by Craig Larsen
“Hmmm? I don’t know. Soon. A week? Two on the outside. I’ll let the mayor know first and assess the situation with him. I’m sorry to leave him in the lurch. But I’m halfway out the door already. This won’t wait. I can hear the clock ticking.”
Hamlin narrowed his eyes, sucking his lips against his teeth.
Gutterson felt uncomfortable, caught in the man’s predatory stare. “So what about it, Jason?” He glanced down the length of the locker room. “The time has come for our reckoning, you know what I mean?”
Hamlin understood the demand. “Relax, Bill. All I do is give you a few numbers to memorize, and the matter will be taken care of. You can stop in the Caymans on your way back from Mexico. I don’t know why you think you even have to ask. You know I’m a man of my word.”
Gutterson settled into his chair, once again leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I’m glad,” he said. “It would be pretty bad for both of us if you weren’t.”
The elevator cab was getting smaller. The fluorescent light was getting brighter. The walls were closing in. The squeal of the elevator running along its vertical tracks at high speed had crescendoed from a whisper into a loud scream, and Nick wasn’t certain anymore whether he was climbing or dropping in a free fall. He raised a hand to his forehead. When he brought it away, his fingers were drenched with liquid. He stared at his hand, certain that his fingers were streaked red with blood rather than sweat.
When the elevator came shuddering to a stop on the thirtieth floor, Nick staggered from it drunkenly, trying on uncertain feet to make a straight line down the hallway. The walls were flying toward him from either side. Not more than ten steps down the corridor he reeled, fell to his knees, then hit the floor facedown. He realized he was bleeding. A small red pool was spreading underneath him. He closed his eyes, trying to remember what he was doing there, trying to figure out how he had banged his head. Confused, his mind was filled with an image of a man he didn’t know. A stout man with a bushy mustache whom he didn’t recognize. A scared and angry man who didn’t mean anything to him. Nick’s face was pressed against the floor. He wanted to scream. Then he descended into blackness.
Sometime after eight P.M. Nick regained consciousness. Three hours had passed. He raised his head, expecting to find himself in the corridor on the thirtieth floor where he had fallen. The light was too bright, though, and he wasn’t able to make immediate sense of his surroundings. The walls glistened with a cheap fluorescent glow. The floor was slick beneath his hands, painted white. His clothes rustled as he pushed himself up, echoing as though he were inside a concrete chamber. Stairs rose next to him. His gaze traveled up the wall until he found a stenciled black sign. He had no idea how he had gotten there, but he had collapsed inside the Federal Building’s fire stairwell, between the twenty-sixth and the twenty-seventh floors.
Nick was dizzy, but the floor wasn’t reeling anymore, and he was able to stand. He took hold of the steel railing, and, clasping the manila folder containing copies of his photographs in his free hand, he pulled himself onto his feet. Breathing hard after climbing the stairs back to the thirtieth floor, he paused in the air lock on the landing to catch his breath, then pulled open the door. The corridor was empty. He stopped, listening. Except for the hum of an elevator accelerating up its shaft, the building was silent. He found his cell phone in his back pocket and looked at the time. 8:13. Van Gundy would be long gone by now, he figured. Strangely, though, Nick’s phone hadn’t registered any calls from him. Why hadn’t Van Gundy tried to reach him when he didn’t show for their appointment? Nick had given him his number when they spoke on the phone. Van Gundy had demanded it. Making his way down the corridor, Nick raised his eyes, looking for Suite 3015.
Ralph Van Gundy’s name was spelled on the thick oak door in polished brass letters that seemed to glitter in the light. Nick was reaching toward the heavy doorknob before he realized that the door was already ajar. He opened his mouth to speak Van Gundy’s name, then instinctively realized it would be a waste of breath. He pushed the door open with his knuckles.
The wooden floor creaked underneath him as he entered the office. He stepped onto the thick wool rug to muffle his footsteps, then crossed the swankily furnished reception room to Van Gundy’s private office. Once again the door was ajar.
Nick’s jaw clenched. Van Gundy’s corpse, facedown in a pool of coagulating blood, lay on the other side of the doorway, a stiff leg blocking the full swing of the door.
Nick examined the body long enough to confirm that Van Gundy, like the other victims, had been stabbed to death. Then he turned and began retracing his steps. His heart nearly stopped when, halfway across the suite, the phone on the secretary’s desk rang. He knew without reflection that the person on the other end was Van Gundy’s wife, wondering where her husband was. And he knew that she would already have called the police and it wouldn’t be long before someone sent the security guard from the lobby up to investigate.
It was only when Nick was taking hold of his shirttail to grab the handle on the door leading back into the fire stairs that he remembered having come this way before. He reached up to his forehead, shuddering at the touch of the crusty dried blood he found there, then pushed the door open and hurried down the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could.
Nick was alone in his apartment at ten-thirty when the first report of the homicide was broadcast on the news. Sara was out with friends. She would be home, she had said, by eleven.
A pall has fallen over the city of Seattle tonight in the wake of yet another senseless, unprovoked attack by a homeless man this evening.
Nick recognized the Channel 11 reporter’s voice before he saw an image of her face on the TV screen. A few seconds later, Sheila’s heavily made-up face hovered above his bed, relating the details of another homicide with deceptive authority.
This is the first such attack since the police announced the arrest of the so-called Street Butcher, Jackson Ferry. Ferry is believed to be responsible for the brutal slaying of Samuel Wilder, a successful bioengineer working for Matrix Zarcon. The police also believe that Ferry may have been responsible for the murder of another homeless man known simply as Dickenson, as well as the homicides of Claire and Daniel Scott. Until Ferry’s arrest last week, Seattle was gripped by fear that yet another serial killer was walking our streets. Police thought Jackson Ferry’s arrest put an end to that. But no more.
The body of Ralph Van Gundy was found tonight in his office in the Federal Building downtown after he failed to return home. As in the case of the other homicide victims, he had been stabbed in the chest multiple times. There is some good news tonight, though. Police credit the work of Detective Adam Stolie, who cordoned off Federal Plaza immediately upon discovery of the murder, for the capture of the alleged perpetrator of the crime. The Seattle PD found the murder weapon on the person of a homeless man camped in the plaza, as well as blood on his clothing. The Federal Building is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, manned by a private security company. Police are investigating how it could be possible to enter the building without the notice of the security guard stationed in the lobby.
Nick switched off the TV to answer his cell phone.
“Did you see the news?” Daly didn’t stop to identify herself. “Van Gundy’s been stabbed.”
“I know,” Nick said. “I was there.”
Daly registered the information. “You went to see him as we planned, Nick?”
“This afternoon,” Nick confirmed. “This evening,” he said, correcting himself, remembering the time. “He was dead when I got there.”
“Jesus.” Daly connected the dots. “I’m not sure I understand, Nick. If he was dead, why didn’t you call the police?”
“I don’t know.” Nick clenched the phone. He didn’t want to tell the editor about his blackout. “I got scared. I ran.”
“Jesus,” Daly said again. The editor understood the severity of the situation. “What’s going on?” she
asked. “Sam. Daniel Scott. The other murders.” She didn’t remark that they were all somehow connected to Nick. She didn’t have to.
“I don’t know, Laura.”
The editor took a deep breath. “Are you all right?”
Nick shook his head. “I can’t really say. I’m pretty confused. We decide to co-opt Van Gundy to take Hamlin down, and the very same day he ends up dead. You have to admit, it’s a pretty huge coincidence.”
“What are you suggesting? You think Jason’s behind this somehow?”
“It sure looks that way.”
“The report said that the police have taken a homeless man into custody.”
“I heard.”
“And I just can’t imagine Jason Hamlin doing something like this.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” Nick said, thinking of Sara.
“You sound pretty upset, Nick. Are you sure you’re okay?”
Nick didn’t respond.
“Anyway,” Daly continued, “even if Jason is somehow responsible, how could he have found out so quickly what we were planning? You and I only talked about it this morning. And except for Johnnie, no one else knew what we were planning to do.”
After hanging up the call, Nick stood up from bed and walked to his desk. He opened his laptop and brought up a picture of Sara.
chapter 28
Standing in the pitch blackness of his windowless bathroom, Nick tried to remember if he had looked at the clock when he had dragged himself out of bed. He was in a blind daze, and he had no idea what time it was. The door was closed behind him. His heart was palpitating in his chest.
There was someone else in the bathroom with him. He was certain of it. Someone just next to him, cloaked in the impenetrable darkness. Was it Sara?
Nick stopped breathing, hoping to catch the intruder out, but the roar of blood coursing through his veins filled his ears, too loud for him to hear anything else. He reached a hand out next to him. The room was suddenly huge. Too huge. He took a tentative step, feeling for the toilet with his toes. Nothing. Maybe he wasn’t in the bathroom at all. But where the hell was he, then? The light switch—he had to flip the light switch. Panting, he reached in front of him, where the sink was supposed to be, shocked when his fingers smacked into its cold, hard porcelain surface, then reflexively raised his hand to the wall to find the plastic switch.
The overhead lamp lit the room with the violence of lightning. There was someone standing in front of him, looking directly back at him. Nick opened his mouth to scream. His eyes were wide with terror. And then he relaxed. He was standing in front of the mirror on the old, rusty medicine cabinet. The person in front of him was no one other than himself. Relief washed over him, and he started to laugh. The cackle of his laughter echoed through the small, cramped bathroom. And then it stopped, just as soon as it began. A hand had gripped him by the throat and was strangling him.
Nick fought with the hand, trying to pry the fingers from his throat. The harder he pulled, though, the tighter the hand clamped his windpipe. He choked for air. He couldn’t breathe. He kicked a foot backward, trying to push the attacker away from him. His foot struck out into the air, feebly. His vision was beginning to darken. He was losing consciousness. He couldn’t seem to pry the goddamned fingers loose from his throat.
He needed to know who was attacking him. There was a sour stench in the bathroom. It must be one of the homeless men from the shelter. His vision had become black and white, though, and he couldn’t see anything in the mirror. Nothing but his own image, and then the hand on his throat. He struggled, trying to turn himself around. Trying to get a view of his attacker. His hip banged hard against the edge of the sink, bruising him. The pain was intense, but he used the sink’s leverage to twist to the side. The attacker’s arm came into view in the mirror. And then, finally, the attacker’s face. Nick’s heart leapt into his throat. It was Sam. Sam was standing behind him, his fingers wrapped around his throat, strangling him to death.
“Sam, no,” he managed to say. “No, please, Sam, no.”
It must be a dream.
The stench in the bathroom was the smell of Sam’s rotting corpse. Nick’s neck was wrapped with a skeleton’s fingers, razor sharp and cold and superhumanly strong.
“It must be a dream,” Nick said out loud. “It must be a dream.” He let go of the hand on his throat and flicked off the lights. The hand was gone. He leaned forward onto the sink in the pitch blackness that again engulfed the bathroom, gasping for air. “Somebody help me,” he said, and he began to cry.
He fumbled across the bathroom in the dark, battling with his sense that the room had once again become infinitely larger than it should have been, and leaned over the bathtub and twisted the knobs to turn on the shower. A few seconds later, when the water had warmed up, he stepped into the spray, raising his face to the showerhead. The warm water rushed over him, down his body in the darkness, pummeling his head, reviving him, waking him up and bringing him to his senses. Then the stream on his forehead crescendoed into a roar, and the water got so hot that it was scalding him. He took a step backward, sliding unsteadily on the slippery surface of the tub. Sharp jets shot from the showerhead with tremendous force, threatening to pierce his skin like so many knives. His feet were slipping. He was losing his balance. Blindly, he reached out to try to steady himself, grabbing the shower curtain, narrowly avoiding a dangerous fall.
When Sara found him two hours later, Nick was leaning against the tile wall at the back of the bathtub, holding his arms around himself and shivering. The water had long since gone cold, and he was shaking so violently that he could barely stand.
“My God, Nick,” she said, pulling the curtain back. “What are you doing in there?”
Nick didn’t move.
“Nick? Please, Nick. You’re scaring me. Nick!”
At last he turned, and when she saw his face she hardly recognized him. His lips were blue. His eyes were bleary and unfocused, so bloodshot she thought they were cut, bleeding. Sara backpedaled in shock. “Nick,” she said, mouthing his name again and again. “What is it, darling? What is it?” She recovered herself and reached her hand toward him tentatively, afraid despite herself that he might leap out at her or try to hit her hand away. He allowed her to take hold of him and to lead him from the cold water. She wrapped a towel around him and took him back into the bedroom.
It was still dark. Nick looked at the clock as she tucked him in under the tangle of his dirty covers. It wasn’t yet four A.M. When would this night end?
“Shhh,” Sara said. “Shhhhhh.” He realized he was crying. “Shhh, Nick. You sleep now. Everything will be okay. You’re just exhausted, darling.”
“I need help, Sara,” he said.
“I know, darling. I know you do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that, darling. You just go to sleep. There’s a doctor I know. The best psychiatrist in Seattle. Dr. Alan Barnes. I go to him, too, sometimes. I’ll take you there myself. I’ll take you to see him first thing in the morning.”
Oh my God. Oh my God, Sara, what is happening?
Nick sat inside the huge Mercedes, folded like a rag doll against its door, unconscious of its luxurious comfort. The city of Seattle whizzed by in a montage. The rain had stopped, and bits and pieces of sunlight were sneaking down through a thinning layer of clouds, dotting the ground and sides of buildings with a patchwork of strange, brightly lit geometric shapes. Like puzzle pieces, Nick thought, dipped in a different vat of dye from the rest of the landscape. When the small chunks of color started to take flight, twisting and leaping into the air as though sucked up into the vortex of a cyclone, Nick closed his eyes. He didn’t wonder whether the world was shattering. Instead, he wondered why Sara couldn’t see the colorful tornado, too.
The directional signal was blinking. When Sara pulled the car to a stop at the intersection just in front of the Four Seasons Hotel, Nick’s gaze traveled listlessly to the white zo
ne in front of the hotel. He took in the doorman dressed in black, standing at the curb with a silver whistle in his mouth, a top hat on his head, waving his hands for a taxi. Hazily he remembered watching Sara disappear into the hotel through its plate-glass doors, arm in arm with a tall man whose face he hadn’t been able to glimpse.
“How do you know Barnes?” Nick heard himself ask.
“I told you already, honey,” Sara said. “I see him, too.”
“Why?”
Sara laughed. “That’s personal. It’s complicated.”
“Because of your father,” Nick said. He had the feeling that he wasn’t able to control his own voice.
“Because of my stepfather,” Sara acknowledged quietly. “Yes.”
“This is the third time.”
“What?” The traffic light changed, and Sara tapped the accelerator, easing the car across the intersection, toward the garage in the basement of the high-rise directly across the street from the Four Seasons. “What do you mean—the third time?”
“Did I say that?”
Sara turned to glance at him.
“This is the third time that I’ve heard that name,” he said. “Dr. Barnes.”
“Well, he’s pretty well known, darling.”
“In just the last few weeks. I never heard his name before.”
“You’re going to like him. He’ll be very helpful, you’ll see.”
“Sam told me to come see him. Then after Sam was killed, I actually saw him. Down at the Hudson Hotel. I saw Barnes there that same night I saw Jackson Ferry.”
Sara was navigating the giant car down the granite-paved ramp into the bowels of the tall building. A valet wearing a red polyester jacket was standing next to a stop sign tacked to a concrete pillar, waiting for her with a parking ticket in his hand. “Good morning, Ms. Hamlin.”
“And now you,” Nick said. He thought about waiting for Sara to come around to the passenger door to let him out, then realized he was capable of opening the door himself. He yanked on the latch and stood up onto shaky legs, proud of the small achievement.