M. J. Arlidge
* * *
A GIFT FOR DYING
Contents
Book One Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Book Two Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Book Three Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Epilogue Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
M. J. Arlidge has worked in television for the last fifteen years, specializing in high-end drama production, including the prime-time crime serials Torn, The Little House and Silent Witness. Arlidge also pilots original crime series for both UK and US networks. In 2015 his audio exclusive Six Degrees of Assassination was a Number One bestseller.
His first thriller, Eeny Meeny, was the UK’s bestselling crime debut of 2014. It was followed by the bestselling Pop Goes the Weasel, The Doll’s House, Liar Liar, Little Boy Blue, Hide and Seek, Love Me Not, and Down to the Woods.
For Jennie,
whose gifts are real
Nothing in life is to be feared;
it is only to be understood.
Marie Curie
Book One
* * *
1
The shock of the impact, then an act of kindness.
It was rush hour and North Michigan Avenue was teeming with souls. The sidewalk was clogged with office workers, shoppers and tourists keen to experience the magic of Chicago’s ‘Magnificent Mile’. Progress was faltering and Kassie kept her head down as she barged her way through the crowds. She seldom braved central Chicago – venturing north only to shoplift clothes and cosmetics from the upmarket stores – and she was keen to get back to the familiar sprawl of the southern suburbs.
Her eyes were glued to the floor – seeing feet approaching, then dodging them at the last minute – but her concentration must have wavered for a moment, because suddenly she hit something hard and unyielding. Such was the force of the collision that she was thrown backwards. Her satchel slid off her shoulder, the stolen clothes tumbling out on to the sidewalk, even as she crumpled on to the bubblegum-smeared concrete. She landed on her backside, her tailbone connecting sharply with the ground, the shock robbing her of breath and making her feel light-headed.
She sat there for a moment, aware of how ridiculous she must look, yet seemingly unable to move. To her shame, she felt tears prick her eyes.
‘Are you ok?’
The voice sounded far away, but still cut through the noise of the taxi horns on the busy avenue.
‘Totally my fault. I didn’t see you …’
Kassie became aware of a man crouching down over her.
‘Sometimes I’m so in the zone, I don’t notice what’s right in front of me …’
His voice was warm, calm. Kassie felt more foolish still – if the collision was anyone’s fault, it was hers. Her mother always said she was clumsy.
‘I hope I didn’t hurt you,’ the voice continued. ‘If you need to get checked ou—’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Kassie replied quickly. ‘I don’t want to hold you up.’
She hadn’t looked up at him, but she could tell by his immaculate brogues and expensive suit that he didn’t belong in her world. He clearly had status, money and presumably little time to be assisting high-school truants.
‘Here, let me help you.’
A hand was offered to her. Strong, confident, open. Gratefully, she grasped it and was soon back on her feet. The pain had gone now and she was keen to be away, fearful that one of the many police officers who patrolled North Michigan Avenue would take an interest in the items scattered on the ground.
‘Thank you,’ she muttered, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor.
‘Now, are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you? How about a cab …?’
His voice was so nice, so reassuring, that now she could
n’t resist. She looked up, taking in the strong, clean-shaven chin, the thick, brown curls, his deep, hazel eyes. The man was smiling, his eyes sparkling with good humour, but suddenly Kassie froze.
She’d been hoping to find kindness, even serenity in his expression. Instead, she was looking death in the face.
2
He was descending into the underworld.
Cook County Jail was imposing from the outside, with its towering walls and concertina wire, but even more unnerving on the inside. The subterranean tunnels that led to the cells were deliberately labyrinthine, the signs and directions having been removed to hinder escape attempts, and even regular visitors lost their way. Furthermore, the din that accompanied your progress – the catcalling, screaming and hollering – was incessant, only serving to amplify your anxiety about what might be waiting for you at the end of your journey. It wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t right, but this was the daily reality inside America’s largest unofficial mental health facility.
Adam Brandt had been coming here for years. An experienced forensic psychologist, he had always worked closely with the Sheriff’s Office. Harvard-educated, double-boarded for adult and paediatric psychology, he could have made a small fortune attending the clients who visited his private practice in Lincoln Park. But he’d never forgotten his humble origins; nor could he ignore his conscience, which is why he regularly found himself in the bowels of the earth under Cook County Jail.
The faces in the holding cells were depressingly familiar and Adam had been concerned to find himself opposite Lemar Johnson once more this morning.
‘I can’t be here, man. I can’t be here …’
‘I understand that, Lemar, and I’m going to try to get you out. But I need you to look at me. I can’t communicate with you, if you don’t look at me …’
The 21-year-old was rocking back and forth in his chair, his face concealed by his massive, scarred hands. His life had already been blighted by violence – his father murdered, a cousin gunned down in a drive-by – and his mental health had always hung in the balance. He was bipolar, suffered from PTSD and regularly used heroin to help him sleep. The last time their paths had crossed, Adam had managed to get Lemar referred to a mental health outreach unit and he’d been doing well following his release – with a little help from Prozac and hydroxyzine. Adam didn’t exactly approve of the drugs, but they seemed to be working – until last night at least, when Lemar had threatened a man with a knife in a chicken shop in South Shore.
‘Have you been taking your meds?’
‘Sure, sure …’
‘Look at me, Lemar.’
‘Shit, I ran out,’ the young man replied, not looking up.
‘Why?’
‘They said I had to wait four months for an appointment, a follow-up.’
Adam’s heart sank. This kind of complaint was common, given the recent cutbacks to mental health provision and the Capitol’s scandalous inability to agree a State Budget. The intransigence on both sides made his blood boil – it was never the politicians who suffered when they played politics.
‘I tried to make them last. One day on, one day off, but it was making me crazy.’
‘When did you run out?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
‘You should have contacted me. Contacted the Center.’
‘I tried, man.’
Adam let the lie go. Lemar had clearly been in a manic phase – socializing wildly, spending what little money he had, so he hadn’t a hope of posting bail – but was now beginning the steep decline into depression.
‘Ok, we’re going to get you some meds, then I want you to tell me exactly what happened. You’ve got your arraignment tomorrow and I want your attorney to have everything she needs to argue that a short stay in a residential mental health unit is what’s needed. I take it you’d prefer that to staying here?’
Lemar stopped fidgeting long enough to nod his head briefly.
‘Good, then let’s talk.’
An hour later, Adam found himself back in the prison’s parking lot. He strode over to his Lexus SUV – an extravagance he’d convinced himself was acceptable, given the imminent arrival of his first child – checking his watch as he went. Lemar had been reluctant to talk and it had taken a while to get a coherent summary of events from him. It was pushing 6 p.m. now – he would have to pray that the traffic wasn’t too bad, if he were to call in at the office and make it home at a reasonable time. Upping his pace, he zapped the car, opened the driver’s door and flung his bag and jacket inside. As he did so, however, his cell phone began to vibrate.
Calls at this hour were never good news and Adam was not surprised to recognize the number. The caller was Freddie Highsmith, Superintendent at Chicago’s Juvenile Detention Center.
‘I’m just on my way home, Freddie,’ Adam said cautiously.
‘I know, I know,’ Freddie responded brightly. ‘But when you need the best in the business …’
‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere –’
‘… plus there’s no one else available. I’ve rung all the usual suspects, but everyone’s under siege. Look, I know you’re running on empty … but I can’t give this one to a college grad.’
Freddie paused now, his jovial manner evaporating as his anxiety punched through. Adam said nothing, suddenly concerned, listening intently as Freddie concluded:
‘We’ve got a live one here.’
3
Jacob Jones drained his Goose Island, then banged the empty glass on the wooden counter, signalling to the bartender that he needed another. The condensation was still thick on the glass and the harassed server snatched it up, arching an eyebrow at the speed of Jacob’s consumption. Jacob didn’t react. His mind was elsewhere and, besides, neither the bar nor the bartender was familiar to him. Greene’s Tavern was one of several old-fashioned drinking holes in the area that harked back to the Prohibition era. Tourists liked to come here to wallow in nostalgia, to take photos of themselves supping beer under the watchful eye of Al Capone, but to Jacob this place was a short-term sanctuary – a port in a storm.
The bartender marked up his tab and slid the glass towards him. Froth spilled over the sides, but Jacob swept it up, raising it greedily to his lips. As the lager slid over his tongue, hitting the back of his throat, he realized that his hand was shaking and he quickly replaced the glass on the counter. Suddenly he felt emotion ambush him – his heart pounding once more – and he had to lower his face towards the floor to hide his tortured expression.
‘Get a grip,’ he muttered to himself, hoping that the noisy cabal of British tourists nearby wouldn’t hear him.
He knew he was over-reacting. In the course of his work, he had encountered many shocking events, though he had seldom been the one at the centre of the storm. Even now, an hour or more after the confrontation, he was trying to process exactly what had happened.
He had been so intent on getting home that he hadn’t seen the girl until he’d dumped her on her ass. He had played college football back in the day and often put this to good use on the busy Chicago streets, leading with his shoulder as he parted the crowds. This time, however, he had misjudged his line of attack and taken out the startled teenager.
Determined as he was to get back to West Town, he’d been raised to put his hand up when he was at fault. So he’d checked that the girl was ok and helped her to her feet. He’d then tried to engage her in conversation and she’d seemed all right at first, muttering her thanks through her embarrassment. Then the whole thing kind of went off. What had he been expecting? Gratitude? Apologies? A girlish blush? He knew he was an attractive guy – tall, well-built, with a kind face – and on other occasions women had become pleasingly flustered on finding themselves talking to him. But there was no engaging bashfulness in this teenager’s expression – she looked horrified.
He’d carried on talking to her, but she had just stared at him, shaking and speechless, so in the end he had cut and run. Disconcerted, angry
at her lack of gratitude, he had hurried on his way. Nancy wasn’t home – she was at a conference in San Francisco – but still he’d wanted to get back to the house, to put the whole strange incident behind him.
But as he’d charged down North Michigan Avenue, dodging the ponderous tourists, he became aware of something. Someone shouting, then footsteps coming up fast behind him. He’d turned suddenly – expecting what exactly? – just in time to see the girl throw herself at him.
Jacob raised the glass to his lips once more, draining another half-pint. What had happened after that still seemed like a blur. The girl had clasped his right arm, then his lapels, trying desperately to grab hold of him. He had attempted to extricate himself, even as the words – manic and confused – tumbled from her lips. Still she’d clung on, so he’d pushed her forcefully away, but this only seemed to anger her further. She started screaming – threatening him, if you could believe it – and instinctively he’d freed his right arm to strike her. Thankfully, this had proved unnecessary as a couple of police officers now intervened, hauling the girl off. Still she didn’t relent, screeching at Jacob, even as she was dragged to the waiting patrol car.
Tugging his suit jacket back into shape, Jacob had turned away, unable to watch the sorry spectacle any longer. The young girl hadn’t looked angry or aggrieved any more.
She’d looked deranged.
4
‘How long’s she been doing that?’
Adam peered through the window of the supervision cell. A teenage girl was pacing back and forth, shouting and gesturing at the door.
‘Since she came in,’ the custody officer drawled. ‘First, she was demanding to be let out. Then she was trying to rip the door off. Now she’s happy just handing out abuse.’
Adam digested this information, his eyes never leaving the pacing figure. Half an hour ago, he’d been looking forward to finishing up his paperwork and heading home to see Faith, but already the clinician in him was taking over. This teenager – she was fourteen, fifteen at the most – was clearly in the middle of some kind of mental health breakdown.
‘She was brought in an hour ago. Tried to rob some guy on North Michigan. Right in front of the cops. She had an ounce of skunk on her apparently, so I don’t know what sense you’re going to get out of her.’
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