Fairchild had never seen a living person other than her parents. Undercutting her fear of this unknown stranger who may have breached their home with his evil, was a fierce curiosity to get a closer look.
Lightly she scooted down the rest of the ladder and landed quietly. She crept forward, anxiety keeping her closer to the containers than the bunks. Itching to see what was contained inside, her little fingers pried off the top of one of the containers. Inside was a pile of jewelry: watches and chains, rings and bracelets. Her hand raked through the glinting gold and silver. Were her parents rich?
A rustle from the bunk bed jolted her to turn in that direction, crouching low against the debris packed against the wall. Her heart fluttered as the body on the bed moved and the head flopped in her direction so she could see his eyes, glassy with silent horror. Tears spurted from the corners. Several grunts escaped past the silver duct tape over his mouth. Now she could see his hands were above his head, ziplocked to the bedposts and the same with his ankles.
Fairchild whimpered as a flood of terror swamped her. He bucked hard enough to move the bedframe, metal screeching against stone. Blood seeped from between his rough, black stitches.
She shrank further back against the wall, knocking the lid from another box. She glanced down to see a pile of smart phones tangled with the wires from chargers and ear buds and pale blue and pink plastic cards.
The man on the bed grunted again and again, his eyes wide and desperate and pleading. But pleading for what Fairchild didn’t know. Her glance fell to the glass screens and plastic glinting like fish scales in the dim light. Her eyes skimmed the information on the cards as she soothed herself by concentrating on storing their numbers in her head.
A sudden clanging alerted her to footsteps coming down the ladder and drove Fairchild to burrow further into the mound of boxes. She heard the murmur of voices and recognized them as belonging to her parents. They would be mad that she wasn’t upstairs in bed. They would punish her and Fairchild knew that meant isolation, no television, no contact for days at a time until she learned her lesson. Hidden between the piles of debris she could see nothing. Her hands rubbed blindly over the studs on her plastic block as she counted to eight over and over.
“You confirmed the money’s come through?” That was her father’s voice.
She heard creaking and then several thumps.
“Yes. All confirmed. The hospital’s on standby,” her mother finished the sentence with a grunt, as though she had exerted herself.
Wheels creaked and Fairchild risked a peek. Her father and mother wheeled the stranger in a hospital bed towards the dark end of the room. They were dressed in green scrubs, their heads covered by turbans and their faces by masks.
Fairchild drifted backwards towards the ladder, her bare feet silent. If she could only get upstairs her parents would never know she had left her bed.
Abruptly, bright lights flooded the cavernous space, open like a vast yawn beyond the debris-littered canyon. The light shone from two massive operating theater luminaires over an operating table. She saw her mother hover over a stainless steel cart filled with equipment. She attached electrodes to the stranger that beeped out a regular red line on a monitor. Fairchild had seen enough images on television to recognize the scene as a hospital room.
Poised high in the air, her vantage point allowed her to see the instruments on the cart under her father’s hand. Bone cutters and chisels, dissecting knives and scalpels, surgical hooks and scissors. Her father had begun teaching her their names as he taught her how to use them to dissect frogs and rats. He was most pleased when she could hide her squeamishness to follow his directions.
* * *
The youth on the operating table reared and flailed so hard against his restraints he almost split the ugly black stitches across his abdomen and chest. He had already experienced the Surgeon’s expertise.
Standing aloof, the Surgeon watched his wife tighten the straps on the young man. Even so, his limbs twitched and his head thrashed to and fro. Beneath his mask the Surgeon smiled to himself. There was nothing he enjoyed more than cutting into live flesh.
He hummed the overture to Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro softly while she injected a paralyzing agent into the teenager’s arm. The spasming quickly stilled, his head jerked abruptly before stiffening into immobility. But his eyes remained wide open, pinned to the Surgeon’s eyes as they silently begged, unaware of the torrent of power his helplessness unleashed inside his tormentor.
Dark thoughts screamed through the Surgeon’s brain. He desperately wanted to smell the scent of blood. It was close to overwhelming, but he knew he had to control himself. First, he must remove the heart, the beating heart from within that chest, and then he could let himself loose.
Apart from the soft sounds of humming machines and monitors, silence sealed itself around them and allowed his focus to narrow to the blood pulsing under the pale flesh. His breathing intensified. Soon he would release that blood.
The Surgeon wielded the scalpel with precision. There was the delicious feel of the knife cutting flesh. The blade flashed under the lights as it sliced through muscle and sinew. A fountain of blood gushed upwards and it was all he could do not to rub his hands in it. Beside him, the nurse poured ice cold water into the open torso.
“Blood pressure?” he asked.
She consulted her monitors. “Rising. So is his pulse rate and adrenaline.”
All signs of the pain and distress he was causing. The Surgeon felt a thrill that electrified his penis to throbbing erection. His eyes glittered as lust threatened to overtake him.
“First, the heart,” she rebuked him.
He continued to work until the whole chest cavity was open, the skin peeled back and draped loosely over the boy’s form. The violence of his cutting made his own blood sing with pleasure.
The nurse swabbed the oozing blood so he could have a clear view of the pumping heart. So pink, so tender and juicy a morsel. And such a short window of time for it to be viable. He cut it free from its owner, holding the pulsating organ in his hands for a few brief seconds.
He placed the bloody mass of flesh into a sterile box, clamping on the tubing that would oxygenate and nourish the heart for up to twelve hours. The nurse took it from him.
The sight of blood whet his appetite for more. His passion held him in its grip once he loosened the leash. The Surgeon hacked until blood and thick gobs of flesh flew as he tore out the remaining organs. Body pieces fell around his feet. Plunging his arms into the hollow cavity up to his elbows, he squished the gurgling intestines between his fingers.
He never felt more alive than when meting out death. His life, their death. Finally he buried his face in the cavity, and his world became soaked in red. It was all he could see before his eyes, all that filled his nose. How he loved the scent of blood! That precious, life-giving fluid. His was a sacred job and he was thankful for his skill and precision. He was the Surgeon.
* * *
Huddled under her comforter, Fairchild fondled her plastic block between both hands, thumbing the eight studs repetitively. All the terrifying evil her mother said was waiting for her out in the real world had crashed on top of her because what she had witnessed was the essence of evil. The images colliding through her mind were like the worst scenes she had watched on television.
Seeing her father’s rabid fury left Fairchild’s reality teetering precariously and forced her to reassess everything she knew about her life.
Fresh tears burned tracks down her cheeks. She compelled her mind inwards, recalling every number she had ever memorized in an attempt to obliterate the images. She wanted desperately to disappear inside the buzzing white noise she created. But two questions intruded behind the numbers.
Had her parents been tainted by the evil world outside?
If so, was she still safe?
Chapter 2
Thursday, March 1
At the sound of DCI Nicholas “Cole” Mac
kinley’s voice, a rough burr of sanding paper, Bex Wynter’s shoulders tensed. With her back to the two men entering the small staff lunchroom, she continued to stir her coffee until the powder dissolved, hoping to pass under their radar.
“Poor bugger was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He’d just pulled the car over for speeding with his sarge breathing down his neck when he realized the driver was his wife, driving her friend’s car home because the friend had had too much to drink.”
She hadn’t been privy to Cole’s relaxed leadership style before. Their interactions were limited to terse boundary disputes between the Bridesmead CID, Cole’s turf, and the Youth Crimes Team, Bex’s domain. It was a continual tug of war between who would claim the interview rooms for the day or who had prior rights to the car pool. Since the Youth Crimes Team specialized in crime committed by those too young to vote, Cole had a habit of dropping his team’s cases on her to investigate if there was a whiff that the offender might be under eighteen.
A side-splitting belly laugh exploded from Detective Inspector Oliver Yabsley. A tiny frown furrowed Bex’s brow. What Cole had said wasn’t that funny. Yabsley was sucking up to his superior, Bex judged.
“Shit! Charlie didn’t give his missus a ticket did he?”
She heard Cole chuckle in response. The sound was little more than a throaty vibration, but Bex could visualize the smiling lift of Cole’s slightly crooked mouth. He tended to use that chuckle, wrapped up in an affably self-satisfied attitude, whenever she attempted to bargain over using the facilities both teams shared in the same building.
Hell, it wasn’t her team’s fault that they had been shoehorned into the existing Bridesmead Criminal Investigation Department. The building was in a prime location on Little King Lane, just a stone’s throw from New Scotland Yard on Victoria Embankment and wedged between the National Crime Agency and Prime Minister’s residence in Downing Street. Instead of being thankful for the upgrade to facilities and refurbishment of the nineteenth century building occasioned by the move, Cole and his entire CID unit acted as though they were providing the favors.
“The knucklehead did just that. Figured it was better than having his boss write him up for nepotism. Charlie then had to live with his wife’s cold shoulder for the next six months! Still, that’s what he gets for abandoning CID to go back to traffic. And he thought that was an easier option!”
Bex finally quit stirring her coffee. She couldn’t keep standing at the sink any longer. They would begin to think she was deliberately eavesdropping on their conversation.
Grasping the hot mug, Bex veered away from the kitchen counter, trying to avoid the men. Given the cramped space that was difficult. Bex didn’t think of herself as petite, but, standing six foot three, Cole’s well-defined frame fairly filled the area.
“DCI Wynter, enjoying a break from paperwork with a bit of earwigging?” he asked, his wide mouth curling into a smirk.
Silver threads laced through inky black hair gave Cole’s unlined face a gravitas it didn’t deserve, thought Bex.
“DCI Mackinley,” she acknowledged tersely. Had he just stooped to name-calling her an earwig? Annoyance made her retaliate. “Not much to enjoy in this swill you Brits call coffee, but I’m doing my best.”
“Ought to try Dill’s Sandwich Bar. Their coffee is rich, hot and best of all it’ll keep you up all night, just like a Scotsman.”
Forced to look upwards to meet his glance, Bex noted laugh lines crinkling around sharp hazel eyes, more green than brown. She suspected he was baiting her and suppressed a wince, instead pasting on a fake smile to prove he hadn’t fazed her.
“Then I prefer the lunchroom swill.”
Yabsley guffawed, his chipmunk cheeks puffing in and out. His stoic, pudgy face was saved from ugliness solely by the grace of his Roman nose.
“Plus they make the best chip butties this side of the Thames!” Yabsley waved a half eaten sandwich in her direction.
“I’ll keep that in mind if I want to chow down on a cholesterol overload,” she snapped, heading for the stairs. Bex had learned from her landlady, Georgie, that a “chip buttie” was two pieces of white bread filled with slices of fried potato, the British equivalent of French fries, generously slathered with salt.
One floor down Bex squeezed into her office, little more than the size of a large clothes closet. In fact she was pretty certain it had been used for storage space before the refurbishment.
She had barely settled herself behind the cheap chipboard desk when her most junior team member, Detective Constable Reuben Richards, stuck his head round the open door.
“Got a bit of an odd phone call, Boss,” he said. His nose wrinkled. “That smells like lunchroom coffee. I thought you hated the brew that came out of the instant coffee jar? Should’ve popped down to Dill’s. They make—”
“Yes, I know, a great cup of coffee,” she interrupted him. “Just watch it, Reuben, or I’ll be stealing your upmarket coffee sachets next. Believe me, today I could do with the sugar hit. Now, what about that phone call? Are you sure it’s something you can’t handle?”
“The caller’s been bandied around from one section to another, but I think she’s finally reached the right destination. Sort of.”
Bex released a heavy sigh. The stack of paperwork on her desk was demanding her attention. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
“The caller wants to talk to the woman who solved the school bus kidnapping. She saw the police officer talking on the television last year.”
“That’s Detective Superintendent Sophie Dresden then,” Bex said with decision.
The Youth Crimes Team had worked to free twenty-two schoolgirls, including Detective Sergeant Eli Morgan’s daughters, from a sex-slave ring, but, as usual, Dresden had been the one preening in front of the cameras and accepting the public’s accolades. That was fine by Bex, who would rather solve crimes than talk about them.
“Trouble is, the caller’s just a kiddie. I don’t know if bothering Dresden is the diplomatic thing to do.”
Reuben rubbed the back of his neck, almost as though he could feel Dresden’s eyes boring into him. Bex understood his hesitation. Dresden was a tough, no-nonsense woman who didn’t suffer fools or wrong decisions lightly.
“What do you mean the caller’s a child?”
“Well, you can hear it in her voice. Wouldn’t give her name, just insisted she needed to speak to the police lady on television.”
“And you brought this to me because?”
Reuben offered her a sheepish grin.
“Well, I figured you worked on the case more than Dresden and you’re a woman, so maybe you could field the call without bothering the super.”
“You’re very considerate of Dresden, but I can’t say the same for me,” Bex said with asperity. “Are you suggesting I impersonate a superintendent?”
“It won’t kill you,” Reuben said.
“Dresden might if she finds out!”
Reuben made puppy dog eyes at her until Bex heaved an exaggerated sigh of surrender. She certainly couldn’t imagine Dresden being pleased to be bothered by a child, even if that child turned out to be a gushing fan.
“Alright, transfer it through.”
She picked up the receiver on her landline.
“Hello?”
“Is this Detective Superintendent Sophie Dresden?” The crystalline voice on the end of the line was strained.
Bex hesitated over the lie, but it would solve Reuben’s problem if the girl thought she was talking to the right person. After all what was she going to ask? How did you find the kidnappers? How do I become a police officer? Bex felt confident answering those questions.
Eight months of living in London had done nothing to soften the edges off her New York accent, so she had to concentrate to make her voice approximate Dresden’s pronunciation. She knew she hadn’t nailed it, but it would have to do.
“Yes it is.”
There was a heartfelt sigh at the othe
r end of the line.
“What’s your name?” Bex asked.
“Fairchild.” The voice was soft and breathy, hardly more than a whisper.
“How old are you?”
“I’m eight years, sixteen weeks and three days. I like to calculate my age in weeks rather than months, because months can be rather imprecise, I think, and could make you believe I’m either older or younger than I actually am. With weeks there’s no ambiguity, is there?”
“I’ve never thought of it that way, before, but yes technically you’re right. What can I do to help you, um, Fairchild?” Bex hesitated over the use of a name she was unsure was first name or surname.
“I don’t know what you can do. That’s why I’m calling you. I saw a news announcement that you were in charge of the team that saved all those girls on the hijacked school bus. The text caption had a phone number and I remembered that. You did save those girls, didn’t you?” Her voice ended on a note of anxiety.
“Yes I did,” Bex answered truthfully.
“So therefore you must be one of the competent police officers. Because most of the time the police don’t get it right, do they? Because if you did, there wouldn’t be so much evil in the world, would there?”
“Thank you for the vote of confidence in me. I think the police win more times than you’re giving us credit for,” she assured the little girl. “Is something troubling you, Fairchild?”
Sounds of quiet breath were all that broke the silence at the end of the line for several seconds before she spoke again. “Do you think it makes you evil to kill a bad man?”
Bex was stunned. She bit her cheek, wondering at the best way to answer the question.
“I’m not sure it’s ever okay to kill anyone, Fairchild. Bad or not. Why do you ask?”
“Because I think my parents killed someone. If they did that he must have been a bad man.”
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 50