The Vengeful Dead

by J.N. Duncan

Genres: Urban Fantasy

Synopsis

She's the FBI's go-to expert on Chicago's most brutal supernatural crimes. But a bloodthirsty, revenge-crazed killer is using her deepest fears as a terrifying weapon. . .

Jackie Rutledge just can't put her past to rest. Her Bureau partner is dead, but not gone. And her sanity is becoming as fragile as her career. Worst of all, a wrenching journey into Deadworld has given her unwanted new abilities—and exhuming memories she hoped to keep buried . . .

Now a merciless force capable of possessing humans is on a killing spree, destroying the guilty and innocent alike. It isn't long before Jackie is a prime suspect, struggling to stay two steps ahead of her savvy new partner, and her undead P.I. and paramour, Nick. But to clear her name, she'll have to take on her greatest challenge yet: confronting an inner darkness as inescapable as the one she hunts—and capable of annihilating more than her soul . . .

Praise for Deadworld

"The perfect dark fantasy." --Kat Richardson


"Bloody, delicious, twisted."--Lilith Saintcrow, New York Times bestselling author of the Jill Kismet, Hunter series

"Duncan's deftly subtle debut creeps up on you like a ghost in the night."
--Mark Henry, author of Happy Hour of the Damned

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

Laurel’s accusing finger dripped blood from the puncture wound created when Drake bled her out. No matter what Jackie did, she could not get the apology out of her mouth before the depressing light of day intruded and sent the dream scattering away, back into the foggy recesses of her mind.

Jackie lurched up from the couch, the door buzzer driving tiny little spikes into her throbbing skull. Bickerstaff blinked at her from atop one of the couch cushions.

“Shit. Go away!”

The cat leaped off and jumped for a safer perch atop the piano, hidden among the empty tequila and wine bottles, half-empty glasses, and open Chinese food containers.

“Not you, dummy.” The buzzer rang again, followed moments later by her ringing phone. Jackie put her hands to her ears. “Oh, my God.”

She swung her feet off the couch and pushed herself up. Her head weighed fifty pounds. The motion knocked over the carton of fried rice in her lap, sending the remains spilling across the floor.

“Damn it!” Jackie brushed rice off the couch. She needed at least one clean spot in her apartment. The answering machine finally picked up.

“Jackie? You awake? I know you’re home.”

The voice brought Jackie to her feet, feeling like a wobbling, overstuffed bobblehead. It was Belgerman.

“Oh. Oh fuck.” Jackie turned, looking quickly around her apartment to see if she might be able to sweep the collected crap of two weeks’ worth of slumming and depression out of John’s sight. There was shit everywhere. And she realized that the litter box was officially too full. He could not come in. Could. Not. Likely, he’d just fire her on the spot.

Jackie made her way through the clothes on the floor, spilled mail off her entry table, and hit the intercom button for the downstairs entry. “S-Sir?” She was forced to clear her throat to get the word out. “What are you doing here?”

“I stopped by on my way in to give you a file you might want to look at before you come back.”

“A file? For what?”

“Your new partner,” he said. “Figured you might like to get a head start on him so you can be a bit more up to speed.”

Jackie let her head sag against the wall. New partner. Holy hell. The thought had been completely gone from her mind. “Let me get something on and I’ll come down and get it.”

“Just buzz me up, Jack. I’ll hand it to you.”

And see my place? I don’t think so. “That’s OK, sir. Just give me one sec.”

“Jack! For Christ’s sake. We could have been done already. Buzz me up.”

Jackie jumped at the startling loud volume of his voice and hit the button without even thinking. “Shit.” She was standing there in a knee length T-shirt that stated ALL GOOD THINGS COME IN SMALL PACKAGES. Jackie opened the hall closet and pulled out an overcoat, a button-down, belt-at-the-waist, traditional khaki-colored raincoat that had been a gift from Laurel her first day on the job. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d worn it. She yanked it off the hanger and barely got it wrapped around her as Belgerman came up to the door. Jackie stepped halfway out and held the door closed against her foot. A couple inches of space did not afford much of a view, or so she hoped.

“Looks like I woke you up, Rutledge.” He smirked at her appearance. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were rather happy to see me.”

It took Jackie a moment, looking down at herself, to realize what he was getting at. It looked as though she might be naked beneath the overcoat. She could feel her cheeks begin to flush. “You did, sir, but that’s OK. I should probably be getting up now anyway.”

He glanced at the door. “Hiding someone in there, are you?”

“What? Oh. God no. I was just sleeping, sir. I’m not much of a morning person. Sorry.”

He laughed kindly at her. “Don’t be. I was just giving you shit. You going to keep me standing out here in the hall like your local Jehovah’s Witness?”

Jackie glanced back into her dumping ground of an apartment. It was not the home of a well-adjusted agent. It was an embarrassment. “The place is kind of trashed. I haven’t really done any cleaning since I’ve been off. If it’s all the same, sir, I’d rather you didn’t see it this way.”

Belgerman looked over her head through the crack in the door. “I’ve never pictured you as the neat and tidy sort, Jackie. And you’re talking to a guy who lived on his own until he was thirty-two. I’ve seen and lived in my share of trash heaps, so quit worrying.”

She winced, keeping a firm grip on the door handle. “I know, but, uh . . . it’s bad.”

John rolled his eyes. “How many times have I been out here, Jackie?”

“You’ve never been here, sir.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I don’t care if you’ve been punching holes in the walls. I know how hard this is. I’ve been there. I lost a partner to some gunrunners about fifteen years ago. One of the shittiest times of my life. I think I can see past the mess. Honestly, I’m curious. I’m not your father.”

Jackie looked up into his very fatherly eyes. He’d always had some of that feel about him. She had more respect and admiration for his work than anyone. And somewhere buried in the vaults of her mind, a twelveyear-old girl desperately wished she could have had a father just like him. Her shoulders slumped and Jackie let go of the door.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said and stepped back in to give him access. She wanted to run and hide, shut herself away in her room and make him put the file down and leave. After closing the door, she found him standing at the threshold of the living room.

“So this is the infamous piano,” he said.

Jackie leaned against the wall behind him, arms crossed over her chest. Please, please, please don’t ask me to play. “Yeah, that’s it. Doubles as a bar.”

There were three empty tequila bottles sitting on top, a half empty bottle of red wine, half a dozen Chinese food cartons, and a mostly eaten package of Oreos. None of this would have been so bad if it weren’t for the pair of flies eagerly buzzing around the treasure trove. If he didn’t go in any further, he would miss the kitchen, where every last dish and cup sat unwashed in the sink and overflowing onto the counter.

“You have a cat?” Belgerman turned to face her at last. His face was slack, noncommittal.

Jackie looked around but didn’t see Bickerstaff. This only meant one thing. He had smelled the cat or, rather, the cat box. Another one of those things she had been meaning to get to, but it had never made it on the to-do list above drinking or channel-surfing. He had to be thinking she was completely disgusting.

“Bickerstaff,” she said. “Big, fat tabby.”

He smiled. “That’s not a name you came up with, is it?”

“He was a gift from Laur.”

John nodded. “I figured. Been a rough couple of weeks.”

It wasn’t a question. He knew. What could she say? “It has. I’m . . . spinning my wheels here, sir. I, um . . . I don’t know how not to work.”

“You’ve never taken more than two days vacation in eight years, Jackie.”

“Really?” That fact had never occurred to her. Vacations were not something she had needed or wanted.

“It’s good to take time away from the Bureau on occasion. Helps maintain perspective,” he said. “But losing your partner and friend is not the way to do it.”

Where was he going with this? “No. Guess I’m living proof of that.”

“It will get easier, Jackie. Not in a few days or even months, but it’ll happen.”

Months. She could not handle months of this. “How did you deal with it, sir? When you lost your partner, I mean?”

He chuckled. “I worked. A lot.”

Jackie nodded and said nothing. Work would be good. Work would get her out of this depression pit and give her something worth doing. More importantly, work would occupy her brain enough to keep every damn thing from reminding her that Laurel was dead and no longer a part of her everyday life. And where the hell was Laurel anyway? Two weeks and not a peep. She thought she had felt her presence several times, but no appearances. Even a Hello, how are you? would have been nice.

“You want to start coming in again, Jackie? Office stuff mind you, no investigating until your thirty days are up, but if you want to be in the office around the guys, I think that might be doable.”

“Seriously?” She wanted to hug him. “That would be great. I need to get out of here, and there’s plenty for me to do that doesn’t involve chasing bad guys.”

“Would give you a chance to get used to your new partner also, before you’re back out in the field.”

“Yeah. That would be a good idea,” she said. New partner. The two words sounded completely alien. “So, who is it? Anyone I know?”

Belgerman handed her the file. “His name is Ryan McManus, out of the San Francisco office. Mostly gang enforcement stuff, but wants to do homicides. Steady, levelheaded guy. I think he’ll suit you.”

Jackie stared at the name printed on the folder tab. It should have said Laurel Carpenter. “Can I come in tomorrow then?”

“This decision isn’t entirely mine, Jackie. You need to get Tillie’s agreement as well.”

Matilda, the office shrink, the wise, old aunt who had the uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you didn’t want to talk about, and to whom she owed visits. She had extorted them from Jackie in order to stay on the Drake case. Nobody in the world terrified Jackie more.

“Great. So much for that idea.” Jackie made no effort to hide her annoyance.

John laughed. “I think she’ll be amenable to the idea, as long as she knows you won’t be out in the field. She’s dealt with partner loss before. She knows how hard it is, Jackie. Besides, aren’t you seeing her today anyway?”

“Shit!” She had completely forgotten. “What time is it?

Belgerman looked at his watch. “Nine forty.”

“Fuck! Fifty minutes.” Jackie hurried toward her bedroom. “You could have said something sooner! I look like shit.”

“You look fine,” he said. “You want a ride in?”

“No, I’m good. I’m going to shower right quick. I’ll see you there, sir.”

He chuckled. “I’ll see myself out then. Just remember to remain calm, Jackie. Tillie only needs to see you’re not losing it.”

“OK, thanks.” So, lie through my teeth, Jackie thought. For two weeks that was all she had been doing. But this was a chance to get out of the hellhole of her apartment. She needed to work, needed the routine of her life to return, because outside of work, she had nothing, she was nothing. She only had to convince the omniscient, brain-scanning Doctor Erikson that this wasn’t the case.

Nick Anderson woke from a dreamless sleep to the sound of a scream. For a moment he thought it had come from a dream, but it persisted for several seconds after he was sitting up in bed, blinking away the sleep in his eyes. It was not a scream his normally acute hearing could pick up, but one that came from that part of him that was dead and pulled from the energies of Deadworld. He had no ghosts upon his property unless someone had just died, but if someone had the scream would have been far louder and distinct. This was faint, distant, and full of rage. For him to hear a death cry of a spirit from miles away meant death on an order of magnitude he did not wish to imagine.

He did not even get a chance to consider calling Shelby when his phone rang. “Did you fucking hear that, Nick? We need to find her. Pronto.”

“Good morning, Shel.” He looked at the clock. He had been asleep for an hour and twenty minutes. “Or I guess it’s still night. And yes, I heard her. She woke me up. I’ll check the news soon and see if anything has happened. I’ll pull out the police scanner too. If I get nothing by breakfast, I’ll meet you, and we can do a cruise around town.”

Nick got up and took a hot shower, brewed four shots of espresso with a dash of cream, put on the local station to check on the news, as well as pulling it up online, and then sat down at his desk to go over some reports from Bloodwork Industries. He had been away from things of late, but the ship was sailing smoothly. The latest developments on his synthetic blood were still being tested, and likely would be for some time. After working on it for twenty years, a few months was a pittance.

Maybe Jackie would like a tour of th e labs? Nick dismissed the idea. Science did not strike him as being an interest of hers. Though if her failure to return his calls was an indication, neither was he. Moving on from Laurel had proven more of a challenge than she anticipated. He could have told her that. Look how long he had dragged his dead wife Gwen around, using her to ward off contact with any and everyone who might have even wanted to get close. Then Shelby came along and buried her, for a while.

Nick rubbed his hands over his face. He was too tired still, and his brain had the tendency to be morose and depressed when it was tired. If something did not pop up soon, maybe he would take a swim before heading out to meet Shelby. The early edition of the news ruined his plans.

A white couple had been murdered, according to the reporter, “in a very violent fashion” in a wealthy burb on Chicago’s west side. The reporter’s choice of terminology is what piqued Nick’s interest the most. If it had been gunshots or stab wounds, the reporter would have been specific. There may well have been, but there was something more, and then the young, male reporter convinced him that this was the crime scene they were looking for. The female victim had supposedly been pregnant. He dialed up Shelby, and five minutes later was out the door.

They were at the crime scene by 6:30 AM. The crowds had dispersed though a few straggling neighbors peered on. The entire house was fenced off in yellow tape. There were still two police cars and two unmarked cars parked along the street and a television van from the local FOX affiliate. By and large it seemed that most of the excitement had faded away.

There was no doubt about the ghost either. She had been here. Unfortunately, as far as Nick could sense, she was no longer around, just the lingering sense of something else.

Shelby leaned forward, looking out the front window up at the house. “What is that? Crying? Aww, hell. Is that the damn fetus I hear?”

Nick slowly huffed out a lungful of air. She was right. “Think so. And we’ve got a very irate mother who is not here.”

“Should we try and check on it?”

They had never come across the active ghost of an unborn child. Nick wasn’t sure exactly how you dealt with such a situation. Clearly, the mother should be the one. “No, not yet anyway. Maybe the mother needs a chance to get over the initial shock and come back to her babe.”

“Maybe she’s possessed someone and is hunting down her killer,” Shelby said.

The more likely and less desirable scenario. “Probably.” From out of the open garage, a recognizable figure in the familiar dark jacket emblazoned with yellow FBI lettering appeared.

“There’s Pernetti,” Nick said. “Let’s go have a word.”

Shelby huffed. “Great. Captain Pricktastic.”

“At least he’s FBI,” Nick said. “Rather not be discussing this with any of the local PD around here.” He walked through the street, meeting up with Pernetti as he reached the end of the driveway. Given the television crew lounging in their van, things must have been in the cleanup stages already. Pernetti’s narrowed eyes and balking step told him just how much his presence was welcomed.

“Mr. Anderson,” he said and stopped a good ten feet away. “And hello to you, Ms. Fontaine. What brings Special Investigations out here? I wasn’t informed that you were coming.”

Shelby crossed her arms over her chest, hip cocked out to one side. Nick answered before she could open her mouth. “We weren’t called out here by law enforcement. We believe there may have been some . . . supernatural element involved here.”

A smirk etched lines into one side of his face. “Really? Do they carry guns and knives? Cause what we have here is a couple shot in the head and the wife cut open from tit to ass. Poor girl was pregnant, too. No, what we have here is just good old human perversity, Mr. Anderson. I’m sure . . .” Shelby took two steps toward him, and Pernetti shut up, his forehead beginning to turn red.

“Don’t say anything regrettable, Pernetti,” she said, a sweet smile on her face. “It’s been a long night.”

“Yeah, whatever you say.” The sarcasm was waylaid by him retreating a step. “Not even sure we’re going to be involved on this one. Possible it was a gang hit, given the woman’s history, but this ain’t my scene. Guy named Wysocki is inside if you want to look around. Doubt he’ll be giving a couple of PI’s free access though. Didn’t look the type. And I’m fucking done with this mess. So, just stay behind the tape and behave like . . . normal people.”

He sidestepped around them and quickly made for his car. Nick put his hand on Shelby’s arm. “Don’t, Shel. Not worth the effort.”

She shrugged away from his hand. “Love to bitchslap that twerp right across that glow-in-the-dark forehead.” Pernetti, still within hearing distance, flipped her off before getting into his car. “Forget that. I’d love to drain a pint from his flabby fucking ass.”

Nick looked down at her. She always had the prettiest flush to her face when she got really irate. “Is that so?”

“Of course not.” She rolled her eyes and gave him an exasperated sigh. “Fuck you. Don’t give me that look.”

“And what look is that?”

“The one you should be having for Jackie,” she snapped back.

Nick frowned and pulled out his cell. He was not going to get into that conversation with her again. “John? It’s Nick Anderson. I wake you?” Shelby shook her head and walked away, heading toward the lone group of neighbors who still lingered on the edges of the scene.

“No, just eating some breakfast. What can I do for you?”

“Pernetti was out here investigating a murder scene for potential gang involvement,” Nick said, “and I’d like to suggest you make this an FBI involved case if at all possible.”

Belgerman paused and Nick could hear him swallowing a mouthful of drink. “I’m listening.”

“A woman was murdered here,” Nick stated. “Her unborn child was cut out of her.”

There was a quiet sigh in Nick’s ear. “Christ. OK.”

“The mother’s spirit was a little more than angry, as you might imagine. Both Ms. Fontaine and I heard her ghost’s screams, but it is no longer here at the crime scene.”

“I’m still not quite following you, Nick. Where is it?”

“That’s the important question,” he replied. “We suspect that she may be in possession of someone who is at or near the crime scene.”

“Hold on. You mean literal possession? She has taken over someone else’s body?”

“Yes. Likely she is going after whoever killed her,” Nick said.

“I see,” John said quietly. “And no way to prove this is going on?”

“No. At least not until we can actually track her down. If we can find who she’s in control of, then we should be able to force her back to the other side.”

“How sure are you that this is what is happening, Nick?”

“Pretty damn sure. I’ve seen it before. It’s very rare and it’s potentially very lethal. Spirits with this much pain and rage have one goal and that is to kill the perpetrator, and while he may have it coming, anyone in the way is going to go down, too. This spirit will probably move quickly as well. If she knows who she is looking for and where they are, you could have another murder on your hands by the end of the day.”

“Great,” John replied. “I’ll look into this soon as I get in and make sure our help is needed. You can brief everyone later about what might be the best way to go about finding this possessed person. I’ll let you know what time, Nick.”

“Thank you, John. I appreciate this. The police are not easy to work with, in these kinds of matters.”

He laughed. “I can imagine. Most FBI aren’t either. Laurel changed things around here in that regard. Anyway, I need to go. I’ll call you soon.”

Nick clicked off and discovered Shelby had found her way to the television van and was talking to the reporter and crew. “Anything useful, Shel?”

“Thanks, guys,” she said, and turned to face him. “Not really. This is going to suck. I’ll bet there were at least a hundred people in contact with this crime scene today, maybe more. There was a decent crowd here earlier. Belgerman helping out?”

He led her away from the television crew and back toward the car. “Yes. Hopefully it won’t take him long to get things organized and then he’ll call me in to tell everyone.”

“We’re going to be lucky to find her before she kills someone.”

That’s what he was afraid of. “I know. I’m hoping we’re lucky. Maybe she didn’t know the killer.” He sagged down into the car, already tired. It was going to be a long day.

Shelby slammed her door shut and gave him a sardonic look. “The fucker cut her baby out of her body and put a bullet in her head. That was not a stranger. I hope she finds him and rips his goddamned guts out and strangles him with them.”

“Odds are she’s going to have to go through someone to get to the perp. Innocent people are going to die here, Shel.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was expressing outrage, you stoic old shit. Aren’t you just a little bit sympathetic for this girl?”

“Of course I am,” he snapped back and gunned the engine on his car. “Just because I’m not stomping around and threatening to bash heads if people don’t do something, does not mean I don’t see what’s happened here.”

“Well maybe you should,” she said. “A little more motivation and maybe Jackie wouldn’t be blowing you off right now.”

Nick backed the car around and squealed the tires up the road. “You saying it’s my fault Jackie hasn’t wanted to see me?”

“No!” She growled in frustration. “How can you be so brilliant and dense at the same time? It’s annoying. I’m saying that if you were more proactive about it, she might be more interested in saying yes. If you don’t show effort and enthusiasm she’s not going to give a shit. I wouldn’t either.”

“She’s got a lot to deal with right now, Shel. You ever consider that she’s just not ready to be seeing me for anything close to resembling a date?”

“And she never will be! Fuck, Nick. She’s depressed and sad and her esteem is in the dumpster. She needs something or someone to help kick start her in the other direction. Insistence is OK sometimes, babe. Makes us believe you’re really interested.”

“Or I’ll just piss her off and she won’t want to bother.”

“She spends half her time drooling in front of the TV and the other crying into a tequila bottle. I think she might like a little insistence. Talk to her, hon. You can be very persuasive when you want to be, even without the eyes.”

Nick gripped the wheel tightly with both hands and slid around a corner, doubling back a block over behind the crime scene, keeping his senses open to the spirit. “Shouldn’t have to talk her into seeing me,” he grumbled.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, lighten up. Enjoy the game a little. You pursued me once upon a time, and rather enjoyed it as I recall.”

“It was different—”

“Uh-uh,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “Not so different, Sheriff Boy. I was a down-in-the-dumps opium addict at the time, or have you forgotten that?”

No. He had not forgotten. She had been beautiful and broken and angry at the world. Full of fire, and he had been unable to resist her. But one thing had been different. “You weren’t afraid of me though, Shel. What I am . . . it still frightens her.”

Shelby let out an annoyed bark of laughter. “You scared the hell out of me, Nick. I just didn’t give a shit. Jackie cares. She wants to live and she needs someone to be alive with. Be that guy. Act like life is important to you again.”

“That’s hardly a fair thing—”

“The fuck it isn’t!” She turned against the car door and stared at him, her face livid with righteous anger. “You’ve been a guilt-ridden, depressing, morose son-of-a-bitch for the past thirty years. You’ve been given a new lease, babe. I suggest you take advantage of it, and you can start by dragging Jackie’s ass out of her cave and having a little fun together. Christ! Enjoy your life a little. God knows you deserve it.” They drove in silence for a few seconds before she added, “Unless of course you really just aren’t interested in her.”

He was. He had refrained from calling her each and every day for the past two weeks. He knew she was hurting. He wanted to see her and, if he were totally honest, needed to. Her blood still flowed in his veins, and the feeling of her, the touch of her soul upon him called to him. The question was, did she need him? And was pushing the issue going to motivate her toward him or away?

“Maybe I’ll stop by her place and check in,” he said. “See how she’s doing.”

“Maybe?” She huffed at him, shaking her head. “This is not a situation to be wishy-washy, Nick. Take a stand. Tell her you want her. She needs to know.”

And if she didn’t want to know? He said nothing. She was probably right.

Fifty-seven minutes later, Jackie found herself stepping into a world only minutely less reviled than Deadworld, sitting in the most dreaded of all places, the office of Matilda Erikson, FBI shrink. Few who entered came out alive or with their identity intact. At least, that was how Jackie always felt upon entering the quiet and peaceful domain of Aunt Tillie, who had promised that one day they would have a real talk about things. And now, thanks to blackmail, Jackie sat stiffly in her chair, trying to figure out just how real things should get.

Never had peace and quiet felt so disturbing. Everything about the room, from the soft, overstuffed chairs to the cool, serene green color scheme made Jackie’s gut squirm in abject fear. Seated in the chair opposite the quaint, mahogany coffee table, Tillie sipped at the steaming tea she had just poured for them. Jackie’s cooled untouched on the edge of the table.

Tillie set her cup down and sat back, one hand idly playing at the jeweled butterfly dangling from her neck. “You look tired, Jackie.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “All I do is sleep.”

Tillie nodded, her mouth drawing into a tighter line. Jackie realized that had been the wrong thing to say. Off to a great start already. There had to be a way to convince the mind-reading witch that she was well on her way to normal. Two more weeks of exile was going to kill her or at the very least drive her insane.

“Have you done anything else these past two weeks? Have you gone out at all? Visited with friends? Taken in a movie?

Oh, you mean like be social? “No. I’m just trying to relax and move on with things. I haven’t been in the mood to go out.”

She picked up the tea again and took a quiet sip. “Have you been in the mood to do anything at all?”

“What is this? Twenty questions?”

“It’s my job to ask questions, Jackie,” she said. “We had a deal, remember? And if you want to come back early as John is suggesting, then you need to be willing to share. This isn’t an interrogation.”

“Fine.” Jackie’s fingers dug into the arm of the chair. “I’m still getting over things, but it’s getting better. It’s just a lot to deal with.”

“It is,” she replied. “What’s been the hardest aspect to deal with?”

Jackie’s brain spun in a helpless neutral. She had no gear for emotional sharing. “Um . . . being out of work, I guess.” Tillie just stared at her, tea cup held perfectly still in her hands. “You know, you should be an interrogator, not a shrink. All that tea and silence and that damn look you have would break down alfucking-Qaeda.”

Tillie sighed. “Jackie. You’re making this harder than it needs to be. Inside these walls, you’re safe from everything. I’m not here to judge you. Nothing you say here will ever leave this room. You can be as calm or crazy as you want.”

Jackie picked up the tea cup, focusing her will upon it to keep it from quivering in her hands. The warm liquid was strong but it wasn’t coffee by any stretch. “Not working really has been the hardest part,” she said. “I need it. I’ll be saner here than cooped up in my apartment all the time.”

“An agent isn’t the only thing you are, Jackie.”

“But it’s the only thing I want. OK? Nothing else matters. Everything else in my life is utter shit. When I’m here, I know what the hell I’m doing. Everything makes some kind of sense. Hell, I’d be happy pushing paperwork.”

“I can’t OK you coming back,” she said, a curtain of stillness against Jackie’s rant, “until I’m sure you can go to bed at night without thinking it would be better not to wake up in the morning.”

“That’s bullshit!” Jackie set the cup down, spilling half of it into the saucer. “I’m not suicidal.” God! If she thought that, she would never get her job back.

“But the thought has crossed your mind?”

“Why would I tell you that even if it were true?” Jackie threw up her hands in frustration. “I want my job back, not to be locked