The Vengeful Dead (19 page)

Jackie gave him a blank look for a second. “I guess. Last thing I remember was Morgan slamming my head into the floor, and . . . that’s it.”

“Maybe you pulled him back into the entry after that. Your memory is likely a little skewed after what happened. Blows to the head will do that.”

“I guess,” she said and sagged back into her pillow. “I really could use something to drink.”

There was a pitcher and plastic cups on the bedside table. “Here let me get you some water.” He poured out half a cup and held the cup up to her lips.

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” she said, the hint of a smile on her lips. “But thanks.”

“Hungry at all?”

“God no. My stomach feels like hell. I bet the coffee here is horrid too.”

“I’ll bring you a latte later.”

“Thank you.” She closed her eyes once more. “That’d be great.”

“Get some rest, Jackie. You need it.” She nodded but did not open her eyes. “You want me to hang around for when the others start rolling in?”

Her voice was a murmur now. “That could be hours. You don’t need to do that.”

“Sooner than that, I think.” He stood up and gave her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be around. Get some more sleep, and I’ll give you warning when they start to arrive.”

She made an agreeable sound but was already fading out. Nick looked down on her for several minutes, watching her sleep, the slow rise and fall of her stomach, the bandaged head that made her look far more frail than she was. When he was sure she was out, Nick turned around and left.

Chapter 22

McManus sat in the dining room of Javier Johnson, cousin of Manuel “Steel-Toe” Juarez, his head propped on his hand. The evidence crew had finally left with their plastic bags and collected items detailing what they figured had happened. They had it wrong, however. They took the convenient answer.

He couldn’t exactly knock Pernetti for accepting it. The guy was a decent agent, but he didn’t want to accept the unlikeliest of scenarios. They had stopped the bad guy in a less-than-ideal manner, but when it was all said and done, they had stopped him and that was all that mattered. All they needed was a confirming report from Jackie and they could file it away: Agent Rutledge tracks down rogue cop and kills him after two victims are killed and he fires his weapon at her. Justified response. Unfortunate. End of story.

Only the more he had looked at it, the less likely it seemed the scenario played out that way. The others either didn’t see it or had collectively decided not to look at the evidence. Protect your own. The Chicago PD didn’t like it either. One of their own had gone astray and was gunned down by the FBI. That never went down well no matter how you played it. But even they had glossed over what seemed plainly possible to McManus.

Detective Morgan had not shot the second victim.

The first shot fired had been victim number one. He clearly remembered hearing that first distinct pop and turning to see Jackie sprinting across the lawns in the next block. Who would have thought those short, slender legs could move a body so fast? He had started after her when he saw Morgan. Then another gunshot followed by three in rapid succession as she charged him. That was when she had been nearly killed. They had blood evidence from the yard for that. Jackie had then barreled into Morgan, taking him down in the entry of the house. McManus just reached the house’s yard when two more shots went off.

Three seconds. It couldn’t have been any more than that before he got to the front door. Morgan and Johnson were dead in the entry and Jackie lay unconscious in the dining room. In the initial chaos of dealing with Jackie, he hadn’t even considered what had happened. By the time he got a moment to breathe and had come back in from securing the area, the rest of the crew had arrived and Pernetti had taken over. Nobody had asked the disturbing question: Why was Jackie the only one in sight of the second victim?

Ballistics would tell a clearer story. If she had fired more than three shots, people might then begin to wonder. Her gun, though, had been on the floor, lying between her and Morgan. There may or may not be prints from Morgan on her weapon, but that wouldn’t be conclusive. He knew how they would write it up. Morgan had grabbed her gun and shot the second victim before collapsing himself. Perhaps he had shoved her into the dining room where she collapsed. Any number of potential scenarios could tell the story, but the facts didn’t really add up. How did a guy, shot twice in the chest, stagger around the corner into the living room and get off two perfectly aimed shots? It had been mere seconds, so Morgan, even if alive, was at the end of his rope and not in any shape to get off any kind of clean shot, much less two bull’s-eyes.

So, however improbable, Jackie had or most likely had shot the second victim. Why would she do such a thing? It made no sense.

McManus got up and walked back to the front door, playing through the scenario in his head. He ignored the television crews on the street who turned their cameras in his direction. There would be plenty of time for questions. He would play out the events over and over again for many. The Bureau of Professional Standards guys would be all over them, going over the events until he was sick of them. Jackie would have it ten times worse. Poor Jack. Helping on a case to get back in the swing of things and she winds up killing a cop. No telling how long she would be on leave for this one.

“What the hell happened, Jack?” McManus said, trying to put himself in Morgan’s shoes, being shot in the doorway, bleeding out, shoving Jackie into the dining room, putting two rounds into a guy in the next room and then stumbling back to collapse in the entry. While physically possible, McManus could not wrap his brain around the second victim. If you’re in your dying moments, you aren’t moving around blowing people away with pinpoint accuracy. But trying things from Jackie’s point of view made even less sense. Tackling Morgan, staggering into the dining room after he’s died, likely light-headed and woozy as hell from the head wound, and then shooting an unarmed guy in the next room.

It made the scene look like Jackie had taken out Morgan’s last victim for him. Unless, by some miraculous turn of events, the second victim was actually the first and Morgan happened to run into the first coming out of the house. That didn’t explain the screen door though.

McManus sighed and thrust his hands into his pockets. This was getting him nowhere. He needed to speak with Jack before the Standards guys came down on her.

He pulled out his phone and dialed up the hospital and got routed to Jackie’s room. After four rings a male voice answered.

“Agent Rutledge’s room.”

“Mr. Anderson? This is Agent McManus.”

“How are things over there?” he asked.

“Winding down here. Is Jack available to talk? How is she?”

“Groggy but all right. She’s got company at the moment. Something you needed to ask her?”

“Lots of things, actually,” he said.

“You and a dozen other people,” came Nick’s agitated reply.

“Yeah, I figured. This is going to be one big cluster fuck. Tell her to call me as soon as she can. I really need to chat with her about what happened.”

“I’ll do that, Agent McManus. Oh, hold on,” he said and there was a moment of muffled conversation. “Call her tonight. She insists she will be home in a few hours.”

“Will she?”

“Unless they chain her to the bed.”

McManus laughed. “Yeah, all right. I’ll try her around nine or so. Thanks, and wish her luck for me.”

“I’ll do that.”

He shoved the phone back in his pocket and headed back outside. There was little for him to do at the scene now, and he needed to figure out what the hell to put in the incident report on this. For now, at least, he would keep his absurd notions to himself. Things were enough of a mess already without throwing suspicions toward Jackie, and it would look bad for her if they had different accounts of the events.

Stepping down onto the front walk, McManus recognized a familiar figure standing on the sidewalk beyond the scene tape. Belgerman had decided to come and see for himself, and given the beckoning shrug of his head, he had been waiting for McManus to come out. So much for syncing their stories together.

Chapter 23

Jackie prayed it was time for another Percocet. Her head felt like a sculptor was going at it with a hammer and chisel. Nick stood at the window, staring out through his reflection. Laurel sat weightless on the end of her bed, legs dangling through the footboard. Shelby had contacted her after leaving the scene, and the hospital was a place she had been to before, so she could travel directly. Her presence had helped alleviate the stress of two hours of endless questioning, made worse by Belgerman.

He had come by twenty minutes after she woke up. After assuring himself of her health, the first words out his mouth about the case had been simple and direct. “Jackie, you need to consider yourself gagged when it comes to anything supernatural involving this case. Don’t even hint at anything odd.”

Not that she had any desire to do so, but her involvement in the case was entirely supernatural. “And what was I doing on this case then?”

“Investigative backup. Research. Background on potential suspects. You were looking into the rogue cop angle after Morgan went on leave after the second murders. Spin it however you like, Jackie, but leave the ghost out of it. I know it will be difficult, but you will manage it.”

Nick, who was sitting against the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest, sounded more curious than angry about the news. “If they look into us, they may start to wonder.”

“Don’t worry about that, but I need you on board with this, Mr. Anderson. If you’re asked, you were investigating a prescription drug ring, involving illegal Oxycontin prescriptions. Your client is confidential and shall remain so.”

“This is a bit unusual, John,” he said.

“I know, but we can’t afford the supernatural angle to get public on this one. It’s already a mess with a cop getting killed.”

“So, I’m on leave again I take it?” Jackie asked.

“Until this gets investigated, yes. The case, as far as everyone is concerned, is over. The killer was stopped.”

Nick unfolded his arms and hooked his hands in his pants pockets. “We don’t know that Rosa is done. We still don’t know everyone she was after.”

“We’ll keep looking for Vasquez, but as far as this case is concerned, once these loose ends are tied up, we’re done.”

Two hours later, Jackie felt nowhere close to being done. More than anything, she felt done in. The cops had been first, a grim-looking female detective with her hair pulled up into a tight little knot on the back of her head and an even tighter frown. She spoke in a rock-hard staccato voice, but Jackie couldn’t muster the energy to be annoyed. Drugs and the mild concussion made the world beyond the confines of her body inconsequential. Pernetti had followed, but was mercifully brief, realizing quickly that she was in no state for prolonged questioning. Denny had stopped by more to see how she was doing, followed by the doctor checking up on her, then someone from Professional Standards, who only took a brief statement of events and stated they would need to speak with her as soon as she was able.

In between, Jackie dozed in and out of consciousness, full of hazy dreams smelling of blood and Morgan’s grinning, bloodstained teeth. When she came out of the last dream to the touch of the nurse looking to take her blood pressure, Jackie felt the overwhelming desire to get out.

She reached for the water on her bedside table, but it was empty. Nick, stoically patient in the corner chair, got up to fill her cup. After taking a couple of sips and waiting for the nurse to leave, she said to him, “I’m ready to go home.”

“They want to keep you overnight for observation,” he said, but his tone was perfunctory.

“I need to get out of here, Nick. I hate the sterility and the smell.”

He nodded with a knowing half-smile. “All right. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Thank you.” Jackie sagged back against the pillows. Once again, Nick was there to help out. Quiet and subtle as a mouse, he had stepped up his presence in her life. Even when she had not really asked or wanted him to be around, he had wormed his way in, refusing her complaints in that ever-steady, unruffled voice. And obviously, she didn’t mind that much or she would have fought him more. The fact was, having him around outweighed how nervous he could make her feel.

Shelby walked in with a duffle-shaped suitcase slung over a shoulder. It took Jackie a moment of sluggish awareness to realize it was hers. “Hey. That’s my duffle. How did you get that?”

She cocked an eyebrow at Jackie. “How do you think?” Shelby unzipped the top and removed some clothes. “I took the liberty of grabbing a couple of things for you to wear, since the other stuff is covered in blood.”

“You knew I was going home tonight?”

“Hon, I’m surprised you made it this long.” She patted Jackie on the leg and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “Nick asked me to get you some things to wear a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh, OK. Thanks.” She turned and pushed herself up into a sitting position, head swimming around like it was free-floating atop her neck. After grabbing a T-shirt from the pile, Jackie reached back to undo the tie on her hospital gown, but found her fingers bogged down by the Percocet. They would not work properly.

Shelby slapped her hand away. “Stop. Here.” A moment later, the ties were lose and Shelby was assisting Jackie out of her hospital gown and into clothing: sweatpants, T-shirt, jacket, socks. It was like a mom getting her daughter ready for school in the morning.

“I could’ve done that, you know,” Jackie said.

Shelby’s fingers stopped in the middle of pulling up Jackie’s second sock. She looked up at Jackie for a second, those bright green eyes curved in sympathy. “Do you ever let anyone just do something for you?”

“Of course.”

“Without letting them know you were quite capable of doing it on your own?”

“I . . . what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means just say ‘Thanks, Shel.’ That’s it. No addendums or rationalizations. I don’t think less of you or think you’re weak or unfit or whatever it is. You don’t need to be independent every single moment of your life, Jackie girl.”

“I know that—”

“No.” Shelby shook her head and finished tying off her running shoes. “I don’t think you do. There. Good to go, babe. Let’s get you home and in a proper bed.”

Jackie looked down at the shoes she likely had not put on in two years. Laurel had bought them for her after a chase in her hiking boots had failed to catch the perp. “Thank you,” she said, overenunciating each word. “Did Laur head out?”

“She’s off to see if Rosa has gone back to her babe or not. We need to find out if she’s done.”

“And if she’s not?”

“Then we need to figure out a way to stop her and keep her over in Deadworld until she can move on.”

“Why do I really not like the sound of that?”

“Because we’ve no idea how to go about doing that other than crossing over and confronting her.”

“Screw that. I’m not going over there.” Jackie shuffled over to the bathroom to pee and caught the sight of her bathing cap of a bandage. “Oh, my God. I look like a fucking Q-Tip.”

Shelby snickered. “Notice how I politely said nothing about that.”

“I can’t go around with this thing on my head,” Jackie said. “Nobody will take me seriously.” She pointed out at Shelby. “Don’t say it, bitch. I know you were.”

“Did I say a word? I was only going to tell you that I will take it off when we get you home. Or Nick can, if you prefer.”

Jackie slammed the bathroom door closed. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Thought so,” came the amused reply.

The doctor reluctantly let her sign out, warning her to rest and not do much for the next day or two. She got another prescription for the Percocet and they were home by eight-thirty. It was going to be a cold night, and Jackie felt all thirty-eight degrees of it biting into her as they hustled into her apartment. She was practically shivering by the time she got inside.

Jackie sniffed the air when she walked in, finding the faint whiff of blood and corpse still following her. Maybe it was the bandage and wound on her head she was smelling. Bickerstaff distracted her annoyance by running up and rubbing for food. “You a hungry boy, Bickers?”

Shelby waltzed into her bedroom to put the duffle away, and Nick stepped into the kitchen. “I’ll get a can out for him,” he said. “Just sit down and relax, Jackie. You want a coffee?”

She held the cat against her chest, rubbing at the soft fur. “What I want is peace and quiet actually. I’d like to be alone for a while.”

“You want that bandage off before we go, Jackie?” Shelby called from the bedroom.

“No, I can—” She dropped Bickerstaff when he reacted to the can being opened on the counter. “Thanks. That would be great if you could.”

Shelby gave her a big, cheesy grin. “Scissors?”

“Kitchen drawer.”

Jackie found herself sitting on the edge of her bed, looking into the mirror over her dresser as Shelby looked to be jabbing scissors into her head. The metal was cool against her scalp, and Shelby made quick work of snipping through enough of the gauze to peel it slowly off the side of her head.

“Well . . . it’s healing well,” Shelby said. “Have to get you a sock hat to wear though, because it’s—”

Jackie turned her head away from Shelby’s probing fingers and glanced sidelong into the mirror. Someone had taken a pair of sheep sheers and shaved a two inch wide strip off the left side of her head and painted a mottled pink strip down the middle of it. She sucked in her breath. Looks never ranked high on Jackie’s, but she knew she wasn’t ugly. Plain maybe, but this? This was horrible. “Ahhh, shit! What the hell? I’m the bride of Frankenstein.”

Nick stepped in to the doorway. “How’s it look?”

“It’s fine, Nick. Go away,” Shelby told him and took a step in front of Jackie. “You’ve seen one scar, you’ve seen them all, so shoo!”

“It’s just hair,” he said, but Jackie heard him walk away.

“He’s right, you know,” Shelby added. “Most of this will grow back. You’ll just have to wear it long enough to fall over that scar. Just think of the stories you’ll be able to tell your grandkids about—”

“Stop, Shelby,” Jackie said. She didn’t even want to look at the mirror. “It’s just hair and it’s also fucking hideous. I don’t need any interesting marks to show off to people.” She kicked off her shoes toward the closet, bouncing them off the door. “Plain ol’ Jackie doesn’t need a war wound or something for people to point at or wince at or do any fucking thing at. Just give me the goddamn Percocet and let me go to sleep.”

Shelby sighed heavily beside her. “OK, hon. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Two minutes later, they were mercifully gone and the apartment was shrouded in blissful silence. Jackie flopped back on her bed, still clothed in sweats and T-shirt. The mutant, freaky scar-girl didn’t have the energy or willpower to undress herself. Her fingers wandered up and lightly touched the stitches along her scalp. The wound was a good six centimeters long, running from above her left temple clean across the side of her head.

Bickerstaff walked up from the end of the bed to sniff at her hand. “Scary shit, huh, Bickers?” He licked her finger and Jackie pulled it back down. They were starting to tremble.

Death had come and left her a little calling card. One measly centimeter and her brains would have been oozing out into the grass. Jackie pulled her cat in close and clung to his furry warmth. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back tears. The worst of it was, she couldn’t even take solace in knowing that all of this was over. Rosa could still be out there, planning to take over someone else to finish her deadly vengeance.

Bickers began to purr with contentment in her grasp and the gentle motor along with the creeping haze of drugs lulled her off into sleep, where the doorway to Deadworld yawned open and Rosa’s words pushed her along. “You’re broken. You’re broken.”