The 9th Hour (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 1)

by Claire Stibbe

“He made us in his image. He made you,” she said. “In fact you probably look just like Him. Same chin, same eyes, same nose. Only a little smaller.”

  Ole felt himself smile. It came from somewhere deep inside. A gushing, like the curtain of snow that had just begun to flicker outside in the darkness. It caught his attention for a brief moment and he turned to the window, setting the cup of coffee on the sill. He saw each flake bigger than he ever remembered them.

  Whiter.

  That’s when he remembered the horse his father used to ride when he went hunting. Glidehoof… that was his name. There wasn’t a drop of gray on him, not even on his muzzle. He was like a ghost in the snow.

  He loved his old papa and the gentle shake in his hands. He wasn’t perfect. Ole wasn’t perfect. Not even close, not with a heart blacker than the coal mines of Svalbard. “Why is there so much hate in here?” he said, pumping his chest with a fist. “Why am I so different?”

  “Adam messed up,” Tess said. “That’s when everyone’s hearts turned black. Mine. Yours.”

  He found himself staring at the angel on his bed. His little Botticelli angel. She would have to fly away soon. He didn’t believe in what she believed. All fairy tales. Lies. If he told her the words would only come out of his mouth in a foul drivel, a tiger’s snarl, and he wished he could articulate his feelings in the same perfect way she did.

  It made his intestines twist and boil. Like the snake in his mind, black and yellow with stripes around its head. And where was Odin? That unseen ghost of a god that promised Morgan his life.

  He wanted to tell Tess all about Kizzy, how she used to sing. It was a hymn come to think of it. Something about walking by faith and not by sight.

  All he remembered of that night was how he’d thrown up after he killed her. Couldn’t stop. Why was it so harrowing to do what he was born to do? Kill.

  “Please may I have something to eat, sir?” Tess said, cutting into his thoughts again. Smiling.

  Ole smiled back. She said please, didn’t she?

  He knew once he’d left the room she would pace around like a lioness, looking through the window at a thick wall of trees and wondering if it was worth the jump. If he took his time, she’d be out faster than a cat from a burning house. The thought excited him.

  He locked the door and rushed down the stairs to the kitchen. If she jumped, that tender young mind would be the most resourceful yet. Only she’d break a leg if she did.

  That’s why he had stuffed her in the trunk and would have forgotten about her if it wasn’t for her moaning. She could barely walk when he took her out, had to lift her up the stairs into the bedroom. Pity he left that tight metal chain behind. It would have been handy if only he’d thought to bring it.

  It reminded him of Patti just after she had tried to run away with the little one. He’d locked her in the downstairs bathroom and he could still hear her crying if he listened for long enough, like a distant scream of wind in a lonely tree. But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t sitting on the floor leaning against the sink, rope grinding around the pedestal each time she moved.

  He stood in the kitchen remembering those pale eyes, still beautiful behind a curtain of dark hair. She wanted him to stay with her, kiss her. He had said no to both. But when he saw those lips, sweet and honeyed with tears, he bent down and kissed them and he heard the tender voice against his ear.

  “Untie me… please. I won’t run away.”

  He wanted to hold her and feel her skin against his. He wanted to believe what she said. They had once had common thoughts, common dreams. She was the only palpable loving creature he knew.

  “Later,” he said, running a finger beneath her chin, sensing a breath of turmoil.

  He left her in the dark, left her to a welter of tears.

  No point dreaming of the dead, he thought. No point feeling… what was he feeling? Couldn’t put it into words even if he tried.

  Standing in front of the kitchen counter, he pasted a ball of peanut butter on a single slice of bread. Reaching for the bottle in the cupboard above, he prized apart the two yellow capsules, sprinkling the powder liberally before folding the bread in two. The hatchet leaned against the wall, head and shaft drop-forged of one piece of steel. Brand new.

  He had to do it. And quickly.

  He lifted his head at a grating sound, heard his car keys rattle on a nearby hook, intermittent, like the chattering of teeth. Footfalls, slipping, sliding and then something smashed on the pavers below. A tile.

  Tess was on the roof.

  Ole grabbed a gut-hook hunting knife – it was all he could find – and rushed up the stairs to the bedroom. It was bathed in an iron-gray pall from the moon, bedspread rumpled where she had once been. There was no sign of her. He didn’t expect there to be. When he leaned out of the window he saw a limping shadow rushing for the trees, heading west toward a stand of maple before barreling through a thicket.

  He followed her as far as the thicket, hunching low as he slipped through it, sniffing the air and listening. She was about thirty yards to the north of him, he could hear the snapping twigs, the screech of a bird that lifted into the sky. She was unstoppable, immortal, tearing off like a great black dog with wild eyes and gritted teeth.

  She was fast, although there was no reason to assume she was as fast as he was. Large hamstrings, thighs like a tree branch, he was designed for speed and stamina. It was the latter that saved him from the hunter, the one that killed his brother. He ran three long miles back then without stopping.

  Here he was under a wintry light, feet crunching through snow and detritus, drifting rather than running. He felt the chill through his shirt, creeping down his spine like a thousand tiny spiders.

  Beyond an array of tree stumps where woodsmen had once felled over fifty trees, the ruins of a second cabin loomed ash gray in a clearing. Out of the darkness to the right side, came the girl, walking slowly along the margin of the trees toward the front door. In the windless night he could see the vapors pouring from her mouth and he could almost hear a pounding heart.

  Her face was radiant, unearthly, looking on the world with her extraordinary eyes. Nothing could prevent its true nature from sparkling through, a guiltless face well suited to smiles and laughter. He could imagine a face like that painted in the vaulted ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It was painted in the frescoes of the papal conclave and if you looked hard enough it was in Perugino’s painting of Moses, if indeed an angel could ever be a young girl.

  As she moved toward the cabin, toward the freakishly black shadows beyond the front door, her chin went up, moving from side to side. If she was a dog, her ears would be flattened against her head, nose quivering at a scent.

  The only scent he could sense was old creosote and rotting timbers, and the room was crowded with cobwebs and shadows. He was surprised she even considered going in. But she did, pushing back the door with one hand, bolts grinding in their knuckles.

  Ole eased around the back of the cabin and as long as he remained low, he could watch her through the grimy windows, marveling at the icy beam that shone through the hole in the roof. She found the matches he had left over three months ago and the metal lantern.

  An orange glow seeped around the abandoned house, bringing the old place alive again, giving it a warmth it hadn’t seen for over thirty years. It reminded Ole of Norway with the snow and pine trees, swirling around the house like a snow globe. Only this time, he was on the outside.

  He felt a lump in his throat and shook his head, sensing a few cold drops down his nose. The nose she said was the same as God’s. Because he was made in His image.

  Surely, no man was made in one image. Men were strong and brilliant. Weren’t they unique?

  Convinced she had spotted him, he took a step back, twigs snapping under foot. He saw her hesitate, but only for a moment, face turned to a fresh shower of snow that fell like a crystalline screen outside the window.

  Did she smile? He wasn’t sure. And then he hear
d it, softly at first as her lips moved.

  Singing.

  His arms were speckled with gooseflesh. The voice wasn’t so different from the first time he heard it. A little older, as if Kizzy had come back. Yes, risen from the dead. She twirled in a tumbled down kitchen, arms out, chin snapping around like a ballet dancer. He’d never seen anything so odd.

  She should have been terrified, but there wasn’t a tremor on those fragile limbs, not even a limp. She was quite beautiful and for a moment he was transfixed, feeling a wrenching in his gut. It wasn’t a throw-up wrenching. Something different.

  It had to be the drugs he had given her in the car. Not much, just a little chaser before the final dose. He’d never seen one wake up. He’d never seen one survive.

  Her gaze slid away from the window, traveling briefly over the furniture before resting on the mantle. She brushed a hand over the old wooden ledge, and those same fingers toyed with a glass bottle, eyes narrowed at the embossed lettering. It gave him a sense of foreboding, a fear he hadn’t had since childhood.

  She was leaving tracks. Fingerprints.

  Holding his breath, he was faced with the mindboggling possibility that this girl might be smarter than most. She had to have known he was there.

  Striding through waist high grass to a stone projection, the back side of a fireplace, he saw a second window. Through a single broken pane, he saw her muted figure shimmered against the wall, back pressed against it, face turned toward the front door. In her hand was a rusty knife she must have found on the mantle shelf.

  Clever girl, he thought.

  She waited.

  So did he.

  He was invisible in the darkness; that’s when he let his mind wander to the past. Many years ago there would have been a fire in the grate, a crackle of blood-red flames and the smell of soot. Tonight he imagined a white-haired father sitting on a three-legged stool, trembling hands cupped around a bowl of soup. On the floor in front of him two little boys, chins turned up, eyes rapt at the legends of Odin and Glidehoof.

  He didn’t understand this sudden rash of emotions, the sadness, the pleasure, the fear. It must have been the moon shining in his eyes, and while he was puzzling over it he saw a flicker on the opposite wall.

  The girl was gone. Quick as spit.

  He staggered for the front of the cabin. It was deserted, door half open just as she had left it. He turned for an instant to survey the clearing, throat rougher than a carpenter’s bench. He refused to cough. It would only alert her to where he was.

  An open stretch of ground led to a knot of trees and a steep downward slope. Adrenalin shot through him and his feet shuffled forward, confused suddenly at the direction she might have taken. He ran full-pelt for the woods until the trees covered him from the moonlight.

  Looking left and right, he sniffed the air keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of movement. He knew he could keep going for hours, alternating between walking and jogging, and pausing only to check for tracks.

  Then he heard a noise. Sobbing? No. Panting. He saw her a few yards ahead, bent over to catch her breath.

  Standing between two young pine trees, he pulled the knife from his belt. Every movement was in his muscle-memory; it was the same every time. A round, smooth swing and he let the knife fly.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Temeke held Serena in his arms, felt her tears on his neck. He was too tired to talk and there was nothing to say.

  Luis was unconscious. Suspected brain damage. With the departure of a friend ended the laughter that echoed in the pubs on Southern Boulevard. Temeke learned for the first time in his life the true meaning of loneliness.

  His heart felt like it would burst out of his chest and he wondered how Luis survived with no food and water for four days. He was particularly partial to a good chicken pie and now all he had was tubes.

  “He could have died,” she said.

  “But he didn’t.” Temeke buried his face into her thick, black hair, holding back a sob. “And he won’t.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “They won’t let us. Not for another week.” Temeke slowly released a deep breath. At least Luis’ spirit wasn’t climbing into the sky in ever widening circles. At least he wasn’t sitting on a cloud in the winter sun. “He’s sleeping, my love. Getting his strength back.”

  “What if he can’t feel. What if he can’t see, can’t hear? What if he never wakes up?”

  “He’s strong,” Temeke said, wiping the tears from her eyes with his thumb. “He’ll wake up.”

  He kissed her mouth and her cheeks, listening to the purr of her voice. And then came the pounding in his chest, a dull roar, a sound so loud that it seemed to fill all his senses. He tried to ignore it, tried to take no notice of the hissing in his veins. Throb, throb, throb, almost drowning in a roll of excitement.

  He felt her go rigid, pushing away. She walked up the stairs, a wadded up tissue in those shaking hands. She’d be like that for a time, all nervous and distant. He wanted to call out to her, to follow her. All he could do was open and close his mouth, struggling to find the right words.

  That same old feeling again. It never really went away, the need for peace, the need for a smoke. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and walked outside to the back yard to the downspout. He always felt like a gynecologist when rooting through a knot of rosemary before slipping his fingers in the pipe. Today he felt nothing but an empty space. He tasted a trickle of hot bile in his throat and nearly gagged.

  Someone had taken it.

  The phone in his pocket began to vibrate and he could see Hackett’s name flashing on the screen. “How’s Serena?”

  Temeke started back toward the house. “Holding up.”

  “Temeke, if you need―”

  “I need to get back out there, sir. That’s what I need.”

  Temeke heard the loud sigh through the earpiece. He wondered if Hackett had had a change of heart, wanted to give him a few days off. Temeke knew how Jarvis and Fowler muttered to themselves in a language exclusive only to them, how they turned their faces to the wall every time he passed. Suspicious of strangers, they turned all outsiders into outcasts. Hackett was no different.

  Unless Fowler’s team really had missed something out there at the Shelby ranch. Something they hoped to pin on him…

  “Looks like you’re stuck with me, sir,” Temeke dared, listening to silence on the other end as if Hackett had suddenly choked at the idea.

  Hackett wouldn’t take him off the case. He couldn’t. Someone higher had requested him and there was nothing Hackett could do about it.

  “We’ve got another body,” Hackett muttered. “The red-headed realtor. Seems she wasn’t on that nice cruise ship after all. You find Tess Williams, I’ll deal with this mess. I mean it, Temeke, you foul up on this one and it’s your last!”

  “Yes, sir. My last, sir.”

  Hackett blew a chunk of air into the mouthpiece. “I sent Malin over to see Darryl Williams. Seems like he’s taking it like a trooper.”

  “Like a trooper?” Temeke echoed, glad to be back on the case.

  “Yeah, he says she’s a tough one that Tess. Says she can run faster than a hockey puck. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, no, she never talked about running away and no, she wasn’t unhappy at home. Just thought you’d want to know.”

  “Appreciate it, sir.”

  Temeke heard a scraping sound from upstairs, the chest of drawers being dragged across the floor. He felt the muscles quivering in his neck, heat flushing through his body. It weighed a ton and how in the hell Serena managed to move it he’d never know.

  “The Imaging Specialist called,” Hackett continued. “They cleaned up the video outside Cibola High. Our man was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. He was wearing a full harness. Looked like a cop, probably smelled like a cop. We found the Camaro. It was pulled out of the river just south of Alameda this morning. Had a few holes in the rear side panel. I’ll leave you to guess what he�
��s driving now.

  “Luis’ Charger?”

  “He took a whole lot more than that. Stu Anderson remembered seeing a Remington in the trunk. Unfortunately his tiny little brain couldn’t tell us what caliber it was. What the heck was a rifle doing in his car?”

  “Hunting?” It was Temeke’s turn to sigh. “Least it’s not a Mauser, sir. They take stripper clips.”

  “Listen, I don’t care if he’s got a dozen hand grenades and a bazooka in there. Find him.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Becky’s conscious, by the way. I expect you’ll want to see her, but I don’t think it’s appropriate. So I sent Malin instead.”

  “Appropriate, sir?”

  “Becky described a house on Arroyo Del Oso. Couldn’t remember anything else. She did remember a set of golf clubs in the hallway.”

  “I’ll get over there, sir.”

  “You better get some underpants on over those tights, son. We’re dealing with more than just your average bed-wetter.”

  “Send a car for me, will you?”

  “Get your own car,” Hackett said. “Oh, I forgot. You don’t have one.”

  The phone was already dead by the time Temeke had formulated an answer sprinkled with a few choice words.

  Driving down Alameda toward 2nd Street, he felt a hardening in his stomach and a burning in his chest, especially driving Serena’s yellow Scion IQ. He felt somehow cheated, like he’d been sold half a car. But it went like the clappers and that’s what mattered.

  Where would a guy like Ole Eriksen hang out? He had a working knowledge of the upper-crust lifestyle and gripped a putter on the golf course rather than a jug in the pub.

  The phone trilled in his pocket and he almost missed the turn trying to pull it out. It was Malin.

  “Sir, we need to talk.”

  “If it’s about Darryl being oddly calm, he’s probably been drinking some of that homemade hooch. I smelled it on his breath last time I saw him.”

  “Can’t blame him, sir. But he mentioned life, death, that kind of thing. So I called his doctor. They’ve put him on suicide watch. Captain Fowler’s got a team of officers over there to monitor all incoming calls.”