A Gift for Dying

by M. J. Arlidge

  Suddenly Natalia found herself on her feet, her nerve failing her. Looking around at the creaking doors, the flapping shutters, she suddenly felt unaccountably scared, as if she was in danger, as if the church might suddenly collapse in on itself. For a moment, she thought about calling for Father Nowak, then suddenly she turned and fled for the exit.

  Bursting out on to the street, she was immediately knocked backwards, the wind roaring directly over her. It was starting to rain, big drops landing with a splat on the stone steps in front of her. Pulling her scarf around her face, Natalia hurried away down the road.

  She had come here seeking salvation, but had found only anger and violence.

  52

  ‘We should call 911.’

  Adam and Kassie were back in his car, having left Rochelle’s house.

  ‘And tell them what?’ Adam countered.

  ‘That Rochelle is missing.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Her keys and phone are there, you saw that. Why would she leave them behind?’

  She turned, her eyes boring into him. It was a direct challenge – and one he had to face down, for both their sakes.

  ‘Look, Kassie, in the police’s eyes, you are still a person of interest in the Jacob Jones murder …’

  Kassie paused, looking confused, even a little troubled by this information.

  ‘And I’m an indulgent shrink, who shouldn’t be humouring you. They will say that there is no evidence that a crime has been committed.’

  Kassie tried to interject, but Adam talked over her.

  ‘And they would be right. I admit Rochelle’s behaviour –’

  ‘Her disappearance, you mean.’

  ‘– is a little odd. But that’s all it is. Unless we have concrete proof that she’s been abducted or hurt, then the cops won’t do a thing.’

  ‘So we’re just going to abandon her?’

  ‘We can try again in the morning. She may have resurfaced by then.’

  ‘She’ll be dead by then …’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘… and it will be on your conscience.’

  The words exploded out of her, stunning Adam into silence. Kassie was flustered, red in the face, and he was surprised to see tears pricking her eyes.

  ‘This was a mistake,’ she continued accusingly, wrenching the door open.

  ‘Don’t run off, Kassie. It’s late – you shouldn’t be out alone.’

  She paid him no heed, however, clambering out of the car.

  ‘At least, let me give you a lift home …’

  But his words drifted away into the night. She was already halfway down the street, hurrying away as fast as she could.

  Adam drove home, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He was angry and distracted – worrying about Kassie, about Rochelle and – if he was being honest – himself too. What was he doing? Why had he volunteered to help Kassie at all, if he didn’t believe what she was saying? What was he hoping to achieve? If he was really concerned for her welfare, as he’d intimated to Faith, then he should have talked her down, persuaded her not to pursue Rochelle. But he had singularly failed in this – Kassie’s conviction that Rochelle was in danger was rock solid and she’d been determined to act upon it. She, at least, had no doubts about the significance or accuracy of her ‘gift’, about her ability to read the future.

  Privately, Adam had resisted her reading of events from the start. Not simply because it ran counter to his education, his training, but also because of its implications. If Kassie was right about Jacob Jones, about Rochelle, if she could accurately predict people’s fates, then it meant … what? That he was a murderer? That he would kill her?

  The idea was ridiculous. He had spent his whole life helping people, healing them. He was not a violent man. More than that, he liked Kassie, so in what world was it possible that he would harm her? He pushed the thought away, irritated by himself for thinking it. He must help Kassie, not encourage her wild fantasies. He should revert back to his original approach, using the skills he’d fostered over many years to counter the source of her psychosis. That was the way to help her – not by playing detectives in the middle of the night.

  He was cheered slightly by this thought, as he pulled up outside his house. It had been a disturbing evening, but things would be different from now on. He would concentrate his efforts on trying to get back some sense of normality – at work, at home, in his heart.

  Easing open the front door, he stepped inside. He expected to find Faith still up – she had been watching a lot of late-night TV since returning from hospital. But the lights were out and the house was shrouded in darkness.

  Dropping his keys on the hall table, he padded through the living room, past the deserted kitchen and on towards the bedroom. The lights were out here too and, stepping inside, Adam spotted the horizontal form of Faith, swathed in the duvet. She had obviously opted for an early night, though whether this was a good sign or not, he couldn’t tell. Either she couldn’t face the world and had retreated to bed, or she finally felt genuinely tired and was trying to refresh herself with a decent night’s sleep. God knows it had been a while since either of them had experienced one of those.

  He shed his clothes in the darkness and slid into bed beside her. She didn’t stir and as he settled himself down carefully on his side of the bed, he listened intently, hoping to pick up the sound of her breath, rising and falling gently. But he could hear nothing. Pulling the duvet up around his chin, he closed his eyes and tried to blot out the thoughts buzzing round his head.

  ‘Everything ok?’

  Her voice made him jump. He’d been convinced that she was asleep.

  ‘With Kassie, I mean.’

  ‘False alarm,’ he replied, turning to her.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She’s gone home. To be with her mom.’

  It was a lie – he had no idea where she’d actually gone – and he regretted telling it. The image it conjured up of mother and daughter in the family home could only be hurtful to Faith.

  ‘I’m glad she’s ok,’ Faith muttered, her voice catching slightly.

  She turned away from him and said no more. But Adam could tell by the slight movement of her shoulders, by the sharp, silent intakes of breath that she was crying. For a moment, he felt utterly stricken, hollowed out by the sound of his wife in pain, then, remembering himself, he rolled over and put his arm around her. Normally, he would have slipped it round her belly, but this time he laid it gently on her thigh. He held her, hoping this might be enough to stem her distress.

  ‘Do you think … do you think we’ll ever be ready to try again?’

  For a moment, Adam was speechless. Where had this thought come from? It was far too early to be thinking about that. They were still trying to process the awfulness of Annabelle’s death and, besides, after everything they’d been through to get pregnant in the first place, it seemed a huge mountain to climb. Something they could only consider once they had lived through their present grief.

  ‘I … don’t know, Faith,’ he said falteringly, aware he had to say something. ‘But maybe … we need to give ourselves a little time first?’

  Time was not on their side. Faith was already in her late thirties and, given their history, the odds were stacked against them. But it was also true that neither of them was in the right frame of mind to take on something that could be so damaging, so hurtful. Even so, he knew it wasn’t what Faith wanted to hear, his weasel words sounding unconvincing and evasive.

  Adam waited, expecting – fearing – a follow-up. But to his surprise Faith didn’t respond. Instead she turned away from him, pulling the sheet up to her chin. Reluctantly, he disengaged, returning to his side of the bed. He had said the wrong thing. And he desperately wanted to make amends. But there was nothing he could say to ease her pain. So instead he lay there, next to his motionless wife. Husband and wife united in grief and silence.

  53

  �
�Look what the cat dragged in …’

  Gabrielle was used to her husband’s good-natured barbs and was never riled by them. Principally because, on the whole, his censure was deserved.

  ‘I know and I’m sorry … Tell me the ball game was a non-event.’

  ‘Your elder son hit two home runs, your younger son three.’

  ‘Man …’ Gabrielle moaned, tossing her bag and coat on to a chair and collapsing next to Dwayne on the sofa. ‘I am in so much trouble.’

  ‘I think we’re talking one video game at least. Possibly two.’

  He eased himself up off the sofa, kissing her gently on the forehead.

  ‘Still it wasn’t all bad. I got to spend some time with the moms, some of whom are hot.’

  Gabrielle threw a cushion at him, but he was already halfway to the kitchen.

  ‘I’ll get beer and chips, you hit Netflix. You eaten something?’

  ‘Chips are fine,’ Gabrielle responded, picking up the remote.

  Lying back, she scrolled through the menu, until she found When We First Met. Moments later, Dwayne was back by her side, clinking bottles with her as the show began. Gabrielle treasured these moments – small oases of normality in a life that was riddled with stress, anguish and danger. She knew her job took its toll on her husband, her boys and herself too, if she was honest, which is why the opportunity to play at being a normal, happy couple was so important.

  The episode began and Gabrielle worked hard to immerse herself in it. The romantic shenanigans of Noah Ashby and his cohorts usually provided much needed escapism, but tonight she couldn’t settle – thoughts of their fruitless search for Kyle Redmond returning to nag at her. Despite a city-wide alert, there was still no sign of him. Chicago was a big place, nearly three million souls pounding its busy streets every day, but was it really possible to just disappear like that?

  ‘Ow.’

  Dwayne’s elbow had jabbed her in her ribs.

  ‘Focus. You’re not at work now.’

  Jabbing him back, she obliged, concentrating hard on the unfolding drama. But the reality was that with cases like these you were never off the job. Every mistake, every delay, was significant because of what it might mean. Despite their best efforts, they were still no closer to an arrest, no closer to bringing this distressing case to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Somewhere out there a killer was stalking Chicago.

  54

  ‘Please, talk to me …’

  Her voice sounded weak and cracked.

  ‘Why won’t you speak to me?’

  The man in the mask ignored her, pulling a duffelbag across the floor towards him. Desolate, Rochelle started to cry, salty tears and mucus stinging her battered throat. She had never felt this bad in her life – it was like she’d been in a serious car accident. She felt dizzy and disoriented and was unable to turn her head without vicious pains flaring up her neck, yet she knew this was the least of her worries. Her abductor had not said a word since she’d come to in this awful place and with each passing second her terror increased.

  She had been at home, washing away the cares of an upsetting day, when suddenly the shower screen had flown open. Rough hands had grabbed her and before she could register what was happening, she was on the bathroom floor, her naked legs sliding hopelessly over the wet tiles. Then that awful choking feeling.

  The next thing she knew, she was here, swathed in darkness, naked and exposed, her arms and legs bound behind her, feeling the crinkle of that awful plastic beneath her toes. Disoriented, terrified, she had screamed and screamed, but her abductor hadn’t responded, calmly going about his business unperturbed. He was dressed in a boiler suit and would have looked like an ordinary, everyday workman, were it not for the ski mask which concealed his features and his persistent, pitiless silence.

  ‘Please …’ she croaked once more. ‘Tell me what you want? I’ve got money … my dad’s got money … What do you want?’

  The man said nothing, but ceased searching now. Straightening up, he turned towards Rochelle. The room was dark and close, a single paraffin lamp offering a weak light, but still the sight of him chilled her blood. Clamped in his right hand was a butcher’s cleaver. The flickering light of the lamp danced wickedly off its glistening blade.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me …’

  Tears were streaming down Rochelle’s face now. Her captor didn’t react, merely cocking his head to appraise her distress, before moving towards her.

  ‘I’m begging you …’

  She was sobbing freely.

  ‘Don’t kill me …’

  He came to a halt right in front of her. Calmly, he ran the blunt edge of the cleaver down her cheek. The steel felt cold and cruel on her skin.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ he breathed.

  ‘No, no, not at all …’

  ‘Do you know what I do?’

  ‘No, I know nothing about you …’

  ‘Good.’

  He raised the cleaver high in the air, preparing to slam it into her skull. Jerking back, Rochelle howled in fear. But to her surprise, her attacker now lowered his arm, chuckling quietly to himself. Rochelle stared at him in blank astonishment, her heart thundering out the rhythm of her terror. In that moment, she’d expected to die. Now she feared something much worse lay in store for her.

  Sensing this, the man lowered himself to her level. His nose was almost touching hers. She could smell tobacco on his breath, the sharp tang of sweat.

  ‘We’re not going to rush this, Rochelle,’ he whispered.

  Rochelle couldn’t speak. The malevolence in his voice, the sparkle in his eyes, was too much. She wanted to pass out, for this all to be over, but cruelly her body wouldn’t oblige. She was locked in this nightmare.

  ‘We’re going to do this nice and slow …’

  ‘Please, no,’ she moaned.

  ‘Piece by piece …’

  He stroked her arm with the cleaver. Rochelle wanted to vomit – suddenly she knew exactly what was coming.

  ‘Starting with that pretty little tongue of yours.’

  55

  Morning sunlight crept through the gap in the curtains, illuminating a sombre scene. Natalia sat alone on her daughter’s neatly made bed, feverishly fingering her rosary beads, as she stared at the floor. She was angry with her daughter, embarrassed, aggrieved, but, above all else, she was worried. Kassie hadn’t come home last night.

  What on earth was she up to? Where was she? She had no friends to speak of, no family that she was close to, so who had summoned her? She certainly hadn’t needed asking twice, tearing from the church without a backward look. Did she have a boyfriend? Or a new girlfriend from one of the numerous help groups she’d attended over the years? Or was it possible that it was that psychologist, who had done nothing so far but encourage Kassie in her delusions, who’d called her last night? She suspected the latter, though for now of course she had no way of knowing.

  Rising, Natalia crossed to the windows, drawing back the curtains and scanning the street for the fifth time that morning. Having waited up until 2 a.m., Natalia had eventually gone to bed, reasoning that Kassie had stayed out late before. But as the clock crept round to 4 a.m., 5 a.m., then 6, Natalia had given up on sleep, calling Kassie’s cell phone once more, before dressing and hurrying out to check the street for any sign of her errant daughter.

  Disappointed, she had retreated to Kassie’s bedroom, hoping to find some clue as to her whereabouts, but there was nothing. Just the usual dirty clothes on the floor, the school textbooks carelessly scattered on the makeshift desk. And there she’d remained, waiting … hoping that Kassie would reappear. But there was no sign of her. Was she alive? Dead? In trouble? Natalia felt sure she would know if something bad had happened to her, she would feel it in her bones, and the fact that she didn’t provided her with some small crumb of comfort. But, beyond that, she couldn’t say what might have happened to her. Should she call the police? Surely not, after all the recent problems wit
h the authorities. At the very least, she would have to contact Kassie’s school to account for her absence – but this was not a phone call she was looking forward to. They were already skating on very thin ice with Principal Harrison as it was.

  Natalia slumped down on the bed, suddenly robbed of energy and hope. And as she lowered herself on to the sagging mattress, something caught her eye. A framed photo on the side of the bed. It was of a young Kassie with her parents, beaming happily as Wrigley Park stretched out behind her. A maelstrom of emotions stirred in Natalia’s breast – joy, pride, regret, all wrapped up in a deep sadness. She had tried so hard with Kassie. Knowing full well that she was not the most demonstrative person, she had gone out of her way to offer her precious baby affection. Dressing her nicely, feeding her well, taking her on trips when they could afford it. After Mikolaj’s death, it had been much harder of course – she’d had to work several jobs just to survive and was often too tired to engage with her difficult, unknowable child – but still she’d tried, determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past.

  Natalia’s own childhood had been troubled and lonely – her mother was a troubled woman who’d eventually lost her wits, but not before having reared six children. Right from the off, she’d had her favourites, and Natalia was not one of them. Aleksy, the blond, blue-eyed boy and Emilka, her wilful, beguiling eldest daughter, were the apples of her eye. Both had died before reaching adolescence, but while they were alive, everyone else had had to wait in line. This neglect had left its mark on Natalia and she’d determined to do things differently. She had only one child, so it was easier of course, but she had tried to make Kassie feel wanted and cared for, while also teaching her the correct way to live. How to be polite, useful, obedient, respectful of the church and her forebears.

  And what had been her reward? Disobedience, rejection, isolation. She had tried to give her daughter the love she’d never had, but had received nothing in return. Which is why she now found herself sitting alone on her daughter’s bed – sad, confused and scared.