Living with the Dead
Page 89

He hadn't liked that, his blue-green eyes cranking up the frosty blue, his square jaw getting squarer. But she was right and, as she pointed out, it was her safety, therefore her decision. He hadn't liked that either, his look saying that, as a murder suspect, she didn't have that right, but he was too polite to say so.
He reminded her of the cops they used to send to her school, parading them as proof that Officer Friendly really was friendly. Robyn wasn't so sure friendly was the word she'd use to describe Detective Findlay. Just... courteous, which was more than she deserved, after pulling a gun on him and ranting about werewolves and demons.
As Robyn looked around, Detective Findlay ambled back to her. No, ambled wasn't the right word either. It implied aimlessness, and Detective Findlay carried a decisive air that forbade anything that vague. But he took his time, like a grizzly bear fixed on a target, in no particular rush but broaching no deviations to his path either, presuming all smaller beasts would get out of his path.
One of the officers did scamper into his path to intercept him. It was a young officer, barely twenty, with an eager smile, big eyes, big feet and a tendency to stumble over them. The detective didn't seem to notice the officer until he was a hairbreadth from smacking into him.
Lost in thought? Or busy listening to his ghost? He had the same distant look Hope got, the one Robyn now knew meant she was seeing a vision. When he saw the young officer, he snapped out of it with that same blinking jolt of surprise.
What was it like to see ghosts? What did they look like? What did they say?
The ghost Detective Findlay had been communicating with seemed to be some kind of spirit guide, helping him by scouting for Hope and Karl. Did Detective Findlay only see that one spirit helper? Or a world of ghosts? If it was ghosts, did that prove life after death? Did that mean Damon was still out there, somewhere, and if he was, could Detective Findlay –
Robyn banished the thought. Hope and Karl were missing. Adele Morrissey was still at large. Making contact with her dead husband sat at the bottom of Robyn's priority list. It had to.
Detective Findlay spoke to the officer, then continued on to Robyn. "You okay?"
The paramedic answered for her, in far more detail than needed, the detective's patient nods belied by his fingertips tapping against his leg.
"If she's okay, I need to get her back to the station."
"Sure," the paramedic said. "We could – "
"I'll take her in my car." He looked at Robyn. "Ms. Peltier?"
That was all he said, his broad face impassive. No meaningful look passed between them, but those tapping fingers told her something was up. He hadn't been so eager to get her into custody until now.
Robyn slid from the tailgate. Detective Findlay dismissed the paramedics, gave final instructions to the officers, who were canvassing the motel guests and staff, then led Robyn to his car.
"We have a fix on Hope," he said as he fastened his seat belt. "She's with the guy from your motel room. Ball cap and sports jacket."
"Rhys. Is she okay?"
"Seems so. She's going with him willingly, as far as... my source can tell. We'll follow."
 
HOPE
 
When Rhys came around to Hope's door, holding a gun, she put on a very convincing show of resistance. And he taught her another lesson in not giving the ally any quarter, wrenching her arm to the breaking point again and forcing her inside the building, where he pointed out that the gun was filled with tranquilizer darts, and he had a second one for her.
He could have told her this in the car, but she guessed that booster shot of true panic hadn't hurt the act.
"Aim for their legs," he said as they huddled in the stairwell. "Presume they're wearing body armor. I doubt Irving will come in, but he might follow if his men are slow getting back out. If you see him, tranq him. Then use this."
He handed her what looked like a key chain tape measure. When she stared at it, he grabbed the ring and pulled out a fine wire.
"Have you ever garroted anyone?"
She moved her stare to his face.
"I take that as a no."
"You said – " She looked down at her tranquilizer gun.
"That's for the team. We have to kill Irving." His tone made Hope feel like a naive journalism student, shocked at hearing she might have to do something underhanded to get a good story.
"If Irving lives, he'll come after us. All of us." He enunciated as if she wasn't quite as smart as he'd thought. "He wanted Adele – and the glory of her recruitment – for himself. His team is just following orders. He won't have trusted anyone with details. So if he dies, so does the project... and his revenge against those who screwed it up."
"But the council – A Nast – Unless my life is in immediate danger – "
" – the council doesn't condone murder. Laudable and just... and one reason why the council is not, and never can be, as effective a body as the supernatural world needs. But now is not the time for political lectures. If you let Irving live, he won't show you the same mercy."
When she hesitated, Rhys said, "What would Karl do?"
There was no question. He would eliminate the threat as he had with Gilchrist and that would be the right decision for him. But Karl would be the first to say she wasn't him and she shouldn't try to be.
"I don't have time to wait for you to figure it out, Hope. Protect your safety and Karl's, or protect your council job.
You decide."
He gave final instructions and left.
 
Step one: case the joint for civilians. Rhys didn't use those exact words. For a mercenary, he was severely lacking in the requisite badassitude. . . though the ache in Hope's ribs insisted that his bite was worse than his bark. If her own attitude seemed a little lacking in gravity, that was deliberate. It kept her thoughts from straying into territory that would reduce her from Cabal-fighting commando to quivering ditherer.
She couldn't think about Robyn, about Karl, about Irving Nast and what she'd do if she found him. Rhys made the choice sound so simple. End a lethal threat or keep her job, as if her council work was a part-time gig at McDonald's.
But Hope's life and her council work were intertwined. It fed her chaos hunger in a way her conscience could live with.
And if, in the last year, as that hunger grew, her council work had been steadily less effective? She couldn't consider that now.