music seeped in from somewhere I couldn’t see.

  Speakers might have hung from the ceiling or were tucked into dark corners, but there was simply not enough light in the room for me to tell. Louder than the music was a soft murmur of excitement.

  The electricity of anticipation charged the air. I followed the crowd in, and found that seats had been arranged in rows like a small theatre. I took an empty seat at the end of the second row. I wanted a clear shot for the door if I needed to make a break for it, but I also wanted to be close enough to the “stage” to see what the hell was going on. A velvet rope cut the room in half, the kind used in theaters to queue lines.

  On this side of the velvet rope, which hung between two brass posts, we had uncomfortable metal folding chairs. They were despicably low to the ground, and my knees bent up comically when I took a seat. The sounds of grit or sand scraped against the wood floor underfoot. On the other side of the velvet rope, a bedroom—or the replica of one—waited.

  A fluffy white duvet was thrown over a mattress held up by a brass bed frame, the bed itself empty and waiting. Overhead lights burned down on the scene, the bed, the night tables, the old rug, dusty and neglected beneath the bed. Definitely a set for play.

  When I glanced up to identify the source of the light, I saw the speakers and the cameras. But the cameras weren’t trained on us. They showed no interested in the men filling the metal chairs on this side of the velvet rope, the shuffling and anxious men. Those black eyes were oblivious to the low, excited voices. The men sat on the edge of their seats, their necks craning stage left, eyes trained on the dark door for the first sign of—what?

  What was coming? Whatever it was, that’s what the cameras cared about.

  The anticipation broke when a girl bounded through the door crying.

  Her cheeks were tear-stained and her long white gown the parody of innocence. A man came through the door after her. He was in street clothes. His jeans were faded at the knees and he wore a battered pair of Rugged Blue work boots.