At five o’clock, when people with normal jobs finished their days (or so she believed, having never held a normal job herself), she sat back in her chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She was just getting started.
When Fetlock came up behind her and cleared his throat she jumped and banged her knees against the underside of her desk.
“Deputy Marshal,” she said, remembering how she was supposed to greet him. “I was just writing up a report.”
He nodded and came to lean against the edge of her desk. “I’ll want a copy, of course. Send it to my email.” He stuck a business card between two rows of keys on her keyboard. “In fact, send me every document you create from now on. Just so the Marshals Service has a record.”
“Yeah, of course,” she said. “So I have Officer Glauer—I think you met him at the SSU
briefing—Officer Glauer is organizing the mopping up at the motel crime scene. He’ll head over there tomorrow and see what we missed in the dark. I haven’t heard yet from your forensics people—”
“They’ve come and gone already, Special Deputy,” Fetlock said. “They’ll have something for you tomorrow.”
Caxton nodded. “In the meantime I have a guard on Angus’ body and—”
“Fine,” he said.
She frowned, not understanding. “You don’t want to hear this?”
“Not particularly. Like we said, it’s your investigation. I didn’t come by to check up on you, if that’s what you think.” He smiled warmly down at her. “I may do things a little differently than other people you’ve worked for. A little more hands-off. Actually, I just came down to give you this.”
He handed her a manila envelope with her name on it. She opened it, hoping he might have brought her something useful—a description, perhaps, of the man who had stolen all of Jameson’s files from the USMS archives. Instead she found a thick brochure, printed cheaply on newsprint. It was a federal government employee manual, laying out among other things the nature of her employment as an independent contractor and information on civil servant pay grades.
“Oh. Thanks,” she said.
“You need to sign the last page and fax it to me as soon as you get a chance.”
She nodded. Then she started to laugh. She couldn’t help herself. He smiled at her as if he didn’t understand. “I’m sorry,” she said, clutching her lips. “It’s just that…” She shook her head, unable to go on. “Less than twenty-four hours ago I was fighting for my life. Now I’m supposed to be thinking about pension plans.”
He stood up from the desk and shot the cuffs of his suit. He looked mildly annoyed.
“I am sorry,” she said, getting control of herself. “I’ll make this a priority. Now, was there anything else—” She stopped as her cell phone started ringing. She looked up at him and he shrugged.
She took the phone out of her pocket and saw the incoming call was from Astarte Arkeley. This ought to be good, she thought. Maybe the old bat wanted to accuse her of adultery again.
She flipped the phone open. “Hello, ma’am.”
Astarte’s voice on the other end was very tinny and distorted by heavy static. She caught very little of what the woman said. “—Deputy, I—assistance—most serious—”
Caxton swore under her breath. She’d forgotten what lousy reception she got down in the basement.
“Hold on, ma’am. I can’t really hear you. Give me a second and I’ll try to move to a better location.”
Mouthing I’m sorry at Fetlock, she stepped out of her office and headed for the stairs. Astarte kept talking. Maybe she hadn’t heard what Caxton said.
“—really quite—wouldn’t have, if not—”
In the stairwell she lost another bar of the signal, so she rushed up the stairs two at a time. At the top she pushed open the door and stepped into the main lobby of the headquarters building. Troopers in various states of uniform were congregating there around the duty sergeant’s desk, probably receiving their orders for the night.
Caxton pushed through them and out the front door into a flurry of snow and darkness. Four bars. Good.
“Ma’am, can you repeat all that?” Caxton said. “I’m very sorry about the bad connection.”
“There’s no time,” Astarte said. Her voice sounded strained, but it wasn’t the phone. “I told you already—he’s here!”
Chapter 18.
“Mrs. Arkeley, please, stay on the line,” Caxton said, then took the phone away from her face. She rushed back inside the HQ building and pointed at the first trooper she saw. “You—get Officer Glauer up here. He’s in the basement.” She pointed at another and said, “You, call the local cop shop in Bellefonte and tell them there’s an emergency.” She checked her phone and gave them Astarte’s number so they could do a reverse look-up and get the address. She hated to send local cops into a vampire scene—they wouldn’t be ready for what they found—but she had no choice. It would take her more than an hour to get there herself, even if she sped recklessly the whole way. Astarte’s life might hang on a balance of minutes.
“Ma’am, Astarte, are you still there?” she asked, lifting the phone to her face again.
“Yes, dear. Momentarily. He’s outside the house right now.” Caxton heard a distant chiming sound. “Ah!
He just broke a window in the kitchen, I believe. You’re not going to make it in time, are you?”
“I have people on the way. If he sees the police coming he’ll probably scare off out of there,” Caxton said, trying to make herself sound as if she believed it. “I’m coming as fast as I can. Lock yourself in somewhere, if you can—anything to slow him down.”
“Then you think he was serious, when he said my only other option was death? Yes, Laura, I can hear it in your voice. It’s odd. I’d always assumed that when my time came I would greet the Reaper with arms wide open.”
“Get somewhere safe, as safe as you can,” Caxton said. “I’m coming!”
Glauer came thumping up the stairs and rushed out into the lobby. He didn’t need to be told what was going on—when Caxton beckoned him and ran out into the parking lot he just followed.
A thin layer of powdery snow had covered her Mazda when she reached it. She didn’t have time to brush it off. Climbing inside, she grabbed the blue flasher she kept for emergencies and clamped it on the roof of the car, then plugged it into the cigarette lighter. She didn’t have a siren built into the car, but the light would at least keep them from getting pulled over on the way. She waited for Glauer to cram himself into the small passenger seat, then slammed on the accelerator and tore out of the parking lot and shot out toward the highway. The windshield wipers made short work of the snow in front of her, but new drifts kept piling up on the hood. At the on ramp she fought her way through the midst of the rush-hour traffic—for once people actually got out of the way when they saw the flasher—and raced up the fast lane, heading northeast.
“It’s Jameson’s wife. His widow. His whatever,” Caxton explained. Glauer hadn’t asked, but she figured he must be wondering where they were going in such an all-fired hurry. “She’s under attack.” She risked a glance over at him. He sat patiently looking straight ahead, his hands on the dashboard to brace himself every time she stepped on the brake. “From what I heard she hasn’t got a lot of time.”
Glauer took a look at the speedometer. “We’ll make it,” he promised, though he must know as well as she did that he was just being optimistic.
She tossed her cell phone to him. “Coordinate with the locals. Bellefonte can’t have much of a police force; it’s a tiny little place. Isn’t there a state police barracks out there, though?”