Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Jake dusted the table, his wallet and the lock on the door, but he picked up nothing. Marco stood, holding Pickles and watching him. Abe stood beside him, his face a mask of concern. Jake went over the whole house with a blue light, but found no trace of anything. Finally he came back to the front door and gave Marco a shake of his head.

  “I got nothing.”

  Marco clenched his jaw, but didn’t answer.

  “Are you sure you left your wallet on the floor? Maybe you picked it up and didn’t remember doing it.”

  “I wasn’t drinking, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Marco snapped.

  “No, I wasn’t suggesting that at all. Just I’ve done things and haven’t remembered doing it later.”

  “The wallet was on the floor. That’s one of the reasons I came back here tonight!” Marco paced away.

  Abe caught his shoulders. “We believe you, Angel. Why don’t we set up a camera tomorrow outside of Peyton’s house?”

  Marco considered that. “I have Tonio’s graduation tomorrow.”

  “Well, Jakey and I can do it. We both have keys. We’ll get it set up, and that will take care of it. Okay?”

  “Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

  “Good.” Abe clapped his hands. “Go get the guys from the car, Jakey.”

  Jake gave Marco a concerned look.

  “Go get what guys from what car?” asked Marco, turning back to Abe.

  “We brought the poker game here when you called.”

  “You did what?”

  Abe placed his hands on Marco’s cheeks. “It’s just not a party when you aren’t around, Angel. Now, we’ll have a party, and where better to have it than party central.” He made an expansive gesture around the room.

  Marco’s eyes cut to Jake and he gave a sheepish shrug. Exhaling, Marco held out his hand. “Fine. Have your party, but…” He pointed a finger in Abe’s face. “...no strip poker!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Charlie took a rag out from beneath his bench and scrubbed it along the counter. He liked to keep his booth clean. Cyril had praised him for that, told him it was good that he took pride in his work. Charlie didn’t mind. He liked working in the station. He liked helping the people find where they were supposed to go. One time an Italian tourist had offered him a pound as a tip. Charlie hadn’t taken it, but it was nice to have someone recognize you did good work and want to reward you for it.

  He didn’t have enough to afford his own flat yet. He still lived with his parents, but soon, soon he’d have more money. Unfortunately, the medications took most of his salary. His mother said that was okay, that he could stay with them, but he really wanted to prove to them that he could live on his own.

  He started scrubbing the inside window of the booth with the rag, making sure all the fingerprints from the previous workers were gone. He didn’t know why they had to touch the inside of the glass. Why couldn’t they point without touching something?

  Charlie’s thoughts went back to his living situation as he worked. He saw only two answers. Pay for the medicine and live with his parents forever, or stop paying for the medicine and move out on his own. It was pretty simple. He didn’t like the medicine anyway. It made his thoughts scattered and unfocused. He liked it better when he didn’t have muddy thoughts.

  Except...except there was Niles and Niles had started whispering in his head recently. It was only a few words at a time. Some inappropriate suggestion when Charlie needed it the least. Niles always got interested when there were women at the booth. He wanted Charlie to try peeking down their tops. He was obsessed with breasts.

  Charlie tried not to look. He tried to look anywhere else, but sometimes it was hard not to see. Hard not to notice the way a woman’s jumper hugged her body. And the longer he went without the medicine, the more Niles talked and the more Niles commented on things around Charlie.

  “Can you tell me which line I want if I want to go to South Kenton?”

  Charlie lowered the rag and stared at the woman. She was blond and young with just a hint of mascara. She wore trousers and a spaghetti strap blouse that didn’t show off much cleavage. She smiled at him and Charlie felt his pulse race.

  That’s the one. See her. We could have fun with her.

  Charlie flinched at Niles’ intrusion.

  “I just get all confused with these lines and stops and if you could help me, I’d appreciate it.”

  Ask her to tea. Ask her for a pint.

  “You want South Kenton, you said?”

  “Right. South Kenton.”

  Charlie’s mind went blank and he tried to pull his thoughts together.

  How long are you going to be a virgin? How long are you going to pretend you don’t want this? A girl? Your own girl? You know you do.

  She continued to smile at him, but as he waged his internal battle, she shifted impatiently, glancing over at the map on the wall.

  You’re going to lose her. Like all the others. She’s going to go away and you’ll never see her again. Do something.

  “South Kenton?” he repeated.

  “Right.” Her smile was brittle, forced.

  “You want the...you want the Bakerloo Line.”

  “Bakerloo. Thanks.”

  He nodded, giving her an odd smile. He knew it was odd. He could feel how strange and strained it was.

  She moved away from the booth, looking at the map, drawing her finger up the brown line that marked Bakerloo.

  She’s leaving. You blew it again. You messed it up. Strong people take what they want. Strong people go after things that they need. You are a coward.

  He tapped his fist against his temple. “Stop it,” he whispered to himself. “Stop it please.”

  You are a coward. Other men have girls, they have mates. You have no one. You have your parents. That’s all. That’s all you’ll ever have and when they die, you’ll be alone.

  “That’s a lie.”

  Is it? You let the girl go. You didn’t even try to stop her. They’re right. They’ve been right all along. You’re a wanker. They’re having a laugh, aren’t they now? Having a laugh at you. Because you’re barmy, that’s what. You’re barmy as hell.

  Charlie fumbled for the door handle, yanking it open. He stepped out into the station, looking for the woman. “It’s not true. Take it back.”

  A couple of people passing by glanced over at him, but he ignored them, searching for the girl.

  Get stuffed. You aren’t going to do anything. If you find her, you’ll stammer and stutter and act like you’re gobsmacked. Go back inside and hide, little man.

  “No!” She was headed for the Bakerloo line. He could cut her off there. He ran toward the turnstiles, shoving people out of the way.

  They gave cries of alarm, but he whispered he was sorry and continued to push his way through until he reached the turnstiles. Fumbling for his pass, he slapped it on the reader and waited for the gates to open.

  It’s too late, wanker. You’ll never find her now. She’s gone and you’re alone.

  The gates opened and he raced through, turning left and running down the stairs. People tried to get out of his way, but he didn’t care. He shoved through them. Once he tripped and nearly toppled down the flight, but he caught himself on the railing.

  He hit the platform and paused to catch his breath, bending over at the waist and resting his hands on his thighs. Searching the platform, he didn’t see her.

  You missed her. You wasted too much time. You mucked it up. You’ll never be anything.

  But a moment later, he caught sight of her, sitting on a bench, reading a book. He ran over to her and she looked up, surprised when he came to a panting, sweating halt before her, but as soon as he looked into her eyes, his thoughts fled. He didn’t know what to say or do.

  Mental, that’s what you are.

  “What about a pint?”

  “I’m sorry,” she asked.

  “A pint? I’ll buy you a pint.”

  She shot a look at t
he woman sitting next to her. “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it now?”

  Charlie held out his hands. He didn’t know what else to say. His mouth worked, but nothing came out and of course, now that he needed him, Niles went silent.

  Her look shifted from surprise to alarm. “I’ve got to go to work. Should you have left the booth?”

  Charlie didn’t know how to answer that.

  Glancing around, she rose to her feet and slipped past him, moving toward the other end of the platform.

  “We could get a pint,” he said, following her. “Just us. Just the two of us. I’ll buy.”

  She shook her head, turning her back on him. “I’m good. Please just go.”

  Charlie flapped his hands against his thighs in frustration. “Please. Just a pint.”

  “No!” she said, giving him a warning glare. “Please leave me alone.”

  He grabbed her arm. “We can go now. I’ll pay. I promise you.”

  “She said leave her alone!” came a man’s voice behind Charlie.

  “Don’t do this,” he begged her. “Don’t say no.”

  Her expression grew frightened.

  “Hey!” shouted the man, moving up behind Charlie. “Let her go!”

  “Please,” he pleaded with her. “Just one. Just one pint!”

  “Hey!” Someone grabbed his shoulder.

  Panic flooded Charlie and he struck backward, trying to dislodge the guy’s arm, but he slapped him in the side of the head. The girl screamed and other people converged on him, grabbing at him. He swatted, trying to drive them off, but they circled him now, separating him from the girl.

  “Leave me alone!” he shouted.

  “Just calm down, mate! Just calm down!”

  “Leave me alone!”

  A man threw his arms around Charlie, pinning his own arms against his side. Charlie went crazy, slamming his head back into the man’s nose, kicking, bucking, rearing, trying to drive them off.

  Then someone kicked his legs out and he found himself falling forward, connecting hard with the platform. A knee jammed into his back, stealing his breath, and he felt his face grind into the metal surface. Twisting his head, he could just make out the girl, her hands covering her mouth, another woman’s arms around her.

  You’re mental, that’s what you are, whispered Niles in his head.

  * * *

  Peyton was beginning to hate the meeting room in Scotland Yard. They met here every morning after their daily stop at Pret, but nothing seemed to be accomplished in here. They were no closer to finding the killer than they’d been when they arrived, and their leads were slim and none. Peyton just knew there was going to be another killing soon.

  She took her customary seat at the table and drummed her fingers on its lacquered black surface. Bambi perched on the seat next to her. Peyton wasn’t sure how many hours of sleep Bambi was getting each night, but it was definitely less than Peyton, and yet she still looked like a damn model.

  Tank sat across from them, lost in thought. He didn’t usually look pensive and he’d always been good natured with her, but today he seemed down. She didn’t feel like she knew him well enough to ask. Finally, there was Radar, who had his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his mirrored sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. She suspected he was doing his meditation crap, working on his chi or whatever. She didn’t know why his detachment annoyed her, but it did.

  Caleb Abbott and Neil entered the room. Caleb beamed a good natured smile on all of them, and Neil offered a shy lift of his hand.

  “Good morning, my American comrades,” Caleb said.

  “Good morning,” said Peyton. No use perpetuating the rude American stereotype. “How are you?”

  “We’re quite well,” said Caleb. “A night with no new murders always brightens my mood. I thought we might report out and then we have a bit of evidence to share. Neil has obtained the video recording of Ms. MacDonnell’s attack in the tube station.”

  “How is she, by the way?” asked Peyton.

  Caleb gave a small shrug. “Last I heard, she was stable and improving. I should probably call today.” He paused as if considering. “Yes, I should definitely ring her up and see how she is. Now, Bambi and Tank, will you fill us in on your chat with the peanut guy, for want of a better term?”

  Bambi reported, although they didn’t have much to report. He denied seeing anything, said he was too afraid to go on the bridge, and that he was planning to leave London. They got his name and address, but he admitted he paid little attention to the homeless and hadn’t noticed the suspect until the attack. Even then he’d been fighting a battle with himself on whether to help Rianna Cooper or run.

  “Thank you,” said Caleb, giving her a bright smile. “Now, let me fill the two of you in on our visit to the Howshams’ yesterday.”

  He proceeded to explain the trip, showing them the photo they’d gotten from Bea. When he was finished, Tank got that look that usually meant some bit of brilliance was coming.

  “Can we get a confirmation from Broadmoor about Charlie’s diagnosis?”

  “We’re working on that as we speak,” said Caleb, motioning to Neil.

  “We’ve served the warrant and they’re looking through their records,” offered Neil.

  “What are you thinking?” said Radar, his hands clasped on his belly.

  “Well, his parents mentioned schizophrenia and that’s likely the case; however, I was just wondering about dissociative identity disorder.”

  “Split personalities?” said Caleb. “I wondered the same myself, although I’m not sure I believe in it as an actual psychological aliment.”

  “There’s a lot of debate in the psychiatric community to support you, but if you think about it, it might make sense. Charlie has an alter-ego, Niles, that does these horrific things. Everyone we speak with says Charlie’s too nice to commit murder. What if Charlie can’t commit murder, but Niles can?”

  “I’m not seeing how this has anything to do with anything. If that’s the case, you find Charlie, you’ve got Niles,” said Radar.

  Peyton stared down at the table. Something about Tank’s assessment bothered her. Charlie had violent outbursts. He had wound up in Broadmoor for assaulting another boy, but assaulting a boy and murdering women, and the way he murdered these women, were two completely different things. In the first, he’d been provoked and struck out to defend himself and the girl he was protecting. In the second, he hunted these women down like a wild animal.

  “Well, it sort of explains the werewolf mythology, though, doesn’t it?” continued Tank. “When a man becomes a werewolf, he loses his humanity. He takes on a darker persona. Charlie, in his dissociative state, becomes the werewolf.”

  “And again, if we find Charlie, we find the werewolf.”

  “But has Charlie really done anything wrong?”

  “What?”

  Tank held up a hand. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Well, stop it. Our mission is clear. We stop the werewolf, we stop the killing. It’s that simple.”

  Peyton studied Tank. She still felt uneasy about his words, but she couldn’t place a finger on why.

  “You said you had the video of the MacDonnell attack,” said Radar.

  “Right.” Caleb turned to Neil.

  Neil picked up a remote and pressed the button. A video screen loaded on their fancy glass board. A few more clicks and Neil had the video of the station. At the far left of the screen was Amelia MacDonnell wearing shorts and a tank top, standing on the edge of the platform, waiting for the train. She was alone.

  Suddenly a shadow moved up behind her, all wild dark hair, huge coat. She turned and threw up her hands, but he grabbed her and slammed her against his chest, then his arm rose and something glinted against the camera lens. The knife.

  He stabbed her again and again until her knees buckled and her weight slumped forward, then he dropped her on the platform, on her back, and threw back his head. He must hav
e howled, but there was no audio on the video feed. Even then, he managed to keep his features hidden. At his feet, Amelia flinched and her hands fluttered against her breast. Then ducking his head, he darted around the corner of the platform, out of sight of the camera.

  Peyton closed her eyes. She could hardly stand seeing it. She felt sick inside, nauseous

  Bambi reached over and clasped her hand, giving her a commiserate look.

  Amelia lay on the platform. They could see her chest rising in a shallow pant. Then as they watched, he came back, but this time he edged forward slowly as if he were afraid or shocked or sickened by what he’d done. He hid in the voluminous folds of his army coat and the way he held himself, he actually looked smaller, hunched, afraid.

  He knelt by her side, keeping his face away from the camera and carefully reached out, touching her hand. Her mouth moved, but they couldn’t make out what she said, then his head jerked up and he skittered away, disappearing out of view.

  The train arrived and a middle aged couple got off, spotting the girl. The woman was the first to rush to her side, the man following a few steps behind. As they knelt by her, the woman suddenly looked up, looked toward where the suspect had disappeared. She said something, then said it louder, shouting to the figure just beyond sight.

  The video ended.

  Neil shifted to face them. Peyton didn’t know what to say. The attack had been brutal, savage, unpredictable, then he’d returned and it almost looked like he’d felt remorse.

  “Sparky, you’re awfully quiet,” said Radar.

  “I…” Her thoughts wouldn’t coalesce. “I don’t know what to say. How can you attack someone with such ferocity one minute, then be almost...I don’t know.”

  “Apologetic,” said Bambi.

  “Yeah.” Peyton held her hand out to her.

  “If dissociative identity disorder is in play here, it makes perfect sense. One part of Charlie’s personality, Niles, drives him to commit these brutal murders. Once catharsis is achieved, the other part of Charlie takes over and he’s horrified by what he’s done,” said Tank.