Linger: Dying is a Wild Night (A Linger Thriller Book 1)

by Edward Fallon

  “Which security guard? What was his name?”

  “Hell, I don’t remember. Bonham. Donner. Something like that. The guy who found her. Kate, I understand your curiosity, but are you sure you wanna be opening this particular wound?”

  “What can you tell me about him? What kind of guy was he?”

  Rusty took a drag and shrugged. “He didn’t talk much. And he was big. I remember thinking that when we escorted him to the cruiser. Twenty-two, three, somewhere around there. Of course, I could be confusing him with someone else. They all blend together after awhile.”

  “Any idea what happened to him after the follow-up?”

  “Where are you going with this? You thinking this guy might be good for your mom’s murder?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “And what led you to this conclusion?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “You’d be surprised what I might believe. I’ve pretty much seen it all.”

  “It’s nothing. Just me hypothesizing. Wondering how long the guy had been working at Sandy Point when he found her body and how long he stuck around afterwards.”

  Rusty shrugged. “Wish I could help you, but I can’t. If I’m remembering right, the lead investigator on the case was Harry Metzler, but he’s been dead for years. I’m guessing he followed standard protocol, looked into both guards and didn’t find any ties to your mother. You talk to your dad about this?”

  “Not a chance. The subject’s off limits with him.”

  “Did you check the file?”

  “That’s my next stop. What about your partner? The one who went with you. Is he still around?”

  Rusty shook his head. “Name was Abernathy. Good man, but he had his share of problems. Started acting up shortly after that.”

  “In what way?”

  “He got busted for forcibly sodomizing a hooker and wound up eating his own gun.”

  “Jesus,” Kate said.

  Rusty took another long drag. “That’s the problem with this job. You stick around long enough, see the things we see, it’s like a virus. Some people have a natural immunity and some people get eaten alive.” He dropped the half smoked cigarette to the rooftop, stamped it out and smiled. “And some people buy a plane ticket to Amsterdam.”

  25

  _____

  WESTON WAS DOZING IN HIS CHAIR when the door opened and Lieutenant Messenger brought Christopher into the interview room.

  This was a surprise. What was she planning now?

  But as he shook himself alert, he noted almost immediately that the lieutenant’s demeanor had softened somewhat.

  “I’m cutting you loose,” she said. “Both of you.”

  Even more of a surprise. “What?”

  She came over to unlock his cuffs and he saw a vague but discernible uneasiness in her eyes, as if she hadn’t quite found her footing after a bad spill. She seemed unsure of herself but was trying to hide it.

  “What changed your mind?” he asked.

  “I don’t see any point in holding you anymore. You were right. The doctor who examined Christopher says there’s no evidence he’s been mistreated—not lately, anyway—and I’m willing to cut you some slack on the trespassing and obstruction beefs.”

  She unhooked him and Weston rubbed his wrists, wondering what was going on here. An hour ago she had practically called him a murderer and child molester.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  She paused, and in that moment seemed to regain some of her balance. “There’s a condition to your release.”

  Ah. So there it was. “Which is?”

  “You let me buy you some lunch.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sure Christopher’s hungry, and you and I have a lot to talk about.”

  This didn’t make any sense. What could they possibly have to talk about that hadn’t already been discussed? Unless…

  He looked at Christopher. “What did you tell her?”

  “It was more show than tell,” she said.

  Weston understood what that meant, and it explained her initial uneasiness. He’d felt the same way the first time the boy had opened up to him.

  But why? Why would he tell her anything? They had talked about this numerous times, and had agreed it was best to keep a low profile. Sharing his gift with a stranger—a stranger who was a cop no less—was dangerous business.

  Weston waited for Chris to chime in, but got nothing from him. He was gone, in the haze, wandering in whatever playground waited for him there.

  “What did he show you?”

  “That’s what we need to talk about.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  She held up the cuffs. “Forty-eight hours, remember?”

  26

  _____

  HE ORDERED CHRISTOPHER A BOWL of chili—one of his favorites—but it was doubtful he’d even touch it. They sat at a table at the back of a small diner across from the police department, the boy rocking quietly and getting more than a few stares.

  When they had first stepped inside, Weston had looked around, saw tables full of police officers and wondered if this place was the best choice to be having this particular conversation. If the lieutenant wanted to talk about the things Chris had shown her, it might’ve been wise to find someplace a little more private.

  But she didn’t look concerned. Every bit of her trepidation had vanished and her focus seemed to be limited to the three of them. And after they finished ordering (hers a terse demand for black coffee), she pulled Weston’s sketchpad out of her handbag and placed it on the table.

  “Explain this to me.”

  “Didn’t we already have this discussion?”

  “I wouldn’t characterize anything we’ve had as a discussion. So please do me a favor and quit avoiding my questions.”

  “Seems to me you’ve already answered a lot of them yourself.” He nodded to the boy. “With Christopher’s help, of course.”

  She tapped the sketch pad. “You told me earlier that people wouldn’t envy your talent if they knew why you drew these. So why did you? Do they come from him?”

  “You already know they do.”

  “All I know is that something happened to me today that I can’t explain. Something Christopher did. And I’m just trying to figure it out.”

  “And what’ll happen when you do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m in uncharted territory here.”

  She flipped open the sketch pad, found a specific page, then jabbed a finger at one of the drawings.

  It was a sketch of the tattoo on the Beast’s forearm.

  “I assume this came from Christopher, too?”

  “Why do you keep asking me things you already know?”

  She tapped the drawing. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s called a circumpunct. A circle with a dot—or bindu—at its center. Its meaning could be any number of things, but one of the most common beliefs is that it represents God.”

  “How long ago did you draw it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been a few months now.”

  “And where did it come from? From Christopher’s memory? Because I’m assuming he was a victim of this man.”

  Weston stared at her. “You really don’t know how this works, do you?”

  “How it works?” Her eyes were a little wild. “I don’t even know what this is. What the hell is happening?”

  He watched her for a moment, almost feeling sorry for her. The first time Chris had reached out to him, he’d felt that same sense of confusion. The same disbelief. “Let me ask you a question instead. What exactly did Chris show you?”

  She breathed deep, settled herself, and pointed to the sketch again. “A man with a tattoo just like this. Only it wasn’t a photograph or a drawing.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Like a vision or a dream. Only it felt real. Like I was stuck inside him.”


  “Inside Chris?”

  She shook her head. “The man with the tattoo.”

  Weston hesitated. This was something new. “I don’t get it. What are you saying?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. When Christopher did whatever it is he does, I felt as if I was trapped inside this man’s body. He had just killed a woman and was about to cut out her tongue.”

  Weston felt a chill. All he’d ever gotten from Chris were the sketches. “Where did this happen?”

  “In my office.”

  “No, in the vision. Where were you?”

  “In an alleyway behind the Sandy Point Mall.” She paused. “In nineteen ninety-five.”

  “What?”

  “The woman I saw has been dead for nearly two decades.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because she was my mother.”

  This stopped Weston cold.

  The deepest he’d ever seen Christopher go was days, not years. And certainly not two decades. But if what she said was true, then her mother may have been one of the Beast’s first victims.

  Weston watched Christopher rock in his chair, wishing the boy would snap out of it. He thought about the last few days and Chris’s insistence that they leave Reno and head for Santa Flora—even though the crime at the Branford house seemed to have nothing to do with the Beast. Then there was the near meltdown when Weston wanted to ditch the Rambler and disappear. The shouting that had nearly made his head explode.

  Had Chris been planning this encounter all along? Had going to that house been nothing more than subterfuge, designed to bring about a meeting with Lieutenant Kate Messenger?

  That would explain the stop they’d made before heading into Oak Grove.

  “We’ve been in that alley, too,” Weston said.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I wasn’t sure why Chris wanted to go there and he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I know how that feels.”

  Weston ignored the remark. “I thought it was just a mistake. He makes them sometimes. But I can see now he had a very specific reason for going there. He must’ve seen something earlier that lead him to—”

  Kate raised a hand. “Slow down a minute. You just told me I don’t know how this works and you’re right, I don’t. So why don’t you back up a bit and explain it to me?”

  “I don’t know anything about visions or dreams. That’s never happened before. Not to me, at least.” He patted the sketch pad. “This is as far as it’s ever gotten.”

  “So tell me what you do know. Tell me about this… gathering thing.”

  He studied her again, still not sure he could trust her. Was this all some elaborate ruse to get him to confess to some kind of crime?

  But if that were true, how could she possibly know what the boy was capable of?

  How would she know any of this?

  Before he could respond, the waitress came back with their order—Christopher’s chili, the lieutenant’s coffee, and an egg salad sandwich for Weston.

  Weston hoped the smell of the chili would bring Chris out of the haze, but Chris continued to rock, oblivious to everything and everyone around him.

  Weston released a long breath and turned to the lieutenant.

  “This is how it works,” he said.

  27

  _____

  “EVERY CRIME SCENE HAS A smell. A look. A trail of DNA. But I guess you know that better than I do.”

  Kate nodded, but said nothing. She was trying her best to hide it, but she still felt unsettled and queasy.

  “What you don’t know,” Weston continued, “is that it also has a feel. A kind of… emotional residue.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “It’s like the smell of rotting garbage that lingers in a room after the trash has been taken out. When someone commits a crime, there are a lot of emotions involved. Terror. Anxiety. Anger. Surprise. Grief. A kind of chaotic stew that envelops both the victims and the perpetrator and stays behind long after they’re gone.” He paused, glanced at Christopher. “Apparently a lot longer than I thought.”

  “This sounds like something out of a movie.”

  “Believe me, sometimes I wish it were, but I’ve seen and felt its power. And if what you’re telling me is true, so have you.”

  Kate thought about that alleyway and felt the room sway. She steadied herself. “I take it Christopher has found some way to tap into this residue?”

  “Don’t ask me how, but yes. What you saw him doing in the Branford living room was what he calls gathering. He soaks in whatever’s still lingering in the room—the feelings and even some of the memories of the people involved.”

  Kate gestured to the sketchpad. “Which he sends to you.”

  Weston nodded. “You mentioned how talented I am, but the truth is, I can barely draw stick figures.”

  Kate thought he was joking but realized he wasn’t. “So this is all Christopher?”

  “It certainly isn’t me. But when he sends me the pictures, I go into my own little trance and the drawings are waiting for me on the other side. I barely remember putting the pencil to the paper.”

  “So you have no control over what winds up on the page?”

  “Did you have any control over what happened to you?”

  She shook her head. And that loss of control was almost as frightening as being transported back to that alleyway.

  “Control isn’t the issue,” Weston said. “What matters is the information. And I have a feeling I’ve only seen a portion of what’s stored inside that head of his. I have to puzzle it all together and try to figure out what it’s telling me and what we’re supposed to do with it.”

  “Like gathering and evaluating evidence.”

  He nodded. “Only the evidence Chris gathers can’t be seen or experienced by just anyone. And since I’m getting it secondhand, it’s not always accurate. Sometimes it comes in scrambled or he makes a mistake. Which is what I thought this was.”

  “Meaning what? Coming to Santa Flora?”

  He nodded again. “I already suspected the murders at the Branford house had nothing to do with the man with the tattoo, but I also knew the minute we stepped inside, that something else was off. I can’t see what Chris sees, but I have my moments, and the feeling I got was that the people who died in that house were not the victims of a roving psychopath. Those killings were much more personal.”

  “I’ve been saying that all along.”

  “Because you have the gift, too,” Weston said. “We wouldn’t be talking if you didn’t.”

  “Christopher told me the same thing. But that’s absurd.”

  “Of course it’s absurd. All of this is. But it’s the reality we’re dealing with. Chris is the transmitter and you and I are the receivers. Only based on what you told me, the signal you’re getting is a hell of a lot stronger than mine.”

  “Apparently so.”

  “So it makes sense that he chose you. Just like he chose me.”

  “But for what?” she asked.

  “What do you think?” Weston told her. “To help him find and kill the man with the tattoo.”

  ∙ ∙ ∙

  So there it was, in a mere handful of words.

  The idea that these two were on some kind of crusade had been percolating in the back of Kate’s brain for awhile now, but it had never occurred to her that she might be part of that crusade.

  If what she’d seen in that alleyway was true, then the three of them were forever linked by the savagery of a single man—a revelation that both rocked and rattled her. But going after that man and expecting to find and kill him, seemed hopelessly naive—and dangerous.

  The fantasy of an eleven-year-old.

  But then Christopher could do things no other eleven-year-old could. Like convince a grown man that chasing a psychopath was a good idea.

  “You do realize that talk like that could land you right back in a jail cell.”

&n
bsp; “How?” Weston said. “We haven’t done anything.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but vigilantism is against the law.”

  “So what are we supposed to do? Sit back and let this maniac destroy more lives? If his crimes go back as far as twenty years, there’s no telling how many people he’s killed. He has to be stopped, lieutenant, and it’s obvious the police aren’t interested in doing it.”

  “And you think I am?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Coming here wasn’t my idea, remember? And I’d just as soon be gone.”

  She gestured to the boy. “So how do you even know him? How did you two meet?”

  Weston took a moment to respond and she saw that he, too, was struggling to find his center. She expected him to start stonewalling again, but he didn’t. Instead he looked around the diner as if to make sure no one was eavesdropping, then spoke in as even a tone as he could muster. “After Anna and the girls were murdered, I was in a pretty bad way.”

  “I can imagine you would be.”

  “It wasn’t just the police who were convinced I’d killed them. I got stares everywhere I went. People I’d considered friends who looked at me as if I were some kind of monster.”

  “Even after they let you go?”

  He nodded. “I owned a saw mill, and most of my employees quit. Didn’t matter that Danbury was still trying to recover from the recession, they’d rather be jobless than be associated with a devil like me. So I thought, screw ‘em. I stopped going to church, stopped praying altogether, shut down the mill, and shifted into self-destruct mode. I spent most nights getting drunk in my living room—the room where Anna’s body was found—watching TV, shouting at the religious shows, cursing them all for being such superficial hypocrites.”

  “So what changed?” Kate asked. “What snapped you out of it?”

  “I saw Christopher. On TV.”

  “TV?”

  “He was on a regional cable show out of Tallahassee called Second Chances, which is about a half-step above a revival tent show. The host was an Elmer Gantry wannabe who trotted out three people he labeled as miracles of God’s grace, the third of which was Christopher.” He paused. “They had saved him for last, I guess, because his story was the most compelling.”