“Well past its best,” he muttered, wishing he’d smeared a large dollop of Vicks on his upper lip a little sooner. Wishing Malin would open her eyes and stop talking to herself. “And she’s past prayer and all.”
“Animals have had a go at her,” Malin whispered, hand pressed against her scarf. She appeared to be holding back a heave or two. Then she stared at where the head should have been, imagining the face perhaps, imagining the girl’s last moments.
Temeke could see what she meant. Bloody paw marks pressed against one leg where chunks had been torn from the waist and thighs, and remnants of a denim shirt were strewn about her feet. Mountain lion, he thought, judging by the three lobes he could just make out on the back edge of the heel pad.
Where the other leg was he couldn’t fathom until he suddenly remembered the bone on his front door mat. If it belonged to this body, the 9th Hour Killer had a titanic ego. He put his flashlight down and fumbled for a packet of cigarettes.
“Don’t talk and you won’t have to taste the smell of it. Here,” he said, handing her a cigarette. He struck a match on the rugged face of a boulder and cupped a hand around the flame.
She took it even though she didn’t smoke and the coughing wasn’t as severe as he thought it would be. She’d smoked before.
“See the quilt,” he said, picking up the flashlight and pointing it at shreds of pink flowery squares. “Looks like he had a little empathy for this one, but it’s not the case. He’s getting sloppy. Each victim is the chink in his armor because he’s leaving clues. I should have taken Knife Wing more seriously. He was right about the quilt.”
He took the cigarette Malin returned and unwound his scarf. It was worth getting cold over a much-needed drag.
“Doctor’s report said something about a tranquilizer,” she said. “Nembutal, I think he mentioned.”
“Must have given her a bloody big dose.”
Crouching closer, he pulled the quilt out from under the right side of the body and ran the beam of the flashlight up and down the exposed flesh from shoulder to buttocks. There were signs of insect activity even in the low temperatures and Temeke wondered if the forensic entomologist would concur she had been killed elsewhere.
“I reckon this one wasn’t left in a house for several days while the killer decided what to do with it.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“See how she’s wrapped up nice and warm. Propped up against the rock like she’s looking out at something. If this is Patti Lucero, her mother lives down there.”
Malin looked at the direction of his finger and flinched. “That’s so sad. So sick. I can’t imagine what dragons she saw.”
Temeke looked up in time to see Malin cuff away a tear. “G. K. Chesterton once said, ‘Fairy tales are more than true, not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.’”
She jutted her chin at the scrunch of material Temeke had in his hand. “What’s that on the quilt?”
There was a brown stain on the topside, streaking outwards in two wide smears. At first glance, it looked like a rough sketch of a bird with outstretched wings.
Temeke took another lungful of smoke and exhaled loudly. “It’s where the killer wiped the axe.”
THIRTY-ONE
It was an icebox of an apartment, nothing more than a studio with a tiny trundle bed in one corner and a stove in the other. Malin tried to keep the disgust from her face, tried not to flinch at the stench of stale cigarette smoke, tried not to put herself above the old lady who squinted through a pair of blue-rimmed glasses.
Tess had been gone three days and not one phone call. Not one clue. Not one witness. Until now.
It was ten after nine in the morning according to a digital clock on the mantelshelf and there was a roaring wind outside. The front door faced a large parking lot and, by the look of the gap in the door, most of that wind streaked in beneath it.
Edna was a tiny woman, no more than five foot tall, no more than sixty, with swollen ankles stuffed into a pair of pink furry slippers. “Rank and name?” she insisted.
Malin watched Temeke fumble in his pocket for an ID and stick it under her nose. It wasn’t long before a kettle was singing on the stove. Edna dropped one tea bag in a cup and drowned it with boiling water, dipping the same bag between three mugs before flinging it in the vague vicinity of the bin.
Temeke leaned closer to Malin and whispered, “Hello… either stale water in that pot or Edna’s boiling her drawers.”
Malin stifled a smile and refused to react to Temeke’s raised eyebrow. That dry sense of humor was hardly appropriate in such spartan surroundings and she knew she’d start giggling if she let herself.
“You heard he died,” Edna said, walking back with a tray. “Heart attack, they said. I didn’t believe it for a minute. More like indigestion.”
“Who died?” Temeke said.
“Alan Barnes. He was a good man.” Edna brushed a small cactus plant out of the way with the edge of the tray before putting it down on the coffee table. She handed Temeke a mug. “Used to work for district nineteen.”
Temeke knotted his brows. “Oh no, not Senator ‘Lucky’ Barnes. I heard he keeled over on the golf course in the summer. Can’t have been indigestion.”
“No, not him,” she said, shuffling to her chair. “Alan. My husband. He used to clip their hedges. You know, those big ones outside the Round House. Course they’re not like that now.”
“Oh,” Temeke said, winking at Malin and handing her a mug. “That Alan Barnes.”
“Muffin?” Edna said, pointing at a plate on the tray.
Temeke shook his head and a raised hand. “You’ve been keeping up with the news, I take it?”
“That poor girl. Patti, they said her name was. She was headline news. More like deadline news.”
“Tell me about the man you saw, the one at the school,” he said.
“Big.” Edna’s hand hovered over the muffin plate. “Like you.”
Not that tall then, thought Malin. But then anything must have been tall to her. Temeke was, what… five foot ten? Slim build though bulked out with muscle. The more she thought of that muscle the more she hated herself. Liking a married man wasn’t right. But then again, nothing in her life had been right. Until now.
“About what time was that?” Temeke said.
“Just before four o’clock. My granddaughter had detention after school. Often does.”
Malin wrapped her hands around the mug hardly hearing the questions Temeke asked. At least the tea was hot, only she couldn’t drink it. The rim smelled of moldy old rags and as for the muffins, at least one had grown a beard.
Edna merely peeled off the blue gingham liner of her second muffin, stuffing it between two cracked lips and chewing for a time. The glasses she wore were well past their prescription, judging by the look of that squint.
“So what was he doing?” Temeke took a sip of his tea, made a face and promptly replaced the mug on the tray.
“Waiting by the crossing like he was looking for someone. And then he spotted her.”
“Who?”
“That Patti. She didn’t hug him or say hello. But she smiled a lot, shy like, you know.”
“And then what happened?”
Edna cupped a hand over her ear and leaned over the coffee table.
“And then what happened?” Temeke repeated, raising his voice a little. He took out a cigarette and waved it at her. She nodded and they both lit up.
“She got in his car,” Edna said, blowing a spray of crumbs and smoke down a fair isle cardigan. “It was disgusting.”
“What was?”
“Put his arm round the back of her seat and kissed her on the mouth. Made me feel sick. He was old enough to be her dad. I’m telling you, those cops have no business picking up girls.”
“What made you think he was a cop?” Temeke said, pulling his chair a little closer.
“It was the car.”
“Could you tell me the model?”
“It was black, fast looking.”
Temeke drew on his cigarette and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “What happened after that?”
“They drove right past me,” she said, eyes shifting about as if she followed her thoughts. “I didn’t like to stare.”
Temeke turned to Malin and gave her a wink and then used one of the abandoned muffin liners as an ashtray.
“What was he wearing?”
Edna shrugged and stared long and hard at her muffin.
“Jeans, shirt, hat?” Malin asked, trying to jog her memory.
Edna looked at her and shook her head. “Had one of them pictures on his head. Can’t have had a hat on if I saw that.”
Temeke flashed Malin a look, one that conveyed the old lady wasn’t as blind as she was letting on. “A tattoo?” he said. “How big was it?”
“Big enough. Looked like a circle and something else. Had a chain one on his arm.”
A Celtic knot, thought Malin, wondering why the man was out in the freezing cold in nothing but a flimsy t-shirt, showing off more than his livelihood. A man who looked nothing like a regular cop.
“Edna, did you notice anything else unusual?” Malin asked.
“A kid came out of the school wearing a ram’s head and riding a toilet plunger. Creepy if you ask me.”
“No, I mean about the man.”
Edna wiped her mouth and took a sip of tea. “Did this man do something bad?”
Temeke dropped the remainder of his cigarette in his tea and went to stand against the mantle. He seemed to study an old antique jar. “We’re just trying to find out who he is, Mrs. Barnes. Nothing to worry about. How long have you had this?”
Edna merely peered over the rim of her glasses and raised one eyebrow.
“Retirement gift from Governor Bendish,” she said. “Worth a buck or two. There’s some toffee inside if you want some.”
Temeke took a couple and walked back to his chair. “You said you used to be a composite artist?”
Edna nodded and took a slip of paper from her cardigan pocket, unfolded it and slapped it on the table between them. “This is him,” she said, jabbing a pudgy finger on the drawing. It revealed a faint smile in the finely chiseled mouth and eyes that seemed to contradict the expression.
Temeke popped the candy in his mouth. He stared and blinked. And stared again. He seemed to chew for a while and then eased the toffee from his back teeth with a finger. “Sitting there for a long time, were you?”
“I can do them in five minutes.” Edna stuffed her cigarette in the cactus pot and stared into space.
“Are you sure that’s him?”
“One hundred and fifty percent sure. Can’t get any surer than that. There was something else…”
Temeke leaned forward in his chair, nostrils quivering like a pointer. And when that something else never came he said, “What else?”
“Darned if I can remember.”
“So you’d recognize him again if you saw him.”
“Oh, yes. Handsome. Nice eyes.”
“Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Barnes,” Temeke said, lifting himself out of the chair and grabbing the sketch. “We should be going.”
Malin left her card on the table, feeling uneasy as she watched the old lady fumble for the door. She had good eyesight; that much was certain.
Temeke’s cell phone made a loud clattering sound in its plastic holster and he was already frowning at the screen.
“It’s cold outside,” he said to Edna, not bothering to cover up a yawn. “Be sure to lock your door.”
He rushed toward the car, phone pressed against his ear. Malin heard the loud expletive, saw the look on his face. She wanted to run after him but Edna was right behind her, fingers wrapped around her arm.
“You’re a pretty one.” Edna jerked a thumb at Malin’s face. “You better lock your door and all.”
“I’ll be OK,” Malin heard herself say as she patted her holster. “I can look after myself.”
“That’s what it was,” Edna said, slapping her thigh. “He was packed too.”
That’s when Malin paused, felt the cold wind against her cheeks and heard a faint buzzing in her ears. “He had a gun?”
“In his waistband.”
“Like a cop?”
Edna shook her head. “Slipped down the back of his pants like he was hiding it.”
“Thank you,” said Malin, trying to keep the tremor from her voice as she walked toward the car.
“Next time, I’ll bake a cake,” Edna shouted, before shuffling back inside her apartment.
Malin faked a smile as she hauled herself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Who was on the phone?”
She heard the hammering of her heart against her rib cage, heard the desperate hitch to her voice.
“They found Luis in the northeast heights.” Temeke lowered his head and stared at his hands. “Been lying in a ditch for days. Bullet grazed the side of his head and nearly took his ear off. No sign of his car. No sign of Tess Williams.”
THIRTY-TWO
Ole looked at the girl on the bed, dark and delicious like the coffee he had in his hand. Sitting astride a wheel-back chair, he rested his cup on the top rail and listened to her breathing. It wasn’t late. It was just dark.
The urge to be caught was becoming stronger every day and he left clues, like a trail of crumbs in the dirt. He listened to the snow dropping from the gutters and the intermittent drip of water. It reminded him of ringing bells. He wanted to sing then.
Untouchable. That’s what he was. No one would find him in the hunter’s cabin. No one knew it was there.
He’d dreamed last night of bright lights like dragon’s eyes blinking in the darkness. It was all he could do to shield his face when the lights grew brighter, like the blaze of sun and moon. He saw trees burning and then guttering out, leaving a misty trail along the ground. And he knew what it meant.
It was Odin’s calling.
With a deep voice, be began to sing.
The hardy Norseman's house of yore,
Was on the foaming wave!
And there he gathered bright renown,
The bravest of the brave.
Oh! ne'er should we forget our sires,
Wherever we may be;
They bravely won a gallant name,
And rul'd the stormy sea.
The girl’s eyes blinked open, face inclined to his voice. Illuminated by a silvery moon through an open window, she reminded him of a Botticelli angel.
It must have taken her a while to focus, eyes flicking around the room, settling first on the door and then back to him. There was a deep-seated fear behind them as if she was scraping together every last scrap of courage.
What tho our pow'r be weaker now
Than it was wont to be,
When boldly forth our fathers sail'd,
And conquer'd Normandie!
We still may sing their deeds of fame,
In thrilling harmony;
For they did win a gallant name
And rul'd the stormy sea.
When he finished, her eyes narrowed and she tucked her knees up against her chest. A mild breeze came in through the open window and he watched her pull down the arms of that thick black sweater.
“Where are we?” she asked.
He thought it was a respectful question, the way she included him, and dipped his head. After all, most girls stared wildly around the room as if he would sooner hurt them than talk. That always made him angry. He wasn’t frightening to look at. Quite the contrary.
“Cimarron,” he said, realizing his voice was taut, words slow and sharp. He saw her look at the photographs on a chest of drawers, the ones he’d taken from her house. She would feel at home now. With her sister.
“You’re not a police officer, are you?”
Ole smiled slightly. “It’s a shameless disguise. Hardly original, is it?”
�
��No,” she said, looking down at her boots. “Are you the man that took my sister?”
“I am.” Ole found himself staring at her, drinking in those deep brown eyes. She was a very brave girl. “It was you I wanted. You probably want something to eat.” Her eyes seemed to widen at that.
“May I have a sandwich, sir?” she said.
The voice struck him as reverent, humble. What was it about her that made him want to hesitate. To delay.
“Call me Ole.”
“Well, Mr. Ole, I’m sure glad to meet you.”
And she held out her hand. Just like that. A beautiful brown hand he really wanted to shake. He remembered what he was and ducked his head instead. Shouldn’t touch the angels and dirty them. Odin wouldn’t like that.
He studied the sparkle in those brown eyes where there was only a hint of white in each corner. Perhaps she would like to know about the ravens. Who wouldn’t want to know about the ravens?
“Do you know about the ravens?” he said, feeling more content than he had been in days.
She didn’t flinch. She merely cocked her head to one side as if she could hear better. “No,” she said, trembling a little. It was the cold because he knew she wasn’t afraid.
“Odin gave them names. Thought and Memory. They were his eyes, his mind, flying out at dawn and coming back at dusk. They knew every man’s whisper, every man’s dream. That’s why Odin’s so wise. But there’s always a price to pay. Mimir knew what that price was. And so will you. That’s why you’re here.”
“Who’s Odin?”
A voice so perfect, something in the diction. Like the children in Scandinavia. Sophisticated. A cut above the rest.
“He’s the god of creation.” Even as he said it, he felt a flutter in his belly.
“No,” she murmured. “That’s not his name. It’s Yahweh. You know, our Father, who art in heaven. Remember?”
She smiled when she said it. Like God was a movie star or something.
The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1) Page 19