“We have a fair bit of unusual and conflicting information, Mr. Anderson,” John cut in. “Why don’t you just tell us your side of this case. It may fill in some of the holes we have.”
Nick looked around the table at the faces staring at him. He had experienced tougher rooms, but this one had a thick cloud of suspicion and doubt floating in the air. “All I ask is that you keep an open mind to what I’m going to say. If anyone has a question, feel free to interrupt.” Their silence appeared to be an invitation to speak. “In Wyoming, back in 1862, a traveling preacher by the name of Cornelius Drake came into my jurisdiction. I was a sheriff back then.” To his surprise, they had nothing to say on that, and so Nick continued, telling his story for the second time in several days.
Before he got out of the 1860s, John interrupted him. “Let me get this straight, Mr. Anderson. You turned yourself into a vampire so you could come after this guy, even though you knew if you failed to get him, another twenty people’s blood would be on your hands, plus whoever might go after him as well, and possibly innocent bystanders who just got in the way?”
Nick grimaced. “Put that way, it sounds like a poor choice.”
“True,” John agreed. “Very poor, but I would have probably done the same. He killed your family. I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Anderson. Please continue.”
An hour later, he had caught them up to that evening’s events. “We arrived, and Drake stepped through to the other side. Ms. Carpenter was dead at that point.”
“Stepped through what?” someone asked.
Nick shrugged, as he was not exactly sure himself. “A door, portal, I don’t know exactly how to describe it. I honestly didn’t realize he could do it until I saw it happen. It explains why we’ve had such a difficult time tracking him.”
A guy with a large shiny forehead leaned forward on the table. “So you’re saying this murderer is lounging around with ghosts or spirits or whatever and will just pop back over when he feels like it?”
“I’m assuming so,” Nick said. “It’s not something I can do, so I can’t explain it or understand it. I just know it’s what he’s doing now.”
“Can you tell where he’ll come back?” another asked.
Nick shook his head. “Unlikely.”
“Well, that’s fucked,” the agent said.
“Any clue who the prick is going after next?” It was Pernetti this time, and Nick realized now that maybe this group was not so skeptical after all. Perhaps they actually believed him. “You said it’s people who look like your family he is killing.”
“My grandmother,” Nick answered. “Seventy-five-year-old quilt maker. She made handcrafted rag dolls as well.”
“We have a picture of her, I believe,” John added.
Pernetti frowned. “Not much to go on.”
Nick agreed. “I know. Our main hope will be in tracking him down before he can kill again.”
“And you can do that?” John said.
“With Ms. Fontaine’s help. It just takes time. We can sense each other, Mr. Belgerman, and the more blood he’s had, the easier he is to find.” Nick downed the rest of his cold coffee in one gulp. Killing him would be an entirely different matter.
“Can we keep him from just stepping through one of those doors again?” Gamble wondered.
“I don’t know,” Nick admitted, his voice dry and harsh. It was a tough pill to swallow. Drake had figured out how to cross over and back at will. Nick had thought it a one-way trip, but, apparently, he was wrong. Yet without real blood in his veins, how could Nick realize any of those possibilities? He needed to get out of there soon. The emotional constraint was beginning to fray his nerves. “I think you need to get rid of the notion of catching this man,” Nick said quietly through gritted teeth. “You’ll need to try to kill him.”
Gamble leaned back in his chair, letting out a pent-up breath. “Why do I get the feeling you think that’s easier said than done?”
“Because it will be,” Nick replied. “I’m not even sure we can anymore.” It was the sad and depressing truth.
Chapter 33
The miniature grandfather clock atop Jackie’s bookcase rang a single chime, signaling her that it was now 3:30 AM. The bottle of tequila sitting on the piano stood three-quarters empty, while the bottle of sleeping pills prescribed by Matilda Erikson, the FBI’s shrink, sat next to it unopened. Tillie had filled the prescription and given them to Jackie without even asking if she wanted them.
“You won’t be able to sleep,” Tillie had said. “Take them. You need the break.” She had held Jackie’s hands, still trembling with the chill of death, in her own, warm with life. “And call me if things get bad.”
Jackie knew what that meant. If she thought about swallowing a bullet, she should call and let Tillie talk her out of it. The Glock lay on her nightstand, now, too far away to make it even worth the effort. Everything was too much effort now. The effort to live required some amount of force of will that Jackie hardly felt like holding on to.
The thing was, Jackie had no desire to sleep. She did not need a break, nor deserve one. She had let down her best friend when she’d needed her the most. Her fingers played out parts of Mozart’s Requiem on the piano, missing keys every few notes and then starting over. At one point, she tried to play a Carly Simon song, a favorite of Laurel’s, but had broken down eight notes into it, sobbing until her stomach hurt so much she had thrown up half the tequila. Ten minutes or a half an hour later, the tears would begin to run once again, not even aware that she had been thinking anything at all. It was like her body and mind were on two separate grief schedules.
The one person she could turn to in a time like this was no longer around to lean on. The world had become a vastly emptier place. Finally, the bottle dribbled its last few drops onto her tongue, and Jackie hurled it across the room. She could not even be rewarded with the violent shatter of glass, as it hit the thick curtain over her window and fell harmlessly to the carpet below.
About six AM exhaustion finally overcame Jackie, and her body began to tremble. From cold or nerves she could not tell, but once started, it would not stop. She curled up on the couch, clutching a couple throw pillows against her stomach, her breath coming in ragged half sobs.
“Laurel,” she stammered. It was the only word that would come out of her mouth, and Jackie kept saying it over and over again until sleep finally overtook her.
Amidst the chimes of the clock and her telephone, Jackie bolted upright from the couch, the vague images of a dream from the night before fading from her brain. “Laur?” Jackie rubbed the sleep from her eyes. One of those eyes was starting to ache horribly, and a vile paste coated her mouth. A drink was in order before she had to run for the bathroom. The dream left the uneasy feeling that Laurel had been talking to her. She had no memory of the words, but Jackie didn’t want to hear them, could not stand to hear them.
The clock finished its chiming. Straight-up noon. “Damn,” she said and pushed to her feet, groaning. Caller ID told her it was Tillie checking up on her. After several rings it finally went to voice mail. Jackie shuffled into the kitchen and pulled out the carton of orange juice from her fridge. She took a couple huge gulps before putting it back. It was the only thing left to drink other than tap water.
Deciding it was enough effort for the moment, Jackie collapsed back on the couch. She had the day off. Tillie’s orders, backed up by Belgerman. Maybe she just wouldn’t go back. Thinking of facing Laurel’s empty desk at the office brought fresh tears to her eyes. Jackie let them run-all those little things they did at work, the coffees, poking fun at each other’s idiosyncrasies, and half the time knowing what the other was going to do or say before they did it.
In the middle of it, Tillie called back again. Jackie knew she would call every fifteen minutes until she got through or decided to come over, which would be far worse. Still, she did little to hide her annoyance at the interruption. “What, Dr. Erikson? I’m fine. I’m still here.”