The Forsaken (27 page)

“Watch it!” the chief warned with a rigid finger.

“What will it take? If you don’t want the truth, what do you want?”

“Cops I can rely on! Facts I can prove!”

“I watched Victor die! Saw him disappear into the ground! Try and explain that to the logical,
real
world. Look, all I know, is that the demon used them both. Like it or not, there is something supernatural going on here. The demon,
thing,
is connected to several people at a time, spreading its power and strength between each vessel.”

Mike buried his face in his big palms. “Unbelievable. Un-freaking-believable.”

“I couldn’t make it up, not if I wanted to. Somehow, this demon, this entity, whatever you want to name it, can move in shadows. It can kill a human being from the inside, without leaving any traces behind. That’s why there are no prints. It’s like Victor and Morgan were already dead.”

“How do we stop it?” He paused, the wall of Jericho starting to buckle. “Because the way I figure, if what you’re saying
is
true, and that’s a motherload of an
if,
maybe Morgan Cross can be stopped.”

“Silver lining,” Jude shrugged. “I’m still working on that part, to be honest.”

“Of course. Why in the world would it be simple?”

There was a long moment when Jude and Mike locked eyes. Jude noticed the veins in the chief’s neck bulge, irritated. He watched them move, hide, and then become visible again with the next breath. He could smell Mike’s sweat, the stink beneath his arms. In no time, Jude’s hand started to tremble, but he controlled it enough to avoid a second glance.

“I want you to give me your badge, Detective,” Mike said finally.

“What? After everything I told you, why—”

“Give me the badge!”

Reluctantly, Jude handed it over.

Mike grabbed it and studied it, ran his fingers along the gold-plated surface which had a number along with the inscription: TO PROTECT AND SERVE.

“I want you to know that I am not messing around this time. I have forgiven and I have overlooked much. No more. Remember this moment, remember it clearly, because this is what it’s going to feel like if you pull another stunt or anything even remotely similar to this again.”

Jude stared, head tilted. He’d been given another chance.

“Some of the other officers are going to give me hell for this, you know that, don’t you?” Mike said.

“You’re a good man. Thank you,” Jude replied weakly.

“Don’t thank me,” Mike said, handing Jude the badge. “Hell if I know what it is I’m doing. I can’t afford another hiccup like this. I know you. You’re stupid. You’re unorthodox. But you get stuff done. But you better not make me regret this.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Jude stated with confidence. “I’m fine.”

“I sure hope so. You know how badly Whitney wants this case. He’s like a rottweiler in heat.”

“Whitney only cares about glory.”

“Irony is, he’d make the same claim of you.”

“But you and I both know Whitney’s ego craves it more than anything. He’s sick that way.”

“I think sometimes we’re all a little sick that way; otherwise we’d be doing something else with our lives.” Mike scratched his scalp. “What a week. The devil’s been busy since you were gone. We got more bodies. Ask your partner to bring you up to speed.”

“You know she sorta hates my guts at the moment,” Jude reminded him.

“So do I, yet here we are, talking. Every time I see her, that woman’s got her nose in a book researching something or fillin’ out paperwork. You might take a note or two.”

Jude shrugged, getting up.

“Get outta here…and catch this creep, will ya? I’d like to finally get some real rest for a change.”

Jude fixed the badge onto his belt loop and rubbed his face. He was sweating.

Mike stopped him. “You sure you’re okay? No more games.”

“Yeah. Yes…I’m fine. Better.”

“Close the door on your way out.”

Jude felt his eyes begin to water just then. A tear splashed inside his palm when his back was turned. Was he crying? He looked down at his hand, now cupping a drop of blood. Closing the office door, he felt his heart race. Jude swept his wrist across his eyelids, praying no one was watching him too closely.

Moments later, he dangled his head—pounding with a migraine—over the bathroom sink, now stained with blood. Azrael’s blood dripped from his eyes. The reflection lunging out of the glass was like a ghost.

36

THERE WAS A STIRRING
in his gut that wouldn’t quit. Jude’s bloodstream was changing, and he could anticipate even more things redefined beneath his skin, adjusting to his shell. The jittery hands, the heat that swelled, causing the back of his neck to glisten, was draining enough.

Being in this mortuary brought back thoughts of Haiti. The mortician dragged out a dead man from within one of the wall’s chambers. Jude’s hearing became more acute, more precise than it had ever been. He was able to focus his attention on the sounds of metal sliding against metal, a screeching, almost ill noise he wasn’t used to. It was loud in his ears. What else would come?

The fact that pink sweat dripped from his fingertips when he scratched his eyes drew some attention from his partner; unfortunately, Rachel wasn’t missing a thing. She spent most of the afternoon eyeballing him like some hungry lioness in search of meat to devour. But he sensed that, behind that fortress of unsubtle fury, lay a deeper sadness, maybe even sympathy. But sympathy for what? He didn’t need it. He didn’t need her.

Did he?

Once the cloth had been lifted off the body’s face, Rachel made the formal introduction. “This greasy sack of meat is—”

“—Chubb,” Jude finished, identifying the victim immediately. “Real name: Herman Brown.”

“You knew him?”

“Crime lords are like the skeletons in city closets.” Jude’s fury took root again, his consciousness wandering. All the times he should have brought this animal down and didn’t. Couldn’t. The several undercover operations that yielded nothing but further bloodshed. “I tried to bring him down a half a dozen times. Got pretty close but never managed to put him away. He was good. I’m just pissed at myself for not being able to bring him down.”

Rachel arched her eyebrow. “Story of your life.”

She was still bent on reminding him that she didn’t approve of his recent exodus. The bitterness flowed out in comments like that. But Jude wasn’t prepared to get into a war with her, not here.

As she stood there, arms locked tightly, face lost in a grimace, Jude slid his fingers down the corpse’s frame. His damp fingertips traced the outline of the cross supernaturally tattooed across Chubb’s belly. Jude imagined Chubb’s fat neck bobbing as some new drink slipped down. But no, it wasn’t a drink he wanted to imagine now, not at all. It was black blood, as dark and eerie as a moonlit street. He perceived drops of it spilling down this horror’s chest, oozing from a wound Jude himself had inflicted. All the nasty things he could do to a man like Chubb. He wanted to see Chubb beg for his life.

But he wasn’t that good.

Here he remained, trapped in the routine of checking a body for wounds, tags, and now, crosses sketched into flesh. Any minute now, Agents Mulder and Scully would be barging through the mortuary doors, flashing their badges with bad attitudes and shoving the mortician aside to better examine the corpse themselves. No baby steps. No whisper of approval necessary. They would search. They could find. They’d unravel the mysteries.

But you can’t. You’re far too gone. Far too lost in your own darkness, sonny.

Who was that speaking? Was it his subconscious? His own perverted will beating him with a bat that had the word TRUTH scribbled out in big, bold letters?

Jude put the thoughts to bed and stepped away from the body, ignoring the awkward glances his partner exchanged with him when she noticed he’d touched the body without using a latex glove.

“They worshiped Chubb like a god,” he said.

“If you keep the insects content, it is quite simple for a giant to become like a god.” Until now, the mortician hadn’t spoken. His name was Quipley. His face had a juvenile structure to it. Oversized frames sat uncomfortably over the ridge of a long nose. He kept his long, straight hair unimaginatively tied in a ponytail.

“You know, for the longest time I thought I’d be the one to send this dirtbag to hell.” Jude’s jaw flexed. “Morgan beat me to it. He’s separating the wheat from the chaff. Creating his own sick kingdom and putting himself on the throne.”

Rachel added, “By killing El Gordo here, looks like your ex-partner just climbed a level on the food chain.”

Quipley continued to study the oversized corpse. “How is this possible? No lacerations. No bullet wounds. No sign of struggle. Like the life was just completely ripped out of him, or sucked dry. Miraculous!”

“Miraculous?” Rachel asked, high pitched and near furious. “You think this is
miraculous
? This sick freak has made a mockery of our department and a mockery of this city. It’s become his own personal playground.”

“Spare me the dramatics, Detective. I know the bad that crawls from alley to street corner. Ever since I was a small boy. Villains like the one you’re after are a dime a dozen.”

“No, not like this,” Rachel argued.

“My analysis is that whoever did this is extremely dangerous. Capable of robbing the one thing no one should be able to take—a man’s soul. Am I close?”

“Think you read one too many comic books as a teenager,” Jude snapped, trying to divert the mortician from creating a case all his own, penciled in with speculations and incomplete details.

Rachel was crestfallen, provoked, and blinking heavily. “There is no telling how many more he’ll kill.”

“Well, then perhaps the two of you need to step up your game.” Quipley went back to swooning over the corpse, grateful for its company.

“Back off, buddy,” Jude said, grabbing Quipley’s lapel and feeling a splash of rage blister in his eyes. His emotions were hitting extremes, and no matter how hard he fought it, the creature inside him was thirsty and wanted out.

“Whoa,” Quipley started, frightened but amazed also. “Your eyes. What is that?”

Jude released him immediately. The last thing he needed at a time like this was Rachel stabbing him with questions he didn’t have the patience or the stomach to answer.

“What’s with you, Jude?” Rachel said, touching his shoulder.

He shook her hand off. “Nerves, that’s all. Seeing this creep dead after all these years…I’m just a little tense.”

“
I
saw something else,” the edgy mortician said. “Your eyes went red.”

“Yeah, that’s generally what happens when you pinch a man’s last nerve. I wonder…must get pretty cozy down here with all this company. Secondhand pleasure, that about right?” The flickering lights of the morgue left dancing pastel shapes floating in front of Jude’s vision. Quipley was right, and Jude had been careless to show his rage in such an unprotected manner. He had too much to lose this time around.

“Right,” Quipley weakly agreed, adjusting his collar. “Perhaps my mind
was
playing a trick on me.”

“Guess so.” Jude defiantly held his position.

“Are you through examining the body, Detectives?” Quipley asked after Jude stepped away from the steel bed on which Chubb so ungracefully lay. Two disgruntled nods were assurance enough that the examination was complete, at least for the time being.

After closing Chubb’s box, the mortician opened another. This second subject came from a lower spot in the wall, far left. “Paul Ramirez,” Quipley said, eventually lifting the white veil and exposing the tortured corpse underneath. “He’s a young one. Not even thirty.”

The three of them focused on the cross seared into the victim’s foot. This time, Quipley pressed his hand against the mark, afterward smelling his fingers as if to see if any kind of energy had transferred during the intimate moment between the corpse and himself.

“Found this one while you were out too,” Rachel started.

“I know I should’ve been here,” Jude returned, crunching his knuckles into a fist. The guilt was working on him.

“You take your work awful serious, don’t you? I can admire that. But do you genuinely believe you could’ve prevented this guy’s death?” Quipley asked.

No answer.

“Exiling yourself into the past isn’t going to rectify the present. My relationship with my son has taught me that much.”

The room seemed to get tighter. Jude didn’t like the quasi-advice he had just received. Quipley somehow became Dr. Irons in that moment. Rigid. Rough around the edges. And annoying.

“We know he was connected to Morgan; we’re just not sure how,” Rachel said.

“They were all part of Chubb’s crew. I thought I recognized some of ’em. Probably busted him once or twice too. Morgan’s making them afraid.”

“And taking out some of the competition, apparently.”

“With Chubb out of the way, and the top members of his crew, they’ll have no choice but to fall to their knees. For now, he controls the money and the lives of these people.”