Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel)

by Stephen Leather

  Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘Bonnie, what do you think about psychic phenomena?’

  Parker gulped down the rest of her beer, set the glass carefully on the coaster and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She got up from the table.

  ‘I think I need a cigarette,’ she said. ‘You want to join me?’ As the two of them passed the waiter, Parker gestured at the table and held up her cigarette packet. ‘Outside for a smoke,’ she said. ‘Set us up with two more beers, please.’

  They walked twenty yards or so from the main entrance and lit up. The night was warm and sticky, but Parker kept her jacket on. Nightingale held his under his left arm.

  ‘You asked me a question, ‘said Parker. ‘About psychics.’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Nightingale. ‘I asked about psychic phenomena.’

  ‘Like what? Most cops get weirdos coming in all the time, telling us their spirit guide’s shown them where the body’s buried or something. Never known it work.’

  ‘What about the Occult?’

  ‘What, you mean Black Magic? Wizards and witches? You think there might be some ritual element behind this? Because of Jarvis’s tattoos, maybe? What, Satanists or something? Surely you don’t believe in that kind of crap?’

  Nightingale inhaled deeply, exhaled and watched the smoke rise up, while he chose his words carefully. ‘It’s not a case of what I believe. It’s what the people who might be behind this believe. It’s their motivation, not mine.’

  ‘What do you mean, “behind this”? How can anyone be arranging for kids to commit suicide?’

  ‘You’ve heard of hypnotism?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Parker, ‘but who’d get chance to hypnotise these kids? And besides, I read somewhere that you can’t hypnotise someone into doing something they wouldn’t normally do.’

  Nightingale had cause to know different, but kept that to himself. ‘Maybe not, but you could maybe put them in a situation where it wouldn’t conflict. If you hypnotised someone into thinking a red signal was green, they’d walk into the road. If you told them vodka was Coke, they might drink a bottle, if you told them they were at a shooting range, in front of targets...’

  ‘Okay,’ said Parker, ‘I get the picture, but it’s way out there, Not that I have a better idea. But let’s get back to you. Tell me about that list.’

  Again, Nightingale paused. Parker wasn’t likely to believe the story of a cursed list. On the other hand, the cop had clear evidence that Julia Smith had been identified as a victim twelve hours before her death. With so little time remaining, Nightingale needed to clutch at any straw. ‘Okay. You were right. I had that list with me when I got to Memphis. It was sent to the guy I work for, last week.’

  ‘I need his name.’

  ‘Not yet, Bonnie. The children on that list are dying, in order. From top to bottom, one after the other. And the last name on the list was a member of his family.’

  ‘So why didn’t he call the cops?’

  ‘And tell them what? That twelve people who were just names, and very common names, had been threatened? There was no geographical connection at the time, apart from the last name. It wasn’t until the third or fourth suicide made the news that we made the connection that they were all in Tennessee, and he sent me here. I contacted the reporter who wrote the story about Timmy Williams, and the rest you know.’

  ‘And you still didn’t tell any of this to the police?’

  ‘What was to tell? There was nothing suspicious about any of the deaths, you called them all suicides. At best, I had a list that predicted the future...it’s not illegal, it couldn’t be used in evidence of anything, unless you can prove that whoever made the list caused the death of the kids.’

  ‘So what are you telling me? Either this list comes from a fortune teller who’s seven for seven on their predictions, or someone sent it to your guy and is now putting a hex on children to go out and kill themselves?’

  ‘I’m not saying either of those things. I don’t know...but the list is accurate so far.’

  Parker threw her cigarette butt to the sidewalk and stood on it. She took a notebook and pen from her jacket pocket. ‘You said twelve names. Kim Jarvis’s list had eight, so that’s all you gave her?’

  Nightingale nodded.

  ‘I want the other five. Right now.’

  ‘Okay. Kaitlyn Jones, Emma Miller, Carmen Garcia…’

  Nightingale never even saw the punch coming. It was a textbook right hook, travelled at full speed with every ounce of body-weight behind it, exploded against his jaw with sickening force and knocked him flat on the sidewalk.

  ‘Get up you bastard, get up, now!’ Parker shouted.

  Nightingale shook his head and tried to make sense of what was happening, through a mist of pain cantered around his jaw. Bonnie Parker was standing over him, red-faced and screaming threats and abuse while a crowd was starting to gather. Parker pulled out her badge and waved it around.

  ‘Police officer, back off,’ she shouted, but the crowd continued to gather. Sirens started to get closer, which caused a few people to disperse, and then Nightingale saw a patrolman approaching, gun in hand.

  He seemed to recognise Parker, but kept his gun ready. ‘Sergeant Parker? We have a situation here?’

  ‘All under control, Jimmy,’ shouted Parker, ‘all under control.’

  The patrolman didn’t seem too convinced, nor did his partner who had now arrived. Parker’s speech was a little slurred, and the uniformed officers must have been able to smell the beer on her breath.

  ‘Uh...Sergeant, perhaps we ought to call this one in,’ said the patrolman. ‘What’s this guy done?’

  Nightingale painfully staggered to his feet, only to find the two patrolmen pointing their guns at him.

  ‘Take it easy now sir,’ said the older one. ‘Please keep your hands where we can see them.’

  Nightingale looked at Parker, wondering what the hell had just happened. He rubbed his jaw and winced. Bonnie Parker packed a decent punch, no question of that.

  Parker shook her head at the patrolmen. ‘Stand down officers. Mr. Nightingale isn’t under arrest or suspected of anything. We’d been having a few drinks and had a little misunderstanding.’

  The patrolmen looked at each other, the older one nodded, and they holstered their guns. The older one turned to the crowd. ‘Okay, people, move along now please, nothing to see here.’

  Parker took the two patrolmen aside, while Nightingale leaned against the wall, still holding his damaged jaw and trying to clear his head. He could just about make out what Parker was saying. ‘Look guys, you did a good job, I’m sorry for this. Could you just let this one slide for me? I don’t know if you heard, but I had a hell of a day, maybe had one too many.’

  ‘Sure, Sergeant. Maybe be an idea to head home though, can we organise a ride for you?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ll be fine, honest. I’ll just go back inside, settle up, maybe get a black coffee and then call a cab. I really appreciate this.’

  The younger patrolman seemed to remember Nightingale, and walked over to him. ‘Are you okay sir? Do you require medical attention?’

  Nightingale rubbed his jaw, worked it around a little and winced. He put his fingers inside his mouth and felt his teeth on the left-hand side. They all seemed to be there, with none of them loose.

  ‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘No bones broken as far as I can tell. Probably have a hell of a bruise in the morning. My own fault.’

  The two patrolmen headed back to their car. Nightingale turned and walked to the Peabody front entrance, then across the lobby and back to the table where his beer was waiting for him, a little warmer and a little flatter than he would have liked, but he took a mouthful and forced it down. Moments later, Parker returned, sat down, but ignored the beer in front of her. Nightingale gave her an unfriendly look, rubbed his aching jaw again, and put his beer on the table. He kept his eyes on Parker’s hands.

  ‘You going to tell me what the hell
that was all about?’ he said. ‘Why did you hit me?’

  The fury flared up on Parker’s face again. ‘You damn well know what it was all about, you bastard.’

  ‘I damn well don’t, so how about you explain it in short words, before I have you charged with assault.’

  ‘Me charged? Yeah, that’ll work, I ought to run you in now.’

  ‘For what?

  ‘Any number of things. Let’s start with threatening my daughter.’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Like you didn’t know? Emma Miller is my stepdaughter.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Nightingale. ‘I swear I had no idea, how would I know? Your name is Parker.’

  ‘Miller is her father’s name, I use my own name for work. I should have just shot you where you stood.’

  Nightingale raised his hands in what he hoped was a calming gesture. ‘Easy, Bonnie. Like I said, I didn’t know, how could I? I didn’t send that list. All the names on it are pretty much the most common forenames and surnames in the USA. There must be dozens of Emma Millers in Tennessee.’

  ‘You’re not even convincing yourself, Nightingale. Someone has marked down an Emma Miller, her mom just happens to be involved in the case, and I’m meant to believe it’s a coincidence? What would you believe, if she were your child?’

  Nightingale looked down at the table, and spoke quietly. ‘It’s no coincidence, is what I’d believe. You can’t afford to believe anything else.’

  ‘Christ, I’d take you in right now if I could think of anything I could make stick, but that tight-ass lawyer of yours would have you out in minutes. As it stands, all I can prove is that you’ve been present at three suicides and warned me my daughter might be in danger. I couldn’t even charge you with unlicensed fortune-telling, since you haven’t asked for money.’

  At any other time, it might have been a joke, but neither Parker nor Nightingale saw any humour in the situation. Parker was still very angry and very scared, while Nightingale was completely bemused, and possibly concussed.

  Parker looked Nightingale full in the face. ‘Tell me, mystery man. Gospel truth, whether you believe in the gospel or not. You didn’t know I was related to Emma Miller?’

  ‘I did not. I swear I did not. If I had done, I’d have mentioned it immediately, obviously.’

  ‘And now you do, do you think she’s genuinely in danger?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘I genuinely do.’

  ‘Honest to God, you think there’s a chance that someone, or something might induce her to harm herself in the next few days?’

  Nightingale took a deep breath. ‘Yes, Bonnie. I really think that could happen. I’m sorry.’

  ‘And how exactly do I protect her?’

  Again Nightingale paused, took another deep breath, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I genuinely wish I knew. Whatever is happening here, it’s centered in Memphis. If I were you, I’d send her as far away as you possibly can, and keep her there until this is over. And no, I don’t know how long that might be.’

  Parker leaned in close to Nightingale. She dropped her voice to a whisper, but spoke very precisely. ‘Mister, I still don’t trust you an inch, I have no idea what any of this is about. But my kid’s going on the first plane out of here tomorrow, and she’ll be two thousand miles from here by night-time. And if anything, anything happens to her, I will personally find you and kill you, whatever they care to do to me afterwards.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘If I had a kid, I’d feel the same way. Get her out of here, Bonnie. Do it now.’

  CHAPTER 42

  Nightingale lay on his bed in room 1215 and worked his aching jaw. He’d managed to eat two-thirds of a ham and mushroom omelette from the overnight room service menu, which he’d chosen purely on the basis that it would need less chewing than any of the other options. It seemed to go well with the two Ibuprofen tablets and one codeine that he’d taken to try to ease the pain. He’d managed to switch off for a few minutes while eating, but his mind started buzzing again almost immediately afterwards. Even at 1am there might be things he could do. His first duty was to report to Wainwright, maybe repeat the advice he’d given to Parker, and see if there were some system for removing Naomi Fisher from Memphis. Time zones didn’t seem to matter to Wainwright, and Nightingale was pretty sure he wouldn’t be sleeping any too soundly at the moment. He rang Wainwright’s number and a minute and a half later the phone was still ringing, but nobody was answering. Nightingale put it down and stared blankly at the wall. In all the time he’d known Wainwright, the billionaire had never failed to take one of his calls, except for the very rare occasions when it had transferred straight to his assistant Valerie. No answer at all was completely unheard of, and very worrying.

  He tried twice more in the next ten minutes, with the same lack of result. He tried to think of an explanation, but nothing occurred to him which could be anything but very bad news. Finally nature took over, his body succumbed to the inevitable, his eyes closed, and he fell asleep, fully clothed, on top of the bed cover.

  CHAPTER 43

  In fact, Wainwright was just a few blocks away, in one of the Holiday Inn’s less luxurious rooms, booked and registered under a name that was not his own, paid for with a credit card that could never be traced back to him. He was lying on the queen-size bed, his mobile phone to his ear, his cigar burning in the ashtray on the nightstand. ‘No, everything’s fine, Valerie. I know it’s not my usual style, but I don’t want to attract attention here. And there’s not much choice if I need a hotel with smoking rooms. I doubt anyone will be looking for me here. Did he call? Yeah, I know, I hate to leave him dangling, but this is getting too near and too personal, and he’s run out of time. Any other calls on the personal line? Really? Same goes for her, she was almost bound to pick up vibes, but there’s no way I can explain this to her and Matthew over the phone. No way that would make any sense. The teams checked in okay? Nothing to report? I’ll go down there tomorrow, tell them what I can to convince them, and we’ll move all three of them. The Cessna’s all ready to go? I’ll choose the flight-plan just before we take off, so nobody will know which way we’re headed except air traffic control. We should have two clear days to spare. And the Gulfstream’s ready to take off as well? Antigua. With any luck, if anyone has the means to follow us, that’s where they’ll head. Look, you may not be hearing from me for a few days now, and I won’t be taking calls. Just need some time for all this to blow over. I don’t think there’s anything pressing at the moment. You can keep an eye on most things, and Leroy and Charles will handle the market stuff.’

  He put down the phone and picked up his cigar. It seemed that everything was in place for tomorrow’s operation. Shame about not being able to bring Nightingale up to speed, but family came first, and there was pretty much nobody that Wainwright planned to trust with their safety now, not even Jack Nightingale.

  He finished the cigar, stubbed it out and put the air conditioning on full to clear the room. Then he lit two large candles, took out a photo of his niece, poured some herbs into a bowl, lit them too, and proceeded to chant some words in Greek, He took a large blue crystal from a centuries-old leather bag, and held it tightly in his palms, while he continued to chant, and visualised the blue of the crystal spreading out from his hands and forming an aura around Naomi Fisher. He concentrated as firmly as he could, ensuring in his mind’s eye that the aura surrounded her completely. Finally, he quenched the herbs, replaced the crystal in its bag, snuffed out the candles, lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  The Spell of Protection was complete, and would hopefully keep her safe until morning, by which time, with any luck, his other arrangements for her would be complete.

  Across the city, Naomi Fisher slept peacefully, unaware of her uncle’s spell, but happy to be wearing her grandmother’s gold crucifix round her neck.

  The old religion and the new combined to try to keep the little girl safe, for the moment, from the evil that appro
ached nearer with every passing hour.

  CHAPTER 44

  At 9am on Thursday morning, the National Civil Rights Museum on Mulberry Street was just opening its doors. Based around what had probably been Memphis’s most infamous building, the Lorraine Motel, the Museum documented the progress of the Civil Rights movement in obtaining equality for all races in the United States, and commemorated the leader of the Civil Rights movement, Martin Luther King, who had been assassinated with a rifle bullet on a balcony of the motel on April 4, more than fifty years earlier.

  That morning, there was nobody waiting to pay their sixteen dollars for admission, though the Museum did have four school groups from other parts of Tennessee scheduled to visit later in the day.

  Their visits would be cancelled.

  As the security guard unlocked the main entrance doors that morning, he noticed a small blonde girl, standing about a hundred feet up the street, dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, holding a WalMart bag in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. The guard would say afterward that he thought it unusual that she should be standing there, seemingly just watching the museum, but making no attempt to come over once it opened. Especially on a day when she should have been in school. She hadn’t seemed in any distress, so he’d figured it was no concern of his, and he went back inside.

  If he’d stayed outside, he would have seen the young girl open the WalMart bag, toss in her mobile phone, take out the sixty-four ounce bottle of barbecue lighter fluid, and undo the child-resistant cap. She’d taken it from her father’s garage, and it was only two-thirds full, but that would be plenty. She lifted the bottle above her head, and poured the liquid all over her hair, then down onto her t-shirt. Finally she brought it down to waist-level, and soaked her jeans. The pungent fumes stung her eyes and nose, but she didn’t blink or cough. She put the empty bottle back into the bag, and took out from it one of her mother’s disposable cigarette lighters.