Living with the Dead

FINN



IF THIS PARTNERSHIP WAS GOING TO WORK OUT, Finn needed to be a lot more careful what he let Damon overhear.

After Officer Kendall’s body was removed, Damon had circled behind Finn, trying to eavesdrop, and he’d gotten into earshot at the worst possible moment.

“So . . . a shoulder shot,” Damon said—again—as Finn drove toward the fairgrounds.

“It’s one of the safest places to be shot. The bullet usually passes through—”

“You said that. But this usually part. What if it doesn’t pass through? Is it only safe if it does? Can something go wrong?”

“It’s usually nonfatal—” Finn caught the qualifier even before seeing Damon’s wince. “It’s nonfatal.”

Damon leaned over to check the speedometer, clearly no happier with what he saw there than he’d been with Finn’s answer.

“She said she was okay,” Finn said.

“Bobby would say that if she’d been run over by a truck and could still crawl from the scene. Did she sound—?” He broke off with a disgusted snort. “You wouldn’t know.”

He meant Finn didn’t know Peltier, but Finn didn’t imagine that clip of annoyance in Damon’s words. His wife had been shot and Finn was moseying along, having deemed her life unworthy of sirens and an ambulance.

Explaining why he was proceeding cautiously would mean telling Damon what Peltier said, that her shooter was still hot on her trail. Whoever was following Peltier had already proven himself ready to kill her and anyone who got in his way. So Finn wasn’t about to tear in there with a full squad car escort. He’d called his lieutenant, who’d coordinated it from there. A backup team would cover exits discreetly while Finn searched inside for Peltier.

Had Finn made the right call? He hoped so. Peltier had sounded calm and rational on the phone and, from everything Damon had said, this was normal—she wasn’t in shock. Finn trusted she could keep herself safe, whether it took him ten minutes to get there or fifteen.

And if he was worried about why the line disconnected? And who’d been that voice in the background? More things Damon didn’t need to know.

“Promise me you’ll get her to a hospital?” Damon said.

“That would be standard procedure.”

Damon watched the light pass, then looked back at Finn. “She might argue. She’ll want medical attention—she doesn’t take risks like that—but she’ll downplay the injury and try to get the interview over with first. That’s how she prioritizes.”

“I’ll tell her we can conduct the interview at the hospital.”

“Good. Efficient. She’ll like that.”

Damon turned back to the window. Finn thought about what it must be like for him, wandering alone in limbo for six months. Then, when he did find someone who could hear him, he had to talk about his wife without really talking about her, to a stranger who didn’t know her, whose only interest in her was as a subject in a case.

It was different where Finn had come from. There, you were part of the community. You knew Bobby Miller was having a tough time with his parents’ divorce and it would be enough to give him a stern lecture and make him pay for the broken window. Just like you knew that Ray Thomas, bawling in the drunk tank, might very well be telling the truth when he said he was sorry, but if you let him get away with it, next time the Sooners lost a game, he’d take it out on his wife’s face again.

Then Finn came to Los Angeles.

To survive here, Finn had to squelch that part of himself and emulate Joe Friday. Just the facts, ma’am.

Now, riding with Damon, Finn realized how much he hated this, how much happier he’d been back on that small-town force. It wasn’t in his nature to be cold and clinical, and it was gnawing away at him like frostbite. But there was little need for his gift back home, where more than one homicide a year would be a crime wave. If Finn was going to make proper use of his abilities he had to stay in L.A. and dream of the day he’d be back home, driving his squad car, asking his passenger “so how’s your wife?” and knowing the answer mattered.

“Flashing lights ahead,” Damon said. “Either that’s the mother of all accidents or we’ve got ourselves a carnival.”

Finn followed his gaze to colored lights twinkling beyond the next block.

“Something tells me I’m about to do a disappearing act.” Damon’s fingers silently drummed the armrest. “If I do, when you find her, don’t tell—” He inhaled sharply.

“Don’t tell her about you.”

“Yeah.”

Finn turned at a hand-drawn parking sign.

“It wouldn’t be right,” Damon said finally. “She’ll have a lot on her mind and that would just freak her out.”

“I need her to trust me—and telling her I see ghosts, even yours, isn’t going to help.”

A tight laugh. “Yeah.”

“Later, though, we could . . . figure something out.”

Damon nodded. After a few seconds of silence he said, “Sure. If it works out. That would be good.”



FIVE MINUTES LATER, Finn was flashing his badge at the ticket girl and stepping inside the fairgrounds. The backup team hadn’t arrived, but Damon was still at his side.

“Maybe whatever power decided to let you help me is going to let you see her,” Finn said.

“Or maybe it means she isn’t here.” Damon shook his head. “Damn, I’m a regular ray of sunshine tonight, aren’t I?”

But as they walked to the midway, Damon’s mood did grow sunnier. The bounce returned to his step. He started singing along to a song playing at the rides. His gaze scoured the crowd, hope sparking in his eyes every time he caught sight of a blond head.

“So where are you supposed to meet her?” Damon asked.

“Here.”

“I meant where here.”

“She didn’t specify.”

Damon stopped walking. Finn slowed, waiting for him to catch up. He didn’t.

“Either you think I’m a complete idiot or you’re hoping I’m too worried to think straight. This is my wife we’re talking about, Finn. She’d never hang up without giving you a meeting place, complete with a description, the nearest entrance and optimal parking. Hell, the fact she didn’t offer to send MapQuest directions to your cell phone already told me she’s worse off than she’s letting on.”

Finn had resumed walking, scanning faces. “We got disconnected.”

“What?” Damon strode up beside him.

“I was having trouble hearing her, then we were disconnected. I thought I heard a woman in the background. Maybe Adams. I couldn’t make out what she said.”

A passing boy turned to stare up at Finn. “Who’s that man talking—?”

His mother shushed him, then tugged him closer, arm going around him as she cast a nervous glance at Finn, stopping well short of making eye contact. At a place like this, people talking to themselves wouldn’t be that uncommon. Still, he should be more careful or he’d find himself explaining the situation to security.

“Did she call back?” Damon asked.

Finn shook his head.

“Did you call her?”

He nodded.

“And?” Damon prompted.

“Her phone’s turned off.”

“When’s the last time you tried?”

Finn motioned for Damon to keep looking as he took out his cell. This time, he didn’t get the message that the customer was “unavailable.” It just rang and rang.

“So?” Damon said when Finn hung up.

“Nothing.”

Damon nodded, presuming that meant the phone was still turned off. Finn started to pocket it.

“Shouldn’t you keep that out?” Damon said. “You can use it when you’re talking to me instead of scaring the kiddies.”

Finn wasn’t comfortable with the subterfuge—which explained why he kept forgetting to do it—but it had to be better than talking to himself in public.

Still scouring the crowds, they passed a row of games.

“Hey,” Damon said. “Ring toss. I remember Bobby . . .”

He let the sentence fade.

The cell phone rang. He checked the caller ID.

“It’s her,” he said.

He retreated into a quieter spot between two booths, then answered. For a moment, he heard only the noise of the fair through the phone, a tinny stereo to the commotion around him.

“Hello?” she said, her voice tentative, as if he’d called her.

“Robyn?”

“Yes. You called?”

“It’s Detective Findlay. I’m at the fair. Where are you?”

A longer pause now. Damon had climbed onto a game booth and was scanning the crowd.

“Robyn?” Finn said.

“Sorry, I . . .” Another pause. Then, “He’s here, Detective. I’m—”a sharp breath. “I—I’m just so scared. I thought I was safe, calling you, and then he was right there, coming for me, so I had to hang up and run, and then I tried phoning back but my phone wasn’t working and—”

“Slow down, Robyn.”

Hearing that, Damon glanced over.

“He’s here, Detective. He’s here, somewhere, and I can’t see him and I—”

“Slow down, Robyn. Who’s there? Who’s following you?”

Damon jumped off the counter, the alarm in his eyes tempered by confusion.

“I-I need to get out of here, Detective. I can’t stay. He’ll find me and then he’ll kill me. I know he will. Just like he killed that poor cop and—”

“Robyn, I need you to take a deep breath and calm down.”

Damon stepped close enough to listen in.

Finn continued, “The man who’s following you. He’s the one who shot Officer Kendall?”

“Right. And the other one, Portia’s bodyguard. I went to his house—”

“Judd Archer.”

“Right.”

“Are you sure it’s the same man?”

“Of course I’m sure. He was right there. On that street and at Judd’s house. He’s tall with dark hair and a scar under his eye. I’m not sure if it’s the left or right eye. Left, I think. He’s wearing a green jacket. He’s here somewhere, at the fair. I can’t stay. I have to get out of here. Will you find him for me? Stop him?”

“I’ll do my best.”

The line went dead.

“That—” Damon began.

“—wasn’t Robyn. I know.”