Page 81 of The Undead

“I think we ought to wait for backup,” one of them blurted. A laugh bubbled up inside her, which she swallowed.

“Baby, one crazy dog is enough for one night. I don’t think we’ll run into another one. Come on or don’t, but I’m going.” She twitched her shoulders and wiped at the mud on her face; it was thick and gelid. Her hair was plastered with it. It was a good thing she was wearing black; it didn’t show the blood except where it was torn and skin gleamed through. The dog had ripped right through her shirt and bra and dug red furrows along the right side of her breast. Maggie touched it with fingertips that weren’t nearly as steady as she wanted them to be, then reached out and lifted she latch on the gate.

The uniforms were so tense they’d snap in two if they turned too fast. Maggie eased into the yard and looked around. Nothing. A big cracked concrete dab that must have once been the foundation for a garage; a plastic patio set covered in a fine mist of dirt and bird droppings; wire clotheslines strung like a fat spiderweb between trees. Nothing.

Something big and black with four legs trotted out from the side of the house. The uniform next to her dropped into firing position; she knocked his arm up as the dog flinched and growled.

“It’s the family dog, asshole, take it easy. Easy.” Maggie talked to the uniforms as if they were Dobermans, gentling them. They made the circuit of the yard and found nothing, not a drop of blood, not even a hair. They found exactly the same thing in every other yard. By the time Maggie went back to the Foster house she was exhausted, shaky, and aching, and the two uniforms looked as if they were ready for psychiatric treatment.

McDonnell was waiting. Maggie put her gun away and looked him in the eye.

“She got away,” she said flatly. He reached out and turned her face slightly; the frown spilled over out of his eyes and into deep lines between them. McDonnell looked her over, slowly, and sat her down on the steps. He stripped off his trenchcoat and wrapped it over her shoulders before she even felt a chill. There was a smashed, dismembered styrofoam cup at her feet, reminding her that Foster had sat in the same place less than an hour before; Maggie scuffed it around with her mud-caked running shoes. “How’s Frank?”

“It caught him in the femoral artery.” McDonnell’s voice scraped out, rough and angry. “They took him to City Square. I’ll call another ambulance for you.”

“Forget it.”

“I didn’t mean for you to go out and wrestle rabid dogs, goddammit.”

“Well,” Maggie began, and felt the giggles boil up like carbonation, “in the first place, I don’t think it was rabid. In the second, you told me to get the bitch. How was I to know which one you meant?”

He stared at her in blank amazement, then reached out and planted a kiss on her dirty forehead. She pulled in a deep breath.

“Lieutenant, I need some help. I know you’ve got some friends in Internal Affairs, and there’s a problem with Nick—” McDonnell’s eyes hardened as quickly as fast-dry glue. He knew how she felt about IA, knew she’d done anything and everything to avoid going to them. “Look, I think he’s in trouble. I just want to get him some help, okay? I think maybe he was involved in the murder of a snitch of ours.”

“Have you got any evidence?” McDonnell murmured, leaving out whatever personal feelings he might have had about handing Nick over to Internal Affairs. No need for him to hate it; Maggie already hated it enough for three or four people. When she shook her head, he sat back, hands dangling limply between his knees. He lifted his face to the blank night sky and sighed; a trickle of steam flagged it. “Maggie, this is deep shit, chin-deep. Nick’s a lousy person to come down on; he’s got friends on high, and friends down low. Me and Frank were working on the Angelo Santos case and we were reassigned because Frank thought Nicky was dirty. This could get really, really ugly.”

“It’s already ugly enough for me.” Maggie said, and watched him. McDonnell slowly looked down to meet her eyes.

“Frankie’s got a wife, you know. A kid on the way. It’s not just my risk.”

“I had some notes, and some documents from Nick’s apartment.” It was hard to say, for some reason. McDonnell didn’t miss the past tense.

“Had?”

“My house was torched tonight.”

McDonnell looked at her in disbelief. He rubbed his thumbs together without saying anything for a moment, then shook his head.

“Your husband, your house—Christ, Maggie, you’re a full-scale free-fire zone.” His eyes sharpened. “Is Foster involved in this somehow?”

“I don’t think so.” God, she hoped not. She had enough problems. “Look, Andy …”

My husband’s not dead, Maggie wanted to blurt out.He’s a vampire. He sucks blood. His friend is a vampire too.

“What?”

Well, whatcouldshe say?

“I’m not real comfortable with all this,” she compromised. McDonnell just looked at her. He had one of those faces that always seemed a little cynical even when he wasn’t—even though he had reason to be cynical, at the moment. “I’m taking a walk and I won’t be coming back here, okay? Let’s just say I’m meeting you at the hospital.”

McDonnell looked down at his thumbs, rubbed them together again, and nodded.

“He’s gonna be okay, you know,” Maggie said suddenly. Those dark blue eyes came up, suddenly, and in them was that gut-twisting sadness. Guilt. McDonnell was older, wiser, but all that didn’t much matter. Frank had come close to dying because McDonnell had made a mistake, and no matter how he felt about his partner personally, it was a hard thing to realize, that he had failed him. It was worse because Frank and McDonnell, for all their age difference, were close.

When, Maggie wondered, had she stopped trusting her own partner? Too soon? Too late?

“I hope so,” McDonnell whispered, and stood up. He tried a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll meet you at the hospital.”

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