Deadworld (25 page)

“Where we going?”

“Not far. Buckle up.”

He gunned the engine and didn’t even bother backing out. The Durango spun its wheels for a moment and then churned up grass and mud as it sped across the lawn toward the street.

Not far was a twenty-minute ride through hell. They followed Shelby, catching up to and losing her several times as she dodged around traffic, jumped several sidewalks, and occasionally defied the laws of physics. Jackie braced her feet on the floorboard and held on to the handle over the door for dear life. The flashing light on top did little good, as Nick was going far too fast for anyone to notice in time to pull over to the side of the road. For the first time, she realized how Laurel must have felt during the few chases they had been on together. She swore never to take being a passenger for granted again.

Sliding around a corner into a quiet neighborhood of mostly 1930s bungalows, Nick finally eased off the gas as they approached the end of the street. “Call nine-one-one.”

Jackie then realized the source of his order, a black plume of smoke rising over the treetops up on their left. She barely got the call through before Nick bounded over the curb and slid to a halt in the front yard of a house in chaos.

“This is FBI Agent Rutledge. We have a house fire at . . . Nick, where are we?”

“Thirteen-fifty Applewood!” he yelled at her. He was already out the door.

Jackie repeated the address and left the phone in the seat of the truck before leaping after him.

Shards of glass were scattered across the front lawn, the remnants of the living room window having been blown out. Flames licked at the sides while a curtain of black smoke whipped upward into the sky. Shelby’s motorcycle lay on its side in the grass, and Jackie ran around it, heading for the front door, where Nick shoved Shelby aside and kicked it in off its hinges. He started to move in but immediately turned and ducked when a piece of furniture, an end table by the look of it, bounced off his back and went tumbling into the yard.

Jackie drew her Glock and crouched as she approached the blown-out window, but the haze of smoke made it difficult to see what was going on inside.

“Stay back!” Shelby yelled. “The little fucker is on a rampage.”

“Is Cynthia in there?” she wondered.

Nick turned and pointed a finger at her. “Stay here. Don’t come in unless I say so.” His finger shifted to Shelby. “You, too!” With that, he assumed a defensive crouch and darted inside.

What the fuck? Since when did the law remain outside while the civilian entered a potentially lethal situation? Shelby looked at Jackie and rolled her eyes in Nick’s direction. She didn’t need to say anything for Jackie to know what Shelby intended. Jackie returned the nod and ran up next to the door, gun held at the ready. With Shelby’s second nod indicating her readiness, they rolled around the edge of the doorway and entered the house.

Smoke clouded the initial view looking from the entry into the living room, but Jackie didn’t even have time to react to the box of CDs that came zipping out of the gloom and caught her solidly in the thigh.

“Son of a bitch!” She leaped across the hardwood floor to take cover against the edge of the archway leading into the room. Able to see inside more clearly, the scene froze her in her tracks before she could follow behind the hunched-over form of Nick.

A tornado had spawned in the middle of Cynthia’s living room. Every loose item in the room, from vases to books and every possible form of decorative knickknack, whirled about the room with deadly speed. Fire was beginning to take over the ceiling above the front window, and an overstuffed chair beside it was spewing forth dark, acrid smoke.

In the middle of the floor between the window and the fireplace on the far wall, two figures, pale and translucent, were engaged in a fight. It looked like a poorly functioning hologram was playing out the fight scene from a movie. One figure wore a derby hat with a long trench coat and had the smaller, far slighter figure in a choke hold. Jackie watched the smaller one stomp on the arch of the derby man, and he made a silent yelp of pain before letting go. The figure turned, and Jackie’s breath froze in her lungs.

It was Laurel. Jackie fired a shot at the man, only to see a cloud of plaster explode from the wall behind him.

“Use that table, Jackie!” Shelby said before diving into a roll across the floor to reach Nick, who knelt on the floor beside the far end of the couch on the other end of the room.

A small table stood behind Jackie in the entry, a pair of flowering plants perched on top. She was not quite sure what Shelby meant until a candlestick whistled by her head and dented the plaster in the wall on the far side of the entry. She quickly holstered the gun and grabbed the table, hoisting it up before her as a shield.

She followed them in, one eye on Laurel, who struggled against the far more powerful man. She blocked his roundhouse punches, flashing her fist in with quick jabs to the man’s face. Where had she learned to fight like that? Something heavy and wooden slammed into the table, nearly wrenching it from her hands, and Jackie was forced to refocus her attention on Nick, who was struggling to his feet with Cynthia’s limp body cradled against his chest. A six-inch metal figurine bounced off his shoulder, and Nick dropped back to a knee, swearing up a storm.

“Get out of here!” he ordered. “Run!”

Shelby grabbed the couch, picking it up from one end, and spun it around at the flying objects, knocking a good many of them to the ground. Nick, hunched over the unconscious body of Cynthia, made a lunging run for the front door. Jackie turned and caught a six-inch-diameter candle, spinning like a Frisbee, in the side of her left knee, dropping her to the floor before she even got the cry of pain out of her mouth. The table shield went tumbling to the floor as her hands went straight to the explosion of agony in her knee.

“Fuck! Shelby—” Her call for help got cut off when a two-inch-thick book jammed itself into her ribs just under her right breast. Another candle, the size of a softball, caught her in the left side just beneath the ribs, and the last of her burning breath escaped her lungs in a whoosh. She blinked back tears, partly from pain, the rest from the smoke, and began to crawl for the door.

“Take her, Shel!” Nick’s voice yelled ahead of her. A moment later, he was beside Jackie, his hand digging into her arm.

Jackie felt herself pulled half up off the floor as he dragged her back to the entry. She finally struggled to her feet, shaking loose of his grip.
I can take care of myself, goddamnit.

Something bounced off Nick’s back, and he winced. “Go, damn you.”

“I can handle—”

Jackie never completed the sentence, as yet another of Cynthia’s candles found its way out of the living room and struck her in the side of the head, sending the world into darkness.

Chapter 39

The firemen were rolling their hoses back up, satisfied that Cynthia’s house was safe from smoldering back into flames. Water dripped from the eaves like tears over the gaping wound of the front window, exposing the now hollowed, gutted living room inside, strewn with soggy, smashed debris. At least it was repairable. Cynthia had been wheeled away, still unconscious, but stable. Nick had hoped she would wake enough to offer some explanation, but all he could do now was hypothesize.

Something had come for her. Likely a goon of Drake’s. The question was, why? Laurel had come to stop him. How had she known? What was happening on the other side? How? He wondered about Reg. He generally had the beat on anything ghostly going on. It worried Nick that nothing had been heard from Reg for a while now, and his call to him earlier had gone unanswered. Deadworld was becoming the great unknown factor in all this. Drake’s trump card. It was all a matter of blood. Nick turned away from the ruins of Cynthia’s bungalow, hands thrust in his pockets, and made his way toward the street.

Shelby’s motorcycle was gone. She had left almost immediately to check on Cynthia and then head out to look for Drake. Jackie sat in the front seat of Belgerman’s car, parked behind the paramedic’s truck. She had refused to go to the hospital, even though the knot on the side of her head likely indicated a mild concussion. She should have been in the damn hospital. Against his better judgment, he approached and squatted down next to her, holding on to the open door for support.

“Not going to the hospital, are you, Agent Rutledge?”

She opened her eyes and lifted the cold pack from the side of her head. “Would you?”

Nick grimaced. “No, but that’s beside the point. You might have a concussion.”

“And a little eight-year-old girl might be dead by tomorrow if we don’t figure out what the fuck to do.”

The better part of him knew to just get up and walk away. There was no point arguing with her—stubborn to the bone, which likely accounted for her appeal in a frustrating-beyond-reason kind of way. She would keep going until she collapsed, and in her current condition would likely serve the case little good.

“You aren’t going to catch anyone at the moment, Jackie. You need rest. I’m surprised Belgerman hasn’t ordered you home.”

She stared at him for a moment, mouth working in furious silence. “You done being good samaritan now? Do you feel better that you’ve checked up on me? If you hadn’t been playing the fucking hero, I might have gotten out of there without getting waxed.”

“Hero?” He bit back the rest of his retort. No point fanning flames. She was hurt and pissed. “It was a bad situation in there, Jackie. It could have been a lot worse.”

“I’m not blind! Christ, I saw what was going on,” she snapped back but then sagged into the seat with a groan, putting the pack to her head. “What the fuck was going on in there?”

Nothing like a concussion to batter the bravado down. He just wanted to make sure she was going to take care of herself. She looked so small and fragile now, battered, bruised, and emotionally wrung out. If he had been Belgerman, there was no way he would have let her continue. Beyond the fact that the case was too dangerous, she had lost her partner. He had figured there was mandatory leave when events like that happened, unless of course Belgerman was letting it slide until the case was over. Nick would have to ask him about that. If she could be forced to sit the rest of this out, all the better.

“My guess is Drake sent someone to get Cynthia, and Laurel came to stop him.”

Jackie was quiet for so long, Nick thought she had fallen asleep. Finally, she said, “How? Why? I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “I’m going to the hospital after this to check on Cyn. Hopefully, she’ll be conscious and be able to shed some light on things.”

Jackie nodded. After a moment, a single tear trickled out of a closed, puffy eye, and Nick resisted the urge to reach out and wipe it away. “Laurel’s dead, and she’s still working the case.”

He had not even considered that line. So much for sending Jackie home. She would probably kill the person who tried. “It seems Laurel is trying to help us. I am, too, Jackie. I’ve been dealing with this kind of thing for a long time. If I tell you to keep back, it’s not to play hero—”

She sat up, eyes suddenly alive with indignation. “Are you running the FBI now, Nick? Did Belgerman die and make you boss?”

“Look, Jackie—”

“No! You look.” She threw the pack at him, and Nick stumbled back, catching the pack against his shoulder. “You’re just a fucking civilian PI. This is my case! You don’t give the orders around here, Sheriff.” The last came out with a nasty sneer in her voice. “You want to play hero, go . . . just go! Leave me the fuck alone.”

Nick stood up. It was time to bail before things got even uglier. “All right. When you’ve got things situated again, call me. I’ll be out looking for Drake.”

“Everything okay over here?” Belgerman walked up and stopped behind Nick, his face heavy with worry.

“It’s fine,” Nick said. “I was just leaving.”

Jackie reached out and yanked the car door closed. “Can we get the hell out of here?”

Belgerman cocked an eyebrow at Nick. “Sure. Things appear to be under control here. We need to get that head of yours looked at.”

Jackie looked incensed. “The paramedics already—”

“Looked at it and said you should go in to make sure you don’t have a concussion or cracked ribs or anything else. So just sit back and relax, Jack. I’m ordering you to have it looked at. Better?”

“Fucking-A. Fine!” She fumed in silence as the window went up.

Belgerman gave her a sarcastic little smile and laid a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Call Gamble and check in with him to see what’s going on, if he needs your help with anything. You got his number?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Was this Drake’s handiwork, Mr. Anderson?” he wondered, waving his arm at the house.

“Looks that way.”

“Okay, I think we need to have a little more informative briefing from you on things. Like this afternoon.”

Nick agreed. “Tell me when. I’ll be there.”

“Good. I’ll let you know by noon.”

Belgerman walked around and opened up the car’s door. “Hey, you got a ride back?”

“I can bring Agent Rutledge’s vehicle in.” He hoped that was all right. He had no other transportation available.

“Just take it to your place and lock it up. We’ll send someone out later to pick it up.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

Jackie was shaking her head, muttering something under her breath, and Nick was glad the window was up so he didn’t have to hear. He felt bad for her, and the guilt ate at his insides. He had tried to keep them out of this, tried to keep her away, but there was no denying a woman like Jackie Rutledge. She was like the hunting dog who had found itself in a losing battle with a bear, but once latched on to it, she was not going to let go until either she or the bear was dead.

Nick shook his head and headed for the Durango. The bear was winning.

Chapter 40

Jackie finally turned to look at John after ten minutes of silence in the car. She had feigned sleep in the hopes of quelling any conversation he might have, but now that he was actually saying nothing, the silence was beginning to bother her. He glanced at her once, expressionless, for the most part, and then faced back toward the road. Jackie figured it best not to ask what was on his mind. If it was important, he would tell her.

Five minutes after they left, she had felt a pang of guilt over sniping at Nick. He likely had saved her from more serious injury, even if she could have crawled out of there. She just remembered Laurel, her body gray and transparent in the smoke, fighting the man in the derby hat. Ghosts, both of them. Jackie sighed. She could not recall ever feeling more out of control of a case in her life.

“I’ll take a long vacation after we nail this guy, sir. I swear, a month at least. I think it will be over in a few days.”

John gave her a smile that was some mixture of sadness and understanding. “You still have to speak with Tillie, Jack. I bend a lot of rules, but not that one.”

“We’re talking only a few days,” Jackie said, trying not to sound desperate. “I’m good for that at least.”

“You’re good for nothing at the moment, Jack,” he replied, annoyance creeping in at last. “You’re lucky I didn’t force you to stay the night in the hospital for observation. You can go talk to her and then get a few hours sleep, or you can sign a vacation slip now, and I’ll see you back in the office next month. Clear enough?”

Jackie humphed and then winced at the pain it caused in her side. “With all due respect, sir, you suck.”

“Privilege of being the boss,” he said as they pulled into the underground garage. “Now go see Auntie Tillie, and I’ll see how you’re doing after. I’m going to try to get Mr. Anderson down here to brief us more thoroughly on just what it is we’re dealing with. No more special investigators for the supernatural. Everyone is going to deal with it.”

Jackie shoved her door open as they came to a stop. “I guess I shouldn’t take that personally, should I?”

“Jack, you know what I meant. You’re a damn good agent who is hurting bad. Go speak to Tillie. If she gives you the go-ahead, I won’t second-guess her.”

She got out and slammed the door. There were no words he could soothe her with when it came to speaking to their local shrink. Doing her damnedest to look normal, Jackie favored her leg, limping over to the elevator, and left Belgerman behind.

Seven floors up, Jackie stepped out onto the human-resources floor, an area she saw maybe once or twice a year. An innocuous-sounding part of the floor was entered through a door labeled
PERSONNEL
SERVICES
. Matilda’s office was at the end of the hall beyond the small reception area. The carpets were plush and silent, the colors soft and muted. Everything about the damn place screamed calmness. Jackie crossed her arms over her chest, about to tell the fluffy little receptionist she was there to see Aunt Tillie, when Tillie stepped out in the hall and motioned her down the hall.

Jackie eyed the young woman behind the desk. “You beeped her, didn’t you?”

She gave Jackie a faint smile. “I was really sorry to hear about Ms. Carpenter. I liked her.”

The snarky retort Jackie had been building up died in her mouth. “Yeah, me, too.” She limped off down the hall to meet her doom.

Aunt Tillie was sitting down in her soft, plump, cushioned leather chair across from an identical one that Jackie found herself sinking into. She would have stood, just to annoy Tillie, but the knee was killing her, and she had to admit that staying awake was becoming a struggle. The chair could have almost been termed a love seat, perfect for curling up in, and much as she tried to dump the thoughts, sleep kept invading her system in all directions.
A little nap, couple hours, I’ll be good for the afternoon.

“Hello, Jackie,” Tillie said, her voice filled with concern. From a tray beside her, she filled a cup with some tea and set it down on the small coffee table between them. Behind her on the other side of the chair was her big, old mahogany desk that everyone secretly wished to kill her for. Nobody in the building—or most of the city, for that matter—had such a lovely, ornate, and perfectly polished desk. The skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling window was a shroud of gray, swirling mist.

“Dr. Erikson.”

“Drink,” she said. “It will help you relax, and lord knows you look like you could use it.”

“I’m fine, really,” Jackie said. She didn’t even believe herself. Sitting up straighter, she made an effort to smile, but sitting across from the big, motherly woman—in her green cashmere sweater, a pleated khaki skirt, her little gold chain with the charms, and the little pearl earrings—had Jackie’s stomach in knots. “Okay, I’m not fine, but I’ll live.” God, the woman made her want to crawl out of her skin!

“Dear, relax. This is informal. No notes, nothing on record, just a conversation between two grown women.”

Jackie contemplated picking up the tea, but feared her shaky hands would make the cup rattle in the saucer. Any more signs of nerves, and, no doubt, Tillie would have her shipped off to the psych ward. “I was ordered here, Dr. Erikson.”

“Tillie, please.” She sipped on her tea for a moment. “All right, so it isn’t a social call, but still. You can let that guard down for two seconds, Jackie. I’m not going to recommend you take time off. Yet.”

Just like that? No prodding? No “tell me what’s really going on”? She had gotten enough of that from her during her last psychological evaluation. She had dug around in Jackie’s past enough to know a good deal about what was really going on, and to this point, Jackie had successfully avoided any direct conversations with her about it. “Seriously? You’ll let me finish this case, just like that? No questions? No ‘what about Laurel’? Nothing?”

“Jackie,” she said, setting down her tea and leaning forward. Her hands were folded together, arms resting on her knees. “Look at me, please.”

Jackie had turned away without thinking when Tillie had leaned forward. There was a soft, pitying look about her face that made her stomach squirm, and not so much because she didn’t want that sympathetic, trusting gaze falling upon her, but because she realized it made her want to talk. Tillie was worse than the vampires.

“What?” Jackie asked.

“I know you’re hurting physically, emotionally, spiritually. You look beat in more ways than one. If you agree to come back and see me after this is done . . . on a weekly basis . . . I won’t tell John you should have a month off at a minimum.”

What? Extortion? The kindly, plump mother of the FBI’s Chicago office was resorting to extortion? “Why would I agree to that? You know I have no desire to be here.”

She leaned back and picked up her tea, sipping at it for a moment. “Because if you don’t, dear, I suspect your career in the FBI is over.”

There was no threat implied. They both knew what she referred to, and Jackie chewed on her lip, pondering the choice, and suddenly found herself appalled that she could even consider trading justice for Laurel over her own discomfort, pain, and embarrassment. “Fine. It’s a deal. I can’t believe you’re resorting to such low tactics. You’re a sneaky bitch when you want to be, Tillie.”

She laughed. “You have no idea.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve been planning for this moment for years?”

“Oh, but I have,” she said, the smile turning sly. “I knew it would come. One day something would come along that would mean more to you than protecting that hurt, twelve-year-old girl locked away in your heart.”

Jackie swallowed hard. Damn her. Bitch was doing it on purpose. Didn’t matter if she was right. “We done here then?”

Tillie shook her head. “No. I want to know what’s happened on this case from your point of view. John filled me in, but I think I find it’s lacking some things. I’d like to hear your side.”

“Why?”

“Humor me, Jackie. I need it regardless to note your current state of mind so I can file the proper paperwork.”

“Are you this big a pain outside the office?”

She just smiled. “Pick up your tea, if you can without spilling, and tell me what’s happened.”

Jackie took a deep breath. Therapists were the devil, no two ways about it. “I’m not thirsty.”