J Duncan - Deadworld

He could walk among the dead if he so desired, but why would anyone want to? The living and dead were separated for a reason. More to the point, there were dead over there Nick was not sure he wanted to see. Who was he kidding? He desperately wanted to see them, and was terrified they would not want to see him. Without precious blood, however, the game was over.

The FBI could be dealt with, however. Once Jackie got her feet back on the ground, there would be some rather awkward explaining to do. They would all be pissed. One of their own had been killed. He could hardly tell them it was a bad idea to go after this guy. All he could do now was minimize the damage, get to the end as quickly as possible, and try to save them any more grief on his part.

Nick rubbed his face with his hands and let out a long, weary breath. A cigarette and a whiskey sounded damn fine at the moment. Ah, Gwen! I’m not going to hold up my end of the bargain after all. When he looked up, the blanket-clad figure of Jackie came out of the building, her boss’s arm wrapped around her shoulder. Her eyes, swollen and dark as the churning, raining sky overhead, looked straight ahead, unmoving. She looked smaller, Nick thought, as if Laurel’s death had carved some of the flesh from her bones, and those wide, staring eyes made her look sixteen.

The sight grew unbearable for Nick, and he got up to take a walk-and ran right into one of the agents.

“Mr. Anderson,” he said, not sounding at all pleased to be chatting with him.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be going anywhere. You can ride downtown with me. We’ll want an official report from you on what happened here, and any other information you might find… useful to tell us.”

“All right,” Nick said. “I’ll need a ride back later to get my car.”

“If and when you go, I’ll bring you back for the car,” he replied. “Don’t talk to the reporters, please. You might find it better just to wait in my car over there.” He pointed to one angled into the curb behind where Jackie had been shut away.

It occurred to Nick then that they would want the same information out of Jackie Rutledge, and she was in no condition to do anything. “You aren’t taking her downtown, are you? She may need a hospital.”

“Let us worry about our own, Mr. Anderson. Agent Rutledge is as tough as they come, but that was her friend in there that got killed. Believe me, she’ll want to get after the fucker as soon as possible.”

Nick had a feeling that might not be true. She looked broken, and not in a “patch it up and send it back out” sort of way. He had seen it many times over the years, and been there, too. A lot of times you did not come back from that kind of injury. The wounds never closed. A pang of sympathy went out to her. “I’ll just wait in your car until you’re ready.”

He nodded. “Good idea.”

Nick crossed the street, pausing long enough to let the other FBI car pull away from the curb. The shrouded head of Jackie leaned against the window, and for a brief moment, Nick thought he saw recognition in those eyes, but what feeling lay in that blank stare, he could not fathom. He held the gaze for that instant and gave her the one solace he had at his disposal. Sleep. He mouthed the word to her, drawing what bit of power he could to impart the suggestion, but had no idea if it held before the car sped away.

An hour later, Nick found himself seated in a conference room surrounded by a dozen FBI agents, none of whom had welcoming expressions upon their faces. It was a somber and angry room. Belgerman, the head of the Chicago division, stood at the head of the table, pouring himself some coffee into a Styrofoam cup.

“Coffee, Mr. Anderson?”

“Sure, thanks,” Nick said with a nod. “You might as well call me Nick. I have a feeling this isn’t the last meeting we’ll be having.” He picked up the second cup of coffee. “I’m really very sorry for your loss. I liked Ms. Carpenter. She was… gifted.”

Belgerman cut off someone’s reply with a raised finger. “Keep the comments to yourself, Pernetti. Everyone here is hurting with the loss of Agent Carpenter, but you will all measure your responses here tonight with respect. Am I clear?”

The silence was agreement enough. Nick decided he liked John Belgerman. He was his kind of guy-caring, demanding, and no bullshit.

“Mr. Anderson here has agreed to give us the rundown on what happened tonight, and any other extenuating and unusual circumstances involving this case. Every word, and I do mean literally every word spoken in this room, now stays in this room. We appreciate your help, Nick.” He offered him a faint smile, and Nick took it for what it was worth: “You cooperate with us, and we’ll get along just fine. You owe us.”

“I don’t know exactly what information you have on things,” Nick began. “I don’t know exactly what you know about me or Ms. Fontaine, or who it is you’re dealing with-”

“We have a fair bit of unusual and conflicting information, Mr. Anderson,” John cut in. “Why don’t you just tell us your side of this case. It may fill in some of the holes we have.”

Nick looked around the table at the faces staring at him. He had experienced tougher rooms, but this one had a thick cloud of suspicion and doubt floating in the air. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind to what I’m going to say. If anyone has a question, feel free to interrupt.” Their silence appeared to be an invitation to speak. “In Wyoming, back in 1862, a traveling preacher by the name of Cornelius Drake came into my jurisdiction. I was a sheriff back then.” To his surprise, they had nothing to say on that, and so Nick continued, telling his story for the second time in several days.

Before he got out of the 1860s, John interrupted him. “Let me get this straight, Mr. Anderson. You turned yourself into a vampire so you could come after this guy, even though you knew if you failed to get him, another twenty people’s blood would be on your hands, plus whoever might go after him as well, and possibly innocent bystanders who just got in the way?”

Nick grimaced. “Put that way, it sounds like a poor choice.”

“True,” John agreed. “Very poor, but I would have probably done the same. He killed your family. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Anderson. Please continue.”

An hour later, he had caught them up to that evening’s events. “We arrived, and Drake stepped through to the other side. Ms. Carpenter was dead at that point.”

“Stepped through what?” someone asked.

Nick shrugged, as he was not exactly sure himself. “A door, portal, I don’t know exactly how to describe it. I honestly didn’t realize he could do it until I saw it happen. It explains why we’ve had such a difficult time tracking him.”

A guy with a large shiny forehead leaned forward on the table. “So you’re saying this murderer is lounging around with ghosts or spirits or whatever and will just pop back over when he feels like it?”

“I’m assuming so,” Nick said. “It’s not something I can do, so I can’t explain it or understand it. I just know it’s what he’s doing now.”

“Can you tell where he’ll come back?” another asked.

Nick shook his head. “Unlikely.”

“Well, that’s fucked,” the agent said.

“Any clue who the prick is going after next?” It was Pernetti this time, and Nick realized now that maybe this group was not so skeptical after all. Perhaps they actually believed him. “You said it’s people who look like your family he is killing.”

“My grandmother,” Nick answered. “Seventy-five-year-old quilt maker. She made handcrafted rag dolls as well.”

“We have a picture of her, I believe,” John added.