Tracy’s brow furrowed. She moved closer. “Why?”
“Any entity that is forcibly extracted is no longer covered under the accord. They hold them still until they suffocate.” John covered his face with his hands. How could he make her understand? “I still have nightmares about it. The entity looked like clear vapor at first. But the more impurities he absorbed, the darker he became. He twisted and writhed, and even though he didn’t have a voice, I could tell that fantastic, beautiful, eternal being was pleading for mercy.” He looked at Tracy. “I screamed at them, begged them to stop, but they held me back. One of them said, ‘This is the best part,’ right before the entity became solid, like smoked glass. Then Agent Fuckwad released the trigger on the extractor and the entity dropped.”
John reached out to the floor, the need to catch the falling creature still strong within him. He lowered his hands. “Its body shattered when it hit the ground. They laughed as the pieces turned to dust and blew away like nothing ever existed. No memory, no proof.”
He gritted his teeth. “How could they do that? How could they senselessly destroy an eternal life and laugh about it?”
Tracy touched his arm and he jumped. “It sounds horrible.”
“Don’t do that to her, Tracy. I know you’re upset, but you need to give her time so she can explain. Don’t kill her just because you’re scared.”
Tracy folded into his arms. “I didn’t know. They told me they could get her out. They never said what would happen to her.”
“They never do.” He drew her to him. “Give me your word you won’t call for an extraction.”
“I’ve never even squished a spider, so I sure as heck can’t kill something that can talk, even if I don’t like her very much.”
John ran his fingers through her hair and stroked the back of her neck. He wished he could be sure she was telling the truth.
“I just wish I understood why.” Tracy whispered into the crook of his neck. “Why would she seem so angry? Why push you away?”
“I’ll say it again. Give her time. If you can keep her from overexerting herself, maybe she’ll find the strength to explain.”
48
Tracy cuddled into the sheets. She smiled as John tucked her in like her mom used to when she was little and had a temperature. But this was far more than a fever. More than something she could cure with some acetaminophen.
His lips brushed against her forehead. Soft. Gentle. Loving. Part of her had to recognize this one blessing the entity had given her.
Would someone so kind and wonderful have even noticed her on the street in front of the coffee shop that day? Doubtful. She had Adonna to thank for that.
The bedding shifted as her detective in shining armor sat beside her. His fingers trailed across her forehead and brushed back the hair at her temple. “Do you think you’re going to be able to sleep?”
Tracy shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s so much to take in.”
“I know. Do you want me to stay?”
God, yes.
How could she ever be alone again, not knowing if this thing was going to take control and do goodness knows what to her body? But that wasn’t John’s problem. He was a cop. He needed his sleep, and sitting there all night with her wasn’t going to give him the rest he needed.
“Go ahead.” She tried to keep her voice from quaking. “I’ll be fine. I need to learn to deal with this sooner or later.”
“You sure?”
No, of course not, but she nodded anyway. A heaviness overcame her, and she was vaguely aware of John’s weight lifting off the bed sometime later. The door clicked behind him.
Someone gasped in the hallway. Tracy’s eyes shot open, but the line of light shining from below her door stung her eyes.
“Sorry, I scared you,” John’s voice said. “You must be Laini.”
“Inspector Gadget? I mean, John?”
“Yeah. Good to meet you.”
“Whew, yeah, same here. Umm, listen, don’t let me bother you guys. I’ll slip into my room and put my headphones on. I won’t hear a thing.”
Tracy hugged her pillow. If Adonna hadn’t interrupted, Laini would have had something real to worry about. But now, Tracy and John would be stuck in a holding pattern until this freak inside her finally started talking.
“It’s not like that,” John’s voice said. “Tracy isn’t feeling well. She’s in bed.”
“Well, shit, that sucks, ‘cause damn, you’re even hotter than she described.”
Oh, no. She didn’t.
“I mean, well, umm, could you, maybe pretend I didn’t say that? I tend to have diarrhea of the mouth. It’s a certified medical condition.”
John puffed a small laugh. “It was nice meeting you.” Heavy footsteps tapped on the wood flooring.
“Yeah, back at you!” And then Laini whispered, “Damn nice ass, too,” hopefully out of John’s earshot.
Tracy rolled over, suppressing her grin.
It seemed like only seconds had passed before the sound of Laini’s alarm clock down the hall startled her awake. The nightstand clock read 6:35.
Tracy clutched her pillow and listened to the rain pummeling her window. Eventually, she’d have to get up, even if it was just to call out of work.
But she couldn’t call out. She needed to start mapping her action plans. There was so much strategizing to do, so much planning.
She tried to sit but the weight of the blankets pulled her back down. How could she even think of marketing? How could she focus on anything, wondering when this God-awful parasite inside her would wake up again and use her body as a puppet?
But Kyle was counting on her. He’d put his own neck on the line supporting her concepts. Now she needed to prove she could do more than sell her ideas. She needed to bring the concepts to fruition.
She slumped to the bathroom, removed her nightshirt, and let the cold water in the shower incite goosebumps across her skin. Her body trembled. She needed to jump out of the frigid stream, but she held herself there, focusing on the sting.
If it came down to it, would she be able to call Agent Clark and end this nightmare? If Adonna were a human being, would she even consider sending the Ambient to her death?
No. Of course not.
The water warmed, soothing a dull soreness in her neck and shoulders. There had to be a way to figure this out.
“Please talk to me,” Tracy whispered, leaning her forehead against the cold tiles.
Her chest seemed to thicken and weight her down.
She pounded her fist on the tilework. “Talk to me!”
The chill of the tiles crept up her arm despite the warming shower. She was alone, but not alone.
And the entity inside her was getting stronger.
49
John slapped the snooze button on his alarm clock. Rain pummeled the window beside the bed. It would be a great morning to sleep in, but he needed to get to the precinct.
He sat up and rubbed his face. He had to start looking at Doogan’s murder from a fresh perspective. As illogical as the evidence made it seem, it was completely logical that Doogan’s death was related to the case the Feds had taken from him. He needed to concentrate. Focus.
He picked up the shirt he’d dropped on the edge of his bed last night. The scent of wild berries and spring breeze wafted from the fabric.
Tracy.
God, what a horrible evening. Adonna was another mystery he needed to figure out. What the hell had happened last night?
*Good morning.*
John stretched. “Good morning, buddy. Sleep well?” Their everyday exchange seemed a bit forced this morning. Silence echoed within. “I’ll take that as a no.” John slipped out of the sheets and into the bathroom.
*She pushed me away.*
“Yeah, I was there.” John rubbed his chest. “My body, remember? I’m surprised I’m not bruised.”
*But I still don’t understand why.*
John closed his eyes. God, the terror in Tracy
’s eyes when Adonna took over, the hatred in Adonna’s voice when she’d pushed them away. He blinked, but the memories refused to fade. “Are you sure you didn’t misread her? Maybe she wasn’t in the mood.”
*How could she not want to touch?*
John smoothed shaving cream over his face. “You had a little more in mind than touching, Dak. Admit it.”
*She floated, John. She was waiting for me, but the second I touched her, she just—*
“Freaked out.”
Dak’s energy shook, sending prickles across John’s arms.
Everything had gone perfectly. Far better than John had planned.
Going back to Tracy’s place last night hadn’t even been on his radar, but the food, the conversation, the chemistry—dammit, even their entities were in sync.
At least he’d thought they were.
Dak rustled beneath his skin as John dragged the razor down his left cheek. “You are the resident Ambient expert. What could have happened? What did she do right before she pushed you away?”
*She flinched.*
“Flinched?”
*Yes.*
“Is that normal?” A long pause grated against John’s soul. He placed the razor down. “Dak?”
*No. It isn’t normal. And when I started to touch her, she stiffened instead of…*
“Spit it out. Instead of what?”
*Sharing. Opening.*
“But you still kept going?” He didn’t answer. “Dammit, Dak. Do you realize you may have completely ruined our chances with both of them?”
The entity seemed to harden. *You’re wrong. I would never force anyone.*
John’s eyes narrowed in the mirror. Like you did to Cowa?
His stomach sank and the whole-ness inside him dissipated. Crap, that was low.
“I’m sorry, buddy, you know I didn’t mean that.” John rinsed the razor in the sink. “Tracy is the best thing that’s happened to me in a pretty long time. I thought this was it and we could both be happy.”
*And then your entity blew it to shit.*
“I didn’t say that.”
*You thought it.*
Had he? Maybe subconsciously. “I think we’re both a little angry and confused right now. Let’s just call Tracy later on and see how they’re doing. And work on keeping that Ambient ego in check, because as soon as Adonna starts to talk, I want you groveling at her feet. Got it?”
*Understood.*
John brought the razor back to his neck and winced as the blade nicked the skin. He reached up to dab the blood with a tissue, but his hand froze. He watched the bead turn into a line and run down his neck. He tried again to stop the bleeding but his hand wouldn’t respond.
“Umm, Dak, buddy, what are you doing?”
*The blood. It is so important to your life, but it drains so easily.*
“Which is why I’d like to keep it inside me.” The line reached his breastbone. “Dak!”
His hand sprang free and he placed pressure against the wound.
“What the hell, Dak?”
*Sorry. You haven’t cut yourself in a long time. I don’t have blood. It fascinates me.*
“This coming from the guy who can’t stand it when I case a crime scene.”
*That’s different. You weren’t going to die. Your body was clotting the cut already.*
“Okay, well, next time you want to study blood, leave my bodily fluids out of it.” His cell phone rang, and he snatched it from beside his bed. Biggs’s name flashed on the screen. “Detective John Peters,” John said into the phone.
“We’ve got another body,” the sergeant said. “Same M.O. as Doogan. I’m texting you the address.”
John sighed and wiped the rest of the shaving cream off with a towel. “I’m on my way.”
The showers had tapered off to a light drizzle by the time John drove up to the yellow Police Do Not Cross tape surrounding a light blue rancher.
Art got out of his car holding two steaming paper cups. “Cut yourself shaving?” He gestured with one of the cups toward John’s neck.
John fingered the wound. “That’s why you’re a detective. Can’t get anything past you.”
“Smart ass.” He handed John a coffee. “You might want to finish this before you go in.” He pointed toward the entrance to the house, where an unfamiliar member of one of the forensics teams pushed back a cotton mask and sat on the front step, breathing deeply. “The body’s been dead a few days. Neighbor called 911 because there were a lot of flies buzzing around an open window. He figured his neighbor’s dog had died while he was on vacation.”
John took a sip of his coffee. “Vacation?”
“Yeah. He was supposed to be on a hiking trip. That’s why no one called to report him missing. Poor bastard never even left the house.”
“And there’s a dog?”
“Yeah. He’s at the Pamper Paw down on the highway. The victim checked the dog in Sunday night.”
“So, he dropped the dog off at the kennel for vacation, came home, and never left.”
Art set his coffee on the roof of his car. “Yeah, and it gets worse.”
“How so?”
“This one’s a cop, too.”
Giancarlo Doogan’s former partner, Herb Simon, leaned over the meeting room table, holding the back of his neck. For the fifth time, he glanced toward the photos on the war board. “I don’t know how anyone could do something like that.”
“That’s not what I asked you,” Art said.
“Nothing’s changed since you talked to me last week. I can’t think of anyone who’d want to kill Gian.”
John flinched. With Simon’s light accent, Doogan’s first name, Gian, sounded far too much like his own.
“Or J.J. McCartney?” Art tacked a picture of the second victim to the board.
Simon grimaced. “I didn’t know him.”
“Could your partner have known him?” John asked.
“I don’t think so. Not that he mentioned, anyway.” He sat back in his chair. “We were imported from the Deptford precinct. I think I heard someone say McCartney was from Echelon or maybe Evesham. We’re all still getting to know each other after the goddamn district consolidation.”
John nodded. The recent changes had made investigations as a whole harder. Too many crimes and not enough cops, let alone medical examiners and the like.
Simon seemed to study the back of his hands splayed on the edge of the table. “Is this guy aiming at off-duty cops? Are we all targets?”
“We don’t know enough to speculate, yet.” John sat beside him. “If you can think of anything, anything at all, I need you to call me.”
“Of course. This asshole killed my partner. I want him as bad as you do.”
Biggs poked his head into the room, mouth open as if he were about to speak, before his gaze centered on Officer Simon. “Everything okay?”
“Just finishing up.” John reached out to the officer to shake his hand. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
“Anytime.” He nodded to the sergeant before leaving the room.
“What you got?” Art asked Biggs.
“McCartney died Sunday night.” Biggs opened a manila folder and set it on the table.
John tapped the edge of the computer printouts, digesting the notes. “McCartney’s genitals were mutilated before being inserted into his mouth.”
“Yeah, ‘cause cutting off a man’s package ain’t bad enough.” Art crossed his legs, shifting in his chair.
“The bruising on the face and abdomen is far more extensive.” Interesting. John rifled through the pictures.
“So, what? He was more pissed this time than he was with Doogan?”
John rubbed his chin. Serial killers didn’t always seem logical, but they were very logical, very calculating, in their own minds. The perpetrator knew exactly what he was doing. He had purpose. Strategy.
“It’s possible he’s superimposing someone else onto his victims.” John paced the room. “A parent, an authority
figure. In his mind, he’s trying over and over to kill the same person. He’s getting angrier because the person isn’t dead.
“Or he’s just targeting cops,” Biggs said.
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Art sat back, folding his arms.
“No.” John scratched the back of his head. “I keep telling you. This is personal.”
“The only connection so far is they are cops.”
“There’s something else,” John said. “It’s here. We just need to find it.”
50
Tracy’s soul wandered through the dark. A speck: lost, alone, and insignificant. She seemed weightless, yet her feet tapped across the pavement, toward a house she didn’t recognize.
A scream drummed through the air, piercing from every angle. Tracy spun in all directions, but the sound echoed, bouncing off the walls. Her hair dripped with sweat and she ran.
Pressure built up from behind. Another scream. Sirens blasted in the distance. She changed directions and stopped, pushing her soaked, matted hair out of her eyes.
“Wrong!” she cried out, her own voice shattering the night and shocking her awake.
A wave of cold slapped her wet face. A clash of thunder momentarily drowned out the roar of pummeling rain. Tracy shook her head to clear the fog. Drenched hair slapped her cheeks.
She grabbed for her hair and lost her balance. The world spun. She gasped, seizing the windowsill.
The windowsill?
The haze around her mind cleared. She was leaning out her bathroom window with one leg on the sill. Her hair, arms, and shirt hung saturated and dripping with water. Was she climbing out the window or back in?
She scrambled inside and slammed the window closed. Water streamed from her pajama pants, soaking her already wet socks. The clock on the vanity changed from three-fourteen to three-fifteen. Had she been sleepwalking? And had a terrible need to jump out the window?
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