Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel)

by Stephen Leather

  Charmaine’s expression changed as she pushed open the door to the street. A look of determination came into her eyes, her jaw set and she started on her last walk. It wouldn’t be long now. She pulled the hood of her zipper jacket up over her blonde hair, feeling the small bottle in each side pocket as she did so, and feeling the larger bottle in her backpack bouncing against her spine with every step. The streets weren’t too busy at this time of the evening, and nobody paid any attention to the small slim figure in black as she strode confidently towards her final destination. It was almost as if she were invisible, or under some form of protection.

  She didn’t have so far to walk, just over twenty minutes and she arrived in plenty of time. The gates should have been locked at sundown, but someone seemed to have neglected their duties, and she pushed them open just enough to squeeze herself through, before shutting them behind her. She walked along the paths, through the gardens, meeting no security guards along the way, until she came to the place that had been chosen for her. This too should have been locked, but, strangely, it wasn’t. She pushed open the entrance door and walked unhesitatingly into the darkness. All around her was breathtaking beauty, just waiting to reflect any light that might shine, but she never saw any of it, as she made her way to the far wall and sat down.

  The bottle in her left pocket had a ‘child proof’ cap on it, but any child capable of understanding arrows could have opened it, and she’d watched her mother do it often enough, so the darkness proved no obstacle. She put the first two pills into her mouth, then unscrewed the top of the second bottle, took a mouthful and swallowed hard. Her first ever taste of vodka should have burnt her mouth and throat, but she showed no reaction, as she repeated the process until the first pill bottle was empty. Then she started on the second. When that was finished, she poured the remaining vodka straight down her throat.

  It took her very little time to die, with the sudden intake of a large amount of alcohol causing what the coroner later described as ‘ventricular ectopic activity increasing electrical instability in the heart, leading to sudden cardiac arrhythmia and death.’ Her body had never had chance to absorb any of the tranquillisers.

  Outside, Dudák leaned against a convenient stone, feeling the energy of the child’s last moments feed the hunger within. Again, the eyes rolled up until only the whites were visible, and the red flush rose up the neck and throat. It had happened much sooner than expected, but Dudák had shown enough foresight to follow the child, and be at hand to feed at any moment.

  Dudák sat down behind another stone, hidden by the darkness of the moonless night, and awaited the coming of its creature, and the culminating part of the night’s plan.

  CHAPTER 22

  Nightingale awoke with a jolt, still feeling the hot breath of the Hellhound on his skin, holding his arm across his face in a last attempt to protect himself. It took him almost a minute to realise that he was alone, in his bed at the hotel, with the big toe of his right foot still twitching in response to his desperate attempt to re-anchor himself in the world of reality. The room was in darkness, as the candle had burnt out. His phone was ringing and he picked it up. Nearly five hours had passed in the real world, whilst his trip to the Astral had seemed to last just minutes. He wondered how much longer his unoccupied body might have survived.

  He focused on the caller display now, saw that it was Kim Jarvis and slid his finger across the green icon. ‘Jack, where were you? I’ve been calling for nearly two minutes. I was getting scared that something had happened to you.’

  ‘Call of nature, love,’ said Nightingale. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I found the girl, Jack. Simple, I just called every Wendover in the book and asked to speak to Charmaine. As soon as I got someone who asked who I was, instead of who Charmaine was, I hung up and started stake-out duty outside the apartment. She lives with her mother, Elise Wendover. I don’t know how she got out of the apartment without her mother knowing but I followed her down here. She’s okay so far, but God knows what she’s planning, Can you get here now?’

  ‘If I knew where ‘here’ was, maybe I could.’

  She told him. ‘Memphis Memorial Park cemetery. It’s on Poplar Avenue.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Nightingale. ‘A cemetery? At night?’

  ‘No joke, Jack. Look for the Crystal Shrine Grotto. Get here as fast as you can, I don’t want to be alone down here.’

  ‘I’ll be with you as soon as the GPS can get me there.’

  ‘You at the Peabody? Should take you twenty-five minutes.’

  Nightingale made it in thirty-five minutes. He parked outside the cemetery, climbed out of the SUV and lit a cigarette as he looked around. There was no sign of Kim. The gates were unlocked, and he walked through easily enough, pushing them closed behind him. The road outside had been empty, and so was the cemetery. There was enough moonlight for him to follow the signs to the Crystal Shrine Grotto. He couldn’t help noticing how well-tended the whole place was, with the flowers and trees making it feel more like a park than the English cemeteries he was used to. The place was almost completely silent, with just the occasional sound of a vehicle passing in the streets outside.

  Nightingale followed a final sign that took him over a rustic wooden bridge, across a small lake, and then he stopped in front of what looked like a small part of an English castle set into rocks, with bushes behind them. A large, dark wooden door was set into the stonework, with the left part of it ajar. Nightingale took the time to read the sign outside, which told him that the Crystal Shrine Grotto was a unique cave that had been constructed eighty years earlier by a Mexican artist called Dionicio Rodriguez. Natural rock and quartz crystal collected from the Ozarks had been used to construct a background for nine scenes from the life of Christ.

  No light came from inside, so Nightingale pulled his mobile phone and switched it on, then put it in flashlight mode. He pushed the door gently, to open it far enough for him to squeeze through.

  The light from his phone illuminated the walls and Nightingale gasped at the beauty of the artist’s work. The bland sign outside hadn’t prepared him for the vast numbers of crystals in a dazzling variety of colours, which clung to the walls and ceiling as if they had all grown there. Placed around the walls were the various scenes of Jesus’s life, but Nightingale barely gave them a glance, as the light shone onto the one thing there that didn’t belong to this world of beauty.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said, picking himself up from the ground and walking over to where the tiny figure sat propped up against the wall. The beam of light darted over the two medicine bottles and the empty fifth of vodka, then Nightingale bent to push back the hood, lift the hair and feel for the carotid pulse.

  The temperature of the girl’s neck told him at first touch that it was useless, as did the blank eyes staring at him from another world. He closed the eyelids and stood up straight, trying hard to reconcile what he was seeing with what he’d been told.

  The lights went on, and Nightingale spun round, his eyes screwing themselves shut automatically, then opening, blinking, and finally focusing on the figure that stood in the doorway.

  ‘Move away from her, go and stand over there.’ The figure accompanied the words with a gesture from the gun in the left hand. Nightingale complied.

  ‘Evening, Kim,’ he said. ‘You’re not really dressed for this weather, are you?’ He slid the phone into his pocket.

  She wore a khaki exercise bra-top, and a pair of denim shorts, with desert boots on her feet, exposing the tattoos which he could now see seemed to cover every visible inch of her body below the neck. Despite himself, Nightingale couldn’t help admiring the artistry of the dragons, cats, witches, cauldrons and Occult symbols, old and new. The colours were vibrant, almost pulsing, as if they were all fresh.

  ‘Just thought you might like to see the full effect for once. And it will be only once. It’s nice to let the world see too.’

  ‘Impressive,’ said Nightingale. ‘Mus
t have hurt.’

  ‘What’s a little pain, Jack? Sacrifices have to be made, as you can see.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  He took a half-step forward, but she shook her head. ‘No. Back you go, or I might decide to shoot off some part of you that you’d miss. I’m very good with a gun.’

  Nightingale believed her. He’d negotiated at gunpoint before, and the calm, controlled ones had always frightened him the most. They always gave the impression of having nothing to lose by firing. The excitable ones wanted an excuse not to pull the trigger. He nodded at the body of the child, propped against the wall.

  ‘You did that? And the others?’

  She laughed, more in contempt than genuine humour. ‘She was dead long before I got here.’

  ‘So who did kill her?’

  ‘She did, all by herself.’

  ‘Why? You expect me to believe that a ten-year-old girl would take her own life like that? What’s happening here, Kim? Who’s doing this?’

  Again the mocking laugh. ‘You’ve seen way too many movies, Jack. This really isn’t like that. The villain isn’t going to explain it all to the hero, just so he can kick the gun away and good can triumph over evil. All you need to know is that this is much bigger than you, and this is where you bow out.’

  ‘You’re not going to shoot me here in cold blood. You...’

  ‘You’ll never get away with it? Oh, come on. The last words of yours I’ll ever hear, and that’s the best you can do? No, I’m not going to shoot you, that would be far too easy.’

  Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘Bye, Dude.’ She put the gun in her mouth, pulled the trigger and blew the top of her head off.

  CHAPTER 23

  Dudák heard the sound of the shot from inside the cave and nodded in satisfaction. It hadn’t been necessary to wait by the wooden bridge after all, but there was always the possibility of the unexpected. The creature had done as instructed, and with perfect timing. Already the sirens were responding to the summons that Dudák had sent as the creature had entered the cave. There was no point in staying now. Dudák could not feed here, and an encounter with the police would be unwelcome. Dudák melted silently and swiftly into the darkness, and was half a mile away by the time the first police-car arrived.

  CHAPTER 24

  Nightingale took a full minute to process what he had just seen, gazing in horror at the body of the journalist, who had collapsed on the floor in a grotesque heap, the gun falling from the limp fingers. Her blood was already staining the floor of the cave. He could hear the sirens getting closer by the second. Somebody must have called the cops. What had happened had obviously been well planned and part of that plan involved the cops turning up.

  If this had been London, he might have risked making a run for it, but in the United States of America, with all the cops armed, running was not a good idea. With a woman and a little girl lying dead on the floor, there might be a tendency to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. He got down on his knees, put his hands behind his neck, and waited.

  The first cops arrived at the grotto two minutes after he first heard the siren.

  There were two of them, both overweight, in their thirties and with the tired eyes of men who had seen everything and were no longer surprised at the way human beings treated each other. One of them went over to Kim’s body while Nightingale felt a gun barrel pushed against the back of his head.

  ‘Just keep your hands exactly where they are, Sir. Don’t make any kind of move at all.’

  Nightingale was impressed but not reassured by the ‘sir.’

  More cops came into the grotto. Someone grabbed his arms, pulled them smartly behind his back and fastened the handcuffs round his wrists.

  ‘Just you stay right there for a while, Sir, while we see what’s what here.’

  Nightingale felt hands running over him, seeking a weapon that wasn’t there, then removing his mobile phone, wallet, cigarettes and lighter, which was all he had in his pockets. Meanwhile, he could hear another officer calling in the suspected double homicide, announcing they had a suspect in custody and requesting backup from the Memphis Homicide Bureau.

  Nightingale was pulled to his feet, and found himself facing the two patrolmen who had first entered the grotto. One was black, the other white. There were now a dozen or so cops crowded into the grotto.

  The black officer looked up from examining Nightingale’s wallet. ‘Jack Nightingale. This you?’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Well now, Jack Nightingale, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I don’t plan to start an interrogation, that’ll be someone else’s job, but I reckon I’ll read you your rights anyway, make sure you’ve heard them.’

  Nightingale had heard the set speech many times on TV shows, and once or twice in person since arriving in the USA, so he said nothing, merely answering yes when the officer asked him if he understood his rights.

  Routine took over, quickly and efficiently. Homicide detectives arrived, followed swiftly by the medical officer and the CSI team. Nightingale’s clothes and shoes were taken from him and he was given a paper suit and paper shoe covers to wear, before being placed in a patrol car and driven to what he assumed was the nearest police station. A desk sergeant booked him in, and he was taken to a holding cell, where the handcuffs were removed.

  Nightingale sat on the bed and tried to make some sense of the last hours. It was clear that Kim Jarvis had been lying to him all along. Pretty obviously she’d been a ‘forced card’, pushed on him so that she could lead him wherever he was meant to go. By the look and feel of the child, she had already been dead when Jarvis had called him. As he digested that fact, he remembered something else, and mentally kicked himself for missing it the first time.

  ‘Thirteen names,’ he muttered to himself. ‘She knew there were thirteen names on that list. And I’m damned sure I never told her that. So who did?’

  CHAPTER 25

  Nightingale sat in silence in the interview room once he’d requested permission to go outside to smoke and been refused. The woman with the light-brown skin and the navy-blue suit had also sat in silence, occasionally checking her mobile phone. Her younger white male colleague with the cheaper grey suit and red tie had just sat and drunk his coffee very slowly. Nightingale thought it must be stone-cold by now. Nobody had offered him a cup. If this had been the UK he would have been offered a drink and a sandwich and asked if he needed a social worker or a lawyer. But this wasn’t the UK, this was America, the country with the world record for the number of people it had put behind bars. Two million and counting. Nightingale knew that he was going to have to tread carefully if he was going to avoid being added to the number. The paper suit he was wearing was scratching his skin but he knew there was no point in mentioning it.

  They’d all been waiting twenty minutes when the door opened and a young blonde woman in a well-cut black skirt-suit was shown in. She was carrying a brown leather briefcase and a carrier bag containing clothes. She took the seat next to Nightingale.

  ‘Pamela Hutton, Chalmers, Ketty and Douglas,’ she said to the detectives. ‘I understand my client was arrested last night on suspicion of murder. Who exactly is he meant to have murdered?’

  She was a lawyer? Nightingale hadn’t asked for a lawyer, mainly because he doubted that there was anything a lawyer could say or do that would get him out of his current predicament.

  ‘Sergeant Bonnie Parker,’ said the female cop. She nodded at her colleague. ‘This is Detective Campbell. Your client was apprehended...’

  ‘My client was NOT apprehended,’ interrupted the lawyer, ‘since he was not a fugitive, and had committed no crime. He was wrongfully arrested.’

  Parker frowned and pursed her lips. ‘I really don’t think so. Your client was...discovered in a tourist attraction out of hours, along with two dead bodies. I think any judge would agree that the arresting officer h
ad probable cause for the arrest.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll ask a judge about that soon. Is my client being charged with murder.’

  Parker shifted a little in her seat, and drummed her fingers on the desk. Nightingale thought he recognised a fellow smoker, deprived of her addiction for the moment. Having been nearly seven hours without a cigarette, he knew the feeling..

  ‘No, Ms. Hutton. He isn’t,’ said Parker.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because we currently have no evidence that any murder was committed.’

  ‘So why is my client still here? Is he being charged with anything?’

  ‘Maybe trespass. Obstructing the police.’

  Hutton laughed and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, my client didn’t break in to the Grotto, and caused no damage. And he hasn’t refused to co-operate at any stage with the police.’

  ‘He’s refused to answer questions or tell us what he was doing there.’

  ‘Nonsense, he’s merely exercised his constitutional right to silence, until such time as he’d conferred with a legal representative.’

  Nightingale realised that the lawyer hadn’t even looked at him since she had sat down.

  ‘Witnesses don’t have a right to withhold evidence,’ said Parker.

  Hutton shook her head again. ‘My client was arrested on suspicion of murder, not requested to give a witness statement. Did you advise him that he was no longer under arrest?’