by Oliver Stark
‘What was she wearing?’ asked Harper.
‘Pink dress. White shoes.’
‘She say anything to you, big guy? Mention anyone following her?’
Mo shook his head.
‘She just left?’
Mo nodded.
‘Think some more, Mo. Did she have anyone with her?’
Mo shook his head. Benny appeared by his side. ‘Are you this slow on the uptake all the fucking time, gentlemen? She bought cigarettes and left. What more do you want? Now let this guy earn his living.’
‘Just one more thing,’ said Harper. ‘Is that your van outside blocking half the sidewalk, the one with MARCONI all along the side?’
‘Hey, you going to ticket me? The fucking axle broke.’
‘Get it off the sidewalk or I’ll have it towed.’
‘Tow the thing, you’ll be doing me a favour.’
It was all they were going to get. So they knew she got the cigarettes, left the store alive and headed home. And then, in the five-minute walk, something happened to her and she ended up four days later in a dumpster.
Eddie looked across at Harper. ‘What next, boss? You think we should take the big guy in for questioning? Not that we’d get much, by the looks of him.’
‘You should, but it’s not my call any more. You back on duty tomorrow?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Keep me posted, will you? Anything come up, I’d like to know.’
‘What about you?’
‘Missing persons have a database and she might have been logged. I want to check it out. I’ll catch up tomorrow. And Eddie.’
‘Yeah, man?’
‘Thanks.’
Chapter Sixty
Marty Fox’s Suite
November 28, 11.30 a.m.
There were about 70 million hits for the word ‘Viagra’. Marty Fox raised an eyebrow. Thank shit, I’m not alone, he thought. It was terrible news that his stresses since the last meeting with Nick had hit the bedroom. But there were different approaches to problems in life: one was to face them head-on and talk to someone, the other was to try to hide from them and hope a quick fix with some strong drugs would help.
Marty was going for the quick fix. What am I going to do if I lose my one talent? He put in an order and hoped that this would solve his problem. God, he was sorry about his wife. He’d insulted her in a way he hated himself for. Never again, he declared, typing in his credit card details.
He had also done what he could to get rid of his disturbing client. He’d asked his PA to cancel the next session with Nick and, in fact, cancel all sessions. He told her if she re-booked him this time he’d fire her. That would do it, he thought. Refuse to see Nick, bury his head in the sand and buy Viagra for the droop. Welcome back to normality.
He smiled. He was beginning to feel himself again. He picked up a carton of cigarettes and lit one, leaning back in his leather chair. So what if he was breaking the law. It felt good. He inhaled deeply and felt the tingle of nicotine ripple through his veins. Sweet heaven!
At that moment, the door opened and Nick entered the room.
‘What the hell do you want?’
His PA ran in after him. ‘Sorry, Dr Fox, he just pushed past.’
‘I need help, Doctor. It’s urgent.’
Marty leaned forward. His problem had just come back. He waved his PA out of the office. ‘It’s okay. I’ll handle this.’
‘I need to see you, Doctor. You saw the news in the paper. Do you know what that means? You saw the photograph of the girl. Kitty Hunyardi. You must’ve thought what I thought. I’ve been terrified. Do you think I had anything to do with it?’
‘Nick, Nick,’ said Marty, taking control. ‘I reflected on our last session. Therapy needs trust and confidence and objectivity. I don’t think I can provide you with those elements. I have a list of other therapists you might want to see. I’m not a specialist in this area. They will be able to help you. Unfortunately, I can’t. I’m sorry.’
Nick was wearing a cheap suit with a faint pinstripe. He looked like he’d slept in his car or something. ‘I have to know. I have some more information for you.’
‘Information?’ said Marty. ‘What kind of information?’
‘Can I sit down?’
‘No! I told you . . . Nick, you’ve gotta listen ...’
Nick sat. ‘I can’t tell anyone else. What I’m about to tell you, Marty, will shock you. I’ve thought about telling you before but I’ve been afraid. But we have a connection. I feel that I can tell you. I can trust you.’
‘Whatever it is, Nick, I don’t want to know. I’m not going to listen.’ Marty got up and walked to his desk. ‘This session is over. You need to leave.’
There was a silence. Marty was hoping that the lunatic would lose interest, but Nick just sat there. If he doesn’t move, thought Marty, I’ll just get up and go myself.
‘Okay, Marty, have it your way.’
‘Yeah, I will.’
Nick stood and approached Marty’s desk. He took out a photograph and laid it on the desk before Marty. It was a picture of a beautiful girl.
Marty didn’t recognize the picture. He looked at Nick. ‘What?’
‘Just after I heard about Kitty, I went home. I downloaded pictures from my camera to see some shots of my kids and I found several pictures of this girl. I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Her name’s Rose Stanhope. That’s all I know.’
‘How do you know her name, Nick?’
‘There’s a picture of her at a conference of some kind. Her name’s on a label on her lapel. Rose Stanhope.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Marty. ‘You think she’s next?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything.’
‘Then who took the pictures?’
‘This is who Sebastian wants,’ said Nick, almost in a whisper. ‘This is his next girl. I think he scopes them and then attacks. Sebastian always sees the worst in people. He killed Kitty, what’s he going to do next? I don’t know what to think.’
Marty felt the warmth drain from his skin. ‘Hey, Nick, this has to stop. This is a fantasy you’ve got. Kitty was a coincidence. These are just photographs. You’re not a killer, you’re just disturbed. You live in a fantasy. You’re projecting your feelings into these strange murders. You’re from West Virginia, right?’
‘Yeah,’ said Nick.
‘And you were around, right, when this terrible thing happened to Chloe. Am I right?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘But you didn’t know Chloe yourself, did you?’
Nick thought for a moment. ‘I wasn’t lucky enough to know Chloe, not me, no. She was at my high school. In the year above.’
‘That’s right. It wasn’t you. It was someone else, wasn’t it? But for some reason, you felt guilty for it because you had a crush on her.’
‘That’s right, Doc, I did feel guilty. But it doesn’t matter. It was Sebastian who killed her.’
‘Why?’
‘Chloe was my angel. He doesn’t like me having angels. He likes to destroy them.’
‘What or who is Sebastian?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s just a fantasy, Nick. You’re projecting all your fears on to this killer.’
‘I just know I’ve stood by while Sebastian has done these things. I can’t any more.’
‘No, you didn’t, Nick. You’ve just got yourself caught up in some fantasy. You need proper help. We need to get you to see Dr Bartholomew. This is a fantasy. He can help.’
‘No, it’s you I need. I’m trying to get help here. Sebastian ...’
‘What?’
‘I can’t tell you any more. I don’t know any more. You can help me to stop him. Help me to stop him taking over.’
Marty’s mind was a white sheet of fear. He couldn’t think at all. He was scared for himself now. Perhaps this man had killed Kitty Hunyardi. He stared at him hard.
&n
bsp; ‘Shocking, isn’t it, Dr Fox? I’m as shocked as you. Please help me.’
‘What do you want? I can’t help. Go to the cops. You need to get yourself sectioned or locked up.’
‘I want to know what I am. I want to know why something happened to Chloe. I want to know what the hell is going on. I want it to stop.’ He pulled out an envelope and poured the contents on to the glass table. ‘A diamond necklace. I found it in my pocket. Where the hell would I get a necklace like this?’
Marty didn’t know what to think.
‘The American Devil has killed rich girls. Why do I have a rich girl’s necklace in my pocket? What am I going to do?’
‘Listen,’ Marty said, ‘we’ve got to get you some serious help.’
‘I’ll be put away for the rest of my life. Please help me.’
Nick was a pathetic, weak figure on the couch. Marty looked across. ‘Look, I can’t help you. Have you not fucking noticed? I’m a fake, a flake, a pathetic excuse for a therapist. I know nothing about how to heal people. I just talk to them. I just want an easy life. We’ll just say goodbye and forget all about it. How about that?’
‘Then Sebastian wins,’ said Nick.
Marty reached for his cigarettes and lit another. ‘I can’t help that. I really can’t.’
‘You know that those things will kill you, don’t you?’
Marty looked up at Nick. ‘Yeah, I know.’
Nick felt someone or something move within the corridors of his mind. Footsteps, heavy and distant. He was coming now. Nick looked up to Marty, his face contorted with fear. ‘He’s coming, Doctor. I can feel him.’
Nick’s voice suddenly dropped an octave and a deep baritone voice said, ‘You know what the motto of St Sebastian is, Doctor? Beauty constant under torture. Show nothing, remain beautiful, whatever the pain.’
Nick removed his hand from his pocket and raised a clenched fist up before him. ‘I can sometimes keep him away. Sometimes I can.’ Marty looked across - dark red blood was streaming from his hand, through the fingers and knuckles and on to the table and carpet. Marty rushed across and took hold of Nick’s arm. ‘Stop it! What the hell are you doing? Jesus!’
He pulled open Nick’s bloody fist and a handful of sharp flat-headed nails clattered on to the glass table and across the floor, peppering the pale carpet with spots of blood. ‘What the fuck are you doing, Nick?’ Marty said, staring hard at Nick, who was concentrating with all his strength. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
‘Resisting,’ said Nick. ‘Resisting him.’
Chapter Sixty-One
Marty Fox’s Suite
November 28, 11.45 a.m.
Marty waited until he saw Nick disappear across the street, then he stood up. His shirt was sticking to him. He pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled it off and threw it in the trash. Then he pulled the New York Times out of the trash. He’d seen the killer’s profile that morning in the paper but ignored it. Now he wanted to know. He read the 500-word description. His pulse started racing. Nick was a good match.
He pressed through to his PA. ‘Get me a new shirt, will you, Jane.’
‘I’m sorry, Dr Fox, he pushed right past me.’
‘Yeah. I . . . Don’t worry. And put me through to the police.’
‘The police?’
Jane paused and then she said she would do as he asked.
Just then, Marty’s cell phone vibrated. He took his jacket and searched the pocket. He pulled out his phone and pressed to read the text. An image appeared on his screen. He stared at it in confusion. What did she do that for? It was a picture of his wife. She was outside their house, getting into her car. It was earlier that day, he was sure of it. She was wearing what she had on that morning. White trousers and a purple blouse. What did she send that for? He looked at the message details - it wasn’t from her cell.
Marty put his phone down on the desk and tried to think. Then the cell vibrated again and clicked against the glass. Another text arrived. Marty opened it. It was another picture. His wife, getting out of her car at her office. Again, it was a picture taken earlier in the day. A fear was dawning on Marty as he looked at the screen. Then another text arrived. There was his lovely wife at work. Another text came quickly after. This time she was looking directly into the camera and smiling. Marty’s hand was shaking. His phone was vibrating constantly as photograph after photograph appeared. All of his wife, all from earlier in the day. All from someone standing close to her.
Jane called back through. ‘I’ve got the police on the line. Can I patch you through?’
‘Jane, that guy who just left; the guy who calls himself Nick Smith - he didn’t say anything to you, did he?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You ever give him my cell phone number?’
‘Sure. At the first session. Just your work phone, not your private number.’
‘Thank you, Jane.’
‘Can I patch you through now?’
‘Sure.’
Marty looked down at his wife’s smiling face then put his cell phone down. It continued to buzz with a life of its own. He picked up the office phone, his voice catching dry in his throat. ‘Sorry, officer, I’ve made a mistake. It’s fine. I had a client who was refusing to leave, but he’s gone now. Sorry for wasting your time.’ He put the phone down quickly.
Five more photographs arrived. Nick Smith had been following her right until he started out to Marty’s office. Marty’s heart was pounding. Nick or, worse, Sebastian had been stalking his wife. And he was feeling the guilt himself. Marty felt his cowardice leaching the colour from his skin.
He looked down at the last photograph of his wife, a woman he’d lied to and betrayed for fifteen years. And now someone was threatening her life. Tears formed in Marty’s eyes like long-lost relatives arriving at a funeral. He was a cheap, lying, adulterous bastard, but his heart yearned for her like a dog. He wanted to howl. He looked at her familiar face and realized why he was crying. He was looking at the only thing on earth that he really loved and wondering why the hell he was killing her.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Dresden Home
November 28, 11.55 a.m.
Dee had never meant to get married. It was always part of her long-term idea of what she’d do, but she’d never meant to marry Nick. Somehow, she’d found herself at an altar standing in front of a priest knowing both that this was her destiny and that she didn’t want it at all. She cried all through her wedding night. Women like her just didn’t have the heart to fight against it. She presumed that these doubts were normal, that marriage was, for all women, a compromise between personal dreams and the needs of men.
Her problem over the years, as she saw it, was that she was loyal. Faithfulness was her cardinal virtue. It was worth more to her than love. Faith was her gold standard and she expected it from herself.
And faith was a good thing, wasn’t it? Faith was good in itself. Dee felt that her faith was tested every day after the children were born. She spoke to her priest and he agreed that faith was a good thing. He saw her bruised arms, he saw her hurt. ‘Have faith,’ he said. ‘Stick with it.’
On the morning that the papers arrived, Nick was out with the children. There was a cherry tree wood a cycle ride away and Nick sometimes liked to spend time with them there. Dee had sat in the kitchen with the weak wintry sun touching her hair and her face. The paper lay open on the table as she sipped her tea. That was when she came across the police profile of the man they called the American Devil, and her faith finally slipped.
The thoughts that flew about her head seemed terrible and impossible. Dee stood at the window, her face taut with pain, biting her nails off one by one. Her hand encircled her waist and gripped her skin until her nails were embedded deep in her side. In her head, she went through every detail of the profile. It all fit.
It all fit so closely that it might’ve been written by her. She went through the details again and again, doubt springing up in accu
sation, denial breathing fire on every new memory. Her mind was a rush of tiny fragments - tiny blood spots, dirt under his fingernails, mood swings, long absences, violence and sentimentality, perversion, rape, manipulation, drinking, cleaning the car. He was ticking every box.
Every box, that was, except the four-day absence from home. Dee checked her calendar. She had been at home and so had Nick. It was a doubt large enough to make her feel stupid, large enough to make an excuse for herself.
For two hours, while Nick was out chasing his two children through the woods, Dee bit her nails, grabbed her skin and felt her mind contort. One detail didn’t fit, but several did. She had to call the police number just to check, just to be reassured. Dee picked up the phone and began to dial. Her mind was still uncertain. Faith was turning somersaults in her heart. The line started to ring and she felt like a guilty child, her pulse racing, her breath short. In fact, Dee was terrified.
Then she saw Nick appear at the end of the driveway. He was carrying Michael under one arm. Michael was giggling and laughing with his father. Susan was on his shoulders, thumping his head as though he was a monster. She was screaming with delight and Nick was roaring like a troll.
Dee broke out a smile. She felt the muscles in her face ache from the tension. There he was, playing with his children. William and Susan with their father. He wasn’t a killer, he wasn’t a bad man, he was her children’s father. Nick was right, sometimes she did get all confused in her head. Maybe she was going mad. The line rang once more and Dee replaced the handset. Once again in Dee’s life, faith won.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Missing Persons Unit
November 28, 12.05 p.m.
A hooker somehow disappeared and her kids had half starved in a project that housed 3,500 people. So much for neighbours looking out for each other. So much for equal opportunity policing. The neighbours even said they heard crying and screaming from the girls, but that was normal in the projects. No need to interfere and find yourself facing a teenager with a gun. Shut your own door and block your ears.