The Undead

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I’m from out of town,’ said Nightingale. ‘You think Laura murdered three of her friends because she was jealous? Doesn’t add up to me.’

  ‘Well, gosh, I wouldn’t put it in such plain terms as that. But if you want my opinion, yes, dear. She sure did. It’s only a matter of time ‘til she’s the one in prison, and not that kind Mr Haverford.’

  ‘Mr Haverford, right. Who is he, Mrs Barker?’

  She smiled wide and clutched his arm. ‘Oh, call me Maddie, dear.’

  ‘What’s he like then, Maddie?’

  ‘Why, Mr Haverford is a nice fella. It’s a darn shame the horrible lies that little girl is spreading about him. Mr Haverford wouldn’t hurt a fly. Honest. He’s a noble breed; his granddaddy was one of the founders of this town, mind you. All he does is stay in his camp and pay no mind to anything else. He’s got some crops he tends, and he goes on walks, and if anybody around town needs a fixer, he’s our man.’

  ‘His grandfather was one of the town founders?’

  ‘Oh sure. Elton Haverford Sr, he was. A fine man. We used to play on his farm when we was kids.’

  ‘And why do you think Laura’s making all this up?’

  The old woman scowled, clutching Nightingale’s arm tighter and pulling him close. She whispered, ‘It ain’t no rumor she’s been smoking the Devil’s lettuce.’

  Nightingale frowned. ‘The Devil’s lettuce?’

  Maddie eyed him seriously. ‘Smoking drugs, she was. And that’s the God’s honest truth. I wouldn’t lie.’

  Nightingale had to work hard to keep from laughing.

  ‘Where can I find her, Maddie?’

  ‘Who? Laura?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What do you want with her? I told you, she’s guilty as sin!’

  ‘Oh sure, that’s what I want to speak with her about.’ Nightingale smiled a crooked smile. ‘I am a reporter, after all.’

  Maddie smiled wide and told him where he could find Laura, but not without first making him write down her address so he could drop in for a cup of tea. She touched his arm tenderly. ‘And maybe something a little stronger.’ Maddie winked.

  * * *

  Laura was staying in a nondescript motel with her grandmother in the center of town, across the street from the post office. Nightingale got her room number from the front desk and knocked on the door. A few minutes later an old woman answered it. She was wearing a flower-embroidered dress and her hair was long and gray. ‘May I help you?’ she said. She seemed distracted.

  ‘Yes. I’m looking for Laura. My name’s Nightingale. Jack Nightingale.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we’re through with reporters.’ She went to close the door.

  ‘But I’m a private investigator.’

  The door cracked open again. ‘Really?’

  Nightingale nodded.

  ‘From England? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to solve the case for a… client.’

  ‘What’s your client’s name?’

  ‘She’s, uh… she’s very private…’

  ‘Okay. Well, does your client think my granddaughter is just another crackpot or does she believe her story?’

  ‘She believes Laura’s story. We’re on the same side here, I assure you. We just want to find out who, or what, did those awful things to her friends.’

  The old woman seemed to be thinking to herself a minute. Finally she opened the door and let him in. She seemed upset about something. ‘You’ll have to excuse us. Laura thinks she’s going on a trip. You can find her down the hall on the left. Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Mrs Reynolds nodded with pursed lips and went to a small coffeemaker on the dresser. Nightingale sensed a disagreement. He went down a short hall and stopped at the open door to the bathroom, where a young woman with brown hair was stuffing toiletries into a bag. She was small, and very pretty. She had moles on her face and arms, and she was wearing a black rock band T-shirt and dark jeans. She had headphones on and Nightingale could hear music pouring from them. She looked angry about something.

  ‘Laura,’ Nightingale said loudly.

  Laura jumped backwards and ripped off her headphones. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  ‘My name’s Jack Nightingale. I’m a private detective. Your grandmother let me in.’

  She put her head on one side as she stared at him. ‘You’re British? Or English?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘So it’s the same?’

  ‘The same?’ he repeated.

  ‘British and English. It’s the same?’

  ‘No, not really. You can be both, but Scots and Welsh are also British. And some of the Irish.’

  ‘The Irish are English?’

  ‘No. But the Irish in the north of Ireland are British.’

  ‘It sounds complicated.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Nightingale.

  ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘I look into paranormal disturbances.’

  Laura shuddered. ‘Then you’ve come to the right place.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that – I think.’

  Nightingale saw a padded spot on her shoulder where there was probably a bandage, and he noticed the way she hunched a little, as though the wind was knocked out of her. He gestured to the bag. ‘Going somewhere?’

  ‘Yeah. Away.’

  ‘Your grandmother doesn’t seem too thrilled about that.’

  ‘She’s not, but it’s not her choice, it’s mine.’

  ‘Actually, it might be the choice of the district court. I’m betting the police asked you to stick around for a while. Right?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m just saying, it wouldn’t be wise to run now. You’ll look guilty. People in this town already think you’re guilty.’

  ‘Screw them. This whole town is certifiably insane, and I’m getting out of it.’

  ‘Agreed. But you still need to stick around, at least until a suspect is finalized. Trust me, I know all about it, which is why I’m here.’ Laura looked at him. ‘You said Earl Haverford killed your friends?’

  ‘No, I said Earl Haverford summoned some creatures that killed my friends.’

  ‘And how did he do that, exactly?’

  ‘He read some German stuff from a book he had. Why are you here?’

  ‘I want to catch the killers.’

  Laura leaned against the wall and had a good laugh. It was a mocking sort of laugh, and Nightingale didn’t like it. ‘You’re going to catch the killers? Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds? Look, Mr Nightingale, you can’t catch the killers because they’re monsters. They’re strong enough to lift a grown woman four feet off the ground and snap her neck like a twig. They’re strong enough to break every bone in your body with their bare hands. How are you going to catch them? And if you do catch them, what then?’

  ‘How did you get away, Laura?’

  ‘I ran. While they were killing my friends, I ran.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘By being a coward, you mean?’

  ‘If you’d stayed you would have died and then no one would have known what happened.’

  ‘Except no one believes me,’ she said. ‘By the time I’d reached the town and called the cops and we’d gone back, the monsters had gone. Then Haverford turned up and denied he’d been there all night. Said I was there with my friends and that I must have killed them. They didn’t believe him so they took him in for questioning but now I hear they’re going to release him and maybe arrest me.’ A few tears ran down her cheek and she brushed them away.

  Nightingale took a tentative step forward. He wanted to reach out, but he didn’t. ‘Laura, if you run now you’ll be running all your life. Trust me on this. You can’t run from evil, it finds a way; you’ve got to stomp it out whenever it comes up. Listen, you don’t have to do this, but I do. All I’m asking for is your help. I just need to know a few things, that’s all. Then go o
r stay, it’s up to you, but I strongly suggest you stay.’

  Laura sniffed, wiped her eyes, then dabbed at them with a corner of her shirt. She looked up at Nightingale. ‘You know what I want?’ she said.

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘No. What do you want?’

  Laura gritted her teeth and glared at him. Nightingale stepped back, suddenly aware that this was someone who shouldn’t be underestimated.

  ‘I want to kill him,’ she said. ‘The bastard that killed my friends, I want him dead.’

  * * *

  They drove Laura’s grandmother’s car to the police station. Mrs Reynolds seemed happy that Nightingale had convinced her granddaughter to stay on in Bulger. If she knew the real reason, thought Nightingale, she’d probably have a heart attack. In the car Laura recounted the full story of what happened when she was out hiking. Nightingale listened without comment. ‘So what do you think they were?’ she asked him when she had finished. ‘Those things that attacked us?’

  ‘Wights,’ said Nightingale. ‘Ever heard of them?’

  Laura shook her head. Nightingale continued. ‘Wights, from Old High German ‘Wiht,’ meaning, “an incorporeal undead being that drains the essence of living beings to stay alive,” to quote the Internet. Wights are usually controlled by a higher power such as a necromancer. In this case, Earl Haverford.’

  Laura sat back in her seat, staring at him. ‘That’s not good, is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Tell me about it. That old book you read probably was a journal of sorts. But it was also a book of spells, chief among them the conjuring spell, or something like it. I’ve never dealt with this kind of thing before but I’ve dealt with something similar. What I’m wondering is, why? Why would Haverford summon these things to kill a couple of hikers on his own land? There’s no better way to draw attention to yourself.’

  ‘He probably didn’t think anyone would live to tell the tale,’ she said.

  ‘How much do you know about him?’

  ‘Only what I heard after I got to town. He’s like a local hero. Seems like the whole town loves him. You’re loved like that, you’re above the law.’

  ‘Yeah, why is this guy so popular, anyway?’ asked Nightingale. ‘He sounds like a pretty weird recluse. Usually townspeople make fun of someone like that.’

  ‘Apparently his grandfather built this town. I did some digging online. Pretty much everything in Bulger belonged to the Haverfords at one time or another, until they sold it off to the people here. It was a big deal. They sold houses, land, stores, the banks, all for a very good price, too. Now the townspeople own everything and they’re self-sufficient. The economy isn’t great, but it pretty much stays the same and everybody has a job. The Haverfords did that, so now everyone thinks they’re holy or something.’

  ‘I wonder why the Haverfords did that? Out of the goodness of their hearts?’

  ‘Why do most people make nice gestures? To look good. Plus, people with that much money can afford it.’

  Nightingale nodded. ‘Maybe,’ he said. He pulled into the police station and parked. ‘You stay here while I go in for a chat,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t tell them I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’m sure they’re going to arrest me.’

  ‘I think if they were going to arrest you they’d have done it already,’ said Nightingale. He went inside and gave his name at the front desk and asked for the detective in charge of the hiker killings. He had to wait five minutes before the detective appeared – a tall black man with a shaved head. He nodded briskly at Nightingale. ‘Detective Rice. You looking for me?’

  ‘Yes, I have a few questions about the Reynolds case. The name’s Jack Nightingale.’

  Rice raised his eyebrows. ‘You a journalist?’

  ‘No. I used to be a cop, back in England. Now I’m just an interested party. But I might have some insight that could help the case. ’

  Rice seemed unconvinced. ‘Do you now? You’re not one of those psychics, are you? They always come out of the woodwork in a case like this.’

  ‘No, I’m not psychic. But I might be able to give you some guidance. If you want it.’

  ‘The way things are going I’ll take any help that’s offered,’ said the detective. Come on through.’ Detective Rice led Nightingale to his office and offered him coffee. Nightingale declined. ‘So what sort of special insight do you have for me, Mr Nightingale?’

  ‘Well, the man you’re going to release tomorrow is guilty, for starters.’

  ‘Guilty? I don’t think so. And I’m not releasing him tomorrow, I’m releasing him today.’

  ‘Today?’ said Nightingale. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’ve found no evidence that Mr Haverford had anything whatsoever to do with the murders. I don’t know how they do things in England but here in the US we can’t hold an innocent man.’

  ‘You have sworn testimony from a witness placing him at the crime scene.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you’re letting a guilty man walk free.’

  ‘And what do you have in the way of evidence?’

  ‘He was there when it happened. He was the only one who wasn’t attacked.’

  ‘So you admit he wasn’t the attacker?’ The detective leaned back in his chair. ‘Look, I don’t know who you are or where you come from, but this is my case, and I sure as hell won’t risk a lawsuit. We have twenty-four hours to hold Haverford without evidence and after that it’s time’s up; he’s got to go.’

  Nightingale was exasperated. ‘But you’re letting him leave before the time is up. At least keep him behind bars for the full twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Listen, Mr Nightingale. Haverford’s family is a respectable one. They’ve done a lot for this town. There probably wouldn’t be a town if not for him and his family.’

  ‘What if he’s guilty?’

  ‘He’s not guilty. But if he is there must be some evidence out there to prove it. In which case we’ll bring him back here and have him tried. But as things stand…’ He shrugged and didn’t finish the sentence,

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘You interviewed Laura Reynolds?’

  ‘We did, yes.’

  ‘And what did you think about what she had to say?’

  Rice frowned at him. ‘About a mysterious book and corpses running around? Mr Nightingale, please. Those are fantasies brought on by shock. She saw something, sure, but not that. She’s suffering from post-traumatic stress. Nothing more.’

  ‘She says Haverford was there, in the cabin.’

  ‘And Mr Haverford denies it. He said, she said.’

  ‘So is she now a suspect?’

  Rice shook his head. ‘You haven’t been to the crime scene, have you?’

  Nightingale shook his head.

  Rice opened a blue file with a police crest on the front and passed over half a dozen photographs. Nightingale grimaced. The bodies had been torn apart and savaged. Bites had been taken out of arms and legs and throats ripped open. ‘It looks like wild animals have done this,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘The bite marks are human,’ said Rice. ‘And there are plenty of bloody footprints.’

  Nightingale looked at the photographs again. The detective was right. There were footprints everywhere where the killers had trampled over the blood.

  ‘There were three killers, clearly,’ said Rice. ‘And they’d have to be a lot stronger than Laura Reynolds to do that sort of damage.’

  ‘Could Earl Haverford have been one of the killers?’

  ‘There was no blood on his clothing. So, no.’

  ‘Then why have you been holding him?’

  ‘Because the two stories don’t match up. Laura says Earl was there, Earl says he wasn’t. One of them has to be lying.’

  ‘And now you think it’s Laura who isn’t telling the truth. But why would she lie?’

  ‘Like I said, post-traumatic stress. Maybe she’s just confused. Anyway, we’ve dusted for prints and checked for DNA. All the blood and tissue we found is
from the victims but there were several prints around the cabin that didn’t belong to Haverford or the victims so we’re having them checked now. Haverford says that he does have guests at the cabin from time to time so I’m not sure how useful the prints will be.’ The phone on the detective’s desk started ringing. He picked it up. ‘Rice,’ he said.

  Nightingale stood up and began pacing the office, wondering what to do next. He had hoped to find proof of Haverford’s involvement before he was released. Now Haverford was bound to run… or worse. Would he go after Laura, the only witness?

  ‘Is that a joke?’ said the detective into the phone. Nightingale’s attention perked up. He sat back down and leaned forward, listening. ‘That’s not possible, Tom. Run them again... So? Run them again then, dammit! Well I don’t care how many times you checked, that’s simply not possible.’ Detective Rice took a deep breath and massaged his temples. ‘But it just doesn’t make any goddamn sense, Tom. How do you explain it? No? Well I can’t either. Where are the bodies now? Fine, Tom. Thanks.’ He put the phone down, frowning.

  ‘What is it?’ said Nightingale. ‘What’s happened?’

  Detective Rice shook his head. ‘It can’t be… there has to be some mistake.’

  ‘What mistake?’ demanded Nightingale.

  ‘The prints in the cabin. They’re from three different people. Drug dealers.’

  ‘Okay, so it’s a drug-related killing. Maybe the kids stumbled on some sort of drug operation out in the wilderness.’

  Rice shook his head. ‘These guys were active in the Sixties, then they went missing. If it was them, they’d be in their nineties now.’ He gestured at the photographs. ‘I don’t see old timers doing that now, do you?’

  The phone rang again and Rice answered it. He frowned as he listened to what was being said. ‘I’ll be right there,’ he said. He put the phone down. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem down at the mortuary.’

  ‘What sort of problem?’

  ‘Haverford’s not guilty. I’m releasing him.’

  Rice stood up and headed for the door without answering Nightingale’s question. He stopped at the secretary’s desk and told her to have an officer release Earl Haverford right away. Nightingale followed him out of the station, confused. Rice got into the passenger seat of a police cruiser and Nightingale rushed over to Laura’s car. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.