The Lingering Dead (3 page)

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Authors: J. N. Duncan

BOOK: The Lingering Dead
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“I could try,” he said. “Maybe bull's testicles or something.”
Jackie snorted. “You've actually had those?”
“Among other things. Not my preferred body part, I'll admit.”
And there it was again. Normal conversation turned disturbing because the guy drank blood to stay alive. She caught his gaze, wondering if he noticed the look on her face, and Jackie realized his reference may have had nothing to do with food. “Great. Surprise me then. You know I'll eat anything you cook. Think I'm ready to dig into these files now. How about you?”
Nick picked up a file from his stack, doing little to conceal the smirk on his face. “You're the boss.”
 
 
After six hours, Jackie picked at a box of Chinese takeout, her eyes glazing over with weariness and frustration. The conference room table had been papered from one end to the other, stacks of notes and forms piled up by year. Some were far bigger than others, but they had potential cases going back to 1971. Many were ridiculous notes like Ms. Shumway's, certain to be nothing, but others had a definite creep value that made Jackie wonder. Everyone had pulled aside those they thought might hold some kind of value. There were dozens, perhaps over a hundred. Jackie gave it her best unfocused stare and continued to eat her shrimp-fried rice.
Shelby plopped the rest of pot sticker in her mouth. “So. Any ideas on how you want to sort through those, Jackie?”
“No. How about a random number?”
“I saw a few interesting ones,” Cynthia added.
Shelby reached up and pulled one out of the middle of the stack, floating it across the table toward her. Jackie watched it drift to the floor. “Well, that's one down. Any other ideas, anyone?”
Nick sipped on a beer, his booted feet crossed up on the end of the table. “It would make sense to either start with the most recent or ones that are closest to us.”
“I think we should go through this stack of good ones and rank them from most to least likely to be legitimate paranormal incidents,” Cynthia said.
Jackie nodded. Cynthia, ever the practical one, was probably right. Jackie leaned over and picked up the sheaf of paper from the floor. It was one she had come across during the blur of afternoon reading. Unlike all of the other ones she had read, this one had actually come from a former FBI agent. The note was handwritten, dated August 12, 1993. It stated, rather simply:
Thatcher's Mill. I was travelling to Chicago for a workshop when I drove through this little, rustic town just south of Dubuque. This place had more ghosts in it than I've ever felt before, by a factor of ten to one. Remarkable and completely unnerving. Will have to investigate this if opportunity arises or we ever decide to look into paranormal events.
FBI Agent. If they were going to get any kind of reliable source material, what could be better than a fellow agent? “Laur?” Laurel, who now walked freely around the room, moved over from the corner behind Shelby. “What do you make of this one? You recognize the name?”
Laurel took a moment to read the note. “No, but we should contact her. I know there are other agents with abilities. It's just not common knowledge.”
Jackie slapped the paper down on the table. That was good enough for her. “There we go. Thatcher's Mill. It's full of ghosts. Should be great fun.”
Shelby threw her arms up in the air. “The boss has spoken!”
“Shelby?”
She grinned at Jackie. “Yes, babe?”
“Bite my ass.”
“Now you're getting the hang of it.”
Chapter 2
Jackie tousled and fluffed her hair for the umpteenth time. No matter how hard she tried, the scar along the side of her head remained visible to some degree. The short, ruffled, auburn hair just was not long enough yet. A month after Rosa had nearly killed her, and short of wearing a damn baseball hat, she could do nothing to disguise the hideous pink ribbon of flesh that ran above her left ear. As if she wasn't scarred enough on the inside.
And what did it matter anyway? Jackie gave herself the finger in her bathroom mirror and marched back out into the living room. The phone was ringing. She rolled her eyes at the familiar number on Caller ID.
“What's up, Shelby?”
“Hey, babe. You want me to pick you up? I'm heading out to Nick's in about an hour. You're practically on the way.”
Jackie absently rubbed at her scalp. “Nah, you go ahead. Not sure I'm going.”
“What? The fuck you aren't,” Shelby said, snapping in Jackie's ear.
“My head's killing me.” Which was not a lie in a roundabout sort of way. “And I just got up, so I won't be ready—”
“Oh, bullshit! When have you ever taken more than five minutes to get ready for anything? Take some damn Tylenol and quit being a chicken shit. It'll be fun, and Nick's holiday meals will make your panties wet.”
Jackie cringed at the thought. Walking around Nick's with wet panties was the last thing she needed to be doing. Nothing on her end would be inspiring such reactions from Mr. I' m-a-bazillionaire-who-does-everything-like-a-rock-star. Hell, she couldn't even make herself look like a semi-attractive, non-brain-damaged woman.
“I'm not being a chicken shit,” she said. “I'm just not up for it right now.”
“Babe, you can't even lie good over the phone. What's the damn problem? This is the first holiday in ages that I've seen Nick actually excited to have. He wants you there.”
And that fact still, after nearly two months, made no sense to her. What the hell did he see in a clearly washed-up, drunken, mutilated, bitch of an FBI agent? It was stupid. Clearly he was just desperate, having been without anyone for so long. She was just the first woman handy. Now that he was no longer consumed by Drake, who had slaughtered his family and tormented him for a century, the entire world was open to him. Nick Anderson had his choice of women, who were all quite obviously more put together than she was.
“He just wants somebody there, Shelby. It could be me or any other woman,” she said. “He's just happy things are over and he can get his life back.”
Shelby huffed. “I'll be there in an hour. Laur can help you pick something out. Fight me on this and I'll make you even more miserable.”
“Shel—” the phone clicked off in her ear. “Fuck.”
The cold whisper of Deadworld blew through her, and Jackie involuntarily shivered as Laurel came knocking. She turned toward the feeling of death that crept across her skin anytime a ghost was around and saw Laurel's transparent, washed-out figure standing before her. The folded arms and roll of her eyes said it all.
“You can't bail on this, hon,” she said and eased down the short hall toward the bedroom. “Come on. I'll help you pick out something suitable to wear.”
“I'm not dressing up for this, Laur.”
“You aren't going to,” she hollered from the bedroom. “I said suitable, not dress up.”
Jackie groaned and trudged after her. It did not matter one iota what she wore. The result would end up being the same. Upon entering her bedroom, she picked up a half-empty wine glass on the dresser and drained the rest of its contents. It was going to be a long day.
After donning the gray, knee-length skirt and navy-blue, silk blouse, minus a bra at Laurel's insistence, Jackie found herself once again staring at her disfigured head in the mirror. On the counter was the makeup case Laurel had bought for her some Christmas or birthday in the distant past, most of the items still in their plastic wrap.
“No amount of lipstick is going to cover up this gaping hole on the side of my head,” Jackie said.
“Your hair is fine,” Laurel replied, sitting on the toilet seat beside the counter, looking over the color choices in the case. “You want Nick to see the scar.”
“What? It's fucking hideous! I look like an escapee from a mental hospital.”
“It's a reminder that you almost died, and the fact Nick almost did too in saving you. Life is precious. Make the most of it, hon.”
“So, we're being sneaky and toying with his mind.” Jackie picked up the lipstick Laurel's finger was poking in and out of. “Plum Brulé? Really?”
“Dark and luxuriant,” Laurel said. “Very kissable color, and of course we're being sneaky. What kind of question is that?”
“God. What are you, sixteen?” Jackie turned up the lipstick dial and stared reluctantly at the dark red cone of lipstick.
“Shut up.” Laurel swiped at Jackie, her hand passing through Jackie's bicep. “I never got to do anything like this with you before.”
“I hate cosmetics, you know—”
“A date, you idiot.”
“This isn't a date! It's fucking Thanksgiving dinner.” She waved the lipstick at Laurel. “Did Shelby say anything to Nick? Is there some plan going on here that I should know about?”
Laurel laughed. “Nothing so sinister as that. Would you relax, please? Put on your lipstick.” She got up and walked behind Jackie. “Just, you know, after we leave, you might have ... an opportunity with Nick.”
Jackie pulled the lipstick away from her mouth before the snort of laughter made her draw a line across her face. “Opportunity? I'm leaving when you guys do. Don't get your hopes up.” She leaned back toward the mirror and began to apply the lipstick again, focusing hard on keeping her hand still. They were going to leave her alone with Nick? How could something be both compelling and utterly terrifying at the same time?
The silence lasted so long Jackie finally glanced at Laurel's reflection in the mirror, whose mouth had creased into a thin, annoyed line. “What?”
“Why can't you give yourself a chance?”
“I'm going, aren't I?”
“Hon? Don't be a shit. You know what I mean.”
She stuffed the lipstick back into the cap. Her mouth now looked like an autonomous creature, completely beyond her control.
Kissable, my ass.
“You do realize that the only reason he has any interest in me is because we nearly died together. It's that whole ... whatever the hell it's called, hero complex or something.” She slammed the lipstick back into its case. “He doesn't actually want me. It's just the idea of me he likes.”
Laurel stepped up close behind Jackie, her hands reaching out, ready to embrace and then let them fall back to her sides. “Then show him the idea is worth the reality. I happen to know the real you, hon. You're worth the effort.”
“Bullshit.” Jackie threw up her hands and turned away, walking out toward the bedroom to find her shoes. “And you don't count. You ... um ... you just don't count.”
She followed Jackie, moving until she stood directly through Jackie as she leaned down into the closet. “Why, because I'm a girl?”
Jackie yanked her shoes up through Laurel's legs, stepped over to the bed and sat down. “No! Of course not.” She shoved one foot into the low-heeled, black-and blue-trimmed leather pumps. Jackie could not even recall when she had worn them last. “You've been with me practically every day for over eight years, Laur. You know what a pain in the fucking ass I can be. Let's face it, I'm not the easiest person to be around.”
“But I fell in love with you anyway,” Laurel said, voice softening.
“And couldn't tell me because you knew I'd totally freak out.” Jackie slipped on the other shoe and stomped back out to the living room. She could not handle looking at Laurel while talking about this.
Laurel followed on her heels. “That's not the only reason. Look.” Jackie was picking up her jacket off the top of her piano when she felt the icy chill of Laurel's hand dragging through her shoulder. “Look at me, Jackie.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before turning around. “What, Laur? Let's face it. I'm pretty much a walking fuck-up, and—”
“No!” The ghostly finger poked through Jackie's ribs. “You've had fucked-up things happen to you. That doesn't make you a fuck-up. So stop that, right now. Sweet Mother of us all, you're frustrating.”
Jackie nodded. “See? Point proven. And let's face it. Nick isn't going to last eight years trying to find the soft, pretty spot on the inside.”
“Not if you don't drop your prickly little walls for more than two seconds.”
She shrugged into her jacket, pulling it snug with a huff. “Won't matter. You know he'll take one deep look with those weird, glowy eyes, and see nothing that he wants.”
“Oh, bullshit,” Laurel said. “He's already seen you at your worst, and what do you know! He's still around.”
There was a chime on Jackie's doorbell. “Damn it. Shel's early.” She walked over to the door and buzzed Shelby in before turning back to Laurel. “Seeing it and experiencing it are totally different things.”
Laurel was silent for a moment. The sound of Shelby's muffled voice could be heard singing outside the door. “This is all about sleeping with him, isn't it? You're afraid you'll flip out on him.”
The door swung open and Shelby bounced into the living room. “Happy Thanksgiving, girls! We ready to ... OK, now what?”
Jackie gave Laurel a stern look. “Nothing. Let's go.” She grabbed her keys off of the entry table and made for the door. The last thing she wanted to get into was a discussion about sex with Nick or the breakdown after Laurel had died or, God forbid, both. Because, truth be told, Laurel had hit it square on the head. Any pleasurable thoughts about sliding beneath the sheets with Nick morphed into a bloody, freak-out disaster, and once that happened, he would be long gone.
Out on the stairs leading down to the street, Laurel quietly stepped into her body. “You're worrying too much, hon. That won't ever happen again.”
“Not discussing it, Laur,” she whispered. “And keep Shel out of it.”
“What was that, babe?” Shelby chimed in from directly behind.
Jackie's heart skipped a beat. The woman walked on air. Jackie forced a smile onto her face. “Nothing. Just looking forward to good food and good beer.”
Shelby brushed by and opened the door leading out, giving Jackie a fleeting kiss on the cheek as she passed. “You'll have to come over one of these days so I can teach you how to properly lie. You really are terrible at it.”
Jackie made sure to bump her going out, but refused to look into those smiling, bottomless eyes. “Up yours.”

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