But Tom was dead. And York was still out there.
I stood up and went to the window. My breath fogged the cool glass, reducing the world outside to indistinct yellow smudges in the darkness. When I wiped my fist across the pane, it reappeared with a squeak of skin on glass. The street below was a bright neon strip, car headlights creeping along in a silent ballet. All those lives, busily going about their own concerns, all indifferent to each other. Watching them made me acutely aware of how far from home I was, how much I didn’t belong.
Whether you belong or not, you’re here. Get on with it.
It occurred to me that I still hadn’t eaten. Turning away from the window, I reached for the room service menu. I opened it but only glanced at the gushing descriptions of fast food before tossing it aside. All at once I couldn’t stand to be in the room any longer. York or no York, I wasn’t going to hide away until Gardner decided what to do with me. Snatching up my jacket, I took the lift back down to the lobby. I only intended to go to the hotel’s late-night bar to see if they were still serving food, but I found myself walking straight past. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed to be somewhere else.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air was still freshened by its recent fall. The pavement was slick and shiny. My shoes raised small splashes as I set off down the street. The skin between my shoulder blades twitched, but I resisted the impulse to look behind me. Come on then, York. You want me? Here I am!
But my bravado soon burned itself out. When I came to a diner that was still open I went inside. The menu was mainly burgers and fried chicken, but I didn’t care. I ordered at random and handed the menu back to the waitress.
‘Anythin’ to drink?’
‘Just a beer, please. No, wait—Do you have any bourbon? Blanton’s?’
‘We got bourbon, but just Jim or Jack.’
I ordered a Jim Beam with ice. When it arrived I took a slow drink. The bourbon traced a gentle fire down my throat, easing away the lump that had formed there. Here’s to you, Tom. We’ll get the bastard soon, I promise.
For a while I almost believed it myself.
The straps and cogs gleam in the lamplight. You polish them after every time, waxing the leather until it’s soft and supple and the tooled steel gleams. There’s no real need. It’s an affectation, you know that. But you enjoy the ritual. Sometimes you think you can almost smell the warm beeswax scent of the saddle polish; probably just a faint trace memory, but it soothes you all the same. And there’s something about the sense of preparation, of ceremony, that appeals. Reminds you that what you’re doing has a purpose; that the next time might be the one. And this time it will be.
You can feel it.
You tell yourself not to get your hopes up as you lovingly burnish the leather, but you can’t deny the tingle of anticipation. You always feel it beforehand, when everything is possible and disappointment is still in the future. But this time it seems different. More portentous.
Special.
Leaving the skin on the car windscreen was a calculated gamble, but well worth it. They were bound to realize what you’d been doing eventually; better for it to be on your terms, when you can use it to good effect. You’re still in control, that’s the main thing. By the time they realize what’s happening it’ll be too late, and then…
And then…
But that’s something you shy away from. You can’t see that far ahead. Better to stay focused on the job at hand, on the immediate objective.
It won’t be long now.
You gently turn the winding mechanism, watching the leather strap tighten as the cogs turn smoothly, their teeth meshing with a clockwork whisper. Satisfied, you breathe on them before giving them a final rub. Your reflection stares back at you, distorted and unrecognizable. You stare at it, obscurely disturbed by thoughts that never quite break surface, then wipe it away with a sweep of the cloth.
Not much longer now, you tell yourself. Everything is in place and ready. The camera is loaded and in position, just waiting for its subject. The uniform is brushed and cleaned. Well, if not cleaned, exactly, at least clean enough to pass a first impression. And that’s all you’ll need.
It’s all a matter of timing.
CHAPTER 19
I WAS LINGERING over my second coffee in the hotel restaurant next morning when Gardner called.
‘We need to talk.’
I glanced guiltily around the busy tables, conscious that he’d told me to stay in my room. I’d considered having my breakfast sent up, but in the bright daylight that didn’t seem necessary. If York could spirit me out of the hotel in broad daylight then I was in real trouble anyway.
‘I’m in the restaurant,’ I said.
I felt Gardner’s censure down the phone line. ‘Stay there. I’m on my way over,’ he told me, and hung up.
I sipped my cooling coffee, wondering if this was the last breakfast I’d be eating in Tennessee. I’d felt out of sorts all morning. I’d slept badly, waking with a heaviness I couldn’t place at first. Then Tom’s death came back to me, followed a moment later by the recollection of the skin left on my car.
It wasn’t the best start to a day I’d ever had.
Gardner couldn’t have been far away when he’d called, because he arrived within twenty minutes. Jacobsen was with him, looking as untouched and untouchable as usual. The late night seemed to have left no mark on her, but if her vitality held shades of Dorian Gray, then Gardner was the portrait in the attic. The senior agent looked worn out, the skin of his face a network of fine lines and grooves. I reminded myself that it wasn’t just the pressure of the search for York that was weighing him down; Tom had been a friend of his as well.
But he held himself as straight as ever as he strode across to my table, Jacobsen a pace behind him.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I asked, as they sat down.
They both declined. Gardner glanced around the other tables to make sure no one could overhear.
‘Security cameras show someone by your car at eight forty-five last night,’ he said without preamble. ‘It was too far away to pick out much detail, but the dark clothes and cap look the same as on the footage from the phone booth. Also, we checked with hospital security. It wasn’t one of their employees you saw in the car park.’
‘York.’ There was a bitter taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the coffee.
‘We couldn’t prove it in court, but we think so. We’re still trying to identify the fingerprints we lifted from your hire car, but there’re so many it isn’t easy. And York probably wore gloves anyway.’ Gardner shrugged. ‘No luck with the sloughed skin, either. Its prints don’t match either Willis Dexter’s or Noah Harper’s. From the small size it could be off a woman or an adolescent, but other than that we can’t say.’
An adolescent. Christ. A skein of congealed milk lay on top of my coffee. I pushed it away from me. ‘What about the photographs you found at York’s house? Do you have any idea who the people in them are?’
Gardner looked down at his hands. ‘We’re checking them against the missing person database and unsolved homicides, but there’s a lot to wade through. And it’s going to be hard finding a match for them anyway.’
Remembering the contorted faces, I imagined it would. ‘Have you any idea where York might be?’
‘There’ve been a few unconfirmed sightings since we gave the press his details, but nothing definite. He’s obviously got a hideout somewhere. He doesn’t seem to have killed his victims either at his house or at Steeple Hill, so he must’ve taken them someplace else. Probably somewhere he can get rid of the bodies easily, or we’d have found others besides Loomis and Harper.’
With the Smoky Mountains on his doorstep, disposing of his victims’ bodies wouldn’t be difficult. ‘According to Josh Talbot, for a swamp darner nymph to get caught up with Harper’s body, it had to have been left near a pond or a slow-moving stream.’
‘That narrows it down to almost the wh
ole of East Tennessee.’ Gardner gestured irritably. ‘We’ve been checking out recorded sightings of swamp darners, but we need more to go on than that. Diane, why don’t you tell Dr Hunter what you’ve come up with?’
Jacobsen tried to hide it, but there was a marked tension about her. I could see a pulse in the side of her throat, beating away in time to her excitement. I tore my eyes from it as she began to speak.
‘I took another look at the photographs we found at York’s house,’ she began. ‘They seem to have been taken when the victims were very close to death, perhaps at the actual point of death itself. I’d assumed they were just trophies York had collected. But if that’s all they were, seeing how he’d strangled them you’d expect the victim’s throat to be in the frame as well. It isn’t, not in any of them. And if York just wanted to relive his kills, why not just record the whole thing on video? Why take such an extreme close-up of the victim’s face, and in black and white at that?’
‘Perhaps he’s a photography buff,’ I said.
‘Exactly!’ Jacobsen leaned forward. ‘He thought he was being clever leaving Willis Dexter’s fingerprint on the film canister, but he gave away more than he intended. Those photographs aren’t just quick snapshots he’s fired off. According to the lab they were taken in low light without a flash, using a very high speed film. To get a print of that quality under those conditions takes serious photographic know-how and equipment.’
‘Wasn’t there a thirty-five-millimetre camera at his house?’ I asked, remembering the box of old photographic gear.
‘The photographs weren’t taken on that,’ Gardner said. ‘None of the equipment there had been used for years, so it was probably his father’s. Judging from the pictures at the house York senior was an amateur photographer as well.’
I thought about the fading photographs on the sideboard. Something about them bothered me, but I couldn’t think what.
‘I still don’t see why any of this is important,’ I admitted.
‘Because the photographs aren’t just souvenirs to York. I think they might be central to what he’s doing,’ Jacobsen said. ‘Everything we know about him suggests an obsession with death. His background, the way he treats his victims’ bodies, his fixation with a forensic anthropologist like Dr Lieberman. Factor in these photographs of his victims in extremis, and it all points to one thing: York’s a necrophiliac.’
Despite myself, I was shocked. ‘I thought you said there was no sexual motivation?’
‘There isn’t. Most necrophiliacs are males with low self-esteem. They’re drawn by the idea of an unresisting partner because they’re terrified of rejection. That doesn’t apply to York. If anything, he feels society doesn’t appreciate him enough. And I doubt very much that he’s attracted to his victims, dead or alive. No, I think his condition takes the form of thanatophilia. An unnatural fascination with death itself.’
This was getting into uncomfortable territory. I felt the first spike of a headache in my temples.
‘If that’s the case, why didn’t he take the photographs when his victims were dead rather than as he killed them?’
‘Because that wouldn’t be enough. Over and above the necrophilia, York’s a pathological narcissist, remember. He’s obsessed with himself. Most people are scared of dying, but to someone like him the notion of his own extinction must seem intolerable. He’s been surrounded by death all his life. Now he’s driven by a need to understand it.’ Jacobsen sat back, her face solemn. ‘I think that’s why he kills, and why he takes photographs of his victims. His ego can’t bear the thought that one day he’s going to die himself. So he’s looking for answers. In his own way he’s trying to solve the mystery of life and death, if you like. And he’s convinced himself that if he can take that definitive picture, catch the exact moment of death on film, it’ll all become clear.’
‘That’s insane,’ I protested.
‘I don’t think sanity is a prerequisite for serial killers,’ Gardner commented.
He was right, but that wasn’t what I meant. There was still no firm consensus on exactly when life ended. Stopped hearts could be resuscitated, and even brain death wasn’t always conclusive. The idea that York thought he could capture the actual instant his victims died on film, let alone learn anything from it, disturbed me in ways I couldn’t describe.
‘Even if he managed it, what good does he think it’ll do?’ I asked. ‘A photograph isn’t going to tell him anything.’
Jacobsen gave a shrug. ‘Doesn’t matter. So long as York believes it then he’ll carry on trying. He’s on a quest, and it won’t matter how many people he kills pursuing it. They’re all just lab rats as far as he’s concerned.’
The flush sprang up from her throat as she realized her mistake.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘Forget it.’ I might not like it, but I was no worse off for knowing what the situation was. ‘From what you say, York’s obviously been doing this for some time. Years, perhaps. God knows how many people he’s killed already, without anyone knowing about it. He could have carried on like that indefinitely, so why the change? What’s made him suddenly decide to draw attention to what he’s doing?’
Jacobsen spread her hands. ‘Hard to say. But I’d guess it’s precisely because he’s been doing it for so long. You said yourself that what he’s trying to do is impossible, and perhaps on some level he’s started to realize that himself. So he’s compensating, trying to make up for his failure by boosting his ego some other way. That’s why he went after Dr Lieberman, a recognized expert in a field York probably regards as his own. In a way it’s classic displacement—he’s trying to avoid confronting his failure by reassuring himself that he is a genius after all.’
The headache had developed into a full-blown throb. I massaged my temple, wishing I’d brought some aspirin from my room.
‘Why are you telling me this? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you haven’t exactly been quick to share information before. So why the sudden change?’
Jacobsen glanced at Gardner. He’d seemed content to let her do most of the talking so far, but now he drew himself up almost imperceptibly.
‘Under the circumstances it was felt that you’d a right to know.’ He regarded me coolly, as though still assessing me even now. ‘You’ve presented us with a problem, Dr Hunter. York was sending us a message by leaving the skin on your car. We can’t ignore that. He’s already abducted and in all likelihood murdered Alex Irving, and if not for the heart attack he’d probably have got Tom as well. I’m not about to let anyone else connected with the investigation be added to the tally.’
I looked down at my cold coffee, trying to keep my voice level. ‘You can throw me off the investigation if you’d like.’ Again. ‘But I’m not going back to the UK, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
It wasn’t bravado. At the very least I wanted to stay for Tom’s funeral. No matter what, I wasn’t leaving without saying goodbye to my friend.
Gardner’s chin jutted. ‘That’s not how it works. If we say you go, then you go. Even if it means having you escorted on to the plane.’
‘Then that’s what you’ll have to do,’ I retorted, my face growing hot.
The look he gave me said he’d like nothing better than to drag me to the airport himself. But then he let out a long breath.
‘Frankly, it might be better for everyone if you were to go home,’ he said sourly. ‘But that wasn’t what I had in mind. There could be certain… advantages if you stayed. At least then we’d know where to focus our attention.’
It took a moment for me to realize what he meant. I was too surprised to say anything.
‘You’d be kept under constant surveillance,’ Gardner went on, his manner businesslike now. ‘You wouldn’t be placed at any risk. We wouldn’t ask you to do anything you were unhappy about.’
‘And if I’m unhappy about the whole thing?’
‘Then we’ll thank you for your help and see you on to
your plane.’
I felt an absurd urge to laugh. ‘So that’s my choice? I can stay, but only if I agree to be a stalking horse to draw out York?’
‘That’s your choice,’ he said with finality. ‘If you stay you’ll need round-the-clock security. We can’t justify that kind of expense when we could get you out of harm’s way just by sending you home. Not without a good reason. But it’s your decision. No one’s twisting your arm.’
The brief relief I’d felt had dried up. Gardner was wrong; it was no decision at all. If I left then York would simply transfer his attentions to another victim.
I couldn’t let that happen.
‘What do I have to do?’
It was as though a bubble of tension had been pricked. A look of satisfaction flashed across Gardner’s face, but Jacobsen was harder to read. For a second I thought I saw something like guilt cloud her eyes, but it had gone so quickly I could have been mistaken.
‘For now, nothing. Just carry on as normal,’ Gardner said. ‘If York’s watching I don’t want him to realize anything’s wrong. He’ll expect us to take some precautions, so we won’t disappoint him. We’ll have a team parked outside the morgue and your hotel that he’ll spot. But there’ll be covert surveillance that he won’t. You won’t either.’
I nodded, as though all this was perfectly ordinary. ‘What about my car?’
‘We’re done with it. Someone’s bringing it to the hotel. They’ll leave the keys at reception. We’re still working on the details, but from tomorrow we’ll have you drive out to places by yourself. You’re going to be a tourist, taking walks by the riverside or on trails where you’ll make an attractive target. We want to present York with an opportunity he can’t ignore.’
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