The Thirteen Hallows

by Michael Scott; Colette Freedman

  “What now?” Larry McFeely drawled. He twisted in the passenger seat to look at the skinhead.

  Skinner swallowed hard, the action painful against his bruised windpipe. “We find Miller,” he grunted, his voice harsh and rasping. He swallowed and tried again. “We find Miller and the bag. And we take her to Mr. Elliot.”

  “The bitch could be anywhere,” McFeely muttered.

  “She’s just out of hospital, she’s on foot. She couldn’t have gone far. Mr. Elliot suggested that we watch the trains. If she’s heading back into the city, she’ll take Bath Spa to Paddington.”

  “She could’ve taken a bus or a taxi,” McFeely suggested, brushing long, greasy hair out of his glassy eyes.

  “As far as we know, she’s never been to Bath before. She won’t know the buses. And she won’t go for a taxi in case the cabbie remembers her.” Skinner shook his head quickly, parroting everything Elliot had said. “She’ll go for the train.”

  McFeely shrugged, unconvinced. He was wired and jumpy; all he wanted to do now was head back to his flat and crash, do some hash and mellow out. The old woman had died hard, and while McFeely had had no problems killing her, he had found her silence disturbing, almost threatening. He loved listening to the screams, he got off on them…but the old woman hadn’t screamed. Her cold gray eyes had continued to stare at him even as he’d used the knife on her.

  Traffic lights changed to red and Skinner stopped the van, rear brakes squealing loudly. He twisted in the seat to look at the two blank-eyed young men in the back. They were passing a crack pipe back and forth, oblivious to everything else, the memories of their bloody afternoon’s work already fading, mingling with the crack cocaine dreams. In an hour, they would have forgotten everything.

  Perfect puppets.

  Skinner snatched the pipe away, watching as they both reached blindly for it. He dropped the glass pipe on the floor of the van and ground it underfoot. He had nothing but contempt for addicts. It was a waste of a life. No focus. And one thing Skinner had was focus.

  “I want you two inside the station watching for Miller. You do remember what she looks like, right?” he demanded.

  They looked at him blankly.

  “Jesus! You take idiot one with you,” he said to McFeely. “I’ll babysit idiot two.” The light changed to green and he pulled away. “And don’t let Miller get past you. Mr. Elliot would be very upset.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that.” McFeely bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from smiling.

  SARAH FOLLOWED the train signs. She walked slowly, head down, clutching the shopping bag to her chest, feeling her heart thump solidly against the hard metal of the sword. She stopped once, popping into a shop as a pair of uniformed bobbies hurried past. Sarah ignored the ambulance and police cruiser that sped down the road, sirens blaring, probably en route to Judith Walker’s…. She found she didn’t want to think of the old woman again, because thinking of her brought back the images of the pitiful creature in the cellar. And suddenly there were tears in her eyes, the world dissolving into rainbow-hued patterns. She blinked them away, feeling the moisture trickle down her cheeks. She glanced up, but no one was looking at her except for a small child who was holding his mother’s hand. The boy smiled at her, his missing tooth punctuating his youth and innocence. She envied him. The little boy pointed at her and the mother looked up, caught Sarah’s eyes, then quickly turned away, eyes clouded with embarrassment, not wanting to get involved.

  Sarah dragged her sleeve across her eyes, suddenly realizing what she must look like: wild-haired, red-eyed, dirty clothing. She was just another lost soul, one of thousands who wandered the streets. Only she was more lost than most.

  Through shimmering tears, she spotted the sign for the train station and headed toward it. All she had to do was deliver the bag to Judith’s nephew, and it would all be over.

  25

  Inspector Tony Fowler was mesmerized by the bloody print on the glass. Forensics were swarming all over the crime scene, but he did not need modern technology to tell him that they would find Sarah Miller’s prints, hair follicles, and clothing fibers intermingled with the remains of Judith Walker’s bloody corpse.

  “I’ve spent my life on the force, and I’ve never seen anything like it,” Fowler admitted shakily. “I’ve seen the Yorkshire Ripper’s handiwork; I was part of a special contingent of officers who went to the States in ’74 to observe the aftermath of the Ted Bundy killings firsthand. I’ve see Chinese choppings and Mafia hits, I’ve seen the aftermath of a Jamaican posse’s handiwork, I’ve cleaned up after IRA bombers…but I’ve never seen anything like that poor woman. How she must have suffered.”

  Victoria Heath tipped back the plastic bottle of water and took a long swallow, trying to wash away the foul taste in her mouth. She had been a police officer for only seven years and in that time thought she’d seen everything. She was only a few years older than the Miller girl, yet they were on opposite sides of the law. Of morality. Of humanity. Because whoever did that to Judith Walker was a certified psychopath. “What would motivate someone to do that?” she asked softly. “It’s inhuman.”

  “Exactly,” Tony breathed. “Inhuman. After a while the killer stops thinking of their victim as a person. It’s no longer a living human being, it’s simply an object.” The detective reached up to place his hand on the inside of the windscreen, matching the bloody print on the glass. “And once they get a taste for the kill, they can’t stop. The killings get more brutal as the killer spirals out of control.”

  “But Miller seemed so…so normal.”

  Fowler grunted. “So did Ted Bundy. I saw the aftermath of one of his killing sprees. He attacked four sleeping girls at Florida State University: bludgeoned two of them to death with a log of wood, battered another two until they were almost unrecognizable. Within the hour he’d beaten another girl to a pulp in an apartment a couple of blocks away. And yet everyone who knew him said what a really nice guy he was.”

  “Just like Miller,” Victoria muttered.

  “Just like Miller,” Fowler agreed. “At least this should be a relatively simple case. We’ve caught her red-handed.” He grimaced at the unintentional irony. “This shouldn’t have happened,” he said quietly, climbing out of the car. “We shouldn’t have left her alone in the hospital.”

  “We weren’t to know.”

  “We should have known,” Fowler snapped. “This is our fault. We made a mistake. And it cost this woman her life. But I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he added grimly.

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  “A promise.”

  26

  Sarah knew that she was not alone.

  The air smelled hot, stale, and metallic in the train station…the same metallic sweetness of spilled blood. Sarah felt her gorge rise and she swallowed hard, images of wet meat appearing before her eyes, an advertisement for the Tate Gallery on the wall opposite dissolving into patterns of raw flesh.

  She’d caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye, and the chill autumnal air carried with it the faint stink of unwashed flesh and warm blood.

  How many were there?

  She dared not turn to look as she ducked into the shadows.

  Next Train Two Minutes.

  The train station was almost deserted, fewer than six people waiting on the platform. Sarah walked toward the far end of the platform, distancing herself from possible danger. She glanced back over her shoulder, pretending to check the electronic notice board…and spotted the two men as they stepped onto the platform. One wore his hair cropped close to his skull and was dressed in a faded army vest and combat trousers, while the second was wearing nondescript jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. Sarah recognized the young man’s hair: She had seen the same mop of matted blond hair the day Judith Walker had been attacked, and again, this morning, among the group at the house. The killers.

  Next Train One Minute.

  She stepped b
ack into the shadow of an arch and prayed they weren’t looking for her…but she knew they were.

  Train Now Arriving…

  The train appeared in the distance, clicking over the points. It seemed to take ages to reach the station, and at any moment Sarah expected to feel a hand on her shoulder either pulling her back into danger or pushing her onto the tracks toward death.

  She remained motionless, barely breathing, and didn’t move as the train clattered into the station and doors hissed open almost directly opposite her. A tiny Malaysian woman stepped off, pulling a huge shopping bag behind her. A few people stepped forward onto the train: A young woman pushed a toddler into the carriage before her, then folded an enormous stroller and lifted it aboard. An elderly woman close to Judith’s age hobbled slowly aboard, leaning heavily on a cane. A tired worker in stained coveralls slipped in just behind her.

  Stand Clear of the Doors.

  At the last moment Sarah darted forward and onto the train, barely squeezing through as the doors hissed shut. She managed a single glance down the platform, but the two young men had vanished. Had they left the station or were they on the train? She flopped into a seat, staring straight ahead, heart thumping, chest heaving, stomach cramping. She was bathed in sour sweat, and when she rubbed her hand across her forehead, it came away greasy and stained. When she caught the grandmother staring at her with an expression of disgust, she immediately stood up and turned her back, staring intently at the map on the wall above the window. She kept glancing back down the train.

  Had the two men got on? Were they even now moving toward her?

  She turned back to the map, needing to work out the shortest route to Earls Court Road. If she transferred at Paddington onto the District Line, it would go directly to Earls Court. And once she had given the bag to Judith Walker’s nephew—she pulled out the envelope and checked the name and address again—she could finally go to the police. She could clear her name and move on with her life. Sinking back into a seat, she sighed. A few hours: It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.

  Then it would all be over and she’d be free.

  27

  They had spotted her the moment they stepped onto the platform. She’d been skulking in the shadows, head bent, arms wrapped protectively around a bulging shopping bag, hugging it close to her chest.

  Next Train Two Minutes.

  “Get Skinner,” Larry McFeely snapped. He brushed strands of his long hair out of his eyes and eased his glassy-eyed companion toward the stairs. “Get Skinner. Tell him we’ve found the girl.” He saw the girl duck into the shadows and wondered if they’d been seen. Larry chewed on his thumbnail, trying to formulate a plan, regretting the dope he’d smoked earlier. It had mellowed him out, sure, but right now he simply couldn’t think straight. Should he tackle Miller now and maybe cause a scene or wait until Skinner arrived? But if he did that, the skinhead would probably claim all the credit for himself.

  McFeely was still dithering when the train arrived, and he immediately guessed that the girl was going to hang back in the shadows and then dart aboard at the last moment. There was still no sign of Skinner: Where the fuck had he got to?

  Train Now Arriving…

  McFeely darted onto the train and then hovered in the doorway, watching intently for Miller to make her move.

  Stand Clear of the Doors.

  He’d been just about to step off the train when the woman appeared out of the shadows, moving fast, and jumped aboard. As the doors hissed shut and the train lurched off, Larry had turned to see Skinner and the others come running into the station. Larry grinned at their expressions, but the smile faded when he realized that he didn’t know where the train was going…and when he dug into his pockets, he discovered he had exactly one pound and fifty pence on him, hardly enough for a phone call and definitely not enough to get back to his flat. He was now trapped on the train with Miller. Straightening, he looked down the train and a slow smile curled his fleshy lips as an idea formed in his befuddled brain. He was alone on the train with Miller…which meant that she was his and the psycho skinhead couldn’t attempt to steal his reward.

  Pushing his way through the crowd toward the door that connected the carriages, he wondered how much Elliot would pay for the return of the girl.

  28

  Later, shocked eyewitnesses would describe the incident in almost identical terms.

  Martha Hill, who was on her way back into London after a visit with her grandchildren, reported that a blond-haired young man had come through the adjoining cabin doors and approached the wild-haired, dirty-looking young woman who was sitting hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around her chest. The two young people seemed to know each other. Martha Hill had gotten the impression that the blond had called the young woman by name: Sarah. She saw them speaking briefly together.

  Jonas Gottlieb was coming off a thirty-six-hour shift and was dozing in his seat when he heard the sliding doors between the compartments open and a young man with long, dirty blond hair stepped through. He’d moved unsteadily through the compartment, even though the train ride was smooth, and Gottlieb guessed that the man was either drunk or stoned. He’d stopped before a young woman, who’d stared at him with red-rimmed, sunken eyes. Jonas Gottlieb dismissed them both as junkies. He had heard the blond-haired youth call the girl’s name and watched while they chatted together.

  SARAH HAD dozed off. Her brief rest was interrupted by vivid dreams, violent nightmares in which she’d been fighting horrific creatures with a shining sword….

  “Miller…”

  The sound of her name brought her instantly awake, and she looked up at the skinny, blond-haired man with the darting wild eyes. He licked his cracked and scabbed lips and smiled, revealing yellowed teeth.

  “Hello, Sarah,” he said simply. He turned his hand, displaying the surgical scalpel held flat along the palm. “Mind if we have a quick chat?” he whispered as he sat next to her. “Move and I’ll take your eye out.” He tilted the knife, allowing it to throw a sliver of metallic light onto Sarah’s face. “You won’t need your eyes where I’m taking you.”

  “Leave me alone, please leave me alone,” Sarah whispered. Her heart was beating so fast, she could feel her ribs trembling.

  “We’re getting off at the next stop, and you’re going to come along nice and quiet like a good little girl. Now give me the bag—real slow.”

  Sarah didn’t move.

  “You deaf?” The junkie grinned. “You know, the granny was stubborn…and you saw what we did to her, didn’t you?” He bit back a giggle. “Only you’re not a bad-looking bird; we might be able to have a bit of fun with you first. Now, give me the fucking bag.”

  Abruptly, the lump of metal was a solid weight in her lap. Sarah almost imagined she could feel it throb against her belly. A chill seeped through her, a numbing sensation that spread up into her chest, tightened her lungs, and set her heart racing. She reached into the bag, and her hand closed around the rusted pommel, fingers sliding naturally into the ancient well-worn grooves.

  “No, I won’t,” she whispered.

  “Oh yes, you will,” he hissed.

  IN A sworn statement, Martha Hill claimed that the girl had pulled what looked like a hammer from a shopping bag on her lap and struck the blond-haired youth beside her.

  Jonas Gottlieb had seen an iron bar, possibly a crowbar.

  THE BROKEN Sword came out of the bag in a smooth movement and struck the junkie on the temple. The snap of bone was clearly audible above the clatter of the train. Heat raced the length of Sarah’s body, and she felt a sudden surge of strength and red rage. A roaring wind filled her head, fragments of whispered words barely audible.

  The youth staggered to his feet, swaying, eyes rolling back in his head, mouth opening and closing spasmodically, though no sound came out. Sarah jumped to her feet, braced herself, and hit him again, catching him low on the face, shattering his left cheekbone, the force of the blow fracturing his skull. A long
ribbon of bright blood spurted, dappling the window and ceiling. Although he was almost unconscious on his feet, animal instinct sent the young man staggering back, blindly waving the scalpel in front of him. Sarah followed, the blood-smeared Broken Sword gripped so tightly that her knuckles hurt, rusted metal biting into her hand. She knew what she had to do.

  He was turning and falling when the final blow caught him on the back of the neck at the base of his skull, snapping his spine, sending him headfirst into the window. With one last thrust, Sarah brought the sword down on Larry McFeely.

  And decapitated him.

  HORRIFIED WITNESSES then described how the young woman had calmly pulled the emergency cord, bringing the train to a screeching halt. She had used the manual door levers to open the doors and jump down onto the track. The witnesses estimated that from the moment the blond-haired youth had sat beside the girl and spoken to her to the time she’d leapt off the train was probably less than two minutes.

  THE ROARING voices stilled, then stopped, leaving only the silence and the realization: She had killed him.

  Sarah licked dry lips, tasting the metallic copper of blood. She’d bitten down hard on them, breaking the skin. She had killed the man without compunction. And what troubled her more than anything else was that she didn’t feel more upset. Killing him, she realized, had been the right thing to do.