21 Shades of Night, page 189
I look up to Abel, and he presses his lips to mine. “I'll go get the rest of our intel,” he says, his face unreadable. I want there to be some kind of yearning, or for him to tell me it can wait—I'm more important. But that'll never happen. We're already going back to work.
He's gone, leaving me with the imaginary reek of sex, disappointment, and soon-to-be-spilled blood.
Chapter 4
Six Degrees, John
“AND WAS YOUR daughter acting strangely in the weeks before her death?” I offer a kleenex to the woman across the table, trembling in the circle of her husband's arms, and sobbing. Sandy blond hair mingled with grey falls across her face, hiding me from the sight of her pain, if not the sound.
“No—she was, she was a little withdrawn, but she always got like that around midterms.” Robert Brankevicz's voice is raspy and hoarse, though he's no less emotional than his wife.
I slide a picture across to them. “Do you know if Jennifer knew this man?”
His eyes slip across the jowls, and sunken eyes. “No. Who is he?”
How to articulate this to make it the least macabre and crazy-sounding? “He was with her when she died. Witnesses saw him grab her hand.” Don't mention that he was already dead.
Robert's jawline tenses. “He killed her?”
“We aren't yet sure what killed her,” I keep my tone as calming as I can, recognizing that he might well deck me. “We don't believe he did, though we believe he may be connected to her death. May I see Jennifer's room, or her computer? If she did know him from school, there might be evidence of it there, on a class syllabus or a facebook post.”
Elaine Brankevicz nods, and leaves the room, though her sobs barely follow her. She rustles in the next room for something.
With her gone, I have only one more question, one that I suspect she wouldn't handle well. “And when did Jennifer get tattooed?”
Robert's eyebrows fall down over the bridge of his nose almost audibly. “She what?”
Shit. He doesn't know what I'm talking about. And it's not like I can show him crime scene photos of his daughter's freshly inked midsection, raw flesh segueing into fourth-degree burns. I think carefully, and sketch the design as best I can in my notebook, devoid of any context on body placement. “There were marks on her, tattoos. Like this.”
He looks at the notebook, and passes it back to me. “Never seen them before in my life. And Jen hated tattoos—called them 'tramp stamps' and 'ho tags'. You can't convince me she got any of those marks willingly.”
“And you're sure that she actually felt that way? Wasn't just toeing the line because she knew that daddies sometimes have problems with their little girls making adult decisions like that?” It's a horrible thing to insinuate right now, that he didn't really know his daughter. But the question has to be asked.
“I mean, as sure as any parent ever can be.” His brow furrows, and he sighs. “But every time she saw a picture unveiling a celebrity's new tat, she'd roll her eyes and mutter under her breath. And my sisters both have tattoos. She knew early in that I didn't care what they did with their bodies. I don't think she'd have a reason to lie to me about it.”
I nod. “Just had to be sure.”
Elaine returns, with a laptop. She offers it to me, and I flip it open and hit the power button. It loads to a sign-in screen, and I purse my lips rather than swear. “Do either of you know her password?”
They trade a look. “No. We felt it was more important for her to have privacy. We trained her what to look for, and avoid to stay safe, when she was twelve, and then let her have free reign and her own space.”
“I'm sure she appreciated it.” Even if it does make my job that much harder. “Can you show me to her room? Perhaps she had it written down.”
Robert pats Elaine's hand, and stands to show me. From her posture, she can't go back again.
I smile at her as reassuringly as I can. “I won't disturb anything, ma'am. Thank you for your grace. I know this is an awful situation for you two.”
Her lips twitch, but she offers no other response.
Robert sighs as he opens a door with a dry erase board mounted on it. There's still a note on it—Home late. Don't wait up.—followed by a strange character that's a mishmash of a heart and the letter 'J'.
The door creaks, and I step in. Robert doesn't attempt to follow.
Jennifer's room isn't particularly neat, but I've known enough college students to know that's par for the course. Her desk is cluttered with papers, post-its, some decoratively framed photos, and a handful of anatomical models of teeth. Between the jaws of one of them is a Post It, with a stream of characters. Please, let this be it. There's nothing to link her to Gerald Krieger in any of the other papers scattered around, and her phone got fried in her hand when she was killed.
It wouldn't even boot up, though the casing was barely warped, only superficially damaged. The phone company won't play ball without a warrant, and the local judge has a hard-on for civil liberties so big he won't issue a warrant unless I've practically got everything I'd need for a conviction without it. Which is beside the point, since my captain won't okay a warrant without a likelihood of charges, and since both of them are dead, that means we'd have to stumble across a third party, somehow.
I know the investigation is as much of a toetag as our vic, but none of this sits well with me.
I sit at that little coffee table, doing my damndest to tune out family photos that are now overpopulated, and enter the characters into the laptop. It boots up, and I heave a sigh.
At least that's working in my favor.
Jennifer's facebook is still logged in, but there's nothing suspicious there. Her search history is strange, though. A series of scanned documents emailed from the library, tracking press coverage of a minor fire that demolished one wing of a mall, after a homeless man lit a fire in a garbage can, and lost control of it.
I click through to her email client, and she's still signed in. One message from a new contact, showing a chain of replies. The signature links to a site for a property company, I recognize it from the signs that went up after they bought Briarwood Mall.
Reply, Yesterday:
Apologies for the crossed wires, but I might have something that could help you. I spoke with the head of our maintenance, who was part of the remodel, and he said one of our long-running janitors kept the lockers from that portion of our storage. It is possible that he might know what became of your locker's contents. Again, I would reiterate that your items were most likely disposed of already. But if they were still there, he would know. I am unable to provide his contact information, for confidentiality reasons, however you can fill out paperwork at the mall between 9-5 on business days, and I will forward it to him. The kiosk is between the food court and children's play area. Please let the customer service personnel know you are there to fill out paperwork.
Thank you for your patience.
Response, Two Days Ago:
Yeah, I suspected that was the case. I know it's a long shot, but you wouldn't know the name of the company that removed the lockers, would you? I appreciate your taking the time to try to help.
-Jen
Reply, Three Days Ago:
To answer your question, anything remaining would have been disposed of, especially items that had been left there as long as you estimate. It likely would have been gone even before the renovations. We do not maintain storage facilities appropriate for long-term storage, and the lost and found is emptied regularly.
I'm sorry I couldn't be of more assistance.
Response, Six Days Ago,
I'm not surprised. I know it's been a long time. Do you know what would have been done with anything left behind? I know it's a long shot, but the item had great personal significance to my family.
-Jen
Reply, Seven Days Ago:
I'm terribly sorry, but we renovated in 2013 when we purchased the property, and all of the old lockers were removed.
Please let me know if I can answer any other questions for you.
Original Message, Nine Days Ago:
Hi, this might sound like a dumb question, but I was wondering about something left in one of our lockers a few years ago. Apparently grampa left a family heirloom in one, and didn't remember it until recently.
-Jen
I'm not entirely sure what to make of any of it, but it does tell me what she was doing at the mall. I jot the name down to follow up on their discussion from the other end.
“Do you know what your daughter might have been looking for in storage, at Briarwood Mall?”
I know it's a dead end, but I was always taught to leave no stone unturned.
Robert and Elaine trade sideways glances. “No, but she stopped going to the mall with us years ago. She only ever went with friends.”
“It might have been there for years, from the sounds of it.”
Elaine shakes her head more vehemently, inhaling a breath that must have contained more tear-snot than oxygen. “No, that doesn't sound right at all.”
I nod, as my phone beeps. I glance at it and skim through the text. Ready for the autopsy? We're starting at 1500.
“Thanks for your assistance, sir, ma'am. And once again, my condolences on your loss.”
I put my card on the coffee table next to Jennifer's laptop. “If you remember anything else.”
Chapter 5
Rise and Shine, Gene
I POLISH MY nails while I wait for Abel to report back. See, he's a strong enough e-ink—an incubus who manipulates data on the internet—that we don't have to call in reinforcements, even if the brass doesn't actually tell us the reason for our assignment. He's shaped aspects of himself around the technology in the mortal world, and has digital roots I can't even comprehend. Can't so much as shape a wet dream, or an erotic story the way that the straight 'inkubi' can, but hey—no one's perfect. He tried seducing me in a dream once—the attempt was so laughable, my stubborn will alone was enough to break the scene he tried to create. We laughed about it and then just cuddled in the broken landscape. It's a moot point, though; the more specialized inkubus abilities, well, those abilities aren't useful for our work anyways. Both half-blood Reapers and incubi Hounds need to be stronger in person, using what telepathic rapport we can to get information, manipulate our target, or latch on hard to bind our soul to something, to haul it to Limbo, or possess it. It's a completely different skillset.
I get general visions from a name, and a loose connection with my target. Not that different from a pigeon following magnetic fields home. But he can get the goods, infiltrate someone's computer or phone, send them messages to flush them out, even if he can't build a strong enough connection to finish things without tipping them off. That's why he needs me there, to do the dirty work. I am the blade; he is the hand that wields me. He'll be able to figure out the exact nature of their threat.
All I'm getting from the name on the sheet—Loretta Jonas—and the pictures is different views inside their house. A high chair and a cutely ornamental baby-food spoon. So, it's a good thing that Abel is hounding down specifics.
They have a perfectly good reason for assigning us these targets, I'm sure. It doesn't really make me feel much better about the gig, but it wouldn't be the first time a demon wearing the skin of a five-year-old took chunks out of me. It's an ugly world out there, full of genocidal demon hunters, rogue demons, and those who would drive their own people to nuclear annihilation rather than risk a single one of my kind becoming a threat. Once, I even had to take out a Reaper gone wrong, a joyrider who took corpses out on mayhem sprees once the brass stopped giving him bona fide assignments.
Finally, my computer beeps with an incoming email. Technically, the internet doesn't work, here. The computer is basically a conduit representing Abel's presence in my life, allowing him to manifest images on the computer screen through his telepathic connection to me. I can almost hear his voice in them, all warm honey and primal rasp.
Looks like it's a nest of demon hunters, each one of them, to the last, already seasoned. I think I know your reaction already, but please hear me out. They may look like kids, but they'll douse you in holy water before you've finished cooing. Meet you topside, in Tecumseh, Michigan? Or you want me to come visit you in the hospital.
I open my mind, knowing the thought is more important than the muscle-memory, and type a quick response to Abel.
Sure thing. Give me a sec to get dressed.
His response comes thirty seconds later.
Don't spend forever worrying about how you look. You know that's my job.
I smile, and push my mind to the surface. They usually limit our geographical reach, as a Reaper like me has so much more difficulty manifesting clear across the globe, unlike the incubi Hounds.
And it's summer, so, comparatively pleasant for Michigan. My mind brushes against empty shells, easing itself into foreign limbs. I open my eyes in the first meatsuit I can find, and hear doctors around me, their voices tense with fear. Their voices warble in ears clogged by wax and disuse.
I smile at them as placatingly as I can, as the monitors beep.
A woman next to me wails, “I thought you said he wouldn't wake up,” and I force my consciousness to a whisper within my shell, waiting for my meatsuit to tell me what reaction she provokes in him.
A feeling of familiarity and love. I make myself speak, though the meatsuit's tongue is stiff with atrophy. “Did you miss me?”
Tears well in her eyes, and she hugs me, weaving her arms around the mess of cords that have been sustaining this meatsuit intravenously.
Guilt stabs me, but not enough to overwhelm my joy at the physical connection. She's built like my mother, and for a moment I almost feel my own mom's hug, as she helped smuggle me out of the house while Mark screamed and swore at me outside. She locked me in her trunk before opening her garage, bitched him out when he insisted on looking for me, or any luggage in the car before letting her pull out.
She drove me to the state line, gave me a prepaid debit card, and told me that she'd rather never hear from me again, but know I was safe, than to hear my name every day in a conversation about women murdered by their partners.
It wasn't enough. He tracked me down six months later, by breaking into her home, installing spyware on her phone while she was in the shower, and combing over her records until he knew which number was mine, where the new area code was, and had an idea of what my new job was.
The last time I saw my mom was when she opened that trunk, helped me out, and stripped the many layers of my clothes she'd put on her own body off. She tied them into a bindle, shoved it in the top of my nearly-full backpack, embraced me, and turned the car around, before Mark could worry about how long she'd been gone, and conclude I probably wasn't home anymore. She'd left my uncle there, a man just burly enough to make him think twice about breaking in to see, while she was gone.
Something about hugs just feels final.
I make a show of yawning, listen to the doctors talk to my meatsuit's companion. “It'll take some time for his recovery to stabilize. He may relapse, yet; we honestly didn't expect him to wake up. He might seem strange, or confused. Please, please, don't get your hopes up that your husband is truly back with you. We honestly didn't think he'd be able to talk, if he ever woke. He's not out of the woods. We need to do a battery of tests to tell whether the sudden recovery's sustainable—”
I sigh. I don't think I'll ever get used to the gender that other people react to being so different than my own. It underscores, again, the invisibility I feel when I'm on the hunt. But I almost prefer possessing men, rather than have the link to my own innate femininity.
Traumatic work is all about your ability to dissociate, to draw the lines on how far it can affect your identity. This is just one of those lines.
She kisses me on the lips, her tears wet on my cheek, and I want to cringe away.
But the hunt awaits. I'll sneak out of the hospital tonight, get on my way.
Chapter 6
Within, John
I BITE BACK nausea as I watch the coroner work. A weak stomach isn't exactly a mark of confidence in my profession, but it takes a long time to get over watching people handle corpses. Or, particularly, watch people cut them open and shove their hands inside them. I've seen more than my share of toe tags, in homicide, but I'm not usually present for this part. Generally, it's obvious what killed the person, and more often than not, it's obvious who did it.
Jennifer is on the table in front of me me, and it's so much the more awkward with this happening after spending time with her folks. She has her mother's jawline, and her dad's lips. Of course, death tends to change those features, and I'm counting on that alien distinction to get through this intact. The burns don't quite reach up to her face. They're worst around her midsection, and arms, but her hands are more or less intact, and the discoloration of the inside of her lips and mouth is the only mark on her face.
“Internal organs are fried; this isn't a chemical burn. Your hunch was right.”
I get out of the way as he turns his attention to Krieger's body, and plunges his hand into the stapled incision, pulling until the prongs give way.
