Dying for Her: A Companion Novel (Dying for a Living Book 3) (10 page)

Friday, March 28, 2003

J
ackson and I pulled up outside the address and found the house still smoking. A fire of this magnitude would burn for a while, smoldering long after the last of the flames were gone. Jackson and I took the Impala, parking it on the curb opposite the house. I crossed the street to find Charlie with his back to the flames. He spoke as soon as he saw me.

“The firefighters recovered three bodies, burnt beyond recognition with only dental fragments available for identification. Just teeth were found for the little girl,” Swanson said as the three of us stood outside the smoking house.

I felt like I’d been kicked in the balls. My stomach ached deep inside and it was pretty damn hard to suck air into my lungs.

“How many teeth?” I asked as a memory surfaced.

“Three,” he confirmed.

“Why three?” I pressed. “Did they knock the rest out of her head?”

“No head,” Swanson said.

“Excuse me?”

Heat rolled off the house and the air smelled like a campfire, all that burned wood wafting into the breeze.

“The little girl was decapitated. The coroner thinks it was done post-mortem, probably by her kidnappers.”

“So where is the head?”

“We don’t know.”

“So you identified Maisie Michaelson with no head, just three teeth?”

“It’s enough to extract DNA.”

I rubbed my brow. “You can extract DNA from a baby tooth but not from the bones of a corpse?”

Charlie raised his voice. “I’m not a forensic fucking scientist. I’m just telling you what I was told. Do you want to know the rest of the story or not?”

I waved him on.

“This house belonged to George and Carolyn Kilns. They recently lost their daughter in an accident. She was about Maisie’s age, died from an undiagnosed allergy. Their daughter also went to Maisie’s school. We don’t know all the details yet, but we suspect they kidnapped the Michaelson girl and tried to keep her for themselves.”

Jackson’s face said she was just as pissed as I was. “Why would they do that?”

Charlie looked at her as if for the first time. “A child who cannot die sounds like a dream come true to a couple of grieving parents.”

“Then why cut off the kid’s head?” I asked. “Why dispose of a head?”

“Who fucking knows? Maybe they were insane. Maybe they decided to murder her and kill themselves, but knew they had to fuck up her brain to do it.”

“Pretty extreme. Nothing a shot to the head wouldn’t have accomplished.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Charlie said and threw his hands up. “Case closed. The girl is dead. Are you going to lose your shit on this? Carry her headless corpse out into the desert?”

The world warped as if the fire were melting it away. Charlie looked like he might apologize, but closed his mouth and walked toward the uniform officer on the other side of the tape. Jackson took a step closer and I braced myself for her questions about Aziz.

“She isn’t dead,” she said.

I exhaled the breath I was holding. My gut didn’t think the girl was dead either, but I’d been wrong once or twice before, especially when I really didn’t want to be wrong.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I viewed her last night,” she said. “She’s alive and she isn’t here.”

I tried to remember what Charlie had said about the remote viewing process. Something about seeing images or hearing sounds in their minds and then sketching down the clues. I could only remember the history. I knew it was a technique developed by the military, to see if ESP espionage was possible. When they failed to replicate NRD—particularly the ability to resurrect—someone got the idea to teach their volunteer soldiers remote-viewing instead. I couldn’t remember how they’d made the connection between remote-viewing and the failed NRD experiment.

“Would your ‘viewing’ show her dead though?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. She sounded pretty damn confident. “She isn’t dead.”

28 Weeks

M
y eyes shoot open and I grab my neck. My head buzzes from the sudden lack of oxygen and my throat muscles flex as if trying to shake off whatever is crushing my windpipe. I only swipe at the air around me unable to connect with anything. There is no hand, no assailant. I see spots in front of my eyes, those dancing black and white blips that I know are the precursor to passing out. In the dark of my bedroom, I start to wonder if this is a dream.

The sensation disappears. As suddenly as it came, the pressure around my throat vanishes and sweet relief washes over me. I lean forward in my bed and draw in deep lungfuls of air. My head still buzzes, but the blackout dots clear. Caldwell sits by the window in the white armchair placed there by whomever decorated this apartment.

“That felt good,” he says, folding his fingers back to inspect his nails. “Was it good for you? I hear asphyxiation to the point of unconsciousness can be euphoric.”

I reach for the gun under my pillow. It isn’t there. Caldwell lifts it up so I can see it in the pale light coming through the windows. “Too slow. You see, if I pop in while you’re sleeping, I can deepen your dream state. I can bring a marching band through here and you’ll be none the wiser. It’s a fantastic trick, don’t you think? I have you to thank for it.”

“Stay out of my head,” I tell him. My voice is gravelly at best. I’m not sure if it is from being choked or from sleep itself.

“No, you see I didn’t choke you,” he says and sits forward in his seat still holding my gun. “I just told your mind that you were choking. Then your obedient muscles constricted and the lungs closed.”

“You can’t control Jackson. And you can’t control Jesse.”

He looks up. “I’d love to test that theory.”

I lean against the headboard and pull up my knee to rest my elbow on it.

“You’re right about Jackson though. Her brain damage protects her. If you only had a little magnetite in your brain, you’d be all right. But you are 100% meat up there, so we can have all the fun in the world.” He leans back in his chair. “You know you were dreaming about the boy again?”

Aziz’s soft face surfaces, still a baby face that wouldn’t see a razor for years. The sound of goats crying and his mother’s screams rise up from the darkness.

“Stop,” I tell him, believing these visions are his doing. “I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s not me,” he says. “You don’t need me to torture you. You do a great job of that all on your own.”

“To what do I owe this honor?” I say and meet his eyes. “This is the second time you’ve come over just to play. Do you have it that bad for me?”

He sneers. “Practice makes perfect. Do you know there was a study where basketball players were asked to supplement their drills with visualization? The control group who didn’t practice in their heads as well as on the court showed less improvement. So you see, I’m getting better and better at killing you every time I imagine doing it. If I’m going to snap your neck in a couple of months, I might as well get good at it. Otherwise, I might botch the job and you’ll have to choke to death on your own blood. Would you like that?”

“Just tell me what you want.” I don’t like being trapped in my own bed, weaponless.

“I want to kill you and get this over with,” he says, pressing an index finger to the side of his skull.

I open my arms. “What’s stopping you?”

He laughs. “The fact that if I kill you now, I’ll change the future. And right now the future looks pretty good, so why risk it?”

He stands from the chair and comes toward me. My whole body tenses, but instead of launching an assault, he pulls something from his pocket and hands it to me. It is a sheet of paper folded into a small neat square.

I open it, beginning to recognize Micah’s artwork by sight.

In the picture, Jesse is in Caldwell’s arms. He is carrying her somewhere and she is either dead or unconscious, I can’t tell which. I search the picture for clues, anything to tell me where or when this happens.

I try to form questions that will keep him talking. Maybe it is harder to read my mind if he’s wrapped up in his own. “If you wanted her, you could just step in and take her at any moment. Why haven’t you?”

His eyes darken. “We both know Jesse is different.”

“Because she’s your kid. Don’t tell me something so trivial is going to hold you back from your plan of world domination.”

“She’s much more than that and you know it.”

I think of the angels, of what Rachel has told me and her theories about what else is going on.

“Ah, so Rachel has been called?” Caldwell says, his face lighting up with interest. “That is one less rat to smoke out.”

“If you hurt either of them, I’ll kill you.” My head is hot and the anger warms my arms and chest. It feels good.

“You’ll try,” he says, dismissing me. “What I don’t understand is why you don’t tell Jesse more? Why haven’t you told her about Maisie? Why haven’t you told her about us and what you did for me?”

“What can I tell her about Maisie?” I ask, seeing an opportunity. “Is she alive?”

He doesn’t answer me.

I focus on my hands, rough and square on the coverlet. I breathe. I don’t let a stray thought seep into my mind. “What did you come here for? Just to show me another picture and gloat?”

“Maybe I was feeling nostalgic,” he says. “Like you with that little memoir you’re writing. I can’t help but think of how this all started and marvel at how we got here.”

“Do me a favor,” I say, yawning. “If you want to stop by for another late night chat, next time bring some beer, would you? And maybe a burger. I love the Hawaiian Handful from Rudy’s, just so you know. They put this—”

My throat slams shut. I gag, reaching up to grab ahold of my neck and claw at it. Caldwell is right in front of me then, his face inches from me. He shoves my gun against my temple. “I’m not an errand boy.”

I cough and open then close my mouth like a fish out of water. I suddenly feel like a bastard for all those summers on the lake with my father and his brothers. How many perch, sunfish and catfish had we thrown on the deck to choke out like this?

“Stop investigating me. Stop looking for clues for how to stop me. There is no stopping me.” Caldwell spits the words into my face, shoving the barrel harder into the side of my skull. “You have one job. Be the fuckup you are. Make the stupid decisions that you make and if you try anything else, I’ll kill the little spic you’ve got holed up in the hospital. Do you understand?”

He releases me and disappears.

My gun falls through the air and bounces against the coverlet beside me. I breathe, slow my thoughts and adrenaline as best I can. I am alone again.

And once again, I must swallow my questions about Maisie.

Friday, March 28, 2003

I
made it all the way back to my apartment, even dragged my ass up the stairs to the front door before I decided I couldn’t go in. As I stood outside my door, the intensity of the silence weighed on me. I’d been down this road before. Silence at a time like this could drive a guy crazy. I put my fists in my pockets and turned back the way I came.

It took me seven minutes to get to Blackberry Hill. I must’ve come in with my tail tucked because just one look at me and Peaches harrumphed.

He placed two shot glasses on the bar as I slid onto a stool. “Who died?”

“Maisie Michaelson,” I said. “She was 6.”

His mouth fell open and his eyes went wide. “Fuck.”

I nodded because I had nothing to add. What was there to say? Worst case scenario, the Michaelson girl was dead. Best case scenario, she was alive but there were a slew of insurmountable roadblocks between me and her, stretching the distance farther and farther between us. I had Jackson and her magic eyeballs. Maybe that would be enough. I’d run so many of these operations that I knew killing someone was an easy solo job, but finding something and bringing it back took resources we didn’t have.

Peaches sloshed tequila over the rim of each glass and pushed one toward me with a fat finger. “On the house.”

I picked it up and threw it back, slamming it unnecessarily against the wood. But the pain felt good in my palm, sobering. He filled it again and I threw it back once more. We went four rounds that way and he matched me shot for shot. It was the third shot before I realized what I’d done, my heart plummeting into my chest. I’d called her the Michaelson girl, not Maisie. I was creating distance in my head. I was giving up.

No
, I thought.
Maisie. Maisie. Maisie— I won’t give up on you, kid.

“Oh God, not again.” Peaches grimaced and looked over at the jukebox.

“Have you tried reprogramming it?” I asked. I realized the high-pitched whine was not in my head, nor was it an injured cat. It was another boy band song blaring from the jukebox.

His eyes went wide and he slapped the bar top. “Of course, darn it. I’ve torn the thing apart and there is nothing in there. Just the AC/DC, Johnny Cash, Aerosmith and all that.”

I grunted. “One of life’s great mysteries.”

“OK, we’ve got to switch to the soft stuff,” he said, returning the tequila to the top shelf. “Or I won’t be able to count the till.”

“If I shoot your jukebox,” I added. “Don’t take it personally.”

I accepted the frothy mug with the house pint fizzing inside and also put a twenty on the bar. Peaches shook his head and scraped a thick nail over the white stubble lining his jaw.

“Put it away, B,” he said. “Save it for another day.”

He left me to my thoughts then. He played barkeep to his customers while the noise of darts hitting the board sounded behind me and pool balls clacked on a table across the room. The televisions above us broadcasted a soccer game and a Grand Prix race.
Slim pickings
Peaches would say, since he preferred boxing or football himself, neither of which were in season. The best he could hope for was baseball, which wouldn’t start up until next month.

I let the sounds of the room, the familiar warmth of these walls, soften me until a man slid onto the stool on my right. My fingers were cold from the frost on the glass and I tried to warm them by rubbing them against my jeans. I stole a glance at the man without being rude. I tried not to be the grumpy bastard who gave everyone the evil eye, but I was too seasoned not to inspect a man who’d come this close.

He had freckles across his nose and hazel-green eyes. His thick brows were a different shade than the shaggy hair framing his face. A dye job maybe. The scars around his jaw and neck were interesting, almost a clean line from ear to the chin. I assumed it went all the way around, but I didn’t ask. Maybe his overgrown scruff was meant to hide it, or maybe it was none of my fucking business. It was rude as hell to ask a man what shitty thing had left its mark on him.

“What do you recommend?” he asked.

His voice was low, almost too low to be heard over the din of the bar, as if he wasn’t accustomed to talking to others.

“If you don’t order the house pint Peaches will take it personally,” I said, which was true enough.

“Peaches?” he asked. He measured me with his eyes and I let him. Sometimes, when work went bad, I would rough up the first guy I saw. Some punk like this one would bother me at the wrong time and leave with a bloody mouth for no good reason. To say I was reformed was an understatement.

“What’ll it be?” Peaches asked him, placing both hands on the bar and waiting for instruction. His long gray ponytail had fallen forward over his shoulder and was resting on his big paunch of a belly, stretched beneath a black AC/DC shirt.

“The house pint,” the man said, almost like a question.

Peaches liked the answer and pulled a frosted mug from the mini cooler behind the bar. “House pint it is.”

“What jerk chose this song?” the stranger asked, looking at the jukebox against the far wall.

“I’ll give you $100 if you can solve that mystery, man.” Peaches washed mugs in the sink and still wet, pushed them into the back of the fridge to freeze.

The guy beside me asked a couple of questions, but I didn’t gratify him with an answer. My silence made him nervous I guess, because he laughed. Peaches must’ve felt sorry for him.

“Don’t bother B, here,” he said. “He’s had a rough night.”

“Sorry to hear it,” the guy said and gulped his pint. “What kind of work do you do?”

“He’s a federal agent,” Peaches said.

“Peaches,” I said and squared my shoulders. “Come on.”

“Drugs?” the guy asked.

Peaches corrected him. “Missing people.”

“Seriously?” the guy said and sat up straighter.

I didn’t want to talk about work. I sure as hell didn’t want to talk about Maisie to the first yahoo who walked through the door.

I left my half-finished drink on the bar top and stood. Then I zipped up my leather jacket and left.

“Aww, B,” Peaches called after me. “Don’t get pissed, man. I’m just proud of what you do.”

I said nothing, choosing instead to step out into the cold city night.