Coming In Hot Box Set

by Gina Kincade

  Jack watched the monitor. “Still v-fib, hit him again.”

  “He’s not breathing!” Rosie yelled.

  “Fairhaven, the patient has stopped breathing. Administering another round.” Jack punched buttons. “Two, three, four.”

  “Clear!” Rosie called, and shocked Masters again.

  Jack winced. “Flatline!”

  “Again!” Rosie yelled.

  “Two, three, four.”

  “Clear!” Rosie hit Masters with the paddles again.

  “No response,” Jack said. “Fairhaven, the victim is in full cardiac arrest.”

  “Nine, administer five CCs one to ten thousand epinephrine.”

  Jack rushed to comply, tearing the plastic casing off the syringe with his teeth while Rosie administered CPR.

  Jack carefully inserted the needle into the drug ampule. After swabbing the patient’s skin with an alcohol-soaked cotton swab, he stuck the needle into Masters’s arm and hit the plunger.

  Rosie stared at the monitor.

  “Nothing,” she said tersely. “Still flatline.”

  “Defibrillate again, Rescue Nine,” Dr. Winchester ordered.

  Rosie picked up the paddles and positioned them over Masters’s chest.

  Jack counted down.

  “Clear!” Rosie called and brought the paddles down.

  “Nothing,” Jack said over the accusing flatline buzz of the defibrillator.

  “Again!”

  They defibrillated again. And once more.

  “No response, Fairhaven.” The rush of adrenalin produced by Jack’s frantic efforts to save the patient faded and dejection replaced it.

  “Where’s the ambulance?” Dr. Winchester asked tersely.

  Jack mentally calculated how long they’d been attending the victim and subtracted that time from Dispatch’s estimate. “Fairhaven, we’ve been advised the ambulance ETA is twenty to twenty-five minutes. They are attempting to find another available unit, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

  Jack cursed beneath his breath. Too long. Even if they intubated now and massaged the heart, chances were more than good Masters would be brain dead by the time the ambulance arrived and made the fifteen-minute ride to the hospital. He began to see the challenges of small towns that shared resources.

  “That’s…regrettable,” Dr. Winchester’s voice was cool and professional, but Jack heard the resignation beneath it just the same. A beat of silence. “Call it.”

  “Patient pronounced at eight forty-six AM.” Rosie stared at her watch steadily as if it held all the secrets in the universe. Or maybe because she didn’t want to look at Jack and admit defeat.

  Jack began to collect the equipment, his head down. This part of the job sucked so hard. After the ambulance arrived, he and Rosie could return to the station. Have some coffee and commiseration. This was their first death as partners.

  As Jack snapped the latches down on the portable EKG machine, every hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his special senses kicked in, elevating his heart rate and blood pressure.

  Drawing a deep breath, he turned his head. Framed in the kitchen doorway stood a ghostly woman of about forty with tangled blonde hair and desperate eyes. Her nose was a squashed tomato on her blood-streaked face, and she cradled her left arm protectively against her chest.

  “You need to come with me,” she said. When she turned, Jack saw the back of her skull had been caved in, and rotting bits of bone, blood, and brain stuck to her hair.

  Fuck. Murder. The kind of ghost who did a bad number on his soul.

  “What’s wrong?” Rosie’s voice intruded, scattering his focus. The murdered woman stopped limping away, but did not turn back. The ramrod straightness of her spine was a harsh rebuke. He didn’t have time for Rosie. His allegiance must be with the dead at this moment.

  “Take this back to the squad.” He thrust the EKG machine at her before climbing to his feet. He followed the ghost who continued to shamble for the front door.

  “What the hell?” Rosie’s voice rose in bewilderment behind him. He lifted a hand, but didn’t stop.

  ***

  Rosie watched Jack disappear down the hallway separating the kitchen from the living room.

  “Whatever,” she muttered as she gathered the equipment. She didn’t want to look at the dead man on the cereal-and-milk-strewn floor. No. Just ignore it. Get the stuff and go.

  Shit! What had she done?

  Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to stare down at Hank Masters. His skin had already taken on a sickly gray pallor. His mouth gaped open, making him look foolish and younger than his forty-five years. Thank God, his eyes were shut. At least they couldn’t stare up her in sightless accusation.

  He’d called her a bitch, but had she really let her dislike of the man sway her decision to withhold her healing hands? A few passes over his chest and she could have stabilized him before his heart ever stopped beating. He could be on his way to the hospital, yelling about wanting a male doctor. Instead he was dead. Gone.

  Rosie went over the scene again, trying to find a way to justify her non-actions. She’d had the time to use her power while Jack stayed behind dealing with Timmy at the front door. Barely, but she’d had the time. Hadn’t she?

  Masters wouldn’t have noticed her glowing hands. The victims never did. She put them into a sort of trance and held them still while she worked. They only remembered her being there, but not what she did. No one would have been the wiser.

  She’d run into the kitchen to find Hank Masters clutching his chest as he rolled around the dirty linoleum. He’d taken one look at her and yelled, “Oh no, not you! Interfering bitch! I don’t want you treating me.”

  She’d hesitated for a second, hating him. The sheer, visceral depth of her hatred had shaken her. She didn’t really know this man. She only knew what he was. A wife beater. A child abuser.

  “Goddamn it.” Rosie pressed her palms to her eyes to keep the burning tears at bay. “Why do I have this power unless I’m supposed to use it? I’m not a judge to decide who benefits and who doesn’t. I see suffering and I stop it. That’s what I do.”

  Rosie gathered her equipment, balancing the EKG machine awkwardly against her chest. Where the hell was Jack? He could be helping her instead of whatever he was doing outdoors.

  She made her way outside to the squad. She couldn’t think about her healing powers and whether she’d done something wrong by withholding them. Just get the equipment loaded, find Jack, wait for the damn ambulance and get back to work. Focus on that.

  ***

  The ghost led Jack around the corner of the house to the backyard where a crumbling garage crouched. The morning sun had yet to penetrate the dense tree cover shrouding it, and Jack’s heart dropped as he stepped into the malevolent shade.

  The garage had a small side door with cracked, glass panes inserted in the top half. The spirit passed through the door, but Jack halted, hoping nobody had locked it. Breaking and entering on private property was the reason he’d been fired two jobs ago in Phoenix. He’d been on a drowning case at an apartment complex when an elderly ghost woman had beckoned him to her apartment. She’d died there weeks before, and no one had noticed or looked in on her, so Jack had broken in. Jesus, he’d barely managed to tap dance his way out of a jail sentence. Only the fact they’d found a corpse inside had saved him from charges, but it hadn’t been enough to keep his job.

  He rubbed the dirty glass and peered in, hoping to see the woman’s dead body on the garage floor so he could alert authorities without having to go inside. No such luck. A rusted-out Chevy with a popped hood and missing back tires occupied most of the garage space. Tools hung from nails pounded into the walls. Old lawn chairs, a discarded refrigerator with the door still on, and a hand lawnmower stood propped against the three walls.

  Jack twisted the doorknob. The knob turned all the way, and the door creaked open. Wow. A break. Jack stepped inside, pawing away a tattered spider web. The tem
perature inside the garage felt at least ten degrees cooler than outside. The murdered woman stood patiently on the far side of the Chevy, her back to him, showcasing her ruined skull. Jack shivered as he made his way toward the junked-out car. Wishing he had a flashlight, he peered through the window into the front and back seats. No body. He made his way to the driver’s side figuring to open the door and find the trunk switch. The ghost stood facing the refrigerator, and as Jack drew closer, he saw she pointed a bony finger straight at the fridge door.

  Shit. Bracing himself, Jack moved past her and grabbed the handle of the fridge. People were not supposed to store these things in garages unless they’d removed the door. The boy, who he hoped remained at a neighbor’s place, was likely too old to play in a refrigerator, but that didn’t matter. Little kids roamed and tragedies happened.

  The refrigerator door swung open with a pop as the seal broke. Jack had time to see what appeared to be a bundle of bloody rags before the bodies fell into his arms. Jack let out a hoarse scream and flailed backward into the car. He hit the driver’s side door with a bone-wrenching crunch that sent his head reeling. The sour stench of decomposition clogged his nose and throat making him gag.

  Two bodies? What the fuck?

  “He did it with that.” The ghost pointed toward a rusty ax hanging from the wall near the refrigerator. Holding his breath miserably, Jack stared at it. Probably not only rust coated the dull blade. Oh, God, he didn’t want to puke. It seemed so disrespectful somehow, but the stink threatened to overpower him.

  “Jesus, what in the hell are you – Oh, my God!” Rosie stopped yelling from the doorway. Jack heard footsteps running away. She’d freaked out or she’d gone for help. Either was a distinct possibility considering the scene.

  Gingerly, Jack straightened up from the side of the car and laid the bodies on the garage floor. Through the decay, Jack recognized one as the murdered woman’s body. The other, smaller one, had matted long blonde hair and a torn green floral dress. Teenage daughter perhaps?

  Arm over his mouth and nose, Jack put some distance between himself and the bodies. He estimated they’d been dead only a few days. Less than a week for sure. God damn, what a reek! Pity battled disgust. Jack hastened to the side door and made it five running steps before he fell to his knees puking his guts out.

  Somewhere in the high grass of the backyard a cicada buzzed. Morning sunshine warmed his neck as he bent over and spat to clear his mouth from the foul taste.

  He could hear Rosie on the phone calling for the police. Her shrill, high-pitched voice drilled into Jack’s ears even though she had to have been in the front yard.

  Every color in the world danced and trembled before Jack’s eyes, so he shut them to block the intensity out. When the ghost touched his shoulder, intense cold engulfed him, and he couldn’t help crying out.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Her frigid touch vanished, but Jack shuddered, chilled to the bone. Oh, for the love of hell, if only he had some water. And a blanket.

  As if his thoughts summoned the items, Jack felt the comforting weight of a blanket settle over his shoulders.

  “Here. Sit on the grass. I’ve got a bottle of water.” Rosie gently guided him into a sitting position several feet from where he’d puked, but he could still smell it. Christ, he could smell everything. The sunbaked grass. The strawberry scent of her shampoo as her braid brushed his shoulder. The terrible odor of the two bodies in the festering garage.

  Jack had to take the bottle in both hands because he trembled so hard he would have dropped it without the extra support. He took a deep gulp trying desperately to wash the vile taste out of his mouth. The water, slightly warm, hit his stomach and he suppressed a gag. No more puking. Jesus. Why the hell could he still smell that awful stench?

  He looked down in horror to see splashes of decomposing yellow, black, and red matter clinging to his uniform jacket. With a harsh cry, he dropped the bottle and frantically tried to unzip the jacket.

  Rosie helped him strip it off. He cast it into the grass behind him and never wanted to see the thing again. He’d buy a new one. Screw trying to wash that one.

  “Here.” Rosie retrieved the half-full bottle and held it out to him. Her lovely face seemed an oasis of sanity in a world gone freaking crazy.

  He took it, his lips twitching in a grimace – the closest he could get to a smile of gratitude.

  Rosie sat beside him, her shoulder gently brushing his. The soft weight of her arm against his soothed him. He took another swig of water and felt halfway decent again.

  “Christ, what a bad scene,” he said, his voice twisted and unfamiliar with shock.

  They watched two policemen rush past toward the garage. Jack wanted to warn them to hold their breaths, but they passed before he could get the words out.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I believe it’s Carolyn and Susan Masters in there,” Rosie told him. She tugged at the end of her braid nervously, her mouth tight. “Been here three times in the past twelve months on domestic violence calls. Last time he messed Susan up pretty badly.”

  Jack swallowed more water. “Let me take a guess. Neither of them would press charges against the dead guy in the kitchen.”

  “Got it in one.” Rosie’s grave face in profile sent chills down Jack’s spine. Beautiful, but wretched.

  “People suck,” Jack said, earning him a dark burst of laughter from Rosie.

  “You ready to answer some questions? We could try to sneak back to the station, but the police will just catch up with you there. First up is what the hell made you go into the garage?”

  Jack considered telling her the truth, but out here in the innocent morning sunshine things like ghosts leading him to their corpses seemed insane. Definitely unbelievable.

  “I’m a nosy bastard. Saw the side door open and then the refrigerator with the door still on it. I had to check. Could have been a little kid trapped inside.”

  “Yeah.” Rosie’s flat tone told him nothing. She might believe him, she might not. But she wasn’t the one who had to buy his story.

  Rosie sucked in a deep, audible breath. “You saw the open garage door from inside the house, did you?”

  “Window,” he said, not knowing or caring whether the kitchen window included a view of the garage.

  Rosie let out another bark of gloomy laughter. “Good one. I almost even believe you.” She climbed to her feet and held out her hand to help him. He looked up at her, blinking in the bright sunshine, and reached out to grasp her hand.

  Chapter FIVE

  Captain Roger Tremaine’s green eyes betrayed no sign of disappointment as Rosie forced herself to tell him their heart attack victim died. He listened intently as he always did – making Rosie feel what she said was of vital importance to him, even though a little part of her cynically wondered if he only humored her.

  Almost twenty years her senior, he possessed a worldly wisdom she despaired ever developing herself. She suspected he thought her healing powers made her a freak, but he never outright told her that. He cautioned her not to let her partners – or anyone – discover her gifts. He didn’t want her exploited.

  Personally, Rosie thought his motives weren’t as altruistic as he might want her to believe. He didn’t like her for her, he liked that she could heal. She made his stats shine. So confessing she’d lost a victim – the first one since she’d been hired almost two years ago – came hard. She braced herself for his censure. He kept her under his wing because of her abilities. If she didn’t use them, why should he protect her job? Her file contained a growing list of complaints from former partners citing her bad attitude, lack of teamwork, and general inability to establish a working rapport.

  Cap put up with that because she saved lives. Every time. Until now.

  “Considering what Jack found in the garage, you might say you saved the taxpayers a very expensive trial and incarceration expenses.” Cap ran a hand through his auburn hair, brushing away the one lock that always s
eemed to fall across his brow. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I didn’t know he’d murdered his wife and daughter when I hesitated to use my powers,” Rosie objected.

  Cap held up a hand, halting her flow of self-recrimination and second guessing.

  “I said don’t worry about it. Go have some lunch. Rico’s making that fish stew everyone loves.”

  Rosie bit her lip, but when Cap turned back to the report on his PC, effectively dismissing her, she took the hint and left his office.

  The tantalizing scent of the herbs and spices in Rico’s fish stew drew her like magic into the kitchen where Jack and Duke sat at the table behind huge, steaming bowls.

  “Heaven on a spoon,” Duke muttered between bites.

  Jack stared at his bowl, giving the stew a lackluster stir every now and again, but making no move to eat it.

  Rico stood braced against the counter near the stove. The “Kiss the Cook” apron he wore over his uniform clashed with his frown.

  “Don’t like my cooking, Grady?” His question seemed more of an accusation.

  Jack jerked guiltily in his chair.

  “Kinda not hungry,” he said.

  “It was a rough run,” Rosie said, and Rico and Duke gaped at her. Even Jack looked up from his stew.

  “Did you – did you just defend your partner? You?” Duke asked. “Whoa.”

  “Shut up.” Rosie blew out her breath angrily. “I’m not defending anybody. I’m stating a fact. He found two, dead, decomposing bodies in an old, unplugged refrigerator. With their skulls bashed in. Leaking stuff. Aside from spaghetti, stew is probably the worst meal you could have served him. I only saw the bodies for a couple seconds, and even I’m having trouble thinking about eating chunks of fish suspended in cloudy broth at the moment.”

  Jack abruptly bolted from behind the table and slammed into the restroom. Sounds of his retching drifted into the kitchen.

  “Well, that does it for me too, damn it.” Duke pushed his bowl into the center of the table. He rolled his eyes at her. “Rosie, you have a way with words, anybody ever tell you that?”