A Cold Day in Paradise (Alex McKnight Mysteries)

by Steve Hamilton

  “Don’t you have a pair of surgical gloves?” he asked.

  “I left them with my stethoscope,” I said.

  “Those work gloves are too bulky to pick anything up.”

  “They’re not too bulky to punch you in the mouth if you don’t shut up.”

  I went to the front window and peeked through the blinds. The police car was still sitting at the curb. Its interior was dark. I pulled the flashlight out of my coat and turned it on, shielding most of the ray with my hand.

  “Don’t you have a red filter?” he asked.

  “Prudell, I swear to God, if you don’t shut up…”

  “Not another word,” he said. “Go ahead and do what you got to do. You’re obviously the trained professional here.”

  I fantasized for a moment about hitting him in the head with the flashlight. Relax, Alex. The man is right. Do what you got to do and then get out of here.

  It was a small house. It could barely be called a house. There was one main room that served as kitchen, dining room, and living room. The bed was separated from the rest of the house by a cheap partition that didn’t even go all the way up to the ceiling. The bathroom was too small for more than one person to stand in. The whole place had the distinctive smell of loneliness. Unwashed bed sheets, overcooked food, cigarette smoke.

  There was a stack of magazines on the kitchen counter, one of those detective rags on top. “He Mutilated the Cheerleaders and Then Buried Them In His Basement.” There were some gun magazines, as well, and a few cheap propaganda pamphlets. “Feds to Bring In Chinese Troops to Take Our Guns Away.” The usual antigovernment nutcase garbage.

  I circled through the room and came to the gun cabinet. If nothing else, this man knew how to take care of his guns. There were five or six rifles stacked side by side behind the glass. I could smell the gun oil. In a glass case next to the cabinet there were three handguns. A classic service revolver like my own, a .357 magnum, and another gun that I didn’t even recognize. There was an empty space where a fourth gun might have rested, and next to that there was a silencer. I was about to open the case, but then I stopped myself. There was no need. I already knew what gun that silencer was designed for.

  The police hadn’t touched anything yet. I knew the drill. They would bring a team in tomorrow, probably. Take lots of pictures, then remove everything piece by piece. Dust for prints. There wouldn’t be any rush. The suspect was dead, after all. All they would be doing was closing the files on the three murders. They might even bring in some young officers, let them look around the place as part of their training.

  I had an uneasy feeling, like Raymond Julius would open the bathroom door and walk into the room. Prudell stood by the back door. He hadn’t moved. He kept his hands in his pockets. “Do you know what you’re looking for?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. There it was, on a small desk in the opposite corner of the room. The typewriter.

  I went and stood over it. It was exactly as Allen had described, an old beat-up Underwood. Next to the typewriter there were two manila folders. I took a deep breath and picked up the first. It was hard to handle with the work gloves, so I put it all back down on the desk and went through the pages one by one. They were copies of old news clippings, all from the Detroit News and Detroit Free Press, July 1984. I recognized all the headlines. “Madman Kills Policeman, Second Officer Clings to Life.” “Mayor Young Eulogizes Officer, Orders Probe of Mental Health Services.” “Madman Cop Killer Guilty On All Counts.”

  I closed the folder and opened the second. I recognized the typeface immediately. It was his diary, one separate page for each entry. I aimed a small ray of light on the pages and read the dead man’s secrets.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JUNE 11

  Alex McKnight I want those to be the first two words that I write. As I write them I feel the anger running through me like a million volts of current. I have not seen him in person and yet I can see his face when I close my eyes at night. I am sure it is him. I hate his face and I hate his name and I hate everything about him. Now that he has done this to me there is nothing else to do but think about him all day long and plan the things I will do to him if I ever get my chance. At least I have something to do now. From now on my purpose in life is to find out everything I can about Alex McKnight and then use my knowledge to destroy him. I will say hello my name is Raymond Julius. You do not know me but you caused me a lot of pain and now I am here to return the favor. Imagine the look on his face when I say that.

  JULY 2

  I know more about Alex McKnight now. It feels good to have this power over him. I feel like he is right there in the palm of my hand. All I have to do is close my hand and crush him. He was born in 1950 in Detroit. He was a baseball player at one time and then a Detroit policeman. He was shot by a man named Maximilian Rose. His partner was killed. Alex McKnight still has one bullet inside him. At least he did when the reporters wrote about him in all the newspaper clippings I have collected. There is a picture of him lying in a hospital bed. There is a picture of Maximilian Rose being led into a courthouse. A strange thing has been happening to me. At night when I close my eyes I do not see Alex McKnight anymore. Now I see Maximilian Rose. I do not know why because it is Alex McKnight that I have been thinking about all the time. I have even been watching him at his cabin and at the bar he goes to almost every night. I only have this one picture of Maximilian Rose and it is not even a good picture of him because it is a copy out of a newspaper. So why do I see his face every night? Maybe because he tried to kill Alex McKnight. Maybe he is like my patron saint now. Maybe he will speak to me and tell me why he is here.

  AUGUST 22

  I have been bad about writing. So many things have happened. I have been in communication with Maximilian Rose although I just call him Rose now. It sounds so perfect. Everything makes sense now for the first time in my life. The hate in my heart has been turned upside down by what Rose has shown me. I have so much power now because I am plugged into something bigger than myself. Rose has made me see all of this. He told me a secret about Alex. There is something very special and important about him. I do not even know what that means yet but Rose promised he would tell me more. I cannot wait until the next time I communicate with him. Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

  SEPTEMBER 13

  I am learning more every day. I am shedding my old self like a snake sheds his skin. I see the reason for all of this and how I fit into the overall design. When I go out now I see people and I can see if they are good or bad people just by looking at their faces and listening to the way they talk. There are so many bad people everywhere I go. Rose says this is to be expected because Alex is here now. I think something big is about to happen. I can feel it. I think Rose is going to give me something very big very soon.

  OCTOBER 9

  I am Rose. I will say it again and again. I am Rose. This was the gift that Rose gave me. His spirit flew to me and came down on my shoulders like a bird from the heavens. Now I am Rose and Rose is me. I can see everything now. Alex is the chosen one. I dare to say it out loud. He is the chosen one because he was shot three times. This means that the holy trinity has moved through him. The third bullet is still inside him. It is a spirit inside him that hums to the same frequency as the spirit inside me. I have work to do now. It is important work that I must finish before the last words are written for all time.

  A sickness spread through my stomach as I read. Then a sudden noise tore me from it. There was someone at the back door. Prudell looked at me with wide eyes and then he dove on the floor. I stood there frozen, waiting for the door to open, for the policeman to come in and to shine his flashlight in my face. But the door never opened.

  I crept to the back door and looked out the window. A great raccoon had turned over the trashcan. “Get out of here!” I hissed. “Go!”

  The raccoon just looked at me.

  “Move it, you big fat-assed bastard,” I said as I cracked the door open.
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  The raccoon finally pulled himself away from the garbage and lumbered into the woods. I stood there by the door for a minute, trying to will my heart rate back into double digits.

  “Do you think the cop heard that noise?” Prudell said. He was still sitting on the floor.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I went back to the front window and peeked through the blinds. The police car was still dark. “God, I hope he’s asleep or at least hard of hearing.” When I was sure he wasn’t on his way up to the house, I finished reading the pages.

  NOVEMBER 1

  Everything is in motion now. It is all happening so fast. I have removed a bad man. He was speaking evil things to a man named Edwin who is close to Alex. It is no accident that there is so much evil around here with all of the casinos and the men who gamble their souls away. It felt good to remove the man. Finally I can do something real. I called Alex on the phone because it turns out he actually got to see what I had done for him. He saw it with his own eyes. I am filled with happiness because this must be a good sign that he would see it. I wonder when I should tell him who I am now.

  NOVEMBER 3

  Everything is in a mad rush now but I feel total peace inside myself. I removed another bad man who was speaking the same evil as the first man. I can tell that they are gathering from all corners of the world but I am not worried. I know what must be done and I know that I can do it. I gave a note to Alex right on his door for him to see. I told him I am Rose and I am here for him now. Everything that has been promised will come to pass. I never knew that blood was so red. It is more red than a kiss and even more powerful.

  NOVEMBER 6

  I barely have time to write. Everything is coming together now just as it should. Even though Alex has so many walls around him I know it is all part of the plan. I know that the man named Edwin who was close to him was like Judas himself. He needed to be removed. I was even more careful with the blood this time. I gave another note to Alex and I even told him my new theory about the blood being more powerful than the microwaves and how Edwin is at the bottom of the lake where he will never stand in the way again. I think it is almost time to go to Alex. I must sleep now so that I will have strength and courage for the final task.

  NOVEMBER 7

  It is time. I can barely type I am so excited. It is time to go to Alex and to take him through the door. I know he must feel fear and even a little pain but I also know that in the end it will all be worth it. I know I can make it all happen the way it must happen. I know the gun he has is not a real gun at all. It is only an illusion meant to fool bad men and it can never hurt me. It is all part of the plan just like a dance with two parts. Now I will do my part and he will do his. And when it is over we will be together forever.

  I read his last words and then I closed the folder. I wanted to see something else that would help me make sense of it. Drags, a needle, a syringe. Some chemical excuse for this utter madness. There was nothing.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

  “Make sure you put it all back the way you found it,” Prudell said.

  “It is.”

  “No, I mean exactly. The folders were right on top of each other before.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “You know they took pictures,” he said. “They’ll notice if that top folder has been moved a few inches.”

  “Just get out,” I said. “Go.” I didn’t care if anyone knew I had been here. They could have busted the door down right then, put me in handcuffs. As long as they got me the hell out of that place.

  I hustled him out the back door. I stood there breathing in the cold night air as he carefully reapplied the police tape. “Come on,” I said. “I told you it doesn’t matter.”

  “Don’t be a fool, McKnight.” He worked on it until it was perfect, and then we finally made our way back through the woods to my truck.

  We got in. I started the engine and pulled away, retracing our way through all the tree-named streets and then the number streets, back to the highway. Neither of us said anything for a long time. There was only the sound of the wind rushing through the open window. It was cold enough to hurt, but I wanted it to hurt. I wanted to feel something real, something I could understand.

  “What did it say?” Prudell finally asked.

  I thought about it for a minute. I didn’t know what to say, so I just shook my head. He didn’t press it.

  When we got back to his restaurant, he got out of the truck and went right to his car.

  “Hey,” I said. “Aren’t you going back to work?”

  “I think tonight was probably my third strike here,” he said.

  “So you’re saying I got you fired from another job?”

  “This one I don’t mind so much,” he said.

  “Let me pay you your five hundred dollars, at least.”

  “Forget it,” he said. “I don’t want your money.”

  “For what it’s worth,” I said, “I appreciate your help.”

  He came back to the window. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I’m sorry I roughed you up the other night.”

  “You mean at the bar? The night you swung at me twenty times and missed and then I put you down with one punch? That night?”

  “One punch, my ass,” he said. “I slipped on the gravel.

  I’m talking about when I hit you in the face with my keys.

  That must have hurt for days.”

  I laughed. I was surprised I could laugh. “You’re right, Prudell. You really got me.”

  “You had it coming,” he said. “Just stay out of my way from now on.” As he turned to go I thought I saw the beginning of a smile.

  I LEFT HIM there in the parking lot, drove away into the night, back down 1-75 toward home. Route 28 to 123 to Paradise. I had worn a rut in these roads the past few days, driving into the Soo and back every day. Now it’s over, right? Now you go back to your normal life? Demented loser stalks you, contacts the madman who shot you fourteen years ago, thinks he becomes the madman for God’s sake, kills three people including Edwin, tries to kill you, you end up killing him. Now you’re supposed to forget about it and go back to splitting wood and cleaning out the cabins?

  I drove. Darkness. The smell of pine trees coming through the window. A car coming toward me. Bright lights blinding me. It passed.

  How did he contact Rose? He didn’t say how he did that.

  A sign for the casino. The last place Edwin was seen alive. I could go there now. Play some blackjack. Have a drink. I don’t want to go back to that empty cabin. Lie there staring at the ceiling.

  The fear should be gone now. Rose is in prison forever. And this other man, this man who made me doubt my sanity, he’s dead now. I shot him four times, chest chest head chest. The fear should be gone forever.

  I saw the lights on at the Glasgow, thought about stopping in, but kept going. I slowed down at the logging road to my cabin, thought about going home, about trying to get some sleep.

  I kept going.

  She shouldn’t be alone. She sounded so distraught on the phone. Everything that’s happened, she shouldn’t be alone in that house.

  At least, that’s what I told myself.

  I drove up to the Point, turned west on their service road. I thought about Mrs. Fulton’s dream. The car with the lights off, gliding through these trees. The driver watching the house at night. She saw that in her dream. And the blood, as well. It didn’t even seem so fantastic anymore. After all that had happened, I could believe anything.

  I saw the glow before I made the last turn into their driveway. Every light was on in the house. The yard was bright enough to play baseball on. As I parked the truck I could see all the way down to the beach and into the water. There was probably a seaman on a freighter a mile offshore, looking at the house in his binoculars and wondering where this new lighthouse had come from.

  I heard the music as soon as I turned the truck off. When I opened the door it assa
ulted my ears. It was some kind of opera piece, a soprano climbing the scales in Italian.

  I didn’t see Sylvia anywhere.

  I found the stereo in the study. The speakers were as big as refrigerators. It hurt to go near them but I wanted to turn the music off. It was one of those ten-thousand-dollar stereos with more buttons than a jet airplane, but I finally found the power button and shut the whole thing down. I shook my head in the sudden silence and wondered where Sylvia might be. It didn’t take long for me to imagine the worse. Hanging from the curtain rod in the bathroom, or lying on the bed with a bottle of pills clutched in her hand. But then I finally heard her coming down the stairs. “Who turned the fucking music off?”

  “I didn’t know you liked opera,” I said.

  She appeared in the doorway, a bottle in her hand. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red and swollen from crying or drinking or God knows what. She looked fantastic. “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I was worried about you.”

  “I told you to stay away.”

  “I came anyway.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  I went to her. I took the bottle out of her hand. It was champagne. “Are you celebrating something?” I said.

  “I will be as soon as you leave.”

  “Why did you come to my cabin?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Were you scared? Lonely? What was it?”

  She looked in my eyes. “Do you have any idea how much I hate you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I said. “Show me.”

  She slapped my face. Just like Mrs. Fulton had done, only harder. I caught her arm on the next swing.

  “Let go of me,” she said.

  I looked down at her. She was close enough for me to smell her perfume, to feel the heat of her body. “I said let go of me,” she said. I didn’t let go.