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Authors: J. N. Duncan
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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
“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
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