J Duncan - Deadworld

“There’s a little bit of it waiting right back there in the car.”

“What? Nick? I… I don’t really know what to think of that man.”

“Then don’t. Just do. He’s looking for the same things you are.”

“And what is that?”

“Hon, quit being dense, and quit being afraid of liking him. You’d be good for each other.”

It struck Jackie then that Nick was the first guy Laurel had ever said that about. “He freaks me out. He’s so fucking intense, and there’s that whole… blood thing.”

“And your point is?”

What was her point? She had none. The thought of something real with someone freaked her out more than anything else. “Fine, I’ll think about it.”

“No. Didn’t I say to stop thinking about it?”

“All right! Christ. Casper, you aren’t.”

Laurel grinned. “Feeling better though, aren’t you?”

The morose black veil that had been covering Jackie had lifted, though it still hovered at the fringes, ready to fall. “I suppose. Thanks, Laur. I just wish you were still here. I still feel so…” She shrugged. Guilty did not even come close.

“If I forgive you every day, will that help?”

Jackie snorted. “Yeah, it would.”

“Okay, then. I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault, and you weren’t to blame, and I still love you.”

Tears welled up again. “Better. I love you, too.”

“Now go. Cemeteries depress you. I’ll see you again soon.”

Laurel faded into the ground, but Jackie stood there a while longer staring down at the grave. Her friend’s body was buried down there, but she was not truly gone. How could you really say good-bye? It wasn’t right. Still, the pain of Laurel’s missing presence was there, and Jackie knew it would be for a long time to come. It just had to be dealt with. She had to move on.

Back in the car, Jackie closed the door. “You can take me home now.”

“You okay?” Shelby reached her hand over the back of the seat, an open offer of comfort there for the taking, if Jackie wanted it.

Jackie smiled at her, grateful for the gesture, took her hand, and squeezed briefly before letting go. “Thanks. Yeah, I think I’m good for now.”

Shelby nodded and turned back around. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”

Jackie stared out the window, watching the mound of flowers until they had faded from view. Move on. Don’t think about it, just do. “Nick?”

He looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”

“What’re you doing Saturday night?”

“Huh?”

“Saturday. Are you available on Saturday night?”

“Available? What do you mean?”

Shelby’s fist flashed across the seat and struck him on the shoulder.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“I swear you’re an idiot sometimes,” Shelby scolded. “Just say yes, for fuck’s sake.”

They stopped at an intersection, and he turned to look back at Jackie, those faintly glowing eyes studying her with disarming intensity. She managed to hold his gaze, forcing herself not to look away. He turned back and set the car in motion once again.

“How’s seven o’clock?”

“Seven’s fine.” She took a deep breath and let it out to calm the butterflies. It was a step forward, and that was the only direction she could look now.

Jackie Rutledge has come to realize how thin a line separates the living and the dead, and her view of the world will never be the same again.

Follow her further adventures in the next book of the DEADWORLD series, a Kensington paperback on sale October 2011.

Turn the page for a special preview!

Detective Thomas Morgan threw the empty pill bottle out of his cruiser into the manicured hedge dividing a pair of Sterling Heights, half-a-million-dollar homes. The bitter pill in his mouth was beginning to dissolve, so he reached and grabbed the cold remnants of his McDonald’s coffee and washed it down.

Had to be the last one for a while, if not for good. Beverly had been getting suspicious of late. Money was funneling in and out of the bank account too rapidly and gradually working its way toward zero. And, let’s face it, the shit was too good to be taking indefinitely. Morgan had seen it more times than he cared to remember. He was turning into an addict, or maybe he already was, if truth be told. Perhaps it was pilfering from his daughter’s college fund that had finally clued him in. Oxycontin was not more important than his daughter’s future. Tom felt disgusted with himself. Desperation was ugly and weak. He was turning into what he dreaded most: a bad cop.

Morgan turned the corner into a swirling mass of crime-scene color. Four cop cars blocked off the street leading to a two-story, tudor-style house that looked like every sixth or seventh house in the upscale neighborhood. Small groups of residents clumped together on the sidewalk and across the street, wrapped up in robes, blankets, or jackets, morbid curiosity getting the better of the cool and damp October morning. Everyone, it seemed, loved a good murder.

And, apparently, this one was very good, in the way people judged horror movies based on how disturbing the death scenes were. Morgan pulled up behind the roadblock and got out of his car. On the opposite side, he spotted Frank Wysocki’s vehicle. Tom frowned. Sock would be less than pleased that Tom had not been immediately available to pick him up. When Tom found him sitting on the front porch, hands hanging loosely over his knees and looking pale as milk, Morgan figured this murder was not just very good, it was Oscar caliber.

“Sock, man. You lose your lunch?”

“Where the fuck you been, Tom? Don’t stick me with this shit.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and then through his receding, graying hair. “Your jalapeno-eating, hairy black ass can take the upstairs. I’ll take the nice and cheery guy with his brains blown across the wall.”

Tom moved quickly to get out of Sock’s sight. “Hey, no problem. Sorry for the delay. I was away from the phone for a few.” He gave Sock a pat on the shoulder and walked up the front step. Worse than a brain mural? Morgan did not like the sound of that, because it usually meant children were involved.

“You’re always away from the fucking phone,” Sock said, but Tom was already through the front door and chose to ignore him.

He pulled a pair of neoprene gloves from his coat pocket and considered stepping back out for a mask, but that would mean raising Sock’s ire once again, and so Tom decided to let it slide. It was just a bit of the old blood and death. Just breathe through the mouth and tune the emotions out. It took practice to get good at that, but was essential for homicide.

Morgan upgraded his assessment when he reached the end of the foyer, which opened into a living room to the right. There was a lot of blood, and one could only call it a living room in the loosest of terms. A Hispanic male slumped over on a leather sofa in sweats and a U of C T-shirt. He was in decent shape, until someone had put a slug in his head and redecorated the wall with bits of his brain matter. The smell of it was thick and pungent in the air, so the guy had been dead a few hours at least. As for the rest of the living room, every last piece of furniture and decoration had been smashed to pieces, demonstrating a level of violence far in excess of that needed to ransack the place.

Initial impression: crime of passion. Someone had been very upset about something or someone. The rest was up to Sock for now. Morgan continued walking toward the staircase and had to stop to get out of the way of a young beat cop hustling to get to the front lawn before he puked. Welcome to homicide, kid. Sometimes it ain’t cool or fun. Needless to say, it put Morgan on edge. Even strong stomachs had their limits. He kept his breath coming through his mouth only and climbed the stairs two at a time.