by J N Duncan
“Shit,” Shelby said in whisper. “She’s up here somewhere.” She darted down the hall to the left. “Go around the other way. Look for a door into the middle.”
Nick took off before Jackie could even react and was around the opposite corner before she could barely get going.
Before she was even halfway down the next section of hall leading around to the other side of the building, Shelby’s voice boomed across the whole floor. “Drake!” A quick burst of four gunshots followed.
And then there was laughter. Dark, rich, and utterly humorless.
“No.” Jackie ran as hard as she could, careening off the wall as she rounded the far corner. The hall was a gigantic square surrounding a room in the middle. The only door in had been on the opposite side. She watched Nick dart in without hesitation, and she quickly followed into singularly illuminated darkness.
The silence was all wrong. No running footsteps, no cries of “here he comes” or “look out.” Jackie swung her Glock back and forth, sweeping the room, but she could see nothing other than the center fluorescent light. “Where? Where is he?”
“Smiley fucker just stepped across, Nick. Just opened up a door and walked right through.” Shelby’s hands went up to her head then, the Beretta lying across the top. She began to walk toward the light. “Oh, goddamnit. Laurel.”
Jackie had noticed it upon entering the room, but her brain only just now let her really see the body that lay on the steel table in the middle of the room. Dark hair cascaded down over the side, along with a limp arm. The hair was all wrong. That could not be her. It wasn’t her! A momentary wave of relief washed over Jackie, and she walked forward to see, to verify the possibility that this was a big mistake. She watched Shelby pick the arm up and lay it gently by the body’s side.
“I’m sorry, Jackie.” The voice was Nick’s, coming from behind. He knew before Jackie got close enough to verify.
Thirty feet away, Jackie stopped, gun dropping to her side. Nick was right. She could see it in the features of the face. Drake had colored her hair. “She’s dead?” Her voice was soft, quiet, sounding like a young girl.
“A little blood, Nick. If you’d been on blood we would have been here sooner.” Shelby held up her hand and stomped toward him. “Five fucking minutes. Five!”
“Wouldn’t have mattered, Shel. He would have killed her anyway.”
“Maybe,” she said, and from behind her, Jackie heard the unmistakable thump of someone getting slugged in the gut, the grunt and coughing rush of air. “Maybe not.”
Jackie finally made her feet move, shuffling forward. She vaguely heard Nick drop to his knees in the fading background. The world narrowed the closer she came, as if she were approaching a precipice, beyond which lay nothing. The body lay upon the steel, clothed only from the waste up, her lower half covered in a familiar-looking quilt. On the left calf, Laurel’s familiar blue-and-green fairy no longer danced with a magical life of its own. Her face was serene, eyes closed, one corner of her mouth turned just the slightest bit up into a smile.
Rage. There should have been screaming rage, hurling furniture, the need for a straightjacket, but Jackie only stared, and the gun slowly slipped from her numb fingertips and fell to the floor. Her mouthed worked. There were words somewhere, something she wanted to say, but nothing worked. There under the bright fluorescent bulb, the world had died and now lay broken at her feet.
She took Laurel’s cold fingers in her hand and held them, wanting to say good-bye, but for the life of her, Jackie could not force the words out of her mouth. Instead the words built up and finally spilled down her cheeks. Somewhere in the background, the chaos of sound marking the rest of the FBI entered the room, as well as Shelby’s voice, far closer-next to her, even.
“Jackie. Come on, we should move out of their way.”
She shook her head, violently enough to fling tears off around her. She wanted to get those words out, whatever they were. Had to. Jackie squeezed Laurel’s hand in hers, hoping that even in death she might give the same strength and inspiration she gave off in life, but there was only failure.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Laur.” Her knees buckled, and Jackie sagged against the table. The rest of the words vanished into tearful nonsense, buried under the bubbling gasps of sobs that, once started, didn’t want to stop.
Jackie clutched on to Laurel’s body, her head pressed to the unmoving chest, and wailed.
Chapter 32
Nick sat on the hood of Jackie’s car watching the FBI help Shelby into the backseat of one of their cars. Her usually petulant mouth had drawn out into a thin, angry line. The flashing red and blue lights did little to accentuate the puffy eyes. They were taking her in on the assault, but he knew better. It would not stick. They just wanted a chance to get her downtown for questioning. Part of that anger was directed at him, the rest at Drake, and the tears were for Laurel Carpenter.
He said nothing to anyone, having been told to wait, which he reluctantly did. They had some questions, of course, beyond the usual documentation. The look from Jackie’s boss had held a thousand of them. So Nick sat and nursed the sore ribs where Shelby had sucker punched him. He had dropped like a stone on that one-had not seen it coming. Nearly had him puking on the floor, but felt like it anyway after watching Jackie fall apart. They had to drag her off Laurel’s body and she had fought to keep them from taking her away until somebody had knocked her up with some sedative. At that point, Nick had walked out and down to the street.
Guilt stung Nick down to the quick. It always came back to blood in the end, and, once again, the lack thereof had cost another life. Damn it all. He had warned them, but, then, who was going to reasonably listen to stories of vampires and a century-old tale of vengeance? Would it have even mattered? Something had happened. Drake had power Nick had never seen, an ability he did not realize they could do. The man had crossed over.
He could walk among the dead if he so desired, but why would anyone want to? The living and dead were separated for a reason. More to the point, there were dead over there Nick was not sure he wanted to see. Who was he kidding? He desperately wanted to see them, and was terrified they would not want to see him. Without precious blood, however, the game was over.
The FBI could be dealt with, however. Once Jackie got her feet back on the ground, there would be some rather awkward explaining to do. They would all be pissed. One of their own had been killed. He could hardly tell them it was a bad idea to go after this guy. All he could do now was minimize the damage, get to the end as quickly as possible, and try to save them any more grief on his part.
Nick rubbed his face with his hands and let out a long, weary breath. A cigarette and a whiskey sounded damn fine at the moment. Ah, Gwen! I’m not going to hold up my end of the bargain after all. When he looked up, the blanket-clad figure of Jackie came out of the building, her boss’s arm wrapped around her shoulder. Her eyes, swollen and dark as the churning, raining sky overhead, looked straight ahead, unmoving. She looked smaller, Nick thought, as if Laurel’s death had carved some of the flesh from her bones, and those wide, staring eyes made her look sixteen.
The sight grew unbearable for Nick, and he got up to take a walk-and ran right into one of the agents.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said, not sounding at all pleased to be chatting with him.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t be going anywhere. You can ride downtown with me. We’ll want an official report from you on what happened here, and any other information you might find… useful to tell us.”
“All right,” Nick said. “I’ll need a ride back later to get my car.”
“If and when you go, I’ll bring you back for the car,” he replied. “Don’t talk to the reporters, please. You might find it better just to wait in my car over there.” He pointed to one angled into the curb behind where Jackie had been shut away.
It occurred to Nick then that they would want the same information out of Jackie Rutl
edge, and she was in no condition to do anything. “You aren’t taking her downtown, are you? She may need a hospital.”
“Let us worry about our own, Mr. Anderson. Agent Rutledge is as tough as they come, but that was her friend in there that got killed. Believe me, she’ll want to get after the fucker as soon as possible.”
Nick had a feeling that might not be true. She looked broken, and not in a “patch it up and send it back out” sort of way. He had seen it many times over the years, and been there, too. A lot of times you did not come back from that kind of injury. The wounds never closed. A pang of sympathy went out to her. “I’ll just wait in your car until you’re ready.”
He nodded. “Good idea.”
Nick crossed the street, pausing long enough to let the other FBI car pull away from the curb. The shrouded head of Jackie leaned against the window, and for a brief moment, Nick thought he saw recognition in those eyes, but what feeling lay in that blank stare, he could not fathom. He held the gaze for that instant and gave her the one solace he had at his disposal. Sleep. He mouthed the word to her, drawing what bit of power he could to impart the suggestion, but had no idea if it held before the car sped away.
An hour later, Nick found himself seated in a conference room surrounded by a dozen FBI agents, none of whom had welcoming expressions upon their faces. It was a somber and angry room. Belgerman, the head of the Chicago division, stood at the head of the table, pouring himself some coffee into a Styrofoam cup.
“Coffee, Mr. Anderson?”
“Sure, thanks,” Nick said with a nod. “You might as well call me Nick. I have a feeling this isn’t the last meeting we’ll be having.” He picked up the second cup of coffee. “I’m really very sorry for your loss. I liked Ms. Carpenter. She was… gifted.”
Belgerman cut off someone’s reply with a raised finger. “Keep the comments to yourself, Pernetti. Everyone here is hurting with the loss of Agent Carpenter, but you will all measure your responses here tonight with respect. Am I clear?”
The silence was agreement enough. Nick decided he liked John Belgerman. He was his kind of guy-caring, demanding, and no bullshit.
“Mr. Anderson here has agreed to give us the rundown on what happened tonight, and any other extenuating and unusual circumstances involving this case. Every word, and I do mean literally every word spoken in this room, now stays in this room. We appreciate your help, Nick.” He offered him a faint smile, and Nick took it for what it was worth: “You cooperate with us, and we’ll get along just fine. You owe us.”
“I don’t know exactly what information you have on things,” Nick began. “I don’t know exactly what you know about me or Ms. Fontaine, or who it is you’re dealing with-”
“We have a fair bit of unusual and conflicting information, Mr. Anderson,” John cut in. “Why don’t you just tell us your side of this case. It may fill in some of the holes we have.”
Nick looked around the table at the faces staring at him. He had experienced tougher rooms, but this one had a thick cloud of suspicion and doubt floating in the air. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind to what I’m going to say. If anyone has a question, feel free to interrupt.” Their silence appeared to be an invitation to speak. “In Wyoming, back in 1862, a traveling preacher by the name of Cornelius Drake came into my jurisdiction. I was a sheriff back then.” To his surprise, they had nothing to say on that, and so Nick continued, telling his story for the second time in several days.
Before he got out of the 1860s, John interrupted him. “Let me get this straight, Mr. Anderson. You turned yourself into a vampire so you could come after this guy, even though you knew if you failed to get him, another twenty people’s blood would be on your hands, plus whoever might go after him as well, and possibly innocent bystanders who just got in the way?”
Nick grimaced. “Put that way, it sounds like a poor choice.”
“True,” John agreed. “Very poor, but I would have probably done the same. He killed your family. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Anderson. Please continue.”
An hour later, he had caught them up to that evening’s events. “We arrived, and Drake stepped through to the other side. Ms. Carpenter was dead at that point.”
“Stepped through what?” someone asked.
Nick shrugged, as he was not exactly sure himself. “A door, portal, I don’t know exactly how to describe it. I honestly didn’t realize he could do it until I saw it happen. It explains why we’ve had such a difficult time tracking him.”
A guy with a large shiny forehead leaned forward on the table. “So you’re saying this murderer is lounging around with ghosts or spirits or whatever and will just pop back over when he feels like it?”
“I’m assuming so,” Nick said. “It’s not something I can do, so I can’t explain it or understand it. I just know it’s what he’s doing now.”
“Can you tell where he’ll come back?” another asked.
Nick shook his head. “Unlikely.”
“Well, that’s fucked,” the agent said.
“Any clue who the prick is going after next?” It was Pernetti this time, and Nick realized now that maybe this group was not so skeptical after all. Perhaps they actually believed him. “You said it’s people who look like your family he is killing.”
“My grandmother,” Nick answered. “Seventy-five-year-old quilt maker. She made handcrafted rag dolls as well.”
“We have a picture of her, I believe,” John added.
Pernetti frowned. “Not much to go on.”
Nick agreed. “I know. Our main hope will be in tracking him down before he can kill again.”
“And you can do that?” John said.
“With Ms. Fontaine’s help. It just takes time. We can sense each other, Mr. Belgerman, and the more blood he’s had, the easier he is to find.” Nick downed the rest of his cold coffee in one gulp. Killing him would be an entirely different matter.
“Can we keep him from just stepping through one of those doors again?” Gamble wondered.
“I don’t know,” Nick admitted, his voice dry and harsh. It was a tough pill to swallow. Drake had figured out how to cross over and back at will. Nick had thought it a one-way trip, but, apparently, he was wrong. Yet without real blood in his veins, how could Nick realize any of those possibilities? He needed to get out of there soon. The emotional constraint was beginning to fray his nerves. “I think you need to get rid of the notion of catching this man,” Nick said quietly through gritted teeth. “You’ll need to try to kill him.”
Gamble leaned back in his chair, letting out a pent-up breath. “Why do I get the feeling you think that’s easier said than done?”
“Because it will be,” Nick replied. “I’m not even sure we can anymore.” It was the sad and depressing truth.
Chapter 33
The miniature grandfather clock atop Jackie’s bookcase rang a single chime, signaling her that it was now 3:30 AM. The bottle of tequila sitting on the piano stood three-quarters empty, while the bottle of sleeping pills prescribed by Matilda Erikson, the FBI’s shrink, sat next to it unopened. Tillie had filled the prescription and given them to Jackie without even asking if she wanted them.
“You won’t be able to sleep,” Tillie had said. “Take them. You need the break.” She had held Jackie’s hands, still trembling with the chill of death, in her own, warm with life. “And call me if things get bad.”
Jackie knew what that meant. If she thought about swallowing a bullet, she should call and let Tillie talk her out of it. The Glock lay on her nightstand, now, too far away to make it even worth the effort. Everything was too much effort now. The effort to live required some amount of force of will that Jackie hardly felt like holding on to.
The thing was, Jackie had no desire to sleep. She did not need a break, nor deserve one. She had let down her best friend when she’d needed her the most. Her fingers played out parts of Mozart’s Requiem on the piano, missing keys every few notes and then starting over. At one point,
she tried to play a Carly Simon song, a favorite of Laurel’s, but had broken down eight notes into it, sobbing until her stomach hurt so much she had thrown up half the tequila. Ten minutes or a half an hour later, the tears would begin to run once again, not even aware that she had been thinking anything at all. It was like her body and mind were on two separate grief schedules.
The one person she could turn to in a time like this was no longer around to lean on. The world had become a vastly emptier place. Finally, the bottle dribbled its last few drops onto her tongue, and Jackie hurled it across the room. She could not even be rewarded with the violent shatter of glass, as it hit the thick curtain over her window and fell harmlessly to the carpet below.
About six AM exhaustion finally overcame Jackie, and her body began to tremble. From cold or nerves she could not tell, but once started, it would not stop. She curled up on the couch, clutching a couple throw pillows against her stomach, her breath coming in ragged half sobs.
“Laurel,” she stammered. It was the only word that would come out of her mouth, and Jackie kept saying it over and over again until sleep finally overtook her.
Amidst the chimes of the clock and her telephone, Jackie bolted upright from the couch, the vague images of a dream from the night before fading from her brain. “Laur?” Jackie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. One of those eyes was starting to ache horribly, and a vile paste coated her mouth. A drink was in order before she had to run for the bathroom. The dream left the uneasy feeling that Laurel had been talking to her. She had no memory of the words, but Jackie didn’t want to hear them, could not stand to hear them.
The clock finished its chiming. Straight-up noon. “Damn,” she said and pushed to her feet, groaning. Caller ID told her it was Tillie checking up on her. After several rings it finally went to voice mail. Jackie shuffled into the kitchen and pulled out the carton of orange juice from her fridge. She took a couple huge gulps before putting it back. It was the only thing left to drink other than tap water.