Over My Dead Body

by Dave Warner

  ‘I got it, Percy.’

  He rang off. Holmes saw Georgette had overheard and understood.

  ‘With a name they can hunt him down.’

  And she squeezed his arm, such a small but effusive gesture that for John, for all his loyalty, would been too reserved.

  Time, though. The hour glass had long been upturned.

  Kate woke to a throbbing head. It must have been the cold. She was freezing and stiff. She went to rub her forehead but couldn’t move her arms that far. Her wrists …

  She blinked awake. Shit. She screamed but realized her mouth was taped. And her jeans had been taken off so she was only in her underwear and top. The panic shot through her. Her wrists were bound with plastic ties and then looped to an unlit metal potbelly. She was on the floor. She tugged hard as she could, succeeding only in hurting her wrists. The room smelled damp, and of river. Maybe a basement. There was furniture around, simple stuff, like a living room. No light. Blinds. Where the fuck was she? Coming back now. That asshole, Noah. After they met, they walked in the park. He told her he’d scored some amazing pills. She’d swallowed three. Then felt tired. She remembered trying to walk. Then nothing until now. Had he raped her? She didn’t feel anything but maybe she wouldn’t with those knockout drops. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No shoes, he’d taken those too. It was so dark and cold here. Megan would check in, wouldn’t she? She’d call the cops. But wasn’t it like forty-eight hours before they’d do anything? She was lying in the middle of the floor and stretching as far as she could and sweeping her legs, she couldn’t reach anything except some low cupboard, the kind like some kids’ beds have so you can put a mattress on top and toys below. Were there rats? she wondered. Please God, no rats. Thankfully he’d not bound her feet. Using her toes she was able, at full stretch to slide open the cupboard, and get her feet in there. Nothing hard. But something, something material … a blanket maybe? Slowly she extracted it. Yes, a blanket. Eventually she got it far enough, she could get her legs under it one at a time. Warmer. But she was terrified of what was going to happen when he came back.

  They were heading downtown using the subway. Holmes had finally agreed to return to the apartment. He swayed with the motion of the car but his mind was fixed on the same thread.

  ‘If Mat is from the distaff side, his surname may not be Ometti.’

  Georgette wasn’t even thinking when she said, ‘You know if he comes from Boston, he could have an Irish name. Lot of Italians and Irish married, the Catholic thing.’

  Holmes looked like she’d swung a brick into his forehead. Then he shouted, ‘That’s it, Watson. It’s been staring us in the face.’ A couple of commuters did no more than raise dull eyes. ‘You are pre-eminently smart. We must decamp immediately.’

  They broke the surface at one hundred and twenty-fifth street, Holmes’ long legs pumping as his fingers worked his phone.

  ‘Benson,’ he explained.

  She could almost see the workings of his brain as he waited. Benson must have picked up, for Holmes barged in without preamble.

  ‘His name may be Mathew Mahoney.’ Benson must have asked why Holmes thought that, because Holmes said, ‘The painting in the office, Cain and Abel, it is by M. Mahoney. Scheer told us he’d purchased it at a flea market in Boston. It may well have been when he first connected with Mathew.’ Holmes turned to her and said, ‘He is checking.’

  Georgette marvelled at how quickly Holmes had taken to some of the vernacular and how the phone was now like a sixth finger. She saw something else had occurred to him now – as if the school bell in his brain had sounded and the thoughts, like cooped-up children, were running wild.

  ‘And that may explain the lack of art with Gina Scar–’ He cut himself off. She heard him say ‘Yes,’ three or four times, then he turned to her, nodding with animation. From this, she deemed that Holmes’ supposition had been confirmed. ‘Something else,’ Holmes added for Benson. ‘I think we can assume that Mathew had some prior contact with Carmen Cavanagh, possibly an art exhibition, and also with Lucy Bassey, similar, or perhaps they even worked on something together, and he may well have been involved in the artwork at the Zebra Lounge. But there was no obvious connection with Gina Scaroldi and that may be because she was first in the sequence. Perhaps he happened upon her because he was staying on Roosevelt Island or nearby. Look for an artist community or some such …’

  ‘Collective,’ suggested Georgette, now aware where he was heading.

  ‘Did you manage to trace Kate’s phone?’ asked Holmes of Benson. He looked over at Georgette and nodded as Benson peeled off answers.

  ‘We shall see you there.’ He ended the call.

  ‘Roosevelt Island?’ she guessed.

  He nodded. ‘Perhaps something will catch my eye. Kate spent a deal of time at a playground in Riverside Park then her phone was switched off. Police are canvassing the playground now.’

  It was after five now. Street lights gleamed like the eyes of a miner, face covered in coal dust.

  She dialled. ‘Dad? Want to pick us up? Percy’s onto something.’

  ‘Wish I could but I’m in Brooklyn following up a lead on the Rebecca Chaney case, a boater who may have seen something. You be careful. Stay away from any action, understand?’

  She assured him she would, ended the call and scanned for a cab. Then she thought of a better alternative.

  Twelve minutes later, Simone’s Silverado screeched to a halt. Holmes jumped in front.

  ‘Good thing I was nearby,’ she said as she accelerated off. The adrenalin had blunted night’s fang but once in the car Georgette realized how cold she had been out in the open.

  ‘You know where on Roosevelt?’ asked Simone.

  ‘No. Look for murals.’ Holmes chin was set, his body tense.

  Georgette’s phone buzzed. It was Benson and he sounded desperate.

  ‘You with Percy?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll put you on speaker.’

  Benson’s voice fought above the rattle of the car. ‘Just got a report from Fortieth Avenue in Queens of what might have been a young woman being dragged into a red van.’

  Roosevelt Island was just across from there.

  Georgette said, ‘You think it’s Kate?’

  ‘Could be unrelated, but it could be another Noah victim. He might be cutting loose now. Greta’s heading there, I’ve just arrived on Roosevelt, an artist collective about ten minutes’ walk from the running track where we found Gina. Gotta go. Don’t get too close.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Simone and edged the speed higher.

  ‘Wait!’ Holmes shouted. ‘Pull over.’

  Georgette was confused by this sudden demand. Simone speared for the curb and braked hard. Holmes turned to Georgette.

  ‘If this latest abduction is a fresh victim – and, who knows, there might be more – what does it suggest?’

  She felt dim.

  ‘He’s starting a harem?’ said Simone.

  That gave Georgette the spark she needed to catch up with Holmes: Noah would do what his namesake did.

  ‘He’s filling his ark,’ she said.

  Holmes looked downcast. ‘Exactly, Watson. I do not believe we shall find him on Roosevelt Island. I think he’s on the water. And that I am afraid is beyond our capabilities.’

  ‘He could be using a houseboat,’ said Simone. ‘That looks like an ark, right?’

  Holmes visibly brightened. ‘Not only looks like one, it is as close to an ark as one might find. Are there houseboats in this city?’

  ‘Far Rockaway,’ said Georgette, remembering Harry taking them there once for a trip on Mirsch’s boat.

  ‘West Seventy-nine,’ said Simone with confidence. ‘I went to this amazing party there once.’

  Holmes asked if there were any others but neither Georgette nor her sister was aware of any.

  ‘West Seventy-ninth,’ declared Holmes. ‘He could have walked her there from the playground. It is closer, so may be our only chance to affect the outcome. B
enson can get police to Far Rockaway.’

  ‘Less than ten minutes,’ said Simone as she threw on an indicator and slammed her foot on the accelerator.

  Georgette called Benson.

  The sound of heavy feet approaching filled Kate with new terror. She had heard the hooters of tug boats and was sure now she was right by the water. It was possible, she realized, that she could even be on some kind of boat, she had thought she felt the slightest of movements every now and again but then her head was still woozy after the drugs. She tried to scream but could not. Then she’d heard a door open somewhere and that heavy, slow tread. Her stomach squeezed itself in, she heard herself whimper, couldn’t stop it. In the gloom, a tongue of light swam towards her, and behind it a gargantuan shape. When the shape drew closer, she realized it was her captor, advancing by the beam of a small flashlight with a sack of something slung over his shoulders … no, not a sack. He knelt before her, and carefully lowered a woman’s body to the floor. She could be alive, realized Kate. Her clothing was intact and she could see no injury, though it was too dark to see blood anyway.

  ‘Alligator,’ he said.

  The terror was like a knot that had worked its way up to Kate’s throat where it threatened to lodge and choke her. She pleaded with her eyes, untie me, but he was blind to her request. She forced herself to calm, breathed steadily through her nose.

  A backpack he’d had slung across his shoulders like a satchel, he let slide off and hit the floor. Placing the flashlight in his mouth he unzipped the backpack and extricated something light colored and plastic.

  Oh my God! Terror seized her as she recognized what it was, one of those crime suits like Dexter on TV wore. She was trembling uncontrollably. She wet herself, couldn’t stop it. He slid the suit over his clothes. She was whimpering louder now.

  ‘Don’t be scared. You have been selected. You are special.’

  He placed surgical gloves on his hands, snug. Then he reached into the backpack and brought out a cruel scythe, the sort you saw in those old books, sharp and curved for cutting an animal’s throat. He placed it carefully down on plastic and then he pulled out some other contraption.

  Kate fainted.

  Simone swung onto the service road that fed into the underground parking lot used by the boaters.

  ‘Look for a red van,’ commanded Holmes but the colors were masked until the headlights slashed each successive chunk of gloom.

  ‘There!’ shouted Georgette, spying a high red van. But who knew if it was the right one?

  Benson was sending a squad car but it might be ten minutes yet.

  ‘Wait here.’ Holmes bolted before the car had come to a halt. The only weapon he carried was the walking stick.

  ‘Wait for backup,’ Georgette shouted in the loudest hoarse whisper she could muster but Holmes wasn’t listening.

  He tried the back of the van, locked. Pressed his ear to it but could detect no sound. He quietly walked around and, using his phone as a torch, peered inside the front cabin. He noticed an oil-slick by the driver door, possibly from another vehicle that had been parked beside it. He moved swiftly back to the car.

  ‘I’m going to take a look.’ He nodded to the exit that opened onto the broad pavement that ran by the series of piers.

  ‘Pier C or D,’ said Simone.

  Holmes stepped out onto the low concrete apron and surveyed the scene. Lights twinkled from other side of the Hudson. Narrow but tall iron gates stood between the path and the start of each pier. The rest of the fence was low but there was no support on the other side and if you climbed over you’d be pitched straight into the water. The shape of houseboats could be made out about a hundred yards to the south, thin jetties running out to them like skeleton arms.

  ‘You need to wait!’ Georgette had followed. She did not want to lose him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Watson. I can handle myself.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that is what you said to John at the Reichenbach Falls.’

  ‘Something similar. Watson …’ he paused, ‘… thank you for everything.’

  And then he raced towards the gate whose pier led to a handful of moored houseboats. Probably most had left for warmer destinations. Georgette was torn. She bit her lip.

  She went to follow but Simone held her back. ‘You might be a liability.’

  And Georgette knew that was true.

  The gate was a tall iron grille, locked. No more than twelve feet but at the top, spikes pointed out towards him. He poked his stick through the bars and it clattered on the other side. Then he took four paces back and ran at the gate. He leapt as high as he could, held on. It was an easy climb with such handholds, far easier than the Matterhorn, tough on the fingers but that was all. He reached the top in seconds, negotiated the overhang thanks to his study of Chinese acrobatics, cursed as his jacket ripped, then dropped to the other side landing more heavily than he would have liked.

  You are certainly not what you were, he thought. Up to your feet, old son, go!

  He retrieved his stick and in long, near-silent strides made for the houseboats. He counted seven. Mahoney could be on any of them.

  No, wrong, Holmes. He won’t be on anything lit. He needs darkness. He has either killed the owner or found some abandoned boat. There, the last boat on the north side of the second pier. Total darkness.

  As soon as Holmes reached the pier, he cut his pace and edged slowly and quietly along the wooden slats. Most other boats were well lit, people could be seen inside some, too cold to be out on deck. But the last boat here was dark as a tomb. Holmes reached the bow and listened. He could hear nothing. The boat looked like an ark. It was a high top-heavy wooden structure, a barn moored on the Hudson River. He contemplated using the gangway. Tempting, but if Mahoney was listening out, foolish. Instead, he took a running jump and landed cat-like on the deck. He paused a moment in case he had given himself away. No sound. The windows around the boat were all covered in blinds and drapes but a narrow slit where a blind did not quite cover revealed a flash of light. He edged forward towards the door. Faintly visible in the moonlight was an oily shoe mark. A sound came from inside, just a dull thud, nothing more. He tested the door. Locked.

  He slipped his hands in his pockets, brought out two small picks. In the distance, sirens. Should he wait? Another thump from inside, louder. No time. Deftly he picked the lock. The revolver would have been useful but then, in such a confined space with potentially multiple hostages, likely unusable. It was dark inside and Holmes was forced to allow his eyes to grow accustomed. He edged toward a low babbling.

  ‘… will thank me, believe me. The others will perish, body and soul but our line will live on. The Jews sprinkled blood on their doors and the sign saved them, this sign marks you as safe for eternity.’

  Holmes wanted to move faster but did not dare. He had no idea even which way Mahoney might be facing. He heard something mechanical, a spring, wires or some such, followed by thrashing and a muffled squeal as if a dog had been kicked. The punch. The mark of the ark. His rational brain tempered his revulsion at the cruelty by the logical consideration. At least one captive must be alive.

  Just in time he noticed a narrow step to the next level. He eased down it, his walking stick at present arms. An electric torch lying on the floor lit all he needed to take in the scene. Mahoney holding a slim metal gadget in his hand, a young woman bound and gagged, another body on the floor. Mahoney was about twelve feet from him and Holmes would have been able to intervene had not the sound of the sirens racing into the car park snapped Mahoney’s head up.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mahoney cried, a cruel scythe materialising at the throat of the young woman whose terror made her eyes enormous and opalescent.

  ‘I am the Lord’s messenger, Mathew,’ he said. ‘It is time to desist.’

  For an instant, Holmes thought his ruse had worked, but then Mahoney yelled, ‘Liar!’

  Mahoney pulled back the woman’s hair to expose her throat for the fatal slash. Hol
mes hurled his stick like an assegai with all the force he could muster.

  The rubberized tip smashed into Mahoney’s forehead and he dropped like a stone.

  24

  In the bright light of the interview room, Mathew Mahoney was revealed as a slightly built young man in his twenties. His great-great-grandfather’s Italian genes had long been swamped by Irish blood. Wispy ginger hair topped a gaunt, freckled face. A dark bruise was still visible in the centre of his forehead. The time and date of the interview were stamped across the tape. It taken place only a few hours after Mahoney’s arrest, the night before last. How quickly time slips through our fingers, reflected Holmes, how suddenly our life can take an unexpected turn. The two young women had been saved, although Kate Odenhall had been sent straight to surgery with the deep wound Mahoney had inflicted with his punch. It had cut through outer layers of skin, then muscle, almost down to the bone. Cubes from the other victims had been found inside the refrigerator on the houseboat. Mahoney had the look of a stableboy, thought Holmes. Benson had slipped them the interview on a USB. The interview was well in, and the basics had been established. Holmes had the apartment to himself, he forced himself not to think about that, to concentrate instead on Mahoney. The camera was solely on him.

  ‘I first met Professor Scheer about a year ago. He bought one of my paintings, Cain and Abel. We got talking. He was interested that I painted in the style of the old masters. I explained that it wasn’t I who was painting. My hand was guided by an unseen spirit.’

  Benson’s voice came from off-screen.

  ‘You mean while you were painting?’

  ‘At first. Then more and more often. Until … there was no me anymore. My voice, my eyes, his will.’

  Holmes craned in. He imagined how this tale would have fascinated Scheer.