by J N Duncan
“No.” Jackie wadded the tissue up in her fist. “We’ll keep looking into Mr. Anderson and his company. There’s something there. We just need to find it.”
“Okay. First thing in the morning then.”
She heaved a sigh, trying to let the rest of the tension dissipate. “I’m glad you finally came out.”
Laurel laughed. “Me, too, and don’t worry, I won’t be trying to stick my tongue down your throat.”
Jackie laughed along with her but didn’t reply. She had not even considered that option, and now the image refused to leave her alone. Great, just what she needed.
Chapter 11
Jackie waved at Laurel as she drove away, having refused to let Jackie drive home herself. Up above, a dark shadow leaped down from the kitchen windowsill and vanished. Bickerstaff was hungry. The rain began to splatter with greater insistence upon Jackie’s face. A proper ending to a dismal day. Fishing the keys from her pocket, Jackie unlocked the street side door and walked up to the hall where four apartments had been carved out of the warehouse space above the shops below. From behind the front right door, the cat’s plaintive meows could be heard.
As any cat worth its weight would do, Bickerstaff tangled himself up in Jackie’s legs when she stepped in, fumbling for the light switch. The cat nimbly dodged around her stumbling feet and continued to rub up against her legs.
“Christ, Bickers. Is my baby hungry?” She picked up the purring, orange mound of fur and then slid the dead bolt in place. After dumping a can of food in his bowl and adding a bit of milk on the side, Jackie kicked off her shoes in the living room and proceeded to start water for a bath. If anything, a good, hot soak would wash away the stress of the past few hours. Dropping in a handful of bath beads, she stripped out of her clothes, making most of them land in the hamper, and went back to fill a glass from a half-empty bottle of chilled merlot.
She gulped down half of it with a note of defiance. “I do not drink that much, do I, Bickers?” The cat peered at her from his bowl, licking his lips, oblivious to her mood. He blinked once and went back to his dinner. “Yeah, well, what the fuck do you know, damn cat.”
Back in the bathroom, Jackie stared at herself in the mirror, imagining how her face might look if it were all sallow and deflated, drained of blood. Better, perhaps, given her current state of self worth. For a brief moment, the reflection of the water in the tub rippled, and the all too familiar face of her mother floated there, white as bone, eyes milky and blank. Wisps of hair undulated around her face, a dark halo of death.
Jackie blinked and turned away. “Goddamnit.”
She hesitated before climbing into the now full and steaming tub, making sure the image was not going to haunt her again. For a second, she contemplated draining it and running a shower, but she forced the unease aside. It had been years since she’d given into the feeling, and damned if she was going to do it now. With a ginger first step, Jackie climbed in and slid down into the soothing heat with a groan. The image of the boy still lingered, however.
The question kept creeping in and around every other thought. Why would someone drain the blood from a body? Why a kid? That was even more disturbing. What kind of pathology produced such a desire? And why place the victim sitting against a tree in a park? Was there a message there? More than likely there was, but it could mean almost anything. The Wisconsin woman had been found sprawled in an alley. Jackie made a mental note to take a deeper look at that case tomorrow.
Then there was Nick Anderson and his crew. Jackie could not get an angle from which to view him clearly. Who was he, really? What kind of rich CEO spent his time being a PI dealing in ghosts? It was so far-fetched it had to be a scam of some kind-a cover, perhaps. What did they know? How involved was he? Could he be the killer or know who the killer was? If he did know the killer, why not say? She would nail him for obstruction, if that was the case. And then there was Laurel’s whole take on them.
God, Laurel. She reached over and grabbed the glass of wine from the tubside table and finished it off. The warmth did little to relax the tightness in her throat. The case evaporated into the steam, burned away by Laurel’s accusations and full-on assault. Jackie could never recall seeing her so upset. She was always the calm, cool, and collected one. But, worse, that anger had been directed at her. She had caused that pain.
The equilibrium of the universe had just been knocked off its axis. Was it really possible for her to live out her entire life and never find love? Love did not come up on the radar much these days, but if the need arose, guys were certainly willing and able. But, really, there was no love involved there at all. They were always willing to take advantage. When was the last time she had slept with someone sober? Surely, there was at least one? Jackie dredged through the muck of her memories and could find nothing.
Laurel was right. She could only fuck drunk. “I’m the biggest fucking loser.”
A couple strands of hair floated in the water before her face, and Jackie had the sudden panicked feeling that her mother was creeping around in the water just below the surface. She swung over the side of the tub in a mad scramble and flopped onto the bathroom rug.
Bickers, wondering what the hell was going on, poked his head through the door to stare, mocking in straight-faced silence.
“Get out!” Jackie kicked the door closed on him and climbed back to her feet. “Son of a bitch.”
After drying off and throwing on her robe, Jackie searched the fridge for something to eat and found a two-day-old carton of fried rice from Ho Mei’s down the street. Giving her defiance a break, Jackie poured a glass of orange juice and carried her sad excuse for dinner out to the living room.
One half of the space had a couch and chair squeezed uncomfortably close to a forty-inch television mounted to the wall. The other half of the room was taken up by a Steinway, its finish dulled over the years from neglect. There were books stacked on one side and a bowl of kibble on the other for Bickerstaff, who promptly joined Jackie when she sat down and set her dinner on the bench next to her. He gave a disappointed look at the crumbs in his bowl and decided that licking himself would be the preferred course of action.
“Are you making me watch that on purpose, you perv?” He paused long enough to give her a look that indicated only real cats licked their balls and went back to work. “Just trying to make me jealous, aren’t you?” She reached up and ruffled his ears, and Bickerstaff moved out of the way with obvious annoyance, settling farther back on the piano top. With a firm stretch and pop of her knuckles, Jackie consumed a large spoonful of the rice and settled in to play some Mozart.
It had become a case-starting tradition several years earlier, recommended by Laurel when she had become particularly stumped on a case. “It’s your meditation, your grounding place, Jackie. Playing clears your mind. Give it a try and see if it helps.” It had taken three hours, but the puzzle pieces had rearranged themselves into a more logical order, and a new path to pursue had opened up, leading to a break in the case.
An hour later, nothing was coming to her. Her mind was still too unsettled, constantly losing its track, disrupted by Laurel’s tirade against her. She would have to come to grips with it soon. Somehow.
Instead she decided to go to her bedroom and see if she could make use of her laptop and find out more information on Nick Anderson. She wanted to find out more details about that case involving his father. Her gut, knotted as it was, knew that its ties were more than coincidental.
Thirty minutes later, drink and exhaustion had Jackie falling asleep to an episode of Castle Laurel had e-mailed to her.
Chapter 12
Cornelius Drake sat in the comfort of his Rolls while a light rain whispered sedately against the roof. It had been forty-five minutes, but he was in no hurry. He jotted some notes in a leather-bound journal perched on his lap, pausing every few moments to tap his chin with the tip of his pen. The upcoming sermon this week would be on the Lord’s vengeance. God was all about putting do
wn those who defied his will. Drake could appreciate that in a deity, not to mention that that sort of rhetoric got his congregation swimming around in guilt.
Guilt made human beings so utterly malleable, and they so often performed actions that infused them with it. They lived and breathed the choking dust of their guilty consciences. You could count on people to pull around guilt’s weight until their dying breath. Nicholas Anderson dragged around that ball and chain with stubborn pride, and Drake had used it against him time and again. Some things never changed.
Drake hit the intercom button. “Wendall? What secret guilt do you carry around with you? Surely, you have some?”
There was a long silence before his crackling voice came back. “I suppose pilfering your Scotch from the cellar, sir. Good stuff is hard to come by on my salary.”
Drake laughed. “Will you be seeking penance to absolve yourself of this sin?”
“Not likely, sir,” Wendall said. “God himself can’t distill such sweet nectar.”
“Indeed. I suppose some prices are worth paying.”
“That they are, sir. That they are.”
Bernard arrived a moment later, stepping through the wall of the car and seating himself across from Drake. “Boy’s recital is finally over. Christ, that was awful stuff. Kid deserves to die on that alone.”
“Now, now, Bernard. We all have our passions.”
“Just sayin’, sir. Hope the next one is into something quiet, like knitting.”
Drake smiled. “Nothing so simple as that, my friend.” He put his journal into a slot in the door. “Go keep the riff-raff away, my boy. They shall be here soon.”
“Aye, sir.” Bernard slipped away through the trunk and walked back into the rows of parked cars.
People were filing out of the high school, parents with their children, many carrying their cases filled with violins and trombones. Some paused to put up their umbrellas, while others, not so wise as to have planned ahead, held programs or purses or coats over their heads and made their way quickly out toward their cars. The Morelands, due to circumstances beyond their control, had been running late and had parked at the fringes of the lot, pulling their car onto the edges of the football field. Moments after they had hurried away, violin case banging at the boy’s side, Drake had pulled in next to their Honda Accord and patiently awaited their return.
Drake watched them approach in the side view mirror, saw the mother hesitate at the sight of a dark blue Rolls-Royce parked next to their car before continuing forward. He opened his door and stepped out when she was between the cars.
“Ah, Mrs. Moreland!” Drake’s thin lips split into a toothy smile. He popped open the umbrella. “Wonderful recital this evening. Your son, Adam, was particularly good.”
The boy stopped directly behind her, and Mrs. Moreland’s brief turn of annoyance melted into confusion. “Oh. Hello. Thank you. Adam did very well tonight, I think, didn’t you, sweetie?”
Adam shrugged. “Sure, Mom. We could’ve been better.”
“Always room for improvement, isn’t that right, Adam?” Drake stood before his open door, allowing no possible way around. “Even the masters look for ways to play better.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s true,” he said.
“Pardon me, but do we know you?” She was trying to smile and cover her irritation as the rain continued to fall. The music program held over her head provided little relief. “Do your children go to school here?”
“We met briefly,” Drake said, his grin fading. He drew the glasses down to the end of his nose. “I realized your boy here was a perfect match.”
Her free hand came to her mouth, covering the gasp. Adam dropped his violin case on the grass. “A match for what?” she whispered.
“He looks just like an old friend’s son, if you can believe that.” He motioned at Adam, who quickly pushed his way around his mother. “Come, let me have a closer look at you.”
“I… I don’t know,” she began, but faltered, her mouth moving in silence like a gaping fish.
“Hush, Mrs. Moreland. Everything is just fine. No worries at all.” She nodded, and Drake turned back to Adam, reaching up to take his chin in his hand. “Indeed. The bone structure is very similar. The eyes are the same. And I shall not have to dye your hair. Wonderful. Wouldn’t you say, Mrs. Moreland?” They both nodded. “Adam, look me in the eye, son, and tell me if you don’t see the key to your life’s dreams within them.”
Adam stared, head cocked slightly to one side, like a dog who has heard a peculiar sound. “I think I do.”
“Of course you do.” He patted him on the shoulder. “They are dreams of death and quiet and peace of mind.”
“I really hate music,” he said.
Drake’s mouth quirked up at the corner. “I know. Parents always believe they know best, do they not?”
He nodded. “She’s a real bitch about it sometimes.”
“Why don’t you get in out of the rain, my boy? You can leave that wretched violin outside.”
“Yeah, cool. Thanks.” He stepped into the darkness of the car.
Drake stepped forward and placed his hand on Mrs. Moreland’s wet cheek. “I shall be taking your boy here, Mrs. Moreland. Perfectly safe, I assure you. You will think nothing of it. He shall be well taken care of.”
She nodded. “I’ll just head home then. Will you be bringing him by the house later?”
“You are very tired, Mrs. Moreland. Those lovely eyes are completely stressed. You need to sleep. You can worry about your boy in the morning.”
“Okay. I’ll worry in the morning.”
He folded up the umbrella and laid it down inside the car, taking both of her cheeks in his hands. “And you shall worry a lot when you find his bed empty. You will be sure your precious boy has come to great harm, that he may in fact be dead.”
She stared into the glowing, soulless orbs. “But he’ll be with you.”
“He will be dead, and you will know who did it, but the image shall elude you, like chasing a dandelion upon the wind.”
“Oh.” The rain running down her cheeks looked like tears. “I won’t remember?”
Drake shook his head. “I am afraid not, my dear. You will only know that if you had not made him play music, he might still be alive. Now go, rest. Sleep the sleep of the dead, Mrs. Moreland.”
He stepped into the Rolls and pulled the door closed so she could walk by. She drove away without looking back.
Adam sat in the seat, staring straight ahead. “Your eyes are full of death.”
He clasped the boy’s knee with his hand. “You will be fine, son. Death is not the end.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
Drake grabbed Adam’s chin and turned his head to face him. “Does it look so terrible in there, Adam?”
“It looks cold.”
“Indeed. Indeed, it is very cold. You shall make new friends though. You shall see.”
“And what then?”
“Hmmm? What then?” Drake sat back in the seat, giving Adam a sidelong glance. “Well, then you truly shall die.” When Adam merely nodded and continued to stare ahead, Drake pushed the intercom button. “Take us away from here, Wendall. Perhaps later you may have a glass of Scotch with me.”
Wendall looked back at the one-way glass dividing them, a smile upon his lined face. “That would be lovely, sir.”
Chapter 13
The afternoon had provided little more than a draining of his gas tank. Nick sat in his darkening office, considering what possible preparations they could make and wondering how he was going to keep the FBI out of this until the end. He had no answers. Until Drake made his presence felt again, there was little for them to do other than search the city and hope they got lucky. It would be soon. Given the current state of law enforcement, the timeline would be condensed, a couple days at most between kills. So it was no surprise when Nick felt the familiar pang of the other side, pulling at him like a spaceship drifting too close to a black
hole.
Cornelius was drawing upon the energy of the dead, which meant he was feeding on someone. The feeling had been so faint with the boy Nick had been unable to zero in on it. He had not even been sure of the feeling until he saw the body under the tree. This time, he was leaving little doubt. Somewhere within a few miles, Cornelius Drake fed on another victim, daring Nick to find him. He reached to pick up the phone and call Shelby, only to have it ring as he grabbed it.
“Yeah?”
“Shelby’s on the line, Nick.” Cynthia patched her through without waiting for his answer.
The rumbling roar of her BMW motorcycle made it nearly impossible to hear. “Say that again, Shel. I can’t hear you.”
“North of downtown!” Her voice filled his head, full of excitement and anger. “I can’t tell if the fucker is west or east of the river though. A bit of the real stuff, Nick, I’d find him within the hour.”
“No,” he replied emphatically. “I’m on my way up now. Just keep trying to zero in on him.” She had promised no more blood, and Nick knew the disadvantage it put them in, but it just was not an option, not anymore.
“Nick…”
“No blood!” he repeated and slammed down the phone.
Out in the hall, he grabbed a bottle of synthetic from the fridge and gulped it down in one long, bitter draught. Cynthia was standing beside her desk when he came out into the main room.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” There was a hint of fear in her voice.
“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “If anything is going down, I’ll call. Keep the doors locked and don’t leave for any reason until I come back.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“Just in case, Cyn. I’m not taking any chances. We have no idea what he’s up to yet.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Thanks.” He gave a brief nod and headed out the door.
