by Steven Dunne
Drexler checked the magazine. It was full. He flicked the safety off and caressed the weapon in his palm and looked over at Sorenson who was at the drinks cabinet, his back turned.
‘Another drink, Mike?’
Drexler contemplated for a few seconds, then put the safety back on. He put the gun in his pocket and picked up his spilled glass. He walked over to Sorenson and held out the glass which his host refilled. Then he drank the whisky down in one swallow and held his glass for a further refill.
‘So what do you want, Professor?’
‘What I said, Mike — understanding.’
‘You want me to understand you?’
Sorenson smiled and shook his head. ‘No, Mike. I want you to understand yourself. You’ve studied philosophy. Apply those skills. Make friends with your past. You’re not Billy Ashwell. Billy raped and tortured people.’
‘So you killed him.’
‘Caleb Ashwell and his brother Jacob killed him. They killed him as surely as if they’d put the noose round his neck. Your father didn’t drive your sister over that ravine. But he killed her just the same. And he tried to kill you. But you won that battle.’
‘I didn’t kill my father if that’s what you’re implying. He left us after Kerry died. Ashamed, he said. The ultimate sin before God, to take your own life. I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Yes, you have, Mike, remember. You put two extra bullets into him and saved your partner’s life. You killed your father that night. In absentia, as it were. Tell me, Mike. How did you know I called at every gas station? They can’t all have had security cameras.’
Drexler took a sip of his drink, brooding over the value of that information. ‘You could only get ten bucks’ worth of fuel in your tank. I figure if you drove up 89 looking for George Bailey’s killers you’re going to need a reason to stop at every station. So you filled up each time.’
Sorenson seemed puzzled for a second. ‘I’d say that was good police work, Mike — especially as there was no record of the sale. I’m amazed that Ashwell’s camera was good enough to pick out the ten dollars.’ He took a sip of whisky.
Drexler returned Sorenson’s gaze. He said nothing. No more free information. No more showing Sorenson his hand. He wouldn’t ask about Brook. He wouldn’t ask Sorenson what was to happen at the Golden Nugget on Tuesday. He knew. The wait was over.
‘Thanks for the drink. I have to go.’
‘Stay a little longer. I have a proposition for you. How would you like to earn what you’ve always wanted?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think you know.’
Drexler stared at Sorenson for several minutes. ‘And you know where he is.’
Sorenson smiled back and patted his pocket.
‘Where?’ asked Drexler.
Sorenson’s smile remained while the black eyes did their work, poring over every detail of Drexler’s countenance as if he was some kind of behavioural experiment. For a moment Drexler considered taking out the gun and ramming it into Sorenson’s mouth to force him to reveal his father’s address, but somehow he sensed that that would be a variable that Sorenson had already assessed and included in his calculations.
Drexler couldn’t hold his eyes and stared off into the fire. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Not joining your colleagues for a knees-up, Brook?’
Brook, preparing to get behind the wheel of the BMW, turned to see Brian Burton’s yellow grin. ‘Aren’t you getting a bit old for all this, Brian? Up all hours, filing your copy when the rest of the world is enjoying life.’
‘I could say the same about you. Why did you walk out of the press conference?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have you got a problem with the investigation?’
‘No comment.’
‘Or maybe you’re having another breakdown.’
Brook swung onto his driver’s seat and pulled at the door but Burton grabbed it. ‘Get off or you’ll get hurt.’
‘My photographer would love to see that. He doesn’t like me!’ he shouted at a thin-lipped man hovering with a camera a few yards away. ‘You don’t like me, do you, Inspector?’
‘I don’t ever think about you. Now get away from my door.’
Burton held on. ‘I’ve interviewed the Ottomans before. Or tried to. After the Wallis thing. Charlton and Hudson don’t know them like we do, Inspector. If Mrs O trod on a spider she’d cry herself to sleep. And now we’re meant to believe that the pair of them murdered six people. Nine if you include the Wallis family.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know if you’re happy with the result. That’s all.’ Brook held onto his driver’s door but stopped pulling. ‘Just a couple of words.’
Brook took his hand off the door and stared off into the darkness, resisting the temptation to deploy the two words that entered his head.
Burton seemed temporarily wrong-footed. He took his own hand from Brook’s door and straightened up. Brook made no move to close it or start the car.
‘Okay. You don’t want to talk to me. But if I ask you if you think John and Denise Ottoman are innocent and you don’t reply that’s what I’ll be putting in tomorrow’s paper.’ Brook looked up into Burton’s red-rimmed eyes and held his gaze. After thirty seconds he raised an eyebrow and reached for the door handle. A smile spread across Burton’s face.
Drexler pulled up his collar against the biting wind and trudged wearily along the tree-lined drive, his mind still in turmoil from the psychological battering he’d suffered at Sorenson’s hands. Andy Dupree was right. He should have left it alone, walked away. Now Sorenson was in his head, had insinuated himself into his very DNA. Sorenson had read between the lines of the report and worked out what had happened.
But one thing Sorenson couldn’t change. In shooting Hunseth, Drexler had killed his father; he didn’t need to do it again. Not if it meant pawning his soul, his freedom, to Sorenson. The Ashwell case was over, Sorenson was untouchable. He knew that now. To continue would be to surrender his own will, to risk losing himself, to become Billy. Drexler made a decision. He’d get in his car and drive back to Sacramento that same night. He wouldn’t kill again at Sorenson’s behest.
He quickened his step, keen to be away. The lamplight was barely adequate and the moon cowered behind angry clouds, which made walking difficult. He stepped gingerly over sodden, slippery leaves and hopped over puddles. He gazed up at the bare branches of trees swaying in the wind. Their striptease done for the year, they tried to hide their blushes behind the modesty of the evergreens, but Drexler registered nothing.
Halfway back to his car he stopped cold. He peered at a patch of newly broken ground where the dusting of snow seemed lighter. He stepped a couple of metres off the tarmac for a better view. He wished he had his flashlight but had to manage with the pale yellow glow of the avenue’s lighting. He stared at the freshly-planted sapling in the gloom and touched the deep-green leaves, which were large and oily. He ran his thumb over his finger and sniffed the sappy resin on his hand. Then he rustled the horn-shaped creamy white flowers with the back of his hand.
He stood and made his way back to the car, a grim smile spreading slowly across his face.
Brook got home forty-five minutes later and turned on his computer. After clicking onto Wikipedia, he typed in ‘scopolamine’ and read for ten minutes, jotting down several alternate names for the drug. Then he jogged up the stairs to fetch The Ghost Road Killers. He turned to the index to check for hyoscine and got a hit on his first attempt. He turned to the page and read with a quickening pulse:
Victims, predominantly the adults who were driving the vehicles, were found to have ingested quantities of hyoscine, combined with traces of morphine, which would render the recipient drowsy, malleable and prone to hallucinations. It is believed that the drug was introduced to victims in the coffee provided at the gas station.
Inevitably drivers became somnolent and, if unable to pull to the sid
e of the road, were liable to crash their vehicles. Several of the motor homes recovered from the gas station had been involved in a collision, though not usually with other vehicles and in only one case was damage more than minor. However, damage to the bodywork of their vehicles was the least of the worries for the unfortunate occupants…
Brook looked at the faded picture of a happy and grinning Bailey family on the opposite page and nodded. The parents at the back, arms entwined, the girls at the front laughing at some remark from their father, oblivious to their destiny. Unfortunate indeed. He stared at the picture longer than he should, then turned back to the index for any mention of Victor Sorenson. It was fruitless but that was hardly surprising. There was no mention of Sorenson in Brian Burton’s book either, nor any of the hundreds of Reaper newspaper stories over the last twenty years — not even in Brook’s own police reports.
Victor Sorenson only ever existed between the lines. Like The Reaper, he was a ghost. Nothing proven, nothing recorded. For years Brook had thought himself the only living person who could connect Victor Sorenson to The Reaper — and only then because the professor had wanted him to know.
But now, despite Sorenson’s death, The Reaper was back. And a former FBI agent had moved next door to write a book about a fifteen-year-old case in California. Brook was starting to read between the lines and Sorenson was there.
He threw the book aside and left the cottage. Drexler’s car was in the drive but the house was in darkness. He checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. He walked down the side path and knocked. No reply. He tried the door but this time it was locked. He considered breaking in but thought better of it. As he turned to go, however, the outside light came on, the lock turned and the door opened.
Drexler stood before him, apparently unsurprised to see him. ‘Damen.’ He made no effort to invite Brook inside.
‘Can we talk?’
‘It’s late.’
‘We’ve found a suspect.’
Drexler’s head cocked to one side. ‘The Reaper? You’d better come in.’
Chapter Nineteen
McQuarry opened her eyes at the first ring. She craned towards the clock — three in the morning — then flopped back down with a groan. A few seconds later she flicked on a lamp and pulled the receiver to her ear.
‘Ed. It’s me.’
McQuarry rested her head on her spare hand. ‘Who else? What’s up?’
‘We got him.’
‘Who?’
‘Sorenson.’
McQuarry opened her eyes and sat up. ‘You’ve arrested him?’
‘No. Nothing like that. Listen, you have to come back to Tahoe.’
McQuarry looked around for her cigarettes but couldn’t see them. ‘Why, Mike?’
‘Because we can connect him to the cabin.’
‘How?’
‘You know that freshly dug hole near the cabin? The one we saw that night we searched the site.’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Well, there was a small tree in it. Same as the other ones in the row, remember?’
‘A tree … Mike, I don’t…’
‘Ed, that tree was taken and replanted in Sorenson’s grounds.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he invited me in for a drink and I saw it.’
‘He invited…’
‘Know what I think? That tree is some kind of natural source of those drugs Ashwell was using on tourists. Like deadly nightshade or something. That’s why we couldn’t find anything in the cabin. Ashwell must’ve told Sorenson before he died or maybe Sorenson worked it out — he’s an industrial chemist, remember — so he takes one of the trees for his own use…’
‘Mike. Slow down.’ McQuarry got out of bed and walked to a small table. She picked up a pack of cigarettes and lighter and put one in her mouth. She opened the double doors to her apartment balcony and stepped out in her pants and 49ers sweatshirt to light her cigarette. The cold air woke her up with a jolt and she glanced off to the blinking lights of Sacramento below. ‘That doesn’t mean it’s the same tree. You’ve no proof that he took it.’
‘That’s not all. I had a lip reader look at the film of Sorenson buying his gas at Ashwell’s garage. Ed, he lied about his name. He told Caleb his name was Brook…’
‘Brook?’ McQuarry took a large pull on her cigarette and tried to gather her thoughts. ‘So what?’
‘So, I thought I’d check it out. I’ve got a friend in the Metropolitan Police, the London … branch or district or whatever they call it, where Sorenson has a house. You remember those murders four or five years back? In England.’
‘Remind me.’
‘The Reaper murders in London. Serial killer. He ghosted into family’s homes and killed everyone, children included. It even made the papers here because there was talk of him being another Jack the Ripper.’
‘The Reaper … I remember.’
‘You remember he cut their throats? Like Caleb. One boy was hung though — the son of one of the victims. Yeah? Like Billy. And another thing, all the victims were petty criminals…’
‘Unlike Caleb and Billy.’
‘…and listen to this,’ Drexler continued, missing the objection. ‘One of the investigating officers was a Detective Sergeant Brook.’
McQuarry took another draw, her mind absorbing the information. ‘It’s a bit thin. Sounds like a common enough name.’
‘There’s more. Victor Sorenson was interviewed by this Brook in connection with the Reaper killings.’
‘He was a suspect?’
‘Well, according to my friend, no, but that’s still a connection. And apparently Brook became so obsessed with this Reaper…’
‘Sound familiar?’
‘…that he had to take a leave of absence. Mental problems. His marriage failed…’
‘Mike. Okay, okay, I get it.’
‘One more thing, Ed. Remember the Golden Nugget Motel? Sorenson booked all the rooms for the day after tomorrow, under the name Peter Hera.’
‘So?’
‘Peter Hera is an anagram of The Reaper.’
McQuarry looked across at her bags, already packed. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Should I open that bottle of champagne now, Damen?’
‘Not tonight, Mike.’
Drexler nodded. ‘No. The end of a case is never for celebrating. It just frees you up for the next human train wreck. Who’s the suspect?’
‘A man called John Ottoman — a teacher. But he escaped to France. He’ll be caught soon enough.’
‘Did he do it?’
‘There’s a lot of evidence.’
‘I’m sure you were very thorough.’ Brook detected an undertone and narrowed his eyes to dredge up the inference. He was on the point of asking for a clarification but let it pass. He didn’t want to be sidetracked tonight.
Drexler indicated an armchair for Brook, opposite his own and facing a small but robust coal fire. A small chintz lamp gave out light to see by, but not enough to dispel the gloom. On Drexler’s chair sat a leaded glass, half-full of what looked like malt whisky. On the cushion was Brian Burton’s upturned book. Brook sat down while Drexler brought him a tumbler and showed him a green bottle.
Brook nodded and stretched his feet towards the fire while Drexler poured the whisky and handed him the heavy glass. Brook examined the bottom of the glass but could see no sign of anything untoward. He sniffed its intense peaty bouquet and half-smiled at remembrance of things past. Brook took a small sip, recalling the taste from his meetings in Sorenson’s London home. He looked up at Drexler who seemed at ease and Brook felt a tremor of anxiety. He was in the home of a man he would soon denounce as The Reaper but he feared that, like Sorenson, he was unlikely to be troubled by it.
‘Are you enjoying Burton’s book?’
‘It’s badly written. Though a fascinating subject,’ said Drexler, closing it. ‘But he doesn’t have a good head for those little details that make all the
difference. The details cops notice and lose sleep over, but people like Burton can’t see.’
‘Such as?’
‘This kid, Jason something.’
‘You don’t even know his name.’
‘I know he’s still alive, against all the odds. He’s survived The Reaper not once but twice. Anybody but a cop could put it down to an oversight and move on. But we know better, don’t we? We know all too well why he was left alive.’
‘Do we?’
‘Sure we do — it’s called division of labour. Why kill someone when you can get someone else to do it? And when that someone else has killed for you, well, then there are two of you to work the next Reaper killing — and after that three of you. And before long…’
‘Before long there’s a whole Reaper network to do the killing,’ said Brook.
‘Many hands make light work… a bit of a commie mantra but it fits. But here’s the mystery, the thing this Burton will never think to address. Someone has failed to deliver on this kid. Twice.’
‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ said Brook. ‘About some people’s commitment to the cause.’
Drexler grunted his amusement. ‘It does. But go careful, my friend. Even an untalented flatfoot like Brian Burton spotted one thing.’
Brook raised his glass and fixed his eye on Drexler. ‘Oh? What’s that?’
‘How many times you’ve failed to catch this guy.’
Brook took a sip of his drink. ‘He doesn’t rate me very highly,’ he said with a thin smile.
Drexler nodded. ‘Another of those details missed, Damen. That’s why Burton’s a fool. He actually thinks you’re incompetent. But he doesn’t know you at all. Personally, I think it must take a special type of genius to keep letting The Reaper slip through his fingers and still look like he’s doing his job properly.’