J Duncan - Deadworld

Laurel grabbed the card, turning it over in her hands. “I’m prepared for it this time, thank you very much.” She squinted, holding the card close to her face. “I think this is handpainted. If it’s an original, this thing is worth a lot of money. I have a printed version of this deck at home. They’re… There is something odd with this.”

“Odd like what?”

Laurel held the card squarely between her hands, the edges digging into her palms, and closed her eyes for a moment. “It’s got that thing’s presence all over it, but there is something else, something. ..” She sighed. “I don’t know. It’s really faint.”

They walked out a few minutes later, after forensics had finished and found nothing else out of the ordinary. Jackie had begun to wonder. “Did it feel like Mr. Anderson again?”

“Could be.”

“I think we need to go have a little heart-to-heart with Nick Anderson and company.”

“Good idea. I think we should see them again, too.”

Jackie took out her phone and called up Gamble. “Hey, Gamble. You back out at Anderson’s?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s out at the ranch here, Ma,” he said in a horrible Texas drawl. “You comin’ out?”

“Yeah, bonehead. We’ll be out in a bit.”

“Sweet. I want to see the inside of this place.”

There were details to go over at the scene, but Jackie felt positive there would be little to gain from it, and she was itching to talk to Nick. The crew could handle things, question the employees, and finish gathering what little evidence she knew there would be. This guy was squeaky clean and operating with methods they could not get their minds around. Worse, he was working fast, which meant there was no more time to waste. So, after delegating tasks, they were on the road to Nick’s.

They crested a hill and found Gamble’s car parked across from a sprawling ranch-style log house, and Jackie slid to a stop next to him. “Keep an eye on things out here, Gamble. I want to know if anything goes on while we’re in there.”

“Aw, come on. I want to see inside.”

She smiled and rolled the window back up, ignoring the bird he flipped her as she pulled across into Nick Anderson’s driveway. She stopped next to a slick-looking BMW motorcycle. A thick growth of oak and maple lined the edge of the garage and ran down the side of the house to the back. The grassy mound of the front yard sloped down around the opposite side and faded into a field of long grasses and wildflowers. Out beyond the field was another dense copse of trees. The house itself was one of those custom log-cabin deals and spread out in a long, angled line. Jackie guessed four to five thousand feet easy.

Laurel whistled. “I want to live here. This is awesome.”

“Come on,” Jackie said. “And quit drooling. Feds don’t drool.”

“You can honestly tell me you wouldn’t give just about anything to live out here in a place like this?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“You are such a liar.”

Jackie spread her arms. “What the hell would I do with a place like this? It would take all damn day to vacuum the stupid thing. Who wants to spend their weekend doing that?”

“Can’t you see yourself sitting on the back porch, sucking down lattes, watching the sun set?”

Jackie stopped at the front door, eyeing the rainbow of stained-glass windows lining either side. “I’ll bet you it’s a bachelor’s cesspool inside.”

“Five bucks says one look inside and you’d live out here in a second, minus the possible serial killer, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” Jackie rolled her eyes. “Make it a Starbucks with a cinnamon roll, and you’re on.”

“Done!” she said, far too cocky for her own good.

The door opened before Jackie could hit the doorbell, and Nick Anderson stood in the doorway, his eyes raised in mock surprise. “Hello, Agent Carpenter, Agent Rutledge.” He offered them a faint, welcoming smile and stepped back to let them inside. He wore faded blue jeans and a Northwestern University sweatshirt. His feet were covered in bright white socks. He watched them coolly with those same, unnaturally bright eyes.

Jackie paused for a moment. “You expecting us, Mr. Anderson?” The lack of nerves bothered her. Most people got nervous around federal agents regardless of their guilt or innocence. They tried too hard to be cool. Nick Anderson looked relaxed, unworried.

He gave her a little shrug. “After seeing this morning’s news, I figured there was a good chance.”

“We have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind. As you expected, I’m sure,” she added and stepped past him into the foyer.

“Anything I can do to help.”

The foyer opened up to the second floor. A landing led to what appeared to be an office of some kind. Skylights let the sun pour through onto a slate floor. A large grandfather clock quietly chimed the quarter hour on one side. Beneath the landing, two large archways led into the main living space, and Jackie could see the wall of windows beyond, surrounding an enormous stone fireplace made of river rock. No fire blazed away in it now, but she could well imagine. Unfortunately, the place was immaculately clean.

Laurel nudged by her with a smile and stepped into the living room. Jackie followed. Starbucks was going to be on her after all.

Laurel stood before a painting of an Old West town churned into a muddy swamp by a powerful storm. “You have a knack for painting, Mr. Anderson, and an apparent fondness for the Old West.”

He gave her a nod of thanks. “A fascinating part of our history, in my opinion. Would either of you care for coffee or tea?”

Laurel smiled. “Tea, thank you. Agent Rutledge prefers coffee.”

Jackie frowned. She was not in the mood to be taking anything except information from Nick Anderson today. Her thought was quickly lost, however, as her eyes roamed the expansive, light-filled living room, which opened on to the other side of the loft area. It was a very warm room, stained a rich, reddish brown in the trim and a similar tone in the solid, craftsman furnishings. There was a certain modern, Western flair to the decor in his home, surrounding you in earth tones and natural materials and accented with wood and brass. For owning a company worth millions, the wealth was very understated. The sunken area before the huge river-rock fireplace had a charm and coziness all its own. Jackie ignored the pang of jealousy. Who wouldn’t like to curl up in front of that fire?

“Do you like any flavors in your cappuccino, Agent Rutledge?” he called over to her. “I’m not partial to them myself, but I’ve a cupboard full of the stuff if you have a preference.”

Jackie glanced over at the kitchen. Nick was working before a restaurant-style espresso machine. “No. I really don’t need the coffee. I just need some questions answered.”

“Have a seat then. I’ll have these ready in a minute. Shel, did you want one, too?”

“Nope. I’m good, thanks.”

Jackie spun on her heel and found Shelby Fontaine standing in the far corner by the archway leading out to the foyer. The far side of the living room had a pool table, and she stood by it in black jeans, a black T-shirt with the Pink Panther emblazoned on the pocket, bare feet, and sunglasses. She had a bottle of beer in one hand and raised it toward Jackie with a smile.

“Good morning, agents.”

“A little bright in here for you, Ms. Fontaine?” Jackie failed to hide the sarcasm.

“No, just a little hungover,” she replied with a little laugh.

“Are you available for a few questions, Ms. Fontaine?” Laurel said.

The smile got a little bigger when she turned toward Laurel who sat now by the fireplace. “Anytime.” She slinked her way over to the U-shaped configuration of overstuffed couch cushions in front of the fireplace. A round glass table sat in the middle of them, a twelve-inch bronze statue of a cowboy rearing up on his horse in the center. Shelby flopped down across from Laurel like a big, lazy cat and put her bare feet with their bright red toenails up on the table.