Deadworld (20 page)

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 Rutledge, 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.

Deciding it was enough effort for the moment, Jackie collapsed back on the couch. She had the day off. Tillie’s orders, backed up by Belgerman. Maybe she just wouldn’t go back. Thinking of facing Laurel’s empty desk at the office brought fresh tears to her eyes. Jackie let them run—all those little things they did at work, the coffees, poking fun at each other’s idiosyncrasies, and half the time knowing what the other was going to do or say before they did it.

In the middle of it, Tillie called back again. Jackie knew she would call every fifteen minutes until she got through or decided to come over, which would be far worse. Still, she did little to hide her annoyance at the interruption. “What, Dr. Erikson? I’m fine. I’m still here.”

“No, you aren’t, but good. I’m glad you’re still here.” Her voice had that insane parental calmness to it, where no matter how irate you got or how many fits you threw, the tone never changed.

“If I say I’m fine, I’m fine, goddamnit. Don’t be telling me how to fucking feel, Tillie. You don’t get paid enough for that.” The vitriol flew out of her mouth before she even realized it was coming. “Christ. Sorry. My head hurts, and, no, I’m not doing fine. It’s a shitty day.”

“Would you like to come in later this afternoon, Jackie? Or I could come by this evening if you pre—”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m in no mood for talking about anything right now. I’ve got the day off. I’m going up to the local pub and getting shit faced, drowning my sorrows, and all that kind of bullshit. I’ll see you back in the office, I’m sure. Bye, Dr. Erikson.” Jackie clicked off and turned off the power on the phone. No more calls. No more anything right now.

Jackie got up, found her wallet and keys, put on her sandals, grabbed her jacket and headed down the street to her local pub. Fortunately, Tarnigan’s lay four blocks east of her apartment, because Jackie realized halfway there that she was still pretty drunk. The couple strange looks she got confirmed the fact that she at least looked that way.

Sam—the fat, balding, fiftyish bartender—gave her a wide-eyed look when she sat down at the bar. Sam was reliable. He wouldn’t chat unless you wanted to chat, and he didn’t care how drunk you got, as long as you didn’t drive away from his pub.

“Christ, Jack. You look like you got run over.”

She nodded and tapped the counter with three fingers. Having made it in and down on a stool, Jackie found what little courage she had mustered to get out the door and down there melted away with Sam’s worried look. The tears lay like some fathomless lake behind her puffy, bloodshot eyes, and she knew if she spoke then, the dam would crumble, and that would be that. But, true to form, he said nothing else and poured Jackie three shots.

In quick succession, Jackie downed the fiery shots, propped her cheek on her hand, and stared up at the Cubs game on the television. The alcohol warmed her gut but did little to touch the chill around her heart. She began to play out scenarios from the day before, running through them in her head over and over, but Nick’s words always came out at the end.
He would have killed her anyway.

Jackie wiped at her eyes. “Sam! Three more. Please.” The last came out a bit choked, and she pressed her lips together, forcing the surging tide behind her burning eyeballs at bay.

He poured one shot and set the bottle down. “You let me know when you need a ride home.”

She nodded. “Thanks.”
Oh, by the way, Sam, some vampire killed Laurel last night. Can you believe it?
She couldn’t, did not want to, but had woken up to Laurel’s absence. It had been no freakish nightmare.
How am I going to do it, Laur? How will I do this without you?
It seemed such an inane and yet impossible question. The hollow sensation on her right side, where Laurel had always walked when they went anywhere together, felt like a vacuous hole where she had been torn away from her flesh. Part of her was missing now, taken away along with Laurel.

How did people do this? Jackie wondered with despair. How did they move on when half their soul had been ripped away? Her impulse was to just lay her head down on the bar and weep, but Jackie refused to make a spectacle of herself. A little more alcohol, and she would not remember any of tonight regardless, at which point she knew she could just let everything out. Sam would call her a cab. He could just pitch her into the river, for all it mattered.

“Rough day?”

Jackie’s blurred vision sharpened on the man who sat down on the stool next to her. Navy suit, red tie, little hint of shadow across his cheeks, and a handsome wave of reddish brown hair kept just longer than business norm. “And you care because?”

He shrugged and smiled, blue eyes glancing down at the array of shot glasses and near-empty tequila bottle. “I didn’t say I cared. I just asked if you were having a rough day.”

Jackie eyed him, far too gone to judge if he was as good-looking as the dozen shots made him appear, but he hit the right note regardless. Oblivion. The guy could fuck her right into oblivion. Just the cure for a soul suffering too much awareness. “Someone died.”

Sam put a beer in front of the man, giving her a quizzical look, but she ignored him. The man put down a five, which Sam quickly swiped up, and the man’s mouth quirked up in one corner. “People die every day. You’d be dead of alcohol poisoning if that was your modus operandi.”

Hmmm, not a bad thought, really. Worse ways to go.
“Sometimes it’s just the wrong one.”

He nodded, a sage expression on his face, and sipped his beer. “Yeah, always wrong for someone, and for them . . .” He raised his beer. “To better days. My name’s Scott, by the way.”

Better days. Jackie could not see how that might be possible any longer. “Jack. Most folks just call me Jack.” She downed another shot, hardly even feeling its warmth anymore.

“Nice to meet you, Jack. Are you in mourning? I’m sorry to intrude, if that’s the case.”

She thought about it for a moment, her sloggy brain taking longer than it should to formulate opinions on much of anything. “Nope. Just lamenting life in general. I needed cheering up, so I walked down here to bother Sam.”

“Ah, I see. Well, Sam here does look like the cheerful type.”

“Be careful with her,” Sam quipped. “She bites.”

“Most encouraging news I’ve had all day.” Scott smiled and turned back to Jackie. “Do you bite, Jack?”

“Only if provoked.” The words came out slightly slurred. That last shot had been the tipping point. She poured another, knowing from habit how this downward slide would progress.

“And what, may I ask, provokes a woman like yourself?”

“Smart-ass guys in suits, for one.”

Scott laughed. “Your lucky day. Fortunately, my ass is quite intelligent, and the suit’s Armani, for what it’s worth.”

She snorted. “Nothing. You always take advantage of drunken women, Scott?”

He eyed her for a moment, and Jackie knew he was thinking for just a second if she was being serious or flip, but the tequila should have given that one away without any thought at all. “Every chance I can get. Twice on Sundays.”

Yeah, he would do just fine. Jackie smiled at his lame humor and downed one more shot before getting off the stool. “Guess it’s your lucky day—” she started and then tripped over the leg of the stool before Mr. Suit could catch her. “Well. Shit. Pay the man, Scottie, and walk me home. I need something cute to lean on.”

He put a fifty on the bar and took Jackie’s arm. “Mom always said my MBA would come in handy.”

“Oh, a funny man! My mother was too stupid to even spell MBA.” She leaned against him and managed something halfway between laughter and tears. She just wanted him to hurry and up and get her home—fill that empty pit that had swallowed a dozen shots of tequila and still left her feeling hollow. The mortar that kept her bricks in place had liquefied, drained away on a steel table in an abandoned warehouse, and one by one the bricks were tumbling down into the hole.

Walking home on the arm of another handsome, unknown man, Jackie smiled grimly at the thought of one more broken promise.