Dark Screams, Volume 9

by Dark Screams- Volume 9 (retail) (epub)

  Nakahara reached to the heater and turned its dial all the way to the right.

  —

  He and Silva split the file in half and sat across from each other at the duty officer’s empty desk. The lights had gone out again, and the backup generators powered only parts of the building. The dispatcher was upstairs, and she was the only other person in the building. Every other cop in the department was out there, in the storm.

  “Listen to this,” Silva said. He was holding a three-ring binder. “Her grandfather reported her missing on Wednesday. He said they’d had a ‘spat’—his word, it’s in quotes—and she left the house. He figured she’d come back, but she didn’t.”

  “So she was a runaway. Those scars on her back, who’d blame her?”

  “But that wasn’t the grandfather.”

  “That’s in the file?”

  Silva nodded and flipped a page.

  “Her parents died four years ago. A fire in the middle of the night. An accident—there was a cigarette butt in the bed.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is on Maui. She spends two nights in a foster home until CPS tracks down the grandfather. The foster mother tells CPS about the scars on her back. But Rachel won’t ever tell anyone how she got them.”

  Silva set down the binder and looked across at Nakahara.

  “This isn’t ringing any bells, Detective?”

  “Why should it?”

  “Because four years ago, you were the guy who picked her up at the airport and drove her up to her grandfather’s house,” Silva said. He tapped the binder. “I’ve got your report right here.”

  Nakahara shook his head, then reached across to take the binder.

  “I don’t remember that at all,” he said. He looked at the report and saw his signature at the bottom. “Either way, there’s only one place to start.”

  “The grandfather,” Silva said.

  “I can think of half a dozen reasons he might not want an autopsy. Why he’d take the risk of breaking in, stealing the body.”

  Silva stood up.

  “They all boil down to the same thing—whatever he’d been doing to her, Dr. Redstone was about to find out,” Silva said. “We’ll take my truck.”

  —

  Clifford Ako lived past the paved portion of Amanu’ali Road, on the other side of the Wailuku River. The drive was no problem until they reached the dirt-and-gravel track, which had largely disappeared in a wash of mud and field runoff. There were groves of sandalwood and stands of bamboo, both of them whipping and bending in the wind. It was a long drive, Nakahara realized, but it wouldn’t be that long of a walk from the hospital. Not if you crossed the river and climbed the cliffs on the north bank and then bushwhacked through the forest on the other side. Then it was just a few miles, but they would be hard and muddy miles. Impossible without a light and a compass.

  The radio was spitting static, and he looked up. He’d missed what the dispatcher had said. It must have been a call to Silva, because now he was reaching for the handset.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I’ve got Dr. Redstone,” the dispatcher crackled back. “She tried to call your cell but couldn’t reach you.”

  “Put her on.”

  There was a long, wind-blasted pause.

  “I checked again after you left,” Dr. Redstone said. Her voice was tinny and distant. “Like you asked.”

  “Checked for what?”

  “For anything. Anything missing. Can you hear me?”

  “We copy.”

  “He took a sixteen-inch grossing knife.”

  “A what?”

  “Grossing knife—an autopsy knife. For taking muscle off bone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It’s gone. It was right here, and it’s gone.”

  “Okay, Dr. Redstone. I copy.”

  Silva put the handset back onto his mount. He drove onward, his eyes focused ahead and his hands tight on the wheel. The air ahead of them was thick with rain, the headlights picking out flying leaves and airborne sticks. Everything was in motion now.

  —

  “I think this is it,” Nakahara said. “Turn here.”

  “Now it’s coming back. You’re remembering.”

  “Yeah.”

  Silva turned into the barely discernible driveway. The ruts led down, into the darkness. Clifford Ako’s house was at the bottom of the depression. On a sunny afternoon, it would have been in the deep and cool shade of the mango trees that grew all around it. On this night, its yard was tar-black. Silva drove across the grassless yard and came to a stop in front of the porch. Nakahara had parked in the same spot four years ago. It had been daylight when her plane had landed, but by the time they had gotten here, it was dark. All of her things had been in a brown paper grocery sack, which she’d held close to her chest. She had said something to him before he got out of the car, before he walked with her to the front porch. He tried to remember it but couldn’t.

  Now he and Silva were stepping out of the truck. There was no wind. Just arboreal silence, as though the storm was bending around this little spot of land. Overhead, the canopy was impenetrable. The ground was dry as Nakahara walked across the yard to the open carport. There was a pickup truck there. Nakahara laid his hand on the hood.

  “Nothing?” Silva asked.

  “It’s cold.”

  “You better take a look at this.”

  Nakahara came back from the carport. Silva was using his flashlight to point to the second step leading up to the porch. There was a muddy footprint. The small bare toes were rimmed in blood. They stepped around the mark, coming up onto the porch. Pieces of brass and steel were strewn around the front door. It took Nakahara a moment to realize he was looking at the doorknob and the deadbolt.

  “No—this isn’t right,” Silva was whispering. “This doesn’t fit.”

  Back at the station, they supposed Clifford Ako was their man. That he had broken into the morgue and stolen his granddaughter’s corpse because an autopsy would have uncovered something he wanted to bury. But Ako wouldn’t have ripped apart his own lock. That didn’t fit their theory.

  Nakahara unzipped his rain jacket and drew his gun. He held it against his left thigh, the muzzle pointed down. Silva was right, and everything about this house was wrong. Using his flashlight, Nakahara nudged the door open. He stepped inside, his lieutenant close behind him.

  “Clifford Ako?”

  There was no answer, no sounds at all from the house. No subtle hum from phone chargers, no whir of a refrigerator. It was the kind of quiet that only came with a blackout.

  “You smell that?” Silva whispered.

  Nakahara nodded. It smelled of fresh-cut flowers and candle wax. Smoke and perfume, riding over something as dank as a drowned rat. The smell carried Nakahara backward. He was eight years old, standing in the little chapel at the Lehua Mortuary, watching a line of people approach his grandmother’s casket. In the army, and then the police, he’d learn harsher smells for death. But Lehua Mortuary had been his first brush, the one that lingered the longest.

  “This way,” he said.

  He led them deeper into the house.

  —

  There were two bedrooms. The smaller one held a dresser, a writing desk, and a narrow iron-framed bed. Rachel Ako lay on top of the bedcovers. Her wet hair had been washed and brushed. An hour ago, in the photographs, her head wound had been so clear. Now it might not have been there at all. She wasn’t naked anymore, either: She wore a long-sleeved white nightgown, a little trim of lace along the cuffs and at the ankle-length hem.

  But for her parchment-paper face, and the misshapen angle of her hips, she might have been asleep. And then there were the candles and the flowers to think about. The candles flickered from each corner of the bed. Thousands of scattered flowers carpeted the floor. Plumeria and tuberose, the thick yellow ginger that grew in the shade along the riverbanks.

  Nakahara crossed the room, stepping around the flower
s. He knelt at the bedside and looked at Rachel Ako. He felt the hair rise up on the back of his neck, felt his stomach clench once. He could smell her over the island flower scent. Cold and wet, like something that bubbled up after a long time at the bottom of the lake. In his mind, she turned her head to him. Her eyes popped open, and they were as bright as silver coins.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again. It wasn’t like him to have thoughts like that. To be jittery on a scene. He raised his light and let it shine on her left hand.

  “What is it?” Silva asked. He hadn’t come into the room.

  “Nothing,” he said. He came to the door, walking backward, not taking his eyes from her. “I thought I saw something in her hand. But it was just a scrape—probably when she hit the pavement.”

  “Okay.”

  It was true, what he’d said. There was a deep and bloodless slice on her palm. But when he’d raised the light, the inside edges of the cut had glittered with shards of glass.

  “What about the grandfather?” Silva asked.

  “There—the master bedroom. Let’s go.”

  They went down the hallway, their lights picking out a trail of small, muddy footprints. They led into the bedroom and then back out, to the bathroom. The bathroom was empty but there was steam on the mirror.

  “I don’t know,” Silva said. “I don’t know about this.”

  The bedroom door was closed, and it was locked. Nakahara reached up and felt along the top of the doorframe until he found the flat-bladed emergency key. He fit it into the doorknob and twisted it until he felt the spring-loaded lock disengage.

  “Ready when you are,” Nakahara said. He looked at his lieutenant. The man was holding his flashlight alongside his gun’s barrel, both aimed at the doorjamb. They nodded to each other, and then Nakahara opened the door and stepped inside.

  There was a bang from behind them, and they both swung around, guns up and flashlights roving. The hallway was empty. So was the living room.

  “Quiet,” Silva said. “Do you hear it?”

  Something wet was sliding down the tin roof. Nakahara lowered his gun.

  “A mango,” he said. “I grew up in a house under a mango tree.”

  “All right.”

  Nakahara turned again, stepping back into the master bedroom. When he brought his light to bear, the first thing he saw was Clifford Ako.

  —

  The man was on the floor, faceup. He was between the bed and the wall, and he was half covered in a sheet.

  “Is that a grossing knife, do you think?” Silva asked.

  “I don’t know. It looks about sixteen inches long.”

  It was hard to tell just how long the blade was, because a lot of it was still inside Clifford Ako. The tip had gone in just below his navel. He might have been in the bed when it happened. There was blood on the mattress in a fan-shaped pool. Thrashing, he’d fallen to the floor with the sheets tangled around his legs. Nakahara put his fingers on the man’s jugular but couldn’t find a pulse. He crawled between the body and the wall and leaned down so that his ear was directly over the man’s nose and mouth. While he waited for a breath, he watched the man’s chest. There was nothing. He got to his knees and then to his feet.

  “Dr. Redstone can tell us when she gets here,” Silva said, “whether that’s her knife or not.”

  “What’s she drive?”

  “What?”

  “You saw the road, coming up. You can’t get up it without a four-by-four.”

  “This can’t wait.”

  “You’ll have to go get her,” Nakahara said. “Bring her back.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll wait here. Keep the scene.”

  “All right.”

  Coming down the hall, they turned their lights into Rachel’s room as they passed it. She was still on the bed, but two of the candles had gone out. Nakahara tried to remember what her face had looked like a moment ago. He should have taken a picture. Something to use as a point of comparison. Because it seemed, now, like the corners of her mouth had tugged back a little farther.

  It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was close.

  —

  Silva rolled down the truck’s window and leaned out, motioning Nakahara over.

  “Look,” he said. “The angle of the knife—in the stomach? Maybe we were right after all.”

  “He did it himself?”

  “You’ve heard of seppuku.”

  “Maybe we should wait for Dr. Redstone on that, too,” Nakahara said. “Let her make that call.”

  “I’m just saying. Most likely, this is over.”

  —

  After Silva drove off, Nakahara waited in the carport. He didn’t want to stay in the house with the bodies. He used his light for a while, checking the woods around him. Cats’ eyes shone back at him, green and yellow. There were at least a dozen pairs watching him. But after a while, his light began to fade. He turned it off to save it.

  He stood in the dark and listened to the cats creeping through the leaves.

  —

  Four years ago, he’d taken the left turn onto Ako’s driveway, had come down the hill and into the shadows beneath these trees. Rachel had been eleven. Her paper bag was on her lap, the few things left from her parents’ house. Someone had washed the clothes for her, but Nakahara remembered smelling the smoke. And now he remembered what she’d said to him as he parked in the dark yard.

  Please. He’s the one.

  He’s the one, all right. He remembered, now, how anxious he’d been to get this done so he could go home. The one who’s looking after you, from here on out.

  He was a police officer, not a taxi driver. He should have been asking questions, following up on her prompt.

  Instead, he’d gotten out of the car. He’d come around and opened her door. End of discussion. Maybe he’d walked her to the porch, had rung the bell for her. But he hadn’t asked to come inside. He hadn’t tried to find out what kind of life might have been waiting for her, what kind of man lived in this shadowed house with his rotting mangoes and mangy cats.

  —

  There was a bang from the house, followed by a long, wet slide.

  He turned on his light and scanned the front porch. Nothing had changed. He saw the pieces of the lock, the dirty screens. He wondered if Rachel Ako was still smiling. He wondered if the other two candles had gone out. Maybe she was sitting up now, her bare feet on the floor. Maybe the smile had spread wide enough to show her teeth.

  —

  “I can’t believe how quiet it is down here,” Dr. Redstone said. They were crossing the yard, three abreast. Silva had brought bigger lights from the hospital. “It was wild on the road. And pouring.”

  “It’s been quiet here,” Nakahara said.

  There hadn’t been a drop of rain or a stir of wind. Just the cats in the shadows and the thumps of mangos falling.

  “There’s a coroner van coming behind us,” Silva said. “But they have to pick their way. It’s slow going.”

  “We’ll load them when they get here,” Dr. Redstone said. “Have you photographed the scene?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then we can do that now.”

  —

  It was five a.m. before Nakahara got home. The weather service was saying the storm had turned north, that it would miss the island. But trees were still coming down along the highways. The power was intermittent, and if it went out, it might stay out for hours. Like Clifford Ako, Nakahara lived at the end of a long road. The electric company wouldn’t get out here for a long time.

  At the sink, he washed his hands under warm water, using liquid dish soap until he couldn’t smell the frangipani scent of the flowers, the bite of candle smoke.

  “Have a drink,” he said. He hadn’t lived alone long enough to have stopped talking to himself. “Make it a big one.”

  He went to the pantry and took out the bottle of Johnnie Walker, and he found a box of crackers that hadn’t been opened.
He poured two fingers of the scotch into a water glass, finished it off, and then poured another.

  “You could have gone inside,” he said. “She practically begged you to.”

  He took his drink and went to the bathroom. He stripped off his clothes and threw them in the hamper, then took the robe from its peg on the bathroom door.

  Wrapping it around himself, he caught a blur of motion in the bathroom mirror—pale flesh, still wet from the rain. He swiveled to the mirror, but he was just looking at himself.

  Back in the kitchen, he finished the second drink. He’d ridden in the coroner’s van on the way back to the hospital, sitting between the two body bags. Dr. Redstone had turned around, facing him from the front seat.

  “It was my knife,” she’d said. “But the wound—it could’ve been self-inflicted.”

  “Could have been or was?”

  “Could have been. That’s all I can say.”

  “Did it kill him?” he’d asked. “There was blood, but not very much.”

  “I think when we do the autopsy tomorrow, we’ll find out it was a heart attack. That after he went down on the floor, what really killed him was his heart.”

  “You’re not doing the autopsy tonight?”

  “Not tonight. These two are going back in the freezer—with a new lock.”

  —

  Nakahara poured a third Johnnie Walker and was opening the crackers when his phone rang. Not the landline, but his cell. He answered without looking at the number, and recognized the voice right away. He’d just been thinking about her.

  “I tried calling the lieutenant but couldn’t get him,” Dr. Redstone said.

  “Okay.”

  “I need you to come back to the hospital.”

  “You need what?”

  “It’s urgent.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “I’d rather you see it for yourself.”

  “You’re kidding,” Nakahara said. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I’m not,” Dr. Redstone said. She was whispering. “I’m telling you—I turned my back for one minute. That’s all, just one minute.”

  “And she’s gone?”