by John Lutz
Quinn tapped a beat on the desk with his fingertips and pondered.
The whole damned family was like that.
For a moment it unnerved Quinn. Renz’s view of the world might be right.
19
Jeanine Carson’s date, Thomas Gunn, appeared across the street, but didn’t see her. When the traffic signal changed, he crossed at the intersection and strode toward her building. He was wearing light tan slacks, a navy blue or black blazer, and carrying a light coat draped over his arm. Jeanine didn’t think rain was in the forecast. So why—
He saw her, smiled, and her doubts disappeared in a part of her mind where she didn’t want to go.
Limping slightly, he came toward her on the sidewalk, where she was waiting just outside her apartment building. “I didn’t think you’d come down and meet me,” he said. His smile caused a long but faint scar on the side of his face to crinkle. Somehow sexy. He seemed pleased that she was displaying such eagerness. Flattered. “I brought this for you.” He drew from beneath the folded raincoat a bottle of red wine. “It’s Australian, and it’s great. A friend tipped me off about it.”
“Does it go with Vietnamese food?”
“Sure. It goes with anything. If you’re thinking about that Vietnamese restaurant two blocks down, then we’re thinking in the same channel.”
“So happens I am,” she said, telling herself that this might be an omen, the way their minds were synchronized. Feeling better about Thomas Gunn, she added, “We can drink the wine with our food, or bring it back here and have it afterward.”
“Afterward?”
“After dinner, I mean.” Yeah, yeah. They both knew the possibilities.
He smiled and nodded. Knowing when not to press. Half the battle was getting them slightly drunk. Putting them at their ease. Half the battle was the bottle.
Dinner went fast. A blur of food and music. The killer couldn’t pronounce half the food, but it was good. Jeanine picked at it. Accompanied by some kind of string instrument, a woman was singing in what the killer presumed to be Vietnamese. He thought she sounded as if she had a flute stuck in her throat.
After dinner they had green tea, which was okay. They still hadn’t touched the bottle of wine. That was okay, too, the killer thought. Let it age. And if it didn’t taste quite right to Jeanine later in her apartment, after he poured, that would be okay, too, as long as she drank it down. It would be the ketamine, one of the many date drugs he employed. He figured that with the dosage he had in mind, she would be very compliant in a very short time. She’d be thinking clearly enough, but her muscles wouldn’t respond to her signals from the brain. Her body would be his. And then her mind. And then the truth that would follow.
It was a BYOB restaurant, so nobody raised an eyebrow when they eschewed more tea and decided to enjoy a few glasses of wine before leaving.
“How come,” Jeanine asked, not yet beginning to feel the ketamine he’d added to her glass when she was in the restroom, “you aren’t on Facebook?”
“I’m a Twitter guy,” he said.
“I looked there, too.” Her words were just beginning to slur.
“You must have missed me somehow. If you have a computer, I’ll show you when we go to your place.”
“ ’Kay,” she said.
He glanced at his watch as if they had to be some specific place at a specific time and were running late.
As for Jeanine, she was beginning to feel kind of odd. As if the restaurant had become much more spacious and she . . .
“I think I’m growing smaller,” she said. It was simply an observation.
He smiled. “That’s impossible.”
What did he mean by that. What the hell . . .
She saw him signal for the check. Time seemed to lurch as he paid cash, leaving a large tip, judging by how the waiter thanked him.
And just like that, it seemed, they were out on the sidewalk. He was still carrying the folded raincoat, and he’d brought the bottle of wine. The sidewalk tipped slightly, and she leaned on him for support. He patted her hand that she noticed now was clutching his arm.
They began walking arm in arm. Everything seemed normal except that she was so damned small all of a sudden. She tried to say something about that to Thomas but couldn’t articulate it. Her voice, which had moved off about two or three feet to the side, said something incomprehensible.
A man was standing near them, leaning slightly. He had a raincoat on even though it wasn’t raining. His head seemed to be off center on his shoulders. “She okay?” he asked in a concerned voice.
“Fine,” Thomas said, rolling his eyes. “She had too much to drink again.”
Well, that’s not true . . .
There was her apartment building. They were up the steps to the vestibule and inside. Then wham! There they were at the elevator. What the hell had happened to time? Thank God Thomas is here.
He helped her walk along the hall to her apartment door, or she would never have made it. Thank God . . .
“I have the key,” she managed to say.
He laughed softly. “I hope so, darling.”
Darling . . . That was nice ...
The soreness in her back was what brought her around. As Jeanine regained consciousness, she was aware of Thomas Gunn looming over her.
“Thomas . . .” is what she started to say, but something—she realized it was silky material, wadded . . . her panties—was crammed into her mouth so she could merely make a humming sound if she tried to speak or scream.
He held up a long-bladed knife with a sharp point. Rotated it nimbly so it danced with reflected light.
Ignoring her muffled screams, he started with her armpits. The pain was incredible, causing her bound body to vibrate and bounce on the table. She felt her bladder release. He was ready for that, and swiped the table around her with a wadded dishtowel.
“Quite a mess,” he remarked.
He tossed the dishtowel onto the floor and held up the knife as he had before. This time it had blood on it. Her blood. She began to whimper.
He waited patiently.
When she was quiet, he said, “I’m going to remove your gag, and you’re going to be quiet unless spoken to. Is that understood?”
Pain in her neck flared as she nodded.
Smiling at her as if it were an act of love, he little by little removed the wadded panties from her mouth.
Her eyes were wide, unblinking. She did not make a sound.
“There,” he said, when he was finished. He held the knife up where she could see it and rotated it again to catch the light.
He placed the very tip of the blade in the hollow just beneath her larynx, exerted light pressure that wasn’t quite enough to draw blood. But it stung. Oh, how it stung! He had only to apply the slightest more pressure and...
Her entire body began to tremble. He placed the spread fingertips of his free hand lightly on the soft vibrating flesh of her stomach. He saw, felt, knew that the fear had her. It had consumed whatever resistance she might have tried to maintain.
So there could be no misunderstanding, he moved the knife up so its point touched her forehead, where he would soon be carving his initials. The vibrancy of her body tingled through his fingertips at an even higher pitch. It heightened his own anticipation and hastened his heartbeat.
This was a woman who read the papers, who kept up on the news. There could be no doubt that she knew who he was.
Her terror was unbearable. She was ready to do whatever he told her. Small favors were all she might earn.
“Now,” he said, “we’re going to have a conversation.”
He didn’t mention that afterward they were going to share, from two different perspectives, a remarkable and transforming experience.
Both of them, for very different reasons, were looking forward to it with keen anticipation.
20
England, 1940
Finally Betsy Douglass’s shift was over. Which seemed to her a godsen
d, as she felt close to the limits of her endurance.
She denied herself the doses of medications some of the other nurses employed to artificially increase their energy. Betsy had seen the eventual results of that, the slurred speech, the permanently haggard features that aged young women before their time. And sometimes the breakdowns. She drank tea. Endless cups of tea. And she chewed chocolates, which contained sugar and caffeine enough to boost her energy level.
But the human body could take only so much, and Betsy knew she was on the verge of trembling and losing her concentration. There was a time for a nurse to push on despite exhaustion, and a time to realize more harm than good can be done by pressing on.
She slipped a light jacket over her nurse’s uniform and made her way to the vast basement of the hospital. The part of the building above the basement had been bombed so that much of the rubble remained. The sagging ceiling had been bolstered with heavy wooden supports, and tarpaulins had been set up to divert rain leakage. Still there were a few puddles to be avoided, and a dank, persistent dimness. All over the floor, in some semblance of order, were stacked the patients’ personal belongings, with identification cards pinned where it was most convenient, listing the items and their owner.
The smell in the basement sickened Betsy, but she knew she should remove Henry Tucker’s effects before the end of the week, when the items belonging to the dead would be removed to make more room.
Tucker’s pile of personal effects was typical, except for the tan canvas backpack, which wasn’t uniform or BEF issue. But other escapees from Dunkirk’s bloody beach had brought non-issue bags, and even a few small suitcases. Dunkirk had been chaos, and the men occupying hospital beds had made it clear that the only rule there was to survive.
Betsy looked at Henry’s pitiful collection besides the backpack. A hastily folded bloody uniform. No helmet. Either the Germans or the sea had taken that. Socks and underwear had been disposed of rather than saved. Lying on top of the folded clothing was a pair of worn-down muddy boots. There was a fresh-looking notch in one of the heels, as if a bullet had come close to Tucker’s foot and left a reminder.
Betsy used a pencil to line out everything on the ID card except the backpack, and weighted down the card with one of Henry’s worn-down boots. For some reason she smiled, realizing she was worn down in the same way—like Henry’s boots.
Knowing that fatigue had muddled her mind, she lifted the backpack—heavier than she’d thought—and carried it by one of its straps toward the exit.
As she was leaving the hospital, Betsy was motioned to the duty desk by Nurse Nora. The head nurse had been working hard, too. Her hair was wispy and mussed, and there was a sheen of perspiration on her beefy face.
She pointed and drew Betsy down to the end of the long desk, where they wouldn’t be overheard.
“A woman was by earlier about Henry Tucker,” Nurse Nora said, her intense dark stare locked on Betsy’s face.
Betsy was confused. “You mean she didn’t know he was dead?”
“Oh, she knew he died, all right. What she wanted was the body and his possessions.”
“Henry’s wife died,” Betsy said.
Nurse Nora nodded. “I know. In a lorry-bicycle accident. It was listed on entry.”
“What did you do?”
“Sent her away. She didn’t argue after I showed her this.” The older woman handed Betsy an envelope with Betsy’s name on it. “I took the liberty of opening and reading it, as that kind of personal relationship between patient and nurse is forbidden.”
“But that’s—”
“If you read it,” Nurse Nora said, “you’ll see it’s a note from Henry Tucker bequeathing his earthly goods to you.”
“A will . . .”
“Same as,” Nurse Nora said.
Betsy read the letter quickly. It was simple, and it was signed With Love.
“I’m assuming,” the head nurse said, “that the letter refers to that backpack and whatever is in it.”
“I’m assuming that too,” Betsy said.
Nurse Nora smiled wearily. “Have you looked inside?”
“No.”
“Wait till you get home to do that, so I don’t have to lie if that woman comes back with some kind of authority.”
“I will.” Betsy hoisted the backpack off the floor. “And thank you.”
“I didn’t see you, and we didn’t have this conversation.”
“No, ma’am.”
When Betsy was halfway home, a cabdriver pulled over to the curb and invited her to get in with her heavy package. He would drive her to where she was going without charging her. Betsy knew it was because of her nurse’s uniform showing beneath her light jacket, but she was no less grateful for the driver’s generosity.
It was odd how the war was bringing out the best of the British people. Betsy thought that if Hitler knew that, he would also know the Germans didn’t stand a chance.
As she climbed into the back of the cab, she saw that the driver was a man in his sixties, wearing a black eye patch.
“Wasn’t for the likes of you in the last war, I wouldn’t be able to see out my other eye,” he told her with a crooked smile.
“There’s plenty of the likes of me,” Betsy assured him, pulling the cab’s door shut.
He ground the gears and the cab rolled forward.
“You wouldn’t know it,” he said, “but I’m winking at you.”
It was a relief to be rid of the backpack’s weight when she got home. She thought about opening it right away, then paused. She was sure it would contain Tucker’s change of clothes, possibly tin military-issue eating utensils, maybe a second pair of boots, a few other personal effects.
For now, she slid it beneath the bed.
Then she lay down on the bed, thinking she had never been so tired.
She was admitting also the real reason she wanted to put the backpack out of her mind. It would pierce her heart to open it and have to sort and feel various objects and material that had been so intimately Henry Tucker’s.
Briefly as they’d known each other, she had lost something dear when he died, and she didn’t want to visit its reminders.
Sleep would help her to escape.
Betsy could ignore Henry Tucker’s backpack for only so long. Grief at last gave in to curiosity, and finally she slid the backpack from beneath her bed. She was surprised again by how excessively heavy it was. She hoisted it up onto the bed and then sat beside it at an angle so she could work clasps and buttons.
When she opened the canvas flap, the scent carried her back to the hospital, to charred flesh and antiseptics and stale human sweat. To cries in the night.
But how much of that was in the mind?
There was actually little that was personal in Corporal Henry Tucker’s backpack. Nothing that made Betsy think jarringly of him. Things inside were either dry or only slightly damp, still smelling of the Channel water that had tried to claim Tucker. She stared at an address written on a water-stained, folded sheet of paper. It was pinned on top of some object that was wrapped mummy-like in a French newspaper and fastened with yards of tape. Also in the backpack were two sealed envelopes. Each bore a name—one male, one female—that meant nothing to Betsy. The ink had gotten damp and spread slightly, but everything was fairly legible.
There was a third envelope, stapled to the newspaper wrapping where Betsy hadn’t seen it before. It was also sealed, and addressed in a neat hand to an M. Gundelheimer.
Betsy didn’t know about the letters, but obviously Henry had intended to deliver the heavy object to the address stapled to its wrappings, to M. Gundelheimer, whoever he was. There was no way to unwrap the thing partially without her snooping being obvious. She somehow understood, anyway, that she wasn’t supposed to peek.
It was almost dusk. The bombers, after a lull in the Dunkirk evacuation, came mostly at night, so if she hurried she’d have time to take the backpack to the address, and do a last favor for Henry Tucker.
It was a promise she knew she had to keep. Betsy sighed, thinking of Henry. There definitely had been something between them, a relationship beyond patient-nurse. If only Tucker had lived . . .
But it was pointless to dwell on might-have-beens. The war had taught her, and almost every other British citizen, that hard fact.
She looked at her nurse’s wristwatch. There was still time. And she had a duty that didn’t involve nursing.
She replaced everything in the backpack and hefted it. Heavy, all right. But she could handle it. She decided to use it for what it was, and placed it upright on the edge of the table. She backed up to it and slipped her arms through the straps, then stood up straight.
The straps dug in and hurt her shoulders somewhat, but they were wide enough to disperse the weight. She adjusted the backpack so it was more comfortable, then, as the folded paper inside it directed, started out for Treasure Island Collectibles, a shop on Dalenby off of Clerkenwell. It was an area she knew fairly well. Perhaps at the Dalenby address she would meet M. Gundelheimer.
After locking the door to her modest bedsit behind her, she carefully made her way down the creaking wooden steps to the street door.
Betsy might have taken a taxi, but she didn’t have the money to spare. And once she got walking at a fast pace, the backpack really wasn’t that much of a burden.
It was only a twenty-minute walk, down streets that were ruined on one block and untouched on the next. German bombs were indiscriminate. Betsy found herself walking faster and faster, like others on the streets. People didn’t want to be outside longer than necessary. Usually it was later and darker when the bombers came, but the Hun liked to vary their attacks and try to catch the defenses off guard.
Betsy’s heart became a weight when she saw the damage to Clerkenwell. Narrow and winding Dalenby had fared no better in the recent bombing. Betsy stumbled along amid rubble that was blackened by fire. Packed ash piles were still damp from the fire brigades. The smell was terrible. Charred wood. And something else.