The Vengeful Dead

by J N Duncan

  “Then we need to find out who got possessed.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “But we also need to eat. Can I interest you in dinner?”

  Dinner. That had the earmarks of a date and Nick lingering around into the evening hours. Was that such a good idea? Great food, some wine, and that might lead to other things, things she wanted and yet terrified her at the same time. Any physical thoughts of Nick inevitably turned to his mouth buried in the crook of her arm, drinking away her life. It was irrational and unfair to him, but her mind refused to let it go. “I thought you had a ghost to hunt for.”

  “If you’d like dinner,” he said simply, “I’ll stay.”

  She looked around, stunned at the difference he had made. Things were never this clean. Dinner was the least she could do for him. It just seemed rude to tell him thanks and good-bye. Her answer got waylaid by the sound of the buzzer coming from the outer door.

  “Who the hell could that be?”

  Nick walked over to the kitchen window that overlooked the street. “Looks like FedEx has something for you.”

  Jackie marched downstairs and found a FedEx guy standing by the door. “Package for Jackie Rutledge,” he said, handing her the electronic box to sign.

  Jackie signed and handed it back to him, taking the box in return. She looked at the label and almost dropped the box. The return address read Sam and Beatrice Carpenter, Laurel’s parents.

  Jackie walked back in, the box gripped in both hands before her. What could they have possibly sent her? Something of Laurel’s no doubt. Her heart began to thump hard in her chest, stomach turning to knots. Nick was standing at the door when she returned.

  “Anything good?”

  She pushed passed him and headed for the kitchen, pulling a knife from the knife block. It trembled in her hand. The blade slid easily through the tape and Jackie set it down, opening up the flap of the box. The item inside was surrounded in bubble wrap.

  Nick peered over her shoulder as she slid it out of the box. “A book?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. What kind of book could be so important that they would send it to her?

  A simple, handwritten note lay on top beneath the wrap. Jackie. We came across this in Laurel’s things and thought it best for you to have it. Hope all is well. Best Regards, B.

  The book was leather-bound, forest green with flowers embossed around the edges. When Jackie picked the note up, the reality of her new possession froze the breath in her lungs. There in large letters, set into the hard, leather cover was a single word. JOURNAL. Her fingers shook as they traced over the white and baby-blue flowers at the edge, then curled around the edge of the cover and lifted it up. They were getting clammy. Part of her wanted to just wrap it back up and shove it into the box, never to be seen again.

  On the cover page, Laurel’s elegant, flowing script stood out like a neon sign. The note was addressed to her.

  Jackie. Inside you’ll find my notes and thoughts about our years together. All of the glorious ups and downs, joys and frustrations, laughter and tears reside in here, such as I saw them. I hope you will read them. I hope it will bring you a bit closer to me. This note is only in case I can’t give the journal to you personally. If such is the case, know that I shall always be with you in spirit and that I truly loved you with all of my heart. Always, Laur

  “Jackie?” Nick’s voice was filled with concern.

  She closed the book, hands resting on top as though it might open again of its own accord. The salty taste of a tear stung the corner of her mouth. “I’m . . . I’m fine. I just, you know, miss her, even if her ghost is around. Somewhere.”

  “You all right?”

  Jackie felt him standing directly behind her. If she turned, likely her face would be staring into his chest. She could lay her head against him and maybe those arms would enfold her and she could close her eyes and breathe the scent of his leather coat and cry a few tears for the loss of her best friend and guilt she still harbored for not saving her. She could have done a lot of things in that moment.

  “I’ll be fine. Just need some private . . . space,” she said. “Go hunt your ghost, Nick.” Jackie took a deep breath and let it out.

  His body continued to stand for a long moment behind her. She could feel his gaze bearing down on top of her head, those bright eyes that saw everything. If he would just lay a hand upon her shoulder, the moment would break and she would turn to him, but the seconds passed and then she felt him step back.

  Then tension rolled out of her body. “Thanks for everything, Nick.”

  “Glad I could help,” he replied. “I’ll let you know if we find her.”

  Jackie turned around and found him backing away toward the door, his face unreadable. “Be careful.”

  He smiled. “Always.”

  A moment later he was gone and Jackie resisted the urge to call him back.

  Chapter 6

  A chill wind whipped across the sagging porch floorboards, pinning loose newspaper and leaves up against the rail. Rain was coming, with the promise of yanking the beautiful fall colors to the ground to be pressed and stamped under foot. On the porch, Morgan’s swayed against the wind, steadying himself before rapping his fist against the screen door. The other hand lay tucked beneath his jacket against the cold.

  Rosa! You can’t do this. Let’s go to the police. Let us help you. The other voice in her head was strained and desperate. The voice that belonged to the weak man she had stepped into and become. His body had been turned into her tool for justice.

  Rosa hissed back through clenched teeth with Morgan’s voice. “Shut it, pig. You had your chance to stop them before.”

  Rosa knocked again, harder this time, before the bare bulb above the door flicked on. The deadbolt clicked open, but the chain lock remained in place. A muscular Hispanic man, hair shaved close to his head, tattoos inked down his arm, peered through the crack.

  “Yeah? What the fuck you want?”

  “I’m looking for Eduardo,” Rosa said.

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “So he’s here.”

  “What you want, motherfucker? You looking to fix, go somewhere else.”

  “Don’t want your fucking drugs, Hector,” Rosa snapped back. “I want Eduardo.”

  “I know you, asshole?”

  “You did,” she said. Rosa took a half step back with one foot and withdrew her hand from the coat, revealing a pistol. Morgan cringed within the depths of his own body, locked away by the sheer force of Rosa’s rage as in one swift, sure motion, she brought the muzzle up and fired point-blank at Hector’s face before he could move out of the doorway. A spray of blood exploded out the back of his head and he dropped to the floor.

  Rosa yanked open the screen door, reared back, and gave the door a swift kick, snapping the chain lock’s mount from the door frame. There was a woman’s scream in a room to the left. Rosa stepped in and over Hector’s body, swinging the gun around in a smooth arc until it found the source, a wide-eyed Hispanic woman, bare-footed, wearing jeans and hoisting a toddler at her hip. The remains of dinner still lay scattered across the dining table she stood beside.

  Morgan wailed. Rosa, no! You can’t do this. She’s got a kid.

  “Run and you will join Hector.” The woman nodded in silence, tears sliding down her cheeks. “Where’s Eduardo?”

  She shook her head. At the same time there was commotion from the back and the sound of footsteps coming up basement stairs. “Please,” she begged. “What do you want?”

  “Eduardo.” She took three quick steps up to the woman, who cowered back and collapsed down on to one of the dining chairs, the child wailing in her arms. “Don’t move.” She reached up and pressed her hand to the woman’s forehead. “You will forget,” she said. The woman’s face went slack, her eyes glassy and blank.

  At that moment, a man flung open the basement door and stepped into the adjacent kitchen, gun in hand. Rosa stepped away from the woman and fired, tearing
a hole through his knee. He screamed in agony and stumbled to the floor, sending his gun sliding across the linoleum floor.

  A few quick steps and she was in the kitchen where the man clutched at his shredded left knee, smearing blood across the floor as he writhed in pain.

  “Hello, Eduardo.”

  The man groaned. “What do you want?”

  “Payback, you slimy, little fuck.”

  “What? Who the fuck are you?”

  She walked up to Eduardo, pointing the gun at his head. The hands flew up from the ragged knee to his face.

  “No! Please, man. What do you want? The money is downstairs. Whatever it is, man. I didn’t do it!”

  “Yeah, Eddie,” she replied, voice soft, grating. “Yeah, you did.”

  The gun drifted down to Eduardo’s crotch and fired again. He doubled up on the floor, screaming. Rosa walked across the kitchen to a knife-block by the sink and withdrew an eight-inch butcher knife. In the dining room, the toddler’s screams became piercing. She walked back to the crying Eduardo, whose hands clenched between his thighs, shiny and slick with blood.

  She stood over him for a moment, the rage fading into an easy smile. “Hurts, don’t it, you fucking prick?” Eduardo screamed in Spanish and Rosa chuckled. “I know the feeling. Burn in hell, Eddie.”

  When he looked up, eyes wide with terror, Rosa fired a shot through Eddie’s forehead, blowing blood and brain matter across the open basement door, and he collapsed to the floor.

  In the other room, prayers were being whispered over and over again. Eddie didn’t need any praying over, not where he was going. Pulling the arms away from his crotch, Rosa put the gun away and hefted the knife in a fisted, sure-handed grip. The smile twisted back into a mask of rage, and she plunged the knife in to the hilt just above the pubic bone.

  Oh, God! Rosa, what are you doing? This isn’t the way. Don’t do this.

  Careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood, she straddled Eduardo’s body, adjusted her grip, holding the buried knife with both hands and then gave it one good, hard yank upward. The steaming stench of entrails rose into the air as the pink tangle of intestines spilled onto the floor.

  Satisfied with the effort, she went to the back door beyond the kitchen and out into the night, ignoring Morgan’s anguished groan.

  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 min
utes 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.”