The Vengeful Dead (5 page)

Chapter 7

Jackie turned, squashing Bickerstaff up against the cushion behind her. He complained and jumped up on to the back of the couch. She sat up and looked around her immaculate apartment. It was hard to imagine she lived in such a place.

The clock on her cable box said 7:24
AM
. She had been asleep for over twelve hours, and she felt almost normal. Jackie stretched and stared at the journal resting on the coffee table for a long moment, running Laurel’s words through her mind several times.

“Nope,” she said and picked up the book. “Not yet. Sorry, Laur. I just can’t.” Jackie had thought maybe she would be ready to look at Laurel’s journal after a night’s sleep. She wasn’t. It just felt weird with Laurel’s ghost still in her life. She carried the journal into the bedroom and put it into the box in her closet containing everything else Laurel-related that had been in her apartment—pictures, gifts, and anything else that sparked a painful memory. Someday they would come back out, but the constant reminders everywhere she turned made existing in her own home nearly unbearable. She wondered what Tillie would say to that?

Jackie closed the door and went to the bathroom to start a shower. Her hair was plastered to her head, eyes heavy with the dark rings of fatigue. God, she looked like shit. How did Nick stand being around her yesterday?

“What in God’s name do you see in me, Nick?” Jackie rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and stripped out of her sweats and T-shirt, before stepping into the welcoming steam of the shower. Would they ever go more than two hours together without there being some kind of drama? The bigger question: Did she want to go more than two hours with him? Yes. No. Maybe. Her brain refused to come to any kind of conclusions regarding Nick. Part of her had wanted him to stay last night. The other couldn’t get rid of him fast enough.

Jackie scrubbed herself with a loofah. “Face it, Agent Rutledge. You’re a big chicken shit.”

Then again, she felt fear about everything in her life right now. Afraid to go back to work, afraid to be home alone, and afraid to be around anyone, especially a compelling, good-looking guy who drank blood and was old enough to be her grandfather several times removed. Tillie however, was right. She had to do something, and the safest place to do it was headquarters. It was the only other place she felt comfort, where things were familiar, and in control. She would take in the file on McManus, see what he was all about, and finish putting Laurel’s old things away and out of sight.

The problem of her desk still remained. Could she handle anyone else sitting there? Jackie tried to imagine a strange agent sitting across from her, spinning around on Laurel’s chair, putting his things into her desk drawer, or typing away on her computer. No. It didn’t work. It creeped her out even. The desk would have to be moved. Maybe she could arrange to have it put in storage or disassembled. There were spares around the office. She would call maintenance when she got there.

Cleaned, dried, and feeling the best she had in days, Jackie walked into the kitchen and found that her fridge and pantry had been filled with goodies. Starbucks coffee drinks, bagels, pita and hummus, cinnamon rolls, and other items not deemed terribly healthy by most dieticians. Not a salad item in sight. OK, so maybe having a guy like Nick around wouldn’t be such a bad thing. At least she would eat well. Of course, her coffee drink would be sitting right next to that container of synthetic blood he had to drink.

Jackie grabbed an onion bagel and some cream cheese from the fridge and, when she turned, noticed the blinking light on her phone. Someone had called last night. She pulled apart the pre-sliced bagel and dropped it in the toaster before picking up the phone. A moment later, she heard Nick’s calm voice. He’d have made the perfect late night radio jockey. Jackie figured it likely that he had done just that at some point in the past.

She listened to his message, her heart skipping a beat when he said he would take her to the first crime scene. Had he talked to Belgerman about doing that? Might be a problem if he hadn’t, but did Jackie care? No. Likely best not to inform him until it became necessary. Her brain leaped at the thought while she dialed Nick’s number. If they found something, perhaps she could be cleared early to work on the case. Even if it was just the one case, it would be something for her to take her mind off of everything else.

“Nick!”

“Ah, there you are. Good morning, Jackie,” he said. “Was beginning to think you weren’t interested in coming.”

“You kidding me? Of course I’m coming. I just got your message though. Sorry. Where you at?”

“Annabelle’s, having a pastry and coffee and killing time until you dragged your lazy butt out of bed.”

“Did you clear this with Belgerman?”

There was a momentary pause. “Shelby went over there last night I think. She would have said if there was an issue.”

Jackie laughed. “You’re sneaking into a federal crime scene, Mr. Anderson?”

“I’ll be with a fed, so I’ve got an excuse.”

“I’ll be ready by the time you get here,” she said. She almost told him to bring her a chocolate croissant, but balked. He didn’t owe her one or have any obligation to bring her one. Of course, Laurel rarely did either. She did it because she wanted to.

“All right. See you soon.” He hung up.

Jackie gave an imaginary high five to Bickerstaff who stood on the counter, pacing. All matters were moot in the morning until kibble resided within his belly. “Be excited for me, Bickers baby. I’m going to go break some rules and check out the icky blood stains.”

He meowed and rubbed against her arm until she picked him up. Jackie fed him and then walked down to the front walk to wait for Nick, who arrived a few minutes later. He was driving the purple Porsche. Opening the door, Jackie got into the car, feeling mere inches off of the ground.

“You got it fixed,” she said.

“I did.” His hand rested on the gearshift. “You sure about doing this? I don’t want to risk too much trouble for you here.”

“Just go.” Jackie waved him onward. “You’re making me nervous and I’ll bail if you wait much longer.”

Nick glanced in the side-view mirror. “Fair enough.” The Porsche squealed into the street, leaving a fiftyfoot skidmark on the pavement. “There’s a chocolate croissant in the bag there,” he said after the car had settled into its dartlike motion in and out of traffic.

Jackie stared at him. “How’d you know I wanted that?”

“I asked. Tina says hello, by the way. So, do you have any specifics on the crime scene other than the murder victims?”

The bag did indeed contain two chocolate-filled croissants. She bit into one, licking off the chocolate that was about to drip out of the middle. “Thanks. Actually, let me call Denny and see what kind of info he has. He can’t say no to me.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“Think I scare him a little,” Jackie said with a smile, and keyed in Denny’s number.

“You?” Nick gave her a disapproving look. “But you’re so little.”

For about a half second, Jackie thought he was seriously making fun of her. She changed her tone as the words flew out of her mouth. “Fuck you. I pack a mean punch.”

“Get no argument from me on that one.”

“You know what? I’m tempted to just—Denny? It’s Jack.”

“Jack?” Denny sounded surprised and a bit cautious. “Good to hear your voice. We miss you around here.”

“Believe me, I miss you guys more,” she said. “I was in the office for a few and saw everyone was out on a new case.”

“Yep, it’s an ugly one too. You back on the job already?”

Jackie winced. “Sort of. I’m allowed to push paper for the next two weeks.”

Denny paused. “Not supposed to involve you then, Jack. You know that, right?”

“Den, come on,” she pleaded. “Just give me a little something. I’m dying out here.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, “just don’t let any of this get around. It’s my ass if it does.”

“Mum’s the word.” Her stomach danced with excitement. Finally, something to focus on.

“I’ll send you a couple of crime-scene pics to look at, but what we’ve got here is a Hispanic male, twentyseven, with bullet wounds to the knee, head, and groin, as well as a large, vertical knife wound running from groin to sternum. Second vic has a single gunshot wound to the face.”

“Ouch. Someone was sure pissed off,” she said.

“Wounds are similar to the Hispanic woman and white male killed earlier. All were affiliated gang members except the white guy. I think he was the woman’s boyfriend or something. Might just be internal gang violence, but this has marks of some kind of ritual killing. Both vics were eviscerated and shot in the head. I think the other two were just unfortunate enough to get in the way.”

Jackie frowned. “Hold on. There’s been more? When did this murder happen?”

“Last night, about two
AM
from what we can tell.”

Nick’s hands turned white on the steering wheel. “Damn it. It’s our ghost. She knows who she’s after.”

“What? Who?” she asked.

“The ghost. She knows her killer . . . or killers,” he said. “They need to figure out who else the vics might be associated with. Fast.”

“I got that,” Denny said. “I’ll pass that along to Pernetti.”

She groaned. “Pernetti is in charge of this? Great.”

“Sorry.” Denny laughed. “Everyone deserves their shot.”

“Or not. So what happened at the first one?”

“That one was worse. The vic was pregnant.”

Eviscerated a pregnant woman? “Fuck. What’s wrong with people?”

“Got me, Jack. Anyway, we’re still trying to confirm the connection between the two murders, and I really don’t want to be caught feeding you info when you’re supposed to be parked at a desk.”

“OK, thanks, Den. This is great.”

He laughed. “You got a twisted notion of good news there, Jack.”

“Just nice to hear some work-related stuff, you know?”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll tell you if anything else comes up.”

“You rock. Talk to you later.”

Jackie hung up. It felt good to sink her teeth into something again. Maybe, just maybe if she came up with something useful for them to go on, Belgerman might let her back in to help out, even if on the side. If she could show she was holding things together, he would. Tillie on the other hand—convincing her would take more work. For the Wicked Witch of Illinois, holding it together wasn’t enough. She would actually have to talk about shit better left unsaid.

They were winding their way through a wealthy neighborhood, with its groomed and manicured streets of three-hundred-thousand-dollar homes, splashed by the colors of fall leaves. The front of the brown, Tudorstyled home still had crime-scene tape across the front that nobody had bothered to remove. There was a blue van backed into the driveway, its rear opened to the raised garage door. It was a cleaning-service van.

Nick parked the Porsche along the curb in front of the house. “That’s convenient. Though I was looking forward to impressing you with my lock-picking skills.”

Jackie gave him a questioning look. “Because being a concert pianist, biochemist, and a gourmet cook aren’t good enough for me?”

He grinned and those rare lines on his face emerged that made him look all too human and far from dead. “You’re a tough woman to please, Agent Rutledge.”

“Not really,” she said and opened the door. “I’m just a cantankerous bitch, that’s all.”

Nick laughed and followed her up the driveway to the garage. As she stepped beneath the frame of the garage door, Jackie felt a sudden wash of cold pour over her. She froze. The amused smile and almost decent mood vanished in an instant.

Deadworld. Something was here or had been, and it wasn’t Laurel. She licked her lips. “Nick?”

“You feel that?” he asked, surprised.

She nodded. “What the hell? This isn’t Laurel.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not. Is it very strong?”

“Faint,” she replied. “I’m shocked more than anything. How am I able to feel that? I thought it was only Laurel.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Perhaps the trip to Deadworld has made it so you can sense the dead.”

“Fuck that!” She stared at him in disbelief. “I’m no psychic. One ghost is enough, thank you very much.”

A rather round black woman came out of the door to the house carrying an overstuffed green garbage bag.

She paused, giving Jackie and Nick a wary eye. “Can I help you with something?”

Jackie pulled out her ID. “FBI, ma’am. Just here to do some follow-up on the crime scene.”

“Ugh,” she replied, shaking her head. “You folks better catch the sons of bitches who did this. Ain’t right.”

Jackie nodded. “We will, don’t you worry.” She stepped around the muttering woman and went inside, where the cold of the dead intensified.

The house had been trashed. Even with the cleanup in progress, there were still broken bits of picture frames, shattered vases, dirt from planters, and assorted other household items strewn around the floors. Dishes were broken in the kitchen, bookcases knocked over in the living room. A lamp base lay on top of a video cabinet beneath a wrecked flat panel television. Behind the sofa against one wall was the dried rust-red blood splatter of one of the victims. The cushions, once a sage green, now sported a splotchy, dark pattern of blood. The sickly sweet smell of blood and death was still faint in the air.

Another cleaner, a rail-thin black man, was randomly tossing the debris into a bag he held in his hand. He nodded at them and continued to work in silence.

“Really wanted to pull off the appearance of a robbery, didn’t they?” Nick said as he stepped over and around the debris to get to the bloodstained sofa.

Jackie did not answer. She stood in the main entry, where stairs went up to the second floor and a hallway led down to what appeared to be an office. She had thought she heard something, and it was making her stomach knot up. Jackie closed her eyes and caught it again, this time holding onto the sound, a barely audible keening, almost like a . . . baby.

She whispered. “Nick?”

He stood up from where his hand had come to rest on the couch. “This person has moved on or is no longer around here. What is it?”