Chapter 30
Reality snapped back like a broken rubber band for Laurel when Drake let her go at last. She had not been oblivious to him and had in fact been aware of his every action. The ride in the Rolls had not been long. She even knew where they were but had missed the exact address. The decaying sign over the doors had said FITZSIMMONS FURNISHINGS. It was a warehouse, or used to be at some point in time. The windows had been boarded up, and most of the inside was scattered with refuse, clutter, and fallen ceiling tiles. Three floors up, the entire floor had been converted into a living space. Of sorts.
Upon entering the room, nothing had been visible other than the stainless-steel table in the center of the room. A dangling fluorescent lamp illuminated it and provided the only light in the cavernous room.
“Please, Ms. Carpenter. Have a seat upon the table.”
The slight British accent might have had charm under other circumstances, but now, feeling trapped within her own body, she could only think of Hannibal Lecter. She obeyed like a mindless zombie and sat on the edge of the table, noticing the raised lip around the edges and the hole in the corner. She had seen tables like these numerous times in the past, generally in unfavorable conditions. A cadaver’s table.
On one side of the table, a chenille-covered lounge chair and ottoman, floor lamp, and side table. On the table were several books and a newspaper. Dimly, she had awareness of there being more to the space. There were other aspects, more furnishings, but they were barely noticeable in the glare of the overhead light, and her eyes had no will of their own to wander and take in the surroundings.
She watched him move around the room, into and out of the central light, removing his jacket and draping it carefully over the back of the lounge chair, then disappearing into darkness until she heard the unmistakable tinkling of ice cubes. He returned with a drink in hand. His tie had been removed, and the top two buttons of his crisp, white shirt were unbuttoned. He seated himself in the lounge chair and sipped down the martini, reading through some of the newspaper. With no sense of time to speak of, Laurel could only guess how long she sat there unmoving before he finished off the martini and laid the paper back down.
Drake pulled her cell phone from his pocket and held it up. “Fourteen calls now, Ms. Carpenter. You appear to be a rather popular woman. Why is that, I wonder?”
Laurel had nothing to say, as he had given her no permission to speak.
I can’t die like this, not buried inside my own body.
Fourteen calls meant Jackie was wondering why she hadn’t called to check in and would wrongfully suspect Shelby of taking her. They would be focusing on the wrong person.
Drake sighed with exasperation. “I suppose I should strap you down so we can have a proper conversation. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” Laurel replied, unable to keep her lips from forming the words.
He leaned down and opened a drawer beneath the table, and Laurel soon found her wrists zip-tied to the edges of the table. Her legs from the knees down still dangled over the end. “Well, then, there we go. We may speak freely now.”
And like that, the impenetrable weight upon her mind lifted, and Laurel could control herself once again. “You’re going to kill me.” She was surprised at the finality in her voice.
He stood next to the table, looking down on her much like a wolf looks at a fawn with a broken leg. “I’m going to drain the blood out of you, sucking the precious life force from it until you leave this world of the living and enter that of the dead. It is more a transition, really, but not one I highly recommend.” He smiled, and the charm may have been there in his lips, but the eyes ruined it completely. No charm was possible from glowing, irisless eyes. “It is wretchedly cold over there, and most of the fellows are a bit of a bore. I’m afraid you will not find it much to your liking.”
The bastard was a talker at least. That much went in her favor. There was little other advantage she had at her disposal, however. The straps would only get tighter if she pulled on them. Time would prove to be her only ally. She needed it badly. “You aren’t exactly what I’d imagined from a . . . um . . .”
“Vampire, Ms. Carpenter?” He laughed softly. “Such an amusing twist of the reality, but in essence, yes, I am one of the very same, and it is not so much like the stories portray. Both more and less, as it turns out.”
“You are both living and dead at the same time,” she said. Shelby had shown her that much. She wondered if Shelby was out there now, cruising the streets on that death trap on wheels looking for her. Jackie would be. Two hours of no contact would be about her limit, if she guessed her friend correctly. Her patience and paranoia would have met head to head by now.
“Why, yes, indeed I am, Ms. Carpenter. How very astute of you. Your ability serves you well. I wonder,” he said, leaning over her, his face next to hers. Laurel turned away from those enthralling eyes. She could not bear the notion of that mindless enslavement again. His breath sucked in next to her ear, a deep inhalation. “I wonder if your blood is any richer because of it?”
A shiver went down Laurel’s spine. Not a question she hoped to have answered any time soon. “Why did you choose me, Mr. Drake?” She had to keep him talking, soothe his ego, and let him think she found him intriguing. At least that was what she had been told to do when one found themselves in the hands of a kidnapper.
He bent down below the table again, opening drawers. “You fit the bill, Ms. Carpenter, ordinary as that might sound. I saw you at the park that first day and noticed you bore a reasonable resemblance to Nick’s dead wife. The fact that you were involved with the case has made it sweetly ironic, wouldn’t you say? Ah, here we go.” He stood back up clutching a variety of items. “But as you likely have deduced by now, your hair color is all wrong.”
“So the dye was to make the boy resemble one of Nick’s children.”
“Yes,” he said. “Now then, let’s get you tilted up so I can get at you a bit easier.”
The head end of the table dropped down, and Laurel found herself down at knee level staring up at Drake. From beneath the table somewhere he had pulled out a snaking cord with a showerhead on the end of it. He was going to dye her hair right there.
“I don’t really make a good brunette, Mr. Drake.”
He smiled, and from her angle it looked like a twisted frown. “Nonsense. You’ll be lovely. Besides, we must do something to pass the time. Your friends aren’t close enough yet.”
“You want them to find you?”
“But of course, my dear,” he replied, spraying her hair down with warm water. The unusual care with which he took going about dying her hair made Laurel’s skin crawl. “I had thought you smart FBI types would have deciphered this game Nicholas and I have been playing. You have all the evidence you need, or are they too dense to believe in such a plan? But then again, the man does so dread involving others. Far more entertaining this way, really, I must say. Back in ’70 it was far more interesting. You fellows got rather close at one point. I dare say killing you will up the stakes a bit.”
With his hands covered in plastic gloves, Drake began to massage the coloring into Laurel’s hair.
Laurel could not get the morgue pictures of the boy out of her head now, close-ups of the dead skin colored with dye. “Why do all this though? Why didn’t you just kill him after you killed his family?”
“Suffering, Ms. Carpenter. One’s enemies do not suffer if they are dead, and besides, when you cannot die, one needs some way to pass the time.” He chuckled and continued working the dye into her hair. “You know, you really have gorgeous hair. Your best trait, I must say.”
“Thanks.” Laurel could not tell if he was being serious or merely playing her.
“Ms. Fontaine seems to like it. The little cunt has good taste.”
The breath caught in Laurel’s throat. He’d seen them together? How was that possible? It was the first time she had heard anything close to animosity coming out of his mouth. “You don’t like her.”
He gave her a faint smile. “In her way, she is more cold-hearted and vicious than I, but not to you. No, no. She’s sweet on you, Ms. Carpenter.
That
she made rather plain to see. So your death will be doubly delicious, I must say. Two birds with one stone, or so the saying goes.”
“How did you know?” She did not need to know, but it would keep the conversation going, and she was admittedly curious.
“I have my little helpers, just like Nicholas,” he said.
Laurel realized then. The ghost that stole the penny. The ghost she saw just prior to Drake showing up. He had help from the other side.
He pulled her hair out straight over the edge of the table and let it hang down before proceeding to rinse most of the dye from her hair. His fingers were gentle upon her scalp.
“Now then, I suppose that will have to do. Not quite the right color, but we don’t have much time. Your Ms. Fontaine has a bit of blood in her and will be closing in sooner than I wish.”
He came back up from under the table yet again, this time holding a bowl filled with items she could not see. Only a strand of rubber tubing jutted out from the top. “Now what?”
“I’m going to hook us up in a moment, Ms. Carpenter.” He set the bowl down on the table and began to roll up his sleeves. “But first, a proper bit of scenery needs to be dealt with if you’re going to be Nicholas’s Gwendolyn. Look, Ms. Carpenter. Look here,” he said and leaned over her with a soft smile on his thin lips.
She tried to turn away, squeezing her eyes tightly closed. That feeling of being trapped inside oneself was almost more than she could stand. “No.”
A hand slapped her face, snapping it back the other direction. Laurel gasped and winced, tasting blood in her mouth. “You will look, Ms. Carpenter, or I shall remove your eyelids with a razor and make your final moments in this world most unpleasant.”
Tears began to slowly trickle out of the corners of her eyes. “I’m not ready to die.”
“I’m not killing you yet, my dear. We have about half an hour, I’d say, possibly forty-five minutes. Now then, look here. This next part’s not really as difficult as all that, and you will be far more relaxed under my influence.
“How can you be so sure of that?” She looked at him as he asked the question and felt herself at once drawn in and shut out at the same time.
“I can feel them coming, Ms. Carpenter. They are closing in, eager to save their friend. It shall be close, painstakingly even, if I do say so myself. Now then, let’s get those pants off. I buggered Gwen before I killed her, and you shall have the same privilege. We can’t be leaving out any of the important details, now, can we?” The slight quirk of a smile held nothing but menace this time.
Laurel wanted to scream, but her body no longer belonged to her mind. Everything had become disconnected. Her only choice was to sit back and watch or let herself sink deeper, further out of his reach. He could abuse her body, but in the end, at least he could not touch her soul.
She sank into darkness, Drake’s deadpan accent fading away, finding quiet and solitude. Years of practicing deep meditation allowed her to find that place with ease. In this state, away from Drake’s prying presence, she could reach out. The spirit world was within her reach if she could only achieve a deep enough state of relaxation.
Shelby. If anyone could hear her cry, it would be Shelby. There was a connection between Drake, Nick, and Shelby, a link amongst the dead, but maybe Laurel could hear it. Her abilities did not lean in that direction, but what could it hurt? She had nothing left to lose.
Laurel thought of the sign over the door, with its flowing script and large FF that abbreviated Fitzsimmons Furnishings, and called for Shelby as somewhere above, in the world of flesh and blood, she gave hers willingly, and it began to siphon away.
Chapter 31
“He’s started!” The unmistakable voice of Shelby yelled into Nick’s cell so loudly Jackie could hear it from the driver’s seat. The words sent a chill through her.
“Started? Started what, Nick?”
Nick raised a hand to silence her so he could hear, and Jackie wheeled over to the curb—screeched to a halt. Nick bounced off the side of the door as the front tire hit and rolled up onto the curb.
“You tell where?” he asked Shelby, keeping his hand up to Jackie. A moment later he nodded. “Okay, yeah, I’m getting it, too, now.”
Jackie swatted the hand aside. “What’s he started, Nick?” Panic clawed through her, a tiger ready to devour the last vestiges of rationality and sanity she might have. “Tell me, goddamnit!”
“Head up Steele,” he told Jackie. “We’re at one hundred sixty-fifth, I think, so we’ll start moving up. It can’t be too far.”
“Nick, I swear to God, if—”
“He’s begun drawing her blood, Ms. Rutledge.”
“No! Fuck, no!” she screamed at him, punching him in the shoulder. “It’s been only three hours. It’s too soon.” Jackie pounded her fists against the steering wheel. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t fucking happening.”
The cool, firm grip of his hand on her arm jarred Jackie out of it. “Can you drive?”
“What?”
“Are you okay to drive? We need to keep moving. We’re in the right area now. It’s just a matter of narrowing it down.”
“Of course I can fucking drive.”
“Slowly,” Nick added. “I can’t sense as well if I’m worried you’re going to plow us into a telephone pole.”
She nodded and pulled them back out into the street, light flashing, creeping along at twenty-five miles per hour. Nick did little more than tell her to turn left or right, his hands braced on the dashboard, eyes closed. Jackie gripped the wheel, knuckles white, her mind slowly unraveling as the minutes on the dashboard clock ticked by. Forty-two minutes, excruciatingly slow moments of her life, pulled out like fingernails.
Hang in there, Laur. We’re coming. Soon. Just a bit longer. Keep him talking.
The words were no good, however. Jackie’s mind had the image of a red tube dangling from Laurel’s arm, with some grotesque, fanged monster sucking on it like a kid’s favorite milkshake. “Are we any closer? I’m going to lose my mind here, Nick. Hurry the fuck up.”
He had an earphone hooked up and was in constant contact with Shelby, who apparently was running on foot. “Okay,” he said. “Head up Steele then. We’ll come over on one-seventy-eighth. Careful, Shel.” He turned to Jackie. “We’re close. Be ready for anything, Ms. Rutledge.” He sat back in the seat now and pulled the plug out of his ear. “Left here on one-seventy-eighth. He’s somewhere between us. Two blocks at the most.”
“Shit,” Jackie answered, fumbling at her phone to call down to headquarters. “We’re near one-seventy-eighth and Steele. Look for my car. Suspect is currently in this vicinity, and victim is in jeopardy. I repeat, victim in jeopardy.” She clicked the phone shut. “You sure about this, Nick?”
“I can feel him. He’s close but difficult to pinpoint exactly. I’m hoping Shelby gets a stronger hit than I do.” On cue, Shelby’s voice was an excited, inaudible yell coming out of the earpiece. “Fitz what?”
Jackie knew in that moment exactly where he was talking about, a block and a half ahead on their left. She had purchased a couch there when she first got her apartment. “Fitzsimmons,” she said and gunned the engine.
Leaning on the horn, Jackie sped through the next intersection, this time not fortunate enough to avoid causing an accident as a Ford Explorer swerved to avoid her and sideswiped a taxi coming the other way before sliding into a pair of parked cars.
As they approached the building, the first drops of rain began to fall from a darkening sky. Jackie didn’t bother with a parking space and flew over the curb, sliding up to the main entrance to the warehouse. At the same time, something dark bolted across the street, coming at them with uncanny speed. She reached for her gun, but Nick’s hand stopped her.
“Shelby,” he said in one of those startling commanding voices that came from somewhere not quite living.
Jackie watched in disbelief as Shelby came sprinting up, faster than a human had any business running, and launched herself through the door. The twin metal doors erupted inward in a shower of glass and twisted metal.
“Holy shit,” Jackie muttered and bolted after her, gun drawn. Nick jumped and slid over the hood in one smooth motion, following up the steps closely behind.
Inside, the entryway was cloaked in darkness, except for the fading gray light coming in through the doorway. Shelby stood in the middle, her heavy breath quickly slowing. She held a 9mm Beretta in her hand. “Up,” she said simply. “Where’s the stairwell at?”
Right on cue, as if the heavens might actually be interested in their events, the sky belched forth a flash of lightning, and across the blowing, stirred-up refuse, a sign on the wall next to the elevator read STAIRS. Jackie pointed her Glock at the sign and followed behind Shelby. The agent part of her brain screamed for backup. They were rushing a lethally dangerous serial killer—an agent with two civilians, one of them armed. To be sure, there was more than one violation there. Rational agent Jackie Rutledge had been run over, however, by the stampeding fear and panic monster who guided her with sole, focused purpose. Laurel was dying. If she failed, it would all be over.
Up the stairs three at a time, Jackie kept wondering about blood. How much could you lose before you died? Were you just plain fucked after a certain point, or could transfusions save you?
“Jackie, be careful,” Nick said in a quiet rush from behind. “He’ll run, but he might try to take you or Shelby out along the way.”
She heard Nick say something behind her, but Jackie was not in a frame of mind to listen to him. Her heartbeat thumped in her ears, racing along at a frantic pace. Her hands were so eager to find Laurel, to assure she was alive, that they trembled. Holding the gun up in both hands and swinging around the third-floor doorjamb, Jackie aimed down a hall into darkness, the tipping of the gun bouncing around like an angry bee in a jar. There were no doors to be seen.
“Shit,” Shelby said in whisper. “She’s up here somewhere.” She darted down the hall to the left. “Go around the other way. Look for a door into the middle.”
Nick took off before Jackie could even react and was around the opposite corner before she could barely get going.
Before she was even halfway down the next section of hall leading around to the other side of the building, Shelby’s voice boomed across the whole floor. “Drake!” A quick burst of four gunshots followed.
And then there was laughter. Dark, rich, and utterly humorless.
“No.” Jackie ran as hard as she could, careening off the wall as she rounded the far corner. The hall was a gigantic square surrounding a room in the middle. The only door in had been on the opposite side. She watched Nick dart in without hesitation, and she quickly followed into singularly illuminated darkness.
The silence was all wrong. No running footsteps, no cries of “here he comes” or “look out.” Jackie swung her Glock back and forth, sweeping the room, but she could see nothing other than the center fluorescent light. “Where? Where is he?”
“Smiley fucker just stepped across, Nick. Just opened up a door and walked right through.” Shelby’s hands went up to her head then, the Beretta lying across the top. She began to walk toward the light. “Oh, goddamnit. Laurel.”
Jackie had noticed it upon entering the room, but her brain only just now let her really see the body that lay on the steel table in the middle of the room. Dark hair cascaded down over the side, along with a limp arm. The hair was all wrong. That could not be her. It wasn’t her! A momentary wave of relief washed over Jackie, and she walked forward to see, to verify the possibility that this was a big mistake. She watched Shelby pick the arm up and lay it gently by the body’s side.
“I’m sorry, Jackie.” The voice was Nick’s, coming from behind. He knew before Jackie got close enough to verify.
Thirty feet away, Jackie stopped, gun dropping to her side. Nick was right. She could see it in the features of the face. Drake had colored her hair. “She’s dead?” Her voice was soft, quiet, sounding like a young girl.
“A little blood, Nick. If you’d been on blood we would have been here sooner.” Shelby held up her hand and stomped toward him. “Five fucking minutes. Five!”
“Wouldn’t have mattered, Shel. He would have killed her anyway.”
“Maybe,” she said, and from behind her, Jackie heard the unmistakable thump of someone getting slugged in the gut, the grunt and coughing rush of air. “Maybe not.”
Jackie finally made her feet move, shuffling forward. She vaguely heard Nick drop to his knees in the fading background. The world narrowed the closer she came, as if she were approaching a precipice, beyond which lay nothing. The body lay upon the steel, clothed only from the waste up, her lower half covered in a familiar-looking quilt. On the left calf, Laurel’s familiar blue-and-green fairy no longer danced with a magical life of its own. Her face was serene, eyes closed, one corner of her mouth turned just the slightest bit up into a smile.
Rage. There should have been screaming rage, hurling furniture, the need for a straightjacket, but Jackie only stared, and the gun slowly slipped from her numb fingertips and fell to the floor. Her mouthed worked. There were words somewhere, something she wanted to say, but nothing worked. There under the bright fluorescent bulb, the world had died and now lay broken at her feet.
She took Laurel’s cold fingers in her hand and held them, wanting to say good-bye, but for the life of her, Jackie could not force the words out of her mouth. Instead the words built up and finally spilled down her cheeks. Somewhere in the background, the chaos of sound marking the rest of the FBI entered the room, as well as Shelby’s voice, far closer—next to her, even.
“Jackie. Come on, we should move out of their way.”
She shook her head, violently enough to fling tears off around her. She wanted to get those words out, whatever they were. Had to. Jackie squeezed Laurel’s hand in hers, hoping that even in death she might give the same strength and inspiration she gave off in life, but there was only failure.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Laur.” Her knees buckled, and Jackie sagged against the table. The rest of the words vanished into tearful nonsense, buried under the bubbling gasps of sobs that, once started, didn’t want to stop.
Jackie clutched on to Laurel’s body, her head pressed to the unmoving chest, and wailed.