“I’m going to make sure he gets to the airport,” Lily said. “Without getting into any trouble.”
They shook hands. Lincoln wheeled onto the ramp and his aide fixed the chair to it with canvas straps. The criminalist said, “We should think about doing this again, Davenport.”
Thom lifted his eyebrow. “Last name. Means he likes you. And he doesn’t like many people.”
Lincoln grumbled. “I’m not saying I like anyone. Where did that subtext come from? I’m simply saying this case didn’t turn out to be the disaster it might have.”
“I may not be back here soon,” Lucas said, and cocked his head. “But you ever get to Minnesota?”
“Used to go quite a bit.”
“You’ve been?” Amelia asked.
“Of course. I grew up in the Midwest, remember,” Lincoln said impatiently. “I’d go fishing for muskie and pike in Swan Lake and Minnetonka.”
“You fished?” Thom asked. He seemed astonished.
“And I’ve been to Hibbing. A Bob Dylan pilgrimage.”
“Site of the largest open-pit iron mine in the world,” Lucas said.
Lincoln nodded. “My first impression was that it’d be a great place to dispose of bodies.”
“Had the same thought myself.”
“Then it’s settled,” Rhyme muttered. “You catch any good cases up there — something interesting, something challenging, give me a call.”
“Lily’s been there, too, helping us out. We could get the team back together.” Lucas glanced at Amelia. “We’ll go out to the range, you and me. I can teach you how to shoot.”
“And we can hit that highway you were mentioning. I’ll give you a few tips on how to drive that toy car of yours.”
“Let’s go, Sachs,” Lincoln called. “We’ve got a crime scene report to write up.”
HEATHER GRAHAM
VS
F. PAUL WILSON
Repairman Jack is one of fiction’s most unique characters. F. Paul Wilson created him in 1984’s The Tomb—an urban mercenary who hires himself out to fix problems the system can’t or won’t deal with. The Tomb became a huge success. Despite that, though, Paul did not write the second Repairman Jack novel until fourteen years later. Why? He says he was afraid Jack would take over his writing career. Finally, in 1998, Jack returned for what Paul said at the time was “Just one novel.”
But then he did another. And another.
Twenty-two novels later it’s safe to say that Repairman Jack definitely took over Paul’s writing career.
But that’s okay.
Both writer and character came to deeply know each other.
Heather Graham is a publishing dynamo with over one hundred novels to her credit. Romantic suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, even Christmas holiday fare. You name it, she’s written it. But Heather’s at her best when she blends a bit of paranormal with real, human evil. And while Heather has been best known in recent years for her Krewe of Hunter novels, her Cafferty and Quinn series has long been simmering in the back of her mind. Let the Dead Sleep (2013) began the first adventure for Michael Quinn and Danni Cafferty, followed by Waking the Dead.
Michael Quinn is a special kind of guy. College football hero, too popular for his own good — eventually an excessive lifestyle causes his death in a hospital emergency room. Brought back to life by a crew of doctors, Quinn becomes a new man, never sure of exactly what he brought back with him from the dead. After meeting up with Danni Cafferty — who’s just inherited her father’s unique curio shop — Quinn finds that Danni will need everything he can give her when she starts collecting on her own. Quinn is much like Paul’s Repairman Jack. Not bound by any rules that conventional law enforcement agents obey. Sure, he knows where the line is drawn, he just chooses to ignore it.
So how did this collaboration start?
Heather had an idea that involved Michael Quinn and a mausoleum containing a mysterious artifact. The problem? Repairman Jack works almost exclusively in New York City, so Paul had to come up with a way to bring him south to New Orleans.
That’s where Madame de Medici comes in.
Who’s that?
You’ll see.
Infernal Night
Jack wandered the room as they spoke.
Okay, so Jules, the last surviving member of the Chastain family, was rich. If the private Gulfstream V that had flown him down here from LaGuardia and the Maybach with the liveried driver that had picked him up at the airport weren’t enough, the sprawling New Orleans mansion provided sufficient backup.
Moss-draped oaks had swayed in the breeze on either side of the house as the driver had let him out in front. “The Garden District,” he’d said. Jack had no idea what that meant, but the neighborhood spoke of genteel wealth, of a time forgotten, of slow grace, and a distant era. For all Jack knew, the manor house itself might have been a plantation once. With those massive pillars lining the front porch, it reminded him a little of Tara from Gone with the Wind.
He’d done a little research before agreeing to come south. Jules Chastain had acquired his wealth the old-fashioned way: he’d inherited it.
And the guy knew people. Famous people. Newspaper clippings and original photos of Chastain with George W., with Obama, with Streisand, with Little Richard — now that was cool — lined the walls between artifacts from all over the world. Jack had lots of artifacts around his apartment, too, but mostly from the 1930s and ’40s. These were from, like, pre-pyramid days.
I could be impressed, he thought.
He’d probably be definitely impressed if this guy was talking sense.
He stopped his wandering to face Chastain where he sat in some kind of throne-of-swords chair — only this wasn’t a movie prop. With his thin moustache, thick glasses, and ridiculous silk smoking jacket, he looked like Percy Dovetonsils on crack instead of martinis.
“Let me get this straight: you flew me all the way down here from New York to steal something you own from your family crypt.”
“Yes,” Chastain said in a quavery voice. “Exactly.”
“Okay. Now, since you’re not crippled in any way I can see, go over again why you can’t do this yourself.”
“As I explained, the artifact I seek was obtained from another collector who wants it back.”
“Because you stole it.”
“Mister, I never got your last name.”
Jack had had dozens over the years.
“Just Jack’ll do.”
“Very well, Jack, I assure you I can pay for anything I desire. Anything.”
“Not if the other guy doesn’t want to sell.”
He glanced away. “Well, occasionally one runs into bull-headed stubbornness—”
“Which obliges one to steal.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, very well. Yes. I appropriated it without the owner’s knowledge.”
“And the owner wants it back.”
“Yes, she discovered the appropriation.”
He seemed incapable of saying “theft.”
“Oh, a she. You never mentioned that.”
“Madame de Medici. You’ve heard of her?”
“I hadn’t heard of you until you called me, so why should I have heard of her?”
“Just wondering. You’re familiar with the expression ‘Hell hath no fury’?”
“It’s ‘Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,/Nor Hell a Fury like a Woman scorn’d.’ ”
Chastain’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, a poetry fan.”