"Realistically hasTequila as the Ultimate Vampire-Crime Palliative"
Reviewed by Melanie Jacobs
Posted April 25, 2011
Fantasy Urban
DEADWORLD's Jackie Rutledge is a cantankerous, vulgar,
ballsy bitch, well-prepared to out-drink you, out-screw you
and then maybe punch you in the jaw if she doesn't like what
you say to her afterward. Other than near-daily hangovers
and violent desires for large amounts of caffeine, she is
well-suited for her job as an FBI agent, especially in a
world where serial killers can keep killing for over a
century and a half and the cutest guy she's seen in a while
is a well-spoken vampire P.I. who's currently off the sauce
(read: blood).
Jackie, whose bad habits are refreshing in their normalcy,
is tempered by her sweet-mannered FBI partner and best
friend, Laurel, as well as host of other persons (and
creatures). Duncan happily resists the temptation to pour
out everyone's back-story within the first few chapters,
which feels more natural than the stilted confessions of
damaged pasts that seem to be the bread-and-butter of too
many other examples of paranormal fiction. However, by the
end of the 400+ page novel I still felt as if there were
motivations left unexplained and character interactions
still untapped.
While the novel ostensibly takes place in modern-day Chicago
(the presence of the FBI, Chinese takeout and Starbucks all
reassure the reader of the normalcy inherent in this
setting), it's difficult to say exactly whether this is
"our" world or not. Laurel's abilities as a psychic medium
(mostly limited to sensing ghosts) are well-known and
accepted to Jackie and just as well-known, albeit slightly
less accepted, by the rest of their department. At the
first hint that vampires may be involved with their crime
scene, the characters are taken aback, but do not react with
the kind of incredulousness or even ridicule of the idea
that one might expect. The existence of vampires and
ghosts seem unlikely to them but in no way impossible, which
is jarring when reading the novel. What sort of world is
this then? Are these characters just the sort to call Miss
Cleo for crime scene tips or is the presence of the
supernatural more commonly accepted in this world? Are
there werewolves, basilisks, wizards, demons, fairies,
curses, and so on, as well? Why does no one address these
questions? I had to wonder why these questions were not
addressed by Laurel herself; little is said regarding how
she came into her psychic powers, where her beliefs come
from, how she has used her powers in the past, etc. One
might argue that in the midst of high-speed chases,
exsanguination of prepubescents, and a whole lot of tequila,
that these questions simply didn't have time to come up, but
I feel the story was left the worse for it.
While it was a relief to avoid the motif of the flawless
heroine always having preternatural abilities, DEADWORLD did
not have an emotional resonance with me past the turning of
the final page. It's a tough thing to break into the
police/investigative side of the paranormal world, with so
many giants already there (Laurell K. Hamilton, Jim Butcher,
Kim Harrison, etc.) and for me, DEADWORLD does not quite
make it.
SUMMARY
She's as tough as anything haunting Chicago's streets. But
to deal with an inhuman power that won't stay buried, this
FBI agent needs help that comes at an immortal price. . .
Jackie Rutledge has seen her share of supernatural killers.
But her latest murder case is what recurring nightmares are
made of. Brutally exsanguinated human victims,
vanishing-into-the-ether evidence, and a city on the edge of
panic mean that she and her psychic partner, Laurel, are
going to need more than just backup . . .
So Jackie is fine with any help rugged P.I. Nick Anderson
can give--even if that includes the impish ghost and sexy
vampire who make up his team. But Nick is hiding secrets of
his own. And Jackie's investigation has plunged them both
into a vengeful game reaching back centuries--and up against
a malevolent force hungry for more than just victory. . .
ExcerptA misty rain swirled down into the darkness between the
two brick buildings. Flattened against one cold wall,
Archie Lane huddled next to a stack of sagging cardboard
boxes, peering out of the narrow alley at the sliver of
sidewalk illuminated by a nearby streetlight. This was not
how he had envisioned running away. There had been no
envisioning to speak of really. All he had wanted was to
escape the smackdown going on in his parent's living room,
where dad had the leg up on the cursing scorecard and mom
was on pace to set a new "thrown objects" record. Now, the
midnight sounds of Chicago's suburbs were frightening him
even more.
They were not strange sounds. Archie recognized most of
them, from the sounds of tires on wet pavement to the
screeching yowls of two cats duking it out, but in
darkness, all things magnified in the wrong direction.
Every shadow contained lurking doom. Body parts lay rotting
in every container. Every passing car was his dad come
hunting for him. Surely he was destined for the belt with
this one. That threat had been very explicit after the last
time.
The problem was where to go? Every friend he knew would
have parents who would turn him over and make a phone call.
His grandpa would let him stay, if only he could remember
how to get there. He was also a thirty minute ride by car.
On foot that might take all night, if he even knew what
direction to go in.
Archie's concerns had turned more immediate as the rain
began to fall. It was getting cold. His long-sleeved shirt
offered piss-poor protection and worse, he was starving.
Where did street kids go when they were hungry and wet?
Archie hadn't the slightest clue. He did not know a
single street kid. If he could find one, maybe they could
tell him. At worst, maybe he could find a store to hang out
in for a while, maybe steal a candy bar or something to
fill his rumbling stomach. There was a Kroger's not far
from his house, but the darkness had confused his sense of
direction. It was not on the old, downtown strip where he
found himself now. It was...somewhere else.
Archie thrust his hands deeper into his jeans and
ventured forth. He would just have to ask someone. It
couldn't be far and it was open twenty-four hours. He could
wander around until the sun came up and maybe, if he was
really lucky, sneak back into his room without anyone being
the wiser. Mom and dad would be passed out by sunrise. As
long as dad didn't come in to kick at the foot of his bed
to see if he was sleeping, all would be good.
At the alley's opening, Archie stood at the corner and
poked his head out. There were only a few cars parked on
the street. Further up at the corner, a couple walked
quickly down the opposite sidewalk, huddled under an
umbrella. Boy! They were in a real hurry, looking back at
something, but Archie could not tell what. The intersection
ahead appeared empty. Not fifty feet down the sidewalk, a
car door opened and a man stepped out. Nice car. Nice suit.
He popped open an umbrella and looked up in his direction,
eyes hidden behind dark, round glasses.
Archie ducked back into the darkness and watched as the
man began to walk toward him. He hardly looked dangerous,
but what Archie found disquieting, what spawned a gnawing
worm in his gut, was that the slick looking car eased along
the edge of the street, matching him step for step. He took
another step back into the darkness, just in case.
The man hummed a tune, some old-fashioned sounding thing
Archie didn't recognize. His footsteps were silent upon the
wet cement. When he got close, Archie held his breath,
freezing every muscle of his body, willing it not to begin
shivering. There was no way the guy could see him there,
melded flat to the brick wall, right? He continued to walk,
stepping across the alley's opening, one step, two, but at
the edge he stopped.
Archie's heart leapt in his chest. The man, not ten feet
away, paused and then turned, the umbrella resting lightly
against his shoulder. He looked directly at Archie.
"I dare say, young man. What ever are you doing out on a
night like this and dressed like that?" His voice was old,
reminding Archie of his grandpa, but it had a smoothness to
it that belied the man's age. "And huddled in that rotting,
forsaken alley. Surely you must be cold?"
Stranger at night on a nearly empty street. Archie knew
better. These weren't the sorts of people you talked to
when alone. "Pervs will snatch you right off your own
street!" his mother had been fond of telling him.
"Just, uhm, hangin' out," Archie said. "I was on my way
home actually...from a friend's house."
A corner of the man's mouth curled up beneath the
shadows of the umbrella. "I see. No ride home from your mum
or dad? It's awfully late. Bad sort of folk out and about
this time of night, Mr. Lane." The blue car came to a stop
behind the man, it's windows cloaked in glossy, rain-
splattered darkness.
"It's ok," Archie said, the worm in his gut now chomping
gleefully at his insides. "I'm good. I don't have far to
go." If he was quick enough, he might be able to bolt
passed the old guy. If not, one of those gloved hands could
easily get a handful of shirt. The man's words suddenly
sunk in. "Hey. How'd you know my name?"
"I know your mother, Archibold," he said, the other
corner of his mouth twitching up to reveal a ghostly
smile. "We met at the mall just the other day. I believe
you were at the candy machines getting yourself a treat."
Archie nodded. "Oh. Yeah." His stomach rumbled at the
thought of the handful of gummy worms he had got last
weekend.
"Would you care for a ride home, Archibold?" When Archie
remained silent, the man knelt down. "You ever ridden in a
Rolls Royce before?"
Archie shook his head. "Nope. It's Archie by the way. I
hate Archibold."
A deep chuckle rumbled out of the man's throat. "Archie
it is. I've got soda inside and I believe there might be
something you could eat."
A ride in that car would be cool, no doubt. Free food
and drink would be good too. The worm paused in its hungry
gnawing to shake its wary head. Don't ride with strangers.
You just never knew, did you?
"I don't know. Actually, I think I'm good. My house
isn't far at all."
He stood back up, looking down the street from where
he'd come. "Almost two miles, Archie. That's a bit of a
walk on tired feet."
"You know where I live too?" Archie pulled his hands
from his pockets. The worm was telling him to run, and the
idea was making more sense by the second.
"Of course I do," he said, kneeling back down. A gloved
hand reached up to pull the glasses down the bridge of his
nose. "I could not have followed you here if I did not, now
could I?"
Archie froze, his body and mind coming to an ice-encased
stand still. "Whoa, dude. Your eyes are glowing."
"They are," he said, the black gloved hand reaching out
toward him. "It's a special trick. Can you see anything in
them? If you look hard enough, you will see something very
special indeed."
One step, followed by another. Archie felt his hand
reach out to take the strange man's hand. There actually
was something in the glowing, irisless eyes. Shadows, grey
and swirling like fog danced around inside them. Archie
began to shiver.
"They look like ghosts," he whispered.
The man stood up, his hand clasped tightly around
Archie's. "Very good, Archibold. You can see the other
side. Would you like to go?"
The door latch clicked open and Archie stepped toward
the car. "Are they all dead over there?"
"Every last one, my young man," he said and pulled open
the door. "You see, they are my ghosts, but to join them,
you must be one as well."
"Oh." The comforting warmth of the inside of the car
beckoned. It felt so good against his wet, shivering
skin. "Don't you have to be dead to be a ghost?"
The gloved hand gently pushed Archie in the back, easing
him into the black cave of the car. "But worry not, Mr.
Lane. I shall take care of that."
The door slammed shut and a moment later the Rolls eased
back into the street.
Chapter 1
Beneath the serene, protective canopy of maple leaves, a
boy reclined against the trunk, withered and bloodless, his
skin two sizes too big for his depleted body. It was death
in all of the wrong ways.
Jackie Rutledge squinted at the chaos from the parking
lot, frowning at the milling gawkers. A gaggle of reporters
and cameramen huddled around their cluster of vans waiting
to pounce on the nearest unwary law enforcement officer.
She absently rubbed at her throbbing temple. There should
have been laws against committing crimes on Mondays.
The drifting scatter of clouds taunted her by blocking
the late September sun only to laugh at her seconds later.
Her sunglasses provided little relief from the pain induced
from last night’s bottle of tequila, and Jackie hoped that
luck would bring a thunderstorm and send the crowd running.
There was no luck to be found in this park however. Death
had sucked it all away.
The enormous maple, its branches drooping nearly to the
ground, was completely encircled with crime scene tape.
Some of the crew were walking around, combing through the
grass. The local police looked to have been put in charge
of crowd control.
Jackie walked over to her partner Laurel’s car and
accepted the triple-shot latte and four Tylenol. "Thanks
for the wake-up. Why can’t killers keep better hours?"
"Off shifts pay better," she said, and reached up to
brush off some lingering sand from the dangling ruffle of
auburn hair on Jackie’s forehead. "How was the lifeguard?"
"My thighs still hurt, so I’m guessing it was good."
Tequila shots blurred out everything beyond last night’s
walk on the lake. The guy had been gone anyway when Laurel
pierced her skull with the seven a.m. wake up. Plopping the
pills into her mouth, Jackie swallowed them down with the
lukewarm coffee.
She took the FBI jacket Laurel offered, who was now
scanning the crowd out past the pair of television vans
parked at the curb of the parking lot, her blue eyes
narrowed in concentration. Her voice was distant. "Wish my
thighs hurt."
"So is this the same M.O. as the Wisconsin woman?"
Laurel did not answer. Her eyes were closed, and Jackie
knew better than to keep talking. She had her psychic radar
on, checking for anything out of the ordinary. If this was
related to the Wisconsin victim, odds were there would be
something. Even with the length of time that she had been
dead, there had been a "taint." For Jackie, some demented
prick had drained the woman of her blood. Period.
She finished off the last of her latte and waited for
Laurel. She was ready to get moving, more so to avoid the
media that looked to be wandering in their direction.
"Something is off here," Laurel said, her voice barely a
whisper.
Jackie cringed. Of course there was. "Not off in
a ‘spiked your morning coffee’ sort of way I hope?"
"There’s some bourbon in the trunk." Laurel didn’t smile
at the humor. She was too intent on something out in the
crowd.
"Great. Off to a fabulous start already," Jackie said,
but Laurel was shuffling across the grass to the other side
of the parking lot where the crowd had gathered. Something
had tweaked that little psychic nerve of hers, and Jackie
knew when to leave well enough alone. She waved. "Go find
your boogie man, Laur." Turning around, she made her way
toward the overhanging tree before any media might notice
she was standing by herself.
The blanket of leaves and limbs pushed and swatted at
Jackie until she found herself standing in near darkness,
thin shafts of light shining down on a boy seated neatly
against the trunk of the tree. A couple members of the crew
were already milling around in the shadows.
"That you, Jack? Glad you could join us."
Jackie’s mouth creased into a frown. Pernetti. He would
be the one detailing the victim. As if her headache didn’t
already feel like someone cranking screws down into her
skull. "Don’t even start with me, Pernetti. I’m not in the
mood."
"Boy, did you get laid or something? You’re bright eyed
and bushy-tailed this morning."
For a moment, Jackie thought he might have actually
noticed, but then common sense took over. Pernetti was not
capable of noticing anything like that. "Kiss my ass. Just
tell me what we’ve got here."
He knelt down next to the body. "Archibald Lane, age
twelve. Some sicko sucked the boy dry. There’s ligature
marks on the wrists and ankles. Funky marks, though. It
looks like zip ties. Other than the hole in the arm,
there's nothing else visible on him. Scene so far is
weirdly spotless."
Twelve. What was wrong with people? "Spotless? That’s
doubtful." These days, everyone left something to track.
Unless of course you knew how to clean up after yourself,
and knew how forensics worked, but even then, it was
unlikely.
"Clean so far, Jack." He shrugged, pointing at marks on
the boy’s wrists. "Other than the marks and the hole, he’s
got a couple bumps and scrapes that anyone might get when
they’ve been out and about for a couple days."
"Two? He hasn’t been dead that long."
Pernetti stood back up, thrusting his hands into his
pockets. "Runaway, according to the sheriff. Fled from mom
and dad beating each other up, and not seen until this
morning."
She doubted very much that mom was doing any beating up
on dad. It hit her then, a brief flash of a twelve year old
running away from a ‘domestic dispute’ nearly twenty years
prior. Mommy certainly had not been doing any beating on.
Jackie took a deep breath. The smell of death was doing
little to wash the residue of memory away. "Anything else?"
"Nope. Area still being gone over. Bowers and Prescott
are out canvassing, but it’s looking a lot like that
Wisconsin woman we brought in couple months back."
Jackie shrugged and pulled out a pair of latex gloves
from her jacket pocket. "Maybe. Ok, move Pernetti. I want a
look." She didn’t want one, really. There was almost
nothing she would see here, she could tell already. The
perp had been clean and careful. Even the ground around the
body looked undisturbed. Still, she would end up lead on
the case, and if anything, she needed to verify Pernetti’s
own observations.
"Think we should track down those parents and see what
they have to say. Let them know their son is dead because
they can’t bitch at each other like other civilized folks."
She did not bother glancing up at him. "Go away,
Pernetti. You’re distracting me."
Thankfully left in silence, Jackie gave Archie a quick
look over, and found nothing out of the ordinary. He looked
almost peaceful, if one could ignore that fact that he
looked like a pasty, deflated version of his former self.
The thought sent a shiver down Jackie’s spine, and she
decided she had seen enough for the moment. Putting her
sunglasses back on, Jackie stepped back out from under the
tree to find Laurel seated on the hood of their car smoking
a cigarette. That was the first sign of trouble right
there. A healthy girl by nature, Jackie knew if you hit the
stress button hard enough, Laurel would be reaching for
that security blanket in the bottom of her purse.
Jackie knew any shot at the day getting better was
vanishing with each puff of smoke.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
1 comment posted.
Re: Realistically hasTequila as the Ultimate Vampire-Crime Palliative
Well, even though it didn't quite make it for you, Melanie, I loved the review title and opening line. I just might have to use those somewhere. Thanks for taking the time to read my story.
(Jim Duncan 11:20pm April 25, 2011)
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