Dead and Alive

Manderley burned to the ground, all the woman’s problems were gone. Her life with Maxim would be troubled by no further drama or worry; and ahead were years of cozy routine….
    How wonderful. Lovely, peaceful years. Tea every afternoon with little sandwiches and biscuits …
    Manderley would be lost, and that was sad, but knowing that all would be well eventually, she should enjoy Manderley now as much as possible with Mrs. Danvers always scheming.
    She selected a suitable volume for Mrs. Van Hopper,
Jamaica Inn
, which seemed to be a work of fiction, a light entertainment.
    In a library-desk drawer, she found a selection of stationery for a variety of special occasions. She chose a cream-colored linen paper with a nosegay of colorful ribbons at the top.
    She wrote a lovely note to Mrs. Van Hopper, signed it “Mrs. Maxim de Winter,” inserted it in a matching envelope, sealed the flap, and put the envelope with
Jamaica Inn
. She would ask Christine to wrap and mail the package first thing in the morning.

CHAPTER 35
    AT THIS HOUR , only a battered Mustang, a pristine but forty-year-old Mercedes, and a Ford Explorer occupied the fourth floor of the public parking garage.
    Carson let the Honda idle beside each vehicle, while Michael got out to determine if anyone might be sleeping in it. No, no, and no. They had the fourth floor to themselves.
    Through the open sides of the building, a growing wind flung glassy beads of rain to shatter on the concrete floor. Carson parked the Honda in an empty row in the dry center of the garage.
    Let out of the car, Duke trotted around the immediate area, investigating a discarded candy wrapper, a half-crushed Starbucks cup, an empty Big Mac container….
    They left the Urban Snipers in the Honda. They still had their service pistols in shoulder rigs, the .50 Magnums in belt scabbards.
    As Michael fished his phone out of a coat pocket and keyed in Deucalion’s number, Carson watched for movement among the forest of concrete columns, listened for footsteps. She recognized the danger of prudence sliding into paranoia; nevertheless, she stood with her right arm across her body, thumb hooked on her belt, which brought her gun hand within inches of the Desert Eagle under her blazer, on her left hip.
    For anyone drawn into an orbit around Victor Helios, the word
impossible
no longer had any meaning. So maybe in his spare time, the Transylvanian transplant scored some pterodactyl DNA, combined it with a sociopathic homeboy’s genes, and cooked up a man-reptile cop killer that would swoop in from the storm. Chances were she wasn’t going to die from a heart attack or from anything else that would leave a neat corpse, but she was for damn sure not going to be torn apart in the jaws of a gangbanger-dragon hybrid wearing a do-rag and a gold nose ring.
    Deucalion must have taken the call, because Michael said, “Hey, it’s me. We’re in a parking garage. Fourth floor.”
    After giving the address, Michael hung up.
    As the phone produced an end-call beep, Deucalion stepped into the garage about twenty feet away, as though he’d come out of Narnia through a wardrobe, except there wasn’t even a wardrobe.
    Carson always forgot how big he was until she saw him again. In his long black coat, as he approached them, he looked like Darth Vader on a steroids-only diet.
    “You’re wet,” Deucalion said.
    “We were in a monster mash at Audubon Park,” Michael said. “One of them had a nice butt.”
    Duke padded around the car, saw the tattooed newcomer, halted, and cocked his head.
    “Whose dog?” Deucalion asked.
    “He belonged to the district attorney,” Michael said, “then to the district attorney’s replicant, but the replicant walked smack into a bunch of shotgun slugs, so now Duke belongs to us.”
    “Things are going to get apocalyptic soon,” Deucalion said.
“A
dog will get in your way.”
    “Not this dog. He’s one of those highly trained service dogs. When we switch from shotguns to .50 Magnums, he can reload the empty weapons for us.”
    To Carson, Deucalion said, “I’m never sure I understand half the things he says.”
    “Eventually you don’t care,” Carson assured him. “Michael has hyperactive disorder, but he talks fast enough to keep himself entertained, so he’s not a lot of trouble.”
    Duke approached Deucalion, tail wagging.
    Holding one of his hands down to allow the dog to lick his fingers, Deucalion stared so intently at Carson that she felt