J Duncan - Deadworld

“Use that table, Jackie!” Shelby said before diving into a roll across the floor to reach Nick, who knelt on the floor beside the far end of the couch on the other end of the room.

A small table stood behind Jackie in the entry, a pair of flowering plants perched on top. She was not quite sure what Shelby meant until a candlestick whistled by her head and dented the plaster in the wall on the far side of the entry. She quickly holstered the gun and grabbed the table, hoisting it up before her as a shield.

She followed them in, one eye on Laurel, who struggled against the far more powerful man. She blocked his roundhouse punches, flashing her fist in with quick jabs to the man’s face. Where had she learned to fight like that? Something heavy and wooden slammed into the table, nearly wrenching it from her hands, and Jackie was forced to refocus her attention on Nick, who was struggling to his feet with Cynthia’s limp body cradled against his chest. A six-inch metal figurine bounced off his shoulder, and Nick dropped back to a knee, swearing up a storm.

“Get out of here!” he ordered. “Run!”

Shelby grabbed the couch, picking it up from one end, and spun it around at the flying objects, knocking a good many of them to the ground. Nick, hunched over the unconscious body of Cynthia, made a lunging run for the front door. Jackie turned and caught a six-inch-diameter candle, spinning like a Frisbee, in the side of her left knee, dropping her to the floor before she even got the cry of pain out of her mouth. The table shield went tumbling to the floor as her hands went straight to the explosion of agony in her knee.

“Fuck! Shelby-” Her call for help got cut off when a two-inch-thick book jammed itself into her ribs just under her right breast. Another candle, the size of a softball, caught her in the left side just beneath the ribs, and the last of her burning breath escaped her lungs in a whoosh. She blinked back tears, partly from pain, the rest from the smoke, and began to crawl for the door.

“Take her, Shel!” Nick’s voice yelled ahead of her. A moment later, he was beside Jackie, his hand digging into her arm.

Jackie felt herself pulled half up off the floor as he dragged her back to the entry. She finally struggled to her feet, shaking loose of his grip. I can take care of myself, goddamnit.

Something bounced off Nick’s back, and he winced. “Go, damn you.”

“I can handle-”

Jackie never completed the sentence, as yet another of Cynthia’s candles found its way out of the living room and struck her in the side of the head, sending the world into darkness.

The firemen were rolling their hoses back up, satisfied that Cynthia’s house was safe from smoldering back into flames. Water dripped from the eaves like tears over the gaping wound of the front window, exposing the now hollowed, gutted living room inside, strewn with soggy, smashed debris. At least it was repairable. Cynthia had been wheeled away, still unconscious, but stable. Nick had hoped she would wake enough to offer some explanation, but all he could do now was hypothesize.

Something had come for her. Likely a goon of Drake’s. The question was, why? Laurel had come to stop him. How had she known? What was happening on the other side? How? He wondered about Reg. He generally had the beat on anything ghostly going on. It worried Nick that nothing had been heard from Reg for a while now, and his call to him earlier had gone unanswered. Deadworld was becoming the great unknown factor in all this. Drake’s trump card. It was all a matter of blood. Nick turned away from the ruins of Cynthia’s bungalow, hands thrust in his pockets, and made his way toward the street.

Shelby’s motorcycle was gone. She had left almost immediately to check on Cynthia and then head out to look for Drake. Jackie sat in the front seat of Belgerman’s car, parked behind the paramedic’s truck. She had refused to go to the hospital, even though the knot on the side of her head likely indicated a mild concussion. She should have been in the damn hospital. Against his better judgment, he approached and squatted down next to her, holding on to the open door for support.

“Not going to the hospital, are you, Agent Rutledge?”

She opened her eyes and lifted the cold pack from the side of her head. “Would you?”

Nick grimaced. “No, but that’s beside the point. You might have a concussion.”

“And a little eight-year-old girl might be dead by tomorrow if we don’t figure out what the fuck to do.”

The better part of him knew to just get up and walk away. There was no point arguing with her-stubborn to the bone, which likely accounted for her appeal in a frustrating-beyond-reason kind of way. She would keep going until she collapsed, and in her current condition would likely serve the case little good.

“You aren’t going to catch anyone at the moment, Jackie. You need rest. I’m surprised Belgerman hasn’t ordered you home.”

She stared at him for a moment, mouth working in furious silence. “You done being good samaritan now? Do you feel better that you’ve checked up on me? If you hadn’t been playing the fucking hero, I might have gotten out of there without getting waxed.”

“Hero?” He bit back the rest of his retort. No point fanning flames. She was hurt and pissed. “It was a bad situation in there, Jackie. It could have been a lot worse.”

“I’m not blind! Christ, I saw what was going on,” she snapped back but then sagged into the seat with a groan, putting the pack to her head. “What the fuck was going on in there?”

Nothing like a concussion to batter the bravado down. He just wanted to make sure she was going to take care of herself. She looked so small and fragile now, battered, bruised, and emotionally wrung out. If he had been Belgerman, there was no way he would have let her continue. Beyond the fact that the case was too dangerous, she had lost her partner. He had figured there was mandatory leave when events like that happened, unless of course Belgerman was letting it slide until the case was over. Nick would have to ask him about that. If she could be forced to sit the rest of this out, all the better.

“My guess is Drake sent someone to get Cynthia, and Laurel came to stop him.”

Jackie was quiet for so long, Nick thought she had fallen asleep. Finally, she said, “How? Why? I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” he said. “I’m going to the hospital after this to check on Cyn. Hopefully, she’ll be conscious and be able to shed some light on things.”

Jackie nodded. After a moment, a single tear trickled out of a closed, puffy eye, and Nick resisted the urge to reach out and wipe it away. “Laurel’s dead, and she’s still working the case.”

He had not even considered that line. So much for sending Jackie home. She would probably kill the person who tried. “It seems Laurel is trying to help us. I am, too, Jackie. I’ve been dealing with this kind of thing for a long time. If I tell you to keep back, it’s not to play hero-”

She sat up, eyes suddenly alive with indignation. “Are you running the FBI now, Nick? Did Belgerman die and make you boss?”

“Look, Jackie-”

“No! You look.” She threw the pack at him, and Nick stumbled back, catching the pack against his shoulder. “You’re just a fucking civilian PI. This is my case! You don’t give the orders around here, Sheriff.” The last came out with a nasty sneer in her voice. “You want to play hero, go… just go! Leave me the fuck alone.”

Nick stood up. It was time to bail before things got even uglier. “All right. When you’ve got things situated again, call me. I’ll be out looking for Drake.”

“Everything okay over here?” Belgerman walked up and stopped behind Nick, his face heavy with worry.