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.
Chapter 32
Nick sat on the hood of Jackie’s car watching the FBI help Shelby into the backseat of one of their cars. Her usually petulant mouth had drawn out into a thin, angry line. The flashing red and blue lights did little to accentuate the puffy eyes. They were taking her in on the assault, but he knew better. It would not stick. They just wanted a chance to get her downtown for questioning. Part of that anger was directed at him, the rest at Drake, and the tears were for Laurel Carpenter.
He said nothing to anyone, having been told to wait, which he reluctantly did. They had some questions, of course, beyond the usual documentation. The look from Jackie’s boss had held a thousand of them. So Nick sat and nursed the sore ribs where Shelby had sucker punched him. He had dropped like a stone on that one-had not seen it coming. Nearly had him puking on the floor, but felt like it anyway after watching Jackie fall apart. They had to drag her off Laurel’s body and she had fought to keep them from taking her away until somebody had knocked her up with some sedative. At that point, Nick had walked out and down to the street.
Guilt stung Nick down to the quick. It always came back to blood in the end, and, once again, the lack thereof had cost another life. Damn it all. He had warned them, but, then, who was going to reasonably listen to stories of vampires and a century-old tale of vengeance? Would it have even mattered? Something had happened. Drake had power Nick had never seen, an ability he did not realize they could do. The man had crossed over.
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-”