Living with the Dead

FINN



FINN TRIED PELTIER’S CELL NUMBER again and, again, got the message that the customer was unavailable, meaning it was turned off . . .

The plan had seemed straightforward enough. The woman who’d returned his call was almost certainly the person who’d killed Portia Kane and two officers, and Finn had her here, within a block radius. Sure, it was a block swarming with people, but the crowds were starting to thin and with Damon’s ear for music, they’d used the background music to pinpoint where the woman had made the call. Of course she wasn’t there when they arrived, but she couldn’t have gone far.

Finn knew she wouldn’t have left the fair, despite what she’d claimed—that was just for his benefit, making him think “Robyn” was safely out of danger while he hunted for the scarred killer. She was here, and she was staying until she found Peltier.

So he just had to find her. He’d notified the backup team, now in place. But no one had the faintest idea what this woman looked like. Though her voice had sounded young, Finn knew better than to prejudge and had said only that she sounded under fifty. As defining factors went, that didn’t help. In twenty minutes, he’d seen one woman over fifty.

He’d told Damon to pay attention to women who seemed to be searching for someone. But as the clock ticked past midnight and families cleared out, half the women seemed to be hunting for a spouse or a child.

Their best hope was that Damon would find his wife, and that would help them find the woman. But there was no sign of her either.

Finally, at Damon’s prodding, Finn had called the cell phone while the ghost climbed onto a trailer to search the crowds for a woman answering.

Great idea. Or it would be, if she hadn’t turned off the phone. Finn had tried three more times since, to no avail. She wasn’t stupid; she didn’t want him phoning back for more details or, worse, insisting she meet up with him.

“If Bobby’s here, she’s hiding,” Damon said as he hopped from his latest perch. “Which is smart, and what I’d expect, but it doesn’t help us worth shit. I want her safe, but she’d be safer if we caught this bitch.”

Finn grunted and kept surveying the crowd. Even if he heard her voice, he still might not recognize her, but he couldn’t stop looking and listening. She was here, a cop killer, and this might be his best chance to catch her.

“We’ll keep looking,” he said.

Damon looked relieved, as if he’d expected Finn to declare the mission impossible and call it off. If this woman killed Peltier, she and Damon could be reunited in death, and maybe a lesser man would want that, but Finn could tell it hadn’t entered Damon’s mind. His life ended early; he’d never wish the same on the woman he loved.

“Wherever Bobby is, she’ll eventually pop out for a look around.”



THEY SEARCHED FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES MORE. Finn called the cell phone twice, with no answer. As they rounded a corn dog stand, Finn reached for Damon’s arm. Two teens turned to gawk at the guy clawing the air.

“You really need to stop doing that,” Damon said. “What’s up?”

“That girl over there.”

Finn started to point, then stopped himself and turned the gesture into an awkward chin-scratch while jerking his thumb toward his target, getting more stares than he had by pointing.

“Man, we need to work on your subtle communication skills,” Damon said. “You mean the girl in the cowboy hat? Yeah, it’s damned ugly.”

Finn lifted his cell phone, pretending to talk into it. “To my left, outside the fence. Light hair, yellow T-shirt . . .”

Damon squinted at the girl, then strode over, through people, through the fence, stood in front of her and yelled back, “This girl?”

Finn nodded. The girl—woman, he supposed he should say—was on the other side of the fence, walking toward the fair, coming out of a field beyond. Her strides were short and choppy, as if she didn’t really want to be heading in this direction, but had no choice. Her scowl seconded that.

Damon strode back. “She doesn’t look like the type to try sneaking in without paying, but if you want to alert security . . .”

“Do you recognize her?”

Damon looked back at the girl, now marching along the fence line. “Should I?”

“From the photo. The one on Robyn’s phone.”

“Uh, no, Finn. Sure, they’re both blond and about the same age, but that is not the girl in the dress—”

“I meant the one behind her. In the photo.”

“There was a girl behind the one in the dress?”

“A couple. An older man and her.” He jerked his chin toward the girl, still marching, still scowling, still searching for a way back in.

“Shit. Guess I’m not quite the sleuth I thought I was. I honestly never noticed anyone else. But if you think that’s her . . .”

He didn’t think; he knew.

“And you think it can’t be a coincidence she’s here,” Damon continued.

Again, Finn knew it. “Look where she is. You said yourself she doesn’t look like the sort to sneak in. And if she is, she’s picked a hell of a spot. Everyone can see her. Besides, she’s wearing an admission band.”

“Wearing . . . ? Damn. Missed that, too. I’m striking out tonight. What’s she doing, then?”

“Or who is she looking for?”

Damon didn’t seem to hear Finn, having already figured it out and started moving toward her, cutting through the crowds the way only a ghost could.

She was maybe twenty, average height and skinny with dark blond hair cut to her shoulders. With her mousy hair, long face and sallow complexion, she was the sort of girl you expected to see at a state college, walking alone, avoiding eye contact, books clutched to her chest.

She wasn’t avoiding eye contact now. Her mouth was set in a hard line. As she found a gap where she could squeeze through the fence, she shot the onlookers a scowl that dared them to comment. At least a dozen people watched her, not one saying a word, all presuming if she was doing it so openly, she was allowed to.

Finn placed a call to dispatch, giving the girl’s description and requesting immediate backup. “Immediate,” though, wasn’t going to be fast enough.

He intercepted her. “Miss?”

That glower swung up at him. He saw a flicker of something blander, as if she was trying to force a more polite expression for him. After a moment, she gave up.

“Yes?”

Finn flashed his badge, too quick for her to read it, hoping for a reaction without pushing her to panic. But her expression didn’t change.

“Security? Fine, I’m not supposed to come in there. But I’ve paid, see?” She waved her wrist.

“This isn’t about whether you’ve paid—” He held up his badge. She made no move to read it, her gaze already moving on, scanning the crowd.

“I’m Detective Findlay. I believe we spoke earlier on Robyn Peltier’s phone.”

Her head swung around fast enough to cause whiplash, and what little color she had in her cheeks drained.

She bolted, but Finn was ready, lunging and catching her arm.

“Hey,” a voice slurred. “You can’t do that.” A kid, not old enough to drink, lurched toward them, eyes glazed as he waved at Finn’s badge. “I got a cell phone, you know. Let go of her or you’ll be starring on You Tube, a*shole.”

Finn kept his grip on the girl’s arm, deftly steering out of the drunk kid’s way, while keeping him in sight.

“Miss, I need to ask you—”

Someone whacked him between the shoulder blades. His grip relaxed just as she yanked. She slid free and dove into the crowd now surrounding them, cell phones out.

Finn went after her, shouldering his way through the mob. He kept looking for his backup. No sign of it. He called his lieutenant, updating him as quickly as possible, then getting off the phone. The girl was running now. Everyone got out of her way. Not everyone got out of his, a few intentionally stepping into his path, making him veer around them.

“Finn! I got her!” Damon’s voice rose above the din. “She’s heading toward the kiddie section. I think there’s an exit there.”

Following Damon’s voice, Finn rounded a corner. The people there, not having witnessed the altercation, saw only a big man bearing down on them . . . and stepped aside. Ahead he could see the girl’s yellow shirt flashing through the darkness.

Damon continued shouting, keeping him on track, as they headed into the children’s area. It was all but empty and that’s where she made her mistake. Finn might be big, but he was in top condition—and she wasn’t. As the gap between them closed, she kept glancing over her shoulder, slowing herself down all the more, but unable to stop checking.

Finn broke into an all-out sprint. The girl weaved toward a quartet of retirees enjoying cotton candy under a tree, away from the fair hubbub. Alarm flashed over their faces as they spotted a man chasing a young woman. Finn waved his badge, and they fell back to give him room. The girl swerved straight for one of the women.

“Finn!” Damon shouted. “She’s got—”

Finn saw the woman backpedal, frantically trying to move aside. Then the confusion in her face turned to horror. Her husband pitched toward her, hands out, as if to shove her from the girl’s path. But he was too far away. The girl was bearing down on her, a gun in her outstretched hand. The woman screamed. The gun fired. The woman tottered back, eyes wide with disbelief. Then the girl gave the woman a shove, knocking her down like a bowling pin.

Shot her, shoved her out of the way and kept going.

Finn skidded beside the woman as her husband dove for her.

“Finn!” Damon shouted. “No! That’s what she wants. They’ve got it. Keep going.”

Finn sent a silent apology to the woman . . . and raced past her, shouting back for them to call 911.

He could see the girl’s yellow shirt ahead, but he had to slow, calling his backup. And though he didn’t stop moving, didn’t stop watching that yellow shirt, by the time he reached the midway, she had too much of a head start. She disappeared into the first large mob. He caught a glimpse of her once on the other side, but by the time he made it through the crowd, she was gone.



THE BACKUP TEAM HAD SHUT DOWN all exits and was patrolling the perimeter. They were still searching the park, but in his gut, Finn knew she’d gotten away. He’d seen how easy it had been for her to sneak into the park. She wouldn’t have bothered with the exit. She’d have found another way out, dodged patrols and escaped. And she’d have done it right away, knowing she’d bought a limited amount of time with her distraction.

She had shot that woman to slow Finn down. Of all the senseless reasons you could have for killing someone, there was none as cold as that.

She could have knocked the woman off her feet. Could have fired the gun in the air. Could have winged her shoulder. But she hadn’t. She’d looked a stranger in the face and killed her.

And now Finn stood near the crowd surrounding the fallen woman, and while everyone else’s attention was on the paramedics working frantically to revive her, his was on two people sitting apart on the curb. Damon and the woman’s ghost.

Damon held the woman’s hands, leaning in close and talking to her as she nodded numbly, her gaze fixed on the crowd around her body. Finn stayed where he was. There was nothing the woman could add that would help him solve her murder, and there was nothing Finn could add that would comfort her more than Damon already was.

Gradually, the woman’s shock seemed to thaw. She added words to her nods. Then she made eye contact with Damon while she spoke to him. Finally she twisted to face him. He said something, and she nodded and replied. He helped her to her feet and, still holding one of her hands, led her to the edge of the crowd.

Damon stopped there, releasing her hand. She took his back, squeezing it and saying something. Then, leaving him on the edge, she walked to where her husband knelt beside her body, tears streaming down his face. She stood behind him and touched the top of his head, stroking it even as her fingers passed through. Her husband stopped. He lifted his head. She smiled and bent, murmuring, hand still resting on his head.

Then she was gone.