Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘You know about Joseph Fowler, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s the key, isn’t he?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you things like that.’

  ‘Did you get into trouble?’

  Her lip curled up. ‘You know that trouble ain’t far away from Sally Stackhouse, Mister. This one time, Jimmy and me got into real big trouble. We didn’t mean to, but we did. We was walking down by the river when Danny Schneiderlin and his gang caught us under the bridge. Now, you’d a thought that they would have pummelled us good and proper . . ..

  He took a mouthful of burrito.

  ‘. . . Yeah well, they weren’t expectin’ Sally Stackhouse to come at them like a wreckin’ ball. I took a runnin’ jump at big fat Danny Schneiderlin, and he went flyin’ into the river like a sack of blubber. Trouble was – he didn’t float. Started to sink like a submarine he did. Now, you tell me who was the only one out of all of us who could swim?’

  ‘Sally Stackhouse.’

  ‘You betcha’ it, Mister. Well, I could have left him to drown, but you know Sally Stackhouse ain’t that type of person. I had to jump in and save him. After that, big fat Danny Schneiderlin was my best friend, even though I didn’t want him to be ‘cause Jimmy was already my best friend.’

  ‘So, what brings you here, Sally?’

  ‘I found out something.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She began to flicker.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘They’re tryin’ to stop me tellin’ ya, but I’m going to anyway.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘You better be at the hotel tomorrow night.’

  Then she was gone.

  Another cryptic message. Which hotel? She must be talking about where he lived. What was going to happen at the hotel tomorrow night?

  Chapter Fifteen

  He drove south for 82 miles on the I-95 and then parked up in the car park outside JK Sporting Goods on Chestnut Avenue.

  It wasn’t long before Curtis Polk came out of the store laughing and joking with two other store employees, and climbed into a beat-up old red Acura Integra. The other two work-mates followed him out of the car park in their cars, and they drove in convoy – with Tom following at a distance – for four blocks and turned down a side street where they parked up outside a bar called the Spunky Puddle Taproom.

  He pulled up on the other side of the road, switched the engine off and hunkered down to wait.

  It was dark before Curtis Polk staggered out of the bar. His work-mates had left at least a half-hour before.

  As Polk was trying to find the right key on his bunch to the car door, Tom slugged him from behind with a tire iron. Polk fell forward onto the side of the car. Tom caught him and stopped him from collapsing in a heap on the floor. He then dragged Polk to the trunk, opened it up, bundled him inside and slammed the lid shut.

  Leaning against the car, he looked around while he caught his breath – there was no one about. He could hear a country and western song seeping out through the door of the Spunky Puddle that he vaguely recognised: She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.

  He climbed into the Integra, switched the engine on and set off towards the Vine Street Expressway and the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.

  After crossing the Delaware he drove south along the White Horse Pike to Wharton State Forest where he turned off and followed a track at random as far as it was safe to go in a car without four-wheel drive. He turned the car round, left the engine running and the lights on half-beam as he climbed from the car. The smell of pine rushed up his nose and even above the noise from the idling engine he could hear animals snuffling in the undergrowth. He pulled out his gun, walked round to the trunk and opened the lid.

  ‘What the fuck’s going . . . ?’ Polk started to say.

  Tom’s lip curled up. ‘Remember me?’

  ‘You’re gonna . . .’

  He pushed the gun into Polk’s left eye socket. ‘Get out.’

  Polk scrambled out of the trunk.

  ‘On your knees.’

  ‘You can kiss my . . .’

  Tom pistol-whipped him across the face. ‘On your knees.’

  Polk dropped to his knees.

  ‘The last time we met I told you what would happen if you ever hit my daughter again. Well, here I am. Come to make good on my promise.’

  ‘You’ll never get away . . .’

  He gave Polk his best smile, but his eyes were as cold as a Penguin’s butt. ‘Of course I will. People get murdered all the time. I should know, I spent years trying to find out who had killed them. An butthole like you must have a stack of enemies. You’ll just be another unsolved death. Misty and the kids might shed a tear or two, but pretty soon they’ll realise that life is much better without a drunken bastard like you beating the crap out of them every chance he gets.’

  ‘Please, I promise . . .’

  ‘You promised last time, but your promises don’t mean squat.’

  ‘No, this time . . .’

  He snapped the Smith & Wesson 686P open, emptied the bullets into the palm of his left hand and then slid one back into a chamber. ‘Ever heard of a game called Russian Roulette?’ he asked Polk as he spun the cylinder of the revolver round with the palm of his left hand.

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Thomas!’

  ‘Hello, Cassie. You’re just in time to watch me kill the coward who beats our daughter and grandsons anytime he feels like it. He placed the gun against Polk’s head and pulled the trigger.

  The hammer cracked onto an empty chamber.

  Polk vomited, urinated and evacuated his bowels, and then began crying like a baby.

  ‘It’s your lucky day, Curtis. One more for the road?’

  ‘No, please . . .’

  ‘Next time I have to come up here to see you, there’ll be no discussion. I’ll just shoot you in the head, bury you in an unmarked grave and put Misty and my grandsons out of their misery. Do you understand what I’m saying, Curtis?’

  ‘I understand, Mr Gabriel.’

  He spun the chamber again. ‘I can see you mouthing the words, but I don’t think you’re internalising them.’

  ‘No, no. I’ll never hit Misty or the kids again – I promise. On my mother’s grave.’

  ‘And make sure this little trip out here stays between you and me.’

  ‘I promise won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Take your shoes and socks off.’

  He did as he was told.

  Tom pointed the gun into the forest. ‘Start walking.’

  ‘You’re not going to leave me out here . . . ?’

  ‘The walk back will give you time to reflect on your life, Curtis . . . and your death if you should forget what happened here tonight.’

  Gingerly, Polk began threading his way into the darkness of the forest in his bare feet.

  Tom scooped up Polk’s shoes and socks and threw them into the back of the car. He climbed in, closed the door and set off along the track the way he’d come.

  Cassie was sitting beside him. ‘I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Thomas. You could have killed Curtis, and then . . .’

  ‘There were no bullets in the gun.’

  ‘You put one back in the chamber – I saw you.’

  ‘Sleight of hand. A trick I learned in Vietnam. The gun was empty.’

  ‘Still . . . you kidnapped him and scared him half to death.’

  ‘Let’s hope so, Cassie. Maybe he’ll think twice before he hits Misty or the kids again. If he doesn’t, well . . . Is it my time yet?’

  Cassie put her cold hand on his. ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘How long is it going to be before we’re together, Cassie?’

  ‘You know I can’t tell you that, Thomas.’

  Then she was gone.

  ‘I love you, Cassie,’ he said into the darkness.

  ***

  What was that?

  A creak!

  Her apartment didn’t normally creak.

&n
bsp; She was lying in bed in her shorts and an old white baggy Harley Davidson t-shirt making notes for Saturday’s edition of her serialisation. Sales had increased by nearly 20,000 – where had all those new readers come from? Mr Franchetti was rubbing his hands with glee, and telling the owner – Maxim Grudzov – that it was all down to him for promoting Rae to Investigative Journalist. Yes, things were going very well indeed. Tom would be back tomorrow, and they could plan what to do next. Was it all connected? How had John Doe obtained Rosalind Winter’s unlisted phone number? Was Rosalind Winter a part of whatever John Doe was involved in?

  Another creak.

  What was that?

  Maybe there was a water leak, or she’d left a window open, or . . .

  Her phone activated – an unknown number.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I was sitting here thinking about you,’ Otto Rubik said.

  ‘Haven’t you got passengers to move from A to B?’

  ‘A bit of a quiet night. I seem to have run out of passengers. And then I got to thinking about that tattoo on your neck, and I wondered how far it went down, which started me . . .’

  ‘Do they pay you extra to harass your paying customers with dirty phone calls?’

  ‘I can be really dirty if you’ll let me.’

  ‘Goodnight, Otto.’

  ‘Goodnight, Butterfly.’

  She smiled as she ended the call, and was just puttig the phone back on top of her bedside table when it vibrated again.

  ‘I’m in bed.’

  ‘That’s very nice for you. I thought you were going to ring me.’

  ‘I forgot – arrest me.’

  ‘So, you’re all right?’

  ‘Would you like a signed affidavit?’

  ‘Have you got an attorney in that bed with you?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Sitting outside my daughter’s house.’

  ‘Doesn’t she live in Philadelphia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you were in Staten Island.’

  ‘A quick visit to say hello to her and the two children.’

  ‘How thoughtful. Was there anything else?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You’ll be back tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’ She ended the call and decided to switch her phone off, which she didn’t normally do but no one else would call her tonight.

  Another creak.

  She jumped out of bed, padded to the door in her bare feet and opened it.

  The hallway was dark.

  Was it darker than usual?

  The creaking seemed to have stopped.

  Maybe the creaking had been in her head.

  She reached her hand out, flicked the switch for the hallway light to come on – up and down, up and down, but nothing happened.

  The bulb must have broken.

  Maybe that was what she’d heard.

  Except . . . the bulb was one of those forever bulbs that saved the environment, repaired the ozone layer and made the world a better place.

  With her heart beating like a bongo drum, she stepped into the corridor, walked purposefully towards the kitchen, reached her hand in to switch the light on – nothing.

  Clickety-click, clickety-click – no light.

  What had happened to the lights?

  Maybe there was a power outage.

  She felt her way into the kitchen, along the worktop, squatted to open the cupboard beneath the sink because there was a torch in there . . .

  Maybe, in future, she’d keep a torch in her bedroom.

  As she opened the cupboard doors with both hands she heard a distinct rustle. Before she could react, she felt something being slipped over her head, and a sharp pin-prick in her neck.

  In her head she was spiralling down.

  Down – as if she was swilling down the plughole.

  Down – like a child’s paper ship caught in a whirlpool.

  Down – as if she was being sucked into a black hole.

  Down – into the depths of Hell.

  And then there was nothing.

  ***

  He walked up the steps and onto the veranda of Curtis and Misty’s rented three-bedroom brick and wood townhouse at 6784 Lebanon Avenue and knocked on the front door.

  ‘Will you get that, Barney?’ he heard Misty ask her eldest son.

  He’d driven Curtis Polk’s red Acura Integra back to the Spunky Puddle, left the keys in the ignition and reclaimed the rented Buick LaCrosse. He’d just finished phoning Rae – at least she was all right. What were all the messages about?

  The door opened.

  Beyond it, through the fly screen, stood a boy of about . . .

  ‘It’s an old codger, mum.’

  Misty appeared. She pushed the screen open. Tears ran down her face, and she hugged him. ‘Hello, dad.’

  He hugged her back. ‘And here’s me thinking you’d forgotten who your father was.’

  ‘It’s been so long.’

  His eldest daughter was overweight. She’d let herself go before her time. A yellowing bruise was still evident under her left eye, and she had a small jagged scar on the right side of her face along the line of her lower jaw. A lump came to his throat when he thought back to how beautiful she had been, how alive, how defiant.

  ‘This is your Grandpa Tom, Barney – say hello.’

  ‘Hello. Got any presents for me?’

  ‘Presents? No. Have you got any presents for me?’

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was coming either.’

  ‘Come on, Barney, move out of the way. Let Grandpa Tom get inside.’

  He shuffled in through the door and followed Misty into the living room.

  ‘Curtis hasn’t come home yet,’ she said. ‘He’s a bit late tonight, but he should be here soon.’

  ‘Surely he’s not still working at this time of night?’

  ‘No. He likes to go out for a drink with the boys on a Friday night – it helps him to unwind for the weekend.’

  He parked himself in a chair. ‘I guess you’re not talking about these two boys?’ he said, looking at ten year-old Barney and eight year-old Dino. Sadly, they were both smaller versions of Curtis Polk. He couldn’t see anything of Misty in either of her two sons.

  ‘You know I’m not.’ Her face adopted a frown. ‘Can you sit on the sofa dad, that’s Curtis’ chair and he doesn’t like anybody else sitting in it.’

  He stayed where he was. ‘You should leave him and come back home with me.’

  ‘Okay you two – up to bed now,’ Misty said.

  ‘Can’t we stay up now that Grandpa is here?’ Barney pleaded.

  Misty stared at him. ‘Are you staying, dad?’

  ‘I’ll be here for a short time in the morning boys – we’ll see each other then.’

  It was twenty minutes before Misty could sit down, by which time it was quarter to ten.

  ‘I don’t know where Curtis has got to.’

  While she’d been putting the kids to bed, he’d taken over the kitchen and made two coffees. It wasn’t Mountain Blue, but whatever it was at least it had some caffeine in it for which he was grateful.

  ‘Don’t worry about him. Let’s talk about you. I’m flying back tomorrow afternoon. Leave him and come home with me, Misty?’

  ‘Sara called. She told me what she’d said.’

  ‘He won’t hit you again.’

  Her eyes opened wide. ‘Oh God, dad. What have you done?’

  He held up a hand. ‘Let’s talk about what I didn’t do – I didn’t kill him, but next time he hits you or the kids, I will. He’s got Sara to thank for his pathetic life.’

  ‘Oh dad!’

  ‘Don’t “Oh dad!” me.’ He edged forward on the chair. ‘You’re my daughter and I’m your father. That will never change. Curtis Polk said he’d love and protect you, but he hasn’t done that, has he? You can “Oh dad” me al
l you want, but it won’t alter one iota who I am, and you of all people should know that, Misty. No man hits either of my daughters and lives to tell the tale.’

  ‘That’s why I never tell you.’

  ‘And that’ll have to change as well. The next time he raises a hand against you or those two boys you’re to pick up the phone and call me.’

  ‘Then you’ll come here, kill him, get put on death row for murder, the kids and me will have to beg for handouts on the street . . . Yeah, that sounds like something I’m going to be a part of.’

  ‘I’m an ex-detective. I know how to dispose of a body so that it’ll never get found, and I’ll take care of you and the children.’

  ‘I still love him, dad.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish. How can you love a man who gives you a black eye and marks your beautiful face?’

  ‘I’m not so beautiful anymore.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  She touched the scab on her jaw line. ‘That was an accident – he forgot to take off his ring. And he’s not like that all the time. In his own way he still loves me.’

  ‘My whole life I’ve dealt with victims, Misty. I hear you talk, and you talk like a victim.’

  ‘This is the way people live their lives, dad. Go and knock on people’s doors and ask them. They all live with their own demons You’ve forgotten how the weak are always the victims. You and mum had a special relationship, but most people don’t live in the garden of earthly delights, they live in the garden of evil. Welcome to my life. Like everyone else, I’m just trying to make it to the other side of the garden in one piece, the best way I know how.’

  ‘I could help you.’

  ‘No you couldn’t, and I don’t want your help, dad. Have you eaten?’

  ‘It depends whether you’re a good cook or not. If you are – then I haven’t eaten, but if you’re the head chef in the garden of evil . . .’

  ‘About the only thing I can do right according to Curtis is cook. Is he coming home tonight?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s a long walk from Wharton State Forest in your bare feet.’

  ‘You can have his evening meal then.’ She disappeared into the kitchen and came back five minutes later with a plate of meat pie, potatoes, peas, gravy and two slices of buttered bread on a tray. ‘He’ll take it out on me, you know.’